This is a 'Tales of the City' and 'Hard Core Logo' crossover, with an occasional cameo by the best television series ever (well, at least the Canadian seasons were), 'dueSouth.' Brian Hawkins belongs to PBS & Armistead Maupin, due South belongs to Paul Haggis & Alliance, Billy Tallent belongs to about a zillion different people, none of whom are us, and we don't have any right to do this but are compelled, and have you ever tried to resist a compulsion? It's all Paul and Callum's faults, go sue them. We don't have any money. They do. Well, Paul does, anyway. Or so we hear. He needs forty million to produce a World War One screenplay though . . .

Note: this version of Brian Hawkins is based solely on the original PBS production of Tales of the City with Paul Gross in the role. Any TotC readers, or watchers of later versions of TotC, will need to think of this as an Alternate Universe wherein events which occurred after "Tales of the City" transpired very differently. Similarly, this version of Billy Tallent is based on the film, not the text, version of the character.

M/M, NC-17

Soundtrack: When I Grow Up, Garbage; The Kids Aren't All Right, The Offspring; Why I'm Here, Oleander; Circles, Soul Coughing; Hindsight and Cut Me Up, Headstones; Blue Tattoo and Sonic Reducer, Hard Core Logo; Keep a Lid on Things, Crash Test Dummies; Poor Boy and Higher, Tara MacLean; No More No Less, Collective Soul; Scar Tissue, Red Hot Chili Peppers; Hungry Heart and Human Touch, Bruce Springsteen; Crazy Game of Poker, of a revolution; Stand and Hairshirt, R.E.M.; Fall at Your Feet, Mary Black.

Thanks to LaT for incredible support and technical insight and to Barb G. for funny stories about real punk rock stars and their autographs and to Kelly and Cynthia for catching some of those salient points we missed, and Judi for pointing out the glitches and continuity errors. --KM & AuK

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Shadows Fade
©2000 Kellie Matthews & AuKestrel

        The intercom buzzes and Brian glances at his watch, rolling his shoulders a little to ease the tension caused from sitting too long in one spot, and pulls off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. The computer screen gives him a headache. He deliberately waits several seconds before reaching for the phone, but he finally does it.
        "Yeah?"
        "Your three o'clock is here."
        "Thanks, Rob, send him in." He glances at the calendar on the computer for the client's name. William Boisy. He frowns for a moment and then remembers. A referral from Tandy Herrera at Wolfram & Harte in LA, a custody case with "lifestyle" issues. Canadian, if he remembers correctly. While that means he can't actually represent the man, he can make suggestions on someone who could represent him, and on ways to present the case that might help when it goes to court up north. He stands and steps out from behind his desk, extending a hand to the man Rob is ushering into his office.
        "Mr. Boisy? I'm Brian Hawkins."
        His client looks to be in his late twenties and is about his own height but almost ascetically slender, with rather short, spiky dark blond hair. He has strangely luminous blue eyes which seem to be fixed on him in bemusement. The staring goes on for long enough that Brian can't help smiling as he clears his throat. He's gotten used to this over the years. Living in San Francisco he's kind of had to. And the reaction tells him just which lifestyle issues are likely to be the problem here.
        The other man seems to come back into himself with a snap, and he looks embarrassed as he sticks out an extremely long-fingered hand and clasps Brian's offered palm briefly before relinquishing it. "Sorry. You just. . . I don't know. . . seem familiar. You ever been to a Jenifur concert?"
        Brian vaguely recognizes the name of a band that Maddie likes to listen to, and shakes his head. "No, I haven't."
        "Um, Hard Core Logo, maybe?"
        Brian stared at him, eyes narrowed. Maybe he's mistaken the lifestyle issue after all, though he'd thought Tandy said the guy was in the music business, not movies, and he didn't think she repped anyone in the adult film industry. "Hard core what?" he asks.
        Billy chuckles, a low, almost intimate laugh. Clearly he's used to the question. "Don't go there, man. It's . . . it was a band. And I didn't think so. You don't look the type. Oh well, weird. Billy Tallent, nice to meet you, Mr. Hawkins."
        "Tallent?" Brian asks. "Not Boisy?"
        Billy shrugs. "Boisy's real, but I've been Tallent to everyone but my folks since I was sixteen. Still, since we have to talk about legal shit, I figured I should make the appointment under my real name."
        Brian nods. "It's probably a good idea to conduct such business under your legal name, yes. Have a seat?"
        Billy takes a seat in the leather chair that faces the desk, his fingers idly stroking the arm of the chair as his gaze ranges around the office, cataloguing the expensive designer furnishings assessingly before returning to Brian, sliding down, back up. Finally he shakes his head faintly, looking slightly puzzled. Brian grins, knowing from experience what the problem is.
        "Yeah, I know. I don't fit." Polo shirt, no alligator. Levi's. Deck shoes. No socks. Hair a little too long, and silvering naturally, no Grecian Formula to create an illusion of eternal youth. He drives his partners crazy, but he brings in too much business for them to hassle him any more.
        "You're. . . not what I expected," Billy allows with a wry smile.
        It's the smile that does it. A smile that unexpectedly takes Billy from interesting to breathtaking in seconds. Brian is startled. More than startled. Stunned. It's been a long, long time since he's felt this reaction to another man. In fact, he had thought he probably never would again. He takes a long, deep breath, trying to keep it quiet, picks up a pen, trying not to let on that his hands are suddenly trembling. "So, ah, how can I help you, Mr. Tallent?"
        Billy rolls his eyes. "Please. Billy."
        "All right, Billy," Brian says, used to giving his clients what they want. "Ms. Herrera gave me to understand you're involved in a custody case?"
        Billy sighs, the animation going out of his face, leaving him looking tired and sad. "Yeah. I, ah, recently found out that I have a daughter. She's. . um. . . four. She'll be five in May."
        He makes notes on his legal pad, looks up again. "I take it you were not married to her mother?"
        Billy snorts. "Fuck no."
        "And you were acquainted with her mother in what way?" Brian catches his eye and smiles. "Other than the obvious."
        Billy grins back, a faint hint of color tinging his face. "Well, um, Mary was a groupie."
        Brian sits forward, interested. "That could be useful."
        Billy looks at him, eyebrows lifted. "Yeah?"
        "Oh, definitely. It's always good when someone is using 'lifestyle' issues to have some to use in response."
        Billy considers that, and nods thoughtfully. "Yeah. I can see that."
        Brian's about to ask another question when the phone rings. He sighs, exasperated. "I'm sorry, Rob should be catching these, let me just get rid of whoever it is."
        Billy nods, settling back as Brian picks up the phone. "Hawkins."
        There's a pause, then a familiar voice. "Um, hi, Dad."
        He sits up straighter, hearing tension and distress. "Maddie? What's wrong?"
        "Mom called."
        "Fuck." It's out of his mouth before he can stop himself. "What'd she want?"
        "The usual."
        He knows the usual. Is her hair still pink? Did she take out that damned navel ring? Is she still hanging around with those loser friends of hers? Somehow, even after all this time, it still astonishes him how in the years since she left, Mary Ann has gone from being open and accepting to an uptight, image-conscious younger version of her mother. "You okay, hon?" The office, and his client, are momentarily forgotten.
        "Yeah. I guess."
        That means 'no.' "What else did she say?"
        "Nothing important."
        "Maddie." He says her name firmly.
        "You're working, we can talk when you get home."
        "Now, Maddie."
        There's a silence. A sigh. Finally she gives in. "She wants me to come live with her in LA. She thinks it would be better for me there."
        Translation: Mary Ann could control her better from there. "You know you don't have to go, hon. That's settled."
        "I know. But she makes me feel. . ." Maddie's voice trails off. He hears a sniff. Fuck.
        "You at home, sweetie?"
        "Yeah."
        "Anybody else there?"
        "Jack and David are home, but they've got the blinds closed."
        Privacy signal. "How about Tara?"
        "No. Nobody else."
        "Okay, babe. Just make yourself a cup of tea, and I'll be home in . . . " he checks his watch, abruptly remembers his client, and sighs. "As soon as I can, okay?"
        "'Kay. Thanks, Dad."
        The line goes dead and he hangs up, looks up to find Billy watching him curiously.
        "Sorry," he says. "My daughter."
        "Ah," Billy says, looking interested. "Problems?"
        "Yeah."
        That shrewd, luminous gaze seems to bore into him. "Need to go?"
        "Unfortunately, yes. I'm very sorry. I know you've come a long way for this, but she needs me. How long are you in town?"
        Billy shrugs. "Long as I need to be. No gigs coming up. Not a problem. Go."
        "Look, let me call you when I get her settled down. Where are you staying?"
        Another shrug. "No place yet. I'll find something."
        An idea comes to him. Probably stupid, but he's feeling guilty. His personal problems are costing the man time and money. "Look, you could crash at our place. One of the apartments is vacant right now."
        "Won't the landlord object? Or does he charge by the hour?" Billy asks, deadpan.
        Brian grins. "I'm the landlord. It's on the house."
        "Oh." Billy considers it, then frowns. "Wouldn't that be like... a conflict of interest or something? If you're my lawyer?"
        Brian looks at him, startled. "Didn't Tandy explain? I can't represent you in Canada. I'm not licensed to practice there. I'm just a consultant. I'll set you up with a lawyer who can represent you there, and help you with your case, but I'm really just the hired help, like an accountant or. . . ." - he grins -
". . .a pool boy."
        Billy laughs out loud, and that's as mesmerizing as the wry smile. Beautiful. He is, quite simply, stunning. It's so strange, like one of those optical illusion drawings that suddenly turn from a vase into a face, with startling clarity. And once you've seen it, recognized the illusion, you can't not see it.
        "Pretty fuckin' expensive pool boy," Billy says, still chuckling. "Okay, it's a plan."
        "Great. You take a taxi here from the airport?" Brian asks, and at Billy's nod he grins. "Good, we won't have to try to find a place to park a rental on the Lane. Come on. Let's go."
        He heads out, and Billy falls into step beside him. It feels strangely. . . right. Rob looks up, startled, as they exit his office.
        "We're heading out, Rob. Mr. Tallent's my last appointment for the day, right?"
        "Yes sir, but there's a partners' meeting at five."
        "Good for them. Tell them I said to have a great time and Joel has my proxy."
        "Joel?" Rob looks scandalized. Joel is the most junior partner, which is exactly why Brian gave the proxy to him.
        "Yeah, Joel. Later."
        "Hang on," Billy says. "You got my stuff, man?"
        Rob nods. "I'll get it for you right away," he says, and goes into the copier room, returning a moment later with an overnight bag and a guitar case. "Here you are, sir."
        "Oooh. 'Sir.' I feel so. . . corporate," Billy says, taking them from him. "Do I tip you?"
        Rob looks even more scandalized than he had at the proxy comment. "Of course not, sir!"
        Billy shrugs. "Okay, chill, man."
        Brian has to bite the inside of his lip to keep from laughing out loud. Billy's attitude is a perfect foil for Rob's officiousness. They step into the elevator and Brian realizes that Billy must have been planning to stay the night, since he's got a bag with him. "Did you have reservations somewhere? I thought you said-- "
        Billy shakes his head. "I was gonna call this guy I know after we got done, see if he's in town. Maybe hang with him if he is."
        Oh. If Billy had other plans. . . "Is he in town?" he asks, ready to offer a ride there instead.
        Billy shrugs. He does that a lot. "Dunno."
        "You didn't call ahead to check?" Brian asks, faintly scandalized himself now.
        "Nah. Figured if he's not in town I'd just find somewhere else to crash." He looks at Brian and smiles. "And I have, so it's cool."
        The laissez-faire attitude takes Brian back years, to a time when he'd been as unfettered as Billy, and a whisper of nostalgia for that time threads through him, bittersweet. Not that he really misses living from woman to woman and job to job. No, he definitely doesn't miss that. It's just that remembering that time makes him realize just how different his life is than how he'd imagined it would be. It hits him then, that he could easily be in Billy's shoes. He'd been careless and thoughtless then. Everyone had. The 'me' generation, indeed.




        Billy finds he can't stop looking at Brian Hawkins, surreptitious glances, still trying to figure out that elusive familiarity. It's so close, right on the tip of his mind. He knows he should be able to make the leap, to figure it out, but it's just out of reach. Brian looks thoughtful, even distant as the elevator descends, and Billy wonders what he's thinking. When the elevator doors open onto the garage and they step out, Billy whistles softly.
        "Holy shit. Looks like a car dealership."
        Brian chuckles. "Yeah, it's a little overwhelming. Come on, it's this way."
        Billy wonders if Brian has a BMW, a Lexus, or a Saab as they pass example after example of those models. Then he sees the one car that looks out of place amongst the gleaming acres of overpriced metal: a classic dark green Karmann Ghia convertible with a beige interior. He grins, somehow sure. . . yep. Brian heads straight for it. It goes with the clothes, with the attitude. This guy's the strangest lawyer he's ever met.
        "What year?" he asks as Brian opens the lid, and reaches for his guitar case. Billy doesn't think it'll fit, but Brian puts it in diagonally and it does.
        "Sixty-seven," Brian says as Billy wedges his bag in next to the guitar, and steps back. "Older than you are."
        Billy shakes his head. "Nope. I turned six the year this baby came out."
        Brian looks surprised, and Billy feels a little flush of heat in his face. He's not exactly sure why. Usually the fact that he looks a lot younger than he really is serves him well, but for some reason he wants Brian to take him seriously. Brian tilts his head, studying him assessingly, and that flash of familiarity intensifies to the point where recognition almost breaks through, and then suddenly it's gone as Brian nods.
        "That'll teach me to make assumptions, won't it?"
        Billy smiles. "Not a problem. Nice car."
        "Thanks, and yeah, she is. Hard to find parts for, though."
        "I bet."
        They get in, and Billy fumbles with the seat belt, which seems a lot harder to operate than a seatbelt should be. Brian chuckles and reaches over, showing him how the ends fit together.
        "Don't worry, you're not alone. Nobody can work these things on the first try. Here, like this."
        For some reason the heat in Billy's face seems to spread and deepen, and he's staring at those big, square hands in his lap and seeing . . . oh, fuck. Not good. He forces himself to pay attention to the demonstration and not think of. . . other things. "Got it, thanks." he says, relieved when Brian's hands are gone, and glad that the corner where the Ghia's parked isn't brightly lit. Yeah, the guy's incredibly gorgeous, but he's got at least ten, maybe fifteen years on Billy, and he's straight. Has a family. Just get your mind out of the fuckin' gutter, William.
        The drive to Brian's place makes him feel like he's on a roller-coaster, and he suspects that Brian's laughing at him every time he clutches that handle on the dashboard as they crest a hill. Finally they pull into a parking space that sports a hand-lettered sign reading 'Residents of #28 only, violators will be relegated to the outer darkness!' with what looks like a demon's head painted beneath the letters. Brian sees where he's looking and grins.
        "Tara and Maddie cooked that up. Strangely enough, it works. Come on, let's go in."
        Billy looks up and down the street, a little puzzled. No house that he can see. Brian opens the lid and takes out his case and bag. Billy reaches for them and Brian shakes his head.
        "No, let me. You're not used to this."
        "This?" Billy queries, still puzzled.
        Brian points with his chin, since his hands are full.
        "Oh . . . fuck . . . ." Billy breathes in stunned amazement as his gaze follows the movement up the stairs, and up the stairs, and up the stairs some more to a tangle of foliage that hides whatever's at the top of the . . . cliff. At least that's what Billy would call it, though he suspects the locals don't.
        Brian chuckles warmly. "That says it all. Come on."
        By the first landing it's already clear that the workouts he gets onstage are no preparation for this kind of exertion. He's badly winded, and the knee he hurt in Chicago is starting to protest. He pauses for a moment, looks at Brian, and shakes his head.
        "You do this every day?" he says between breaths.
        "Yep. Some days several times."
        "Jesus. No wonder you're in such great shape," Billy says, then wonders if that was too revealing a comment. "I'd have to give up smoking if I lived here."
        "I did," Brian says, starting up the next flight, then amends the statement. "Mostly."
        Billy tries gamely to follow, but halfway up his knee buckles and he has to grab the handrail for support, gasping a little, rubbing at his knee with his free hand even though he knows that won't help. He shouldn't have left the brace at home yet. Brian turns back, sees him, and is beside him in a heartbeat.
        "You okay?"
        "Yeah, yeah. Just give me a second. . . got mugged in Chicago, hurt my knee. It's still touchy."
        "Fuck. Why didn't you say something?"
        Billy looks around. "Didn't see an alternative," he says. "You got an elevator hidden somewhere around here? Tram, maybe?"
        That gets a grin, and a shake of the head. "No. Though my visitors usually wish I did." Brian thinks for a moment, looks back at him. "I could carry you," he offers slyly.
        Billy laughs out loud, takes him a minute to stop. "Jesus Christ! Do not make me laugh with thirteen thousand steps to go. I bet you could, too."
        "Probably," Brian says, without modesty, which makes Billy laugh again.
        "It's okay," he says after he catches his breath again. "You go on. I'll get there. It'll just take me a while."
        "No. Look, you just lean on me, we'll go up together, okay?"
        Lean on him. Yeah. That'll work. Good excuse to put an arm around him, to get closer. Oh no. Not fucking again. What is it with him lately? He's too old for this out of control libido crap. He nods slowly. "Okay. We can try that."
        Together they make it to the gate at the top of the stairs that's almost hidden by bushes and vines. Billy looks back down toward the street with a certain sense of accomplishment, and not a little vertigo. "Bet this is great for keeping away the door-to-door salesmen."
        "Haven't seen a salesman here in over twenty years," Brian confirms, grinning. "The last one I know of actually lived here . . . ah. . . for a while." Brian's grin fades to a very strange expression, and there's an equally strange sound to his voice. Then he's pushing open the gate, and it's like. . . another world in there. A weird sprawling building that looks like someone cut a Victorian house into pieces, then reassembled it randomly on different levels, connected them all with interlocking stairs, and painted the whole thing pale yellow with white trim.
        "Don't tell me," Billy says, staring. "Your architect was M.C. Escher?"
        Brian laughs. "It does kind of look like it, doesn't it?" He starts across the courtyard, and Billy balks.
        "More stairs?" he asks plaintively.
        "No, first floor." Brian points toward the nearest door. "You're almost there, take heart."
        "There is a God," Billy breathes. They're almost to the door when it's flung open and a slim form explodes through it.
        "Dad! You're ho . . ."
        The sentence is abruptly cut off as the young woman stops in her tracks, realizing her father isn't alone. She's older than Billy expected, taller than he expected, and well past puberty, though her curves are slight and her face almost androgynous. For some reason he's been thinking of her as Billie's age, which of course, makes no sense at all now that he really thinks about it. You wouldn't leave a kid Billie's age home alone. Her hair is a wild explosion of spikes not all that different from his own, though longer, and dyed a kind of apricot-pink, except for the half-inch dark blonde roots. Her wide blue-gray eyes are her father's, though, as is the solemn curve of her mouth, which at the moment is open with astonishment as she stares at Billy.
        "You're . . . you're. . . ." She's speechless.
        He's familiar with this reaction. "Billy Tallent," he offers, taking pity on her. "Nice to meet you. . ." he pauses, waiting for her name. What was it? Maggie? No, that wasn't right. But close.
        "Jenifur!" she manages.
        For a moment he's confused, because he was sure her name started with an 'M,' and then he realizes she's still talking about him. "Yeah. Jenifur," he says with an amused look at Brian, who belatedly realizes the problem.
        "Billy, this is my daughter, Madrigal. Maddie, Billy. Now, can we go inside? Billy's got a bad knee, he needs to sit down. Billy, to the left once you're inside, sit anywhere you like."
        Maddie. Yeah, that was it. She steps back and holds open the door, still staring as Billy limps past her and heads for the living room. Behind him he hears her whisper: "Dad! Do you know who that is?" and tries hard to suppress a grin as he lowers himself into the nearest chair with a sigh, rubbing his knee.
        "Yes, sweetheart, I do," Brian replies patiently. "Could you go get a plastic bag full of ice?"
        "Sure."
        Maddie heads off, presumably toward the kitchen, and Brian puts Billy's guitar case and bag down next to the door and comes to stand next to him.
        "It's not that bad," Billy protests. "I don't need ice."
        "I know, but that'll give her a minute or two to calm down, and make her feel helpful, as well as turning you into an ordinary mortal who can have a bum knee."
        Billy considers that, nods. "Oh. Pretty smooth there, 'Dad.'"
        "It was, wasn't it?" Brian says, amused. "Can I get you anything?"
        "Got any ibuprofen? That's what the doc wants me to use."
        "Coming up."
        He disappears in the opposite direction from his daughter, and Billy sits, wondering if he'll ever be able to have that sort of connection with Billie. The idea scares the hell out of him but he ... wants it. He thinks he wants it, anyway. A soft sound brings his attention back to reality and he looks up to find Maddie standing a foot or so away, holding a ziploc bag full of ice. He smiles and reaches out to take it from her and mold it over his knee. "Thanks. Appreciate it."
        She nods, suddenly shy.
        "Madrigal, that's kind of an unusual name there," he says conversationally.
        Another nod, a pause. "I was named after a friend of my mom and dad's," she volunteers. "She used to own this place, before Dad. She died."
        "People do that," he says, gaze fixed on the bag of ice on his knee.
        "Oh," she says, like she gets it. Then "Oh." again. Finally, "I heard. . . I mean, about your friend. I'm sorry."
        He nods, forces himself to meet her gaze, sees the sympathy there, surprising in a kid her age. "Yeah. So'm I."
        She nods back, and before the silence can get uncomfortable, Brian returns with a glass of water and two caplets, which he hands to Billy. "Hopefully these will do the trick."
        "Maybe we can ask Tara when gets home if might have something that would help," Maddie volunteers.
        Brian looks at her thoughtfully and nods. "She might, at that. Good thought."
        "Who's Tara?" Billy asks after swallowing the pills. Probably not Maddie's mother. Since she called her father 'Dad,' she wasn't likely to call her mother by her first name. Maybe a step-mother?
        "One of the tenants," Brian replies.
        "She's a witch," Maddie adds helpfully.
        "Maddie. . ." Brian sighs.
        "Well, she is," Maddie says. "I'll go put a note on her door."
        She darts out the front door, and Billy looks at Brian. "Um, a witch?" he asks, bemused.
        "Technically, yes. A Wiccan. She runs a magic shop, she's an herbalist."
        "Eye of newt kind of stuff?"
        "More like echinacea and feverfew," Brian says, amused. "I have to admit, her stuff usually works. She might well have something for your knee. And don't worry, she hasn't lost a patient yet."
        "Okay, I'll give it a shot, on your recommendation. Don't you need to go talk with Maddie or something? Thought she was upset."
        "I think you cured most of that, but yeah, I do need to have a talk with her. You okay here? Want the TV on? Stereo?"
        Billy looks at the stereo. "What've you got?"
        Brian waves a hand at the CD shelves next to the stereo. "Lots of stuff, what do you like? I think Maddie's got the latest Jenifur CD . . ."
        Billy realizes he's being teased, and grins. "No thanks. Have to listen to them all the time. Gets old. You go talk to Maddie, I'll find something."
        Brian nods and heads off after Maddie. Billy limps over to the CD shelves and starts to dig. Lots of classic rock. Zep, Jefferson Airplane, Jimi, The Who. He can tell at a glance which titles belong to Maddie and which to Brian, winces at a few of Maddie's choices, but then, kids her age aren't known for their wide-ranging good taste. The classical titles run the gamut, all the famous names. Lots of Mozart, and, he's pleased to note, Shostakovich, but he's not in the mood for classical.
        There's an empty CD case open on the changer. He picks it up to see what it is and grins broadly. "Jazz From Hell." No need to put in anything else. Zappa is just about perfect. Joe might've idolized Bucky Haight, but Frank was one of Billy's personal gods. Such fucking smart music. Such a damned shame he's gone. He hits 'play' and settles in on the couch; when it gets to 'Massaggio Galore' he puts it on repeat and it's played about eight times when Brian comes back in with Maddie. She makes a face and looks at her father.
        "How can you guys listen to that?"
        Brian and Billy both laugh, and she rolls her eyes, disgusted. "I'll go start dinner."
        "Thanks, hon. I'll be in to help in a couple of minutes."
        Dinner. Somehow Billy hadn't figured that into the whole 'stay with Brian' equation, and he's feeling more than third-wheelish. He clears his throat. "Want to show me where I'm crashing? I'll just head up there and get out of your hair."
        "No," Brian says casually.
        "No?"
        "No. You're staying for dinner. Maddie will never let me hear the end of it if you don't. She'll dine out for months with all her friends on the fact that you ate with us. And a few more on the fact that you stayed in the penthouse. In fact, she'll probably start running tours: there'll be a sign on the table... 'Billy Tallent Ate Here,' one on the bed in the penthouse that says 'Billy Tallent Slept Here.'"
        Billy chuckles. "So long as she doesn't put one on the john that says I pissed there, I can live with it, but I want a percentage of the gross. And she'd better hurry because top-40 bands have a lifespan of about a year."
        "I'll let the two of you hash out the business details," Brian says, grinning. "Now I'd better get in the kitchen before she comes after me with a spatula. It's my turn to cook."
        He heads to the kitchen, leaving Billy to contemplate the bizarre notion that teen-aged girls are apparently 'into' him. It's a sobering thought. He's never thought in terms of 'daughter' before, and he's not sure he really likes the idea that someone's daughter would be 'into' someone with a past like his; and Jesus, that's a scary and grownup thing to think. A few seconds later, Brian's back.
        "Maddie's dying to ask you about the music business but she doesn't want to intrude. You mind?"
        Billy grins. "Nah. I think I can handle it. I was kind of wondering how long it would take."
        "Why don't you come sit in the kitchen, then? That way we all can talk."
        Billy nods and follows him, only limping a little now. His knee's feeling a whole lot better. He takes a seat at the table and watches Maddie handing her father ingredients .When he's got the dish assembled to his satisfaction she comes over and sits beside him. She watches Brian at the stove for a minute, then turns back to Billy.
        "So, um, is it pretty cool, being in a band and all that?"
        Billy considers the question, sighs. "Sometimes. When you're playing, and you're just fucking on . . ." he pauses, looks from her to Brian in chagrin. "Sorry."
        Brian shakes his head as Maddie laughs. "It's not like Dad doesn't say it every ten minutes."
        He grins back at her. "Okay, yeah. I'm just not used to being around k. . ." He stops himself, remembering how little he liked being called a kid when he was her age. "Well, you're not really a kid, but I know your dad, and . . . oh fuck it, it's just weird," he finishes, less than coherently.
        Maddie giggles and nods. "Yeah. I know. I'm weird."
        "No, the situation is weird," he manages at last. "You're cool. If I had a . . . shit. I do have one. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I hope my daughter is as cool as you are when she gets to be your age."
        A slight flush stains Maddie's face, but then she gives him a look and says smoothly. "Well, she'd have to be, with you for a dad, right?"
        Now Billy's embarrassed. Then he looks at her sharply and grins. "Jesus. You are your father's daughter, aren't you? Silver tongues, both of you."
        Maddie grins back, unrepentant. "So, are you going to tell me about being in a band or keep stalling?"
        Billy looks over at Brian, who's watching the exchange with a slight smile. "I think she's going to grow up to be a cop. She's got one hell of an interrogation technique."
        Brian laughs as Maddie gives Billy an evil look. Billy just grins at her.
        "Okay, fine. Is it fun being in a band? Yes, and no. It's a fuck of a lot of work for not much reward. It's living hand to mouth, drinking too much, drugging too much, and never making any real connections because you're not in any one place long enough. Yeah, the music is great, it's what I live for, and usually it's worth all the other bullshit, but there are days– weeks– even months - when you seriously wonder if it wouldn't just be easier if you just fuckin' worked at Starbucks because at least then you get free coffee."
        Maddie stares at him, looking a little stunned. "But. . . you wouldn't . . . really . . . would you?"
        He sighs. "No. I've really only thought seriously about quitting ... uh, once. But-- " He stops abruptly. She's just a kid, doesn't need to know any more than that. He summons a smile from somewhere, spreads his hands, grins. "I'm an addict, I admit it. I can't live without the music. Don't think I could stop if I wanted to. So instead of quitting I try to cut back on all the crap and focus on the music instead."
        She looks at him for a minute, her gaze steady and serious. "I'm glad you didn't quit."
        He feels that heat in his face again. "Yeah. Me too."
        "Maddie, would you set the table, please?"
        Maddie looks briefly annoyed but she nods. "Yeah. Okay." She looks at Billy. "Later?"
        He nods, and she gets up and starts setting the table.
        Dinner is surprisingly good: pasta, with chicken and vegetables. Good, basic food. Even though it's an easy dish, somehow it doesn't seem quite fair that Brian's a good cook on top of being a good lawyer, and from what Billy can see, a good father, too. There ought to be at least something he isn't good at.



        Right after dinner the phone rings. It's for Maddie, and Brian knows from her sudden change of demeanor that her caller is male, and her own age. She glances at the adults, waves, and heads up to her room, portable phone in hand.
        "She'll be on the phone for hours," Brian says, watching Maddie disappear around the corner at the top of the stairs. "Let's go into my study and finish our meeting."
        "No, Jesus, you don't have to work-- "
        "Billy, I told you I'd make it up to you, and my study's a lot more comfortable than my office, believe me. We don't have to talk about your case, but there are things I have to know so the sooner that's out of the way-- " He stops, momentarily at a loss, because the sooner that's out of the way the sooner Billy will go back to LA and … "the sooner that's out of the way," he repeats, "the sooner we can get started on the Canadian end of it."
        "Yeah, you're right, I'm just-- do you usually treat your clients this way?"
        "It's the spirit of the house," Brian says, opening the double doors, switching on the light. "Anna Madrigal took in all the lost souls." Tardily he realizes that could be construed as less than complimentary and covers quickly, although there's no doubt in his mind, for some reason, that Billy is one of those lost souls and Anna would have loved him instantly. "I was one of them."
        Billy, who'd looked slightly uncomfortable, now looks frankly disbelieving.
        "Really," Brian says, chuckling slightly, closing the doors after them, a signal to Maddie that it's business for now. "Have a seat. What's your poison? Did you ever wonder where that saying came from?"
        "I don't drink. Now."
        Lifestyle issues. "Good. Are you seeing someone? Going to meetings?"
Billy's eyes fly up to Brian's face and surprisingly he smiles, another open, warm smile. "Yeah. AA."
        "Is this recent?" Brian hands him a glass. "Club soda with a twist okay?"
        "Yeah, or Coke. Yeah."
        Billy turns the glass Brian hands him around for a moment or two, sighs and puts it down, untouched, on the table by the couch. Brian snags a legal pad and a pen from his desk and sits in the leather armchair near the couch.
        "I'm not sure where to start, 'cause, you know, it all kinda started when I was thirteen."
        "I bill by the hour so talk all you want," Brian says with a grin and Billy laughs.
        "You charge by the hour to clean my pool?"
        "You have a pool?"
        "No. Just a sublet." He falls silent again.
        "Would it help if I asked some questions?"
        "No. Yeah. I've- I've got a couple important questions and I'm just trying to figure out-- "
        "Ask them, let's jump right in."
        "Okay. There's this guy in Chicago who helped me. Right after it happened I went to Chicago, got mugged, and met a fucking Mountie, in Chicago, and I want to keep him out of it. We spent a couple of nights together and he-- can we keep him out of it? He didn't wear his uniform to the motel but I didn't think anything about him staying and he wouldn't have . . ."
        "A Mountie? I'm impressed." And, he admits to himself, a little surprised that Billy's so open about it. Most people whose livelihoods depend to any degree on their attractiveness to the opposite sex, which a rock guitarist's presumably does, aren't so blunt about their sexuality.
        That draws forth a nervous grin. "Yeah. But it wasn't like that, okay? He . . . he helped me. I was . . . Jesus, I was in a bad place and . . . if I hadn't met him I . . . I don't know where I'd be today. Okay?"
        "Okay, I'm sorry, Billy." Now he's not sure what to think. If Billy's not gay, then why does it matter if the Mountie spent a couple of nights with him? And if he is, then what does he mean by 'it wasn't like that?' Or does he just mean that it wasn't as casual as it sounds now?
        Billy shakes his head. "No, fuck, I'm sorry, I don't know where to start and Ben was . . ." He stops short, looks at Brian, closes his eyes, opens them again, and suddenly that brilliant grin is back. "And that's why you look so . . . damned . . . familiar."
        "Oh?"
        "Yeah . . . I mean, you're older and your hair's longer but there's a . . . wow. It's scary, now that I see it. You got a long lost younger brother or something?"
        "I'm pretty sure I don't."
        Billy stares at him even harder, his grin twisted now. Brian starts to feel a little warm, a little weird.
        "It's so fucking weird," Billy says finally, unexpected echoes of his thoughts. "Jesus. I wonder . . . I wonder if Ben'll look like that. What you looked like when you were, what, thirty five? Thirty six? My age, you know? You both got those eyes and that - wow, that smile."
        Now Brian's feeling more than a little awkward and even a little envious: is that what's behind this odd connection he felt; is it just a physical resemblance?
        "They say everyone's got a double," Billy says. "I was… shit, this is freaky, Brian, because I was a double for Ben. Looked like his cop partner."
        "He works closely with American law enforcement?" A Mountie in Chicago seems odd enough, but one who's actually pursuing his profession is even stranger.
        "Yeah. So I want-- I want him kept out of it."
        Brian studies Billy for a moment, trying to think of potential problems. "Does Mary know about him?"
        "Hell, no!"
        "Is it an ongoing relationship?"
        And Brian doesn't want to think about why he's so relieved when Billy stares at him, laughs again, short, sharp laugh, and says, "No fucking way."
        "So she can't find out that way. It shouldn't be difficult to keep him out of it then, especially if she's unaware that you were ever in Chicago."
        "Probably. I didn't talk to her about Billie until I got back to LA."
        "Good, that was one of my next questions. So you've talked to. . ." he pauses, doubting his memory for just a moment, but no, Billy really had used that name earlier in the afternoon. Odd coincidence. "You've talked to Mary about Billie?"
        "Yeah." Bitter laugh. "Oh, yeah. She said-- it's not the drinking and stuff, I haven't done hard stuff since the last Hard Core tour, and Mary was always cool with that anyway. It's . . . okay." He takes a breath and then a drink. "I was in a band six years ago-- in the band for twelve years, it was my family, you know? And my best friend . . . my family … all wrapped up in one guy. He's dead now. I'd known him since I was thirteen. Loved him for that long. Not . . . not like that, just the . . . the other half of my soul. I thought. Well, we were. For a while."
        Brian's surprised at the turn of poetry until he remembers that Billy writes songs for a living and that unexpected twist drives the strange, futile attraction deeper into his heart.
        "I can't-- how much of this do you have to know?" Billy raises his head and looks straight in Brian's face and his eyes are huge and haunted and Brian swallows hard. Without thinking he moves swiftly to settle next to Billy on the couch.
        "I know it's hard to talk to strangers about this-- " Brian begins.
        "That's not the problem," Billy says immediately, cutting him off. "The problem is that I feel so damned comfortable with you. I feel like you ought to know all this already."
        "The bond between a lawyer and a client involves so much personal information that there's often a sense, artificial of course, of closeness and familiarity-- "
        "It's not that either," Billy says simply, and looks sideways, and smiles that wry smile again. "It's probably you and it's probably that you look like Ben and I cried all over his fucking couch about fifteen minutes after I met him. Good thing he was so clueless he had no idea what kind of head case I was. So I have to wonder if I have this kind of pattern because I don't want to cry all over your fucking couch too."
        "Yeah, but I'm completely aware that you're a head case, so feel free." Of its own volition his hand moves to cover Billy's on the seat of the couch. Billy looks down and then looks up at Brian and Brian feels a hot flush rise to his face-- Jesus Christ, he hasn't blushed in twenty-five years-- but before he can snatch his hand away Billy turns his hand over and squeezes.
        "Thanks," he says softly. "That . . . that helps." To Brian's surprise Billy doesn't release his hand as he starts to talk again, that smoky, husky voice getting deeper. "Band. Hard Core Logo. Joe . . . Joe and me started it when we were sixteen, soon's we had some songs going on, Pipe dropped out of school and got a job so we had a little money for equipment. Joe and I started writing songs for real, started practicing for real, started playing dives pretty soon, and we all dropped out of high school, boom boom boom, like dominoes.
        "We messed around a year or two-- too long -- drugs and alcohol and day jobs-- and then Joe talked his way in to see Bucky Haight. I. . . well, that's not important but at least it kind of focused Joe, then, he'd go through stages when he was fuck all serious and you couldn't even grin out of place, worse than any teacher, drilled us, I had band-aids on every finger. But the music . . . oh, fuck, the music was working." His voice trails off and he fumbles in his jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes, pulls one out, and is suddenly recalled to the present with a jerk that Brian can see and feel in the hand still in his.
        "Okay if I smoke?"
        "Of course." Brian nods at an ashtray on the end table. Oddly Billy fumbles left handed with the lighter, still not releasing Brian's hand, and Brian's aware suddenly that Billy needs the connection more than anything else and he wonders for the first time just how recent all this was. He'd gotten the impression from Billy's outward demeanor that this had been ongoing for six months or a year and he'd only now made up his mind to get clean and get his shit together but there's a rawness here that says the pain's a lot more recent than that. And the knee-- he'd said he was mugged in Chicago. If the knee's still acting up, then it's only been a matter of weeks since this has all transpired. He feels a sudden spark of admiration that this man has pulled it together enough to be here, now.
        Billy drops the lighter on the table, inhales on a long and shaky breath, and takes the cigarette out of his mouth, blowing the smoke up at the ceiling, watching it go.
        "The music. Yeah. Started to work. Cut our first album, only five songs, but hell, it was a start, not quite a year later. Started working it. Started drinking it too." He grins wryly. "Beat up vans, slept on the side of the road, when we graduated to band houses that was, like, success.
        "Joe and me, the songs kept coming. We kept coming. It was . . . it was closer than a marriage, further than lovers, closer than brothers, he knew my buttons, I knew his. We partied and drank and threw up and crawled out of bed at eleven a.m. to write some more. We started doing the college circuit, even opened for a couple of bands people knew, cut two more albums and Joe took up with Ed Festus. He tried to promote the hell out of us, got suits in to listen to our latest stuff, started talking real label deals. Joe was up and fucking down and wired to hell and back and angrier than I'd ever seen him and we'd been through some angry shit. He wanted the deal, didn't want it, I still don't know what the fuck he wanted, I dropped the fucking ball there, record label, real deal, you know? So he, Jesus, thinks it and does it, head of the record company's sitting there listening to a gig, and Joe . . . " Billy chokes and Brian's surprised to realize, after a moment, that Billy's choking on a laugh, "Joe fucking pulls his dick out and pisses in Stein's drink. Asked him if he thought he could sell that. Called him a corporate weasel."
        Brian feels his own mouth curving into a reluctant smile. "Jesus Christ."
        "Yeah." Billy takes another pull at his cigarette. "It wasn't funny at the time, we were so pissed at him we couldn't see straight, I don't think Pipe shut up for a hundred miles, but . . . yeah. That was . . . that was Joe."
        He falls silent again and Brian can tell from the varying tension in the fingers in his that he's choosing words, deciding what to say, how to say it.
        "So . . . so a couple nights later we play the first gig since the fiasco and Joe's just fucking out of his head. I think he scored some smack, I don't know, usually it was coke, didn't do smack, but he was so pissed at us for being pissed at him, and he was just nuts. Busted a guy in the audience for looking at him wrong, broke a guitar over an amp, the music wasn't enough that night, me and Pipe took off after, hit a dive bar, hoped he'd be passed out by the time we got back.
        "He was, after he threw up all over the sink, so Pipe left, said he'd rather take his chances with John's insanity than Joe's assholity. I tried to clean up the sink and he woke up, watched me for a while, coke or smack, I still don't know . . . started talking to me, first time in days, like he was trying to apologize but wouldn't actually do it, you know, and I was fuck all tired and drunk and I was . . . you know, I just told him to screw it and we'd talk in the morning. Next thing I know he's got me on the bed, wants to screw, whatever, we'd done some stuff, you know . . . but he wanted . . . I said no but, Jesus, I could barely stand up by then, I was so drunk, and I couldn't stop him from . . ."
        Billy drops his head down to his hand for a second, squeezes the bridge of his nose.
        "Fucking you?" Brian asks softly, trying to help.
        Billy's hand jerks convulsively and he nods once, twice. "Yeah. Yeah. And I . . . worst part is I would have . . . if he'd asked right, you know? It was more than love, less than love, who fucking knows? But Joe Dick knows fuck all about love, wouldn't admit it if he did, this last tour's first time I ever heard the fucking word out of his mouth.
        "So, Jesus, next morning I wake up and he's gone and Pipe and John haven't seen him, and I'm just blown away, don't care if I never see him again, and we got another gig, different club, same city, and he shows up, fucking wasted, can't even stand up, we're running the sound check and he's just stumbling all over the place swearing. So I get picked to take him back to the band room and he starts yelling at me, I'm yelling at him, I think we were fighting over fucking movies or some stupid shit, you know? And he pulls out his coke and I just slammed into him, tried to break his fucking nose but I missed and got his cheekbone instead and my ring . . . my ring cut it and there was blood . . . blood everywhere. And he fucking laughed at me and said, 'Get it out of your system, Billiam?' and I saw red, took his coke, took his pot, flushed it all down the fucking toilet and we just started whaling on each other. It was . . ."
        Billy takes a deep breath and the next words emerge almost without emotion. "Next day I hopped a plane for LA. I didn't see him for five years. He got us together for a benefit concert this fall. We did a five city reunion tour. Ran into Mary, met Billie, took me a day or two to figure that part out. And for Hard Core things just went the same place they'd always been but Joe said . . . no more coke, said . . . said he wanted the music . . . and then Jenifur came through, and the asshole documentary guy who's filming the tour tells Joe before I get up the guts to, Joe whales on me after the last concert and then . . . and then . . . he shoots himself. And then I find out that sometime on the tour John told Mary that Joe fucked me up the ass so that she's blown away and doesn't want the faggot near her-- my daughter."
        The fingers around Brian's hand are holding his so tightly he knows the circulation is being cut off. Billy doesn't seem to realize it. "God, I want a drink," he whispers.
        "Yeah," Brian says, whispering too. The only thing he can think to do is cover Billy's hand with his other hand, enclosing the long callused fingers and narrow palm in his own. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was so recent."
        The hand resting between his own clenches into a fist, strong, hard, and Brian squeezes it, stroking the bony knuckles with one thumb.
        "Yeah. Recent." Billy's voice is suddenly very far away and tired and his hand relaxes suddenly, quiescent now. Billy looks at their hands and then at Brian, and a wry grin lifts one corner of his mouth. "I can hear Joe now, holding hands on the couch, Billy? With a big shot lawyer? Gonna cry all over his suit, Mr. Rock Star No More? Fucking pussy . . ."
        "You're going to cry on my couch too, aren't you," Brian says softly, teasingly. "Let me get some tissues."
        Billy pulls his hand away from Brian's and drags the back of it across his eyes. "Shit."
        Brian gets to his feet, pulls the box of tissues off the corner of his desk, hands one to Billy. "Lawyers are prepared."
        "Yeah." Billy takes the tissue, blows his nose. "Bet you've heard it all."
        "Now I think I have."
        That gets a choked laugh as Billy crumples the tissue and tosses it towards the wastebasket, missing by a mile. "I used to think so too, used to think it was a huge fucking tragedy, me and Joe, until I moved to LA. Then-- " he whistles, skates his palm flat over the top of his head-- "realized I had no fucking clue."
        "I think you did," Brian says gravely.
        Billy looks at him, frowns.
        "Have you got a lawyer in Canada yet?"
        "Uh, no. No." Billy lights another cigarette, much more smoothly this time with his right hand free.
        "Good. I've got a couple ideas in mind, there's a woman I know who might take the case or might be able to steer us towards someone in the right province."
        Billy looks at him again, swift, hard. Then he relaxes. Grins. "Yeah. Oh, yeah. A woman. Oh, wow."
        "Paternity tests, too. We'll probably need a court order if she's uncooperative."
        "Well, she told me on the phone that-- "
        "She can, and may, change her story at the drop of a hat. Better to just get the testing out of the way. Are you-- are you sure Billie's yours?"
        "Yeah. Pretty sure. Mary was kinda my groupie. Spent the summer on tour with us and . . . yeah. And she said she was. I mean . . . it was her and me, that last tour."
        "You know there may be the matter of back child support."
        Billy sits up, indignant. "I'd've paid the goddamn fucking child support all along if she'd just fucking told me, Brian!"
        "And in court I want you to say exactly that, without the profanity, if you can manage it."
        Billy blinks at him. "Oh. Okay. Okay. In court? Jesus. I didn't think . . . well, yeah, I guess it could come to that."
        "If the rape is her only reason, Billy, you have to know she doesn't have much of a case."
        Billy jerks around, dropping his cigarette. "What the hell-- "
        Brian scoops the cigarette up and leans across Billy to snuff it out in the ashtray.
        "The rape," he repeats patiently. "I'm sorry. What did you expect me to call it?"
        "Um . . . sex? You want to hear what Mary called it?"
        "No."
        "You know … you know, Ben called it that too. I . . . I haven't . . . Jesus."
        "I thought you said you had a therapist."
        "Yeah, yeah, but it's spotty and I . . . fuck, it's a fucked up society when lawyers know more about me than shrinks."
        "What did you tell the therapist, for God's sake, Billy?"
        Billy frowns harder now. "Back off, man. You know, when Ben said it, I just thought-- thought, you know, he's a fucking innocent, straight up Mr. Black and White. And it wasn't, that night, there were a whole lot of grey shades in there. And now you said it and maybe I should tell my therapist and maybe I shouldn't but, Jesus, chill out, okay?"
        "No," Brian says again.
        Astonishingly Billy smiles. "You're a fucking stubborn man, aren't you."
        "Absolutely." Brian gets up and replenishes both glasses. Billy drains his glass and sets it down again.
        "More?"
        "No, no thanks, that was great."
        "Can I ask a few more questions or are you pretty fed up tonight?"
        "Jesus. I'm fed up all the time, Brian. Ask away."
        "What are we going to court for? Full custody? Shared?"
        "I . . . I don't know. I just wanted . . . I want to see her, get to know her. Ben said it wasn't wrong to want that."
        "It's not, Billy, you know that. So, custody-- full?"
        Billy stares at him. "Christ, no! I don't want to take her away from her family, from what she knows, from her mom. Like I said, I just want to be able to see her, to talk to her, to get to know her. I mean, damn it, she's my daughter. I should be able to fucking talk to my own kid! And I don't . . . I mean, she's only four but when she's old enough I want her to know I'm her dad."
        "It's not going to be easy, between Canada and LA."
        "No. I know." Billy sighs heavily. "But if she gets to know me … when can she come stay with me? I'm a-- fuck. I have a studio sublet. I guess I need to think about some shit."
        "Well, what the law permits and what's best for Billie may sometimes be two different things. If you win your case-- and I'm only saying if because I'm an attorney-- you'll have fairly generous visitation rights. However, speaking as a father, you're right to say you can't just swoop in there and drag her down to LA to sit in a sublet for a week staring at a total stranger. Given your substance abuse issues the court may insist on supervised visitation and that shouldn't distress you because that will give you some unbiased, unpressured time with Billie in the company of a social worker or psychiatrist; on the other hand, given Mary's background and your progress in that area I find the prospect of a supervision requirement unlikely."
        Billy sits silently, smoking yet another cigarette, thinking. Brian gives in to a sudden impulse and squeezes Billy's shoulder.
        "It's a lot to think about. But that's all you have to do right now. We just need to get the ball rolling, okay? Let me take you up-- more stairs, sorry-- and show you the penthouse, get you settled."
        Billy looks at him oddly and then nods. "Okay. I'm ready. Let's go."
        "I had Maddie take up some towels and make up the bed, she said she'd put a couple of extra blankets on the bed since it can get a little chilly at night. She also put some stuff in the kitchen for you, drinks and snacks, that kind of thing."
        "Jesus. She's not. . . she doesn't have. . ."
        Billy looks embarrassed, and can't finish his sentence. After a moment Brian gets it and laughs. "No, no, she doesn't. You're not really her type. No, the coddling is just her normal thing. Actually, I think she just feels sorry for us poor old males who can't fend for ourselves. She does it to me all the time."
        Billy looks relieved. "Okay, good. I . . . that would've been kind of weird."
        Brian grins. "Lucky for me she's not interested. I'd have had to sit in front of your door with a shotgun to protect your virtue."
        Billy looks startled. "My virtue?" he echoes, puzzled.
        "She's my daughter," Brian says with a grin and a wink. "Come on."
        He collects Billy's bag and guitar, and leads the way. They take the stairs to the roof slowly, in deference to Billy's knee. Billy still seems oddly tense as Brian unlocks the door to the apartment. He pushes open the door, wondering what's wrong, and motions Billy inside. "Here you go. The penthouse. It's not much, but it's got a bed, a bathroom, and one hell of a view." He opens the blinds on the windows that face the Bay, and glances back at Billy for his reaction.
        Billy's gaze is taking in the bare apartment and he's relaxed noticeably. He looks at Brian with a wry smile. "Thank God. You kept calling it the penthouse, and Jesus, I was afraid it would be, like collectible art and Persian rugs. This? I can do this."
        There's an unexpected ache in Brian's chest at those words as he realizes that Billy can look at an apartment empty of everything except a narrow bed, a tiny table with two chairs, and a lamp, and feel comfortable there. Thinks of the stark contrast between this empty place and his own, full of Maddie's warmth and brilliance, full of . . . home, and feels . . . damned lucky. He realizes, suddenly, that that's what's driving Billy in this need to know his child. Not the creature comforts, it's plain enough he doesn't need those to be happy. No, he'd even said it to Maddie earlier, when they'd been talking while Brian cooked. Connection. That's what he needs. Connection. No wonder he wants to fight. Brian thinks suddenly of what his life would be like without Maddie and feels more than the desire to help Billy that he felt earlier: it's gone beyond that, now, to a fierce determination.
        Billy has moved to stand beside him, looking out at the city lights, at the dark, shimmering expanse of the Bay beyond the waterfront. He whistles softly. "Hell of a view is right."
        In the chilly apartment, Brian is suddenly very aware of the warmth that radiates off Billy as he stands next to him. Part of him wants to turn, to reach out . . . no. Jesus. Don't do that. He realizes with a shock that he's afraid. Not that Billy will say yes, but that he won't. It's been. . . too long. He's lost the confidence he used to have. He feels. . . old. He swallows the lump in his throat and nods. "Yeah. Always liked it up here." He's aware his voice sounds strained, so he coughs to cover it. "So, you okay? Need anything?"
        "Nah, I'm fine. Thanks. I'll, uh, see you tomorrow. What time should I get up? I'll set my watch."
        "We usually have breakfast around six-thirty, since Maddie has to be at school by seven-twenty, but I don't expect you to drag yourself out of bed that early. Get up whenever you feel like it. I don't have any appointments tomorrow until one."
        Billy nods. "Okay, thanks. Again."
        Recognizing his cue to leave, Brian takes a step, hesitates, and turns back, holding out his hand, because he wants, badly, to touch, and this is all he can think of. "I'm very pleased to be working with you, Bill. I think we'll do well on this case."
        Billy nods, accepts the handshake, their hands tightening briefly before parting. "Yeah, thanks. I feel. . . better about it now. Appreciate that."
        Brian still feels the warmth of Billy's hand against his, even though they're no longer touching. "Any time. Sleep well."
        One corner of Billy's mouth lifts in an ironic smile. "Yeah," he says, in a voice that says he won't.
        Brian pretends he didn't notice and takes his leave, heading back down the stairs feeling . . . nostalgic. A little lost. Jesus. Old. Wonders what he did, how he got here, compares it to what Billy did, wonders where Billy will be in fifteen years. It's a long time. . . long space of years.. . but, talking to Billy, he's hardly aware of the span. He heads in to his study, sits down at his computer and starts transcribing his notes.



        Billy lies awake on the bed in the 'penthouse,' knowing it's past late, but he can't sleep. He left the blinds raised so he can watch the three-quarter-full moon travel across the sky. The glow of the city lights obscures the stars, so it looks almost as if the moon is the only thing in the sky except for the firefly wink of passing aircraft. He's wearing nothing but his jeans, and it's a little chilly, but even so he won't pull up the blankets. For some reason he finds the chill comforting. The moon is past the meridian when he realizes he's thirsty. He gets up and goes to the refrigerator, looking for the bottles of club soda Maddie stashed there for him.
        As he's pulling one out of its plastic cradle there's a knock at the door, and he turns, startled. Who the hell . . . ? He wonders if it's Maddie, come to talk more about the oh-so-thrilling life of a musician. He crosses to the door, opens it just a crack to find Brian there looking grave and concerned. He's holding an old-fashioned glass in one hand, wearing jeans and a cabled sweater in deference to the cool night.
        "Hi."
        "Hi," Billy says, opening the door a little wider, an involuntary invitation. "What's up?"
        "I couldn't sleep, came up to watch the bay and saw the light. You okay? Need anything?"
        Need. Yeah. Oh yeah. He can smell the scotch Brian's drinking, it's sharp, and sweet, he can almost taste it, and with that craving comes another, heavier, richer need. Shit. Alcohol craving plus Brian craving. Fuck. Not fair. Double whammy. Straight. Nice, but not interested. Don't even bother. Billy scrubs at his face tiredly. "Yeah, I need a shot of whatever the hell it is you're drinking."
        Brian frowns. "No, you don't. You know you don't."
        "Yeah, I do. I just know I can't. Fuck it."
        Brian takes three quick steps to the edge of the roof and tosses the rest of his drink over the side, looks at the glass, throws it over too, and is back at Billy's side the next instant, one hand on Billy's bare shoulder. "You're right. You can't." He rubs the tense muscles, like he's trying to ease the need, and he doesn't know that in easing one, he's firing another.
        Billy's head drops forward and he draws in a shuddering breath, trying to get a little control. He looks up. "Rough day," he manages, a little apologetically.
        "Rough week."
        "Rough year."
        "Rough life." Brian says, his hand moving to the back of Billy's neck to squeeze, gently, comfortingly, sympathetically.
        Their eyes meet. In the dimness Billy can't see color, but he sees the expression, the depth there. Brian's
lips part; his tongue edges out in a flicker. Billy's world seems to shudder to a halt. "You've got a daughter," he says, idiotically, he's aware.
        "So do you," Brian says with that warm chuckle.
        Well. He's got a point. "Is that. . . is that why . . . why you and her mom . . . ?"
        "No. We're not together any more because her mother's a shallow bitch." Brian pauses a moment and then adds, thoughtfully, "And a control freak."
        Billy snorts. "Know all about those."
        "Billy? Do you want to kiss me or do you want to talk about Mary Ann and Joe?"
        There's a husky edge to Brian's voice as he says 'kiss me' that sends sparks through Billy's lips, as
if they actually have kissed already. He tries, desperately, one last time, to hold onto his sanity. "Mary Ann and-- " and his sentence is cut off by a warm pair of lips and a sensational tongue . . .
        And oh Christ. . . Brian tastes like scotch, and more, so much more, and he's so damned gentle, and
the kiss is so damned deep. Billy hears himself fucking whimper into Brian's mouth, hands clutching convulsively at Brian's shoulders for stability, and Brian provides the anchor he needs as his arms go around Billy, strong and sure. The kiss goes on for a long time; slow, thorough, until there's no hint of alcohol in Brian's mouth, just the taste of his desire, far more intoxicating. He's achingly aware of the press of hard cock against his thigh, of the rapid movement of the chest against his own. He wants. He wants . . . more. But just as he admits that to himself, Brian finally lets him go and steps back. They stare at each other, shaken, shaking, aching.
        Brian swallows hard, clears his throat. "Jesus."
        "Yeah," Billy agrees, runs a trembling hand through his hair.
        "Jesus," Brian repeats, more strained. "Oh, fuck!" The word is harsh, and sharp, shocking, somehow. "Christ, Billy, this is. . . I shouldn't . . ."
        Brian's voice trails off awkwardly, but it doesn't matter. Billy gets it. He's not stupid. He knows they're worlds apart, worlds away. People like Brian are not for him. He nods, turns a little away, enough to make it easy to avoid Brian's apologetic gaze, drags a careless smile up out of the garbage inside him. "Insomnia, scotch and moonlight's a killer combination, Brian. I know. Go to bed."
        There's a silence. He can almost feel Brian's gaze on him, narrowed, thoughtful. "Billy?"
        "I'm fine, Brian. Couldn't sleep, got up to get a drink." He picks up the bottle of club soda from where he'd left it on the counter, twists open the top, takes a long swallow, letting the faintly bitter liquid wash the taste of Brian's kiss from his mouth.
        "Billy." A statement this time. "It's not because I don't want to."
        Billy shakes his head. "Don't. It's all right. You're. . . this. . . it's like a fuckin' different planet, man. I get it."
        There's a long silence, but Brian makes no move to leave. Billy tries not to shiver as the damp December air seeps into the room through the still-open door, caressing his bare chest, stealing the warmth of Brian's arms from around him.
        "No, you don't," Brian says softly after a long few minutes. "If you weren't my client . . . but Jesus, Billy, I wouldn't be any kind of lawyer if I did this. It's wrong. And if anyone found out, it could jeopardize your case. I won't do that to you."
        "Yeah," Billy says, still not looking at him. "Okay."
        "Billy . . ." Brian pauses a long moment. "Billy, look at me."
        Unwillingly, despite himself, Billy drags his eyes up from the bottle in his hand to Brian's face.
        "I want you. Got it?"
        Billy shrugs, and Brian repeats himself, more loudly. "Got it?"
        "Yeah."
        "Custody cases don't take long; it's not in the best interests of the children, or child, in this case. Even appeals are expedited. We'll find you a Canadian lawyer as soon as possible, and in the meantime..." He closes the distance between them in one sharp movement and Billy opens to him like he's been waiting for it all his life. Another gentle, intimate kiss, and Brian pulls back, brushing Billy's lips one more time with his own, a promise. "In the meantime," he says softly, husky undertones in his voice sending shivers right down Billy's spine, right up his cock, "I'm looking forward to getting to know you."



        Billy gets off the plane from LA and heads for the taxi line, manages to snag one after only a short wait. He takes the steps to the house on Barbary Lane in slow stages and he's got his brace on so he manages to make it all the way to the top without assistance. Which is good, because there's no one to rescue him this time. He opens the gate and steps into the courtyard, struck anew by how it feels like he just walked through a door into a whole other dimension. He goes to the door, noting this time the stained glass leading around the window, and knocks, waits. There's no answer. He checks his watch; he's a little early. It took less time to get here than he'd expected.
        He puts his guitar and his bag down next to the door, and looks around for some place to sit and wait. There's a garden bench set under four small trees with twined trunks and glossy green leaves, a hibiscus bush in riotous bloom a few feet away. He swipes a few puddles of rain off the bench and sits down, leaning back, smelling the rich scent of damp earth, the strong perfume that seems to come from some little white flowers on a dark green bush. It's so peaceful here. Quiet.
        Gardens. He wonders how they got the trees and the bench up those stairs. Wonders how you plant a tree and has a sudden vision of Brian, naked to the waist, gleaming with sweat and smiling in the sunshine, strong white teeth glinting in that careless smile, engendering a smile of his own. Not that there's a whole lot of sun, now, it's still overcast, but in his fantasy it's hot and sunny and Brian's digging a hole in the ground, muscles rippling, and Jesus God could he get any schmaltzier?
         He hears a voice outside the gate; sounds like Maddie but sounds like she's cursing, frustrated. He straightens up as she opens the gate, still mumbling words and he catches "fucking" about every third word or so. She stops dead, flushes scarlet when she sees him. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were here," she says, almost shy.
        "It's not like I never heard it before, Maddie. What's up? You're home kinda early, aren't you?" He remembered Brian saying that he hoped Maddie would be home before they had to leave for the airport and involuntarily he checks his watch again. Nope, didn't stop, Maddie's just definitely home before Brian.
        "Yeah." Maddie slings her backpack on the ground next to his guitar case and flops beside him on the bench. "We had to leave for a fu--stupid bomb threat. They wanted us to hang out and stuff and I thought if Dad heard it on the news he'd freak and I didn't have my cell phone. I forgot to charge it last night."
        "So you bugged out?"
        "Yeah." She grins at him a little shyly, and he realizes he was supposed to maybe yell at her for cutting class.
        "I knew you and Dad were going to the airport so I figured he'd come here first just to tell you before running around to find me. It's going to be all over the news in about twenty minutes if it isn't already."
        "Wait, wait, wait. Bomb threat? For real?"
        Maddie shrugs. "I don't know. Who knows? They had the dogs and everything but it could have been some kids, you know? Just wanting to get out of school."
        Billy grins a little. Yeah, he knows. Kids like him and Joe, getting everybody out of class. But bombs . . . worst they'd ever done was the fire alarms. Scary to think of kids and bombs, kids and guns, and, shit, Maddie and guns and bombs goes straight to Billie and guns and bombs and . . . Jesus. It's suddenly not funny. "You . . . you okay? You scared?" he asks, his voice suddenly strained, and Maddie looks at him with a frown.
        "No, it's just some kids. I mean, it's like, the school has to take it seriously but it's not for real."
         "What if it was for real?" The words are out before he can stop them, before he thinks he shouldn't have said that because now, Jesus, he's going to scare her and she's cool with it and he needs to shut up, now, change the subject, fucking moron, shit for brains.
        "That would be scary," she agrees gravely. "But it's not. It's not real."
        "No." Billy manages a smile, sees her relax a little. "Punk ass kids. We used to pull the fire alarm."
        "You and Joe?" Maddie asks, cocking her head a little, just like her dad. "You were friends a long time?"
        "Yeah." Billy reaches for his cigarettes, his lighter. "Since we were thirteen." In the act of reaching, his cell phone beeps, startling both of them. Maddie looks away as he answers. "Billy," he says, holding the phone between his shoulder and his ear to free his hands for the all-important cigarette.
        "What the fuck's up? Where the hell are you? Kat said you're out of town for a few days, I been looking all over the place for you."
        Billy doesn't point out that Ed always has his cell phone. Doesn't do any good, Ed's got to talk and talk until he's ready to get to the point, kind of like Joe always did.
        Maddie gets up from the bench, pulling keys out of her pocket as she goes. She catches Billy's eye, pantomimes drinking, and shrugs. Billy grins at her, gives her a thumbs-up.
        "I gotta go to Canada for a couple days, legal stuff."
        "Legal stuff, you got my message already?" Ed sounds surprised and now Billy's surprised too. Ed doesn't know shit about Billie, and Billy doesn't know why Ed would care.
        "No, I didn't get your fucking message. It's personal stuff."
        "More Joe crap."
        "No," Billy snaps, his temper starting to flare.
        "Easy, easy, there, Billy, sorry, guess that's all straightened out now."
        Billy closes his eyes briefly, fighting the memories of a casket, a cold snowy day, five people to watch, John not even able to come because he was so fucked up he was screaming inside a rubber room for six hours straight until they got his dosage back on track. "Yeah. All straightened out, Ed, nothing for anyone to worry about any more."
        "Well, we got one thing to worry about," Ed says, still with that false heartiness that now and forevermore will set Billy's teeth on edge. "SAR wants a deal and Celine won't let me talk to John but she'll sign for him, she says, Joe's brother signed without even looking, I'm still tracking down Pipe and I finally got you. Two record deal, major label, I'll even back the percentages down. When can you stop over and sign?"
        "What the fuck are you talking about?"
        "Hard Core Logo deal, Billy, finally. Ain't you been listening? SAR still had the option, they want to exercise it, everything's a go but you and Pipe and Pipe'll sign, no problemo."
        "Joe's dead," Billy says, stupidly. "There can't be a deal."
        "There can be a deal, Billy, we got the go ahead from Joe's brother, he was next of kin. SAR wants to buy all the rights from Gilt Lick and release one ASAP, some live stuff from the last tour, maybe, too. It's a fucking huge deal, Billy, might bring in as much as your contract with Jenifur."
        "They gonna release the last concert, right down to the end?" Billy's suddenly mad and shaking. "Right down to the bitter end? No fucking way, Ed. No deal. Not now, not ever, not signed in Joe's fucking blood."
        "Chill out, Billy." Ed sounds a little uncertain and Billy feels an almost vicious sense of satisfaction, wonders briefly if this is how Joe felt, maybe on a daily basis, making people do what he wanted, scaring them, and it feels good, feels right, right now and he can see the appeal of feeling that way all the time. He closes his eyes, counts to three.
        "No deal, Ed."
        "Billy, you need to think about this."
        "No, I don't, Ed. I said no and I meant no. There is no more Hard Core Logo. It died with Joe Dick. Tell SAR to deal." He catches a movement out of the corner of his eye; Maddie's standing in the doorway, hesitant, glass in her hand, and he's glad he got control back, she doesn't need to see him smashing shit in her safe little garden.
        "Billy-- "
        "No, Ed. Deal." Billy hits the 'end' button, feels like throwing the phone across the garden, settles for shoving it into his jacket instead.
        Maddie walks over, staring at him wide-eyed. "Wow. A Hard Core CD?"
        "No," Billy snaps, tones it down three seconds later. "Uh, no, I said . . . I said no. Joe didn't want the deal when he was alive, I'm not going to let them screw him over now that he's dead."
        "You had a deal? Really? I never heard that."
        "You never heard about Joe pissing off the head of SAR Records?"
        "No." She listens, wide-eyed, as Billy recounts the story, cleaning it up a little. He always, always gets a little pissed when he thinks about it, even so much later, so he's unprepared for her reaction.
        She sighs ecstatically. "That is so cool."
        "Flush a fucking major label deal down the toilet, oh, yeah."
        Maddie smiles, and he likes that, he likes that he can just talk to her and she takes it in, gives it back. She's a lot like her dad, she really is.
        "Yeah, but he didn't sell out. That's so cool. Everyone does. Except maybe Michael Stipe. You know? Jenifur is."
        "Jenifur's nothing but a sell out. So'm I."
        "If that's why you're doing it, you are," she says. "If it's for the music, like you said you were, then it's not. But Joe couldn't do it that way, he just had to hold the line for all of you. That's what's cool."
        "It's not cool, I don't get that, Maddie. Joe was fucked in the head. Afraid of success."
        Maddie looks at him for a long moment. "You think?"
        Billy shrugs. "Yeah."
        "I could be wrong, I guess. I still think it's cool that he wouldn't sell out."
        Billy looks at her, frowning. "Yeah. I mean, I can see your point, kind of. I guess."



        Brian can hear voices as he ascends the stairs and he pauses at the gate, listening harder, hears voices in the courtyard. Maddie's home from school early. He's glad; that means Billy hasn't been standing around here waiting for him. He would have called to let Billy know he'd be late, but he hadn't taken Billy's cell number to the courthouse with him. He wonders briefly why Maddie's home, and something prompts him to wait and listen, only a little ashamed of himself for eavesdropping.
        Maddie says, curious innocence, "So, like, were you and Joe lovers?"
        Brian reaches for the gate latch, ready to head in and rescue. . . Billy? Maddie? He's not sure which. Not sure how Billy will react to that question: he might get angry, which will mean rescuing Maddie; but Brian also wants, badly, to keep Billy from having to answer it to begin with. And wants to protect Maddie from knowing that a friend could do that to a friend, but on the other hand, sad as it is, maybe she needs to know that. Indecision slows him, and before he can complete his movement, Billy chokes out.
        "Jesus! Maddie!"
        Brian can just see Maddie's shrug. "Well, I'm sorry, I know that's kind of personal, but I wondered. I mean, my friends and I wondered, because, you know, he, um, killed himself and that seemed kind of . . . extreme just because you were going to do Jenifur, so we wondered. My friends and me."
        "Jesus. You're your father's daughter, all right. It's . . . we kinda were. We kinda weren't. It's hard to explain. We were best friends . . . we were kind of all we had . . . for, Jesus, for eighteen years, you know? It was . . . it was kind of complex."
        "Oh. But he didn't kill himself when you left Hard Core Logo before."
        "God. No. Um, no. And I don't know why. I really don't. I . . . I wonder about it."
        "Are you sure he did it? Because, you know, Kurt really didn't commit suicide. He was killed."
        "No, Maddie, he wasn't. Kurt, I mean. And yeah. Yeah, I'm sure. He . . . Bruce fuckin' McD has it on film, somewhere. Jesus." Brian hears the flick of a lighter. Almost as if he's talking to himself, Billy says, in that faraway voice he'd used in the library the first night, "You know, I almost . . . I almost went out there. Like, five times. I got up to go and . . . I knew where he was, I was just so fucking mad . . . it took me a while to figure out what went down, what he was mad about. But, shit, I knew he had a gun and if I'd gone . . . "
        Brian hears Billy's voice trail away and he starts to clear his throat, preparatory to announcing his presence, when he hears Maddie again.
        "Billy, don't," she says softly, and there's a catch in her voice, the kind she gets when she sees stray cats, mangled ears and all..
        "Oh, hey, it's cool, Joe always was a bitch," Billy says, and Brian's impressed at the note of nonchalance he's managing. Impressed and, oddly, a little angry.
        "Billy, don't," Maddie says again, voice a little more ragged.
        "I met Courtney Love," Billy says.
        "She had him killed. Don't do that. It wasn't your fault. You didn't pull the trigger."
        "Yeah, Maddie, I know, it's cool. Tell me about Courtney."
        "Did she sleep with you? They say she tries to sleep with all the cool guys." Maddie's been successfully distracted and Brian feels a little impressed at the ease with which Billy managed that: Maddie's usually pretty tenacious.
        "Christ, Maddie! You sure are interested in my sex life."
        "Well, I don't have one yet so I have to live vicariously."
        "Shit. Vicariously. You're not going to be a cop, you're going be a writer, aren't you?"
        The conversation turns to less emotionally fraught subjects, and Brian stands for a moment, thinking about what Billy had said, wondering if he realizes that if he'd gone out there to talk to Joe that night, it might have ended up a murder instead of a suicide. Or a murder-suicide. Jesus. He's shaken, startlingly, by the idea that the only thing he might ever have known about Billy Tallent was something his daughter might have mentioned in passing over breakfast one morning as she spoke of the death of someone in a band she liked. He shakes that off and opens the gate.
        "Hey, you two." He studies them for a moment, a little surprised at how comfortable they seem with each other. "Maddie? What's up? Why're you home? I thought you had anime club and school's not even out yet."
        She and Billy exchange a look. "Bomb threat." Maddie sighs. "You weren't listening to the news?"
        "What?" Three long strides and he's pulled Maddie off the bench into a crushing hug. "Jesus, Maddie."
        "Ow, Dad! Jesus back, it was just some kids and I knew you'd do that, so I cut out and came home."
        Brian lets her go, steps back. "They sent you home?"
        Maddie looks uncomfortable. "Well, we were just standing around waiting for the dogs to get done, and it was nearly seventh period anyway. . . ."
        "What the hell kind of parents raise kids like that?" Brian says. "What the hell am I paying tuition for for you to go to school with kids like that?"
        Maddie shoots a glance at Billy, an oddly maternal glance. "Oh, Dad, like you never pulled a fire alarm."
        Brian opens his mouth and shuts it again. Takes a breath. Grins at her a little sheepishly. "Yeah, I did."
        "Well, now it's bomb threats. Same thing, different decade."
        "Until some stupid kid decides to imitate Natural Born Killers and shoots up a school," Billy says unexpectedly. "Your dad's right, it's not funny. Let them go back to pulling fire alarms. Jesus Christ, I sound like my grandfather."
        "Yeah." Maddie sounds thoughtful. "Fire alarms are less destructive, I guess. Not so hard on people's nerves." She looks from Brian to Billy and back to Brian.
        Brian narrows his eyes. "It wasn't you, was it?"
        "Jesus, Brian!" Billy gasps.
        "Dad!" Maddie's scandalized for a few seconds and then she sees the smile on his face and rolls her eyes. "You got me. Fuck."
        "I hope you have a good lawyer," he says blandly. "I happen to be personally acquainted with the school's law firm."
        "I do," Maddie says, and hugs him hard. "The best. You think he can get me unsuspended for cutting?"
        "I think chances are excellent no one even noticed because I have a very sneaky daughter." Brian hugs her back and then steps back. "Let's go inside. Jesus, Billy, do you take the guitar everywhere? I've got those papers for you to go over and sign. Let me fix us all a quick snack while you look them over."
        "Don't tease Billy about his security blanket," Maddie says, almost primly.
        Brian looks at Billy, grins, and Billy's face gets a little pink.
        "It's not a fuckin' security blanket," Billy mutters.
         "Aren't you going to eat on the flight?" Maddie asks.
        "Not if I can help it," Brian says.
        "I always like the rubber chicken stuff," Billy volunteers.
        Brian looks at him seriously. "You are in therapy, right?"
        Billy laughs and they head inside. Brian sits Billy down at the table with the stack of documents he has to sign and turns to the counter, taking three rosemary olive-oil bagels from the bread box.
        "Jesus, all this paper for a paternity test?" Billy asks, stunned.
        Brian smiles. "You know us lawyers, we love our paper and you've got Canadian and American paper to sign," he says, cutting the bagels in half, then loading them with cream cheese, capers, paper-thin slices of red onion, lettuce, tomato, and finally translucent sheets of deli lox. He puts the sandwiches on plates, yanks paper towels off the roll to use for napkins, and hands them around. Maddie's staring at Billy.
        "Paternity test?" she asks quietly.
        Billy shoots a 'you didn't tell her?' look at Brian, who shakes his head, thinking he's going to have to talk to Billy about the concept of legal confidentiality. "Maddie, it's a case," he says. She knows what that means, she'll back off.
        Billy shakes his head. "No, it's okay, it's all right." He clears his throat. "I, uh, I think I have a daughter. That's -- um, that's why I got referred to your dad."
        "Really? How old is she?"
        "She's four." Billy looks down at the papers. "Her name's Billie," he says rapidly, almost reciting. "Her mom doesn't want me to see her. So . . . "
        "Um . . . so you . . ." Maddie begins, confused and then hesitates.
        "I just found out about her. On the tour." Billy continues.
        Brian's a little puzzled by the conversation, but he doesn't interfere.
        "Are you pretty sure she's yours?" Maddie asks, still sounding confused.
        "Yeah." Billy fiddles with the pen, still looking down at the papers in front of him. "Her mom said I was. It's not impossible."
        "Why doesn't she want you to see her, then?" Maddie asks, and Brian thinks, again, that Maddie does have a promising career ahead as an FBI investigator, perhaps.
        Billy finally looks up from the papers, straight at Brian, a question in his eyes.
        Brian shrugs, taking a bite of his sandwich. He hears Billy take a breath.
        "I don't know why she didn't tell me about her five years ago but the reason she doesn't want me to see her now is that she thinks I'm gay."
        "Well, that's just stupid," Maddie says. "What does that matter? Uncle Michael was great, and he was gay."
        Billy looks at Brian again and Brian's surprised to see amusement there. Maddie asks the next logical question as it occurs to her as Brian sets the plates down on the table.
        "So are you?"
        "Again with my sex life, Maddie. Vicarious chick," Billy says, grinning, then he sobers. "No. Bi, I guess. I'm kind of still figuring some shit out right now, but that much, yeah."
        Maddie nods. "They said in health class that most people are bisexual to one degree or another."
        "In health class?" Billy asks, sounding stunned. "They teach you that in school?"
        Maddie shrugs. "Yeah."
        "Jesus. I feel really old right now," Billy says, shaking his head.
        Brian grins. "It only gets worse."
        "Great," Billy mutters, and picks up his sandwich, poking at it dubiously. "What's this?"
        "Lox. You Canadians probably know it as smoked salmon."
        "Oh. What're the little black things? Looks like you've got mice."
        Maddie laughs. "Capers. Pickled flower buds."
        Billy shoots a look at Brian. "Flowers? First semi-raw fish, now flowers? You trying to poison me?"
        "No, just expanding your culinary horizons. Try it."
        Billy takes a bite, chews thoughtfully. "Not bad," he says, takes another bite, catching a stray caper with a flick of his tongue, and Brian's suddenly remembering that night on the rooftop, and. . . Jesus. Not now. Not . . . yet. He concentrates on his sandwich, eating half of it before he clears his throat. "You have any homework, Mad?"
        She sighs, nods. "Yeah. Math and history. I'll go do it."
        "No, it's okay, you can stay until we have to leave. I'm selfish, I want to see you before we go. Have you and Tara decided if she's going to come stay with you here, or are you going to use her couch?"
        "She's coming here. She likes your bed."
        Behind Maddie's back, Billy raises his eyebrows suggestively at Brian, who has to fight off a laugh. "Put clean sheets on it then, okay?"
        "Daaaad!" Maddie complains in the traditional singsong tone.
        "I'd do it, but I don't have time."
        "You just want me to do your laundry."
        "Hey, I did yours for years, young lady, so no complaining."
        Maddie huffs a little. "I hate it when you have a good point."
        Brian grins at her. "I know. And tell Tara if she makes incense in my coffee-grinder again I'll kill her."
        "You won't have to, 'cause I'll do it for you," Maddie says, wrinkling her nose. "Myrrh-flavored coffee sucks rocks. Oh, crap, I was supposed to meet Teresa after school. I better go call her." She dashes off toward her room, leaving Brian and Billy alone.
        "Let me go throw some stuff in an overnight bag," Brian says to Billy.
        "What, you're not already packed? I'm shocked."
        "Bite me. I'm a busy man. Don't sign that stuff right now, we can go over it on the plane, I'll explain it all."
        Billy looks at the papers and nods. "Okay. Probably a good idea to know what the fuck I'm signing."
        "That's the best way I know of to send a lawyer into heart palpitations. Put that pen away. I'll be right back down."
        "You've got some real clothes, don't you, Brian?" Billy asks, smirking a little. "Because you're going to freeze your ass off in that California stuff." Billy pauses, his gaze slides down Brian in something close to a caress, and he smiles in a way that conjures tangled sheets and the scent of sex. "And that would be a damned shame."
        Brian's surprised to feel heat in his face. Billy has a real knack for that. Twice now, when he knows full well he hasn't blushed in decades. He realizes he's grinning in an utterly idiotic fashion, and shakes his head. "Yeah, I have some real clothes. But thanks for the reminder, I might not have thought of it. Be right back. Finish your food, God only knows what they'll have on the plane."
        Billy nods and picks up his sandwich as Brian heads for his room.



        Brian watches Billy from across the table as unobtrusively as possible. Billy's on his third cup of coffee and looks no more awake or inclined towards communication than he did after the first cup, after the first cigarette.
He'd grown increasingly withdrawn on the flights (two fucking flights, no fucking food, too much fucking time between stops) and had stopped paying attention to the papers somewhere between Vancouver and the Canadian Rockies.
        Brian had thought at first that he was tired, not used to long stretches in the air, but this morning, with sleep and coffee and a still withdrawn, almost morose Billy, he'd remembered that Billy was used to a touring life and guessed that there was something more to it. But whatever it is, Billy's not talking. That's frustrating. Brian's a talker and always has been. It's probably why he's a lawyer. He's not sure how to deal with silence.
        "Ready to go?" he says, draining his own cup. "It's a ten minute walk, fifteen minute taxi ride."
        Billy nods and they stand up. Walking toward the door, Billy looks at him. "It's cold. Taxi, California Boy."
        Brian senses he's being catered to, and frowns. "I can handle it, Canada Boy."
        Billy snorts, first sign of animation all morning. "Fuckin' Canuck, that's what they call me. In LA."
        "Who does?"
        "Chelle. Michelle. Jenifur. Thinks she's funny. Heard it for five years, in LA, don't have the heart to tell her it's old shit."
        "Nice."
        "She's . . ." Billy coughs, changes the subject. "You got all the papers? I didn't pick up that file."
        "I've got them. Don't worry."
        "You shouldn't do that. Make me pick up my own shit, Brian. Okay, let's walk, then."
        "Jesus, Billy, I walked by the table and saw them there." Brian pats his briefcase.
        Billy pulls his jacket on, shoves his hands into the pockets like he doesn't quite know what to do with them. "Should've told me to go back for them. You're not my maid."
        Brian smiles. "No, just the pool boy."
        That earns him a flash of smile, quickly gone. "Frozen pool, hard to clean."
        "You okay, Billy? If you don't like Chloe you don't have to hire her, all right?"
        "Yeah, you told me that already. I gotta have a rapport." Billy snorts. "Rapport. Shrink talk."
        "We have a rapport," Brian points out mildly.
        Billy looks up, fierce hard grin, eyes flashing. "More than that, Brian."
        Brian swallows hard, moistens suddenly-dry lips, nods. "More," he acknowledges, his voice a little hoarse.
        "Yeah. Fuck, yeah." Billy fidgets a moment and then, as if the exchange gave him courage, asks suddenly, "What if we don't have a rapport? Me and Chloe? What if I just try to talk to Mary again?"
        Brian pauses at the outer door. "Talk to her about what? Seeing Billie? Do you think that'll work?"
        Billy stares at the street for a second, shakes his head, sighs. "No."
        "Look, talk to Chloe, get her opinion, see how you two work together. You don't have to make decisions today, Billy."
        Billy nods, slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. You're right. Talk to her." They walk in silence a few minutes. "You know, if we hadn't done the reunion gig, I wouldn't even know about her," Billy says unexpectedly.
        "That's true." Brian keeps his eyes ahead. "That's wrong, though. It's not fair."
        "Not fair to who? She doesn't care."
        Brian clears his throat. "When she's older she will."
        "Not if she never knew I existed, Brian."
        "And is that fair?"
        "Like I said, to who?"
        "I think you know the answer to that, Bill."
        Billy kicks a lump of snow out of their path and it skitters across the sidewalk. "Not fair to me, yeah. I know. I'm not stupid. But I'm the grown up. She's the kid."
        "You're part of the equation that needs to make decisions about her, Billy. Whether you decide to pursue it or not, to see her or not, to get to know her or not, that's a decision you still have to make and pretending it doesn't exist doesn't help anyone."
        Billy shoots him a look. "Maddie's right."
        "About what?" Brian prompts, knowing he's waiting for it.
        "You and your fucking good points."
        "Look at it this way, if you and Chloe hit it off, you won't have to listen to me mouth off about it any more."
        Billy thinks, looks at him again. "I . . . kinda like your mouth."
        Brian grins. "The mouth won't shut up. It never does. It'll talk about different things."
        "Talking wasn't exactly . . . ."
        "Jesus, Billy!"
        "Sorry. I'll be good. You look good in blue."
        "Thought you were going to be good."
        "It was just an observation, Pool Boy." He pauses and then, with another swift change of mood, asks, "What do you mean, you won't talk about it any more? Why not? I thought you were my consultant. Pool boy. Whatever."
        "Professional courtesy," Brian says. "Chloe will have her own view of things and you two will have to work it out after our initial meeting."
        "Then why'd I have to sign the release for you to talk to her? I thought you'd be, uh, talking to her."
        "She may have questions for me about things you've told me. I'd like to give her the notes I've made, and some of my thoughts on strategies. After today, though, it's hands off as far as legal counsel goes. That's how it's done, Billy, don't worry."
        As soon as he says it, Brian wishes he could take it back. He flashes on that husky voice, emotion laden and emotionless by turns, recounting pain and hurt and loss in his study. He likes Chloe, respects her, is pretty damn sure she's going to work out for Billy, she specializes in lost souls too, but somehow he can't see her holding Billy's hand on a couch.
        At his side, Billy sighs again. "I have to tell her too? Why didn't I just take out a fucking ad in Variety?"
        "If you don't feel a rapport, don't tell her, Billy," Brian says quietly. "I'll help, honest to God, if you do feel a rapport."
        "Help how?"
        "However I can."
        "Yeah. Right. How do you know her? She go to law school with you?"
        "No, I met her when I was helping draft dodgers get into Canada back in the seventies."
        "You what?" Billy stops short, laughs out loud, pulls out his cigarettes.
        "It's the next block," Brian says. "Yeah, I did. I told you, I was an idealist. For a while."
        "Still are," Billy says, lighting up.
        It's Brian's turn to laugh. "Fuck, no. A lifetime in California strips you of all your illusions, trust me."
        "Why 'lifestyle issues' then?"
        "I . . . a promise, to an old friend."
        Billy snorts again. "Uh huh. You just keep on thinking that."
        They stop briefly outside Chloe's building so Billy can finish his cigarette and then head inside. Chloe's in a bigger office than Brian remembers, but it's been years, more than five, since he's been here for . . . yeah. An extradition appeal. Despite the fact that they're early, her assistant buzzes them right in, and Brian catches Billy looking around at the mahogany as they walk through the reception area to Chloe's office.
        "More fucking wood than the rainforests," Brian whispers.
        Billy shakes his head. "Christ."
        "Seat of government, here, it has to look impressive for those government types she screws over."
        Billy looks a little more cheerful at that thought and actually smiles at Chloe as Brian commences the introductions.
        Chloe shakes his hand hard and grips his forearm for a moment, her equivalent of a hug. She turns to Billy, shrewd eyes assessing. Brian's already determined that she hasn't changed much, a little more grey in her salt-and-pepper hair, face a little more weatherbeaten: she sails and rock climbs and God knows what else, probably skydiving if Brian knows her.
        "Chloe, William Boisy, alias Billy Tallent. Bill, Chloe Phillips, my partner in crimes against the state."
        "The United States," Chloe says with her quick grin. "Billy Tallent? That sounds familiar."
        The smile's gone from Billy's face as if it had never been there. "Hard Core Logo?"
        "That's it. My daughter was quite a fan of yours."
        "Wow. That was, um, kinda hard to do," Billy says.
        "Yes, you never had a major label deal, did you? Still, I distinctly remember her talking reverently about you and Jack? Jim?"
        "Joe."
        "Joe Dick. That's it. She called to tell me about him. It was a shock to her."
        "Oh, yeah," Billy says, fumbling in his jacket pocket, drawing his hand out empty.
        "Chloe smokes," Brian says.
        "In the office? Is that-- that's not cool, Brian." Billy looks surprised.
        Chloe points to a window, cracked. "The windows open, so I cheat."
        "Can-- can I?" Billy asks, pulling out his cigarettes.
        "Of course. Brian, grab that chair, let's settle over here by the window and I'll join you."
        To Brian's surprise, Billy lights Chloe's cigarette first, then his own, and he catches a glint in Chloe's eye that makes him relax. Brian sits in the chair between them, pulling papers out of his briefcase.
        "Hell," Chloe says, "hand me that legal pad, Brian."
        Billy's up and reaching to the desk before Brian can move, grabbing a pen from the pen holder. Brian's more than a little surprised now but Chloe accepts it the way she accepts everything.
        "Thank you, Mr. Boisy, let's get started. Custody. Lifestyle issues. Does that mean what I think it means?"
        "Which part?" Billy asks cautiously.
        "Lifestyle issues? Drugs, sex, alcohol?"
        Billy blushes scarlet and Brian stares openly at him.
        "All-- kind of all of the above, not-- not a great role model for your daughter, I'm sorry."
        "My daughter has a lot of sense, Mr. Boisy, and if she didn't it wasn't your fault. Drugs-- are you still doing them?"
        "No."
        "How long?"
        "Um, until this, uh, reunion tour, almost five years."
        "Good. How much on the tour?"
        "Once. But the drugs-- Mary's not upset about that."
        "Mary? Is that the mother? She may not be, but other people might be."
        "Oh." Billy sits back, fiddles with his lighter. Brian rustles his papers to make Billy look, smiles at him. Billy turns one side of his mouth up in a half grin before looking back down at the lighter.
        "Alcohol?"
        "Uh, more recent. I'm going to AA-- when I'm in LA. Haven't had a drink since-- since that night."
        "Good. Sex?"
        "Mary was one of Mr. Boisy's groupies," Brian interjects.
        Chloe scribbles a long note. "Good. What's her problem with sex, then?"
        "She . . . " Billy's voice gets quiet, almost inaudible. "She thinks . . . ."
        "Speak up, Mr. Boisy, it's nothing I haven't heard before," Chloe says, but although her tone is bracing she smiles at Billy when he looks at her and he smiles back.
        Billy clears his throat. "She thinks I'm gay."
        "And why would that be?"
        Billy looks at Brian, looks out the window, looks back down at the carpet.
        "The answer isn't in any of those places," Chloe says acerbically. "Did she walk in on you with someone? Did someone tell her that?"
        "Yeah." The relief is evident. "Yeah. Someone told her."
        "Told her what?"
        "I thought you were going to ask who told her."
        "I will. Listen, Mr. Boisy, I need you to tell me everything. I'll decide if it's relevant or if it isn't."
        Astonishingly Billy grins at her, that wide incandescent smile that Brian, quite simply, craves. "Okay. I'm-- I'm sorry. Yeah. I'll try."
        "And you can't shock me, Mr. Boisy, I've worked in law for thirty years. In Ottawa."
        "Yeah. Good point."
        "So?" Chloe prompts. "Someone told her what?"
        "That Joe, uh, fucked me up the ass. Five years ago." Billy's face is flushed but his voice is steady, almost as if he's quoting something. Brian realizes with a sick feeling that he probably is.
        "Is that why you went to LA?"
        Chloe's question surprises both of them and Brian's now certain that she knew damn well what Joe Dick's
name was before they ever set foot in her office.
        "Yeah. Partly."
        "Mr. Boisy was drunk at the time," Brian says.
        Chloe cocks an eyebrow, scribbles again. "Does Mary know that?"
        "I don't think so," Billy says.
        "Good. Don't tell her."
        "I-- no. Not a problem."
        "I see. Did she threaten you with a restraining order?"
        Billy stares at her. "Have you talked to her?"
        "I don't even know her," Chloe says patiently, but again Brian catches a gleam in her eye. "So was that the first time? The only time?"
        "Yeah."
        "What about LA? Any boyfriends there?"
        "Jesus, no!"
        "Anyone else?"
        "Some chicks. One guy, a few weeks ago."
        "In Chicago," Brian says. "He's in law enforcement. Mr. Boisy would like him kept out of it if possible
and since Mary's unaware that Billy was in Chicago at all, I didn't foresee a problem."
        "No." Chloe's writing a long paragraph now. Distractedly she says, "No, probably not. As long as it's not an ongoing relationship."
        "We're . . . friends," Billy says, haltingly, as if it's a difficult word to say. "He's a Mountie."
        "Ah. Very good. Character witness."
        Billy chokes and splutters. Then he throws his head back and barks a laugh to the ceiling. "Oh, fuck. Oh, he'd love it. But, anyway, no, we're . . . we're just friends."
        "Is he aware-- "
        "Yeah. Yeah, I talked to him first of all. He's . . . he's kind of why I'm here."
        "All right. Drugs, alcohol abuse out the wazoo and she's worried about a five year old rape? I like it."
        "I thought you would," Brian says.
        "Taking candy from a baby."
        "Um, look, it wasn't like that," Billy says, and Brian looks over at him quickly. "I mean, don't say that,
because Joe's not, um, here-- "
        "Mr. Boisy, we'll talk about terminology later. Now. When did you find out about your daughter?"
        "On the reunion tour. Well, I mean, I met her, Mary brought her and her husband-- "
        "Tests," Chloe says.
        Brian pats his briefcase. "We're set on this end."
        "I'll stand over them. On the tour? In October?"
        "Yeah. She brought her in; I was wasted; bad news, bad time; but she was four and her name was Billie. I remembered that. And I asked-- asked Joe-- Pipe and John wouldn't have but Joe, fuck, you never know what-- never knew what he'd do. He said no, too, so I, uh, I did the math. When I got to LA, I tracked her down, called her, and she said, yeah, she was mine but to just forget about it because she didn't want . . ." His voice trails off; Brian sees a tremor in his hand as he lights another cigarette.
        Brian clears his throat. "She didn't want a faggot near her daughter."
        Chloe's eyebrows go up. "Nice."
        Billy attempts a smile. "She's from small town B.C."
        "Did she mention child support? Do you understand you may have to pay back child support?"
        "I would have-- I would have paid it all along if she'd fu-- if she'd told me, Ms. Phillips."
        Chloe grins, a real grin, at Billy and then at Brian. "You told him not to swear in front of me?"
        "I told him not to swear in court," Brian says with an answering grin.
        "No, she didn't mention child support, it . . . wasn't that kind of conversation."
        "Is she aware that you're initiating legal action?"
        "No. No. Should I have-- "
        "Let me tell you, first, that we'll be writing a letter to her. It will say something to the effect that you would like to work out an arrangement to see your daughter and that you would like to have testing done to definitively settle the paternity question. We'll give her a time limit to respond; given her stance already, I imagine we'll have to go to court to force the paternity test. You'll need to come back for that; the judge will want to hear, of course, the reasons that we believe the motion should be granted. If you haven't already done so, you might want to jot down as much as you remember of the phone conversation in LA." Chloe pauses to light another cigarette. "Don't memorize it or rehearse it. Just jot down the salient points, turns of phrase that you remember. Just to keep it in mind. Who told Mary about you and Joe?"
        "John. Our bass player. He was-- he's on lithium, supposed to be, and he lost his pills on the tour. He was way spaced out."
        "But it did happen. How did he know? How many other people knew? How many other people did he tell then and now?"
        "No one but Mary, as far as I know," Billy says steadily. "I don't know how he knew, John watches. He just fucking watches, and writes, and sometimes-- " Billy shudders involuntarily. "Sometimes he knows things. I don't know how he knew, maybe Joe fucking told him." Billy snorts derisively, stabs his cigarette out. "Hopped up Joe … hopped up angry Joe … you never know what he'll do. What he'd do. 'Hey, John, I fucked Billy up the ass, you don't shut up, you're next.'"
        Brian's head snaps up; the tenor and cadence of Billy's speech has changed, startlingly, and there's an unfamiliar sneer on his face, and Brian realizes he's looking at Joe, Joe Dick, his personality still superimposed on Billy, a voice from the grave.
        A shrug, and Billy's back. "So you never know. Does it matter?"
        "It might. Obviously no one told Mary five years ago. So you and Joe weren't lovers."
        Billy stares at her, almost incredulous, and then suddenly drops his eyes. "We fooled around."
        Other half of your soul, Brian thinks. Was he?
        "Fooled around?"
        "Drunk, high, did, um, chicks together once in a while, groupies."
        "Was Mary one?"
        "Sometimes, not later. Joe told me he fucked her once, but I never knew it until the reunion gig. Should have figured, I know she did Pipe before she latched on to me. That last tour, though, me and Joe weren't as tight as before, and me and Mary . . . she spent a lot of time with us. With me." His voice drops. "I don't get this crap now, you know? But hell. . . my fault too. Haven't seen her in five fucking years. I wasn't what you'd call, uh, commitment material."
        "So Mary slept with all of you at one time or another?"
        "Three of us, at least. Yeah."
        "How do you know she slept with-- Pipe, is it?"
        Billy grins unexpectedly. "Walked in on them. There's not a lot of privacy in band houses. And touring with Joe and the boys, you kind of get . . . inured."
        Chloe chuckles. "I imagine. You should write a book, Mr. Boisy."
        "Yeah. The Hard Core Logo Reunion Tour: Fear and Loathing in Western Canada."
        "All right, Mr. Boisy," Chloe says briskly, closing her pen. "I'll go over Brian's notes; I think we have a case. I'd like to work with you on it."
        Billy opens his mouth again, shoots another look at Brian.
        "You can certainly talk it over with Brian," Chloe says. "Here's my card. Sleep on it; let me know. We can meet tomorrow if you decide you want to work with me and you can give me the retainer then."
        Billy stands, awkwardly, as Chloe gets to her feet. He looks from Brian to Chloe and back again, and shakes his head, laughs. "Fuck. You two ought to be the fucking poster kids for the bar association. You are so not like any lawyers I've ever heard of."
        "I do my share of bloodsucking," Brian says. "Ask Tandy."
        Billy snorts. "She'd know. She and Ed, fucking vampires."
        "Is that how you met Tandy?" Brian asks as they move towards the door.
        Billy shrugs. "Ed Festus knows everyone. That's his business."
        "It's a valuable skill for your agent," Brian says easily, and is taken aback, in the next instant, by a flash of cold anger across Billy's face, replaced just as quickly with derisive amusement, shuttering those eyes.
        "Yeah." Billy turns at the door, holding out a hand. "Thanks, Ms. Phillips. I'll sleep on it."
        "Good." Chloe opens the door and holds it for him. Under her breath, as Brian shakes her hand, she says, "He's an interesting man, your Mr. Boisy. Still waters."
        "Very true," Brian says. "Thanks, Chloe."
        "Thank you. Interesting case, a good bit of the grunt work done already."
        "As you say, interesting," Brian agrees. "We'll see which way he decides to jump."
        "Mmm. Dinner tonight?"
        "No, better not. I don't want him to think he's being pressured."
        "All right. Lunch tomorrow."
        "You got it."
        Brian joins Billy at the elevator. Billy lifts an incurious eyebrow at him and grins. "I can find my own way back. You can stay and catch up. Do lunch. Whatever."
        "No, she wants to go over the notes, probably make a few phone calls. We're at loose ends. I'd like to make a few phone calls of my own, do some digging." He follows Billy into the elevator, punches the button.
        "That's paralegal stuff, aren't you kind of off the clock now?"
        "No, not until I've handed you off. Would you like to come with me or go back to the hotel?"
        "No, you don't need me tagging along. I got my guitar back at my room, I'll be fine."
        Brian studies him for a moment, wonders what Billy's really thinking. The calmness is, Brian's learned, a defense mechanism, another way to hide himself, protect himself. Still waters. Ha. Chloe doesn't have a clue. Rapids, with the occasional underwater cavern, dangerous currents and deep, deep water there.
        Billy stabs the button to open the elevator door almost before the elevator's come to a full stop.
        "I've got phone calls to make first," Brian says. "I'll head back with you."
        "Don't fucking babysit me."
        "I'm not fucking babysitting you."
        It's begun to snow, and Billy shakes his head as Brian zips his jacket. "You need a fucking babysitter." He fumbles a cigarette out as he speaks, lights it a bare second later, inhales shakily. Brian looks at him gravely and Billy looks back, shakes his head, one side of his mouth turning up in a sardonic grin.
        "Don't fucking-- "
        "I didn't say anything."
        "You're thinking things."
        "Hell, yes. You can't stop me from doing that."
        "No." Billy puffs a couple times. "Wheels turning all the time. Right round, baby, right round. Joe was the same way. His wheels were fucking blocks of wood, though, I swear."
        "Sounds like." Brian has to work hard to keep his voice neutral, to remind himself to be objective.
        "Yeah." Billy hunches his shoulders, his hands deep in his pockets, flicking the ash from the end of the cigarette with a practiced twist of his lips, a quick movement of his chin.
        After a block or two, Billy says, unexpectedly, "It was snowing like this the day we buried Joe. Fucking grey snow, grey day, he'd've liked it, no fucking pristine white blanket to hide everything, cover it all up. I always thought he was like that. All out in the open. He wasn't."
        "No," Brian says simply.
        "You know only five people bothered to show? Me, Pipe, Pipe's fucking ecstatic bitch of a girlfriend, Mulligan, and Art. Art Bergmann. You don't know who-- "
        "I certainly do."
        "Cool." Billy glances at him, grins. "I don't know why, really. Why he came. Why any of it happened."
        "No," Brian says again. "It's a lot to take in."
        "You think they couldn't be bothered or they just didn't believe the great fucking Joe Dick was dead? You know, like Paul?"
        "Both, I imagine."
        "Don't do the head shrink stuff to me."
        "You're a textbook case to practice on," Brian says.
        "You're so fucking funny. I'm laughing, see?" Billy walks faster, lapsing into silence again, which he maintains until they reach the hotel. Brian follows Billy into his room; Billy heads straight for his guitar case, pulling the guitar out like it's his best friend, almost caressing it.
        "You okay?" Brian asks.
        "Yeah." Billy's gaze is unfocused. "Fine. Lunch, right?"
        "Yeah, if I don't show, eat without me."
        "Okay."
        "Billy, don't worry."
        Billy grins big, a mere baring of teeth, no inherent humour. "I got no fucking worries, Mr. Hawkins."
        It's late in the afternoon when Brian finally returns to the hotel. After some phone calls he'd ended up back at Chloe's office, picking the brains of her assistant. He hadn't seen Chloe again but he'd left her a couple more pages of notes. He hears the guitar as he approaches; security blanket indeed, more than that, all Billy's had, all he thinks he'll ever have, that and a need deeper than anything Brian's conscious of: he has no drive in his own nature to create like that and he can barely comprehend Billy's drive. He comprehends it enough to know that it's partly sheer talent, partly psychotherapy, and all of it something Billy needs, can't get anywhere else.
        Instead of knocking, he tries the door. Unlocked. He opens it quietly but despite that Billy, sitting across an armchair, one leg up over the arm, looks up and around.
        "Hey," Brian says.
        "Hey," Billy says. "Through digging?"
        "Nope. Through playing?"
        "Yeah." Billy looks at his hand, grimaces. "Need more band-aids. Jesus."
        "What'd you have for lunch? I had a stale sandwich and a warm Coke."
        "Shit." Billy shakes his head, grinning shamefacedly.
        "Jesus, no wonder you're so thin. You want to go out or order in?"
        Billy sets the guitar down and stretches, animal grace, and Brian sternly drags his thoughts out of the gutter.
        "I don't know, " Billy says. "I'm not hungry yet."
        Brian sits down in the other chair across the small round table. "Been thinking?"
        "Yeah." Billy stretches again, cracks his neck.
        "About Billie or about Joe?"
        Billy looks up, brief spark of pain in his eyes. "I used to-- it used to be Joe and Billy." He lights a cigarette. "Could Mary have given her a stupider name? And, Jesus, her husband, does he know Billie's mine? What the hell am I fucking up here?"
        "You're not fucking anything up, Bill. Mary fucked up by not telling you. If she lied to her husband, again, not your fault."
        "My problem, though, if I break up Billie's family, only one she's got, only dad she knows. If he doesn't know, he'll probably take off."
        "Again, Billy, not your problem."
        "It is too my damned problem. I don't want to fuck her life up, don't want to take her dad away. He seemed to like her; he married Mary; probably has his shit together a lot better than me."
        "Bill, all that is irrelevant to the point here, which is that you have a right to be a part of your daughter's life."
        "I'm just not sure about that, Brian. I'm not sure I should even be doing this. What the hell do I know about being a father? My dad. . . fuck. I can't even remember seeing him when he wasn't drunk. His idea of parenting was to beat the crap out of us if he thought we were out of line." Billy does something behind his hand then bares startlingly gapped teeth at Brian before popping the bridge back into place with a practiced flick of his tongue. "He did that the last fight we had. I knocked him cold with his vodka bottle and took off, never went back. I know fuck-all about being a good parent. I look at you and it's like--" he stops, looking frustrated, searching for words,"... like everything you do is right. How the fuck do you do that?"
        Brian laughs wryly, shaking his head. "Jesus. Don't believe it for a minute. I've done more than my share of screwing up, believe me."
        Billy gives him a look of patent disbelief. "Right."
        "No, remember what I told you about my house and lost souls?"
        Billy frowns, nods slowly. "Yeah, you said you were one. Didn't believe that, either."
        "I was, though. For years. I went to college, went to law school, spent a few years being an idealist, trying to help people, and learning just how ugly and greedy the world really is, until finally I just quit, and went west to 'find myself.' What I found was a job waiting tables, the house on Barbary Lane, and a revolving bedroom door."
        Billy stares at him. "You were a waiter?" he asks incredulously.
        Brian grins, amused that Billy's not questioning the revolving door. "What, haven't I impressed you with my ace table-clearing skills? Yeah, I was a waiter, and a damned good one. But even good waiters got paid squat, so I lived with Mrs. M. because the rent was cheap and I got free dope. She grew it herself in the courtyard."
        "No way!"
        "Oh yeah. Good stuff, too. She was one hell of a gardener. Anyway, I lived there for six years, sleeping with different women every week, living on macaroni and cheese, and spending most of my free time asleep, stoned, or screwing."
        Billy flashes a quick grin. "Sounds kind of. . . fun."
        "Oh, it was great, for a while. Then it got old, as strange as that sounds."
        "Not so strange. I can relate. You just get... tired of it," Billy's thoughtful for a moment. "There's nothing real, no connection."
        Brian remembers thinking once before that Billy needed that, needed connection. He nods. "Yeah. Exactly. That's it. I wanted a connection, something more than a one-night-stand, and I found one, finally. Thought I had, anyway."
        "Maddie's mother?"
        "Mmhmm. Mary Ann. She was different from everyone else I knew." He smiles wryly. "First off, she wouldn't sleep with me."
        Billy laughs. "So, Maddie's like. . . an immaculate conception?"
        Brian sticks his tongue out. "I mean at first. For years, actually. She was another tenant at the house. Mrs. M. tried to matchmake us when Mary Ann first arrived, as pure a bit of corn-fed Iowa beef as you've ever seen. She was working as a secretary when she moved in, but by the time we got married she'd established a career in journalism, and didn't seem to mind that I wasn't interested in having a career. We moved out to Walnut Creek, did the whole suburbia thing. Then she. . . we. . . got pregnant-- clearly by that time we were sleeping together," he says with a wink, "and she insisted that she should stay home with the baby, so I brushed up my resume, paid my back bar dues, and found a position with Gidde, Semko, and Wilcox. The mom thing lasted until Maddie was four, when Mary Ann got tired of playing house and took off for LA to play investigative journalist instead."
        "She just left? No warning?" Billy looks almost as stunned as Brian had felt at the time.
        "Oh, there were probably plenty of warning signs, but I was working sixty-hour weeks and when I was home, I was usually asleep. So I was either too busy or too stupid to see them."
        "Not stupid," Billy says flatly.
        Brian laughs. "There are lots of different kinds of stupidity. I freely admit to suffering from several of them at various times. Anyway, so there I am, a single father with a four-year-old I have no clue how to take care of. I couldn't quit my job, I had to support us. So I did what I always did when I was in trouble. I went and talked to Mrs. M. Two days later I had the house up for sale and Maddie and I moved back to Barbary Lane. Anna and Mouse looked after Maddie for me until I could claw my way far enough up the ladder to cut back some on my hours and start learning how to be a father, which believe me, was a hell of a lot harder than law school."
        "Mouse? Anna?"
        "Anna Madrigal. 'Mrs. M.' And Mouse was . . . " Brian hesitated. He was trying to talk about his experiences as a father, not to get into his romantic background. "Mouse was a friend."
        "Was?"
        "He died several years ago. Complications from AIDS."
        "Another lost soul?" Billy asks after a moment, looking thoughtful.
        Brian chooses his words carefully. "Lost, and found, several times over. Mouse was . . . unique. I learned a lot about being a father from him. He's the one who showed me how to handle a skinned knee, a stubbed toe, a fight between friends, or a late school project. Anna helped too, taught me that you can be a parent, but still be a friend too. Sometimes you have to come on strong, but sometimes you have to back off, and it takes a lot of trial and error to figure out which is right for any given situation."
        Billy sighs, stares at his hands. "Shit. Trial and error. Do you ever think it's a wonder any of us ever make it to adulthood?"
        Brian nods. "All the fuckin' time. I mean, Jesus . . . you have to have a license to have a dog, for God's sake, but any idiot can pop out a kid. My dad was the strong, silent type. All I learned from him is that men don't show emotion. They pay the bills, they go to work, they come home from work, they eat dinner and read the paper. No interaction between father and child except punishment or the occasional attaboy. If it weren't for Anna and Mouse I'd probably be the same way, because that's what I grew up with, what I knew. Thank God I had people to show me it didn't have to be that way."
        Billy stares at his hands some more, frowning, quiet. After a few moments Brian realizes he's gone internal again, he's worrying again, thinking of backing out, again. "Billy."
        Billy looks up. "Yeah. Just. . . thinking."
        "You know, I'm beginning to really dislike it when you do that. Because when you think, you come out with the stupidest crap," Brian says conversationally.
        Billy's head snaps up, his eyes narrowed. "Well fuck you very much, Brian."
        "I mean it. You're doing it again. You're sitting there thinking that you're like your father. That the father-to-son thing is an unbreakable pattern, when I just fucking told you it's not."
        "How do you know it's not? How do you know what I will or won't do? How do you know how much of it was alcohol and how much was me? You don't know any of that! And you just see this happy little dream with a rose-colored house and a kid who's never sick."
        Brian can't suppress a bark of laughter at that. "No parent is ever going to expect a rose-colored house and a kid who's never sick, Billy. Try again."
        "You do," Billy insists, a little wild-eyed. "You're asking me to be something I'm not sure I can be. You're expecting me to be someone I don't even know!"
        Brian stares at him, realizing suddenly what's going on. He shakes his head slowly. "Oh, no, no, no, Billy. You wanted this, you asked for this. You want to back out, fine, do that, but don't lay this on me."
        Billy's jaw tightens and his fists clench. "Fine, I do want to back out. Okay? I don't want to mess her up any more than she already is, I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, I can't fucking do this! I don't even know how to take a fucking temperature!"
        "I can show you," Brian offers quietly.
        Billy's up suddenly, on his feet, pacing the room as if it's a prison cell. Finally he rounds on Brian. "You can show me? You can show me what to do when she's crying in the middle of the night? You can show me what to do when she's hurt and scared? You can show me what to do when she needs me and I don't know what she needs?"
        "All she needs is you. The rest works out."
        Billy's up in his face, almost snarling. "She doesn't fucking know me!"
        "She doesn't know you yet. We talked about this."
        "How would you feel if someone came waltzing into your life after five years and said, 'Hey, I'm Dad, nice to meet you, let's do the family thing?'"
        "Ask Maddie."
        That clearly takes Billy aback. He frowns. Thinks, then shakes his head. "No. She knew you. She knew who you were. What the hell am I supposed to tell Billie? Who the hell am I?"
        "You're her father."
        Billy makes a low growl of frustration. "Are you always so fucking rational? What if I'm not?"
        "We'll find that out for certain as soon as we can get that court order and get the lab results back. In the meantime, Mary's already told you that you're Billie's father, so I think we can proceed on that assumption."
        "I don't think I should rock a little girl's world on an assumption. I don't think I should rock it, period."
        "That's your decision."
        "Fuck that, Brian, don't pull that fucking crap on me!"
        "It's not crap, Billy, it's your fucking decision, no one else's, and you know it. I can't tell you what to do and if I could I wouldn't. If you decide to hire Chloe I won't even open my mouth about the fucking case. It's your goddamn fucking decision, William Boisy, and it's time to decide if you're a grown up."
        Billy bristles, and Brian thinks for a moment he's going to end up with a sore jaw, but then suddenly, stunningly, the anger vanishes, burned out bright and hot and fast, like flash paper, only ashes left.
        "I don't know," Billy says in a low voice, almost a whisper. "I don't know who I am, what I am."
        "No one does."
        "Joe did."
        "Joe's dead," Brian says flatly, and Billy flinches like he's been hit. "Jesus, Billy, I'm--- "
        Billy puts out a hand, stop-signal. "No. Shut up, okay? He's dead and . . .and I'm not."
        Brian says quietly, "I don't think he knew who he was either."
        "He didn't . . . he didn't know who I was. And, you know, if he didn't know, how can you? How can I?"
        "You know, Billy, I'm going to be fifty next month and I'm still finding out about myself. You know what you are? You're someone who does what has to be done. You do. I could tell that the day you walked into my office. The night you sat in my library and told me what you had to tell me. You did it because you had to. So if you'd just make up your fucking mind that you have to-- "
        "I don't have to," Billy snaps.
        Brian nods. "That's your decision. I'm just telling you that you can, because you have and you will."
        Billy falls back on the bed, both hands over his face. "Jesus, Brian, you don't fight fair."
        Brian laughs shortly. "What do you want? I'm a fucking lawyer."
        That makes Billy laugh too, and he lets his hands fall to the bed and looks at Brian in amusement. "You're a piece of work, Mr. Hawkins."
        Brian's gaze sweeps Billy's lean frame, and his mouth is suddenly like a desert. He swallows, licks dry lips, and can almost feel Billy watch him do that. Oh. . . fuck. Not this again. They can't, not yet. He clears his throat. "I, ah. . . want to go see what we can scare up for dinner?"
        Billy looks at him. Rubs his jaw, his throat, lets his hand trail lightly down his chest, and even though Brian's sure it's deliberately seductive, he can't help his reaction, the heat that explodes through him, the pooling tension in his groin. Billy smiles slowly. "No."
        "Jesus. Billy. . . " Billy's hand stops moving downward, resting at his waist, long, narrow fingers almost pointing toward. . . no-no-no-no-no. He swallows again. "Billy. Christ. You don't fight fair, either."
        Billy slides his hand into his pocket, back out again, he's holding a small white rectangle, and for just a moment Brian thinks. . . but no, wrong size, wrong shape. Billy rolls over, reaches for the phone on the nightstand, and dials. Waits. Finally speaks. "Yeah, Ms. Phillips? It's William Boisy. I just wanted to let you know that I'd like to work with you on this case. I'll bring the retainer check to our meeting tomorrow, or, uh, today, since you probably won't get this until morning."
        It's not until the word 'retainer' sinks in that Brian realizes what Billy's just done. He's going to go ahead with it. And he just hired Chloe, which means . . . .
        Billy hangs up and rolls back over onto his back, looks at Brian, those strangely fascinating eyes almost blazing. Doesn't say a word. He's . . . waiting. Brian finds himself moving without conscious volition, walking toward the bed. A smile starts to curve Billy's mouth, broadening as Brian gets closer. It's a smile full of attitude, full of invitation, an unmistakable come-fuck-me smile. Brian's on the bed, moving on hands and knees, until he's straddling Billy's hips, staring down into his eyes, trying to read the message in their fiery blue depths. Billy reaches up, curls his fingers into the front of Brian's shirt, and pulls him down. Lips hovering a scant half-inch above Billy's, Brian finally finds his voice.
        "Billy, are you manipulating me?"
        Billy laughs, and Brian feels his breath against his mouth. "Yeah. You mind?"
        He lets his lips graze Billy's, draws back, slightly. "Depends."
        Billy mimics that faint brush of flesh against flesh, then speaks. "On?"
        "Why."
        They stare at each other for a moment, and Brian sits back a little, acutely aware of the shift and play of muscle and bone beneath him. A hint of uncertainty clouds Billy's eyes, but he tugs on Brian's shirt again.
        "Because I want you."
        Brian brings a hand up to cover Billy's. "I don't mean that."
        "I want to fight it and I want you, okay? Does that cover it?"
        "Not if it's for the wrong reasons and you're still technically my client at the moment."
        "Jesus, I can't win with you. I say I don't want to fight, you get mad. I say I'll fight, you get technical and you avoid the whole wanting me thing which is pretty amazing considering your dick is just as fucking hard as mine right now."
        "I want you. We've already established that. And I don't mean. . . I don't mean to be technical. I just want to be sure you know what you're doing."
        "We've already established that, too." Billy mimics him, a little snidely. "I told you I don't know what I'm doing or how to do it but if I have to, I will." He pauses a moment and adds, "Or, technically, that's what you told me."
        "Jesus, Billy." Brian shakes his head, hardly knowing where to start. "I don't want you to do what I tell you to do. I want you to do what's right, for you."
        "I already fucking told you that I don't know what's right. So we'll do it your way, see if I can figure out the dad gig, see if I can mess up my daughter's life more than I already have and . . . I don't want to think about it any more right now. That's for tomorrow, okay?"
        "No, Billy, damn it. It's not for tomorrow. You called Chloe, you have to meet her tomorrow, you've set wheels into motion, and you have to think about it tonight."
        "Why?" Billy's staring up at him, apparently genuinely confused. "What good is worrying about it tonight going to do? It's just going to make you mad, make me mad, and there's nothing we can do."
        "It's not going to make me mad, and it's not worrying, it's planning."
        "It's already made you fucking mad, Brian, and what the hell do we have to plan? You said if I hired her you wouldn't help me any more anyway, so --"
        "So let's fuck instead? Is that a solution?"
        "Yeah."
        Billy's starting to grin again, a wild, sly, challenging grin that hits him right between his thighs. Brian has to work hard to keep his cool. "I will help you. I will be right behind you every fucking step of the way, William Boisy. What I said was that I wouldn't give you any more legal advice."
        "What's the difference?" Billy says, the feral smile fading, frown-lines furrowing his forehead. "How can you help me if you can't give me legal advice?"
        Brian stares incredulously for a moment, anger dissipating rapidly. "What the hell do you mean? I'll be there, Jesus, Billy. Listen to you, help you, be a-- a friend."
        "You've known me for less than two weeks," Billy says slowly.
        "That's true."
        "Then why . . . why would you want to do that? If you won't fuck me either . . . how do you-- why do you-- I don't get this. You-- I don't know, Brian . . ."
        A deep, deep ache spreads in Brian's chest as he realizes that he's finally peeled back all the protective layers, he's seeing down to the core. "Part of this I don't know either," Brian says steadily. "Part of this is a connection that we both feel; part of this is friendship. This is what friends do, Bill."
        Billy laughs, a strange little sound. "I have lots of friends, Brian, but while some of them want to fuck, not one of them wants to show me how to take a five year old's temperature."
        "You're fixated on this temperature thing. Under the arm is easiest, add a degree. There are different kinds of friends." He smiles tentatively, tries not to think about what kind of friends Billy probably has. He's not sure he'd call them that.
        Billy makes a rude sound. "Yeah. Different kinds. The kind who want to crash, the kind who want to take you out drinking, the kind who want you to buy them stuff. . . ."
        "More than that. The kind you can talk to, the kind you can cry with, the kind you can laugh with, the kind you fuck. Sometimes, if you're lucky, you get all of those."
        "You ever had that?" Suddenly Billy's tense beneath him. He doesn't wait for an answer. "I had that. Left it all behind."
        Brian frowns. "You had to."
        "Yeah. I did. But I had it. Someone to . . . well. No. Not cry with. Hell, no. Talk with? Yeah. Sometimes. Laugh? We laughed a hell of a lot. Fought a hell of a lot. Fucked . . . once. Could have been more."
        Brian shakes his head, frustrated. "Bill, no. There's a big difference between what you did, or what was done to you, and what I'm talking about."
        Billy looks up at him, sighs. "Different worlds, Brian. Fuckin' different planets."
        "What about Ben?" Brian asks quietly. He might be a little jealous of the Mountie but he's too good a lawyer to let a perfect argument like Ben go unmentioned in Billy's court of law.
        Billy's gaze softens and he relaxes, suddenly, under Brian. "Yeah. Yeah. You're right. I had . . . I do have a friend."
        "Two friends, William," Brian says, and he bends down, taking that lean face between his palms, settling his mouth over Billy's in a soft, passionless kiss. It doesn't stay passionless, though, as Billy's hands come up, one on his shoulder, the other tangling in his hair, angling his mouth for a better connection, and the lips beneath his part, asking, needing more. He can't stop himself from giving it. Their tongues slide and slick, breath mingles. God, so good. Other than Billy, that night on the roof, it's been a long time since he's kissed anyone, far longer since he's kissed another man. But it feels right to him, stunningly right.
        He's deeply, intoxicatingly aware of Billy's taste and smell and feel and he deepens the kiss, barely conscious of his body stretching out over Billy's, of an age-old rhythm beginning . . . Jesus. It's all so right. Too right. He forces himself to push away again, knows he's breathing hard, sees that Billy is, too, feels the tight rise of Billy's cock against his own, and is grateful for the interference of clothing. "God," he breathes. "I want more, you know I do, Billy, but not yet. We can't, yet."
        "God, Technical Man, you're driving me up the fucking wall," Billy says, shifting uncomfortably beneath him, one hand still on Brian's arm, thumb moving almost mechanically, the callus feeling rough against Brian's skin.
        "Driving myself up the fuckin' wall," Brian echoes, harshly.
        "I want you. Please."
        Naked, unadorned, pure and simple, no more tricks, and Brian thinks that tearing his heart out might be easier than the "No" he has to force from his own unwilling lips in the next three seconds. "Fuck. I'm sorry. I don't. . . we can't. . . I don't mean to be a tease, damn it. I'm sorry."
        "It better be one hell of a rain check," Billy almost-growls, twisting beneath him.
        Tardily Brian shifts his weight to one side, freeing Billy. He sits up, head in his hand, rubbing his forehead, then he looks back at Billy wryly. "Can't promise anything," he admits, feeling a flush bloom in his face. "I'm. . . ah . . . pretty out of practice."
        Billy sits up, a little stiffly, cracking his neck. "No shit? Because you sure as hell know what to do with that mouth."
        The heat in his face intensifies. "Yeah. Maybe it's like riding a bike."
        "Whole lot more fun," Billy says, and winks.
        That surprises a laugh out of Brian. He shakes his head, still grinning. "Come on. Let's go feed the appetite we can actually do something about."
        "I'm not talking about the fucking case over dinner," Billy mutters.
        "Fine," Brian says amenably. "Hockey, then?"
        "Yeah, sure." Billy looks a little surprised.
        "We'll talk about the case after dinner," Brian says smoothly.
        "Then you're buying."
        "If you'll talk, I'll buy."
        "Deal."


        Somehow Brian manages to get through dinner with Billy without dragging him across the table and kissing him. The fact that their waitress recognized and is clearly interested in Billy makes that easier, though it feels a little odd, too. He finds he's disconcertingly jealous of Billy's time and attention, wonders if it's a bad sign that they're not even sleeping together and he already feels possessive. Billy lights up a little in the attention, kind of . . . turns on, something that Brian hasn't seen before, and he realizes he's seeing the performer in Billy. He tries to just be an observer, watch it happen, and absorb this new facet of Billy's personality, but it's difficult. He wants to be rude, to tell her to leave them alone.
        He's not sure if Billy picks up on his mood, or if he just tires of being 'on' because after a little while he turns in toward Brian and starts asking questions about Chloe and his past, and the waitress soon leaves them alone to talk. Billy laughs freely at Brian's stories of representing draft-dodgers and enterprising hemp cultivators, his years at Perry's, and the whole vast strangeness that was San Francisco culture in the late seventies.
        "Jesus. Fucking decadent. Fall of Rome stuff."
        Brian laughs. "Yeah. A lot of people were convinced the end was nigh. In a way, it was, because not long after that we found out that sex could be fatal. That was the end of a lot of things, a lot of freedom. Funny, it seems like such a long time ago, and yesterday at the same time."
        Billy nods, thoughtful. "Seventy-seven, you said? I was living in Vancouver, mostly in squats, sometimes at Joe's when he could sneak me in. Working odd jobs when I could get them." He laughs. "Couldn't keep 'em. I was a mouthy little shit. Spent a lot of time avoiding the cops and anyone who knew my old man. Practicing with Joe and the boys ten hours a day in some abandoned warehouse, playing gigs at night in bars we weren't even old enough to drink in. Jesus. You're right. Yesterday and forever ago."
        It hits Brian suddenly that Billy would have been fifteen for most of 1977. God. Right about Maddie's age. A baby. Already on the street. He wants to hurt the people who did that to Billy, and at the same time he feels old. Old and impossibly privileged. He looks away from Billy, signals the waitress. "We'd better be getting back, get some rest. Have to meet Chloe tomorrow, then take that fucking awful flight back."
        Billy nods, then looks at him intently, frowning a little. "You okay, Brian?"
        "Fine," Brian lies, forcing a smile. "Just a little tired. Long day."
        Billy studies him a moment longer, nods again, slowly, his eyes a little distant. "Why don't you go on back? I'll get the check, and I want to stop and get some smokes. See you in the morning."
        "Ah .. . okay, Bill." Brian's a little confused, tries to recoup. Billy wants to be alone, that much is clear; is Brian hovering too much? Did he cross the line this afternoon? The line's pretty fucking blurry as it is but Brian's seen it happen before. Billy was right when he said that people tell their lawyers more than their shrinks; sometimes they have to, and many times the result of that is a withdrawal, a temporary increase in formality while the client deals with the temporary increase in intimacy, forced and uncomfortable. He'd thought he was past that line with Billy, but it's been a rough day for him too, after all, a lot to deal with, and Chloe's not for the faint of heart.
        "I'll get the check and I don't mind going with you for cigarettes," he offers at last, irrationally convinced that Billy needs another person right now, maybe fooling himself because he needs Billy.
        "Check's mine, Brian," Billy says with a scowl. "Bad enough you have to fucking hold my hand, you don't have to pay for the privilege. I'm going to hit a couple of the old clubs, see what's happening, and it won't be your scene at all." Brian opens his mouth and Billy flashes him a grin. "No drinking. Promise."
         Billy's response was pretty unequivocal and Brian feels a little older than before as he departs, one glance over his shoulder showing the hovering waitress making the most of her opportunity, his only comfort the fact that Billy doesn't seem to have turned back 'on.' "God. Obsess much, Hawkins?" he mutters under his breath as he walks back toward the hotel, the chill seeping in around his too-light coat, stealing any trace of warmth he hadn't already lost.
        He nods curtly at the desk clerk and, moments later in his room, kicks off his shoes and sprawls on the bed, surfing channels. Nothing on, nothing fucking on, and all he's got to read are briefs. Or he could stare at the ceiling and not think about his latest obsession. "All right, now you're fucking getting maudlin," he says out loud, and decides to get a shower and then sit down and get serious about the briefs.
        His worry about Billy gnaws at the back of his mind even though he tries hard to put it out of his head. He's tired but sleep won't come and he thinks for the fifty-seventh time that he should have overridden Billy's objections and gone with him, when he hears a thump and a rattle from the room next to his. He glances at the clock. Almost midnight and if Billy didn't have a drink or four he'll eat his hat. There's quiet for a little while and then he can faintly make out the sound of a guitar. Nothing really coherent, nothing he could call a song, just kind of random, almost repetitive chords. Odd pauses. All very soft. If he hadn't been listening, he probably wouldn't have noticed.
        Without further thought Brian's standing at Billy's door again, and, again, it's unlocked. Billy looks up, startled, as it opens.
        "I heard you come in-- " Brian begins.
        "Oh, shit, is the guitar too loud? I'm fucking sorry, got this thing in my head that wants out, it's-- it dances in there until you do."
        "No, not at all," Brian says. "It was just ... late."
        Billy stares at him, eyes narrowing. "I don't need a fuckin' babysitter, Brian."
        "I know that, Bill." Brian counts to ten, fast. "That's what friends do. They worry."
        "I told you-- oh, I get it. You want to smell my breath? Come on. Maybe I brushed my teeth?"
        "Maybe I should have stayed in bed," Brian says quietly. "I'm sorry, Bill. Sorry I interrupted you."
        "I wanted to," Billy says, even quieter, his gaze flickering to the floor. "Had to get out. I didn't though. Give me some credit, okay?"
         "I give you a hell of a lot of credit, Bill, but you just put yourself in temptation's way. Can you blame me for wondering?"
        "No," Billy says, and it's almost a snap. "Can't blame you at all. Go back to bed, Brian. I'll keep it down."
        Brian nods curtly and opens the door. He almost tells Billy he should lock it, then realizes that would provoke more accusations of babysitting, which, he realizes with some annoyance, are somewhat justified. Apparently along with getting old, he's also gotten patronizing. Shit. Might as well just hang it up, buy a fucking rocking chair and sit on the porch bemoaning the decline of western civilization.
        Back in his room he turns off the light, peels off his clothes and crawls into bed, shivering at the touch of cool sheets against his skin. He pulls the blankets up high, tries to get comfortable, and almost has when his traitor mind remembers straddling Billy on his bed just a few hours ago, the brush of soft, dry lips against his. "Fuck," he swears aloud as heat slides under his skin, and his groin tightens. Jesus. From old man to teenager in three minutes. He's losing it.
        It's incredibly quiet in the room. He makes out, faintly, a soft progression of chords, more song-like this time. He tries not to listen, tries not to imagine those long fingers on the guitar, those long fingers on his body, playing those chords on his skin. He chokes back a moan, fingers stealing down his chest to his hip, echoing Billy's motion from earlier in the day. He yanks his hand away before he can touch himself, fist clenched, jaw clenched. No. No, he's not going to do that. For God's sake, he's a grown man. He can control himself. He's not going to lie here and get himself off, imagining Billy doing it. He turns onto his side, tucks his hand beneath the pillow and closes his eyes. Just fucking go to sleep. Stop thinking about Billy.
        Billy in the penthouse at Barbary Lane, moonlight coming through the windows, reflected by those extraordinary eyes. Naked now in his arms, his mouth as soft as his body is hard. Light, random touches, he tenses and shudders at each one, so sensitized that when Billy wraps his long fingers around his cock that's all it takes, and he's jerking and gasping, slick, wet heat spreading over his groin, startling him, stealing the last of the pleasure as it fades and Brian realizes with a near-painful flush of humiliation that he just had the first wet dream he's had since he was about sixteen.
        He lies there for a moment, then shoves off the covers and stalks into the bathroom to clean up, stalks back to bed, refusing to look at the clock, not wanting to know how much sleep he's losing to this fucking adolescent nonsense. As he tries to get back to sleep he realizes he can still hear the guitar, smoother now, almost liquid. The sound soothes him this time, and he drifts off to that trickle of sound.
        He wakes again, thankfully dry this time. It's way too early, his mouth is fuzzy, and Brian stares at the ceiling, realizing that he and Billy never got around, somehow, to the conversation they needed to have last night. He thinks back, shakes his head. He should have caught that. He wonders if Billy's sudden distance was avoidance and decides, with some discomfort, that it could have been. Yeah. Oh, yeah. And Brian was too off balance, too personally involved, to catch that, call him on it. And he's stuck, now; he and Billy are already at odds and bringing this up, now, is just going to piss Billy off and make Brian come across as a fucking babysitter... again.
        The voices argue in his head, the ethical one, the personal one, the lawyer and the man. "Fuck." He reaches for the phone, calls room service, orders a huge fucking breakfast, gives Billy's room number, and then calls Billy. The phone rings and rings and he wonders, too late, how late Billy was up last night.
        "Whah the fuck," Billy mumbles into the phone. "It's not even light out."
        "Breakfast is on its way up," Brian says crisply. "We have some more things to go over before hand-off."
        "Fuck off," Billy snarls and then there's a dial tone in Brian's ear.
        Brian swallows hard, his mind's eye obligingly providing a complete image of half awake Billy in the morning light, stubble, sleep-drowsed smile... sleep-drowsed snarl, and he grins, picks up the phone again, dials.
        "Fuck off," Billy says, but he doesn't sound as sleepy.
        "Soon," Brian says.
        He hears Billy choke.
        "Breakfast. Get a shower."
        "Come and help me," Billy says, more awake, the devil in his voice.
        "You have a one-track mind, Mr. Boisy," Brian says, oddly thankful for that damned dream now because he has a little more control. "I'll see you in fifteen minutes. Be ready to talk about the case." He hangs up before Billy can swear at him, and goes to shave and take a quick shower, himself. It's probably just his imagination, but he thinks he still smells like sex. He manages to make his own deadline, and knocks on Billy's door, legal pad in hand, fifteen minutes later.
        Billy opens the door, wet-haired, groggy, a towel wrapped around his waist, water still beaded on his chest and shoulders. Brian's attention is drawn, completely and startlingly, to a blue-green outline on Billy's right arm, a . . . tattoo. . . gleaming wetly... Brian licks his lips: suddenly Billy, his life, his lifestyle, are completely real and incredibly fucking ... sexy and he wonders how he missed seeing it that night in the penthouse. Too busy looking at those eyes . . . So much for the dream giving him any appreciable control. He's instantly fighting the urge to lick water off all that bare sleek skin, off that tattoo. He takes a breath, and tries for humor to cover his reaction. "Got a thing for spark plugs?"
        Billy looks startled for a second and then follows Brian's gaze to his shoulder and grins. "I was drunk, it was a bet."
        "What did you get if you won?"
        "A tattoo."
        Brian absorbs that. "What did you get if you lost?"
        "You don't want to know."
        Brian's trying to think of a reply to that when a rattle in the hallway behind him makes him glance back to see a young man wheeling a room-service cart toward them. Billy leans out to see what he's looking at. Too close. Way too fucking close.
        "That ours?" he asks.
        Brian nods, expecting Billy to duck back into the bathroom, grab a robe or something, but all he does is dig his wallet out of his pants that are hung over the bathroom doorknob and start pulling out colored money.
        "I ordered it, I'll pay for it," Brian says, pulling out his own wallet.
        "No you won't, Pool Boy. Now get your ass out of the way, he can't get in here with you blocking the door."
        "'I'm beginning to regret using that phrase," Brian says with great dignity, stepping into the room and out of the way.
        Breakfast is rolled in, Billy pays for it, completely oblivious to the fact that he's wearing nothing but a precariously slipping towel. The waiter seems to find nothing unusual in that fact either. Brian wonders when he got to the point where he does. So much for his short-lived flirtation with adolescence last night. He remembers being much more casual, yesterday and forever ago. Waking up in strange beds with even stranger women, sunbathing naked in the courtyard at Barbary Lane with Mouse . . . and that was before he'd figured out he wasn't quite as straight as he'd always thought. He and Mouse had put suntan lotion on each other, casually, without a second thought, and he feels a nostalgic urge to go back to then. Or, maybe, just to be more like that man again.
        He wonders if Billy would sunbathe naked with him and knows in the next heady breath he inhales that Billy fucking well would and he grins involuntarily. Yeah, and so would he. So would he, with Billy. He's still that person, down inside. Just has to tear down a few walls he's let society build around him in the intervening years.
        "Stupid ass grin on your face," Billy says as he comes out of the bathroom, buttoning his fly, still shirtless. "I'm not going to ask what you're thinking about."
        No time like the present to tear down a wall or two. "Sunbathing. Naked," Brian says, sitting down at the table, pushing a plate across to Billy.
        Billy, in the act of lighting a cigarette, stares at him open-mouthed and Brian grins.
        "Yeah," Billy says, making a fast recovery. "You're not the tan line type."
        "Never used to be," Brian says. "Eat. Then. . . we talk, Mr. Boisy. "
        Billy's face falls. "About what? I don't get this. I said I'd do it, hired Chloe, what the hell else is there to talk about?"
        "You need to be clear on this: there's no point in starting this if you're not going to go through with it, if you're not committed, because you're going to end up wasting your time, your money, my time, and Chloe's time, and doing more damage than if you'd done nothing at all. And if you're not committed for the right reasons chances are very, very good, Bill-- and I say this as a friend-- that you'll walk away just to avoid facing things you're not sure about when things get rough."
        Billy sits back, his face gone pale. "I was fucking committed, man," he says in a low, ominous growl. "I am fucking committed. I will stay fucking committed because I fucking said I would, okay? So put that in your fucking pipe and smoke it, fucking Technical Man." He shoves his plate toward the middle of the table and lights the cigarette he's been holding with a not-quite-steady hand.
        "Okay," Brian says quietly. "Okay. Eat. Okay?"
        "I'm not fucking hungry," Billy snarls, and hunches down in his chair.
        Brian pushes the eggs around on his plate for a few minutes while Billy chain-smokes his way through three cigarettes.
        "I'm sorry," Brian says finally. "I crossed a line, Billy, and as your legal advisor and pool boy, I shouldn't have done that."
         "Fuck that," Billy says, lighting a fourth cigarette. "I'm still fucking here, aren't I? Do you get that? I'm still here, okay? You don't know shit about me. No one knows shit about me. I don't have to fucking be here."
        "Yeah," Brian says. "You are here. And so am I, Bill."
        "Yeah," Billy says. "For now."
        Brian feels as if Billy just backhanded him. He feels a sudden surge of irrational anger. What the hell has he ever done to give Billy the idea he'd be a fair-weather friend? "I'm here, Bill," he repeats, controlling the urge to snarl it.
        "Yeah." Billy shoots him an unreadable glance, and doesn't sound convinced, and Brian knows, suddenly, that he will convince Billy, somehow, even if it takes him forever.
        "Cold eggs suck, Bill."
        "So?"
        Somehow Brian suppresses the urge to snarl. "All right," he says mildly. "I'm going to go back to my room and get together the stuff I did for Chloe yesterday. I'll call you when it's time to go."
        "You do that."
        "I will."
        As Brian leaves he sees Billy stub out the fourth half-smoked cigarette and light another, automatically, staring at nothing. Three hours later they walk to Chloe's office in silence, miserable for Brian in more ways than one: sneakers were not a good choice for Ottawa in December because the snow is more than ankle deep in places. He hands Chloe his notes with a brief run-through on some of the avenues he'd begun to explore yesterday, and watches Billy disappear behind her into her office without even looking at Brian.
        Brian takes a seat in the reception area. From here on out he's got to be hands off, he knows that, he's prepared for that, but after the third time he's checked his watch, he realizes just exactly how difficult it's going to be. He fidgets, tries to read, can't concentrate. Remembering they passed a coffee shop on the way over, he tells the receptionist to tell Billy where he went, and he sits there drinking coffee and reading a paperback he picked up at a bookstore down the street, halfway wishing he still smoked because at least it would be something to do.
        He's beginning to think he should call the hotel and see if Billy checked out when the diner door opens and he looks up to see Billy there, looking around, frowning a little. He lifts a hand to catch his eye, expecting Billy to join him, especially since Billy didn't eat breakfast. Instead Billy just jerks his head in the direction of the hotel and is gone before Brian can dig out his wallet. He throws money on the table, an American twenty, which is probably more than four times than the total bill, and slides out of the booth, following, his jaw tight. He's getting pretty tired of this.
        Billy's a block ahead of him by the time he gets outside. Brian jogs to catch up and nearly falls on his ass on the slick sidewalk, decides if Billy wants to be alone then he'll let him. As he's been frequently reminded in the past day or two, Billy's a grown man, and doesn't need a babysitter. When he reaches the hotel he goes to his own room and packs, then heads downstairs to check out. He feels a slightly smug sense of satisfaction in paying for his own room, makes a reservation for himself and Billy on the airport shuttle, then makes himself comfortable in one of the big arm-chairs in front of the fireplace and picks up his book again, a murder mystery that can't seem to hold his attention. His mind keeps sliding back into a new but increasingly familiar rut. William Boisy.
        It's clear that Billy wants him to back off. He's not sure why, precisely, though really, it doesn't matter. He knows that this is a difficult time for Billy, for a lot of reasons. The suicide of a lifelong friend for whom his feelings were already conflicted, the shock of discovering he had a daughter and, linked with that, rejection from someone for whom he'd once had at least a little affection and who had obviously had some for him as well. And he's trying to kick an alcohol addiction. It's a lot to deal with. The last thing Billy needs on top of all that is a man pretty much old enough to be his father with a fucking idiotic adolescent crush on him. Whatever connection Brian had thought they had, however much he wants for there to be one, he can't force it.
        He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. He should have brought his glasses. He can't read without them any more and he knows that. They just. . . well, to be completely honest with himself, he'd only left them home out of vanity. Pretty sad, really. He rubs two fingers along his eyebrow, trying to soothe an ache that is nowhere near his head, and stares into the fire, thinking about Mouse again. It's odd how much Mouse has been in his thoughts the last few weeks. Or maybe not so odd, really, since Mouse is the only other man he'd ever felt this sort of attraction to.
        Strange. With Mouse having sex had deepened their friendship. It wasn't supposed to do that. It was supposed to fuck things up. It hadn't. He supposes it's probably unwise to try to extrapolate from a single example. Mouse had been unique. He needs to remember that, and not assume, or project, similarities onto Billy. All of which was quite easy to think about in a sort of logical, detached fashion, but as soon as he starts to try to apply the glib concept to his feelings, everything gets all tangled up in a messy, inextricable knot. He slouches deeper into the chair, and closes his eyes.



        Billy stands near the front desk, waiting his turn to check out, watching Brian covertly. Brian looks tired, and from the way he keeps rubbing his forehead, he must have a headache. Something else to feel guilty about. He's fucked up his own life, he's fucked up Joe's life, he's about to fuck up his daughter's life. . . why not Brian's too? Go with the trend. No, he won't do that. Brian won't let him. Brian's too fucking smart to let him. Sure, he wants him, there's definitely an attraction there, but Brian has obviously figured out that Billy doesn't belong in his world. Billy can even pinpoint the exact moment it happened: last night, when he'd told Brian about being on the streets, living in squats. He'd seen the withdrawal then, felt Brian backing off. He's not sure why that would do it when nothing else had, but it was definitely the trigger.
        He'd pulled back, then, instinctive as breathing, hurt before you get hurt. Yeah, he's being kind of a jerk but hell, once they get to San Francisco he's never going to see Brian again and that hurts a hell of a lot, makes him want to hurt back a hell of a lot. And Brian's being glib and casual and usually Billy can do that, he's had a lot of practice, but somehow, right now, he can't, not with . . . not with Brian. Who's not Joe. Who pushes a whole lot of Billy's buttons, just like Joe, but different buttons, and Billy knows what he really wants to do is hang on to Brian with both hands and beg to be taken back to that rambling yellow house and fucked within an inch of his life.
        And, yeah, that's okay, that's normal, Brian's as sexy as hell, he's big and dark-haired and blue-eyed . . . like Ben . . . like Joe. But there's more than that, this is more than he realized, and it happened way too fast and Billy's not sure, at all, what happened except that he's figured out that sex is just a tiny fraction of what he wants from Brian, almost unimportant in the greater scheme of things. That freaks him out almost worse than just about anything has in the past six weeks. How the hell has he let himself need Brian? When did that happen? How can he undo it, since they've got no fucking chance? He's got to protect himself. Has to.
        "Sir? Can I help you?"
        It takes him a minute to realize the clerk is talking to him. Sir. Jesus. He's more used to 'Hey, you.' Never stayed at a place this nice before. He turns back to the desk. "Yeah. Checking out of 320 and 322." He puts his key card down on the desk, realizes he needs Brian's too, and starts to say he'll be right back when the clerk checks his screen and looks up. "322 has already checked out, sir. I'll just tally up 320 for you."
        Billy swivels around to glare at Brian, ready to go yell at him, but he's staring into the fire looking like his dog just died or something, and Billy can't make himself do it. "Would you give me a total for 322 as well? I'll need to reimburse that."
        The kid nods and starts hitting keys on his terminal. Billy figures he'll just send a check to Brian's snotty assistant at work and avoid the argument he knows he'll get if he tries to give one to Brian. He forks over his credit card, signs the bill, and takes his receipt and the one from Brian's room, folds them up and slides them into his wallet. He looks at Brian, who's rubbing his forehead again, and turns back to the clerk, feeling like shit. "Someplace around here I can get some aspirin?"
        "The gift store," the clerk tells him, nodding across the lobby.
        "Thanks." Jesus. A fuckin' gift store. Most of the places he usually stays in don't even have postcards. He goes across, buys a couple of single-use packages of aspirin and a bottle of water from the cooler, heads back out to where Brian's sitting. He waits for a moment for Brian to look up, and when he doesn't he touches his shoulder, then holds out the water and one of the packets.
        "You look like you could use these," he says, feeling a little awkward. "You know, I'm usually the one with the hangover," he says, smiling a little, trying to break the tension that's crept between them.
        Brian looks surprised, but takes the water and packet. "Thanks. Damn, wish it really was a hangover, then at least I'd have something to blame other than my own ego."
        "Ego?" Billy asks, puzzled, wondering what ego has to do with a headache.
        Brian holds up a book that had been lying on his lap. "Yeah. I left my glasses at home and tried to read." His mouth quirks upward in a self-deprecating half-smile. "I don't like to admit I'm old enough to need them."
        Brian thinks he's old? Billy's seen men half his age who look, and act, twice as old as Brian does. He's more than a little surprised that Brian thinks of himself that way. Like glasses mean you're old? Billy nods at the kid behind the front desk. "He's not old."
        Brian frowns, looking confused. "What?"
        "You don't have to be old to need glasses. He's about fourteen and he's got 'em."
        Brian looks, and smiles. "I think he'd be offended at that assessment of his age."
        "Well, Jesus, Brian, I don't think he's old enough to shave."
        "Some of us are cursed, or blessed, with less body hair than others," Brian says. "I couldn't grow a decent beard if I tried."
        Billy rubs a hand across his jaw, already starting to rasp and it's barely midday. "I don't have that problem."
        "So I've noticed," Brian says with a slight grin. Then something catches his eye and he nods toward the door. "Shuttle's here. You just made it."
        "I always do," Billy says, and heads over to pick up his guitar and overnight bag. He finds himself wishing that Brian would go back to being pushy, or babysitting, something to make it easier to not like him, but he doesn't. He seems to understand Billy's need for silence, and doesn't try to make conversation, either in the shuttle or on the plane; once they're settled he just pulls some files and a legal pad out of his briefcase and starts to work. Billy closes his eyes and goes into his head, hearing that song that's been trying to be born since the previous evening, since he said the words that made Brian. . . go away. The pattern holds when they change planes in Vancouver, though they talk a little over burgers grabbed in an airport grill between flights. Up most of the night, Billy feels himself fading somewhere between Vancouver and San Francisco, tries to stay awake, but the next thing he knows is the touch of Brian's hand on his shoulder and his voice saying:
        "Hey. We're home. Well, San Francisco, anyway."
        Billy blinks sleepily, and sits up, realizing that the plane is mostly empty. Jesus. Not only are they in San Francisco, he actually slept through the damned landing. God. This is it. "Thanks," he mutters, and fakes a yawn so he can close his eyes for a minute. Okay, okay, he's cool. Back in control. He runs a hand across his face, rolls his shoulders, knowing the tension there isn't due to sleeping upright. Brian stands up and moves into the aisle, letting Billy out so he can go up front and retrieve his guitar from the steward, and they walk up the gangplank in silence. As they step out into the concourse, Brian finally turns to look at him, a faint frown drawing a pair of vertical lines at the bridge of his nose.
        "So, you hungry? We could pick up takeout on the way home."
        No, Billy thinks. No, he can't do this. There's just a limit to how much pretending he can do. But he can be polite, since Brian is. He clears his throat, fumbles in his pocket for his ticket for the hop back to LA, waving it. "I, ah, no. No sense in leaving when I'd just have to turn around and come right back. I'm just going to hang out here until my flight leaves." He carefully doesn't mention that his flight doesn't leave for nearly three hours. He hopes he can find a seat on an earlier one.
        Brian looks startled and genuinely disappointed. Billy doesn't get that. Of course, Brian's a lawyer, which has to be kind of like being an actor, so maybe he's just really good at faking.
        "I. . . I'm sorry. I didn't realize you had to go back so soon."
        Billy shrugs. "Yeah, well, got rehearsals and shit."
        He doesn't really. Chelle's out of town and they never accomplish much when she's not there. She's kind of the motivator, but sometimes he takes over when she's gone, because some of the new stuff needs work. Brian's standing there like he's not quite sure what to do, and there's an odd shadowed expression in his blue eyes, a look Billy doesn't want to think about.
        "I guess I'll go on home then," he says quietly after a moment. "If you need anything, you know my number, right?"
        Billy nods. "Yeah, thanks. Say hi to Maddie, okay?"
        Brian starts to put out his hand, realizes both of Billy's are full between his guitar and his carry-on, and smiles a lopsided smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Take care."
        "You too," Billy says, and he's moving, turning to head off down the concourse in the wrong direction from where he needs to go because it's the opposite direction from where he knows Brian's going, and he's got time to kill. He doesn't look back. Doesn't dare.



        Brian broods all the way home, barely remembering to pay the driver when he pulls up at the foot of the stairs. Something's wrong, something's off, and he can't put his finger on what. Well, he can, he knows the end result, but damn it, there's got to be a reason, he has to be able to figure it out. Why had Billy gone from being interested and playful and open to cool, distant, and closed-off? He stops for a few moments on the mid-point landing, staring off into the distance, feeling like the fog rolling in off the bay is in his head and his heart, not out there. Finally he shakes it off and goes on. He unlocks the front door, drops his bag just inside it with a sigh, and turns to close it again.
        "Hey, Bri. How's it going?"
        He turns, sees Tara lounging on the couch with a book, and has to smile. Even at home by herself, babysitting, she manages to look like something off a Stevie Nicks album cover. Ash-blonde ringlets, velvet and lace everywhere. Way too much makeup. "Fine, Tara. Thanks. Where's Maddie?"
        "She's got to be at school early tomorrow for a project, she went to bed."
        He nods, looks up toward her room, then back at Tara. "Was she okay for you?"
        "You know she was. She always is. You look beat."
        "Yeah. Fucking hellacious trip."
        "The custody thing go badly?"
        He stops, realizes Billy never said a word about how things went with Chloe, and feels, if possible, even worse than he had before. "I. . . don't know," he admits. "Christ, I need a drink." He goes to the liquor cabinet, pours two fingers of single-malt and downs it in a single gulp. Hurts like hell going down, and gives his eyes an excuse to tear. He rubs the back of his neck, pours another drink. "I think it probably went okay, but I'm out of the loop now. Can't get my fingers in the pie." He lifts his glass, thinks about Billy, and suddenly doesn't want it any more. He puts it down and drops down onto the armchair. Tara leans forward, looking worried.
        "Bri? You okay?"
        "Yeah. No. I don't know," he says, leaning back, hands over his face.
        "Professional or personal?"
        "Personal."
        "Want to talk?"
        "I. . . don't know."
        Tara nods. "Lots of 'don't knows' there tonight, Bri. That's not like you."
        He shakes his head. "I'm not like me tonight."
        "Sounds bad." Tara sits for a moment, then unties a small pouch from her belt, pulling out a deck of cards. "Come here. I'll do a reading for you and we'll see what's up."
        Brian laughs a little. "No thanks, Tara, that's. . ."
        "Never laugh at a witch, Brian," Tara says solemnly. "Come on."
        He figures it can't hurt to indulge her, and it will keep his mind off. . . things. He goes and sits next to her. She hands him the cards.
        "Here. Shuffle until you feel like stopping. Try to keep the question in your head while you do it."
        "What question?"
        "Whatever you don't know," she says simply. At his blank look she smiles. "Whatever's bugging you."
        Oh. Yeah, he can do that. He shuffles for a while, until the cards slip and nearly spill, then stops and hands them back to her, feeling a little silly. She takes a card off the top of the deck and puts it on the coffee table, then flashes him a grin.
        "King of Pentacles. That is so you, Brian."
        "Yeah, right," he says. "I'm not a witch. Warlock. Whatever."
        "Male witches are still witches. Warlocks only exist in fantasy novels and role-playing games," she informs him blandly. "And Pentacles represent stability and success, usually material, though the King is also a leader, and considered a loyal friend and a good marriage partner as well."
        He shifts uncomfortably. "Oh. So what now?"
        "Now we go on." She draws and lays out ten cards in succession in a pattern, on and around the first card, then sits back and whistles softly. "Fuck, Brian. Big things. Five major arcana, two face cards. Cups all over the place. Really big things, lots of emotion. No wonder you're confused."
        Despite himself, he feels drawn in. Skeptically he asks, "What big things? How can you tell that? You can tell that from those?"
        "That and other things." She smiles, taps one of the cards. "Has Maddie been holding out on me? She hasn't mentioned anyone new in your life."
        He looks at her sharply. "What the hell are you talking about?"
        She studies the cards again, moves one aside from where it lies across another, and frowns. "Now, that's weird. Knight of Wands in the Present position, but the Lovers up there in Destiny. . . " She shrugs. "We'll get to that. Okay, Present. . . The Knight of Wands probably indicates a person, someone fair-haired, a traveler who keeps moving without putting down roots. He. . ." she stops, looks at him with a slight frown, then goes on, ". . . or she travels light, unburdened by material possessions. Their wand can be used as weapon, or it can be a light for guidance."
        Brian stares at the card, not seeing the stylized figure on its surface, but Billy. "Jesus," he breathes. "Jesus."
        Tara looks at him. "I take it that resonates?"
        He nods. "Uh, yeah. You could say that."
        "Good, that means we're on the right track. Now, crossing you, or things standing in your way, that's the Two of Cups reversed. That means unsatisfactory love, possibly separation, and misunderstandings. Does that sound right?"
        Brian swallows hard, looking around for his drink again. "I'd say it sounds like I should be looking for the fucking hidden microphone."
        That draws a laugh from his tenant. "You have been holding out, you sly dog, you. Now I'm curious as hell, but I won't pry. I'm a professional. Next we have Destiny– the future that awaits you. And here we have our first major arcana card."
        "What's that?"
        "That means it's a very powerful influence. The minor arcana, or suit cards, aren't nearly as strong an influence as the major arcana, and you have a shitload of major arcana here, Bri. That means big, huge, life-changing stuff going on."
        He looks at the card more closely, at the intertwined figures, reads the legend beneath them, and feels his face getting warm. "Um, is that what it looks like it?"
        Tara nods. "Yes. The Lovers. Well, that's one meaning anyway. A new relationship. It also means harmony, trust, love, and trials overcome. It's a pretty all-around great card to have there. But there's a warning in it, too. Yes, the trials will be overcome, but they're there. You have to go through them to overcome them. And judging from this card, there's a lot to overcome," she says, pointing to the next card on which a figure lies face-down on the ground, his back pierced by ten swords.
        "Looks pretty grim."
        "It is. Or rather, it was. Whatever this is, it happened in the past, the distant past. It represents pain, mental anguish, desolation, disappointment, even betrayal. And whatever these events were, they still have resonance in the present, they're still affecting the question."
        He frowns. "Is that supposed to be me?" He doesn't think it can be. Whatever bad has happened in his life, it's nothing this severe, nothing this painful.
        She looks at him steadily. "Only you know that. It could be, or it could be the other person in the equation, because I'm getting the feeling I'm not reading just for you here, Bri. Either there's more than one source of energy, or your energy is pretty seriously tangled up with this other person's already."
        He pushes to his feet then, goes and gets his glass from the table where he'd left it, sips for a moment, relishing the burn. Pain. Desolation. Mental anguish. Betrayal. Oh, yes, he knows who it is. Jesus. All that. And yeah . . . Brian's pretty tangled up, all right.
        "Brian? Should I put the cards away?"
        Tara's voice is calm, recalling him to the moment. He turns back, crosses the room in three quick strides. "No. Go on."
        "You're sure?"
        He nods. "I'm sure. Please."
        "All right. Recent past, another tough one here, I'm sorry. The Tower. Complete and irrevocable change. The destruction of friendship and trust, terrible loss. Something truly awful must have happened, and recently too. I don't know what, but I suspect you do."
        Yes. He knows that too. God. What a hell of a life Billy's had. "Yes. I do." He takes another gulp of his whiskey, looks back at the cards. "Now what?"
        "This one will be easier, I think. Future influence. This is another good one, especially coming right after that last one, so relax. It's another Cup, too, those stand for emotions, like I said. The Ace of Cups represents fulfillment, joy, overflowing goodness. There's not a single negative aspect to this card. Quite simply, it's perfection."
        "But what does it mean? It's just a card."
        "It means this is what's coming up for you in the near future. Looks to me like those trials we talked about will be overcome. But you have to keep in mind the past in order to do that."
        Brian nods. Keep the past in mind. Billy's used to betrayal, disappointment, used to loss. It comes to him suddenly that he's been expecting Billy to trust him, when he probably doesn't have a clue how to trust. How could he? He's never in his life had anyone he could count on, anyone he could trust, day in and day out, other than himself, and Billy's self wasn't all that together or trustworthy either, Brian thinks, for a long, long time. Billy needs to be shown how to trust, how to trust Brian . . . and himself. He looks at the next card, almost eager now; this is actually. . . useful. "What's this one? The Magician?" he asks, reading the title under the figure.
        "That one's you."
        "I thought I was the king of pentagrams or something."
        "Pentacles. Yes, that's your significator, the card that represents you in the reading. This one's where you are in regard to the question. This is another major arcana card, which shows you have a position of considerable strength here. The Magician is the ability to use will to affect reality, to bring something into being through the exercise of thought, emotion, craft and self-control. The Magician also has the ability to see through the deception of others as well as his own self deception. Pretty good card for a lawyer."
        "Pretty good card for a lover," Brian says thoughtfully.
        "I knew it!" Tara says gleefully, then puts her hand over her mouth. "Oops. Sorry. Professional again. Anything else you want to know about the Magician?"
        Brian shakes his head slowly, thoughtfully. "No, no, that's kind of. . . a lot already."
        "It is. But you'll need every one of those things, in full measure, to get past the obstacles in your path. . . the Two of Cups, the Tower, and the Ten of Swords. But we're not done yet. Let's see what else we've got here. This next one is environmental factors, and it's another big one. The Hanged Man."
        Brian twists around to stare at her, "Okay, where did you hide the damned microphone?"
        Tara lifts her eyebrows. "I don't have to bug my clients, Brian. This is the Universe talking to you. But don't jump to conclusions. . . whatever they are . . . and if you're into autoerotic asphyxiation I do not want to know about it, okay? The Hanged Man represents life in suspension, transition, and change."
        He's a little relieved by that. It unsettled him to think that that was Joe. He thinks about Tara's explanation, and frowns. "Whose life?" he asks and then shakes his head. "Wait, never mind. Two cards left. Do I need to brace myself?"
        She smiles gently. "Well, only a little. This next one, the Seven of Cups, is your inner emotions, and you're being kind of hard on yourself here, I think. You see yourself as unrealistic, foolish, indulging in fantasy and wishful thinking. But considering the rest of the reading, I don't think that's an accurate perception of what's going on."
        Brian expels his breath in a gust and sits back. "You don't?"
        "No, I don't," she says firmly. "Brian Hawkins, you're the last person on earth to be self-indulgent like that. Whatever you've got going on here, it's real. As real as it gets. Now, one last card. The final outcome."
        He looks at the card. "The World?"
        She smiles smugly. "The whole fuckin' world, Brian. Completion. Perfection. Fulfillment. All of it. The whole enchilada."
        He looks at the cards, at Tara, back at the cards again. Connections are clicking in, inside his head, he's making jumps, logical leaps, illogical leaps that somehow he knows are correct. He knows. He. . . gets it. They're just stupid fucking pieces of cardboard, but they've laid something out for him, something he should have seen before, and had completely missed. Feeling suddenly, intensely alive again, he grabs her by the shoulders and plants a kiss on her mouth. "Thank you, Tara. Jesus. Thank you. I understand now. I really do."
        She sits back, touching her lips with her fingertips, and shoots him a disgusted look. "You would have to wait until you're in love with someone else to do that, you annoying man."
        He chuckles. "Sorry. I got carried away."
        She grins back. "I noticed. It's kind of fun to see, actually. I don't think I've ever seen you carried away before. So. . . now that I'm done being professional, can I be nosy? Who is she?"
        Brian starts to speak, then realizes he can't tell her, not before he tells Maddie, not before there's an 'it' to actually talk about. "There is no 'she.' This case I'm handling-- it's really gotten to me and I'm worried about my fr. . . my client." There. Absolutely truthful and completely misleading. He's not a lawyer for nothing.
        She gazes at him thoughtfully for a moment, then shrugs. "Okay, no problem. I get it." She starts to pick up her cards, and stops, holding one, looking at it, then looking at him. He sees she's got the Knight of Wands, the one he thinks of as the 'Billy' card. She gets an odd, speculative look on her face, and then suddenly she smiles, a big, wide grin, and leans over to kiss him on the cheek. "Whatever, Bri."
        He realizes he hasn't fooled her for a second, but she's willing to pretend. He smiles back, ruefully, and she laughs. "Okay, since you're home I'm going to get my things and head back to my place now."
        "Thanks, Tara. I owe you."
        She looks at him thoughtfully. "Can I borrow your coffee grinder?"
        He laughs. "Tara, I'll buy you a dozen coffee grinders if you want, but no, you may not borrow mine."
        She laughs back, heads up the stairs to go collect her things. He sits, thinking about what her cards had told him, or rather what they'd forced him to see that he'd been not seeing. He thinks about her assertion that the reading wasn't just for him, and it comes to him that some of the things he'd thought applied to him might apply equally to Billy. They both seemed to be . . . paused. . . waiting for a major change in order to move forward in their lives. But that wasn't all. What if Billy, like himself, has convinced himself that the attraction is just wishful thinking, that it's one-sided and hopeless? What would he do, if he thought that? He'd do just exactly what he had done. Pull back, pull inside, put up walls with barbed wire, spikes, and huge fucking 'Keep Out' signs in big bold letters.
        With that realization comes the urge to ask Tara to stay a little longer so he can go right back to the airport and catch the next flight to LA. Then he realizes that's a bit extreme. Billy's still going to be there tomorrow, there's no reason to go chasing off like a madman. He wants to see Maddie before he leaves again, and he needs some rest. He'd built some slip into his schedule in case they had to stay in Ottawa an extra day, so he's got no appointments tomorrow. If he drops Maddie off at school the next morning and heads straight to the airport he can pick up a commuter flight to LA, find Billy and talk some fucking sense into him, then head back home so Maddie's not alone tomorrow night.
        Tara comes down the stairs with a gym bag slung over her shoulder, which looks incongruous with all the lace and velvet, but he supposes they must not make luggage in those fabrics. He gets up and goes the door, holding it open for her.
        "'Night, Tara, and thanks again for everything."
        "'Night, Brian." She looks at him and winks. "Sweet dreams."
        He can't help thinking back to the night before and has to choke back a moan as she walks off toward the stairs to her apartment. Like he'd needed any help in thinking things he really shouldn't be thinking. Jesus. He locks the door, grabs his own bag and heads for bed.
        Five-thirty comes way too fucking early, but he can already hear Maddie in the shower in her bathroom, so he forces himself out of bed. Twenty minutes later he's shaved, dressed, and in the kitchen throwing together breakfast . . . toast and fruit, he knows they won't have time for anything elaborate. Maddie's thumping around upstairs, sounds like she's throwing things and then she calls out from the top of the stairs.
        "Tara? Have you seen my fuckin' math book?"
        "No," he calls back at her. Waits. There's a moment of silence, then footsteps on the stairs and she's coming into the kitchen, giving him a hug which he relishes for its rarity. She's reached that age where such things just aren't 'cool.'
        "Jeez, Dad! I didn't know you were home!"
        "Got in after you went to bed last night. And I've got to head back out for a little while today, but I'll be back by the time you get home, I hope."
        She shoots him a puzzled look. "You're going back to Canada but you'll be back this afternoon? You renting a Concorde or something?"
        "Not Ottawa, Los Angeles. I need to straighten out some stuff with Bill."
        "Bill? Oh, Billy, right? Okay, that makes more sense. You sure you haven't seen my math book?"
        "I'm sure. But last time you lost it, it was on the window seat," he offers, knowing her study patterns. For some reason the window seat tends to be where she does math.
        Maddie brightens. "Oh, yeah. I was sitting there last night. I'll check that." She's back a moment later, book in hand. "Thanks. Is that for me?" She points at the plate he's got in his hand. He nods and hands it to her. She wolfs down the contents and puts the plate in the sink. He gives her the evil eye and she sighs and picks it up again, rinses it, and puts it in the dishwasher.
        "Gotta go, Dad."
        "I can drive you," he offers.
        "Nah, Jennifer's mom is coming by for me, she'll be here any minute." She stops, looks at him, and he guesses he must look disappointed because she comes back. "Sorry, Dad. I didn't think you were going to be home, if I had, I wouldn't have made other arrangements."
        "No problem, hon, scoot. You don't want to make them wait."
        She nods and Brian watches her go, shaking his head at the amount of energy she has this early in the morning. He thinks about Billy the previous morning and his uncongenial response to a much more reasonable wake-up time, and chuckles. He cleans up his own dishes, and after checking his Day Runner to make sure he's got Billy's contact information, heads out. There's traffic, not surprisingly, and he makes it to the airport to discover that he's just missed a flight to LA and the next one's filled. He's got an hour to kill. He sighs, sits down with his cell phone, and starts by calling his paralegal. A little to his surprise, the hour passes quickly and his flight's being called before he has time to do more than glance at the Wall Street Journal someone left on a nearby seat.
        He settles himself in his seat, takes the attendant up on her offer of coffee, and hopes that he's doing the right thing. No. No more second guessing. Tara's right, or those cards were right, instincts... and is he flying to fucking LA to bug the shit out of Billy because of some pieces of cardboard? No. No. No. He shakes his head, opens the Journal to the third section, puts his glasses on, and shuts out that voice in his head. Instinct, make it right, make it happen, that's what he's doing.
        Brian reads fast, so well before LA he's left with the choice of thinking about Billy and last night or reading the airline's magazine. Of the two, thinking about Billy's preferable, although the cards a little less so because that whole situation was fucking weird, but, God, dead on and what he needed to hear. He wonders if Tara would do that for Billy; if Billy would listen; if Billy will listen to him today. And, lapsing into lawyer mode, what kinds of arguments he can marshal. He's laid them out before; he's said to Billy over and over that it's friends, and Billy doesn't get it. Brian knows why but he doesn't know how to get over that, how to convince him.
        Words. Brian's good at words, always has been. Billy's about feelings, though; words are something that go with music, music is something Billy feels. He's got to connect them, feeling, words. Has to show Billy how things can change. He has to effect change, make Billy see he can do that too. Magician. Fucking magician, has to be. He grins a little self deprecatingly. Rabbits out of hats. Jesus. Or those fucking long brightly colored seemingly endless streams of silk scarves. And the goldfish that somehow turns into a dove.
        Magicians are all about illusion though, and that's the problem: Billy's looking at illusions, dead ones, can't see past them to reality yet, maybe doesn't know what reality is. Tara was talking about a real magician, though, someone who can actually change things just by willing it, and if he thinks about that, if he thinks about where Billy is, he can do that. Billy needs to touch it, feel it, smell it, taste it to believe it's real. Hearing doesn't work, not when so much of what Billy does is tied up in that. He knows the illusions words can create.
        Touch . . . feel. . . connections, again, yeah. A daughter. A friend. A place. He needs a place. "Oh, God," Brian whispers, out loud, and the man across the aisle shoots him a puzzled look. A place. Belonging and connection and lost souls and the fucking penthouse apartment is fucking empty, Brian Hawkins, it's been empty for months, been waiting for the right person and here he is. Yes. The house wants him. Anna's spirit, whatever. It's right. He knows it. Feels it. He just has to make it happen.
        The lawyer half of his brain reviews and dismisses potential objections summarily-- the commute's the worst part and Billy's already indicated that he doesn't have a nine to five job anyhow. He can't wait to get off the fucking plane and turn his cell back on; he has to talk to Billy now. The remainder of the flight seems interminable, but the plane finally lands and the minute he's off the plane he dials Billy's apartment. He's surprised when it just rings. Not home. Fuck. Where the hell is he? Then he remembers Billy said he had rehearsals.
        He's a little surprised-- it seems kind of early-- but on the other hand, Billy retreats to the music when he's messed up. Brian's already figured that out. So practice makes sense. He dials Billy's cell while waiting for the next taxi to pull up but he's not surprised when he gets voicemail. Billy probably can't hear his phone over the inevitable din that is a grunge rock rehearsal session.
        The taxi delivers him to an anonymous-looking warehouse in a mostly industrial part of town, and before he's even out of the car he can hear it's the right place. Brian goes to the door and steps inside, only to be stopped by a beefy guy in a security guard uniform. He forks over a card, tells the guy that he's Mr. Tallent's attorney, and is waved through. He takes the stairs to the second floor two at a time; they're steep and it's a long flight, converted warehouse, but he's used to far worse. As he nears the top he hears voices, raised, shouting, one, strangely, Billy's. Billy's so habitually soft-spoken that it sounds strange to hear him like this.
        "Play it fucking right!" Billy's shouting. "You've been fucking with it all fucking morning, it's not fucking rocket science, you asshole!"
        "It's not your fucking song!" another voice, also male, yells back.
        "You want me to play in this band, you play it fucking right! Quit fucking around!"
        "I'll fuck around if I want to," the other voice says, and Brian reaches the door in time to see Billy unwrap himself from his guitar strap and deposit the guitar on the floor in one fast, practiced motion, in the other guy's face the next second.
        "You wanna go a round with me? I'm good," Billy says, almost ominously quiet, his face in three quarters profile, so Brian can see the strange grin on his face. "I've fucked with Joe and the boys, I can go all the way down and back, you wanna go there? Or you wanna fucking play the fucking music?"
        "It's not your fucking song, so just fucking chill," the other man says, but his eyes flicker and Brian gets the impression he's not exactly surprised when Billy's fist connects, neatly and without fanfare, with his cheekbone.
        "You fucking chill," Billy says, and crosses his arms. "Come on. Let's go."
        "Jesus! Danny, Jesus!"
        The drummer laughs. "Shut the fuck up, Kyle, Chelle's not here to protect you."
        Billy stares at Kyle until Kyle drops his eyes, backs off a step, and then turns and heads towards a door on the far side of the room. Billy turns to pick up his guitar and almost drops it when he catches sight of Brian.
        "Brian! What the hell-- "
        "What the hell was that, Billy?" the drummer interrupts.
        Billy glances distractedly back over his shoulder.
        "Jesus, Danny, I'm not fucking putting up with his shit. Chelle wouldn't either, so don't feed him that."
        "Asshole."
        "He's a fucking bitch, Danny."
        "You're a fucking Nazi," Danny says.
         "Enough." A woman who's been leaning against the wall straightens up. "Kyle was fucking around, Danny." She nods at Brian. "Who's your buddy?"
         "Brian. Brian Hawkins, my attorney-- my-- he was my legal-- "
        "I'm Mr. Tallent's American lawyer," Brian says smoothly.
        Billy walks over to Brian, frowning hard. "What's wrong? What the hell are you doing here? Chloe didn't call me."
        "There's nothing wrong. We have a couple things to talk about. Is there somewhere we can go? Private?"
        "Yeah. Jesus." Billy nods at the stairwell. "Third floor is just storage, dusty boxes, we can head up to the roof if you need more privacy than that."
        As they climb the stairs, Billy asks, "How'd you get in?"
        "I showed him my card and told him I was your attorney. He seemed impressed. I was surprised."
        "Yeah, well, you're not a teenage girl. I don't think he pays any attention to anyone if they're over twenty-one. He let Kyle's brother in a couple weeks ago and he didn't even tell him who he was."
        Billy leads him down a dusty passageway and pushes a door open. Sure enough, it's a huge room, tall windows with transoms atop them, dust everywhere but the sun makes up for it. There are a few boxes, a table, and a couple of crates. Billy sits on a crate, lights a cigarette.
        Brian pulls the door shut behind him and jerks his head at the door. "Is anyone going to be curious enough to follow us up here and eavesdrop?"
        Billy looks taken aback. "I don't know. I doubt it. Does it matter?"
        "Yes," Brian says simply, and locks the door. "Come on." He walks across the room to the far wall, his footsteps echoing in the quiet, and after a moment Billy gets up and follows him.
        "What's going on? Why would Chloe call you and not me? I thought you were out of it."
        "This has absolutely nothing to do with Chloe, Bill." Brian looks at him steadily. "This has to do with us. Getting some things straight."
        "What 'us,' Technical Man?"
        "Bill, we can't . . ." Brian shakes his head, takes a breath. "No. No, not that way. I'm not getting through to you, Bill, and it's frustrating me. It's all just so many words to you, isn't it: friendship, trust, acceptance . . ."
        Billy looks away. "Okay, I liked Technical Man better. I understand 'no,' okay?" His voice is almost a whisper on those lasts words.
        "Fuck, Billy," Brian whispers. "Just come here." He pulls Billy close and at the same time slides down the wall at his back so they end up on the floor in a not-quite comfortable heap. Billy pushes, tries to straighten up, but Brian pulls at the same time so he ends up wrapped around Billy, his face in Billy's neck.
        "I like you," Brian says in a low voice after a few minutes of absolute silence. "I like you a whole helluva lot. I wish to God we could fuck right now-- right here, Bill Boisy-- but we can't because it would jeopardize your case. Do you understand?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "I like you. I like talking to you, listening to you . . . I like knowing you. I want to be friends. I think you want that too."
        "We spend a lot of time going in circles."
        Billy's voice sounds curiously dull, tired all at once, and his shoulders and neck are tensed as if waiting for a blow. Brian hugs Billy close, pulling him back against his chest.
        "Yeah, we have. We don't have to. Some of it has to wait until the case is settled. But I told you the night I met you that I was looking forward to getting to know you. And I am, Billy. I am enjoying it."
        "You're fucking nuts."
        Brian smiles against Billy's neck. "Yeah. You want to be nuts with me?"
        Billy's quiet for a long, long time, and then suddenly, like a spring unwound, the tension is gone from his body.
        "Yeah."
        "Good. Now listen. I'm going to call you. Every night. And if you want to, you're going to call me. And I want you to come back to San Francisco this weekend."
        "If we can't sleep together because of the case then why the hell is it okay for me to weekend with you?"
        "Because, Mr. Boisy, I have an apartment. A beautiful, empty apartment with a Bay view and a very reasonable rent and an honest to God lease that should help convince any interested parties that you're putting down roots."
        "Oh, God," Billy breathes. "Are you serious?"
        "Yeah. If you want. It's a stupid fucking commute, I know, but the rent's really incredibly reasonable and you'll be around friends, Bill, at least part of the time."
        Another long silence and then Billy says, "You rent to Canadians?"
        "I'd like a reference from the Mountie. And you can't be any worse than the witch."
        "Noisier, maybe."
        "I don't know about that."
        "Let me-- let me think about it, okay?"
        "Yeah, it's okay. I know it's a lot to spring on you. You've got a lot to decide, you've had a lot to decide. But you have to keep all your options open and this is another one."
        Billy turns his head to look at Brian. "Options. You're all about options, aren't you, Brian?"
        "It's an occupational hazard. Sorry."
        "I'm not used to it."
        "I know. Get used to it."
        Billy grins. "Fuck you."
        Brian grins back. "I can't wait."
        Billy leans forward, then abruptly draws back, looking frustrated. "Sorry, sorry. I'm not real good at this delayed gratification thing."
        "I'm not either," Brian says huskily and pulls Billy forward again. He wasn't going to make it anything more than a gentle, soft brush of reassurance, but Billy's mouth is open before their lips even touch. It quickly turns into something a lot less controlled, a slow, hot mesh of tongues and mouths. He can tell by the way Billy's tongue meets and caresses his that he's going to be good at a lot of other things, too. Fuck. He moans into the warm openness of Billy's mouth, and Billy moans right back at him. After a moment Billy shivers and breaks it off, shifting his hips and tugging at his jeans.
        "Fuck, Brian. I'm gonna have the world's worst case of blue balls here," Billy says huskily, not meeting his eyes, a flush of color across his face.
        "I think it'll be a tie, actually," Brian says, his own voice surprisingly hoarse. "Thankfully custody cases are usually settled quickly; it's in the best interests of the child."
        "Yeah, you and Chloe both keep saying that."
        "We're right, believe us." Brian puts his arms around Billy again and hugs him. Billy leans into him, then pulls back, wincing, rubbing his chest with one hand, digging in Brian's shirt pocket with the other hand.
        "What the fuck is in your pocket that keeps jabbing me? Oh, Jesus, glasses. Put them on."
        "Why? You have a secret yen for geeks?"
        "Guess so. Let's see."
        Brian complies, self-consciously, and Billy stares, licks his lips.
        "Oh yeah, definitely. Shit. We better unlock that door right now, Brian."
        For a second Brian thinks Billy's joking, but it only takes one look at his face to realize he's not. Brian pushes to his feet and heads for the door, even has his hand on the latch when Billy spins him around and pins him to the door, catching his face between his hands and holding him for a deep, hot kiss.
        Brian's trying to think, trying to remember exactly why this isn't a good idea, but it's really hard because there's not much in the way of blood getting to his brain right now, and when Billy moves one hand from his face to his groin, long fingers shaping themselves over Brian's increasingly insistent erection, it gets even worse. Then Billy yanks his hand away, pulls his mouth free with a gasp, and turns away, leaning against the door, panting like he's just run up the stairs. After a second he straightens and runs his hand through his hair, gives Brian a look just short of something he might expect to see on a wolf before it tears into dinner.
        "Unlock it now, before I change my mind."
        "I, ah, need to think cold thoughts."
        "Calgary in January," Billy says.
        "Ottawa in December's pretty good, too," Brian manages, half-smiling.
        "No comparison," Billy say, a strained grin on his face. "Okay, time to get out of here and back around people so we have to fuckin' behave ourselves, right?"
        Brian nods, hoping his erection has faded enough to not be noticeable, and swings the door open. They take the stairs slowly, and Billy starts talking about what a pissant Kyle is, which helps considerably.
        " . . . just fucking fucking around, man, worse than John on his worst days, worse than Joe in a mood, and I get ... pissed."
        "Why do you put up with him then?"
        Billy shrugs. "Not my call, man."
        Brian remembers that Billy's new to this group, and as new man he wouldn't have any say. "That's got to be a little rough," he says sympathetically.
        "Hey, I spent almost five years as a studio drone, Brian. Having an actual band's a step up. And if I could hack Hard Core Logo I can hack anything."
        The studio is oddly silent; when they re-enter the room the only person there is Kat, smoking by the window. She shakes her head as they come in.
        "Kyle split and Danny was about two seconds behind," she says. "Chelle's due back Monday. Kyle's in for a rude awakening if he pulls that shit with her." She takes a drag of her cigarette. "He's getting a little full of himself. I'm going to take off too unless you want to jam or something."
        "Nah, we weren't getting anywhere. See you later."
        Kat nods and heads for the door, then turns back. "Oh, Toby says there's some whining hippie asking for you. Says his name is Ed, claims to be your agent," Kat says with a wink. "Toby wouldn't let him up."
        Billy laughs out loud, shaking his head. "Jesus, you guys are too much. Okay, thanks for the warning. I'll be prepared for whining." He turns to Brian and cocks his head. "You hungry? We can 'do' lunch."
        "I could eat. Who's this Ed guy?" he asks, wondering if it's some delusional fan.
        Billy grins. "My agent. Ed Festus."
        "I thought Kat said. . . "
        "She did. They're fucking with Ed's mind. He annoys them."
        "He annoy you?" Brian asks, picking up on Billy's tone.
        Billy shrugs. "I've known him a long time."
        "That's not an answer," Brian says quietly.
        Billy flashes him a startled look and grins a little. "Yeah, well, you know what they say, if you can't say anything nice.. ."
        "If you can't say anything nice come sit here by me," Brian finishes, grinning.
         Billy laughs outright. "Ha. Yeah. But I'm used to him, he's used to me, so we get by."
        Downstairs, Billy introduces Brian to the man standing at the desk, who looks pretty pissed off. "Ed, Brian Hawkins, my lawyer."
        Ed eyes Brian with what looks a little like alarm, then he grins toothily and sticks out his hand. "Nice to meetcha, Bri. What's Billy-boy here need with a lawyer?"
        "I'm afraid that's up to my client to share with you, should he care to," Brian says, hackles rising at the casual shortening of his name, and the infantilizing way he refers to Billy. He also notes that Kat's description was right on target. Ed Festus really is a whining hippy.
        "Whoa there, Bri, no need to take offense. You with Wolfram & Harte?"
        "No," Brian says shortly, crossing his arms over his chest, looking at Billy.
        Ed waits, clearly expecting more, and when no more comes he clears his throat. "Oh. Um, yeah, well, I need to talk to my boy here, got some papers for him, Jenifur stuff."
        "I just signed a bunch of stuff," Billy says. "How many fucking trees do we have to kill?"
        "Look at it this way, Billy, you're supporting the Canadian softwood industry. Here, just scribble that thing you call a signature-- it's all standard contract stuff. I've got a pen if you need one."
        He proffers a stack of pages to Billy, who takes them. Brian's about to protest when Billy plops them down on Toby's desk and picks up his guitar.
        "Look, Ed, I've got lunch plans with Brian, I don't have time for this right now. I'll have to get them back to you, okay?"
        "Billy, man, you know I'm cool," Ed says heartily. "Just sign 'em, it won't take but a second."
        Billy narrows his eyes. "I said no, Ed. Back off. Brian's got a plane to catch." He opens his guitar case, stuffs the papers inside, closes it again. "I'll get to it, but not right now."
        Ed nods. "Sure, Billy-boy. Whatever. Just give me a call and I'll come get 'em when they're ready. Don't take too long."
        "What's that, what's take too long? It's all settled, Ed."
        "Well, you know they like things all neat and tidy at these big corporations. It's not like the old days. We signed the preliminary stuff but that's your main contract and the Jenifur stuff for their label."
        "Jesus. Too fucking much paper, Ed."
        "Nothin' to do but sign it, Billy. Paper's money, you know."
        Brian can feel the scowl on his face and tries to erase it before Billy notices. He doesn't want to be accused of babysitting again, but Jesus, every legal instinct he has is screaming in protest. He gets the feeling that if he hadn't been here Billy would have just signed the damned things without even looking at them.
        "So where're you guys going for lunch?" Ed asks hopefully.
        Billy looks at him blandly. "Sushi."
        Ed wrinkles his nose. "Sushi? Where I'm from we call that stuff 'bait.'"
        Billy shrugs. "Whatever. Later, Ed."
        Ed starts to say something, thinks better of it, and nods. "Later, Billy-boy. Don't forget that stuff."
        Billy pats his guitar case. "Got 'em safe, Ed. You know the Fender's my baby."
        "I called the limo for you when Kyle and Danny bugged out, Billy," Toby says. "Should be here by now."
        "Thanks, Toby." Billy turns to Brian, nods toward the parking lot. "Come on, let's go. I'm hungry."
        Brian follows him, practically biting his tongue to keep from asking to see the damned papers, trying to figure out how the hell to tell Billy he shouldn't just sign the fucking things without coming across like he's got a stick up his ass.
         "Is sushi okay?" Billy asks as he opens the door, nodding at the driver.
        "You really eat sushi?" Brian asks, surprised. "I thought you just told Ed that to get rid of him."
        Billy grins. "You're sharp, Brian."
        Brian looks over his shoulder to see Ed, abandoned in the entryway of the building, standing there staring after them, frowning. "He do that a lot?"
        "Do what?"
        "Shove papers at you like that, without explaining, not giving you a chance to go over them."
        "It's cool, Brian, he's a lot less crooked than most of them."
        "A lot less?" Brian echoes. "Jesus, Bill!"
        Billy grins. "Now I'm seeing the lawyer in you. I knew it had to be there somewhere."
        Brian grins sheepishly. "Sorry. Can't help it. At least look at them, okay?"
        "You gonna nag me if I don't?"
        "I. . . I'll try not to."
        "Uh huh," Billy says, and winks. "Believe that when I see it."
        "Come on, Billy," the driver says. "Where to?"
        "You like Thai?" Billy asks Brian. At his nod he turns to the driver. "The Thai place over close to my apartment. You know the one?"
        The driver nods and starts the car. Brian looks around as Billy settles in.
        "Your public transportation beats out B.A.R.T. any day."
        Billy looks embarrassed. "I know. Kind of ostentatious. But I fucking hate driving in LA. And it kinda came with the band."
        "Nice perk."
        "I'm saying," Billy says. "Absofuckinlutely."



        Chloe opens the door and looks around. Billy raises a hand in acknowledgment, taking another draw on his cigarette as his hand finishes its natural movement to his mouth. She steps outside, shivering a little.
        "About ten more minutes."
        "Okay."
        "It shouldn't take long."
        "Just formalities?"
        "Exactly. Baring of teeth. It's too cold to stand out here. I'll call you in about five minutes."
        "I'll be here," Billy says. He watches the door close after her and looks down at the trampled dirty snow at his feet. "I'll be here."
        He stares a while at the snow, remembering the jubilant phone call from Chloe: "They've told us to go soak our heads so we've got a hearing next Tuesday."
        He wasn't sure why she sounded so excited but he muttered something to which she responded briskly, "Buck up, Mr. Boisy. Fly in Monday so I can make sure you have a suit. This is happening a lot faster than I thought it might. We might have this settled by Christmas. This is good news."
        With sudden decision he pulls out his cell phone. Hits the send button; there's only one number he calls from it so it's always in redial. Brian answers on the second ring.
        "Hey," Billy says.
        "Hey yourself. Just a minute, Rob, I'll be out in a few," Brian says, raising his voice slightly. Billy hears a door close and then an outrush of breath, he can see in his mind the way Brian flops onto the small couch in his office. "You okay? You finished already? Or not there yet?"
        Billy grins. "Not there yet."
        "Where's Chloe?"
        "Inside. I'm taking a smoke break. Can't do the marble halls thing."
        "Straighten your tie," Brian says, and Billy glances down instinctively, smiles again, relaxing.
        "Done."
        "You're not wearing one, don't hand me that."
        "No, just a polo shirt, Pool Boy."
        "In Ottawa in December?"
        "I'm a fuckin' Canuck," Billy says, relaxing more. "No, she made me buy a suit but I had no clue about the tie. It's kind of sloppy."
        "I bet you look … incredible," Brian says, a throaty deep note in his voice that knots Billy's gut up, but in a good way.
        "Respectable," he says, scoffing a little.
        "Impossible," Brian says. "I can't begin to imagine that. Don't tell me you shaved too."
        Billy kicks the snow, breathes out all the rest of the tension, waits a minute to treasure that feeling before he answers. "Yeah. She had a checklist."
        "That's Chloe. You okay? This is just formalities, Bill, like I said, two minutes and you'll be out of there. I'm willing to bet once the test results are in that Mary backs down fast."
        "Yeah. When -- probably she won't let me see Billie until then, huh."
        "No. Probably not, Bill. But it's not much longer. You're almost there."
        "I'm here," Billy says. "I am here."
        "Yeah. Wish I was."
        Chloe opens the door again and beckons to him.
        "Gotta go."
        "Okay. Call me, Bill. Call me as soon as it's finished. Are you coming back tonight or you still don't know?"
        "Still don't know. I'll call you."
        "Okay. I'll be waiting."
        "Yeah. Later." Billy hits the end button, stashes the phone in his pocket, squares his shoulders and walks to Chloe.
        "Feel better?" she says. "You look better. You're not going to the gallows, Mr. Boisy."
        "I don't know about that," Billy says.
        "I do."
        "Whatever."
        "Is that Mary?" Chloe asks, nodding down the hall. Billy squints a little, sees long curly hair, and the big man standing with her . . . her husband. He can't remember his name, if he even heard it that night. He didn't hear much: just Mary's voice and then, surprisingly, a little girl's voice, asserting that she was Billie, a little girl with a triangular face and big eyes.
        "Yeah. They … they didn't bring her."
        "She may be somewhere else in the building. It doesn't matter-- "
        "I know, I just-- "
        "Calm down, Mr. Boisy. Come on. Please, thank you, and call anything that moves sir or ma'am."
        "Yes, ma'am."
        She smiles. "Fast learner."
        "Yeah." He moves to hold the door open.
        For some reason he'd thought there'd be a big courtroom with people and bailiffs and things. Instead it's a small room, almost empty. Mary and her lawyer are already sitting at their table, her husband in the first row of seats right behind them, an older woman sitting next to him. Mary doesn't look over at Billy or Chloe as they take their seats at the other table, although her lawyer, an older man with an unruly shock of white hair, glances at them, almost curiously, Billy thinks.
        There's a sharp rap of wood on wood and a man to the left of the judge stands and starts reading in a monotone. Billy catches "Boisy" and "motion" but the rest goes in one ear and out the other as he studies the man reading, the judge, the drape of the Canadian flag behind her, the pattern of the carpet on the floor.
        Chloe nudges him and grins a fierce grin as Mary's lawyer stands up and for a second Billy feels her barely contained energy. "I can't believe he's saying that with a straight face," she scribbles on her pad, shoving it sideways so he can read it.
        " … Mr. Boisy has absolutely no reason to request this test; my client feels this is some kind of joke, in very poor taste, which occurred to Mr. Boisy after she saw him in October for the first time in years. "
        "Thank you," the judge says. "Mr. Boisy?"
        "If it pleases the court," Chloe says briskly, getting to her feet, "shortly after Mr. Boisy met Billie Pendrell in October, he spoke to Mrs. Pendrell on the telephone. In the course of that conversation, Mrs. Pendrell told Mr. Boisy that her daughter was, in fact, his daughter as well."
        "My client had no such conversation with Mr. Boisy," the other lawyer says, popping up to his feet again, which is kind of funny in a weird way. Billy feels almost detached, like he's outside his head watching this happen to someone else.
        "Setting aside the fact of whether the conversation actually happened--- and we have phone company records showing that a call did indeed take place in early November from Mr. Boisy's telephone number in Los Angeles to Mrs. Pendrell's number in Saskatoon, and it lasted twenty-three minutes," Chloe says, "Mr. Boisy has some reason to believe that Billie Pendrell may be related to him. A simple test will clear up this basic and crucial question once and for all. If Mr. Boisy and Billie are not related, there's no harm done. If they are related, Mr. Boisy has a right, a right the law grants him, to know his daughter."
        "Motion granted." The judge raps her gavel again, sharply, and Billy jumps a little. Chloe nudges him with her foot and he hastily stands as the judge gets to her feet, nods, and departs through a door behind the Canadian flag.
        "Well, that was a significant waste of Mary's time and money," Chloe mutters, opening her briefcase. "Yours too, of course, but I told you it was a formality."
        "It … yeah. It was." Billy blinks and looks, almost involuntarily, at Mary's table. She and her lawyer are talking in tight whispers and Mary's face has a closed-off look. Her husband, although he's listening to them, doesn't say much. He meets Billy's eyes briefly, almost incuriously, before looking back down at Mary. He says something that Billy can't hear, of course, but the shake of his head and the look on his face are easy to interpret.
        He follows Chloe out, with one last look at Mary, and waits, about halfway down the hall, while she makes a quick call. He looks around for a minute and then thinks of his own phone, pulls it out, dials. He gets routed directly into Brian's voice mail and then remembers Brian was headed somewhere with Rob so he leaves a quick, "It's done," message. He hits the end button and becomes aware of voices nearing them. Chloe glances distractedly up, catches his eye, turns half away from him.
        " . . . I don't understand what the hell we have to do this for," Mary's husband is saying. "Why would you tell him that?"
        "I didn't tell him that," Mary says harshly. "He's a druggie, Evan, he's messed up from Joe, he just wants to mess with us."
        "You didn't tell me he called you. He seemed pretty happy to see you in Saskatoon. "
        "I was a fan."
        "A little more than that, if he thinks-- "
        "Oh, Evan, come on!" Mary spins on her heel to face him, her voice rising. "He's gay! I had a crush on him, that was all. He's a faggot, okay?"
        Chloe snaps her cell phone shut, reaching out for Billy warningly but Billy's too angry to pay any attention to her. Four strides and he's face to face with her, with her husband, their lawyer hovering in the background.
        "A crush? We fucked from one end of Canada to the other, Mary, and that was after you screwed Pipe and Joe!"
        "Billy," Chloe says, and there's a note in her voice that penetrates Billy's angry haze. "Sorry, Mrs. Pendrell, Mr. Pendrell, Mr. McGirk. Apologize, Mr. Boisy."
        "Sorry." Billy looks down and then back up at Chloe's face. "I'm sorry."
        "Thank you. It won't happen again."
        "It had better not," Mary's lawyer says, almost mechanically.
        Chloe waits until they're in her car before she opens her mouth.
        Billy slumps in his seat. "I'm sorry. I'm-- I just-- I didn't think she-- "
        "I wish you hadn't said anything to her but I'm damned glad she can't keep her mouth shut. We know what she's told her lawyer now."
        "She fucking lied to him," Billy says, anger stirring again, sitting up straighter.
        "Precisely, Mr. Boisy."
        "She fucking-- "
        "I know, Mr. Boisy."
        "When will we know about the test? Jesus, I never thought I could do the dad gig but, Jesus…"
        "We may get the results by the end of the week, Mr. Boisy."
        "Can't you call me Billy? In private, at least? I can't -- I can't keep a straight face when you do that."
        Chloe glances at him and grins. "All right."
        "What next?"
        "I like the effect adrenaline has on your commitment. The test results. Once we get those back, I'll propose a meeting with Mary and her lawyer, offer to settle this amicably. If you'd like."
        "She won't. She won't. But yeah. Shit. I hate this fucking waiting, you know?"
        "It doesn't seem like it but it's moving pretty fast."
        "I know. Okay, I know-- " Billy's phone chirps.
        "Bill?"
        "Brian."
        "It's over? How'd it go?"
        "It went fine, they have to do the test."
        "Anything else?" Billy hears the hesitancy in Brian's voice, wonders how he knows.
        "Yeah, yeah, but it's good, Chloe says it's good. I can't keep my fucking mouth shut but it's good."
        "When are you coming in?"
        "I'll grab a flight back ASAP."
        "Here?"
        "Um …"
        "All right. We'll talk later, okay?"
        "Okay."
        "Say hi to Chloe."
        "We have to swing by the doctor's office for your part of the test," Chloe interjects.
        "All right," Billy says. "Brian says hi."
        "Hi back and tell him I'm damn glad I don't pay his phone bills."
        Brian laughs and Billy smiles, feels an answering laugh rise to match Brian's. "Tell her it's all written off."
        "I know he writes it all off," Chloe says at the same moment. "He should have been a tax attorney."
        Brian laughs again. "All right. No need to get insulting. Call me as soon as you're alone, Bill."
        "Will do." Billy shuts the phone, looks over at Chloe. "Let's go, come on. Ma'am."



        1:17, a.m. Brian sighs, looks away from the clock again. It's been four minutes since the last time he looked. In his head he recalculates flight times on the Ottawa-Vancouver-LA trip, adds in the amount of time it should take for Billy to get from the airport to home, figures he should have been home an hour ago, and what the fuck is taking him so long to call? Maybe he's not going to call. Maybe got home and went to bed, like Brian ought to. He looks at his book, realizes he's read the same paragraph about twelve times now, and closes it, puts it on the nightstand with his glasses, and is about to click off the light and force himself to go to sleep when the phone rings. He snatches it up so fast the first ring hasn't even finished.
        "Hello?"
        "Hey." Billy sounds tired. "Sorry to call so late. The cell was dead and it was a fuckin' traffic nightmare getting home. Some police chase shut down half the roads between LAX and home. Had to sell my soul to pay the taxi driver."
        "Well, I hope you didn't sign in blood," Brian says drily.
        Billy chuckles. "Just a Bic."
        "Good, we can probably get you out of the contract on a technicality then."
        "Cool. You should work for Wolfram and Harte, Tandy could use someone like you."
        "I thought about it once, decided not to make the deal with that devil. Didn't want to raise Maddie in LA."
        "I knew you were a smart, smart man," Billy says.
        "Occasionally. So, talk to me. Tell me what you didn't want to say in front of Chloe."
        There's a long pause, punctuated by the sound of a lighter, and a deep inhalation. Brian scowls, but doesn't say anything. Quitting drinking is hard enough without trying to give up nicotine too. One addiction at a time. Finally Billy speaks.
        "I. . . ah, kind of lost my temper."
        Brian tenses. "In or out of the courtroom?"
        "Out," Billy says shortly. "I'm not fucking stupid."
        "Jesus. I know, I know. Sorry. I know. What happened?"
        "She's lying to them, Brian. Lying. Told them she never slept with me. Said it was just a 'crush.' Well, yeah, duh, but we fucking fucked way more than enough times for me to knock her up."
        Brian refrains from commenting that it only takes once, and clears his throat. "I take it you. . . confronted her with the fact?"
        "You . . . could say that."
        "Were there witnesses present?"
        "Mary's lawyer. Her husband."
        "Ouch. For her, not you. I think. . . I think that was probably all right, you know. I mean, yeah, you kind of let a card show, but if she's been lying to her attorney, it's good for him to know that."
        "Yeah, that's pretty much what Chloe said, too. Also we know, too. She's lied about that, about the phone call, too. Why the fuck would she lie about that, when she has to know I have the damned phone bill to prove it?"
        "Because she's scared, Bill. She got herself into something and she's scared."
        "I'm not scary."
        "No, you're not. But I don't think she thought through the possible repercussions of her actions when she brought Billie to see you that night, and now she has to face the consequences of that thoughtlessness."
        There's a silence. Finally Billy speaks again, his voice tight. "Consequences. Thoughtlessness. Yeah. I was thoughtless. Mary was, too. Billie's a consequence. I have to face that."
        "You are. Admirably."
        "Fuck. I don't get it, Brian. I don't get it. Why would she bring her to see me, and then . . . do this? Why does it matter if Joe fucked me or not? It didn't matter that I fucked other chicks, she knew I did. Hell, she fucked other guys, I even saw her fuck other guys! What the hell does it matter? Billie's my kid. She knows that. She fucking told me that. So why is she doing this?"
        "I don't know, Bill. I can't read her mind. It doesn't makes sense to me either, but you know, people often don't make sense."
        "She liked me. I liked her. It wasn't deep, it wasn't . . . but it was cool, so how can she hate me so much now?"
        "She doesn't hate you."
        "You can't say that. You haven't . . . seen her. How she looks at me."
        "She doesn't hate you, Bill. She hates someone she's created in her head. That's not you."
        More silence. "It's . . . not." Billy doesn't sound certain.
        "It's not," Brian says firmly. "Think about it. Did she ever really know you, who you really were, not some image of you she made up of what she wanted you to be? Even when you were fucking, was she fucking you, or someone wearing your face?"
        "I. . . don't know. That's kind of. . . scary, Brian. But I get that. I see that. How could she know me? I mean, I talked to her maybe an hour, total, the whole time I knew her. Jesus, we fucked more than we talked."
        "Unlike the two of us, who, so far, have talked a hell of a lot."
        "And we haven't fucked at all, Technical Man," Billy says, sounding petulant even over 400 miles of phone line.
        "I've noticed," Brian says drily. "Believe me."
        "Sucks."
        "I wish."
        That gets a laugh. "Me too."
        Brian grins, lounges back against the pillows. "So. . . what are you wearing?"
        More laughter. "Um. . . old pair of sweats."
        "That's it?"
        "Yeah."
        "You need to work on your technique there, Bill. Silk pajamas."
        "Oh, Jesus. No. Sorry. Not my style. Sweats have a hole in one knee."
        "Big or little?"
        "Medium."
        "Can you see skin through it?"
        "Yeah."
        "So if you were here, I could slide a finger in there."
        There's a short, startled sound. "Uh. . . yeah. You . . . could."
        "I could touch you."
        Billy coughs. "Yeah." His voice sounds a little huskier than it did before.
        Brian shifts a little, reacting to that image, to the sound of Billy's voice. "Inner thigh. You do it. Tell me what you feel."
        "Well, um. . . skin."
        "You write songs, for God's sake. Words. Give me better words."
        "Warm. Soft, mostly soft, a little rough, no, not rough, just. . . textured, from the way the hair shifts over the skin."
        "Your skin."
        "My . . . skin." Billy breathes in again, then speaks, fast, in a rush. "Your skin. You have no idea. . . you look so . . . touchable," he says, unexpectedly. "I want to touch you. I can't stand not touching you."
        "I can touch me. . . for you," Brian whispers, startling himself, Billy too, judging by the soft gasp he hears over the phone.
        "Yes," Billy says, a moment later. "Yes. Touch you, for me. Touch your mouth, your tongue. You taste so damned good."
        Without thought Brian's free hand lifts to his mouth, a fingertip brushing his lips, feeling the moisture left from his tongue, then stroking across the tip of his tongue.
        "Wet," Billy whispers. "Wet. Warm. Sweet."
        The words are like a kiss; they leave his mouth tingling as he imagines Billy's finger there instead of his own, his mouth, his tongue, the hot, wet slide of it on his own. "Mmmm," he breathes softly. "You too. Your mouth. You have the most fucking beautiful mouth. Want to feel it on me." His hands move to his chest, brush over nipples already hard with anticipation, imagination. "Kissing me. Sucking me."
        His hips push upward, involuntarily reacting to his own words. He's getting used to the ache in his groin, the frustration, doesn't usually let it get to this stage, usually stops himself long before this, doesn't let himself think about . . . this. But, God. He wants Billy. Wants to taste him. To be tasted. To feel . . . .
        "Sweaty skin under my hands," Billy says, stealing his thought. "Naked. Hot. Damp. Slick."
        "Fuck," Brian moans, his hand sliding down toward his hip, stops before it gets there, clenching into a trembling fist. "Fuck."
        "Yeah. Fuck," Billy says, his voice a silky whisper. "Fuck yourself for me. Do it. Put your hand on your dick. Are you hard?"
        "Yesss . . ." He can't help the reply that hisses through his teeth. "God, yes."
        "I'm hard," Billy whispers. "So hard it fucking hurts. Touch you, Brian. For me."
        He does. Fingers wrapping around the thick, hot thrust of cock. So familiar, and it's not what he wants, but it's as close as he can get, for now, and he's clutching the phone like it's Billy's hand, a connection, however tenuous. His head arches back as he strokes himself, and he can't quite hold back a muffled groan of pleasure.
        "Fuck, yeah." Billy's voice washes over him. "That's hot, Brian. So hot. I can hear you. Jesus, I can almost see you. Slow it down now. Slow. Just like me. Slow."
        "You. . ." Brian gasps. "You're . . . ."
        "Yeah. Touching me, for you. So good. So fucking good. Mmmmyeah. Slow. Tight. Take it over the top, use your thumb, all slicked up, I know you're wet now. You have to be wet now. Wet like me. Want to taste you, but I have to taste me instead."
        There's an audible sucking sound, and Brian moans in response, shuddering, lifts his own hand to his mouth, licks the salt-slickness from it, swallows, moans again as his hand goes back to his cock, tight, slow strokes, twisting a little, thumb over the top, how the hell did Billy know he liked that. . . oh yeah, he's a guy, most guys like that. He bucks into his hand, can't help making quiet little sounds of pleasure.
        "God, you're noisy. I like that. Want to make you noisy, want to hear you, to feel you moan under my mouth."
        How can he still talk? Brian's beyond words. He's just. . . feeling. Hearing. Responding as wholly and helplessly as if Billy were right in the room with him, in his bed, with his hand wrapped around Brian's aching penis, his mouth on Brian's.
        "Faster now. Faster. So good. Fuck it's good." A soft sound, groan-moan, panting, needy male noises, familiar and arousing. "Come with me, Brian. Close. I'm close. You close?"
        "Uhhunh. . . ." he gasps out, his own breath speeding to match Billy's.
        "Take it now, give it to me now, come for me now, Brian, with me, ohgod. . . yeah, there. . . fuck. . . ."
        His voices trails off into gasps, and Brian knows he's coming, can see it against his tight-closed eyelids, those long, lean fingers wrapped around straining flesh, the slow spurts of creamy wetness dappling flushed skin, and that's all he can stand. Heat explodes through him, sweat breaking out all over his body. He bucks hard into his hand as the pulses sweep through him, the pleasure electric, nearly painful, and he has to bury his face in the pillow to keep from howling loud enough to wake up Maddie.
        Some time later, still panting, he realizes he dropped the phone and scrabbles for it with a slick, wet hand. "Bill?"
        Soft laughter greets him. "Yeah. Still here."
        "Jesus Christ, Bill. . ."
        "That about covers it," Billy says, and Brian can hear the smile in his voice. "Does that break the rules, Technical Man?"
        Rules? What ru. . . oh. He swallows. "Um... only if someone got it on tape."
        "Christ. Paranoid much, Brian?"
        "I can't fucking believe you just did that," Brian says, feeling an embarrassed flush in his face.
        "Well, you told me to call you every night," Billy says, sounding smug. "I didn't know you meant this, but hey, it works for me, Brian. It works . . . real good."
        Brian can't help but laugh, shaking his head. "You are one sneaky son of a bitch, Bill Boisy."
        "You just now figuring that out, Brian Hawkins? I didn't take you for slow."
        "Oh, I can be slow," Brian says, deliberately drawing out the words. Two can play at this game. "I ... like slow, Bill."
        "Mmm. We'll try that tomorrow night."
        "We will?"
        "Same Bat-time, same Bat-channel."
        "Bill."
        "Yeah, Brian?"
        "You watch way too much television. Go to sleep."
        "Good idea. G'night Kemosabe."
        "Waaaay too fucking much television. No more Nickelodeon for you."
        Billy chuckles sleepily into the receiver. "G'night."
        "'Night."
        The click tells Brian that Billy's gone, and he starts to put the phone down, but it kind of . . . sticks to his hand. He laughs, rolls his eyes. Jesus. How the hell is he going to get the damned phone clean? He hopes to hell a damp washcloth will work, because there is no fucking way he's going to take it to an electronics place and have to explain it.



        "What do you mean, I have to?" Mary says loudly. "I don't have to share my daughter with a faggot!"
        Billy sighs, looks at his water glass, fiddles with the pen he's holding. It seems to be the only word Mary has for him any more. Repetition is blunting the sting of it.
        "Mr. McGirk--" Chloe begins.
        Mary's lawyer sounds as harassed as he looks. "Mrs. Pendrell is aware of your client's contention that he was raped. She doesn't believe it."
        "I'm aware of that," Chloe says levelly, "but we're trying to maintain a civilized discourse here."
        "It doesn't matter," Billy mutters.
        Chloe stomps on his foot, fast and hard, and Billy winces a little, grins at her. It's been a rough time, Brian stuck in San Francisco again and Mary and her lawyer in full attack mode, he's just getting tired of it all, ready to say fuck it and walk out.
        "It matters, Mr. Boisy," Chloe says between her teeth. "Mr. McGirk is, I think, well aware of the effect that term might have on a judge. Not to mention the effect that our witnesses might have on a judge."
        "Witnesses for what?" Mary says. "John's the only one who knew about it and he's in a loony bin at the moment."
        "There are other . . . activities we can call witnesses to attest to," Chloe says with a raised eyebrow. "Specifically, Mr. McGirk, your client's activities. We can settle this in an amicable fashion, but if we take it into court, it's all fair game. You understand that, I know. And you understand, I hope, that Mr. Boisy and I will have no compunction in establishing the truth of the matter. Mr. Boisy has admitted to drug abuse, alcohol abuse, he's clean, he's in counseling, he has no history of homosexual relationships. I know his background, Mr. McGirk. I'm not worried."
        Billy looks up at that, sees Mary's lawyer slide a glance at her out of the corner of his eye before he turns back to Chloe. "I hope so, for your sake," he says smoothly. "My client has valid reasons to be concerned about Mr. Boisy's lifestyle and effectiveness as a parent."
        "Will we address those concerns before or after we address the fact that your client hid the fact that she had a child with Mr. Boisy from him and then lied to him about it?" Chloe asks.
        "Mrs. Pendrell had reason to believe that Mr. Boisy was not a reliable or responsible man," Mary's lawyer says determinedly.
        Chloe chuckles. "I'm very much looking forward to arguing this case with you, Mr. McGirk. I think our conversation here has accomplished everything we can reasonably expect. Let's go over some possible dates for the next hearing."
        Billy touches her arm, mimes a cigarette. Chloe nods, says in an undertone, "Do not talk to her," and says, louder, "I'll catch up with you outside, Mr. Boisy."
        He feels curiously drained and a lot panicked and damned tired as he leaves the room, shutting the door carefully behind him. He reaches mechanically for a cigarette, heads down the hall to the exit. A door opens as he's passing and Mary's husband and the older woman -- Mary's mother, he remembers from the hearing-- come through it, and there's a little girl-- Billie-- holding hands with both of them, swinging their arms.
        "Is Mum almost finished?" she's asking.
        "I'll go check," the older woman says, apparently not noticing Billy. "Wait here with your father."
        "I hate waiting," Billie says to her father.
        Mary's husband nods, looking at Billy, almost curiously this time, then back down at Billie. Billy takes a couple of steps backwards, one hand coming up.
        Billie turns to see what her father's looking at and frowns slightly as she studies Billy. Then she smiles. "I remember you."
        "You-- you do?"
        "Of course. I'm Billie. You're Billy too. And there was the Sandwich Man."
        Billy looks at Mary's husband, but he makes no sound, no movement, so Billy moves a little closer, crouches down. "Yeah. You're right. I'm Billy."
        "That's funny."
        "It is," Billy says. "I'm Billy Boisy."
        "That sounds like me. I'm Billie Pendrell."
        "You're right. That sounds the same."
        "Billie Marie Pendrell," Billie says proudly. "I have three names."
        "Marie, huh? That's pretty too." Billy swallows hard. Billy Tallent. Billy Boisy. William Boisy. Billie Boisy. Billie Marie Boisy. "I have a longer name too. William Edward Boisy."
        "That's not as pretty as mine."
        "No. Billie Marie, that's pretty. I like that."
        "I do too," she says, and flashes a sudden grin, one he's seen on his own face, and the jolt is almost physical. He looks up involuntarily at Mary's husband, who's watching in grim silence. Watching. Listening. That's all. Billy grins at him, sharing the happiness, and the man's mouth turns up in a fast quirk, almost as if he can't help himself.
        The tableau is broken by an almost-shriek from Mary. "Evan!"
        Billy gets to his feet, backs away fast, aware that he's probably messed it up even more now, raises his hands again in a warding off gesture. "Mary, I'm sorry, I'm leaving, that's all. She remembered me, that's all."
        "Shut up!" Mary yells. "Evan, damn it-- "
        "Enough," Evan says quietly. "Enough, Mary. They were just talking."
        "But-- "
        "I said enough," Evan says. "Come on."
        "But-- "
        "Billie, say goodbye to Billy," Evan says, his voice louder now. "Remember your manners."
        Billie, off balance, looks uncertainly from her mother to her father, who smiles at her. She smiles back and turns back to Billy, holding out her hand. "It was nice to meet you," she recites in a sing song tone.
        Billy crouches down again and shakes her hand solemnly. "It was nice to see you again too." Her hand is small and soft and warm and she cocks her head and smiles again at him.
        "Tell the Sandwich Man I said hello."
        "I will. I'll do that."
        She nods decisively and he releases her hand and slowly straightens up. Mary refuses to meet his eyes but Evan looks at him again, frowning, cocking his head a little, and Billy realizes that's where Billie got that habit. It's too fucking weird. He shrugs, spreads his hands, takes a step back and slouches against the wall, and doesn't look back up until the door closes behind all of them, Mary's mother whispering fierce, angry words, barely audible, as the door closes. Billy feels a little sorry for Evan but then figures that he looks like he can handle it. He can handle Mary, anyway.
        He looks up the hall, where Chloe and Mary's lawyer are standing watching him in silence. He closes his eyes briefly. Fucked it up again. Holy shit.
        "Ready to go?" Chloe asks briskly, walking up to him, and Billy's thankful she's going to save it until the car. She's a professional.
        "Yeah."
        Once in the car, Chloe turns to him. "You okay?"
        "Yeah."
        "Okay. The meeting went well."
        "That was well?"
        "Bill, I told you they were going to give it all to us from the get go. We scared them more than they scared us. They can't support any of their assertions; it's all hearsay. With us, we've got hard evidence and witnesses. Her attorney's thinking hard. It went well." She pulls out a cigarette and Billy, in the act of lighting his own, lights hers first. "It went well," she repeats. "I think we're in the home stretch."
        "Yeah."
        A long silence, which Chloe doesn't break until she stubs out her cigarette.
        "Cute kid."
        "Yeah."
        "What did you say to her?"
        "Uh… she remembered me. She, uh, told me her name. I told her mine. She remembered Pipe. That was all."
        "What did you say to Mr. Pendrell?"
        "Nothing."
        "Can you take a taxi to the airport from my office?"
        Billy stares at her. "Yeah. Not a problem. What-- "
        "Good."
        "What about-- "
        "Bill, you didn't do anything wrong and her ostensible father was standing right there. If you'd told her you were her father I'd let you have it but you didn't. Calm down. We'll go over it a little at my office and then you're a free man."
        "When will I have to come back?"
        "I'll make a motion this afternoon or tomorrow but they won't have time to set a formal hearing until after the holidays. I'm sorry. I thought we might have this wrapped up by Christmas. Mary's a tough nut. But, you know, Bill, her attorney is not happy. Hang on to that thought."
        Billy nods, wondering if that's supposed to make him feel better. If so, it doesn't. He sighs, thinks about the flight back to LA, which he is starting to really hate. He's done it enough now that he even knows the names of some of the regular flight crews, and they know him, too. He thinks for a moment about changing his ticket so he ends up in San Francisco instead, and shakes his head. No. No, he's not going to go running to Brian every time he has a setback. He's got to just fucking deal.



        "Dad, are you worrying about Billy?"
        Brian looks over at Maddie with a wry smile. "Yeah."
        "When's the next hearing?" she asks.
        "After the New Year. It's a bad time of year for legal shit."
        "Yeah. Is she going to let him see Billie over Christmas?"
        "I think if Chloe pushed she would but Billy doesn't want her to push Mary. He wants to try to get on an even keel with her."
        Maddie shoots him a sharp look. "That's got you written all over it."
        Brian grins. "A little."
        "So he's in LA?"
        "Yeah."
        "Alone?"
        "Yeah."
        "I bought him a Christmas present."
        "So did I."
        "Dad. Let's go get him."
        "Drive or fly?"
        "Are you kidding?"
        "No," Brian says, following her to the foyer where she sits to put her shoes on.
        "Fly, then. Faster and he can use our luggage allowance for his guitars."
        "You're sensible."
        "I like him," Maddie says, pulling on her second shoe and tying it. "Do you?"
        "Yeah," Brian says, and he's surprised at the shake in his voice. Maddie looks up at him, a frown on her face. "I like him a lot, Maddie. A . . . lot."
        She sits back, eyes wide, and then a flush paints her cheeks. "A . . . lot?"
        "Yeah."
        "Jesus, Dad."
        "I know."
        "Fuck," she says, dropping her gaze to her shoes. She looks back up after a minute. "Are you-- "
        "No."
        "No not ever or no not yet?"
        "No, not yet. I think. Hope."
        She sits and chews on her lower lip for a few minutes. "Does he like you?"
        "Yeah."
        "A lot?"
        "Yeah."
        Maddie runs a hand through her hair. "Wow."
        "I'm sorry; I realize it's a shock."
        "Well, it's kind of more that there hasn't been anyone," she says, and to his surprise she sounds slightly apologetic. "I didn't think there would be."
        "Neither did I, to be honest, Maddie."
        Finally she looks up at him. "Yeah. I can . . . I know that. And it's weird but you kind of fit. I mean, you don't think you do, but you do. Kind of." She stares at him a moment longer and then a grin curves her mouth. "Mom will have a cow."
        It's Brian's turn to be taken aback. "Holy shit."
        "She will."
        "Fuck. I know."
        "I won't tell her."
        "It's okay, Maddie, you know you don't have to get in the middle of it. I'll tell her and if she bugs you, you know what to say. If-- if there's anything to tell."
        She sobers abruptly. "He's kind of a gypsy, Dad."
        "I know. So was I, though."
        "He's cool, though. I like him better than Mom sometimes."
        Brian bites back an urge to say, "That's not surprising," and says, instead, "Obviously I do too."
        She eyes him for a minute, then laughs. "Tactful, Dad. So, do you know where Billy lives?"
        "Yeah. Or, well, I have his address. We can find it."
        She grins. "Cool. Um. . . shouldn't we call him?"
        "No," Brian says firmly. He's sure of that. If they call, Billy will try to talk them out of coming. "No, we'll just show up, camp outside his door if we have to."




        Billy sits on the balcony of his apartment, the warm, exhaust-scented evening breeze dissipating the smoke from his cigarette as he exhales the last drag and stubs it out. His guitar is on his lap, the acoustic, it's easier on the neighbors. He looks out across the vista that stretches out before him. . . other apartment buildings, office buildings, fast-food joints. Many of the balconies and windows he can see are decorated with Christmas lights that twinkle or pulse in hypnotic rhythms, a jarring attempt at seasonal cheer in a warm, Southern Californian December. Palm trees and Christmas lights just don't mix. Not that he's big on Christmas in the first place.
        He wonders if any of those people actually believe what they're celebrating, know what they're celebrating, or if it's just a reason to put up lights, take time off work, spend money. For him it means that everyone he usually counts on to keep his mind off his problems is gone. Kat's at her folks in Ohio, Danny and Kyle took off to Kyle's parents in Texas, and Chelle headed to Acapulco with her latest pickup. Billy's willing to bet she won't be back until way after the New Year but it doesn't matter, all they've got is studio time. He thinks briefly about calling a couple other friends but he's already turned down party invitations and that'll happen again, they don't want to just jam, they have to drink too and it's hard to stay away from that, better not to go.
        Of course, it's almost as hard not to drink here; but he'd have to go out and buy something and so far that has been enough of a psychological barrier to keep him sober at home too. He wonders about Billie's Christmas, wonders if it's like his were, growing up, wonders what he's going to do about that next year. He licks his lips and the alcohol craving is suddenly tripled because the sweet hot burn would moisten a suddenly dry mouth and lead to some serious, oblivious downtime. He wonders for a minute if he craves that oblivion more than he craves the alcohol, decides it's part and parcel, and picks up the phone without further thought and dials Brian's number. It rings six times and then Maddie's voice comes on, John Lennon in the background, inviting him to leave a message, wishing him a Merry Christmas.
        He hangs up, wonders if Ben would mind a phone call, and checks his watch. No, it's past ten in Chicago, time for good little Mounties to be in bed. No help there. He could call someone from A.A., but damn, he's never really . . . connected. . . there. Still feels stupid and awkward, despite the fact that everyone there is in the same boat. A slight noise nearby catches his attention and he looks over to see the neighbor's cat, a good-sized calico named Ginger, on her balcony. He smiles. "Hey, Ginger, you come to save me from myself?"
        She meows at him silently, which he finds amusing, and he tchks at her. She gathers herself and jumps the foot or so between the two balconies. The first time he'd seen her do that he'd been sure he was going to see cat splatted on the pavement three stories down, but she'd done it so easily he'd realized she must do it all the time. He puts the guitar aside and she jumps into his lap, butting her head under his chin, sniffing his mouth, and gives another silent meow. He strokes a hand down her silky back and shakes his head, grinning.
        "Sorry, Ginge, no tuna tonight, just peanut butter." He dips into the open jar next to his chair, getting a little on his fingertip, and holds it up for her to investigate. To his surprise she licks, licks again, her tongue warm and rough as she cleans the sticky stuff off his finger. He laughs. "Jesus. Weird fuckin' cat. Peanut butter." He gives her another fingerful, absently petting her, grateful for the distraction. She finishes her treat and jumps down, settling next to him and washing her face. He picks up the guitar again and plays idly for a while, not really working on anything in particular, just letting the chords fall from his fingers, letting the music fill him. He's not sure how long he's been doing that when there's a knock at the door. Both he and the cat look back into the apartment, and he looks down at Ginger. "Uh oh, busted. They're on to you. Come on, time to go home"
        He stands up and scoops up the cat as he walks to the door, waiting to hand her over to whichever of the neighbor's kids has come to fetch her this time. For whatever reason, though she'll happily jump from her balcony to his, she'll never go back on her own. He undoes the chain and deadbolt one-handed, still holding Ginger, who's gone limp with dejection. She hates to go home, but she never actively protests. He swings the door open, and almost drops the cat as he stares at Brian and Maddie, suddenly excruciatingly aware of his dirty hair, his three-day beard, his wrinkled, unbuttoned shirt, his bare feet.
        "Fuck," he says succinctly.
        Maddie cracks up and Brian chuckles.
        Billy blushes. "I mean, um, hi."
        Maddie reacts first. "Hi yourself. Merry Christmas. Get packed. We're taking you home with us."
        He stares. "What?"
        "Is that your cat?" Maddie asks, looking past him into the apartment. "You never said you had a cat. Can we come in?"
        "Uh, no, she's not mine, she's the neighbors', I thought you were them. And yeah, I guess. I. . . the place is a mess."
        "Of course it is," Maddie says matter-of-factly, "you're a guy. Can I see the cat? What's his name?"
        Billy steps aside to let them in and Maddie reaches for Ginger. "Her name's Ginger. She likes peanut butter."
        "Does she? Cool."
        Maddie's got the cat in her arms now, and breezes past him, leaving him standing there staring at Brian, who lifts his gaze slowly from somewhere around Billy's crotch. Involuntarily Billy checks his fly, finds the top button undone, and fastens it hastily before looking back at Brian, his face even hotter than before as he does up a few shirt buttons, too.
        "Hi," Brian says with a smile that sends tingles through him. "We thought we'd surprise you."
        "You succeeded," Billy says, not sure if he's flattered or pissed off. Both maybe. "What the fuck are you doing showing up here? You didn't call. What if I was gone? I could've been in Canada for all you knew!"
        "You're not," Brian points out reasonably. "Go pack a bag, our return flight's in two hours. My brilliant daughter told me to point out that you can use our luggage allotment to bring extra guitars if you want."
        "I'm not coming, so don't worry about the fucking security blankets. Come on in, you might as well get the tour too." He stands in the middle of the room and points. "That's the living room, there's the kitchen, the john's over there. Out there's the balcony."
        "Where do you sleep?" Brian asks, frowning a little.
        Billy nods at the futon-couch. "There."
        Brian shoots him an enigmatic look. "Bet your guests love that."
        Billy snorts. "Oh yeah."
        "You know, for a guy you're not that bad a housekeeper," Maddie announces from over by the stereo. "I figured there'd be dust an inch thick."
        "Yeah, that's me, Mr. Clean," he says drily. "See me in a Merry Maid uniform?"
        Maddie laughs and wanders out to the balcony, putting down the cat and picking up his guitar curiously. He turns to Brian, eyes narrowed. "You wasted a trip."
        "No, we didn't. You don't want to disappoint Maddie, now do you? It was her idea."
        "I bet it was."
        "Really. It was. Well, she said it first, anyway. She was worried about you. She knew I was worried about you."
        "Why the hell are either of you worried about me? I'm not fucking drinking, I've got a steady paycheck, I even have time to clean the fucking apartment, I've--"
        "You're alone."
        "I like to be alone."
        "Not all the time. Not at Christmas, Bill."
        "We've got a real tree," Maddie says unexpectedly. "Tara and Jack and I have been making cookies and we're having turkey and stuffing, not tofu. Dad and I bought the turkey yesterday."
        "I-- I don't have presents for you guys. I-- "
        "Oh, come on, Billy," Maddie says, rolling her eyes. "There are five shopping days left until Christmas."
        Billy looks at Brian. Brian grins.
        "I've got a couple spare Jenifur CDs around here somewhere," Billy says, a little acidly.
        "Got 'em all," Maddie says simply. "You can play Christmas carols for us."
        Brian throws his head back and laughs. "Jesus, be sure to have the tape recorder going. Billy Tallent does Burl Ives."
        Despite himself, Billy feels a grin surfacing, knows assent is two seconds behind. He doesn't even have to look at Maddie. "You don't fucking play fair, Mr. Hawkins."
        Brian grins evilly. "Of course not, Mr. Boisy."
        He sighs, and looks from Brian to Maddie and back, then remembers his disheveled state and jerks his head at the bathroom. "Give me ten minutes, okay? I'm not going anywhere looking like some homeless guy you two picked up for a charity drive."
        Brian's tongue flickers out to moisten his lower lip. "I think you look. . . fine."
        Billy shoots a look at Maddie, now playing discordant notes on his guitar, her back to them. "Jesus, Brian, cool it!"
        Brian follows his gaze, and a slight flush rises in his face. "It's okay."
        "It's not fucking oh. . . ." His voice trails off and he looks at Brian more sharply. "It's okay?"
        Brian nods, an embarrassed smile quirking his mouth. "Yeah. I guess I'm not very . . . subtle."
        Billy's shocked speechless. Not even an expletive comes to mind. He just stares. Maddie knows. "You-- " He hears his voice rising sharply, sees Maddie look up from the balcony, modulates it fast. "You told her?" he hisses angrily.
        Brian nods. Shrugs. "Not intentionally, but, yeah."
        "Jesus!" Frustrated, Billy looks at Maddie again, looks around his suddenly too-fucking-tiny studio, and drags Brian after him into the bathroom, slams the door. If Maddie knows, it doesn't matter, and he can't take Brian down in front of his own daughter.
        "Billy, it's okay," Brian repeats.
        "Jesus, Brian. Fuck. Look. What the fuck did you tell her? How the fuck am I supposed to look her in the eye? Hey, Maddie, I'm fucking your dad. And I'm fucking not fucking you, so what the fuck did you tell her?"
        "I didn't tell her, she guessed. And it doesn't matter, Bill, I would have told her anyway."
        "Told her what? That you're alluva sudden gay and you're fucking Billy Tallent? Did you think maybe you should have asked me?"
        "I think she's my daughter, Bill, and I know her. Yeah, I should have talked to you first, but you know, you'll find out you can't always choose the times for those kinds of talks. They happen at the most inopportune moments . . . and if it's embarrassing, it's invariably in public, until they're teenagers, when they won't be seen with you in public," Brian says, smiling.
        "It's not fucking funny, Brian, I'm not fucking laughing."
        "It is funny, Bill, you've got a real instinct for this dad thing."
        Brian grins again, inviting response, and Billy feels his traitorous mouth begin to quiver.
        "She's cool with the gay thing, Bill, honest to God. It's the fact that I'm her dad that's a little harder to get over, but she'd be that way with anyone I . . . showed an interest in; it's been just the two of us for so long. I think it'll work out."
        "You think every fucking thing will work out, Brian Hawkins."
        "It usually does, if you're committed to it and if you're lucky."
        "Bullfuckingshit, Brian."
        "I said usually," Brian points out mildly. "I think it's funny."
        "You think I'm funny?"
        "You. The situation. Hard-edged world-weary rock star and you're embarrassed."
        "I'm not fucking embarrassed, okay? You-- it-- it took me by surprise. I didn't know you talked to kids about stuff like that."
        "You're embarrassed," Brian says, grinning again. "Get your shower. You want me to pack for you? How many guitars are you bringing?"
        "The acoustic and the Fender, uh ,the plain black electric," Billy says, almost automatically.
        "I don't have an amp."
        "I'll find a cheapie in San Francisco. Get out of here. Let me shower."
        Brian's smile changes, warms. "Want some help?" he asks huskily, tongue stealing out to moisten his lips.
        An instant, erotic burn sends a flush through his entire body, even though he knows that Brian is just teasing him. "Jesus effing Christ, Brian," he growls. "Get the fuck out of here!"
        "Getting out," Brian says cheerfully, and slips out of the small room, closing the door behind himself.
        Billy locks the door, needlessly, he's sure, but it makes him feel marginally more in control. He looks at himself in the mirror and shakes his head, disgusted. If Brian thinks he looks fine, he's delusional. He shaves, strips, showers quickly, and reaches for clothes only to realize he didn't bring any clean ones in with him. He's about ready to put the dirty stuff back on so he can go get some when there's a knock at the door. Startled, he wraps a towel securely around his waist, and opens the door a crack.
        Brian's standing there, a stack of clothes in his hands. "Valet service," he says blandly.
        Billy shakes his head. "Fuck, Brian. Pool boy, valet, what next?"
        "Escort service?"
        "You're really asking for it, Hawkins," Billy says threateningly. "And do not say 'yes.'"
        Brian, in the act of opening his mouth, snaps it shut. Billy takes the clothes from him and shuts the door, only then allowing himself to grin. It's nice to occasionally get the last word. He dresses quickly, gives his hair a quick slick of gel and spikes it a little, and opens the door to find his duffel open on the couch, half-full of underwear and t-shirts, a few other things laid out on the couch as if to get his opinion. Maddie's going through his CDs on the floor. Brian's opening guitar cases; he finds the Fender and snaps the case closed again, picks it up. As he turns to put the guitar next to the couch he knocks a stack of envelopes off the shelf behind the CD player. Leaning down, he picks them up, looks at the unopened envelopes, then at Billy.
        "What're these?"
        Billy grins sheepishly. "Paychecks."
        "What?"
        "Wow," Maddie says. "Cool."
        "Uh, paychecks. When I need money I deposit one, that way I don't spend it."
        "Bill, there are ten envelopes here."
        "Some are, um, residuals."
        Brian stares at him, frowning. "Bill, this is insane. Don't you have a savings account? What if your apartment burns down?"
        Billy shrugs. "I get another check next week."
        "Why do you even get paychecks? Doesn't your agent do that? Your manager? Ever heard of direct deposit?"
        "Like to get the checks, man," Billy says, looking uncomfortable. "I pay the bills that way, pay Ed. It works for me, Brian, what are you getting all bent about? I do have a savings account. I think I even have an IRA or something that Ed set up for me. You an accountant too?"
        Brian looks embarrassed. "No. Fuck, no. I'm sorry, Bill, but I see things-- when I know answers-- it's hard to keep my mouth shut. And, you know, I know a few people in the business - they never handle money. Agents do it all."
        "Ed would probably do it better," Billy says with a grin. "On time and shit. But this way I - I know. What's going on and shit. You know?"
        "Yeah," Brian says. "I'm sorry. Not my business. I can see your point. I can, Bill. I'm sorry."
        "You want to straighten everything out, huh." Billy smiles. "I get it. It's-- I just don't know. I'm fucking making money, real money, and I don't-- I don't want to blow it, I never had it, you know? I mean, since I moved to LA I've had money, not so much hand to mouth as we had to do in the band. Pretty steady money, you know? And now-- real money. It's weird and the contract didn't really come through until a few weeks ago, and now Ed says there's going to be more. So it's … it's fucking weird, is all. And the, uh, back child support…"
        "You-- you ought to talk to someone about it, is all, okay? Invest some of it."
        "Fuck that, Brian, I don't know shit-- "
        "Bill. Learn."
        "Don't tell me, you know someone," Billy says with a sigh.
        "He knows everyone," Maddie says.
        Brian flashes a grin. "I know lots of someones, Bill. I can introduce you or you can find someone on your own. I'd feel better letting you get a second opinion from someone I trust, that's all."
        Billy looks at him for a long moment. "I can see that," he says at last. "As long as they let me alone. It's hard to figure it out, who to trust.""
        "Okay, Bill." Brian looks at the envelopes, puts them back on the shelf with a little half-smile at Billy, and points at the guitar. "Right one?"
        Billy nods. Yeah, it's the right one. He's beginning to think maybe Brian is, too.



        The flight from L.A. to San Francisco doesn't seem as long as it did last time, not with Brian and Maddie both there to distract him. And when they get to Barbary Lane, Billy finds that he can make it to the top of the stairs now without getting nearly as winded as he was that first time. Maddie opens the gate for him and he stops for a moment in surprise, looking around, even his cynical soul taken by the impact of the lights festooning the courtyard, hundreds of tiny, brilliant fireflies in the early evening darkness He looks at Brian, who points at Maddie and grins. Yeah, that makes sense. He wonders if Billie would like it, is pretty sure she would; what little girl wouldn't? Maybe next Christmas she'll get to see it.
        That thought shakes him up a little. So fucking scary. He's missed so much. Lost so much. Can he make it up? Is it possible? Brian's so damned sure everything will be fine, but what if Billie hates him? How could she not? He's disrupting her entire universe.
        "Billy?" Maddie's tugging on his sleeve. "Come on. You have to see inside."
        He pushes away his fears and nods, following, receives a speculative look from Brian and knows Brian caught his momentary lapse. They'll probably have to talk about it later. Jesus. It's a wonder he has a voice left. He doesn't talk this much with his fucking shrink. He puts the Fender and his bag down just inside the door and Brian does the same with his acoustic. Maddie clicks a switch by the door and suddenly lights bloom all over the room, more of those tiny ones, there must've been a sale or something.
        Except for the multicolored strands on the tree all the lights are yellow, bathing the room in a golden glow that makes it look warmly inviting. It always has really, but now it's even more so. The tawny light suits the Victorian bordello furnishings that Billy's wondered about every time he's been here, he can't quite imagine Brian choosing them, even though he seems perfectly comfortable with them. He has a feeling Brian can be comfortable anywhere, can. . . fit in anywhere. He realizes Maddie's watching him a little anxiously, no doubt waiting for his opinion.
        "Nice," he says, sincerely, despite the fact that three hours ago he'd been thinking how stupid lights looked on Southern California balconies. This is different, somehow. This is . . . real. It means something. And that makes him think that maybe it meant something to all those other people too, and he feels a warm expansion in his chest, kind of like the Grinch must've after he heard the Whos singing. He smiles. "Really nice. You do this?"
        She nods, looking pleased. "Dad helped, but it was my idea."
        "You did a good job," he says, and her smile goes so bright that it almost hurts. Jesus, it doesn't take much to make her happy. She grabs his hand, tugs him toward the tree. "We've just got our ornaments on so far, Jack and David and Tara haven't put theirs on yet. All the ornaments mean something. I can tell you about them." She points at a clear glass ball with some random splashes of what looks like red fingernail polish, blue sequins, gold glitter, and white cotton batting. "That's supposed to be Santa. I made it in kindergarten," she says, and they're off and running.
        Maddie's good at stories. When he glances at his watch next, realizing he can smell food-- something spicy-- and that Brian's not in the room, it's been nearly an hour. And he knows all about the ornaments on the tree that represent each of her Christmases, one for each year since she was born. She doesn't have this year's yet. He knows which ones are from Mrs. Madrigal, and incidentally that she was the one who chose the furnishings. He knows which ones are from friends, and which ones Maddie's given Brian for the last few years, their own private tradition. There's only one she hasn't mentioned. He points to what looks like a plain steel ring hung from a red ribbon.
        "What's that one?"
        Maddie gets serious all the sudden. "That's an old one, from way before I was born. I know Uncle Michael gave it to Dad and there's some kind of joke about it, but Dad just says he'll tell me about it when I'm older." She makes a disgusted face. "He's been saying that for years now, and I am older, darn it."
        He looks at it again, puzzled, trying to figure out what would make Brian reluctant to talk to Maddie about it until she's older, and can't. "If it helps, I don't know what it is either," he admits.
        She giggles at that "Guess you'll have to ask Dad and hope you're old enough," she says, pushing up from her knees and heading for the door. "I'm going to go get Tara, bring her over to meet you."
        Billy has a strange feeling that this is Maddie's version of 'meeting the family' and wonders if he'll pass muster. After a moment he stands up and wanders into the kitchen where Brian's standing over the stove, stirring something in a pan. He looks up as Billy comes in, and grins.
        "You know all the stories now?"
        "All but one," Billy says. "She said I'd have to ask and see if you thought I was old enough to hear about it."
        Brian looks puzzled for a moment, then he starts to laugh. "Oh, that one. Jesus. I could probably tell her. Hell, she probably already knows what it is."
        "Well, tell me, then, because I don't."
        Brian's eyebrows go up. "You don't?"
        He looks so honestly surprised that Billy feels a little embarrassed that he doesn't. "No."
        Brian puts down the wooden spoon in his hand, staring. "You really don't know?"
        Billy shakes his head. "No, really."
        "Jesus. So much for sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll. I thought you had groupies and shit."
        "We did . . . we do. What the fuck is it?" Billy asks, starting to get a little irritated.
        Brian grins. "It's a cock ring."
        "A what?" Billy's gaze goes, almost on its own, to his crotch. He knows what a cock is, and what a ring is, but what the fuck is a cock ring?
        Brian chuckles softly. "Okay, I've officially lived here way too long if I've gotten to the point where I expect everyone to know this kind of stuff. You put it on your cock."
        Billy tries to visualize that, looks from his own crotch to Brian's, thinks about the diameter of the ring . . . and unless Brian's built like some of the guys in the videos he's seen, there's no way. "Um. . . how's it stay on?"
        He's pleased to note that Brian's getting a little pink now. "Well, you, ah, you put it on before you get. . . hard, it kind of goes around underneath . . . everything."
        Okay, he's starting to get the picture, sort of. "But. . . why?"
        "Well, then when you do get hard, you don't get . . . unhard."
        Billy absorbs that and then shakes his head. "Isn't that kind of the whole point of getting hard? To get unhard?"
        "You know, sometimes the longer it takes to get . . . unhard the more fun it can be, Bill."
        It takes a moment for that to work its way through the slight muzziness in his head that comes from talking about cocks with Brian, and is followed by some very explicit images of Brian, taking a long time to get unhard, with him, and oh. . . God, he should not be thinking this right now. Billy swallows, trying to get some moisture into his mouth, looks up to find Brian watching him with an expression he suspects mirrors his own, which doesn't help at all.
        Brian reaches out, then lets his hands fall, shaking his head, looking frustrated. "Fuck. I wish to God I could kiss you right now."
        "I'm not stopping you," Billy says, a little surprised at the huskiness in his voice.
        Brian takes a step toward him, another, his fingers brush Billy's jaw, cup his cheek, then he leans in and his mouth settles onto Billy's so light, soft, almost not even there, and Billy needs more. He tangles his fingers into Brian's hair, tips his head a little, and seals them closer, harder, until Brian's hands clutch at his shoulders and he makes a sound deep in his throat that Billy knows, knows is one he makes in bed. Those images fire through him again, and he sucks hard on Brian's tongue, slides his hand down to that beautifully curved ass and holds him as he grinds their cocks together, and it's so. . . damned. . . good.
        He almost moans a moment later when his single sane brain-cell reminds him that Maddie's gone to get Tara and they can't do this, that even if she hadn't, they still can't do this, not yet. He forces himself to let go, to take a step back, and sees Brian sway a little, his eyes dark and dilated, his lips still parted, tongue flickering out over slightly reddened lips to taste what's left of Billy's mouth on his. After a second Brian runs a hand through his hair, shakes his head, looks at Billy.
        "Jesus, Bill."
        Billy nods, clearing his throat. "Yeah. I know."
        The sound of the front door closing and female voices pushes them a step or two farther apart, cools most of the remaining sparks. Billy takes a chair, turns it, sits down on it backward, hoping the chair-back is enough concealment. Brian tugs at his jeans and turns back to the stove, picking up the spoon again, stirring aimlessly at whatever's in the pan as Maddie walks into the kitchen with a tall, well-rounded woman with cascading blonde ringlets and more lace, velvet, and fringe than Billy's ever seen outside of a Frederick's of Hollywood window. Brian looks over and gives a little wave from the stove, without turning.
        "Hi, Tara."
        "Hey, Bri," the blonde says casually, coming over to Billy, holding out her hand. "Hi, I'm Tara Delaney, and you must be the infamous Billy Tallent that Maddie's been telling me all about."
        Fuck, he has to stand up, or be rude. He pushes to his feet, hoping neither she nor Maddie looks down, and holds out his hand. "Guilty," he says, trying to be charming. "And you must be the infamous Tara that Maddie and Brian have told me all about."
        Her gaze drops, very deliberately, rises, slides over to Brian, then back to him. He feels his face getting warmer as her grin widens.
        "Oh yeah. That I am," she says, shaking his hand firmly. "It's very nice to meet you finally. I feel like I already know so much about you."
        Yeah, apparently she does, he thinks, darting a look at Brian who gives him a sheepish little smile that makes him wonder just how many people Brian's spilled the beans to when there's not even beans to spill yet, not really.
        "Don't believe half of what you hear," he says hopefully.
        "I believe a third and guess the rest," she says. "You ever had your cards read?"
        "I play poker," he offers, not entirely sure what she means.
        "Tara! How about some eggnog?" Brian asks, spinning around from the stove. "Mulled cider?"
        "You're so domestic, Brian. Sure, eggnog."
        "Spiked?"
        "Of course."
        "Come on then, I'll give you a tour of the liquor cabinet and you can choose your poison," Brian says, leading her out of the room. Billy has the distinct impression that whatever having his cards read means, Brian doesn't want him to do it.
        "She likes you," Maddie announces happily. "I knew she would."
        "She seems pretty . . . down to earth," Billy says. "I kind of figured she'd be more. . . um. . . ."
        "Weird?" Maddie asks with a grin.
        "Well, yeah. I mean, I've never met a witch before."
        Maddie laughs. "Were you expecting a broomstick and a pointy hat?"
        He laughs back. "No, no, not that. Just more, you know, spooky and mysterious."
        "She saves that for the customers," Maddie says. "At home she's cool."
        Brian returns with Tara and a bottle of rum. Billy watches them getting out the eggnog and pouring it, adding the rum, and feels a sting of interest, a flood of moisture across his tongue. He frowns, shaking his head. No. Doesn't need that. Doesn't want it. He rolls his shoulders and rubs his neck. "Hey, Mad, want to help me take my stuff upstairs? I'd like to get settled in before dinner's ready."
        She nods. "Sure. I'll take your guitars."
        "Just the acoustic. The Fender's pretty heavy."
        She bends her arm and makes a muscle. "I'm strong, really, I can do it. I promise I won't drop it."
        He grins. "Then you take the Fender, I'll take the acoustic."
        "You don't trust me," she says with a pout.
        He sighs. "Okay. You take the guitars, I'll take my bag, but no complaints, okay?"
        She grins. "Deal."


        
        Brian watches Billy take off with Maddie, looks at the bottle in his hand and swears softly. Tara looks at him, startled.
        "What's up, Bri?"
        "I . . . nothing. I just didn't think. Damn."
        "What?" she prompts again, concerned.
        He sighs. "Bill's an alcoholic."
        She gets it, he can tell by her expression. "I'm sorry, Brian, I didn't know."
        "Not your fault. I should have thought of it. My fault. Fuck."
        "He did the right thing, though. My step-dad never could. If he saw it, he'd get it. Billy left. Got out of temptation's way. That's good."
        "Yeah, but I need to be more careful. He should have a safe place with me."
        Tara puts her hand on his arm, squeezes gently. "He does, Brian. Remember, The World."
        He looks at her sharply and she smiles. "Sorry, I know you haven't officially said anything, but the implications of that card reading were pretty damned clear and Maddie was just wild, bouncing off the walls when she told me he was here for the holidays. And when we walked in here a few minutes ago the two of you looked like a couple of teenagers who got caught necking. At least you did to me, I don't think Maddie noticed. Anyway, it doesn't take a genius to figure things out."
        Brian feels heat in his face. "I . . . um . . ."
        She winks. "Not to mention that he's pretty damned cute. I don't blame you."
        "Don't call him that to his face."
        She grins. "I wouldn't dream of it." She looks at the glass in her hand, then back at him. "I'll get rid of this. I want to talk to him and it'll be hell if I'm breathing rum at him."
        Brian nods and goes to put away the liquor as Tara rinses her eggnog down the drain, then returns to pour her a fresh, unspiked glass. A few minutes later Billy and Maddie come back in from upstairs, talking about guitars. Billy seems to be fine, and once more Brian feels a surge of admiration that Billy's managing to keep himself together as much as he does. It's just fucking amazing, after all he's been through. Maddie goes to her room to get the guitar Jack and David gave her, and Billy settles at the kitchen table. Brian returns to stirring his chili as Tara goes and sits down next to Billy.
        "So, you're Canadian?" she says.
        "Well, originally, been in L.A. for a while now, though."
        "Green card?"
        He grins. "Yeah."
        "Cool."
        "Fuckin' A."
        "I hear you're with a band. Do a lot of touring?"
        "Off and on. Right now off. Nobody wants to tour over Christmas . . . um . . . holidays..."
        Tara laughs. "You can say Christmas, I'm not offended. Or you could say Yule."
        "Yule? I have a friend who'd say that. Old fashioned," Billy says, then swears softly. "Damn. Forgot to call Ben and he'll worry. Brian? Can I use your phone?"
        Brian got stuck somewhere around the "Ben" part but he gives a jerky nod even though he wants to say no, wants to slam a door, wants to stalk out of the kitchen. He knows it's petty, extremely petty, because Ben's the closest thing Billy's had to what Brian desperately wants to be; but he can't understand why Ben doesn't or wouldn't want Billy too. Billy excuses himself to Tara, goes over to the counter and picks up the phone, dials. Brian tries not to read anything into the fact that he doesn't have to look the number up. He figures Billy's got his number memorized, too. He hopes.
        "Hey . . . Ben?" Billy says into the phone, sounding a little uncertain.
        Brian tries not to listen, but Billy's only about three feet away. There's a pause, and Billy speaks again.
        "Oh, Vecchio. Hi. Guess if you're at the consulate you don't need your ass kicked some more, hunh?" he chuckles a little, a warm sound. "So, put Ben on, okay? I need to tell him something."
        There's another pause, longer. Brian wonders who Vecchio is and why his ass might need kicking. He sneaks a glance, sees Billy's starting to scowl.
        "He's what? How come?" Billy snaps.
        More silence. Brian wishes desperately that Billy had this conversation on speakerphone as Billy starts to move, pacing back and forth agitatedly as far as the phone cord will stretch. Billy's face is pale, his jaw clenched tight. "He what?" Billy demands. "Oh, fuck.. . he didn't. No. Jesus. How could you let ... no. Fuck. Never mind. No, I know, there's never any 'letting' with him. Sorry. He okay? Did you take him to hospital?"
        Hospital? Brian stiffens, making no attempt to hide his interest now. Billy's gaze meets his and he sees anger, frustration, and even fear in it. Brian opens his mouth and then, realizing the futility of it, shuts it again.
        "No? What do you mean, no?" Billy almost yells into the phone, then he shakes his head. "No, no, I'm sorry. I know. I know you are. Okay. Look, I'm going to give you the number of the place I'm staying in San Francisco for the holidays." He reels off Brian's phone number with reassuring ease. You call me if there's a problem, okay? Tell Ben to get his ass to the doctor's or I'll come kick his ass. . . . " Billy grins suddenly. "Tie him to the damned bed if you have to." A bark of laughter. "Yeah, that's one of those tips I was talking about." His voice softens suddenly, warms. "Ray, take care of him, okay?" A nod, then he's saying goodbye and hanging up, running a hand through his hair with a sigh.
        "Bill?" Brian says quietly.
        Billy shakes his head. "Fucking idiot Mountie thinks he's Superman or something. He took on a big Chicago mob guy. Got the shit beat out of him."
        "I. . . I'm sorry," Brian says, hoping he sounds more sincere than he feels. Not that he wishes ill on Ben but . . . well, it's one thing to know about him in the abstract and quite another to be confronted with proof that Billy cares about him. "Is he all right?"
        "Yeah, or Ray says he is. Sore as hell but no permanent damage. Gotta trust him on that. He's as pissed off as I am."
        "Ray?" Brian prompts.
        "Yeah. Fraser's partner."
        Brian vaguely remembers that Billy mentioned a partner once, a long time ago, their first meeting. But he doesn't know if that means partner or partner. "Partner?" he asks, trying not to sound too interested.
        Billy nods. "Yeah. Ray's a cop. Chicago P.D."
        Oh. That sort of partner. He stifles his disappointment, tries a different tactic. "Isn't that a little unusual, working across jurisdictions like that?"
        "Yeah. Guess so. Don't know really." Billy shrugs. "Don't have much experience with cops, except for pissing them off."
        Tara laughs. "Yeah, I think that goes for most of us. So, Bri, we still on for the usual tonight?"
        Brian nods. "Yeah, Maddie's got about six bags of cranberries. You have the popcorn?"
        She grins. "Oh yeah. Been slaving over a hot air-popper for days. And the needles and thread. Should I go get them?"
        Brian notices Billy is staring at him quizzically and he realizes that he kind of forgot to mention any of this. He nods at Tara. "Yeah, why don't you? And see if the guys are home yet and drag them back with you."
        She salutes him, smiling. "Aye-aye, sir. Back in a few."
        As soon as Tara's gone he looks at Billy again, sees he's frowning and tense.
        "Um. . . you guys having a party or something?" he asks a little hesitantly. "I can go hang out upstairs, no problem."
        "No!" Brian says with rather more vehemence than he intended. "No, I don't want you to run off, please, that's not why I asked you down here. It's just the house-family. Me and Maddie, Tara, Jack and David. That's all. I'm sorry I forgot to warn you. It's kind of traditional to string garlands for the tree and it was already scheduled for tonight when we decided to go get you. I should have said something."
        Billy looks like he's going to bolt, and then Brian can almost see him adjusting, adapting. He takes a deep breath, nods. "Okay. Okay, if you're sure you want me to stay. I mean, I'm not . . ." he waves a hand aimlessly, " . . .part of this."
        "You are now, Bill," Brian says quietly. "If you want to be. I don't want you to feel obligated, but I'd enjoy your company, and I know Maddie would too. You've already met Tara, and David and Jack are cool, really. None of us bite."
        Billy looks at him, a slight deepening in the crease beside his mouth betraying a hint of amusement. "No?" he asks. "I think I'm disappointed."
        "Well, not in public," Brian amends, and Billy chuckles. Brian relaxes a little. Too much, apparently, because the next words out of his mouth are not words he meant to utter. "So, this Ray guy, are he and your friend partners in . . . more than just the cop way?"
        Billy looks at him sharply. "Why?"
        Mentally kicking himself, Brian struggles for nonchalance. "Oh, just curious. I know you and Ben . . . ." Fuck. Don't go there. "Well, like I said, just curious."
        Billy studies him for a long moment, eyes narrowed. "You got a problem, Brian?"
        "No, of course not," he says bluffly. "What kind of problem?"
        "You tell me," Billy says, suddenly a little tense, his long fingers curled into fists. "Look, Brian, just don't, okay? You got a problem, we need to talk about it."
        Shit. His courtroom finesse seems to have deserted him. He shakes his head. "It's stupid, Bill, and I know it. There's no need to talk about it. I'm just being stupid, okay?"
        Billy looks at him, clearly startled. "You? Stupid? Sorry, you and 'stupid' don't belong in the same sentence, Brian. And you know, the damned shrink I've been seeing tells me all the time that feelings got to be dealt with, even if we know they don't make much sense. I know it sucks, but he's right, I think."
        Brian rubs an eyebrow, looks at Billy and sighs. "Yeah. He's right. I know that. It's just that … it's not very flattering to realize that I'm really curious and even a little jealous."
        "Curious, jealous? Of Ben? Why?" Billy sounds incredulous.
        "He's . . . had you."
        "You could too, if you weren't so fucking ethical, Technical Man."
        "I know that. I told you it was stupid. I - you said he looks like me and he's had you and, you know, why? Why did you, why did he, and why is it over now?"
        "Jesus, Brian, it's not that you look like him, okay? That's not why I want you. That's not why I wanted him, not for that." He flushes unexpectedly. "Jesus, I can't fucking talk about this. But Ben wasn't a, you know, notch in the guitar case. He was a friend. Is a friend. If that's not cool - "
        "I guess it's that he could have had you, still could, and didn't and I don't get that because I want you - I want you for more than that. More than a night or two, just you and me. If you do. Shit, Bill, listen to me, I sound like a fucking - "
        "No." Billy cuts him off with a slash of hand through the air. He points his index and little fingers at Brian and moves a step closer. "You tell me, that's cool, that's good, that's buddies. But you can't go there with the other. I mean, I know that. I fucking know that, man, do I know that. He ... he couldn't share."
        For a moment Brian thinks he means the Mountie, then it hits him, who Billy's talking about. "Oh Christ, no. No, Bill. It's not . . . not that kind of thing. It's not that, you know, he had you. I get that, that's cool. That's the past. I know it's stupid, but I just fucking want you so much it's making me stupid, and I can't have you, so I'm pretty much thinking with my dick," he says apologetically, hoping the confession, edged with self-deprecating humor, will defuse Billy's anger.
        "You can," Billy says, his mood changing like lightning, his voice low and urgent. "I don't give a fuck about legal ethics, you know that. You want me, I'm good with that. Upstairs, right now if you want."
        Brian shakes his head, not daring to think about that offer, because if he thinks about it, he'll take it. "I want. God, I do. But I can't. I will not, I refuse to put your case at risk because I'm horny, Bill. I won't do it. It won't be much longer. I've waited six years, Bill, I can wait a few more weeks. And I'm not jealous by nature, not usually. It's just the circumstances, that's all. They're . . . frustrating."
        Billy makes a rude noise; it makes Brian smile involuntarily, and Billy flashes a grin back, anger gone completely now. "Fuck yeah. Frustrating about covers it. You know, I actually had a freaking . . . " he flushes, looks down, embarrassed, ". . . dream. About you."
        Brian understands that. Oh, yes, he does, in a visceral sense. "Yeah. Same here. That night in Ottawa," he offers, hoping that commonality will help. "Felt like a damned teenager."
        Billy's gaze flashes up to meet his, and they kind of grin at each other in mutual humiliation and desire.
        "Sucks," Billy says after a moment.
        "Sucks," Brian echoes. "Big giant rocks."
        Billy laughs. "Oh yeah. Okay. Okay, but just chill about Ben, okay? He's a friend. That's all. Just a friend. You got friends you've slept with, right? Doesn't mean you're still into them. So, think of your friends like that when you're getting freaked out about Ben, okay?"
        " That's. . . that's a very good point. Yes. I can do that."
        Billy nods, looks satisfied. Then he clears his throat and looks back down at his feet. "And it's not any of your fucking business but, yeah, Ben and Ray are partners that way too. Now." He looks up, grins. "Had to kick some sense into Ray's, uh, head but they're ... they're good now. And we knew, Brian. I knew it was Ray for him all along. He told me, I could see it. We were-- we just needed each other then. That's all. So don't get twisted about it, okay?"
        Brian nods, sheepishly, relieved. "Okay."
        "Coolness. Now, tell me what I'm in for tonight. I already met Aunt Tara, so are Jack and David like the uncles?"
        Brian laughs. "You could say that. They've been here at the house since Maddie was eight, so they're pretty much honorary uncles, yeah. They're both software engineers. They met at an electronics convention."
        Billy grins. "So I'm thinking Frohicke and Byers here now."
        Brian laughs. "More like Langley and Byers, actually. A little less paranoid. Well, a lot less, actually. They're pretty laid back. You'll see. You hungry? I just put the cornbread in, and the chili's pretty much ready, and if you want to you can either grate cheese or chop onions for the chili."
        Billy looks at him and grins. "Onions? Trying to stave off another attack from the rapacious rock star?"
        Brian shoots a look at him that he knows he shouldn't, but he does it anyway. "Actually, I happen to love onions, Bill," he says blandly. "And besides, I attacked you. I'm still waiting for you to attack me."
        Billy shoots a look toward the door, back at Brian, who braces, pretending not to know what's coming as Billy's hands close over his shoulder and he's pushed up against the refrigerator, his lips already parting before Billy's mouth even finds his. As that wicked tongue slides across his and Billy's thigh wedges firmly between his own, Brian hopes like hell that Chloe's got something up her sleeve in Ottawa because he can't hold out much longer. The need for a deeper connection is a constant underlying ache now, it fills his dreams at night, his thoughts during the day, the need to prove to Billy in a way he understands that Brian does want him, does care, does . . . love him. And that rocks him. Shivers him to the core. Oh, fuck. He does.
        He almost pulls away to tell him, but just then Billy's fingers thread into his hair tugging until Brian tips his head a little more so their mouths can blend even better, and that tongue starts a rhythm that's echoed in the hips against his. Speech deserts him. Just as well, because a voice inside him whispers that Billy would've run if he'd said it. His hands slide around Billy's waist, drop lower to cup over the hard, scant curve of buttocks, and he hears himself whimper, an earthy, throaty sound that startles him with its rawness.
        Just as he's about to say the hell with dinner and Christmas decorations and hearings and drag Billy off to his lair, he hears a voice. Jack's voice. He sounds both amused and . . . awed.
        "Well, fuck me."
        Billy pulls back a little, turns his head until he can see, and Brian can see too, the tall man with long blonde hair standing in the kitchen doorway whose mouth is open in obvious astonishment. Billy grins slowly, despite the color climbing his throat into his cheeks, and shakes his head.
        "No thanks. I'm good here."
        Jack laughs out loud. "Yeah, I can see that. I'm just. . . Jesus, Brian." He stares at Brian, shakes his head. "David and I have lived here for how long and you've never bothered to tell us about this little facet of your personality?"
        Brian smiles sheepishly. "I. . . uh. . . didn't know about this facet of my personality until. . . recently."
        Jack looks at Billy again, frankly assessing, and Brian struggles against the irrational desire to step closer, to put a hand on Billy's shoulder. The possessive thing has got to stop.
        Billy studies Jack for a moment, then sticks out his hand. "I'm Bill Tallent. I'm guessing you're Jack?"
        Brian feels a moment of pleasure as he hears Billy use that version of his name. Taking another step. Small steps, but steps.
        Jack moves forward to shake Billy's hand, then frowns a little. "Yeah, Jack Whitford. How'd you know?"
        "Well, I had a fifty-fifty shot," Billy says, grinning. "Figured I'd try one and if that didn't work, try the other."
        "Works for me," Jack says, smiling as he looks at Billy again with a faintly puzzled expression on his face. "This is going to sound like a line and I swear it's not, but you look familiar, and your name's familiar too. Do I know you from somewhere? Have we met?"
        Billy shakes his head. "No, don't think so. But I, ah. . . play guitar."
        Jack looks interested. "In a band?" he asks with a disarming grin.
        Billy grins back. "Yeah. For now. Jenifur."
        Jack nods. "Oh, I've heard of them. But that's not who I ... wait a minute. Are you the Canadian guy Jenifur just signed?"
        Billy shoots a look at Brian, nods. "Yeah."
        "Wait, wait, wait. I know this. I know this. Hard Apple Cider. No. No, it was Hard-- Hard-- "
        "Hard Core Logo," Billy says, not quite mumbling.
        "That's it. That's it. I saw you guys once. That's so cool. I was hitching through Canada. I found a couple of your CDs. That was a while ago. You haven't changed much. You see much of the other guys anymore?"
        Brian opens his mouth but Billy says, casually, "No. We broke up almost five years ago."
        Brian closes his mouth again, impressed anew by Billy's demeanor, by the lack of strain in his voice.
        "Oh, so you're doing the LA scene now. Lollapalooza, I guess. Is it good work?"
        Billy shrugs. "Better than fucking yahoo clubs in Saskatchewan... in some ways, anyhow."
        Brian listens and watches as Billy slips into what Brian's beginning to think of as his alter ego. He shares a few anecdotes with Jack, gets him laughing. Brian reaches over to the counter for his glass and watches Billy narrowly, trying to see William Boisy under Billy Tallent. It's almost seamless. It's almost scary.
        David wanders in, hears Billy and Jack talking about guitars and shakes his head, sliding his arms around Jack's waist in a casual hug, then pulling him backward a little. "Oh no you don't, Jack. We're here on a mission and if you start talking about your damned hobby we'll never get the tree decorated."
        Jack looks around, startled, from a beginning-to-be-intense discussion of the merits of standard issue Fenders versus Strats and grins ruefully. "Uh, yeah. We better save this for some other time. Bill, this is my partner, David Lampert. David, this is Bill Tallent. He's a guitarist with Jenifur, but even better than that, remember those old Canadian punk CD's I have, Hard Core Logo? He used to be with them!"
        David, a slim, dark-haired man with conservative taste in clothes and hair, manages a fairly convincing "That's interesting," then sends a puzzled glance at Brian. No doubt he's wondering why there's a punk guitarist at their 'family' gathering.
        "Bill's a friend of mine," Brian offers.
        Jack snickers. "Ohyeah."
        Billy blushes, which is pretty fucking adorable, and Brian knows he'd probably get belted right in the mouth if he said that out loud so he doesn't. David looks even more bewildered after Jack's little comment, but Brian figures Jack will fill him in soon.
        "Why don't you guys go tell Tara and Maddie dinner's ready, okay?"
        Jack nods and heads out, David following, and Brian turns to Billy, who's looking at him ruefully.
        "Fuck, Brian, I'm sorry. I didn't think."
        "Don't be sorry, Bill, I'm not, okay?"
        "You're. . . ." Billy studies him for a moment, one corner of his mouth lifting in a lopsided smile. "You're really not, are you? Jesus. Sorry. I just have to . . . I don't know. . . look at everything sideways or something. It's weird. Not used to this."
        "I know, believe me." He chuckles drily. "I've lost my last distinction. For years I've been the last straight man in San Francisco. Now I'm just one of the teeming masses."
        Billy bursts out laughing, shaking his head. "Never, Brian. Okay. Onions. Cheese. Give me a grater or a chopping board before everyone gets in here and we're not ready."
        "Shit. I forgot. Okay, grater's in the left-hand drawer there. I'll do the onions."
        They move easily together, working in concert, and actually manage to get the condiments finished before everyone returns from the living room. Brian pulls the cornbread out of the oven and cuts it just as the others come into the kitchen. Within a few moments everyone is seated, talking around mouthfuls of chili and cheese, butter-dripping cornbread, and milk. Brian's willing to bet that Billy hasn't had milk that didn't have coffee in it in years, judging from the expresssion on his face when he looks at the glass with near-disbelief and the wary grin he displays as he raises it to his mouth.
        "You have a new ornament this year, Mad?" David asks her.
        She nods. "Yeah. But I don't know what it is yet. That's for later. Got one for Dad, too. Did you bring a new one?"
        David grins. "Yeah. Jack made me a dreidel, to remind me of my childhood. Or maybe he thinks I'm in my second childhood or something." He winks at Jack. "I thought it would be fun on the tree. He put a hole in the spinner so I can hang it from a ribbon."
        "He made it?" Maddie looks impressed. "Cool. You get him something?"
        "Of course. I knew you'd kill me if I didn't. New ornament every year. That's the rule."
        "What is it, then?"
        Jack laughs. "You have to see it to believe it. It's a gingerbread house... made out of computer boards and chips. He was up all night one night soldering and wouldn't tell me what he was doing. Drove me fucking nuts."
        David grins sheepishly. "Just call me Martha Stewart of Borg."
        To Brian's surprise, Billy laughs out loud at that. Somehow he wouldn't have expected Billy to even know what Star Trek was, let alone Martha Stewart.
        Suddenly Maddie looks at Billy, stricken. "Oh, shit! I forgot to tell you to bring something for the tree!"
        "That's okay, I wouldn't have had anything to bring anyway. I don't usually . . . uh . . . celebrate. No big deal."
        Brian tenses, puzzled by Billy's nonchalance and worried that he must feel left out. Maddie shoots a look at Brian, upset, he can tell, she feels badly for not thinking of this earlier. He tries to smile reassuringly, but she frowns for a moment, then brightens. "We'll find something. Make something. Something that's just yours."
        Billy shrugs, clearly puzzled. "Okay, Maddie, sure," he says good-humouredly. "I got lots of broken guitar strings."
        She thinks about that, nods eagerly. "Yeah, that'd be cool. Like icicles. What else do you have?"
        Billy thinks a minute. "Picks?"
        "Yeah! That's it! Maybe we can figure out a way to hang one up. Glue a ribbon onto it or something."
        "Jack's got a Dremel tool that would drill a small enough hole. He's good at drilling," David says drily. It takes a second and then Jack laughs and turns red.
Billy looks at Jack, quirks an eyebrow. "I don't know, I don't let just anyone drill my picks."
        That sends the entire table into gales of laughter, and Brian feels himself relax, only then realizing just how tense he was. It's all right. It's really going to be all right.



        Christmas Eve. It's the first time in Billy's memory, at least since he was very, very young, that it means something. That it's not just another day, and a lonely one at that. Not tonight, though. Tonight he'll be around people. The household party is today, leaving Christmas Day for people to celebrate privately. He looks at the giftwrapped items on the table, feels as nervous and self-conscious as a kid on his first date. Five days here, learning the rhythms and harmonies of life in this odd house should have made this easier, but, fuck, he's never bought anyone a Christmas present before, except for the time he got a bottle of scotch for Joe one year, and got laughed at for it. He's got no idea if he did it right. Well, he's pretty sure about Maddie's, but Brian doesn't give away much about himself . . . even though he gives of himself easily.
        Of course, it hadn't been easy getting time away from Brian to go get the damned thing for him. He'd finally resorted to a small fib, saying he had to go have lunch with a local guy he knew in the business. Which was partly true, but he hadn't been seeing Darwin for lunch. It had taken some doing to talk Dar out of Brian's present; he'd finally ended up promising him a spot as a session player for Jenifur's next CD with full credit. But he has it now. Sitting on the counter, neatly wrapped. He still thought the only reason Dar had finally agreed was because he'd had to run to a gig. Busy time of year for musicians, lots of gigs, holiday parties and stuff like that.
        Holiday parties. . . shit. He glances at his watch and swears, he's ten minutes late already. He grabs for the packages, then stops, puts them down again and looks over at his acoustic, remembering that afternoon Brian and Maddie had shown up to drag his ass back here for the holidays. He smiles, thinking Maddie and Brian will shit bricks. He grabs a plastic bag and loads his packages into it, careful not to smash the ribbons, picks up the guitar, and heads downstairs.
        The scent of roast turkey hits him as he lifts his hand to knock, making his mouth water a little. He doesn't think he's ever had one actually cooked at home like this instead of just preservative-laden slices from a grocery-store deli. This smells a hell of a lot better than that, and he's come to appreciate what Brian and Maddie can do in the kitchen. Getting spoiled. Hard to go back to peanut butter now. Hard to go back to . . . nothing. To alone.
        A snatch of lyric flits through his head-- 'you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone' --and his appetite wanes a little at the thought that he's got a fucking Joni Mitchell song lurking in his subconscious. That's really scary. Joe's probably spinning in his grave right about now. Maddie opens the door, grinning ear to ear, and Billy resolves not to let the Ghost of Christmas Fucking Past screw him up tonight. Besides, Joe never needed sheets and chains to scare the crap out of people. Himself included. Fuck that. Fuck. He's not going to do this. No. He pulls a grin out of his repertoire of faces and smiles back at Maddie. "Hey, Mad, sorry I'm late. I wasn't paying attention. You guys eat everything yet?"
        "Oh, we saved you a few shreds," she says nonchalantly. "Come on in."
        She moves back, opening the door wide, and he steps inside, puts his guitar down next to the couch then stands there a little uncertainly with the bag.
        "Presents?" Maddie asks, nodding at the bag.
        "Um, yeah."
        "Cool. Under the tree."
        Duh. Of course. He nods like he knew that already and places his four packages under the tree. Straightens, hears familiar voices from the kitchen. He can't remember ever feeling quite so self-conscious before. Maddie's looking at him, the expression on her face eerily similar to the way Brian looks when he's 'figuring' Billy out. She smiles and grabs his hand, tugging him toward the kitchen.
        "Come on, it's okay. We haven't poisoned you yet, have we?"
        "Not yet. I'm figuring you're waiting for me to sign over my life insurance."
        She giggles at that and pulls harder on his hand. He lets her lead him into the kitchen. Everyone else is already there. He gets nods of acknowledgment from Jack and David, a wave from Tara, and a smile from Brian that he feels all the way to his toes. Jesus. He glances at Maddie, still kind of uncomfortable with . . . that, and her. She rolls her eyes, shakes her head and points him at a chair.
        "There. Your spot."
        Billy sits down, and Brian sits next to him and brushes of the back of his hand against Billy's thigh as he puts his napkin in his lap. A quick glance assures Billy that it was entirely deliberate, and he can't help but grin at Brian's smug expression. There's a wine glass at his place and Maddie leans over to fill it from a tall green bottle. He nearly protests as a golden liquid bubbles and foams in it. . . foams? Like. . . beer? In a wine glass? He can't quite figure it out until she puts the bottle down on the table between them and he can read the label. Sparkling cider. No alcohol.
        He glances around the table, sees the same liquid in every glass, realizes he can't smell the sharp, fruity savor of wine. A flare of anger hits him. They're being too careful with him, babying him. He's got to make it in the real world, and he's not going to fall off the wagon if someone has a fucking glass of wine with dinner. Jesus, he's made it this far, he'll make it the rest of the way. Brian picks up his glass, raises it.
        "To the spirit of the house," he says quietly.
        His words are echoed around the table, lifted glasses clinked together. Billy feels his anger fade in the face of that, and when Maddie nudges his elbow he joins in. He'll talk to Brian about it later. Once the toast is completed, Brian looks pointedly at Jack.
        "Okay, Jack, you can stop stealing bits when you think no one's looking and actually put some on your plate now. And someone pass the potatoes."
        Jack laughs and grabs the big fork that's resting next to the platter containing the steaming, half-dismembered turkey which smells even better from here than it did at the front door. The next few minutes are a free-for-all as plates are loaded with enough food to feed a small Third World country. Billy's not even sure what half the stuff is, but he gamely puts a little of everything on his plate. If they went to the trouble to make it, he figures the least he can do is try it.
        Just like the other night, dinner is noisy, and the conversation fast and intelligent, and no one gets on anyone for an elbow on the table or reaching rudely across the table for a dish. Billy wonders if this is how it always is here, feels like he's been dropped without a script into the middle of a movie written by someone really smart and funny. He's struggling a little to ad-lib his lines, but it's getting easier as he learns the characters around him. Finally dinner's finished and discussion has begun on whether or not there is any available room for dessert or if they will have to move into the living room like a herd of walrus to digest for a while before making an attempt to add anything else. David, in a mock-British accent, says: "'Just one more little thin mint,'" which cracks everyone up, even though laughing is almost painful.
        Maddie starts herding everyone toward the living room just as the phone rings. Brian answers it, listens for a moment, then shoots a glance at Billy that looks worried as he answers.
        "Yeah, I do know. He's here. We just finished dinner. Look, Chloe, can you hang on a second? I'm going to have him take this upstairs."
        Suddenly Billy's fighting nausea as he realizes who's on the phone, and probably why she's on the phone. He swallows hard, his gaze meeting Brian's as the other man puts his hand over the mouthpiece.
        "It's Chloe. She needs to talk to you. Come on, you can take it in my room."
        Billy nods and wordlessly follows Brian as he heads for the stairs. Brian stops for a moment to ask Maddie to hang up the phone when they're upstairs, then leads Billy to his room. Funny. It's the first time he's been in Brian's bedroom, and these aren't exactly the circumstances he'd envisioned being there in. Brian sits him on the edge of the bed and hands him the phone. He takes a deep breath, lifts the receiver.
        "Hi, it's Bill," he says, trying hard to keep his voice and his hands steady. He's suddenly dying for a cigarette for the first time in ages. He realizes with a shock that he hasn't had more than two or three since he got here. That's just. . . weird, and it distracts him so he misses the first part of Chloe's greeting.
        ". . . tried your place in LA, and your cell, got nothing. You should have left me a number."
        "Yeah, I'm . . . sorry. It was unexpected. I should have brought my cell down with me. I just didn't think we'd hear anything yet."
        "I didn't either, frankly. I thought she'd drag this to court. In any case, that's the news. No court. Mr. McGirk called me today. Mary's backed down; we'll meet after the holidays with her and Mr. McGirk and a court representative to discuss visitation and child support. It's over, Mr. Boisy."
        "Billy," he says mechanically, fumbling with his lighter. "Over over? I mean . . . over?"
        "Mr. McGirk has faxed me the signed documents; the originals are en route. It's over. No court. Now it's just dollars and sense."
        "Fuck," he says, his hand shaking so much he can't flick the lighter on.
        "Are you okay?" she asks, and for the first time since he's met her he hears worry in her voice, and that puts the lid on, he drops the lighter, the cigarette, and the phone, which Brian catches neatly.
        "Chloe?" Brian says, as Billy takes deep breaths, staring at nothing, feeling nothing, feeling a whole lot like there's no tomorrow, at least no tomorrow that he wants .
        Brian listens a moment. "No, he doesn't seem to be coherent. I gather she settled?" He listens a moment longer. "Fuck that, Chloe. Thank you. Good. Excellent. When's that?" He sits down next to Billy on the bed and puts his free hand out to cover Billy's hand. Billy shakes his head, tries to pull his hand away and Brian squeezes gently and lets it go. "Good. No, I didn't think so but if she does. . . mmm. True. Well, if she does, we'll be on the next flight up. No. Not a problem." His hand, which he left on Billy's leg after Billy pulled away from him, squeezes Billy's thigh and then his thumb begins to move in hypnotic little circles, a curiously soothing motion.
        "Bill, do you have any other questions for Chloe?" Brian asks and Billy stares at him for a moment before shaking his head vigorously. "No, Chloe. Merry Christmas. Yeah. Oh, definitely. I will. Thanks for calling. Go home now." He pushes the button and leans over to put the phone on the floor.
        Billy shakes his head again, trying to clear it. He can't breathe, needs a cigarette but he can't breathe, can't move. ". . . can't fucking breathe. . ." he whispers and his voice sounds cracked and broken even to his own ears.
        "Calm down, Bill. Let me get you a glass of water?"
        "Get me a fucking bottle of Scotch!" Billy flings the words at him like shattered glass. "I need . . . I need . . ."
        "Bill."
        "Can't. Can't do it."
        "You've done it."
        "What the hell have I done? What the fuck am I fucking with here? And I thought Joe was fucked up!"
        "He was," Brian says steadily. "You did what you had to do. Remember? Remember me telling you that?"
        Billy feels his throat working for a minute, futile, then his mouth, and he jumps to his feet, grateful refuge, as always, in anger, the one constant in his life. "Of course I don't remember," he snarls. "I'm a fucked up drug addicted alcoholic faggot, how the hell would I remember something like that?"
        "Because you're not." Oddly Brian's voice is getting quieter, and Billy pauses in his pacing to frown at him, momentarily puzzled.
        "Shrink stuff, Brian, don't fucking do that to me."
        "Occupational hazard, Bill."
        Billy sees his lighter on the floor by Brian's foot and reaches unsteadily for it, scrabbles for the cigarette nearby. His hands are steadier now and he manages to light the cigarette. Brian watches him without comment as Billy tucks the lighter back into his pocket.
        Neither says anything for a moment; the only sound in the room is Billy's harsh breathing.
        "Better?" Brian asks.
        "Yeah." Billy shoves both hands in his pockets, trying to look casual, hunches his shoulders. "It's all fine. Nicotine's kicking in. I'm-- I'm not going to be much company, Brian. I'm going to head out."
        "Out?" Brian rises to his feet and moves closer to Billy. "Out where, Bill?"
        "I don't fucking need a fucking babysitter, Brian!" Billy explodes. He looks around, stabs his cigarette out in a glass plate on Brian's dresser, and heads for the door. But Brian reads him, reads him like he has from the first day, and he's standing between Billy and the door.
        "You're not going back to LA."
        "Brian, fuck that, fuck this, I can't breathe, I can't fucking think! I can't fucking do this, I told you that, I keep telling you that and now I'm fucking stuck and Jesus Christ ... just ... Jesus, Brian, let me out. Don't do this, don't make me do this to you, I can't-- "
        "I'd rather you put a hole in the wall if you have to hit something," Brian says, and he sounds so calm that Billy gulps, swallows, and stares. "Or isn't it real unless you hurt someone else?"
        "No! Jesus, no, I don't ... I already ... " Billy stares at Brian, trying to read him, trying to see past the calm into the man there, trying to see Brian, trying to see himself. "Where are you?" he asks. "Where the hell are you?"
        The answer is immediate. "I'm here. With you."
        "Where are you, inside your head? Where are you, Brian? How do you know where you are?"
        Brian cocks his head and then moves a tentative step closer. "Where are you?" he asks. "Not shrink stuff, Bill, where are you? Where do you want to be?"
        "I ... don't know. Anywhere but here, anywhere but here."
        "I'm here."
        "I can't fucking get there, Brian, you don't get that."
        "Yeah. You can." Brian holds out his arm. "You can. Play me. Play ... play a G chord." He pushes his wrist a little as he says it and Billy frowns again, his hand moving almost instinctively to Brian's arm, fingers moving automatically to chord against Brian's wrist, feeling warm flesh, tendons beneath, almost like a living guitar.
        "Um ... C," Brian says, and Billy knows he's guessing, trying to remember what he's heard Maddie and Billy talk about in snatches of conversation. But Billy fingers another chord anyway, then another.
        "What are you playing?" Brian asks softly. "Do you hear it?"
        Billy frowns again, shakes his head. "Do I hear it? Fuck, yeah. I-- "
        "Where are you now, Bill?"
        Billy looks at his fingers against Brian's wrist, feels Brian's pulse, hears the chord echoing in his head, convulsively closes his hand around Brian's arm. "I'm here, I'm here right now, but I don't know-- I don't know how to stay here," he whispers.
        "I'm here too, I'll stay here with you," Brian says, whispering too. "Come on. Come here." He moves them both back towards the bed, pulling them both down. "Hold me. Play me, Bill, stay here with me."
        "I . . . can I?"
        "Yeah. You can. You have to."
        Brian pulls, pushes, wraps his arms around Billy, turning his wrist under Billy's hand. "Play me," he whispers into the back of Billy's neck. "Listen."
        Billy closes his eyes, feeling Brian's arms around him, feeling Brian's wrist under his fingers again, slightly flexed, and he listens, plays again. He takes a deep shuddery breath and feels Brian's lips brush the back of his neck momentarily. He opens his eyes and starts to turn.
        "Don't stop. Keep playing, Bill."
        "Yeah. I'm . . . I'm thinking."
        "Don't think. Play."
        Billy closes his eyes again, fingers more chords, listens to the music swell in his head. Could be minutes, could be hours later when he realizes he's got Brian's wrist in a death grip and Brian's arms are probably asleep; but the music worked its magic, even in his head, even without a guitar, and he feels boneless, light, and tomorrow seems far away.
        "Bill..." Brian whispers, shifting his arms to pull Billy momentarily closer. "You here?"
        "No, Brian, I'm good," Billy says, drowsy. "I'm there, I'm good."
        "Okay."
        "Don't go yet."
        "No."
        Billy feels himself sliding over the edge into sleep when another whisper penetrates his sleep-fogged brain.
        "Hey, Bill . . . we can fuck now."
        He smiles, too sleepy to laugh, and slides all the way down, deep, dark, warm, there.



        Brian holds him a few minutes longer, the whipcord strength and incandescent energy gone quiet and almost boneless, almost, in his arms, in his arms, where he belongs. "Here with me," he whispers again, and Billy moves a little, makes a sound in his throat, rolls onto his stomach a little, freeing Brian's right arm. He pulls his arm out, shaking it a little, rubbing it with his other hand.
        He can't hear the music of course, but Billy's fingers moving over his wrist had a hypnotic effect on him, and he can almost still feel those strong, callused fingers, tense and beautiful, long and agile, holding, pausing, intricate movements almost instinctive and endlessly fascinating to feel, to watch.
        "Jesus," he says under his breath. "Jesus Christ. Fifty is a fine time to lose your mind, Hawkins." Not to mention heart but the hell with it. He kisses the back of Billy's neck again, touches Billy's hair as he gets off the bed, and pulls a blanket out of the chest against the wall, draping it carefully over him. He turns on the lamp on the dresser and turns out the overhead light and takes a deep breath. With one last look at Billy, the shadows in the room now casting his features into sharp, beautiful relief, he reluctantly leaves the room.
        There's a subdued murmur from the living room. There's no music, and even the television is off, and Brian realizes as he enters the room that David and Jack and Tara have been filled in by the way they all look at him with almost identical expressions of dread and hope. Tara unobtrusively slides something under a cloth on the table and Brian grins at her.
        "She's a witch! Burn her!"
        Jack lets loose an explosive laugh. "How do you know she's a witch?"
        "Well, she 'as got a wart..." David says.
        Tara grins and shakes her head. "Enough. The cards looked good, Brian, we got Justice, but then the three of swords, reversed ... disorder, confusion, loss. So ..."
        "No, she settled. There's no court battle. It's over. We'll go to Canada in January to settle the visitation and finalize arrangements. It's over," he repeats.
        "Where's Billy?" Maddie asks, her voice a little higher than usual.
        "I don't think he was ready for it," Brian says gently.
        "He won," Maddie says. "He won. Why isn't he happy?"
        Jesus. "David, put some music on, would you? Why the hell don't you have a fire going? We'll be right back."
        He heads for the library and after a moment he hears Maddie get up to follow. She pulls the doors shut behind her and says, trying to break the tension, "Wow, I'm a client now."
        "Madrigal, come here," Brian says, still gently. "It's Christmas Eve. I think you can spare a hug or two." She comes immediately and Brian holds her tight for a minute.
        "I thought he wanted her," Maddie says finally, her voice muffled.
        "He does, Mad."
        "Why-- "
        "Maddie, he didn't even know she existed two months ago. And you said it yourself, he's a gypsy. He does want her. He's scared to death he'll mess it up. He's been through a lot."
        "I don't see what he has to be upset about," Maddie repeats. "He won."
        "Yeah." Brian stands back a little and looks at her. "He won. And now what?
        Maddie looks at him, puzzled. "He won. It's over."
        "What's over?" Brian asks quietly.
        "The - the - case, there's no battle, he gets to see her now."
        "Yeah. He gets to see her now. How? Now what?"
        Maddie thinks a minute. "So now . . . so now he has to tell her. Someone has to tell her."
        "Yeah."
        "And she doesn't really know him." Maddie's voice falters a little, her eyes going far away. "And she's pretty little. She's not even five yet."
        "Exactly."
        "And she has a dad already, and they have to tell her . . . all that stuff."
        "Exactly. And he has to be a dad. That's scary too."
        "It's not scary for you," Maddie says, coming back to the now all at once, looking him right in the eye.
        "I've had a little practice. When you were four, Maddie, it was terrifying. And I had Mouse and Anna. Billy has-- "
        "He has us," Maddie says, almost indignantly.
        "I hope," Brian says. "I hope. I've talked to him about renting the penthouse. I hope he takes me up on it." She opens her mouth and he holds up a hand. "No. No pressure. No pressure, Maddie. No guilt trips. It has to be his choice, his decision, because he wants to be here. That's the spirit of the house."
        She closes her mouth again, her chin jutting a little.
        "Maddie. I'm serious. All his life he's had games played with him, played games with people. We can't do that. We have to be straight with him. And that means respecting his decisions."
        "All of them?" Maddie asks, clearly dismayed.
        "Well, you know, if you have to have a cause, the overuse of tobacco-derived products and the proliferation of class-action law suits seem to go hand in hand ..."
        She giggles. "He smokes too much. He does."
        "I know. One addiction at a time. And alcohol's a pretty hard one to kick. But he hasn't been smoking much these past few days."
        "No," Maddie says. "I noticed that too. He's still kind of wired but he seemed okay. Kind of nervous but happy. But now-- "
        "He'll be okay, Maddie. He's here, okay? He's sleeping; and he saw her and talked to her at the meeting."
        "I know. He told me. That's why I thought he wanted her."
        Brian sighs. "He does."
        "I know. I know, Dad. I just thought he'd be happier."
        "Maddie, I don't think he knows happy."
        She stops and stares at him, startled. She opens her mouth and then closes it and then thinks, long and hard. ". . . his music?" she offers.
        "Yeah. There."
        "Oh. Wow." Without warning she grabs Brian and squeezes him tight. "Okay. I won't. I won't play games, okay? I won't even pester him about the smoking."
        "New Year's isn't until next week," Brian says, teasing.
        Maddie sighs and Brian sighs a second later.
        "You can call me any time, all the time. You know that. It's not even two weeks this year."
        "Yeah. I know. I'll have fun."
        "Maddie..."
        "Dad, I will. I always do, right?"
        Yeah. Usually her mother ensures her days in LA are jam packed with 'culture,' such as it is, shopping, and more culture.
        "Yeah, hon. This time get your grandfather to take you to that anime place. He'll do it."
        She grins. "Yeah. He will. Lunch out together. Good idea, Dad."
        "Okay. Let's go see if we can convince Jack and David that they have an altogether unfair advantage as a team at Trivial Pursuit."
        "I told them to get the Baby Boomer edition," Maddie says slyly.
        Brian laughs. "That's a good idea, Maddie. I might have a shot at it."
        "I wouldn't," Maddie says positively.




        Billy wakes up slowly, consciousness returning in stages. He feels warm ... smells familiar and unfamiliar smells, Brian and clean sheets... he raises his head and squints at the clock, fucking nap in the middle of the fucking afternoon ... shit. It's after four, and now that he listens he can hear faint strains of music from downstairs.
        He rolls onto his back and sighs. That panic is still there, in his gut, but it's not spreading through him in a hot scary flood, it's in one place, a place he knows, a place he can kind of deal with. He closes his eyes again, feeling Brian's arm under his fingers.
        "Bill?" He opens his eyes to see Brian cautiously easing the door open. "You're awake?"
        "Yeah." Billy sits up, swinging his legs to the floor, stretching, embarrassed as all hell.
        "Good. We're starting to finally do more than talk about dessert and I didn't want you to miss out on that. Pumpkin pie and Tara makes this meringue thing that is just fucking sensational."
        "Yeah. Okay. I'll-- yeah, let me use the can, stuff, I'll be down."
        Brian chuckles. "I'll wait."
        "I'll be down, I said," Billy growls, starting to feel angry.
        "I know that," Brian says simply. "It's just easier to face people if you have someone with you. And I'm pretty sure you're feeling confused and guilty and a whole host of things. So... I'll wait."
        "Been waiting forfuckingever," Billy says huskily. "Ever get tired of it?"
        "You have no idea," Brian says, a spark in his eyes, in his voice, a spark that sends a wildfire racing through Billy, touched off by Brian's lips on his as Brian pulls him to his feet and all the way into his arms.
        "Soon now," Brian whispers against his neck, hugging him. "Oh, God, Bill."
        "Jesus, Brian, I can't piss now ..."
        "I'm sorry."
        "You sound real sorry."
        "I'm fucking ecstatic, Bill, for you, for me, for Billie, for all of us. Okay? Will a cold shower help?"
        "I'm past that point," Billy says. "They don't have much effect on me any more."
        Brian looks startled and then grins big. "Jesus, Bill."
        "Yeah. That's what you do to me."
        "Dad!" Maddie calls up the stairs. "Come on!"
        Billy shrugs at Brian's resigned look. "No time for a cold shower. Lemme get a drink of water, I'm good, I'm good."
        When he comes back into the bedroom Brian's putting the blanket he was covered with in the chest under the window. "There. All set?"
        "Yeah."
        "I have two words for you, Bill."
        Billy looks at him expectantly.
        "Pumpkin pie."
        "Oh. I was kinda thinking . . . whipped cream. . ."
        "Dad!" Maddie's starting to sound irritated.
        "All right, Maddie," Brian calls back before grinning wryly at Billy. "We'll discuss nontraditional uses of dairy products later?"
        "You bet."
        Everyone's in the kitchen again. Maddie's cutting a pumpkin pie, Tara's dishing out something that's brownish_white with bright green kiwi underneath whipped cream, and David's putting cookies on a plate.
        "Coffee?" Jack asks as they walk in. "Irish or un?"
        "Plain for me," Billy says.
        "Irish," David says.
        Tara glances at him and says, at the same moment Brian does, "Plain for me."
        "You're an easy crowd tonight," Jack says, pouring the coffee, pushing the mugs towards them on the counter. "Cream and sugar's behind you, Bill."
        "I can't believe I didn't remember when the Klondike gold rush was," David says, apparently picking up a previous thread of conversation. "Total brain cramp."
        "It's okay, David, you can go write a few applets to get your groove back," Jack says. "Bill, you lucked out, you sneaky bastard. I should have taken a nap too. Tara pounded us into the ground in a surprise upset this year."
        "Annual Twelve Days of Christmas Trivial Pursuit Challenge," Brian explains. "This year we didn't divide into teams. I had no idea you knew so much about baseball, Tara."
        "I have three brothers," Tara says, grinning. "Pie or pavlova, Bill?"
        Billy looks at her confection, at the pie, and then back at her and says simply, "I got no fucking idea, Tara."
        Everyone laughs and he starts to relax. "Both," Maddie says, shoving two plates at him. "Sit down, eat."
        "I've eaten more today than I have in four years," Billy says, moving around the table to sit next to Maddie. "No peanut butter in sight."
        "Macaroni and cheese, I lived on that my first two years in college," David says, sitting next to him. "I still can't eat it.
        Billy takes a sip of his coffee, watches curiously as Jack puts a mug with whipped cream in front of David. He raises a wicked eyebrow at Brian, across the table, who grins back at him.
        "Hey, how about some whipped cream over here?" Brian says. "Kaffee mit Schlag."
        "Sahne," David says.
        "I'm doing the Austrian thing," Brian says, holding out his mug and Billy's.
        Billy takes a bite of the pumpkin pie, that, at least, a known quantity, and then a sip of the coffee with whipped cream. When he puts his cup down, Brian chokes and laughs.
        "Jesus, Bill, you look like the Got Milk ads. I wonder if we could get you in one of those."
        "Oh, that would be so nice," Tara says. "Wow. Yeah. I can see it now."
        "You guys are fucking weirdos," Billy says with conviction, and takes another bite of pie.
        "Yeah, but you love us," Maddie says, pushing her pie plate towards the empty end of the table. "I mean, at least we don't ask for your autograph all the time. Do you hate that?"
        "Nah. Not really. I mean, it's a kind of connection for them, I get that. So that's cool. The ones who really want it, that's cool. When they walk away and say, you know, 'I smelled him,' that's funny. People . . . I don't get the whole rock star gig sometimes but people need that, they need songs or something."
        "Yeah," David says unexpectedly. "Since the beginning of history. Stories and songs. You're modern day bards, Bill, and now we have CDs and digital recording so we don't have to memorize the songs and pass them down from teacher to student."
        "We still do that," Billy says.
        "Yeah, I know."
        "No, I mean, sometimes you just-- sometimes you can't figure it out, you can hear it but you can't say it or you can hear it but you can't play it and someone else can. Or the way someone else plays something, it starts something in your head, in your hands."
        "I don't have that luxury," Brian says drily.
        "I find the Constitution very inspiring," Tara says.
        "Arguing about it endlessly is not," Brian says. "How much more clearly do you think they needed to put it? 'Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.'"
        "My favourite," Tara says with a grin.
        "I like the 9th and 10th, myself," Jack says.
        "You're a fucking Federalist, that's why," Brian says.
        "No, that's David," Jack says. "It's the Articles of Confederation all the way for me, man."
        "Well, this one applies to your point, Brian," David says. "'The remaining particulars of this clause fall within reasonings which are either so obvious, or have been so fully developed, that they may be passed over without remark.'"
        "That should be tattooed on the forehead of every single attorney after they pass the bar," Brian says.
        Billy smiles to himself and finishes the pie while the conversation moves on to long dead people, people Brian and Jack and David, at least, seem to have known intimately, judging by their spirited conversation. James Madison, Alexander Hamilton, John Jay, Robert Morris, Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, James Monroe. He catches Maddie's eye and she sighs. He wrinkles his nose at her and pokes a fork dubiously at Tara's pavlova thing.
        "It's good," Maddie whispers encouragingly. "Try it."
        Good, maybe, but all he really needs is to listen to and watch Brian, animated, serious and funny by turns, making a point now and then with a finger jabbed on the table, shaking his head at Jack. That's better than good. That's ... right up there with best.
        "The Confederacy was far too weak to make any real headway in actually governing the states."
        "That's assuming that the states needed a central government for anything more than a common currency," Jack says.
        "Obviously they did," David says.
        "That's twenty-twenty hindsight," Jack says. "Just because we work with what we have doesn't mean it's better than it might have been. Look at Canada."
        "One of the articles provided for the possible admission of Canada," Brian says, slitting a glance at Billy, who grins at him.
        "Covering all the bases?"
        "Exactly."
        "But then we kicked your asses in the war of 1812 so I guess it wasn't such a good idea."
        Brian looks startled and then laughs. "Hey, if we'd paired up we probably could have taken over the world by now."
        "Too much trouble," Billy says. "Who wants it when you've got all the ice and snow and polar bears a man could ask for?"
        "And hockey," David says. "That reminds me, I've got extra tickets to next week's game if anyone wants them."
        "Bonus," Brian says. "I'll armwrestle you for them, Tara."
        "Nah, you and Bill go," Tara says. "I'm starting classes up again next week, it's probably the wrong night anyway."
        "Good," David says. "Speaking of bonus, when do we get to loot and pillage? I scoped out two or three mysterious packages under the tree."
        "Mmmm, good idea," Tara says.
        "Finally!" Maddie says
        "The spirit of Christmas," Tara says, teasing, and Maddie grins.
        "No kidding," Jack says. "You or me, Maddie?"
        "Me," Maddie says, "I'm smaller. You can be the passer."
        "Here, Bill," Brian says, patting the cushion beside him as Tara and David settle in on the larger couch and Maddie and Jack drop to the floor without ceremony. Maddie, already rummaging, pulls out a brightly-wrapped package and hands it, oddly shy, to Billy. "From me," she says, which explains that.
        He feels a warm sensation, smiles. "You didn't have to . . . ." he starts.
        "Duh," Maddie says. "Go on, open it."
        As if she knows he's feeling awkward, she goes back under the tree and comes out with a box for David and Jack while he starts to unwrap the package. Maddie has a real thing for tape, but once all the attention is off him Billy manages to get it open, and that warm feeling gets really, really big as he finds himself staring at a top-of-the-line stainless steel, lever-back Shubb capo. She'd noticed his old four-dollar elastic one was shot. He's starting to think she really is going to be a detective, or maybe as good a lawyer as her dad is. He catches her slanting a look at him as she hands a package to Tara, and he grins.
        "This is too fucking cool, Mad. Danny's going to be so damned jealous."
        "Cool," she says, a little less shy. "You really use it?"
        "Hell, yes," Billy says, poking a finger at her. "You know it. Problem'll be keeping it away from Kat."
        "Oh, man," David's saying. "Find our present to Brian, Mad." He slides off the couch as he says it, rummaging himself under the tree, and Billy finds Jack catching his eye and grinning conspiratorially at him.
        "Where the heck - here. Here, Brian, open it."
        "Why?" Jack says, looking over David's shoulder. David tilts the present so Jack can see it and Jack bursts out laughing. "Three season tickets to the Sharks!"
        "One's for Tara," Brian says, grinning, a little puzzled, as he slides a finger under the flap of the envelope David handed him. "Me, if she can't go." He gets the envelope open, pulls out the contents, and starts laughing himself.
        "Three more season tickets to the Sharks," Jack says. "We figured Billy might like to laugh at American hockey if he's going to be hanging with you and Maddie."
        "We're geniuses," Brian says complacently. "Thanks."
        Billy realizes he's frowning, turns it off quick before Maddie or Brian sees him. He didn't expect that, didn't expect any of this, only met Jack and David four days ago and ... he takes a quick sip of his coffee and looks at his capo again, turning it over.
        "Here we go," Maddie says. "All my stuff got buried. Jack, David, Dad, Tara." She matches actions to words. "Here's another one for you, Billy, from Tara."
        "Give Tara ours next," David says, leaning across Jack.
        "Hang on," Maddie says. "Open what you've got first."
        "These couldn't be CDs, could they?" Jack says, and Maddie pokes him with an elbow.
        "Fine, I'll take them back."
        David laughs as he finally makes his way through Maddie's tape job. "Maddie's making a concerted effort to bring me into the nineties music scene."
        "I know you don't have any of those," Maddie says complacently. "I looked. And Billy's playing in all three of them, the Jenifur one, the new one they just released, and the Lollapalooza one. That was hard to find."
        Brian, next to Billy, has been quietly opening his present from Maddie and she turns to see. He smiles at her, his fingers tracing the Celtic knotwork on the leather cover. "I needed a new Day Runner, Mad, you're too damned observant."
        She flushes and grins, ducking her head, and Billy wonders if he'll ever be able to do that, if . . . Billie will ever. . . Jesus. No. Tomorrow, think about it tomorrow. He takes a deep breath and another swallow of coffee.
        "C'mon, Billy," Tara says, shifting to the other end of the couch so she can lean towards him.
        "You too, Tara, you're both holding us up," David says.
        "I know what this is," Tara says. "Subtle, Maddie, real subtle." She tears off the paper as she speaks and nods. "Yeah. Very nice."
        "Stainless steel blades," Maddie says. "For coffee, Tara. Now you have two."
        "And our coffee grinder will be safe from myrrh forever," Brian says.
        "He was a little incensed," Jack explains to Billy, and David punches him lightly.
        "The mad punster strikes again. Not on Christmas, Jack."
        "It's why you love me," Jack says as Tara and Brian dissolve into laughter.
        In tandem Jack and David reach for the heavy box Maddie shunted aside earlier and heave it up onto the couch next to Tara. "From us," David says. "You have to open it now and no, we didn't plan it, we're just psychic, or Maddie is."
        Billy, his fingers working nervously at the wrapping on Tara's present, looks down at it with another frown, a tiny black leather pouch with a drawstring and what feels like pebbles inside. He looks back up when Tara gasps.
        "Oh, David! Jack!"
        "Hey, those steps are too much on lazy Sunday mornings," Jack says. "Now we just have to run up to your place for espresso."
        "Wow," Maddie says admiringly. "Wow, Tara. You better not make any incense in that."
        "I'm afraid to touch it," Tara says.
        "It's easy," Jack says. "I got it all scoped out. We'll try it out in a few minutes."
        "The lessons are included," David says.
        "That's so cool," Maddie says to Billy. "What'd you get?" She cranes her neck to look at Billy's hand.
        "Um, rocks. Stones," he says in a low voice.
        "Amulet bag," Maddie says. "Protection and stuff. She's good at those. She'll tell you what they all mean later, I know that one." She points at a shiny, smooth grey-black stone that seems almost transparent. "That's obsidian, Apache Tears."
        "Cool."
        "Cool pouch."
        "Yeah, Kat'll like it, I think she's got something with, like, charms on it or something."
        "Oh, cool," Maddie breathes. "You like her?"
        "Yeah. Yeah, she's good, she's into the music, she's pretty fucking smart, plays a helluva bass. Laid back, don't think I ever met a bass player who wasn't . . . um, well, where'd my present to you go?"
        "Back to work," Brian says. "You're falling behind, Christmas Elf."
        "Dad!"
        "Sorry. Cool unYule teenager, is that better? Because there's a nice big one back there with your name on it."
        "I know," Maddie says. "I think it's clothes."
        "You cynic," Jack says. "Here's Bill's present to you, is that what you were looking for? Oh, and to us? Bill, you didn't have to - "
        "Duh," Billy says, quirking an eyebrow.
        "All of them," Maddie says. "Here's one for you too, Tara." She hands Tara a small box and starts unwrapping her own present.
        "He didn't miss anyone," David says, passing a package to Brian. "For you."
        Billy looks back down at the rocks in his hand, tense, waiting, wanting a fucking cigarette, craving the sting of alcohol more than he has all day, all week, all month, because that cuts the edge, dulls the edge, makes everything seem easy or at least not as hard, and he swallows, pours the stones from one hand to the other and back again, watching the colors play in the firelight.
        "From the nineties to the sixties," Jack's saying. "If that was a guess, Bill, it was a damned good one." He holds the tickets up. "Iggy Pop, at the DNA Lounge."
        "Oh, fuck," David says reverently, and everyone stares and then Maddie starts to laugh. "Bill, these were sold out two weeks ago, I tried to get them."
        "And," Jack says, pausing dramatically, "backstage passes, man."
        "Fuck me," David says, and grabs the envelope from Jack. "You know Iggy Pop?"
        Billy shifts a little. "Met him a couple times, jammed with him once a couple years ago, no big deal. I know people here, that's all. No biggie."
        "No clothes there," Brian's saying as Maddie spills her package into his lap. "Oh, nice leather. That should go over well in LA."
        "Purple hair dye too," Maddie says ecstatically, snapping on the wristband.
        "I look forward to your mother's phone call on that one. Very thoughtful, Bill, I'll … have to repay you for that," Brian says, leaning forward to help Maddie buckle the collar around her throat. He looks over at Billy then and shakes his head. "I'm kidding, Bill, just fucking relax. Mary Ann isn't happy unless she's …" He looks back down at Maddie, and shrugs.
        "Gee, you could just spell it," Maddie says, blinking limpidly up at him. "Because I can't, like, fill in the blanks or anything."
        "Sorry," Brian says, and squeezes her shoulder.
        "Here, Mad, here's yours from Tara," David says. "Little tiny present, it was stuck under the edge of the tree skirt."
        "Oh, Tara," Maddie says, and her voice sounds a little hoarse. Billy frowns, looks like a cool necklace, big blackish doughnut shaped stone, pretty glass bead above it on a thong.
        "Obsidian," Tara says. "Protection and …"
        "Yeah," Maddie says, slipping it over her head. Brian reaches out to squeeze her shoulder again and she looks around at him and smiles. "C'mon, open yours," she says, patting the present in his lap.
        "Oh, these are nice," Tara says. "Very witchy spiderwebs."
        "Did they come with a black widow?" Jack asks, taking one of the earrings from her hand and holding it up to the light.
        "Black cats," Maddie says with a gurgle. "Tara needs a kitten."
        "I'll get a fat orange one," Tara says. "Dysstereotyping."
        "I don't think that's a word," David says.
        "It is now," Tara says. "The witch has spoken."
        "Be afraid," Brian says, chuckling, pulling the last of the paper off his present.
        He frowns a little, turns it, opens the book to the first page, and then lifts his eyes to meet Billy's and the expression in them is one that makes Billy shaky inside and he fumbles for his cigarettes, dropping his own eyes as relief and embarrassed pleasure surges through him. Brian likes it. More than likes it. Yeah. He did okay.
        "Zappa, cool," David says, looking over Maddie's shoulder at Brian's present. "You're into all the cool musicians. I might like this Jenifur stuff."
        "It's autographed," Maddie announces. "How'd you do that?"
        "I know people." Billy shifts again, feeling in his other pocket for his lighter, can't find it, can't find his cigarettes. "Friend here used to play studio for him once in a while."
        "Oh, damn, because I was thinking séance," Tara says, and the general laughter that follows lets Billy breathe, relax a little, drain his now-cold coffee, jiggling the small pouch of stones in his other hand absently.
        "Speaking of séances, where's my present to Tara?" Brian asks.
        Maddie slides under the tree again and emerges with more boxes and envelopes. "Tara, Dad, here, you each open the other one's. Ow, David, I think Tara went nuts in the kitchen, this is heavy. And Jack, from Tara too."
        "It's cold," David says.
        "I had to freeze it so it could sit under the tree," Tara says.
        "Oh, man," Jack says, ripping his open. It's a plate of brownies, wrapped in cellophane, with a huge red bow tying the top. "You're so fucking cool, Tara."
        David shakes his head and hefts his. "I know what I hope this is. Home made New York cheesecake?"
        "Got it in one," Tara says, pulling her present out of its small red gift bag. She holds it up to an "Oooh!" from Maddie and an awed whistle from David.
        "Art scarf," Brian says. "It's handwoven, handpainted silk and it just said Tara, tarot to me."
        "Wow, Brian," Tara says, a little huskily, stroking it. "Wow."
        "And I see you were on the same page," Brian says, holding up his book, "An Idiot's Guide to Tarot."
        "It's really a nice basic book," Tara says with a grin. "Just ignore the title."
        "Bill, you're falling behind," David says, tossing an envelope in his lap. "You too, Mad."
        "We did the paper presents routine this year," Jack says, a little apologetically.
        "I love gift certificates," Maddie says happily. "Especially to - oh, yeah! Bedlam!"
        "More hair dye and leather," Brian says.
        "There's a really cool ring I want," Maddie says. "Thanks. Now I have way more than enough."
        Billy sees Jack watching him open his envelope. "We were trying to kind of give you a taste of San Francisco," Jack says. "That's a restaurant Brian and David and I really like. We kind of thought you'd like to try it. No, you know, like, snails and shit."
        "Yeah, cool," Billy says.
        "Where?" Brian says, cocking an eyebrow at Jack. "Woodward's?"
        "Mmm," David says. "Where else?"
        "Thanks," Billy says, picking up his mug and putting it down again. "Sounds good."
        "Almost empty, just these big ones left," Jack says, sliding the boxes towards Maddie.
        "This one's mine," she says, and gets up on her knees to hand the other one, a long, rectangular one, to Billy.
        He takes it from her and his hands know the feel, and the weight and the shape, going instinctively to the middle of the package, feeling for the handle.
        "A guitar?" He looks at Brian, puzzled. "I got too many guitars, you said so."
        "No such thing, " Jack says, and the expression on his face tells Billy that Jack knows what's in the case.
        "Yeah," Brian says. "I don't think in your world there is such a thing as too many guitars, Bill."
        "No," Billy says, almost absently, tearing the paper, feeling for the clasps, wondering what the hell kind of guitar Brian came up with, wondering why the hell Brian came up with this.
        "Original case," Jack says, almost gleefully, and Billy frowns at the case, yeah , dinged up even worse than the Fender's case.
        He fumbles with the second clasp and opens it and … stares. His hands move to it almost convulsively.
        "1961," Brian says softly.
        "Strat," Billy says a half beat behind. "Jesus." He pulls it out, admiring the dull black gleam, hefting it.
        "About two weeks ago I was heading out somewhere and I heard David yelling, 'No more guitars!' to Jack," Brian says.
        "Auction," Jack says, "you know. Fun to go to, see the shit, sometimes find some fun stuff."
        "So I say, 'Guitars?' and he says, 'You never know, come and see.' And I did. Grab a chance and you'll never be sorry for a might-have-been," Brian says. "And there it was. Serendipity. And I only had to intimidate two other bidders."
        "Bet that was fun," David says wryly.
        "Impressive," Jack says. "I'm just not scary enough. He promised to come with me next time."
        "You don't have one, do you?" Brian asks. "I know you have a garden-variety Fender but I went through the guitars at your place when we were pulling the ones you said to bring and I was pretty sure I didn't see one."
        "No. No, I sure as hell don't." He looks hard at Brian, tuning it on autopilot. "This is - um, thanks, but it's too fucking - "
        "It was serendipity," Brian repeats firmly. "You know it."
        Billy stares at him a moment longer, playing a few chords, still on autopilot. His ear picks up a discrepancy; the A string's stretched too much, won't stay in tune. He messes with the tuning peg but he can feel the stretch and knows it needs to be replaced.
        "Which one?" Maddie asks softly, just starting to unwrap her box.
        "A," Billy says, chording around it, listening, feeling … feeling the neck of the guitar under his hands, hearing the sweet sound swell in his head, in his ears, feeling Brian's wrist under his fingers again, and suddenly he's on his feet, a little choked, a little panicked again. "I, uh, need a refill."
        "Oh, wow," Maddie says behind him as he starts for the kitchen, coffee mug in one hand, guitar already a part of him, natural, forgotten in his other. "Look! Oh, Dad!"
        He glances over his shoulder; Maddie's got a black leather jacket, nice one, and she's fucking glowing, grinning at her dad and he's smiling back, looks so fucking happy, so fucking there, so fucking perfect, and for a minute Billy feels a swell of resentment, how the hell does Brian get there, how the hell does Brian stay there, and how the hell is he ever going to figure out how to do that?
        In the kitchen he puts the mug down on the table, puts a foot up on a chair and messes again with the tuning peg, chords again, shakes his head _ there's a vibration, louder than it should be, and he pushes down on the saddle, holds it, chords again, strumming with one thumb. Yeah, that's it, needs a dime or a screwdriver, knows exactly where to tighten it up, Bucky's Strat had the same fucking vibration.
        "You're gone somewhere," Jack says from the doorway, amused. "Coffee still hot? You didn't even make it there, did you."
        "No," Billy says, shaking his head. "You got a dime on you?"
        Jack digs in a pocket. "Yeah."
        "Thanks, man," Billy says, taking it, messing, tightening. He chords again, tightens again, digs the edge of the dime deeper, twists it hard, tries it again. "Oh, yeah. Thanks." He hands the now slightly bent dime back to Jack, who eyes it in disbelief.
        "That's okay, Bill, you can keep it."
        "Yeah. Yeah, good point, I had to wedge one under there once, right in the middle of a fucking show, Jesus, I was kind of glad when that one bit the dust. Wasn't a Strat or even a Fender though, that's a different problem with them, at least as far as I know, these screws under the strings at the bottom of the saddle work loose here-- " He jabs a finger at the guitar and then grins, shakes his head. "Sorry."
        "No, that's okay, glad I had a dime," Jack says, his smile deepening. He pours himself coffee and refills Billy's mug too. "You played a Strat before? Or is that one of those 'everyone knows that' in-things?"
        "No, I … yeah. I, uh, had a chance to play a '59 for a couple of days."
        Brian, entering the kitchen on the tail end of those words, cocks his head at Billy, holding out his mug to Jack.
        "Is that really really cool," Brian asks, "or is it just, you know, the legend of the Strat?"
        "It's a legend thing and a cool thing, so it's all kind of feeding off each other," Billy says. "Listen, I got an A string upstairs, gonna run up - "
        "Bill - " Brian begins, and Jack sets the coffeepot down again and ducks out fast. Billy looks back at Brian, puzzled, the panic starting again.
        "Bill, you okay? You're on edge, you okay? If it's not cool with you, I'm sorry. It just seemed - "
        "No, it's fucking cool, fucking perfect," Billy says. "Just didn't expect it, all this, everything, it's - and I never thought I'd fucking see one again and it's all kind of - fuck, Brian, okay?" He grins, trying to feed it back to Brian, trying to get to that calm place or at least keep Brian out of his panicked place. "And I need a fucking cigarette, you know, goes hand in hand with a guitar. I don't know where the hell I left them."
        "In my room," Brian says, taking a step closer. "I'll go get them for you. You can go put the string on some other time. Don't run, not now, Bill."
        "Not fucking running - "
        "You said 'again' but - "
        "You make me crazy."
        "Oh, God, yeah," Brian says. "Ditto, Bill. If it's a problem, I'm sorry -"
        "It's not a fucking problem," Billy says through clenched teeth. "I can't fucking believe it. I had - someone I thought was a prick - well, he is a prick - gave me one on the reunion tour. Joe smashed it that night. He was fucking jealous and couldn't be because, you know, he worshipped the guy who gave it to me but the problem was he didn't give it to me, always was the problem, he had to be the one who did it for me, did whatever, so I should have known-- and I didn't fucking care about the guitar, not the first time he's smashed shit up, done my share of it too, but I didn't think he'd do that, not to that guitar, not Bucky's. But Bucky was . . .shit." Billy hears his voice go funny and he leans back a minute, his world spinning and settling into a new configuration. "Bucky was dead to him then." He looks at Brian, expecting him to understand and Brian looks back at him.
        "That's why?"
        "That's why he could. Oh, Jesus, Brian, I should have known then. Jesus Christ."
        "How?" Brian asks patiently. "It took you this long for you to understand that; was there any way you would have been in a position to put that rather complex psychological reasoning into words that night?"
        "Jesus. Who talks that way?"
        "Don't change the subject."
        Billy stares at him, feeling anger and surprise all jumbling together. "I’m not fucking changing the subject, I asked who talks that way, because I don't even know what the fuck you just said."
        "Bullshit," Brian says succinctly.
        "Cigarettes." Billy brushes past Brian and is stopped, not with the hand he expected, but with the voice, that rich beautiful voice, quiet but compelling.
         "Bill."
        Despite himself he turns and meets Brian's eyes. Brian looks back at him for a long moment, sober, unsmiling, unhappy.
        "Jesus, Brian, don't," Billy says, taking an involuntary step forward. "Christ, it's not your fault I'm fucked up."
        "I'm aware of that," Brian says steadily. "I'm trying to unfuck you and I don't think I'm - "
        "I hope you don't mean that literally," Billy says, choosing his words deliberately, grinning even more deliberately. "I mean, I've hocked my ass for about thirty-seven rain checks by now."
        Brian frowns hard and then his brow clears and he throws his head back and laughs, long and hard, and Billy feels that tensions inside him give, start to drain away, because Brian's laughter is a good thing all by itself and it's a better thing when Billy's walking this fucking Christmas-family-Brian-Joe minefield with no map in sight.
        Footsteps in the hall, recognizable as Maddie's, make Billy turn. She's standing in the doorway, a little tentative, still wearing her new jacket.
        "It's the A string, right?" she asks, holding out a small package. "Will this work?"
        "Electric?" Billy takes it, has it open and uncoiled before Maddie answers, his fingers already busy on the guitar.
        "Yeah," Maddie says. "Jack went and got one from his stash."
        Billy has it on and is tuning it before he remembers Maddie and Brian and he looks up fast to see both of them staring at him with almost identical expressions. He smiles and strums, then chords and then says, almost reverently, "There it is."
        Brian closes his mouth and shakes his head. "I can't tell."
        "He can," Maddie says, at the same moment Billy says, "I can."
        "That's all that matters, then," Brian says. "Coffee, Mad? Bill, did you get your refill?"
        "No, no, I didn't - I don't need it."
        "Come on, Billy, give it a test run," Maddie says, putting a hand on his arm and tugging slightly. "No, no coffee right now, Dad, I'm going to wait for Tara and Jack to try out the espresso machine."
        "I don't know any Christmas music," Billy says, following her out of the kitchen. He feels, hears, Brian fall into step behind him and that feels good all by itself.
        "Burl Ives," Maddie says with a gurgle.
        David looks up from a book and Billy realizes it's the Zappa book. "All better now?"
        "Yeah, all restrung. Thanks, man," Billy says, catching Jack's eye.
        "Oh, no problem, unless you're serious about Burl Ives, in which case I want it back now."
        "No, no, you're safe," Billy says, taking his seat again, Brian settling in next to him. "Honest." He looks at Brian, inviting a response, only to find Brian looking at him with that faint frown between his eyes again. "Now, um, Bing Crosby …"
        "Billy Tallent, Unplugged at Christmas," Tara intones solemnly.
        "No fucking way," Billy says with a grin, his fingers moving automatically again, unconsciously. Maddie picks up Brian's Tarot book and starts flipping through it; Brian leans over to look over her shoulder, asking her to look something up in a low voice.
        Billy plays a random chord or two, watching David and Jack bent over Zappa, Maddie and Brian bent over Tarot, Tara bent over the espresso machine instructions, and he closes his eyes for a second, listening, feeling, and inspiration strikes.
        It takes a few moments and oddly David is the first to catch it; he was pretty sure it would be Jack. But David looks up, frowns, cocks his head, grins, and nudges Jack.
        "What?" Jack says, mumbling a little, flipping another page.
        "I think he needs a bass," David says.
        "Drummer," Jack says, still reading. "Santa Claus is coming to town, ba doom ba DOOM, Santa Claus is coming to town…"
        Maddie laughs and so does Billy. He misses a chord or two, settles back in, and says, "Get you a gig singing backup."
        "It's not loud enough," Maddie says softly. She crawls around the back of the couch and fumbles for a moment and then she's handing Billy the amp plug.
        "You've got a fucking amp behind your couch, Brian?" Jack says.
        "He's been here five days, what did you expect?" Brian says. "He's got a couple more in the penthouse. I've seen places in San Francisco in the last four days that I didn't know existed and I've lived here almost twenty years. Start again, Bill."
        There's a shrill of feedback and everyone winces; Billy twists the cord, dials down the volume, and lets it rip. Yeah, stick man would be nice but this is easy, he can do this on his head, and pretty soon Tara and Jack are singing unselfconsciously, even Brian's joining in, and Maddie's grinning to beat the band. She pulled her acoustic out of nowhere and she's making a pretty good effort at a simple bass back up like he's shown her so he tones it down, lets her pull through until they get to the solo where he goes all out, tests the limits of the Strat, and just like Bucky's any limits it has are way over the horizon.
        "Jesus fucking Christ," Jack says reverently. "Jesus, I can't wait to listen to those CDs."
        "Top 40 grunge," Billy says. "Not the same."
        "I want to hear you do Clapton," David says.
        "After coffee," Tara says, getting up, holding the espresso machine. "I'm dying to try this. Bill, your finger's bleeding all over your new toy."
        "Shit," Billy says, looking down. "Tore a callus, happens all the time."
        "Occupational hazard," Jack agrees. "Not that I have any."
        Brian leans down and grabs a wad of tissue paper from the gift debris, handing it to Billy as Maddie takes the Strat reverently and leans it against the other end of the couch.
        "It's good, I'm fine," Billy says, and heads down the hall to the little bathroom. He washes up, wraps some toilet paper around the finger, and comes out of the bathroom to see Brian leaning against the wall in the hallway, holding a box of Band-Aids.
        "I can't believe I found these," he says, holding them out to Billy. "They have Snoopy on them. I don't want to think about how old they are."
        "Cool, thanks, I don't think band-aids go bad. And I can live with Snoopy until later. I got some in my guitar case anyway but you didn't know that."
        "Come and have some coffee?"
        "In a minute."
        "You okay?"
        "Okay. Okay isn't … no, I'm not there. I'm up and down and in and out and okay works but, you know, it's not exactly…"
        Brian grins then. "That sounds more like you."
        "What? What's that mean?"
        "Just that you - you slide into the kind of stage persona so easily, and it's disconcerting."
        "I'm sorry - "
        "It's okay, Bill, it's second nature to you, just like me reading cell phone contracts is second nature to me. I'll bring you some coffee. What do you want?"
        "Half caf double foam latte," Billy says with a straight face, pulling the Band-Aid tight.
        Brian looks at him, narrowed eyes, and says, "Skim or two-percent?"
        "Fuck that," Billy says, unable to stop the grin. "Whatever she makes, that's cool. I'm easy."
        Brian opens his mouth, hesitates, and then, clearly changing his mind, leans forward and brushes his lips across Billy's. "All right."
        Billy watches him go into the kitchen and heads back to the living room, straight for the Strat, listens to the chords and the low murmur of voices punctuated by the occasional laugh in the other room.



        On the way back from taking Maddie to the airport to fly down to LA and visit her mother, the silence has stretched way past long and over into awkward. It's finally broken by Brian swearing under his breath at a driver cutting in front of them with inches to spare. As Brian downshifts, Billy clears his throat.
        "Asshole. Nice brakes. Nice car. Jack's, you said?"
        "No," Brian says, clipped voice, like there are things he's trying not to let out. "It's David's. Jack wouldn't be caught dead driving a late model anything. Especially not domestic."
        "Oh, is that his rusty old Volvo?" Billy asks.
        "Yeah. Yeah, he's pretty proud of it. I notice when they have to go somewhere, though, they take the Taurus. When I have to go somewhere that involves more than one guitar case and an overnight bag, I borrow the Taurus. "
        "I was wondering."
        "I suppose I ought to look into getting a more practical car. Maybe one Maddie can drive when she turns sixteen although I'd probably never sleep again."
        "Get her a big safe boat," Billy says. "Uncool as hell. I've never even owned a car, how weird is that?"
        Brian glances over at him, frowning. "You're shitting me," he says with conviction.
        "Swear to God."
        "Snowmobile?"
        Billy laughs. "No. No sled and dogs, either, California Boy."
        Brian looks at the road again, sees a snarl of traffic ahead and swings into the exit lane without warning. "Fuck this. We'll go the long way around. I should have done it to begin with."
        "Fucking airport."
        "Fucking airline, fucking traffic, fucking rain," Brian snarls.
        "Fucking highway, fucking traffic, fucking fog," Billy says. "I've been in snowstorms that weren't this thick."
        "This is nothing, " Brian says, slowing to a stop at a red light. "It gets so bad you have to just fucking stop. Twenty car pile ups because you can't see three feet in front of you. Some of the European manufactured cars have these fog lights and you can barely see those. No. On second thought, I'm not getting a car for Maddie to drive."
        "If she's lived here all her life, she probably knows enough to stop," Billy says.
        "Teenagers are fucking clueless, Bill. They think they're invincible."
        "Yeah." Billy fumbles for a cigarette, remembers it's not Brian's car, and pushes the lighter back into his pocket. "Yeah. You're right. But she's pretty sensible. You could get her a tank. I hear the Russian Army's got a pretty good closeout sale going."
        Brian chokes and laughs. It's not much of a laugh, as Brian laughs go, but Billy feels a little better.
        "Fog'll lift a little when we get up on the ridge," Brian says. "My parents knew a guy who actually had a tank. He lived on a mountain. Had a tank in his apple orchard."
        "In California?"
        "What? No. No, I grew up on the East Coast, believe it or not. He was ready for the revolution. He was a nut. He made really good apple cider, though, I've never tasted its equal. I keep meaning to take Maddie back there for a visit but my parents are dead now and it's … it's never been a priority."
        "You got time."
        "No." Brian sounds tired all at once. "It's … no. She's going to be fucking sixteen, Bill. And today she's all grown up and when she comes back it's -- fuck. Fuck. Fuck it all to hell."
        "She's pretty sensible," Billy repeats in a low voice, wanting to touch Brian, not knowing if he should.
        "She is now," Brian says through clenched teeth. "You won't recognise her when she gets back, trust me. She'll have a little LaCroix suit on and her hair all perfect and her eyes will be so fucking miserable and she'll be torn up again and it will take weeks --it takes fucking weeks -- to put her back together."
        Billy swallows hard and reaches over tentatively to put his hand on Brian's thigh. He feels Brian tense at his touch and he starts to pull back and Brian moves his hand off the gearshift to hold Billy's hand there and Billy relaxes, feels Brian's muscles relax a little too.
        "You're good at that," he says, a little huskily, a lot scared.
        Brian moves his hand to shift and puts it back on Billy's before answering. "I know. I know. I just . . . fuck, Bill, it's not that I don't want to but I hate to have to keep doing it for Maddie. She's a good kid. I don't get this whole control thing Mary Ann's got with her. Why can't she just look at Maddie and think, 'Wow, cool smart kid with an interesting take on life?' Why's it have to be conformity, conformity, conformity?"
        "That's a tough one," Billy says, even quieter than before. "I never -- I don't get that either. You have to take people the way they come and if they're cool, that's cool. If they're assholes then you just walk away. But she can't."
        "No. She fucking can't. Not for two more fucking years."
        "Jesus."
        "It's better than it was," Brian says grimly. "Mary Ann never has taken much interest in her and now it's mostly Christmas and some time in the summer. And if she calls and talks to me, it helps. But she gets protective of me, if you can believe it, and sometimes she just gets stubborn."
        "I don't know where she gets that," Billy says, carefully looking out his window. Brian's hand tightens on his and then Brian laughs again, a little louder this time.
        "Yeah."
        "She's a lot like you. She really is."
        "Nature versus nurture? Maybe. She needs a good college."
        "Good law school."
        Brian looks at him, startled. "No, no. I don't think so. That's not her thing."
        Billy shrugs. "It seems to me she has your kind of mind, Brian, that's all."
        "I'm not sure that my kind of mind is really the sort that ought to have gone to law school at all," Brian says. "There, look. I told you the fog would be thinner up here."
        "Yeah," Billy says. "Long way around, no kidding. Are those vineyards?"
        "Yeah."
        "We're in the freaking country, Brian."
        "Moo. Sometimes. . . .I just drive. I'm sorry. I'm not thinking -- "
        "Brian, whatever, I'm cool with it, don't feel like you have to entertain me. That's not buddies."
        "Well, if it's entertaining to hear me indulge in a self pitying rant -- "
        "It's kind of cool," Billy says simply. He sees Brian looking at him, a little puzzled frown on his face. "What?"
        "You're a mystery to me, Bill Boisy."
        "Well, ditto fucking ditto that. You come across as so fucking well adjusted it's scary." He fumbles again for a cigarette, remembers again, and then shrugs a little and says, "Unfucked, huh."
        Brian snorts. "Yeah. Sure. Remind me to tell you why I got a job at Gidde & Wilcox some time. And probably why I was made a partner."
        "We got time. Long way around, right?"
        "No, no, I don't want to be responsible for destroying your illusions, Bill." Brian reaches up to turn on the radio. Billy's hand is a half second behind, switching it off again.
        "Oh, no, you don't. Now you have to tell me."
        "No, I don't. I'll make you listen to country music all the way home."
        "I'll listen to anything except Yanni."
        "Oh, I know some new age stations."
        "Fuck that and tell me or I'll play Jimi Hendrix on your rooftop all night."
        "If that's meant to be a threat, Bill, it just backfired. I can't wait. I'll buy you one of those huge concert amps. We'll have to charge admission to the Lane."
        "I'll get 'Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer' and play it at 300 decibels aimed right at your window."
        Brian winces comically. "Shit. Don't go there."
        "Grandma got run over by a reindeer …" Billy talk-sings in a nasal twang.
        "No! God. Okay." Brian laughs again. "Shit." Then he says it again, a different intonation in his voice. "Shit. Something's wrong with the steering. Of course. God. I killed David's car."
        "Pull over, it's no big deal," Billy says. "We'll take a look."
        "How would you know, you never even owned a car," Brian says, pulling the car onto the side of the road.."I should have gone for the Volvo." He stares at Billy as Billy opens the car door. "Where are you going?"
        "To take a look. Pop the hood."
        "Bill, that's what cell phones and tow trucks are for. I wouldn't know what to look for under the hood."
        "What's it doing, is the steering harder or is it pulling to one side or what? It could be something dumb like a leak in the power steering fluid tank or hose."
        Brian stares at him. "You sound like you know what you're talking about," he says cautiously, opening his own door.
        "Well, that and I want a fucking cigarette," Billy says, grinning. He stands up, stretches, lights a cigarette, and walks around to the front of the car. Brian releases the hood from inside the car and gets out to join him.
        Billy studies the engine for a minute, tugging here and there, leaning in to look harder. He shakes his head and steps back, a few feet, looks up at the sky as he feels a few drops of rain start to fall, and then back down at the car.
        "That's it," Brian says in a half-growl. "Just fucking it."
        "It's not the steering fluid or those hoses. Is it pulling or was it hard to steer? Rack and pinion -- or it could be something simple -- " Billy bends over to look under the car.
        "You already fucking said that," Brian says, hunching into his jacket.
        " -- like a fucking flat tire," Billy says, shaking his head and grinning even bigger. "That's it. No problem. Open the trunk."
        "What? No problem? I've never changed a tire. I've never had a tire go flat, Bill."
        "Jesus. Overprivileged bastard."
        "It's raining, Bill, let me call Triple A and we'll get back in the car and talk about reindeer."
        "Brian, I can do this in my sleep. You want to help or you want to stand there and bitch at me?"
        Brian shuts his mouth with a snap and Billy feels a little guilty. Brian's a lot of things but he's not a bitch and that's Joe baggage, not Brian's problem, not Brian's fault.
        "I'm sorry," he mutters as Brian leans into the trunk with him, helping him pull the lining out. "You're not a bitch, okay?"
        "Overprivileged bastard worked better," Brian agrees. "I'm on edge. I didn't mean -- "
        "You didn't."
        "Can I really help?"
        "It's a lot easier with two, yeah. Pipe used to help me if he wasn't drunk or high."
        "Otherwise you did it yourself?"
        "Yeah."
        "I thought you didn't have a car."
        "We had the worst fucking band vans you ever saw, Brian. Jesus Christ. Slept in 'em too, at first. We had to fucking learn the basics just to get through that first tour. It was do or die, you know? And me and Pipe, we figured a lot of stuff out."
        "What did Joe do?" Brian asks, too quietly. Billy shoots a glance at him; Brian's expression is unreadable.
        "He managed," Billy says, heaving the spare out. "Grab the jack, come on." He starts around the car; Brian doesn't follow. Billy leans back around, points. "That's the jack, Pool Boy. How the hell do you keep the pool clean?"
        "The equipment and chemicals are clearly labeled," Brian says with a straight face, crouching down next to him by the tire.
        "So's this," Billy says, and shows him where the jack fits. It's been a while since he's done this but it comes back fast and the Taurus is a lot lighter than band buses and none of the bolts are rusted. He stops Brian once, when Brian starts to pick up the flat.
        "No, don't mess with that, no sense in both of us getting dirty. Light me a cigarette."
        "In the rain?"
        "Good point. Not a job for a nonsmoker." Billy drops the wrench and lights it himself. Brian shakes his head, grinning.
        "No, rain won't put it out unless it's pouring," Billy says, picking the wrench up again. "That was your next question."
        "It was," Brian agrees.
        Billy knocks the hubcap back in place and picks up the flat and looks at it. "Yeah. Look. It's a screw. It can be fixed. You won't have to buy David a new car."
        "That's a relief. You're a mess."
        "Yeah. I'll stand in the rain a few minutes. Is David going to get mad that we're putting a dirty tire in his pristine trunk?"
        Brian shakes his head. "Probably, but it's not our problem. Let's go."
        "Yeah, in a sec. Let me finish my cigarette. You get back in the car."
        "I can't get much wetter."
        "That's true."
        Brian leans against the car with him and for a few minutes they're both occupied with their own thoughts.
        "You are a mystery to me, William Boisy," Brian says finally, softly.
        "You're fucking easy to impress, Brian."
        "No. No, Bill, I'm not. Will you teach Maddie how to do that too?"
        Billy feels the surprise on his face. "Sure. Of course. Hell, yes. Yeah. Whatever you want."
        "Okay. Come on. Finish the cigarette. I'm freezing and we both need hot showers and dinner."
        "More leftovers?"
        "We'll be eating those for a week, Bill, didn't you see the notice in the kitchen?"
        "What notice?"
        "The one that said not eating leftovers is a crime punishable by death."
        Billy laughs. "Turkey omelets? Mashed potato milkshakes?"
        "Pie or pavlova for breakfast. Turkey sandwiches for lunch. Casseroles for dinner. Until it's all gone."
        "Good thing I don't give a damn what I eat," Billy says. "Come on, let's get out of the rain."
        The drive home is uncomfortable. First Billy's cold and wet and then he's hot and wet and wet leather doesn't smell all that great. Brian turns the radio on after a few miles and this time Billy lets him; they're both thinking. And Billy's thinking that it's not just the wet clothes that have him uncomfortable. There's a tension between them now that doesn't have much to do with wet or tires or airports or even Maddie, except that now that Maddie's gone, there's nothing keeping them apart any more. It's something he wants -- God, he wants it-- but he's terrified and he doesn't know why. Doesn't know why, or how, this isn't like fucking a groupie, it's not even like fucking Ben. This is like fucking a friend, a real friend, and that's maybe the scary part because what if that part doesn't work out? Will the friend part still work?
        He remembers Brian saying "If you're committed to it and you're lucky," and he relaxes a little. Yeah, if Brian can go there, so can he. No one ever said Billy Tallent was a pussy. Well, yeah, Joe did, but not a scared pussy, not a lazy one, so he can work at it too. Maybe. If it works at all. But this just feels... weird. He's waited for this so long that he has no idea how to act now. It's so . . . planned. He's never planned anything in his life. Things just . . . happen. He's not a planning kind of person.
        "Wake up, Bill, we're here. Hot shower, okay? You head up while I explain to David. You look awful."
        "Yeah, good … good plan." Billy realizes his voice sounds weird and Brian's looking at him weirder. "Plans and shit. You make lists, huh?"
        "Not any more. I spent too much time making the lists. Now it's all instinctive."
        "That's scary," Billy says solemnly. "I bet they have medication for that."
        "You think? I think you're just jealous of us organized types. Wanna race on the stairs?"
        "No fucking way."
        "I could carry you."
        Billy stops short and looks straight at Brian and forgets to breathe. "I bet you could," he says, a bare whisper, and this time he forgets to smile.
        "I know I could," Brian says, also in a whisper. He shakes his head a little and straightens up. "Come on. Come on, Bill."
        On the stairs a line from a song that he heard in the car keeps running, crazy, through Billy's head: "You can't shut out the risk and the pain without losing the love that remains . . ." He hears the guitar in his head, hears the words run in circles. He can shut it out and then he shuts it all out. Or he can let it in … but then he lets it all in.
        "You okay?" Brian says, a few steps ahead. "How's the knee? Ready for that ride?" He backs down a couple of steps and grasps Billy's arm.
        "Okay," Billy says, breathing hard but not gasping this time, he's getting the hang of them. "No ride."
        "Just an arm," Brian says. "It's okay. I'll pull you up."
        "My own… sled dog," Billy says. "Cool."
        "Woof," Brian says with grin.
        "You like … Pink Floyd, huh?" Billy says. "Moo, woof."
        "I'll do my full repertoire later. One more stretch, Bill."
        At the top of the stairs Brian suddenly hugs Billy, hard and fast. "Go get your shower. I'll get mine and start dinner. And then we can . . . talk. If you want."
        "Whatever," Billy says, scared again. "Yeah. Whatever." He doesn't wait for an answer. He hears Brian's voice raised in greeting at Jack and David's door as he lets himself into the penthouse. He takes a deep deep breath, makes himself dizzy, strips down fast and turns the shower on as hot as he can stand. By the time he runs out of hot water he's got himself into a Zen place about things. Not thinking is good. He pulls on some clean clothes and heads back downstairs, definitely hungry. He's not really surprised that Brian's already showered and dressed and in the kitchen, poking around in the refrigerator. Brian's hair is curling damply over his collar and Billy stares at it for a long few seconds until Brian turns and sees him.
        "Hey. Turkey sandwiches? Did you run out of hot water? I keep meaning to replace the water heater for that apartment with a bigger one."
        "I take long showers. Sandwiches are great, the bigger the better."
        "You want the works? Stuffing and cranberry relish and shit?"
        "Everything but the shit, I think turkey'd work better but yeah."
        Brian laughs. "Bite me. I'm too hungry to be precise." He pulls a couple of bottles from the bottom shelf and then stops and puts them back.
        "Jesus Christ, Brian, if you want a beer, have one," Billy says. "I won't fall to pieces."
        "No," Brian says firmly.
        "Just because I can't drink doesn't mean you can't."
        "Yes, it does," Brian says, and his voice sounds almost harsh. He pulls the bottles back out and tosses them in the garbage.
        "You got a hatchet, Carrie?" Billy asks.
        "No."
        "You think Danny and Kyle don't drink, man? You think I don't see it and smell it?"
        "It doesn't mean you have to see it and smell it here, Bill."
        "It doesn't bother me, Brian."
        "It bothers me, Bill."
        Billy sighs, runs a hand through his hair. "Don't you get tired of playing saint, Brian?"
        "I'm not a fucking saint, Bill."
        "You're so fucking rigid, man. Why are you -- why would you -- "
        "Why wouldn't I, Bill? I don't want to make this harder than it is."
        "It's not your problem, Brian."
        "Oh, no, Bill. You're way off the mark there. It is my problem because it's your problem."
        "What the fuck does that mean?"
        "Look, if I were a heroin addict trying to quit, would you bring home nickel bags and leave them lying around? Would that be buddies, Bill?"
        "Smack's really bad," Billy says slowly. "No. No. It wouldn't be. But I'm not a fucking baby, Brian."
        "I know that, Bill. But we're friends. Buddies. We don't make this harder than it already is."
        Okay. Okay, he got that. That made sense, in a Brian kind of way. "No. No saints, that wasn't -- that wasn't fair. I'm sorry. Sorry fucking sorry, okay? I get it, that's -- let's just fucking eat, okay, because this is just getting --"
        "Yeah. You're right, we're hungry and . . . okay, here, here's your cranberry sauce."
        Billy frowns a little, realizing Brian's kind of backing down and that makes him mad for a second because he didn't expect that but then he feels a little happy that Brian listened to him, that's cool, listened to him and understood, that all he had to do was say that, no games, no games back. Fuck. That's weird too. Good weird though.
        Brian finishes making the sandwiches and they sit down at the table, eating in silence for a few moments, then Brian looks up.
        "I told David to have the tire fixed and the interior cleaned and to give me the bill."
        Billy swallows his bite. "Did he agree to?"
        Brian makes a face. "No."
        Billy grins. "I didn't think he would. It's not expensive to fix a tire."
        "The guilt will kick in tomorrow when I see him down there with his foam cleaner and vaccuum," Brian says.
        "Brian. Call a detail place. Jesus."
        "They won't do it right," Brian says simply. "I'll help him. If he'll let me. Assuage my guilt."
        "It might be easier on your guilt complex to buy another car," Billy says.
        "Can't. Then Maddie would want to drive it."
        "How about, like, a Porsche or something she'd be scared to breathe on?"
        "I don't think the average Porsche has any more people room than the Ghia, Bill."
        "Then we're back to the tank thing. Humvee?"
        Brian laughs helplessly. "There you go, perfect. Except it would take up the entire fucking street if she tried to park it."
        "Hmm. True. I got it! A VW Microbus!"
        "No, then she'll get arrested for dumping garbage on Thanksgiving."
        "Only in Massachusetts."
        "California has stricter laws."
        "'They might think you're gay and they won't take either of you,'" Billy quotes softly, and then his mouth goes suddenly dry as he meets Brian's eyes.
        Brian looks solemn as he leans across the table to kiss Billy, tasting of turkey and cranberry sauce, then pulls back. "Let's go upstairs."
        "Now? I mean . . . now?"
        Brian looks amused. "Yes, now. Why not?"
        Brian doesn't give him time to answer, just kisses him again, and it's hotter this time, a lot more focused, a lot more needy. God, feels so good. So good. Lips slick from mayonnaise, they lick and suck and bite until he has to reach down and adjust his jeans because all the sudden they're too damned tight, and he's starting to get into it, seriously into it, when Brian draws back again. "Come on. Upstairs. Okay?"
        Somehow that just hits his 'too planned' button again. If Brian had pulled him onto the table, he could've dealt with that. Or the floor. Even the living room couch. But . . . upstairs. Bedroom. That's . . . premeditated. He tries one last time. "Why not here?"
        Here?" Brian says, frowning. "No way. This is our first time, Bill, and it's not going to be on the fucking kitchen table."
        "Okay. Okay, yeah." He tries a smile. "It's just more stairs, you know? There's always the couch."
        "No table, no couch, no floor." Brian says firmly, and Billy has to wonder for a panicked second if he can read his mind. "Bed. I'll carry you up there if your knee won't make it."
        Billy has a sudden horrifying flash of Brian carrying him over the threshold like a blushing virgin in a white dress and he surges to his feet. "I can walk." He stands for a moment, indecisive, then he realizes Brian's fucking serious and that Brian wants this, wants him, and somehow that gives him the courage to move. "I. . . um. . . " he swallows hard. "Okay. Upstairs."
        Brian stands up and grabs his hand, pulling him toward the stairs, stopping outside the kitchen to pick up Billy's guitar case, which he holds up with a grin. Billy grins back, stops himself from resisting, doesn't want Brian to think he's protesting, because after all, he's the one who's been bitching so much about having to wait. And he's not protesting, not really. He just ... well, reality check, William Boisy. Time to face the music, pay the piper, see if what William thinks Billy wants is the same thing that Brian thinks Brian wants. He makes it up the stairs, into the bedroom. Second time here, just as panic-stricken as the first, just covering it better. Or so he thinks until Brian looks at him oddly, setting the guitar case down behind the door he just closed.
        "You okay, Bill?" Brian asks softly. "You want this?"
         "Fuck, yes, Technical Man," Billy says, his voice raw.
        "You're a little wild eyed, Bill."
        "I didn't think -- it's so fucking weird like this." Billy gestures around the room. "It's so fucking. . . clinical."
        "Jesus, Bill!" Brian looks shocked, a little hurt.
        "Not you, not-- I'm just-- " Billy says, fast, trying to allay that. He looks around one more time and then flops down on the edge of the bed. "I-- one drink?" he asks, feeling that need, that hunger inside him. These things have always gone together for him, with one or two exceptions. He's still not sure how or why it had seemed so easy with Ben. Maybe their mutual pain had served as a kind of barrier against this kind of awkwardness.
        Brian sits next to him and takes one hand in his. "I'm insulted. I'm out of practice but I don't think you need to get drunk."
        Billy manages a laugh. "Listen to me. Jesus Christ, Joe would be laughing his ass off. 'Niiiiiice virgin, Billiam. Little unconvincing, there . . . ' It's just--"
        "I know." Brian says, solemnly. "I understand. But leave Joe the fuck out of this. He's not here. This is just you and me now, Bill. Just us. Got that?"
        Billy nods, looks away, startled by Brian's uncharacteristic vehemence, wonders how the fuck he's supposed to leave Joe out of anything when Joe's voice is in his fucking head day in and day out, Joe's ghost is staring over his shoulder every fucking minute and he doesn't have alcohol to drown out the voice, hide from the eyes that have haunted him, not just since November, no, for five fucking years now.
        "I hate it," Brian says, flatly. "I hate that you've had to be, or chosen to be, drunk or high, and missed out on some of the simplest pleasures in the world. The pleasure can be overdone-- I know all about that-- but, dammit, when did sex stop being sex and start being some kind of challenge, some kind of game, some kind of hurdle instead of what it is, what it can be? Just stop thinking, okay?"
        Billy twists to look at him. "It's . . . important and I have to think. We have to think."
        "We've already thought about that part."
        "The wanting me-- wanting you part, yeah," Billy says, twisting again, tugging, unsuccessfully, at Brian as he slides back on the bed. "That part's okay. But the tomorrow part, that's what I'm thinking about."
        "Hoist by my own petard," Brian says ruefully. "Let me turn out the light. I think this is an in-the-dark sort of conversation."
        Brian goes to turn out the light, and Billy takes off his shirt. Brian starts back, stops for a moment at the dresser. Billy can't see what he's doing until there's a flare of light and the sharp scent of sulphur in the air, and slowly a fat white candle glows to life. A moment later, a second candle, green, flickers alight. Brian shakes out the match, and smiles in the gentle light, looking over at Billy.
        "There, less clinical? Bless Tara for leaving candles."
        Billy smiles a little and starts to unbutton his jeans. Brian shakes his head and is at the bed in two strides, covering Billy's hand with his own.
        "Clinical or not, I want to undress you, Mr. Boisy, so just slow down, okay?"
        "A rain check and a President's Day Sale," Billy growls, little shivers of need going through him. Brian seduces with time, with ease. . . he's never met anyone else like this. "Jesus, you're so fucking patient."
        Brian pulls his shirt off and tosses it over his shoulder as he slides into the bed next to Billy. "You're the one who said we had to talk. About tomorrow. I'm rubbing off somewhere."
        Another shiver, at that unintended double entendre. "That sounds fucking wonderful," Billy breathes, moving closer, craving touch. In the dim light, he can make out the flash of teeth as Brian grins.
        "It does," Brian agrees. "So what about tomorrow? Get it out of your system."
        "Yeah." Billy sighs, down again, and reaches for Brian's hand, as he did that first night. "Yeah." He doesn't know where to start. What to say.
        "I want tomorrow, Billy." Brian does it for him.
        Yeah. That's it. He swallows down the sick feeling in his throat. "I. . . don't know if I can do tomorrow. I never did tomorrow with anyone but Joe, and those were some pretty fucked up tomorrows. I know that."
        "Knowing it means a lot. And if it's all the same to you, I'd like to try."
        Brian nudges closer, one big, warm hand resting on the bare curve of Billy's waist, just resting there. That shouldn't send a pulse of heat straight to his groin, but it does. God. . . he wants. . . but not yet. One more thing to talk about. Billy takes a deep breath. "That's another thing."
        "Jesus, and I thought I was the one who'd never shut up."
        "Shut up, okay? Just fucking shut up," Billy snaps a little. "This is hard enough without comedy. What do you want to . . . to try? I mean, I've . . . you said you didn't--"
        "It's been a long time but I have an excellent memory and I can't remember doing anything that wasn't amazing."
        "Yeah." Billy says, a little wistfully. "When it's right it can be."
        "Has it been right for you?"
        "Yeah."
        "With Ben?"
        Is he imagining a slight hesitation there? Probably not. "Yeah."
        "That wasn't so long ago, Bill."
        "No. It wasn't." And remembering that makes him remember something else, the thing he started out trying to talk about. "Oh, Jesus. Condoms. Hang on, I've got some in the guitar case-- "
        "Is that why you take it everywhere?" Brian says in a tone of exaggerated discovery, pulling Billy close against him.
        Billy fights the embrace, half-heartedly. "Asshole. Let me up-- "
        "We don't need them."
        Brian sucks at the base of Billy's throat, tongue warm and slick on his skin, teeth close on a tendon, making him shiver and buck. No. No, be responsible, Billy. Someone has to. He pushes at Brian's shoulder. "The hell we don't. I've used them for years, ever since Joe. . . since then." He knows that timing was irrational, but for some reason it was something he'd had to do, a protection against . . . against the thoughtlessness of it all.
        Brian refuses to be pushed away. "I haven't had sex for years and Mouse made me get tested when he was diagnosed."
        Billy's a little stunned. Years? Brian had said he was out of practice, but. . . years? And then the rest of it sinks in. The name's familiar, faintly, he reaches for the connection, makes it. Mouse. Brian's friend. Who'd died. Fuck.
        "We weren't lovers at the time," Brian continues calmly, "but we had been in the past."
        That brings it home in a whole new way. A little shocking. A lot personal. "Jesus. Brian, I didn't. . . I'm sorry."
        "So am I. He didn't deserve that. He was a damned fine human being."
        Billy's quiet a moment, absorbing, processing. "I still-- " he begins, only to have Brian cut him off.
        "Have you been tested?"
        "Hell, yes. You know I have. You made me for this fucking hearing, dammit."
        "That was a rhetorical question."
        Brian's tongue slides down the back of Billy's neck and Billy shivers and pushes back against him. "Now, see, I'm not a big shot lawyer so I don't know what that means . . . . "
        "It means it's okay."
        "It's not okay, it can be seven to ten years-- "
        "Don't lecture me about safe sex, William Boisy, I live in San Francisco. I've had more than one friend die from AIDS. You're HIV-negative, for God's sake. I think five clean years is long enough to be safe, got it? I'm willing to take the risk."
        "I'm not," Billy says, flatly.
        Brian pushes back on his own this time, looks into Billy's eyes. "This isn't about safe sex, is it, William?"
        "What the hell else would it be about?" Billy asks, unaccountably angry.
        "I don't know. Maybe about tomorrows? Maybe about connections? I want that connection, Bill. Don't you? This is more than just. . . ."
        Billy reaches up, winds his fingers in Brian's too-long hair and drags him down, taking his mouth, sucking on his tongue, anything to stop this, now, he can't go there, go further. He'll do whatever Brian wants, if it keeps him quiet. And oh, that big, warm body is nice against his, and the ache in his groin is hot and wild and sweet. He slides a knee between Brian's, pushes his cock into the rise of thigh, feels Brian shiver, and the kiss deepens. Yes. Yes, finally. He lets nothing else matter, lets it all go, as he gives himself up to the touch and taste of the man in his arms.
        Brian breaks the kiss, lifts his head, fingers stroking along Billy's lips. "You have such a goddamned beautiful mouth," he says, fingers slipping inside a little, teasing the sensitive inner surfaces of his lips.
        Billy sucks at them as they play; then they're slipping moistly out, and mouth follows fingers. Soft, warm, maddeningly gentle brushes back, and forth until Billy opens his mouth, inviting Brian in again. Brian teases, refusing anything more than just lips against lips, until Billy's fingers bite into his shoulders, and a soft, almost-whimper clogs his throat, then finally, finally, the slow slide of tongue against his own. He bucks against Brian, over and over . . . God, he could come just like this, from nothing more than this.
        Brian's hand cups his shoulder, slips down over his bare chest, a fingertip stroking across one taut nipple. Billy moans into his mouth, his own hand moving down Brian's back, feeling the play of muscle in that broad expanse, memorizing the silk of flesh. His downward exploration is interrupted by denim, but there's something erotic in the feel of heavy cotton taut over that soft-firm curve, and Billy splays his fingers out, cupping that gorgeous ass, pushing Brian down against him.
        Brian bucks this time, a little groan escaping him, and Billy can feel the hard length of Brian's cock straining against the snug confines of the fabric that contains him. Suddenly Brian's lifting his body off of Billy's, and bending to suck at the nipple he was just fondling. Billy arches, gasping, into that touch, and he feels Brian's hands moving down to open the first button on his jeans, the second . . . each button seems to take forever, but finally Brian is working the last one open, and warm, knowing fingers curve around his aching cock. He arches into that touch with a moan, needing it.
        "Jesus. . . Bill. . . " Brian whispers. "This feels good."
        Surprised, Billy laughs. "That's. . . that's my line," he gasps as Brian's hand moves on him, stroking.
        Brian squeezes lightly. "Mine. You feel good. God. I bet you're gorgeous."
        Touch leaves him, and Billy protests. "Fuck, Brian, don't stop!"
        "I'm not," comes the amused reply. "But I want to see you, not just feel you. Lift up."
        Billy lifts his butt off the bed, and Brian tugs his jeans down past his hips. "There, down now."
        Again Billy obeys. It's so easy to do that, to let Brian make the decisions, give everything over to him.
        "Knees now," Brian asks, and in moments Billy's lying stripped on Brian's big and incredibly comfortable bed. Jesus, no wonder Tara likes it. Billy likes it too. But even more he likes that Brian's on it with him. . . except he's still hidden, and that's not right.
        "Brian?" He tugs on a belt loop, hinting.
        Brian smiles. "Yeah. Yeah, just a second."
        He rolls away, stands up, and is in the middle of unbuttoning and unzipping when suddenly there's a soft 'click' and the room brightens perceptibly. Billy looks around, heart pounding a little, seeing candles in the windows where there were none before. He wonders wildly if he's having one of those fabled LSD flashbacks he's heard about, until he remembers that Maddie loves the damned things, and put them on a timer in every window this time of year.
        Billy relaxes with a sigh. "Jesus. Scared me. Thought I was losing it."
        Brian shimmies out of his jeans and is back on the bed, grinning. "Not yet, but you will."
        Billy stares at him. In the low light Brian looks younger, reckless, and for the first time he catches a glimpse of the wild young man who'd left his law practice and moved to San Francisco to wait tables and fuck his way through the populace. His gaze ranges down that bare, beautiful body. . . not fucking fair that at nearly fifty, Brian still looks like this. Billy suspects that at fifty he'll look like shit. He tries to bury the shiver of doubt that thought engenders in him, the momentary confusion as to why Brian would want him, of all people. Don't go there. Don't think. He does, that's all that matters right now.
        He can't help but reach out and touch, naked skin warm and resilient under his hand. His fingers slide over a nipple, and Brian makes a soft sound, encouraging. His hand is shaking as it moves lower, the tremor thankfully hidden by the shadows. He stops just short of his goal, looks up, and is startled to find Brian's gaze on his face, not his hand. Brian's tongue slips out, just a hint; Billy feels his own tongue echo that movement. A hand covers his, guides it lower, Brian's gaze never leaving his, until his fingers close over the thick, hot shaft. Only then do Brian's lashes flicker down to hide his eyes as he moans.
        "Oh, God, Bill. . . yeah." Brian pumps into Billy's hand, sliding easily in Billy's grip. "So good," Brian breathes. "So fucking good." He reaches out, curving his hand behind Billy's head, bringing their mouths together again, and this time there's nothing gentle about their kiss, this time it's hard, almost harsh. Billy knows this, he knows the need behind this, knows it's time now.
        When Brian finally lets go of his mouth, Billy releases his cock, and slips out of bed, crossing the room to his guitar case, returning to the bed with a strip of condoms in hand. He puts them in Brian's hand and climbs back into bed, lying down on his stomach, thighs spread, waiting. Brian's hand comes down on his shoulder, strokes down his back, very gentle, but he makes no other movement. After a moment he finally speaks.
        "Bill, what is this? We just talked about this. We don't need these."
        "I . . . I need them. Please, Brian."
        Brian's silent for a moment. "Why this way?"
        Billy smiles. "Thought you said you'd done it before."
        "I have, but, Jesus, Bill, . . . like this?"
        "Easier this way, Brian." Billy looks over his shoulder, frowning. "Jesus. I know. Trust me, I know."
        Brian's expression goes taut, and something flickers in his eyes, something Billy's never seen there before, and it's almost scary. No, there's no almost about it. Suddenly tense, Billy ducks his head a little, half expecting a blow.
        "Fuck!" Brian swears, and he's suddenly off the bed, standing at the window, every muscle in his body tense, his fists clenched, his shoulders moving with each harsh breath. "Fuck," he says again, shaking his head. "I can't. . . I don't. . . . Jesus fucking Christ, Bill, you really don't know, do you?"
        Billy rolls over, sits up slowly, confused. "Know what? What . . . what'd I do wrong?"
        Brian chokes, turns, and is back on the bed practically before Billy can blink, wrapping his arms around Billy, pulling him in close, holding him hard, so hard it's almost hard to breathe. "Nothing. You didn't do anything wrong. Nothing at all. Jesus. Nothing."
        Billy pushes at him, uncomfortable, still confused. "Damn it, Brian, let me breathe."
        Brian lets him go, eases back, looking shaken. "I'm sorry, sorry. Fuck, Bill. Lots of problems, not your fault. First off, we don't need these. Not now. Not ever." Brian tosses the strip of condoms over his shoulder and despite himself Billy remember a drink on a roof and a glass tossed away just as nonchalantly. Something inside him starts to uncoil. But . . . .
        "Brian-- "
        "No, just listen. I get the condoms, I do. They make you feel, what, safe?"
        Billy nods, tensing again.
        You are safe, okay? You know the deal, I know the deal, we're coming from the same place. I'm not Joe Dick. And you're not Billy Tallent. You're Bill Boisy."
        "I am Billy . . ." he starts.
        "No. Not here, not now." Brian's voice thickens and he leans in closer to brush Billy's eyelids with his mouth.
        "Bill. Bill Boisy. William Boisy. You can trust me."
        "Fuck, I do. I - "
        "God, Bill." Brian hugs him again, hard. "I know you do, as much as you can. You're here, huh? With me."
        Billy feels a stinging in his eyes, clears his throat, gruffly, finds his voice. "With you, fuck, yeah, but I'm-- fuck, I'm scared, Brian-- not of you, and fuck, I'm a fucking fucked up pussy."
        "Not a pussy. Trust me, I know pussy." Brian flashes a brief smile, winks. "What you are, Bill, is a survivor." He reaches down beside the bed, picks up something; a moment later he's putting the strip of condoms back in Billy's hand. "Here. If you need them, we'll use them."
        "Jesus Christ!" Billy sits up, slams his fist into the mattress. "What the hell do you play these fucking games for, Brian? Fucking head games, day in and day out!"
        "No," Brian says firmly, covering Billy's fist with his hand, running that same hand up his arm to squeeze his shoulder. "No games. You want to use them, we will. No games. I don't play games. It's your decision."
        "I wish you'd make up your fuckin' mind!" Billy shouts.
        "It's not my decision," Brian repeats, and he looks and sounds calm and Billy doesn't know what the fuck to do. "It's not a game. If you want to use them, I'm fine with that. If you don't, I like that better, but either way, I'm with you and I want you."
        Billy stares at him, feeling the rage drain away. Brian's so serious and so not playing games; and the question can't stay inside any more. "Why? Why would you want me?"
        "I don't know. Why do you want me?"
        Billy thinks, finally speaks. "Connection. There was-- something."
        "Yeah. I felt it too," Brian says quietly. "Connection. I need that. You need that. We both want that, so that's why. For both of us." He smiles unexpectedly. "That and you're so fucking sexy, William Boisy."
        Billy laughs. "Stealing my lines again. Fuckin' lawyer."
        "Anticipating." Brian sobers. "But that's why it has to be the way you want it. It can't be on just my terms. We're in this together." He pulls Billy close again, gentler this time, rubs his chest with one hand, and buries his face in the curve of Billy's neck, breathing in.
        After a long silence Billy says, "So it's really okay if I want to use them?"
        "It's really okay," Brian says into his neck, and Billy feels that tongue flicker on his pulse. "If you want to use them. If you want to."
        Billy stares at the packet a moment longer. He twists, suddenly, and throws them as hard as he can across the room. The package is light; it flutters to the floor less than three feet away. Brian looks at it, looks at him, grins.
        "I get it."
        "I don't want to. I never did. I had to."
        "You want me to throw them out the window?"
        "Off the roof."
        Brian chuckles. "Now?"
        "Later."
        "Good. Because right now I want to make love."
        "Fuck," Billy corrects him, oddly embarrassed.
        Brian pushes him down on the bed. "No. We can fuck some other time."
        Billy's confused. "I thought you said. . . "
        "I said exactly what I meant. Make love," Brian repeats. "You and me. And I want to see you. I want you to see me."
        Heat spreads up Billy's chest into his face. In his head he hears Joe like he's right there with them.
        'Fuckin' freak.' Joe's rich chuckle. 'Fuckin' dog and pony show, Billy.'
        The heat of embarrassment is replaced with an entirely different heat. 'Shut the fuck up, Joe. You don't own me, you never owned me and you're dead, you fucking asshole.'
        'For you, Billy.' He hears the flick of the lighter, smells the cool dry wisp of smoke that curls up. 'That's love.'
        'Fuck you.'
        'That's not buddies.'
        "It sure as hell wasn't!"
        "Bill? What wasn't?"
        "Buddies." Billy's voice breaks on a whisper and he feels tired, drained. "It wasn't buddies."
        Somehow Brian understands. "No. No, it wasn't."
        Billy waits for Joe's retort. Nothing comes. There's nothing but the sound of rain outside, the scent of candles, Brian's warmth, Brian's heart beating against his chest, Brian's eyes, watchful, kind, understanding. He doesn't know how long this exorcism will last, but he hopes it's long enough. He reaches out, touches his fingers to Brian's mouth. Brian smiles and says, "You okay?" He waits for Billy's nod and then leans in for another long, slow kiss, the kind Billy didn't know about a few short weeks ago, the kind he already can't live without.
        They lie like that for a while, just kissing. Feels good. So damned good. So. . . weird. He's not used to this. It feels like that kiss on the roof was years ago. He doesn't know how to act, what to do, with everything all . . . slowed down. . . like this. It's usually fast, and hot, and then it's over. Always over. Out of nowhere a shiver shakes him. Brian pulls him closer, lowers his head to lick the hollow at the base of his throat, then along the tendon in his throat, then up to his ear. Licks there, too. Hot, wet flicker, sigh of breath. No words.
        Brian's hands move on him, a thumb stroking across his jaw, his mouth. Billy catches his thumb in his teeth, bites a little, and Brian laughs against his throat, a soft chuckle as his other hand sweeps down from Billy's shoulder to chest, a fingertip teasing one small, hard nipple, and, Jesus, it feels so good Billy can't help but arch up into that touch, into Brian's thigh between his. He sucks on the thumb still in his mouth, pushes up again, the contact renewing his faded arousal. Against his hip he can feel Brian's cock thickening, hardening. Oh, God. Yes. He wants it. Wants this. Wants. . . Brian. Wants mouth, and hands, and cock. All of it, all of him.
        Brian bends more, replaces that teasing finger with his mouth, tongue laving Billy's nipple, teeth grazing it, making him gasp and buck. Tentatively, Billy slides his hands down Brian's back, cups his ass in both palms, like he's thought about, far too many times as he'd brought himself to a solitary climax that always left him feeling drained, and a little sad, a lot lonely. Not alone now, though. This is all so different than he'd imagined. All the times he'd wondered how Brian would fu. . . make love, it was never like this. Slow, gentle, utterly focused. Billy feels like there is nothing, really nothing, else in the world.
        Suddenly there's an ache in his chest, in his throat. He lets go of Brian's thumb, turns his head, swallows three or four times to clear the terrifying urge to weep. Not now, stupid. Not now when it's so damned good, when you're here, and Brian's here, and there's fucking nothing to cry about, you stupid cunt. Brian lifts his head, slides his fingers along Billy's jaw, turning his head back, dropping a moist, warm kiss on his lips before lifting, just enough to whisper: "It's all right, Bill. It's all right."
        An almost electrical shock goes through him at that, almost a flinch, it's so intense. It is. It fucking is. He reaches up, pulls Brian to him. Mouth on his again, tongue stealing between his lips, a warm, smooth, slow penetration. Billy shivers, a surge of need rolling through him. He moans against Brian's mouth, opens to him, fingers twined in his hair, as their kiss intensifies. He feels one of Brian's hands move down his chest, down to his hip and then fingers are curling around his erection, warm, firm. He pushes into Brian's hand, and is stroked, lazily.
        "God, you're so beautiful," Brian says.
        Heat flares in him, arousal and more. He wants to say no, he's not, but he can't, because Brian's sliding down and that beautiful mouth is on him, wet, and hot, and he can't do anything but moan wordlessly. Tongue on him, long, slow licks, swallows, sucks. He moans again, louder, arching up into that sweetness. He should be. . . there's something. . . hands nudge his thighs apart, return to stroke and cup him, straying lower, touching, gently, massaging. He can't keep still until Brian leans across his thighs, not uncomfortably, but enough to pin him down, and then he can only try to buck into the mouth that surrounds him, suckling, licking, the occasional scrape of teeth.
        That shocks him into full awareness. There's nothing, nothing at all between them. No one has touched him, flesh to flesh, in years. Feeling Brian like this, so . . . naked. . . makes him naked too, exposed, a little crazy. It's too much, that mouth on him. He wants more, he wants less, he wants everything and nothing. Everything. Everything. He struggles, bucks harder, hard enough to lift both of them. "Brian," he gasps. "Fuck . . . ."
        Brian lets him go instantly, reaching up to kiss him again, hands moving on him, soothing, confusingly not passionate. "It's okay," he whispers. "I get it, it's okay." He kisses Billy again, eases back, and Billy hears him take a deep breath, sees a tremor go through him, a fine shiver. Billy scowls, pushing himself into a sitting position so he can glare down at Brian, laid out like some feast he can only look at, not taste..
        "What the fuck is wrong with you? Jesus, Brian, just--"
         "No, Bill," Brian says, another breath. "That's not how I am, not who we are."
        "I don't get that, I don't get. . . "
        "What do you want?" Brian interrupts, quietly.
        Billy makes a sound, an almost mindless growl of frustration, "I want you!"
        "How?"
        Such a simple, not-simple question. Billy closes his eyes, swallows convulsively. "I want you," he whispers. "In me. In . . . me."
        "What else do you want, Bill?" Brian's voice changes, from husky whisper to pure fucking sex. Billy swallows again. "You want me? Come on."
        It's a tease, a taunt, a . . . come on. Pure and unadorned. Billy catches Brian's chin in his fingers, tugs a little, opening his mouth. Brian grins and opens wider as Billy dives in, licking, sucking, tasting himself in Brian's mouth and that's so fucking hot he moans. The position is awkward, making a muscle in his side ache. He moves, straddling Brian's waist so he can kiss deeper, harder, taste more. No distractions. And Brian moans too then, into his mouth, hands sliding up his thighs to his hips, fingers digging in. Billy stops suddenly, looks down, and he feels a grin start way down deep, uncontainable.
        "You fucker. You sneaky damned fucker."
        Brian laughs. "Jesus. Took you long enough."
        "Yeah. Jesus. Yeah. Sorry, slow tonight."
        Brian's tongue flickers out across his lower lip. "Oh, I hope so. Slow. Yeah."
        They reach out at the same time, hands colliding on the nightstand, knocking over the lube. Laughing, Billy manages to catch it before it rolls off onto the floor, puts it in Brian's hand. "Do me."
        He watches, waits, as Brian flips open the bottle, upends it over his other hand, drizzling thick, clear fluid across his fingertips. He pops the lid back down with his thumb and drops the bottle, looks up at Billy, tongue flashing again. Billy leans to capture it, sucking on it, as Brian's fingers slide into place and his sucking becomes a gasp as cool, slick fingers touch him, one easing inside. He turns his head, gasping for breath.
        "God. Oh, God, Brian. Fuck, yeah."
        He curves above Brian, head buried in the crook of his neck, as he's stroked, inside, outside. Brian's other hand is at the back of his neck, fingers massaging his hair, his neck, his shoulder. A second finger slides in and he moans, fighting the need to move, to do this fast, and hot, and hard, like always. Slow. Slow. He bites Brian's shoulder, not hard, whimpering as those gentle, knowing fingers stroke up into him, so damned slow, so damned deep. Beautiful, big hands, big fingers. . . cock. He's neglected that. God. It's all been about him. Time to give back.
        He slides one hand down, finds, claims. Brian gasps, chokes, bucking into his touch. God. He's so hard it must hurt. Silky, hot skin, swollen with need, pulsing against his palm. He rubs gently, again, feeling the give of foreskin, baring the tip. Wet. Very wet. Weeping with need. Holding Brian's cock carefully, he moves into place, and Brian's fingers leave him just as he sinks down, and oh. . . fuck. . . His head falls back and he shudders as he's filled. Perfect. Couldn't get any more perfect. Thick, naked, perfect cock deep inside him. Jesus, he can feel Brian's pulse there, inside him, matching his own racing heart.
        For a time that's enough, just to be there, joined. Brian's hands are back on his hips, massaging gently, not urgent, and he shifts a little now and then, just a little. Billy smiles, tips his head forward, looks down, sees the dazed pleasure on Brian's face, the faint gleam of sweat on his skin, knows he looks the same. He moves, finally, down, lifts, down again, feeling the sliding, melting pleasure inside him. Brian gasps, thrusts up to meet him, fingers biting into his hips, then those cloud-blue eyes lift to his. He's lost then. There's so much there in them, so much, he's so fucking . . . open.
        And that does it to him. Just that. He moans, his whole body shakes, and he's coming hard, pulsing out his pleasure on Brian's strong, smooth stomach, long, racking shudders of delight. Brian's hips buck upward once, twice, and the low moan that breaks his lips speaks of completion. After an aeon, Billy collapses down against Brian, panting, face wet with sweat and probably something else too. Brian's arms tighten around him and he guides them onto their sides, still joined. Billy's eyes are getting droopy, sleep stealing up on him, but he struggles up from a doze when Brian finally slips out of him.
        "Brian. . . I . . ." he stops, not knowing what to say, how to feel, what to do.
        Brian hugs him, shakes his head. "Sleep," he says, sounding muzzy himself.
        Sleep. Yes. For the first time in what feels like forever, he knows his dreams won't be haunted. He kisses Brian's shoulder sloppily, closes his eyes, and lets sleep take him.
        Spotlight on him, so bright, he turns his head away from the light and opens his eyes, blinking in the brightness, sleepy and puzzled. . . where the fuck is he? He pushes up on one arm and sees Brian lying next to him, still sleeping, face and body latticed by stripes of brilliant sunlight pouring through the half-closed blinds. Not a spotlight. Just the sun. On Brian. Naked. In bed. He feels a smile start and broaden. Jesus.
        He turns onto his side, slowly so he doesn't make the bed move much, doesn't want to wake Brian. God, he's gorgeous. The sunlight makes Brian's skin glow tawny where it's not striped with shadow, making him look like a tiger. The silver wings and flecks in his tousled mink-brown hair almost glitter in the light. His lips are slightly parted, a hint of white teeth showing. Billy knows his mouth has to be dry, and finds his tongue moistening his own lips in response. Dark lashes fan on perfect cheekbones, a bare hint of stubble shadowing jaw and around lips. He runs a hand across his own face, feels more than a hint there. He ought to shave, because he knows he's going to be doing a lot of kissing here soon, but he just doesn't want to do anything but lie here and look at Brian, because he's too fucking beautiful to be believed.
        His gaze slides lower, down the bare chest that's too damned smooth and sleek to belong to a man his age, down a belly nearly as flat as Billy's, down the faint trail of dark silk that arrows from navel toward groin, where he's stopped mid-abdomen by a bunched mass of covers. He's affronted at that, he wants to see more, see it all. Cautiously he reaches out and gently lifts the covers out of the way, folding them back so Brian's bared down to his knees. Yeah. Better. Much better. Coarse dark curls vee out at his groin, framing the thick, pale length of his cock, hiding in the sheath of his foreskin, the heavy weight of testicles soft beneath it. He's got one knee canted to the side, shadows between his thighs, a little mystery.
        It's unbelievable. If he wasn't afraid of waking Brian he would touch him, just to reassure himself that he's really there. But he is, he knows he is. The past few weeks have begun to reassure him that Brian's there for him. It's just this is the first time he's been here, like this. It makes it all a little more. . . real. Fucking scary. He's putting down roots. He could even have an actual lease, not a sublet. He has a real job, making real money. He has a daughter that he needs to learn about. He has a . . . lover. Lover. He tastes the word on his lips, rolls it in his mouth, lets it bounce in his head. Not just a one night stand. A lover. He's starting to have a life. Really fucking scary.
        Nature nags him hard enough that he gets carefully out of bed, goes and uses the can, borrows Brian's razor and shaving cream, finger-brushes his teeth, and finally returns to the bed, sliding in as cautiously as he'd left. He's a little amused to find that through all that, Brian's still dead to the world. Sound sleeper. Good thing Billy's not a burglar. He grins at that thought. Yeah. Naked burglar in bed with a lawyer. Right.
        But strangely enough, he feels a little like he's stolen something precious for himself here. Something he's not used to in this setting Up until now, or almost, it's always just been about biology. The simple need to fuck. That was it, that was all. Pure animal pleasure. Then there'd been Chicago and that had been a real revelation. That there could be affection, too, that you could have friendship and sex. Now this, with Brian, even more than he had with Ben-- in fact, way different from what he had with Ben and he's not sure why.
        And he does not want to think about this any more, he really doesn't. It's too big. He looks at Brian, who shows no sign of waking, and sighs, wishing he'd wake the fuck up. Then he grins. Yeah. That could be really fun. Remembering Brian's dry lips, he moistens his own, then leans over and slides the tip of his tongue softly across Brian's lower lip. Brian twitches a little and his own tongue comes out to do the same. Billy licks that, too, and lets his hand slide down to cup the warm, substantial weight of Brian's cock, massaging gently.
        Brian arches languidly into his hand, making a little sound in his throat. Billy tongues his upper lip this time, pausing a moment at the left corner to lick. Brian makes more noises, a breathy little 'mmm' that makes Billy's hand falter for a moment on Brian's slowly hardening penis until Brian lifts his hips into the caress, reminding him. He starts stroking again, as Brian reaches up and slides his hand to the back of Billy's neck, pulling him close, and their lips meet, finally.
        "You're still here," Brian says softly after a moment or two.
        Billy nods, ducks his head into the curve of Brian's shoulder, suddenly embarrassed.
        Brian hugs him. "Thank you."
        Billy pushes up again, surprised by the shaky tone of Brian's voice. "What for?"
        "Staying. I wasn't sure you. . . that I . . ."
        "Fuck, Brian. Don't."
        Brian swallows, nods, eyes fixed on something across the room. "All right."
        Billy frowns. "Brian. Even if I wasn't here, it wouldn't be you, okay? It would be me. My thing. Not you."
        "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be. . . " Brian stops himself, shakes his head, and manages a wry smile. "Sorry, it's just been a long time. I think I forgot what to do the morning after."
        Billy gazes back at him, understanding suddenly, feels his own mouth echo Brian's lopsided smile. "Yeah. And I never did know what to do the morning after. So we're a pair."
         "Well, there's ... the coffee and conversation option," Brian says, a little huskily.
        Billy shakes his head. "We've done that to death, Brian. I like the fuck like minks option."
        Brian gapes for a moment, then breaks into laughter, rich and delighted. Then he's rolling over on top of Billy and pinning him to the bed as he kisses him hotly, and very thoroughly. Finally he lifts his head and grins. "You shouldn't say things like that to a man who hasn't been laid in six years, Bill," he says huskily. "He might just take you up on it."
        "It's about fucking time," Billy breathes into his mouth. "Fuck President's Day sales, Brian, it's the goddamned Fourth of July."
        Brian laughs again. "You know a lot about American holidays for a Canuck," he says, and claims his mouth once more, his tongue slicking sweetly over Billy's, one of his thighs between Billy's, his cock a firm length in the hollow of his hip. Billy thrusts up against him, fingers digging into the firm curves of Brian's ass, pulling him closer. Brian chokes a little and moans, turns his head to gasp in a breath, then catches Billy's earlobe in his teeth and tugs gently before letting go. "My turn," he says, following the statement with a swirl of tongue in the spiral of Billy's ear.
        It takes Billy a moment to stop shivering with response and think. "Your turn?" he asks, then lowers his mouth to lick the raspy line of Brian's jaw.
        Brian nods, lips still against Billy's ear. "My turn," he repeats.
        And Billy gets it, suddenly, what Brian's saying, and his hands tighten a little, his cock going from mostly to completely hard in seconds. "Yeah?" he rasps.
        Brian nods. "Yeah. Oh yeah." He rocks gently against Billy's hip. "Yeah."
        That shakes him a little. Somehow he hadn't expected this. He's not sure why not, it's not like it's not a natural progression. But oh, Jesus, he's been thinking about that ass, dreaming about it, and now Brian wants to, and he's not sure he'll last long enough to even get past the starting gate. Maybe he just misunderstood.
        "You, um, want me to . . ." he begins, and is suddenly overcome with a complete inability to speak. He knows his face is absolutely crimson, and he wonders what the hell is wrong with him. It's just fucking. . . fucking. It's not like he's never done this before. Well, he hasn't, a lot, but when he did Ben seemed to like it. It's just that somehow in his fantasies he just figured Brian would be the one doing this part.
        Brian waits for him to finish his sentence, and when he doesn't, he pulls back to look into his face. "We don't have to . . . I just thought. . . " he stops. "We'll do whatever you're comfortable with. Okay?"
        Oh no. No, he's not going to pull that. Billy shakes his head, pushing at Brian in exasperation. "No, Brian. I'm not alone here in this bed. This is not just about me. That's not right. This is us. Just like you said last night. Us. Okay? You want something, you get it. I want something, I get it. I was just surprised, okay?"
        Brian looks a little surprised himself. "You were surprised? Why?"
        Billy shrugs. "Just. . . you kind of like to be in charge."
        For a moment he thinks Brian's going to be offended and then suddenly he grins and starts to chuckle. "Put me in my place. Okay, you're right, I do. But I want to . . . stretch my wings. You make me want to try new things."
New things. Fuck. Oh fuck. That has to mean what he thinks it does, and that gets him right down deep. "I thought you said you had. . . ."
        "I did. But not everything. It was only a couple of times, and like you said, I like to be in charge. I liked it even more back then."
        "Brian. . . " Billy says solemnly.
        "Yeah?"
        "If you want me to do this, you have to shut up now. Because the more you talk about it the less likely it is I'll be able to not come right fucking now."
         "Well," Brian says, a devilish glint in his eye as he stretches lazily, "we've got ... all ... day..."
        Billy groans, and bucks up against that thigh that's hard between his own, and only a hand quickly shoved between them for a firm squeeze just below the head of his cock keeps him from fulfilling his own prophecy. When he can think again he gives Brian a measured look, and smiles, and he can see in Brian's face that it's the right smile. Brian doesn't breathe for a moment, and his mouth opens a little, his tongue stealing out to moisten his lips. He swallows, hard.
        "Jesus," he breathes.
        He laughs softly. "Yeah. That's what you do to me, Brian. All the time. And I have fucking dreamed about your ass, and it's mine now. You want me, you got me." And he pushes up, and over, and he's on top now, and Brian's mouth is locked to his in a harsh, almost desperate kiss. Billy reaches down between them, finds Brian's thick shaft, pumps it a couple of times. Brian's open to him, a knee on either side of Billy's hips. He knows it can be done this way, he's seen it tons of times on videos, but he never has, and he's not quite sure how. . . but still, it feels right. Face to face, just like last night. He wants to see Brian's face when he comes, see it go slack and sweet with pleasure. He breaks the kiss. "Lube?"
        "Nightstand," Brian says, breathing hard.
        He glances fast, yeah, there it is, lying on its side. He grabs it, pops it open, drenches his fingers, reaches down, then hesitates. "You sure?" he asks, one more time, because he'll never, ever take yes for granted again.
        Brian nods. "Yes."
        Billy sits back, kneeling, and with his unslick hand shoves a pillow under Brian's hips so they're canted up a little. Yeah, that's easier. All right, deep breath. He slides his hand down Brian's cock, slicking it first, and Brian arches up into his hand. Before he relaxes, Billy moves his left hand lower, much lower, and closes his right hand around Brian's cock as he strokes the fingers of his other hand across the small opening between Brian's buttocks once, twice, then presses a fingertip inside.
        Brian's head goes back, and he makes a deep, startled sound.
        Billy stops, instantly, ready to abandon the endeavor. "Okay?" he asks, surprised by how husky his voice is.
        "Fuck yeah. God. That's. . . wild."
        Billy grins. "You ain't seen wild yet, Brian."
        "Can't wait," Brian says, a little breathlessly.
        He shifts his hips, and makes another soft sound, and Billy's starting to understand that those are the noises he makes when he's hot, when he's turned on, not sounds of discomfort. He wants to hear more of them. He strokes a little, each time going in a bit deeper, and pretty soon Brian's working with him, hips moving in the same rhythm.
        "More," Brian murmurs after a little while, his voice smoky and dark, as intoxicating as whiskey.
        Yeah. More. He's relaxed, he's liking it. Unbelievable. Billy eases a second finger in, and Brian moans, his cock twitching in Billy's hand.
        "Oh fuck, Bill. Yeah. . . ."
        Each stroke now gets a fluid lift of hips, a thrust of cock into slippery palm. Only a little of that slickness is from the lube, the rest is all Brian, and damn, Billy's wishing they'd taken time to shower before starting this because he wants, badly, to taste but he's not stupid enough to do it. Then he remembers they've got all day. Fuck. All week. God. They'll need it.
        "Bill. . . " Brian grits out. "Now."
        He can feel the lift in Brian's balls, knows he's close, really close. Okay. Yeah. Now. He lets go of Brian's cock, grabs the lube and slicks himself up, shuddering with the effort of not coming. He was okay as long as he was concentrating on Brian, as long as there was no stimulus, but even just the touch of his own fingers is almost too much right now. He bites hard on his tongue and eases forward, concentrating on the pain in his mouth to keep from feeling the way Brian opens to him, slowly, fuck, so tight, so tight, this will never work, he's going to hurt him, no, he can't do this. Then just as he's about to back off, to give up, Brian's thighs flex, and push, and Brian grunts a little and ohgod. . . he's in. Smooth, sweet heat, so tight, fits him perfectly, perfectly. He opens his eyes, doesn't remember closing them, but they were, looks down into Brian's face.
        "Okay?" he asks again, has to. Has to.
        "Feels so . . . good," Brian whispers. "So fucking good." He reaches down, puts a hand on Billy's thigh, looks up, pupils huge. "You're shaking."
        "I know," Billy gasps. "I need. . . I need. . . ." He needs to move. "Can't," he says incoherently.
        Brian smiles at him. He smiles. "You can. I trust you. Give it to me. Give me what you need. What. . . I. . . need."
        That's it. That's just fucking it. Billy shudders and shifts forward, his hands cupping Brian's ass as he thrusts in, in, in, and Brian moans and shudders, and. . . comes. Thick, hot spurts all over Billy's stomach and chest, his body gone tight, clenching around Billy like a fist. With a sob Billy gives up the battle and lets go, feeling the heat rise through him, pump out in a raw, delirious flood, leaving him drained. Without a word Brian eases away with a little twist of his hips, then pulls Billy down to him and holds him until the shudders stop. After a while he sighs, and tries to move away, but Brian's arms tighten around him.
        "Don't go," Brian says hoarsely. "Please."
        Fuck. That threatens to make him lose it again. He shakes his head, settles again, soothes a hand down Brian's arm. "Not going anywhere," he says, and it's so damned weird to be reassuring Brian. Give and take. Not just give. Not just take. He's learning. It's hard. They say the older you get, the harder it is to learn new things. But Brian's learning, too, and he's older than Billy, so maybe they have a chance.
        "You okay?" Brian asks quietly.
        "I'm good," Billy says, and it comes to him that he is. He is. It's a shock. He pushes up a little, so their eyes can meet and see more than blue blurs, and he says it again. "I'm good." He can hear the amazement in his voice.
        Brian gazes up at him, a little worried quirk to the inner corners of his eyebrows; then slowly he begins to smile. "Yeah. Me too."



        It's been rough going, but Brian thinks they're over the worst of it. Hopes so, anyway. Not that he expects everything to be smooth sailing from here on out, no, he's not naïve. Billy's damaged. Healing but damaged. It's going to take a lot of work, but he's willing to try. He thinks, now, that Billy is too. Wasn't really sure until after the second time they'd made love, but he's sure now. Pretty sure. As sure as you can be of a wild, wary creature like Billy.
        He watches Billy cracking eggs into a bowl to make pancakes. He was surprised, somehow, to discover a domestic side to Billy. He likes to cook. Nothing fancy, just basic things, but still, it had been unexpected. Two days alone together have revealed quite a few unseen facets and one huge gap. Billy has no idea how to play. Not really. He's fielded all of Brian's suggestions for amusements with puzzled shrugs. Apparently his idea of having fun is the same as his idea of working, with an exception made for sex, which seems to be the only recreational pastime with which he's familiar. And it's a very fine recreational pastime, if a little. . . limited. Brian's definitely not complaining. His body, though a little sore in unexpected places, seems to be extremely pleased with this turn of events.
        As Billy moves from cabinet to counter Brian notices yet again that Billy moves with surprising grace sometimes, almost like a dancer. He's got a dancer's build, too, long and lean but also very strong. He's wearing clothes that accentuate that, too, loose-fitting, silky track pants, the kind with a strip of snaps up the outseam that make Brian itch to unsnap them, and an old, threadbare tank that's stretched out a little at the neck, but snug through the torso. The curve of his back as he turns to get milk out of the refrigerator seems strangely erotic, and Brian feels a flare of heat go through him. He wants to pull off that shirt and lick the length of Billy's spine. Weird, but. . . what the hell? Nothing ventured nothing gained.
        In a quick move, he crosses the kitchen and drags Billy's shirt up and his pants down, plants his mouth in the little dip at the base of his spine, and starts moving upward with long, slow licks.
        "Fuck, Brian. . . what the. . . mmmm," Billy says, thunking the bowl he's holding down hard enough to slop batter onto the counter.
        Brian discovers that the elastic waist of Billy's pants is easy to get a hand into, so he does, sliding it down Billy's stomach to his groin, finding the soft thickness of his cock and cupping it.
        "Animal," Billy says, laughing, tugging at his wrist. "You want to eat sometime today?"
        "Yes." Brian says, urging Billy around to face him, lowering the front side of his pants to match the back and leaning in to nuzzle the warm handful of male flesh he's holding. Billy smells clean, faintly musky, sexy. "Want to eat now," he growls, sliding his tongue in to lick at the head of Billy's cock where it's hiding.
        Billy's hips jerk forward involuntarily at that touch. "Oh, man. . ." he moans, clutching the counter with both hands. "Brian, we're in the fucking kitchen!"
        "So?" Brian asks, licking again, feeling the expansion starting.
        "Agh. . . " is all Billy manages as Brian adds suction to his repertoire.
        He can still feel tension in Billy's stomach and thighs, though, and he's pretty sure it's not just arousal. He lets the thickening shaft slip from his mouth and leans back to look up at Billy. "Relax. It's okay. No one's here but us."
        Billy looks dazed, but he nods. "Okay. . . Jesus, Brian, you're crazy!"
        "Mmhmm. Told you. You've never had sex in a kitchen?" Billy shakes his head, and Brian grins. "Bathroom?" He gets a nod, so he keeps going. "Bedroom's a given. Living room?" Another
negative. "Deck?" Negative. "Office?" Negative. He grins. "Oh, we have a lot of ground to cover, Vanilla Boy."         For all his sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll lifestyle, Billy is remarkably innocent. In contrast, after living in San Francisco for over twenty years, there's very little Brian hasn't done, seen or heard of. It's kind of amusing to realize that most people looking at them would probably assume Billy to be the more sexually sophisticated.
        He ducks his head, taking Billy in again. The smell of sex is stronger now, more arousing, so is the taste, gone from the blandness of clean skin to the faint bitter tang of pre-ejaculate. He loves the feel, the solid weight of Billy in his mouth, the way his head goes back, the way his hips slide forward, putting an S-curve in the long line of his back.
        "Not. . ." Billy gasps, ". . .not vanilla. Done it in the van. . . clubs. . . dressing rooms. . . "
        Brian laughs around Billy's cock, which makes Billy buck and moan. He'd known Billy would object to that one. He licks, draws back thoughtfully. "Mmm, no, definitely not vanilla," he says with a grin.
        Billy starts to laugh, helplessly, and can't keep himself upright. He slides down the cabinet to the floor and leans over to grab Brian, pulling him close. "Weird, crazy fucker," he whispers against Brian's ear.
        Brian swivels to kiss him and pushes him down flat on the floor as he does. Billy makes noises against his mouth that sound like he's trying to talk so Brian lifts up and Billy narrows his eyes at him.
        "Fucking floor's cold."
        Brian grabs the rug from in front of the sink and after pushing Billy's ass up off the tiles, he tucks the rug underneath. "There, all comfy. Now shut the fuck up," Brian growls, going for another quick, hot kiss before sliding back down Billy's lean torso and getting back to what he really wants to be doing. Billy moans softly as his mouth closes around the heavy thrust of his cock, twitching a little. He slides one hand into Brian's hair and strokes gently in time to each slow suck Brian gives him.
        Brian takes his time, using his hands and his mouth to try to make Billy's first time in a kitchen as memorable as possible. He ignores his own insistent erection, uncomfortably confined behind jeans that Billy teases him about for their snug fit, and the fact that his shirt's hiked up so his bare stomach is against the cold tile. Billy was right about that. Still, the discomfort isn't a bad thing because it backs him down a bit, lets him pay more attention to Billy, who's moving under him in long, loose undulations, panting, but quiet, save for soft gasps when Brian does something particularly right.
        Billy tastes so good, feels so good. Jesus, it had been fun with Mouse, but nothing, nothing like this. He craves this, the essential masculinity offered to him without hesitation, the musky scent of need, the play of muscle beneath hand and tongue. He watches the flex and strain of long thighs as Billy fights the rising tide of pleasure, trying to make it last, trying to keep the sweetness going as long as possible. He slows down, nuzzling, licking, sucking, hands gently massaging and stroking the vulnerable weight of testicles in their soft enclosure, feeling them lift, and Billy's hand tightens in his hair suddenly, trying to tug him up.
        "Brian . . . Bri . . . stop now!"
        Brian shakes his head a little, makes a negative sound. Uh-unhn. No way, he's not going to stop now, not with the prize just seconds away.
        "Brian!"
        Billy sounds frantic, and tugs harder on Brian's hair, bringing a sting of tears to his eyes, but he shakes his head again and slides one hand down between Billy's thighs, searches, finds, and probes, and Billy lets go suddenly, bucking under him. He makes a loud, wordless sound as the first pulses of thick bitter liquid hit Brian's tongue. Oh, yeah. Yeah. That's what Brian wanted. Exactly what he wanted. He keeps sucking, swallows as his mouth fills, again, again, until there's nothing left to swallow and Billy's a shivering heap on the floor under him. He lifts his head, looks up Billy's lean torso to his face, and licks his lips.
        Billy shudders, reaching out to touch Brian's mouth with his fingertips. "Fuck, Brian. What the hell was that?"
        Brian puts a hand on Billy's thigh and rests his chin there, feeling the ache in his jaw as he smiles. "I think that's commonly called a blow job, Bill."
        Billy shakes his head sharply, his expression part ecstasy, part anger. "Fuck it, Brian. Jesus!"
        A little puzzled by Billy's reaction, Brian frowns. "You're not going to try to tell me you've never had one before, are you? Because I won't believe it."
        "You ... you fucking swallowed!" Billy says accusingly, sounding incredulous.
        Brian smiles. "Oh yeah." He licks his lips slowly, consideringly, reminiscing. "Oh yeah."
        "You wanted to?" The accusation in Billy's voice is rapidly being replaced with pure amazement.
        Brian grins a little, puzzled. "Of course I did. You bet I did. "
        Billy stares at him, a strange, almost lost look on his face. "Why?"
        Oh, Jesus. Brian crawls up Billy's body until they're face-to-face, pulls him close, kissing his cheek, his ear, his mouth. "Because I wanted to, that's all. Because I like you. Because it's fun. Because you taste so fucking good. Okay?"
        A flush rises in Billy's face, and his eyes fall. "I. . . um. . . okay. Yeah . I guess. It's just I never. . . nobody ever. . . . I'm sorry. I'm not mad, really. Just surprised."
        Brian shakes his head and stifles a rude comment about Billy's previous lovers. "Nice to know I still have a few surprises in me," he says, grinning, then looks up at the counter. "So, pancakes?"
        Billy looks at him, frowns. "Um. . . don't you want to . . . ." he glances at Brian's groin, then back up to his face, puzzled.
        Brian grins. "Yeah, eventually, but I'm still hungry, and you know, I'm ... old and I'm not used to all this . . . activity."
        Billy snorts. "Yeah, right. Old. That's a good one. But, hey, if you're hungry that's cool. I can feed you . . . first."
        There's a deliberate pause before that last word, and equally deliberate emphasis on it. Brian's mostly subsided erection twitches at that and he ruthlessly ignores it. He wants Billy to want it, want him, wants it to be wanted, not just ... expected. Not just reciprocation. So instead of jumping Billy again, he grins. "I'll hold you to that."
         Billy grins back. "I bet you will." He puts a hand on the counter and levers himself to his feet, hitches up his pants, then leans down to extend a hand to Brian. "Need help?"
        "I'm not that old, Bill." Despite his words he grasps Billy's forearms, and Billy braces him to his feet.
         "You know, sometimes I think I'm the grown up here," Billy says. "You just attacked me in the kitchen like a fucking teenager. At least I wait until we get to the bedroom." He turns and picks up his bowl again, stirring, leans to flip the burner on under the skillet, then shoots a glance at Brian.
        Brian shakes his head. "Christ, Bill, you really need to loosen up. Learn to enjoy life. What do you want to drink? Coffee?"
        "Water. I think I'm getting dehydrated."
        He winks, and it takes Brian a minute to get it, but then he does and he laughs. Getting out a glass, he goes to the freezer for a handful of ice cubes, drops them into the glass, then goes to the sink for water. As he turns on the water to fill the glass, an evil thought occurs to him and he surreptitiously fishes one of the cubes out again. When Billy turns to ladle batter onto the skillet, he hooks a finger in the back of his pants, stretches out the waistband, and drops the ice cube down them, giving Billy's ass a little pat to make sure the ice hits skin and doesn't just slither down the loose pant leg.
        Billy yelps, drops the bowl again, splashing batter on the stove, the counter, and himself this time as he spins around, gaping. "What the hell is that?"
        Brian grins, unrepentant. "Fun, Bill."
        Billy opens his mouth, closes it again, shaking his head, looking a little confused. He reaches back and yanks at his pants until the ice cube drops to the floor. "What the hell was that?" he repeats.
        Brian stares for about three seconds and then grins big. "That was . . . war, Bill. And I'm armed." He holds up the glass of ice cubes and waits.
        Billy looks at the glass, at Brian, back, frowning a little, then his eyes narrow, he switches the burner off and picks up the bowl, a slow, evil smile stretching his lips. "So am I, Brian."
        Brian almost shouts a 'hallelujah' but as Billy has begun advancing on him with the batter he decides that perhaps discretion is the better part of valor and he starts backing up. "No, Bill, you wouldn't want us to have to clean that up off the floor. . ."
        "Didn't seem to bother you a minute ago," Billy says coolly, toying with the spoon.
        "Want some ice?" Brian says, holding out the glass.
        "Arming your enemy? You think you'll win that way?"
        "I think I win either way," Brian says, reaching forward fast and dumping the ice down the front of Billy's shirt. The bowl is back down on the counter faster than he can even think and Billy's yanking off his shirt, grabbing cubes as they spill. Brian turns and dashes for the living room with Billy hard on his heels. Brian skids on a rug and nearly goes down, and Billy grabs him, pushing him backwards over the couch, coming down on top of him, pinning him in place. He yanks up Brian's shirt and runs his handful of ice cubes over his chest. A jolt of unexpected arousal goes through him as the cold slickness grazes his nipples, trails of cool water sliding down his skin, puddling in his navel. Billy looks at him assessingly and grins, moves a hand down to his fly, pops the button, pulls down the zipper.
        "No . . . ." Brian says, his voice thick and hoarse.
        Billy just smiles. "It's justice, Brian," he says softly, swiping the ice down Brian's stomach, laughing as he gasps and jerks. "You're into that whole justice thing, right?" He teases one ice cube along the open vee below the waistband, back and forth, and water's soaking into the denim, spreading cool dampness across his overheated crotch. His cock doesn't seem to mind, though, not at all. Billy teases a different cube over his nipples again with his other hand, watching his reactions narrowly.
        "Like that?" he asks softly, licking his lips.
        "No," Brian says automatically.
        Billy stops, eyebrows lifted. "No?"
        "Fuck," Brian says. "Yeah. I do. Jesus, Bill, what you do to me!"
        Billy tugs at his shirt. "Take this off."
        Brian does, struggling awkwardly with the fabric. Billy waits, hands dripping as the ice melts in his fingers. Finally it's off and discarded and Billy puts an ice cube in his mouth and leans down, sucking one of Brian's nipples into his mouth, lips so sweet and warm, then shockingly his tongue is nudging a cold, hard piece of ice across the taut nub. Brian bucks against Billy's weight. A frigid hand trails down his belly, into his open fly, finds his cock, and it's all he can do not to scream at the sensation of ice-cold fingers wrapping around him. He doesn't, quite, but the strangled moan that rips out of his throat might as well be a scream, it's that intense.
         He wants to thrust into that surrounding tightness, and as the same time he instinctively wants to yank away from the cold, and the contrast is just fucking amazing, and so is Billy, so serious, even in play. He reaches down and drags Billy up from his chest, and their mouths meet and mesh, and a cold slick tongue flickers playfully along his as the hand in his wet jeans squeezes gently, warming quickly against his hot skin. Weirdly in the middle of all this he imagines he can hear Mary Ann's disapproving voice, asking him what the hell he thinks he's doing, and it's pretty fucking bizarre that he's thinking of her right now. But then Billy's going stiff against him and pushing up to stare, wide-eyed, toward the door, and he realizes. . . oh fuck. . . that was not his imagination.
        With surprising aplomb Billy's hand is out of his pants and surreptitiously re-fastening his jeans for him in about two seconds flat, then he's reaching down to grab Brian's shirt off the floor and hand it to him before he shifts his weight and stands up, arms crossed in an instinctively defensive posture that somehow on him looks surprisingly aggressive. Brian pulls his shirt on, glad it's long enough to provide concealment for the spreading wet spot on the front of his pants, and stands, too.
        "I've asked you before to knock, Mary Ann," he says, a little impatiently to his ex-wife, who's looking from him to Billy and back in complete amazement.
        "That's a man!" Mary Ann manages to gasp after a moment.
        "Your powers of observation never cease to amaze me," Brian says drily. He waves a hand at her. "Mary Ann Singleton, meet Bill Boisy."
        Billy nods warily. Mary Ann can't stop staring at him long enough to acknowledge the introduction.
        "Where's Maddie, Mary Ann?" Brian prompts. "What are you doing here?"
        That snaps her attention back to Brian. "What? Wh. . . oh, Maddie. She's bringing some stuff up from the taxi."
        "She's supposed to be with you until the weekend before school starts, Mary Ann, and if you want to change the visitation schedule you're supposed to give me some notice."
        "I have to go to Atlanta," Mary Ann says brusquely. "I have an interview with CNN. I had to bring her back."
        "And you couldn't call ahead?" Brian says evenly.
        "I didn't think you'd be having an orgy," Mary Ann says, disgust evident not only in her voice but in the faint sneer that curls her lips.
        Billy snorts. "Two's an orgy, three's a crowd," he says, with utter and deliberate insolence.
        Mary Ann gasps and looks at Brian as if he's supposed to do something. He's having a hard time not laughing, but then he sees Maddie out in the courtyard struggling with a big bag as well as her luggage and he glares at Mary Ann. "You could've helped her with that stuff," he snaps.
        Billy looks out, looks at Brian. "I'll go help her," he offers.
        Mary Ann starts to protest but before she can get it out, Billy's grabbed a windbreaker off the coat tree and pulled it on over his bare chest and is heading out to the courtyard.
        "Who the hell is that?" Mary Ann demands, whirling on Brian. "What on earth are you doing with him?"
        He holds up a hand. "Stop. Just a minute. Not in front of Maddie."
        "Oh, you can practically screw in front of her but you can't talk to me in front of her?"
        "You weren't supposed to be here. We were alone. There was no reason to be particularly circumspect. If Maddie had been here, of course we would have been more careful."
        Mary Ann looks out to where Maddie is excitedly greeting Billy and grimaces. "God, Brian, he looks like he's about sixteen! When did you turn into a chicken hawk?"
        That's close enough to his own inner doubts to hurt, and it makes him snap. "He's thirty-five years old, Mary Ann. That's hardly hawk territory. And, no, I won't argue with you in front of her. She's heard enough of that."
        Mary Ann fumes silently as Billy and Maddie enter the house, Billy with the luggage, and Maddie with a huge bag from Saks full of something pink and white and puffy. Maddie stops in the doorway, looking from Mary Ann to Brian then to Billy and back, and her smile dims instantly. Brian suppresses the desire to swear. He may be angry with Mary Ann, but Maddie doesn't need to bear the brunt of that. He grins at her. "Hi, sweetheart, I missed you, I'm glad you could come back early. You hungry? Bill was making pancakes."
        Maddie looks again at Brian and then at Billy and a little smile quirks her lips even as she sighs. She looks back at Mary Ann and her shoulders slump.
        "Come on, pancakes," Billy says. I got a mess to clean up too. Spilled the batter."
        "Pancake batter's hard to clean up," Maddie says, her shoulders straightening a little. "Especially when it gets dry."
        "Shit," Billy says. "Come on."
        "You clean, I'll cook." Maddie shakes her head and drops her stuff by the couch.
        "Sounds like a deal."
        Mary Ann watches them go, her foot tapping, ostentatious in the sudden silence. "I've heard a lot about 'Billy,'" she says, a little loudly. "Of course, the fact that you were-- "
        "I'm not going to talk about this here," he says flatly, then turning toward the kitchen, he calls out "Bill? Mind if we use the penthouse for a few?"
        Billy sticks his head back out the kitchen door. "Yeah. Sure. It's not locked."
        "We don't need to go up there," Mary Ann says.
        Brian drops his voice, moving to stand quite close to her. "We are not talking about this in front of Maddie. Or Bill. If you want to talk about it, you know your way to the roof. Intimately."
        "Bastard," she whispers.
        Brian grins, just to infuriate her, and inclines his head.
        Mary Ann stomps up the stairs but her anger doesn't prevent her from looking around the penthouse as Brian steps aside to let her in first. There's not much up here. Billy's acoustic guitar, a T-shirt on the back of a chair, a small stack of papers on the table, the bed left unmade, rumpled sheets pushed down to the foot of it.
        "He's staying here?"
        "He may rent this. He probably will."
        Mary Ann stares at him. "He's not living with you?"
        "No, so I imagine you can just drop that line of argument right now."
        "I wasn't--"
        "Bull, Mary Ann. You never miss a chance to put me in the wrong. Maddie knows, by the way. I had planned to tell you-- I'm sure it was a shock to you to find out-- but on the other hand, you should learn to knock. It's not your house."
        "It's Maddie's house."
        "That's true, but it's not your house. In the future, call or knock. What I do in my house, and with whom, is not your business."
        "It's not a healthy environment-- "
        "It's healthier than being dumped at a moment's notice by her mother whom she hasn't seen in almost three months because of a job interview. She likes Billy. He likes her."
        "Oh, a drug-addicted gay rock star whose best friend killed himself is a better role model than me? I don't think so, Brian."
        "Drug addict?" Brian frowns. "Did Maddie tell you that?"
        Mary Ann hesitates briefly.
        "I didn't think so. He's not. And on the whole he's a damn good role model for Maddie. A damn good example of good decisions and bad ones."
        Mary Ann sighs exaggeratedly. "You know, Brian, not everyone's a lost soul, and not everyone can be helped. And he shouldn't be helped at my daughter's expense."
        "I guess not. I mean, she's got a stellar example of maturity, open mindedness and intelligence from the parent who drops her off after two days for a job interview."
        "Oh, Brian, for God's sake, you can't expect me to just tell them I can't make it!"
        He looks at her steadily. "No, I know better than that."
        She glares back. "When I get the job I think Maddie should come live with me."
        Brian takes a breath, willing his temper to subside, and starts to straighten the papers on the table, picking them up and aligning the edges. "I don't think that's a good idea," he says finally, trying to sound reasonable. "Maddie would hate Atlanta. She's lived in San Francisco all her life. Her friends are here, she's happy and doing well in school."
        "All the more reason to broaden her horizons then, don't you think? She's flexible, she can adapt. And as Madrigal's mother I have a right to ask for custody if her father is subjecting her to an unhealthy environment."
        "Don't go there," he says warningly. "Just don't. You won't like where it ends up."
        "I can. I have the right, and I have grounds," she says defensively. "Immorality."
        Okay, he's tired of playing nice. "You have no fucking grounds, Mary Ann. You know I specialize in these kinds of cases, do you honestly think I'd lose my own? You're in no position to bargain. You abandoned Maddie and me when she was four years old. You didn't even bother with visitation for two years after that. You've had limited contact for the last ten years, do you think a judge would go for you over me, when I've basically had sole custody for twelve years and she's perfectly happy here?"
        Mary Ann lifts her chin. "It's happened before. I'm the birth mother, and you're playing house with another man."
        He laughs. "Jesus, I knew you were stubborn and naive but I didn't think you were stupid. The case would go to court right here in San Francisco. I know every judge in the district and they know me. And if you think that's not enough strikes against you, please remember that there's no statute of limitations on murder."
        "I didn't murder Norman!" Mary Ann hisses at him, furious.
        Brian shrugs. "Manslaughter? Negligent homicide? Still won't look good on a resume. Maybe you could get a talk show with O. J. or something but I don't think CNN would go for it."
        "How do you think your name will look dragged through the mud, Brian? I can do that, you know, and people will think you're just trying to hurt me, to get back at me."
        He looks at her mildly, nods. "You could, but you won't, because you know it won't make a bit of difference, not here. Jesus, Mary Ann, I'm the token straight at Gidde, Semko, Wilcox, and Hawkins."
        "Not any more, apparently," she snaps. "I thought you were straight. You always told me you were," she says accusingly. "What the hell were you thinking?"
        He stares at her, wondering if Mouse's ashes are making a little tornado of themselves where they'd scattered him. How could the Mary Ann who had once been best friends with Mouse turn into . . . this? Judgmental. Uptight. Bigoted. He didn't understand it. Never would. He looks at her and shakes his head sadly. "Jesus, Mary Ann, what the hell happened to you? How did you get here? Mouse and Anna wouldn't even recognize you."
        Surprisingly she flushes at that, and her defiant gaze falls. "That was different."
        "How?" he demands. "How was it different? You can accept Mouse, Mona, and Anna, but not me? Why not?"
        Her blush deepens, and she refuses to look at him, staring, instead, off into the distance. "Mouse and Mona were just friends. Anna too. But I . . . you. . . we. . . ." She lets her sentence trail off with an uncomfortable little shrug.
        Brian gets it finally and laughs drily. "Oh. I see. It's okay for other people, but not for anyone who slept with you? Well, I have news for you, Ms. Singleton, I am not the only one of your old flames to walk both sides of the street. Jon Fielding told me some really interesting things about Beauchamp Day one evening while we were waiting for Mouse to die."
        He sees her flinch, sees her eyes darken, and feels a vicious little pleasure in that. He still remembers trying to call her, to tell her that Mouse wouldn't last much longer, and that he wanted to see her. He'd gotten her voicemail. She'd never even returned the call. And it still hurt.
        "We're not talking about history," she snaps. "We're talking about Maddie."
        "I think we are talking about history," Brian says.
        "I don't see the relevance," Mary Ann says, staring out at the bay.
        "History. You. Me. Mouse. Mona. Anna. Maybe you ought to go think about other people, for a change, instead of yourself. I won't let you use Maddie to hurt me. It will only hurt her. And that's all I'm saying on it. If you want your lawyer to contact me, bring him on."
        "I'm not finished," Mary Ann begins.
        "I am," Brian says, opening the door and raising one eyebrow. "It's not hard, Mary Ann. Call. Knock. Think about your daughter for once instead of yourself. Easy lessons. Learn them."
        He and Mary Ann have had this part of the argument enough times for him to know how it ends. She glares at him, lips pressed tightly together, and slams the door behind her as she stalks off. He can hear her clattering noisily down the steps. He looks down at the papers still in his hand. Christ. Ed's papers that Billy was supposed to look at ... Jesus, was supposed to look at and sign weeks ago. He shakes his head, smiling a little despite his irritation with Mary Ann, and heads downstairs.
        Mary Ann stops short at the door, flings a look of defiance over her shoulder at Brian, and, opening the door, steps inside. She stops short and Brian has to prod her forward in order to close the door again.
        Maddie and Billy are sitting on the couch. Billy's got Maddie's acoustic guitar, a hand me down from Jack and David, and Maddie's got Billy's electric guitar and she's watching intently as he shows her fingerings, her own fingers moving on the strings, imitating him.
        "Chili Peppers? Really?" she's saying as Mary Ann and Brian pause. "Can you play any of their stuff?"
        Brian can't see Billy's face, but his grin is reflected in Maddie's own. He sits up a little and launches into a raucous strumming. Maddie laughs delightedly. "Knock Me Down, Johnny!"
        Billy plays a few more moments and Maddie shakes her head, watching his fingers. "I never knew my guitar could sound like that," she says.
        "Not a bad guitar. At least it's not, you know, plastic strings," Billy says.
        "Hey, Maddie," Brian says. "Your mom's leaving."
        Maddie twists around fast, her face falling a little, before she remembers to paint a smile on it. Billy strums softly as she gets to her feet and walks around the couch to hug Mary Ann.
        "I'll call you when I get to Atlanta," Mary Ann says. "And we'll do a week soon."
        "I start school again after New Year's," Maddie says.
        "A long weekend, then, Martin Luther King Day. I have to go-- I can't miss this flight. Love you." She kisses Maddie on the forehead, looks at Brian, hesitates, and then leaves without another word.
        Maddie looks at Brian. "Is she mad at you?"
        "Maddie-- "
        "Oh, come on, Dad. Is it me living with her again?"
        "That came up, " Brian admits cautiously. Maddie's face falls. "It's all right. I told her no in no uncertain terms. Don't worry, Maddie. I'm your lawyer. That's for me to worry about, not you. What were you guys playing? Don't let me interrupt."
        "Just jamming," Billy says, flicking ash off his cigarette into the ashtray on the coffee table. "We gotta hook up the amp."
        "Good," Maddie says. "I want to hear it."
        "Bill, before you get started again, I found the damn papers you were supposed to sign weeks ago upstairs on your table. Isn't Ed pissed?"
        Billy shrugs. "Probably. I tried to read them, Brian, Jesus. Parties of the first and second and third and fourth parts… it's worse than trying to understand Jethro Tull."
        "Massive quantities of-- " Brian stops, looks at Maddie, grins. "Never mind. You want me to look them over? I'll bill you."
        "Jesus. Would you? I mean-- can you?"
        "Just as a friend. Make sure it's all on the up and up. We can let one of the other partners give it all an official going over if you want."
        Billy shrugs. "Whatever you gotta do, Technical Man. Here, Maddie. Let's start that again, from the bridge."
        "Dad, I left you a plate of pancakes in the toaster oven," Maddie says as Brian walks into the kitchen.
He looks at the clock on the wall. It's well past two. He heats up the pancakes, reflecting that perhaps he should have just started dinner instead, and sits down to eat them, absently, as he begins reading the contracts. He's vaguely aware of Maddie wandering into the kitchen a little while later, getting a can of soda. The music and the low murmur of conversation start up again and he flips to the next page.
        Entertainment contracts aren't, of course, his field, and he has to admit that these seem fairly straightforward and more or less fair but his irrational dislike of Ed Festus keeps him slogging through the stack after he takes a break for some orange juice and to find his glasses. He turns another page over and is confronted with the back of a form, one of the ubiquitous 'Sign here' stickers stuck near a line halfway down the page.
        He turns it over to read the front and realizes it's not a contract, it's a release. There's been one release already, but that was for Jenifur; this one is for Hard Core Logo. He puzzles over it for a moment and puts it to one side, flips through the stack to see if the rest is Jenifur or if this one simply got put out of order. The rest of the stack is Jenifur-related, which makes him feel even more suspicious. He tells himself sternly that suspicion is second nature for a lawyer and ignores the voice in his head that says, "And rightfully so."
        He finishes the stack without finding any more anomalies. Maddie and Billy have gotten quiet and as he glances into the living room he sees that they're watching TV in a companionable silence. MTV. Mercifully the volume is low, in deference, he supposes, to his aging ears.
        As he walks into the living room, Billy says to Maddie, "That fucking fog is a bitch to work in. It gets right down in your lungs. And I swear every single director wants to use it."
        "And you smoke how many packs a day?" Maddie asks innocently.
        Billy, in the act of lighting another cigarette, stops and looks at her and then laughs, putting it down unlit. "One. Smart ass."
        "She comes by it naturally," Brian says.
        "Oh, hey, you finished? I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd read every damn sentence. Take up your whole afternoon, you didn't even get to see Maddie's presents."
        Maddie grimaces. "Never mind, Dad."
        Billy, out of Maddie's direct line of sight, rolls his eyes, mouths "LaCroix," and Brian stifles a sigh. Mary Ann doesn't get Maddie; hasn't gotten her for a while.
        "Everything was pretty much in order, although I'd feel better if we let Frank take a look at it." At Billy's puzzled look, he says, "Frank. Siracusa? I told you about him. He's one of the partners at my firm. He's got a few people in the local showbiz crowd he's worked with. Anyway. Let him look it over and I think this got in here by mistake. This-- "Brian holds up the stack-- "is all Jenifur stuff. But this-- " he holds up the single sheet of paper and waves it a little- "this is a release for Hard Core Logo. The rights from Golden Lick, it looks like, for three albums? William Boisy, John Oxenberger, Daniel Plummer, and Joseph Mulgrew, deceased, Patrick Mulgrew, next of kin."
        "What?" Billy stares at him.
        "A release-- "
        "What is that, what's that mean?" Billy says, and his voice is odd all at once, hard and cold and distant.
        "A release. For this label-- SAR Records-- to release these albums from the Golden Lick label under their own. There ought to be a contract too and a couple other forms but this seems to be the only one. I think it got into this pile by mistake."
        Billy's on his feet now, his face reflecting odd angles of flickering light from the television, the only source of illumination in the room. "No. Not a mistake."
        "What-- "
        "Fucking asshole, fucking asshole, fucking asshole," Billy says through gritted teeth, grabbing the paper from Brian. "Fucking-- God!" He makes a wordless sound, rage and frustration combined, and rips the paper in half, and then in half again. He stands still for a moment and then, not meeting Brian's eye, says, too quietly, "Need some air."
        Maddie and Brian look at each other as the sound of Billy's footsteps pounding up the stairs fades away.
        "Wow."
        "Yeah."
        "Is that Billy's manager?" Maddie asks. "Ed Festus?"
        "Yes, how did you-- "
        "He talked to him on the phone once, the day of the bomb scare. Billy was pretty mad at him then too."
        "Damn," Brian says softly, realizing that his damned inner voice was, as usual, correct.
        "Dad, should we-- "
        "No, I think he needs to be alone for a little while. Come on. Show me what you got, we'll start dinner."
He spends a distracted half hour going through Maddie's 'loot,' shakes his head with her over the new bedding-- good God, pink and lace, has Mary Ann spent any time with Maddie in the past couple of years-- and finally convinces her to help him with dinner. They don't talk much in the kitchen, just the usual; but Maddie keeps looking at the doorway. Finally Brian takes pity on her.
        "It'll be done soon, go tell Billy to wash his hands."
        She grins and is gone like a shot. She's back less than a minute later.
        "Dad…"
        He looks up at the note in her voice, a strangely adult note.
        "He's playing something. A Hard Core Logo song, I think. I don't think I should-- he sounds-- bad."
        "It's okay. It'll be okay, Maddie. I'll go up."
        "Okay. I'll make sure nothing burns."
        "Better just leave it in there, it'll keep warm for a while."
        She nods, already turning off the oven.
        Outside, Brian pauses halfway up the stairs, listening intently.

        "… in the shape of the world
        in the middle, your name
        and that's how I remember
        all of the good things
        you took to your grave …"

        He's never heard Billy sing. Never wants to hear him sing, not like this, broken into pieces. He takes the rest of the stairs two at a time. It's dusk and the lights are winking on all over the city. Brian pauses a moment at Billy's door, gathering himself, before knocking once, quietly.
        The sounds of the guitar and the voice cease but it's a moment before Billy says, "It's open."
        He's sitting in the dark; as Brian opens the door there's a flare of light as Billy flicks his lighter for the ubiquitous cigarette.
        "Hey," Brian says. "You want anything?"
        Billy's laugh has no mirth. "No. Yeah. I want a drink or seven. I want to smash something. Ed's lucky he's in LA or I'd kill him."
        "I'd prefer to go the non-murder route. I'm sure I could get you off but I'd rather not go through it. We could talk instead."
        In the dimness he sees a flash of teeth, bared, in a grin he's seen before, one that's a mere twist of lips.
        "Lawyer, accountant, pool boy, shrink." He takes a long drag from the cigarette between his lips, the tip glowing coalfire red. "You wanna add manager to the list?"
        Brian moves a few steps closer. He says, thoughtfully, "Don't take this the wrong way, Bill, but I'd pretty much settled on plain old 'lover.'"
        Billy looks at him, a quick, sharp glance, shakes his head. "Fuck, Brian, I'm a hell of a lot of work. You sure you want to bother?"
        Brian sits down next to him, on the bed, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat from Billy's body. "I'm sure. Tell me about it, Bill."
        Billy's quiet again for a long time.
        "You know," he says finally, "we came close. Ed had a major label for us. Joe fucked it up. Fucked with the head of the label. I told you. It was fucking . . . we were so fucking angry but it was . . . Joe. Took me a long time to figure out why, long time watching the bands and people in LA. Fakes, all of them; at least Joe wasn't that. I used to think he was afraid of success, of that next level, you know?"
        "He could have been. It would have been a change."
        "Yeah." Billy snorts. "Money and security. What a concept. Me, the sell out, wanting that."
        "Not a sell out."
        "Maddie thinks that was part of Joe's thing. For real. That he didn't want to sell out. I don't know. I don't know any more. Could've been. He had that hard steel core. Did what he had to, when he had to, if he thought it was right, and damn all." He sucks on his cigarette, then drops his hand, stares out the window at the lights coming on. "Fuck everyone. Fuck me. Fuck Bucky. Did what he wanted and managed to convince himself and just about everyone else that he was right . . . just because he wanted. Right or wrong, but he could do that. "
        "That takes a lot of strength."
        "Yeah. Yeah, he had that."
        "So, the label?"
        "Flies and lies, you know, man? Joe didn't want it. Didn't want the deal. So I can't do it now. Can't do that to him. Done enough. Already done enough, man."
        "No," Brian says carefully. Shrink indeed. "No, you can't do that if you feel that way about it. But, Bill, you didn't do anything to him."
        Billy lights another cigarette and stares out the window for a long time. "Yeah," he says at last. "Yeah, I did. Didn't mean to, Brian, but I did."
        "No, you didn't, Bill. You didn't kill Joe."
        "I know that, Brian. I meant-- "
        "I know what you meant. You're wrong."
        Billy shakes his head vehemently. "No, I'm not wrong. I mean, I know I didn't put the gun to his head, I didn't pull the trigger, and I know damned well that he was already fucked up. But I didn't tell him what I needed to. Only way we talked was the music. And, fuck, Brian, at least I had the music. Didn't have him but I had the music. He didn't have me. Didn't have the music."
        "His choice," Brian says, a hard note in his voice.
         "Yeah. But, Brian, we were writing again. Sometimes it was just like, you know, five years was wiped out. And the music was . . . it was good. I wanted Jenifur. Wanted Joe. I just didn't tell him. Didn't talk to him. Not . . . not good at that."
        Brian reaches out, finds his hand, twines their fingers together, smoothing a thumb over Billy's callused forefinger. "You talk to me just fine."
        "Yeah. Fucking can't keep my mouth shut with you. Weird."
        "Not so weird. We communicate."
        Billy looks at him intently, his fingers tightening in Brian's grasp. "Yeah. Yeah, we do."
        "Why do you think that is?"
        Billy shoots him an amused glance. "You hang around too many shrinks, Brian. You sound like one."
        "I mean it. Why?"
        Billy muses on that for a moment, puts out his cigarette in the ash-tray on the floor next to him. Finally he shrugs, and replies without looking back at Brian. "You . . . listen."
        "Did Joe listen?"
        "Sometimes. Thing is, you never knew when."
        "All things considered, I can see why you'd be reluctant to attempt it."
        "Yeah. Still, I should've. It was important. Really fucking important."
        Brian counts to ten in his head, stifles a sigh. God. Circles. "Yeah. It was. But you know, we all have twenty-twenty hindsight, Bill. It's easy, in retrospect, to say 'I should've done x' or 'I shouldn't have done y,' but life isn't like that. We have to make our decisions with the information at hand. Had Joe given you any indication that he might have been suicidal?"
        "Fuck no!" Billy tugs his hand away from Brian, runs it through his hair. "I still couldn't believe it even after I saw him lying there on the sidewalk with a fucking hole in his head. Thought it was some kind of sick joke he and Bruce and the makeup guy cooked up just to make me feel like crap until Bruce went and puked in the gutter. That's how I knew it was real. Even now, I can't believe it. I mean, if Joe was going to do somebody, I always figured it'd be me. Not him."
        Brian absorbs that, remembers how Billy had said he'd known Joe had a gun that night, how he'd thought then that Billy was lucky that he hadn't gone out that night to talk to Joe. . . he looks at Billy consideringly. "Bill, were you afraid of Joe?"
        Quick, startled glance, equally quick to slide away. Billy looks out the window some more, then at his feet, at the clock, at his hands. Finally he speaks, his voice a bare whisper. "Yeah. Sometimes. Sometimes he was afraid of me. He loved me. I loved him. . . but sometimes I hated him too. And he hated me. It was all. . . fucked up."
        "Yes. It was. He was. You were."
        "Am," Billy puts in quickly.
        Brian nods slowly. "To a degree. Communication is a two-way street, and it sounds to me like his half was permanently barricaded off."
        "Yeah," Billy says slowly. "Kind of. He was trying, Brian. Gave up coke. He said, anyhow."
        "Bill, it makes me a little crazy that you defend him all the time. He raped you. He killed himself instead of fucking asking you if you were joining Jenifur."
        Billy pulls his hand out of Brian's grip and stubs out his cigarette. "You didn't know him, Brian, so shut the fuck up. You don't know me."
        "Oh, yes, I do," Brian says, again surprised at the harshness in his voice. He grabs both Billy's hands and holds them in his own. "Don't give me that shit. It doesn't matter who he was or how well you knew him, what he did to you was fucked up."
        "Brian, we both fucked each other over. He did it one way, I did it another."
        "William fucking Boisy, get your head out of your ass."
        "You don't sound like a shrink now."
        "I hope I sound like an angry, angry man, because I am."
        "Fine." Billy stares at him. "I can do mad. Be mad. Won't change how I feel."
        "How do you feel, Bill?"
        Billy frowns at him, taken by surprise. "What the fuck do you mean?"
        "How do you feel about you and Joe? Why the guilt?"
        "He's dead, Brian, I'm not. Doesn't take a genius to figure that out."
        "Thank you. What's the real reason? He left you?"
        "Hell, no. I left him, Brian."
        "You had to."
        "He did what he had to. For me."
        "What in hell are you talking about?"
        "He . . . oh, fuck, Brian, I can't . . . . " Billy jerks to his feet, walks to the window.
        "You can," Brian says, a knot in his chest. "Tell me, damn it."
        "He . . . loved me. That's why he did it," Billy says, ghosts in his voice, so low and quiet Brian almost can't hear him.
        "Is it?" Brian whispers, crossing to the window, pulling Billy against him. "Is that what love is in Joe Dick's world? Is that what love is in Bill Boisy's world?"
        He can feel the other man's heart racing in his chest. "I . . . don't know."
        "Yeah, you do," Brian murmurs in his ear. "That song you were singing . . . all the good things you left behind. You're a good thing. He left you behind. Not your fault."
        Billy makes a choked sound in his throat, shakes his head, tries to pull away, but Brian won't let him go. After a short, half-hearted struggle Billy sags back against him, and Brian kisses the back of his neck. They stand there for a while, quietly. Brian can feel Billy shudder now and then as he fights for control, and doesn't speak, knowing that for Billy it would be the worst thing imaginable to give in and break down as he clearly needs to. He hopes that someday Billy will be secure enough with him to do that, but he's not . . . yet. When he can feel Billy's heartbeat slow, feel the shudders subside, he gives a little squeeze.
        "Maddie and I made dinner. Turkey-noodle casserole, from leftovers, of course."
        Billy chokes again. "Never even heard of that."
        "You Canucks are so deprived."
        Half-choke and half-laugh at that. "Leftover deprived, yeah, that's me. Okay. Okay. Maddie cooked?"
        "Well, I cooked, Maddie helped."
        "Okay, so food's safe, right?"
        "I'll spare your life and not tell her you said that," Brian says drily, and loosens his arms from around Billy's lean frame. "Come on."
        Billy nods. "Yeah, coming."
        They move toward the door and Billy stops abruptly, looking around, then back at Brian, who's waiting, eyebrows lifted in query at the sudden stop.
        "You, um, still serious about letting me rent this place?"
        Brian has to suppress the urge to do something completely undignified which would probably scare Billy off for good. He nods slowly. "Yeah, yeah, I'd do that." He grins. "But I still want references, and there'll have to be a noise curfew on school nights."
        Billy flashes a grin back. "Fuckin' landlord crap. I'll get you the damned references. How much?"
        Brian considers for a moment. "Well, it's pretty small, and there's the stair problem. . . let's say five hundred a month?"
        Billy shoots him a look. "Brian, I couldn't rent a phone booth in LA for that."
        Brian shrugs. "This isn't LA."
        "No, it's fucking Russian Hill."
        "Are you seriously asking me to charge you more rent?"
        Billy looks at him steadily. "Yes."
        Brian sighs. "Okay, fine. Six hundred and that's my final offer." Billy opens his mouth, and Brian knows he's going to counter, and he shakes his head. "I said final offer, take it or leave it."
        Billy makes a show of thinking about it. "I'll throw in dinner when I can and guitar lessons for Maddie, if she wants them."
        "I think Maddie will be ecstatic and I'll need to move up here for some peace and quiet," Brian says drily. There's a lump in his throat; it's hard to swallow. He wants to shout to the sky. He wants to hug Billy, he wants to fucking jump up and down, and he can't do any of those things because Billy might misinterpret it, or might get scared off, change his mind.
        "I'd be cool with that," Billy says, and moves a step closer to Brian. "It's a pretty narrow bed, but I'm skinny."
        Brian throws his head back, laughs out loud, relief and joy mingling, and Billy closes the few remaining feet between them and fastens his mouth at the base of Brian's throat. "You're going to need a bigger bed," Brian says in his best Roy Scheider imitation, and Billy chokes at that, lets go of Brian's neck, and laughs. Laughs long and hard. And Brian watches in amazement, and feels that unexpected surge again, more than affection, yeah, more than that, and scary as hell and surprisingly welcome and ... right.
        As soon as Billy comes up for air he pulls him close and just holds him. He feels Billy go still in his arms, start to tense, then relax, leaning into him. He lets his hands do what they want, lets them slide up and down Billy's strong, bony back, tucks his head into the curve of Billy's shoulder where Brian's jacket hangs too loosely on him, baring the long wing of collarbone. He lets his tongue slide along it, into the hollow at the base of his throat, tastes sweat, smoke, and Billy. A shiver of want goes through him, feels like years since this morning, since last night. He purrs a little, feels Billy echo that in his throat, then Billy's fingers are in his hair, tugging him away.
        "Brian . . . Brian. . . shit, stop. Maddie's waiting for us."
        "Yeah, so?"
        "We can't. . . "
        "Sure we can. She can entertain herself."
        "Brian!"
        Brian smiles. "It's okay, Bill, I'm teasing you. Yeah, we need to go down."
        "Jesus, Brian. How do people ever have sex once they have kids?"
        "Sleepovers. Hotels. Failing that, a really nice thick door with a sturdy lock."
        "Complicated."
        "Sometimes the planning is half the fun."
        "Kind of sucks for spontaneity, though."
        Brian has a sudden mischievous urge to prove Billy wrong about that, knows he will gratify it to the best of his ability. He wraps his hand around the back of Billy's neck, tips his head slightly, and indulges himself in that sulky, sensual mouth like he's wanted to forever, it feels like. Billy opens to him, tongues tease and slide, start hot, but gentle quickly, and finally he draws back with a sigh.
        "Want to see if that bed'll hold both of us tonight?" he asks, suspecting Billy won't be comfortable in the master bedroom tonight.
        Billy swallows, smiles a little, and nods. "Yeah. Yeah, I do." He grins suddenly. "I think the futon'll come in handy up here."
        "That can't be comfortable," Brian says.
        "You ever sleep on that bed?" Billy asks, jerking his head toward the bed.
        "No, but I'm looking forward to it. Now, let's go eat the leftovers that are almost leftovers themselves by now, before Maddie decides to call in reinforcements."
        "Jack and David?"
        Brian shakes his head. "Tara."
        "Shit," Billy says, eyes widening. "Come on."



        "Boxes?" Maddie says. "Where are your suitcases? I'll pack your clothes." She turns a complete circle. "Where's your dresser?"
        Billy grins and points at the coffee table. "It's a foot locker. Just shove whatever'll fit in there. I got boxes for the stereo and the CDs are mostly packed. The amps and stuff can just go in the truck the way they are."
        Maddie's on her knees by the footlocker, opening it, and Billy goes to the bathroom, brings out his robe and a folded towel and a crumpled one.
        "Here, shove these in." He grabs a couple T-shirts off the back of the futon and hands them to her with the towels.
        "Billy, you can't do it that way," Maddie says impatiently. "None of this is folded or anything." She upends the trunk before Brian or Billy can protest and begins sorting through the clothes. She pulls a red hooded sweatshirt out and holds it up. Billy groans.
        "Jesus, I can't believe I still have that."
        "This is so cool. Look, Dad." Maddie holds it up to Brian. It's red, stained, torn, and it's got beer caps crimped around the edge of the hood. Brian raises an eyebrow at Billy, who shakes his head.
        "Sometimes we had a lot of time on our hands. I've had that since I was your age, Maddie."
        Maddie's scrabbling through the pile eagerly now.
        "No, no, Maddie," Billy says, dropping to his knees beside her. "Come on, let's get going, just shove all this back in-- "
        "Pictures!" Maddie says. "Is this you? Wow. You were . . . cute. How old were you?"
        "Uh, fourteen. That was-- that was at one of the squats, Joe took that, guy who had the place was pretty cool."
        "What's a squat?" Maddie asks.
        "Oh. Jesus." Billy looks at Brian, who shrugs. "A place to sleep, sometimes wastoids, sometimes just someone's pad, for kids who need a place."
        "You didn't live at home? You didn't have a dad?"
        "Uh, no. Not-- not a very good dad. " Billy picks up a pile of shirts and starts folding them.
        "You ran away from home? When you were fourteen?"
        "Yeah. It was stupid, Maddie, okay?"
        "So you didn't have to go to school?"
        "I fucking dropped out of school to play guitar, Maddie, not a whole lot of thinking going on, okay?"
        "You cut an album by the time you were seventeen," Maddie says.
        "Yeah. We worked. We fucked around a lot but we worked, probably harder than we would have in school, but I was fucking lucky, Maddie, and it wasn't a good plan."
        "Were you happy?" Brian asks.
        "Yeah. Well, yeah, I thought I was. We thought we were."
        "Then don't beat yourself up, Bill. Maddie's not going to drop out of school because you did."
        "I would if I could play guitar like you," Maddie says, and ducks as Brian throws a rolled-up towel at her.
        Billy puts the stack of shirts he's folded back in the footlocker and reaches for some jeans. Maddie giggles and scrabbles some more in the pile and Brian starts disconnecting the stereo.
        "More pictures!"
        "Jesus, Maddie, come on. It's a fucking long drive back."
        "Is this Joe?" She answers her own question a split second later. "Of course it is."
        "Yeah."
        "What's this? Oh, wow, it's a Hard Core Logo poster, that's soooo so cool. It looks hand drawn."
        "Yeah. One of John's girlfriends, I think."
        "When's it from?"
        Billy takes it from her and squints a little. "Eighty-four, I think. Jesus. I forgot I had this." He stares at it a moment longer and then begins to crumple it. Maddie snatches it from him and smooths the corner out, rolling it back up.
        "Don't, Billy."
        "Fucking shit I should have burned years ago," Billy mutters, and gets abruptly to his feet, goes out to the balcony, lighting a cigarette. Maddie looks at Brian, her eyes huge and worried.
        "Finish packing up the clothes," Brian says. "Then you can do the kitchen. I bet he has two plates and plastic forks."
        Maddie shakes her head but she manages a grin and finishes folding the clothes in record time. Brian notices that she carefully puts the poster and the pictures on the bottom, underneath the clothes, and then shuts the lid and closes the catches, shooting a glance at Billy, still smoking, leaning over the balcony, his back to them, as she does so.
         Brian hears a voice shouting from the street and Billy straightens up, looks down, and raises an arm in greeting.
        "Come on up." He comes back into the apartment and heads for the door, opening it when he reaches it.
        Brian hears a vaguely familiar voice, a deep woman's voice.
        "Hey, Billy, came to help out. Make sure you get all three of those plates of yours packed," she says.
        Maddie looks around Billy and drops the plate she's holding.
        "Kat, Maddie, Brian's daughter. Brian you've met."
        "Sorta," she says. "I take it you're a Jenifur fan, Maddie? Good thing it's a plastic plate."
        "Oh, wow," Maddie says, finding her voice. "Oh, wow."
        Kat and Billy grin at each other and oddly Brian doesn't feel jealous; he thinks maybe Kat's in that could-call-to-find-out-how-to-take-a-temperature category of friend.
        "Autograph?" Kat asks.
        "No, no, um, no," Maddie says. "No, just . . . wow."
        "Well, you know, if you're Billy's landlord's daughter I gotta grease the wheels," Kat says. "So we can jam there when I'm home without getting Billy kicked out, you know?"
        "You live in San Francisco?" Maddie asks, her voice rising to a squeak.
        "Lived there for a while." Kat pulls out a cigarette and Billy lights it, obviously something the two of them are used to doing. "I'm from Redmond. In fact, my agent's still based in SF. She can't handle the LA games."
        "Dad won't care if you jam," Maddie says, a pugnacious glint in her eye. "Right, Dad?"
        "Sunday mornings at eight a.m.," Brian agrees. "Cranked."
        Kat throws her head back and laughs. "Deal. Fuck, Billy, I'm tempted to go back. Commuter lifestyle."
        Billy shrugs. "We'll see how it works out."
        "I hate to fucking fly though."
        "That sucks," Billy says.
        "Well, fuck. Put me to work. You got your kitchen packed?"
        "I think Maddie's getting started on that," Billy says.
        "Cool. Want some help, Maddie?" Kat says. "What's that short for? Madeleine?"
        Billy joins Brian by the stereo and starts wrapping cables up almost mechanically.
        Brian nods at the kitchen. "She'll be delirious for a week."
        "Cool," Billy says. "You serious about the jamming?"
        "Fuck, yeah, Billy."
        "Electric guitars?"
        "That kind of goes without saying."
        "You gonna deal with Tara, Jack and David?"
        Brian grins. "Nope, that one's all yours."
        Billy snorts. "Knew there was a catch. We'll work something out." Brian watches him look at Maddie, talking animatedly with Kat as they wrap dishes in newspaper and stack them in an open box, and sees his expression tighten as he looks back at Brian, his eyes are worried. "Fuck, Brian," he says softly, shaking his head.
        Brian nods, serious. "Yeah. Pretty scary, I know. You'll do fine. It'll be hard at first, but you'll do fine. You get along great with Maddie, hell, with almost everyone. You'll do fine."
        "I'm not taking Maddie away from her family," Billy says, his voice low and tense.
        Brian looks back at him evenly. "Yeah, you are, in a way. Look at it this way. She and I have pretty much only had each other for twelve years now. Now there's her, me. . . and you."
        Billy closes his eyes, turns his head. "Shit."
        Brian sighs. "I didn't tell you that to make you feel bad. Does she look like she minds? She likes you. You treat her like a person. You're really pretty great with her, actually. She's cool with this. Billie will be too, once she gets a chance to know you."
        Billy crosses his arms, lifts his chin. "Sometimes you're so damned optimistic it's annoying. What if she isn't?"
        Brian looks at him for a moment, then shrugs. "Then we'll find a way to deal with that, too. Okay? That's what life is, Bill. Finding ways to deal with whatever gets thrown at us."
        Billy smiles a little. "Including fucked-up punk guitarists?"
        Brian grins back. "Especially including fucked-up, and incidentally incredibly sexy, punk guitarists, Bill."
        "You only like me for my scrawny, bony body," Billy says sulkily.
        "God, yes," Brian says reverently. "Well, that, and your demolitions expertise."
        Billy blinks; Brian can see him trying the sentence several different ways and not coming up with anything that remotely resembles sense. "What the hell does that mean?"
        Brian grins. "You're really good at tearing down walls."
        "You been smoking something, Brian? I've put a fist through one or two in my time, but I've never . . . ."
        Brian chuckles. "Not that kind of wall. The kind you can't see. The kind I hadn't even realized I had until I met you."
        Billy stares at him, and Brian can see the understanding seep into him as his face reddens. "Oh. I . . . didn't do it on purpose."
        Brian smiles. "Doesn't matter. You're good for me." He hears Billy swallow hard and then Billy turns away, fast, grabbing a stack of CD's and making a show of putting them in a box.
        "Good for you?" he hears Billy mutter. "Fuck that."
        Brian moves close behind Billy, folds his arms around him, puts his lips to Billy's throat and then to his ear.
        "It's okay, Bill. I realize it doesn't fit your image. I won't tell anyone."
        Billy laughs at that, and then glances over at the kitchen; Brian follows his gaze to see Maddie grinning back at both of them, and Kat staring, slightly drop-jawed. She closes her mouth, shakes her head, and a slow grin comes over her face.
        "Well, fuck, Billy. Is that how you 'grease the wheels?'"
        Billy grins back, nonchalant. "Yeah. But keep it between us, okay? If it gets out every garage band in Frisco will be lined up for blocks to get in on the deal."
        She laughs, nods. "You got it, Billy. Give me that glass, Maddie, I'll put it in this box."
        They go back to packing and Brian lets go of him with a soft curse. "Fuck, Bill. I didn't think, I'm so sorry," he says, low-voiced.
        "It's okay, Brian," Billy says, and surprisingly, it sounds like he means it.
        Brian looks at him, frowning. "It is?"
        He smiles. Nods. "Yeah. It is. So chill."
        Brian still feels worried, must look it too, because Billy rolls his eyes and leans in to kiss him smack on the mouth. When he draws back, Brian grins at him. "Cool now?" Billy asks, his voice not sounding at all cool.
        Brian nods and then shakes his head. "Fuck no. Just the opposite. So if you'll excuse me for a moment, I'm going to use the bathroom."
        Billy snickers. "It's all yours."



        It's raining. It's been raining for a while, since he woke up, actually. It's gray and moody, and the fog makes the city slip in and out of focus, kind of like his thoughts. Billy sits cross-legged on the futon with his acoustic guitar in his lap, huddling a little in his sweatpants and tank top, a blanket draped across his shoulders, because it's chilly but that makes him think of Canada so he doesn't want to put on something warmer.
        He plays a little, fingers light on the strings-- notes, chords, semi-random, semi-not, the song that's been wanting out ever since Ottawa, he can't quite get it yet, it's not quite there. He's got some words, some notes, not enough yet. It's not his usual style; it's more subtle than that, and that's probably why he's having trouble getting it out, getting it right. Subtle. Brian's already having a influence. If he's not careful he'll be writing elevator music soon. He smiles at that, stretches his fingers out, settles them back around the neck of the guitar, plays some more. Thinks of the words he does have, the ones from that night in Ottawa.

        Sometimes tomorrow seemed like yesterday
        and yesterday seemed like forever
        alone and cold
        freezing , hurting
        feel so old
        was it yesterday or forever

        Wanted fire and found it, cold can burn
        drowning, drowned in it
        coming up for air
        pushed back down again
        alone and cold
        freezing, hurting
        feel so old
        was it yesterday or forever

        The rain picks up some, he can hear it now, on the roof, on the windows. It's kind of hypnotic. He lets the noise take him, the music starts to coalesce, from notes to chords to actual phrases, and he can hear it, can hear it now. Yeah. Still doesn't have all the words yet, but the music is there. Yeah. Finally. He just needs the other words, the ones that echo the hope he hears in the music. They'll come, he's sure, when the time's right. He wonders what Kat will make of it, figures Chelle and Danny will flip out. Not what they're used to. It's not what they're used to from him. He hears a new sound, really more of a vibration he can feel than a sound he can hear, and smiles, looking up expectantly, and yeah, there's a knock.
        "Get in here," he calls, a little exasperated by Brian's insistence on always knocking. Jesus, by now he ought to know Billy's not going to say 'no' to him, not in any way, shape, or form. The door opens and Brian steps inside, his too-long hair dripping, a thermos in one hand and a plastic grocery store bag in the other. His shirt's drenched too, and Billy shakes his head.
        "Forgot your umbrella?"
        "Fuck, yeah. Sitting on the kitchen counter. By the time I got home I figured why bother to get it to come up here? Remembered the thermos, though."
        "Cool. I got clean mugs."
        "Wow, I'm impressed."
        "Maddie off?"
        Brian nods. "Yeah. Safely ensconced at Steph's for the weekend." He puts the thermos and bag down on the counter, shivers a little. "Jesus, Billy, it's freezing in here."
        "Take your shirt off, dry your hair."
        "And it'll still be freezing in here. You afraid of this thing?" He goes to squat in front of the gas fireplace he'd had installed not long after he'd bought the place, when the tenant du jour had gotten loud enough about the chilly evenings and the bad weatherproofing.
        Billy grins. "Yeah. Sue me. Pipe blew up a propane grill at a band house once, I've had a thing about lighting gas stoves ever since."
        "Good thing you've got the landlord well trained," Brian says, holding down the starter as he flicks the fireplace lighter on and holds it in place.
        There's a soft 'whuf' of sound as the gas ignites, and blue and yellow flames start to flicker over the fake logs. Brian shivers again as he leans close to the warmth, and Billy shakes his head and puts his guitar down, crawls over to Brian and strips his soaked sweatshirt off, taking the opportunity to use it to dry Brian's hair a little along the way. Brian shoots him an amused glance.
        "Anything to get my clothes off, eh?"
        Billy grins, unrepentant. "What can I say? I like you naked."
        Brian opens his mouth, shuts it, shakes his head. "Fuck, Bill."
        "Oh yeah," Billy says huskily. "Long, and hard, and all damned weekend." He laughs out loud at he sees a flush paint Brian's face. "Jesus. Did I just finally manage to embarrass you, Mr. Blasé San Francisco?"
        "Ah. . . yeah." Brian admits, grinning. "You forget how long I've been out of the game." He stands up and goes over to the counter. "Coffee?"
        "Duh," Billy says, rolling his eyes. "You got food in that bag?"
        "Don't I always feed you?"
        "One way or another," Billy says, winking, and Brian loses it, laughing as he tries to open the thermos. He finally gets it open as Billy rolls to his feet and makes for the counter, grabbing at the bag, only to have Brian whip it out of reach.
        "Greedy," Brian admonishes. "Just wait."
        Billy leans back against the sink. "I've done more waiting since I met you than I have in my whole damned life, Brian," he grumbles.
        Brian smiles. "Hasn't hurt you any, has it? And I like the pout, that's a good look for you."
        Billy feels himself flush this time, and a sheepish smile curves his mouth. "Yeah, well, everyone's got to be good at something."
        "Oh, you're good at a lot of things. Here's your coffee, go sit down, I'll bring over breakfast."
        "You just can't quite break that 'top' habit, can you?" Billy asks ingenuously as he takes his mug over to the futon and sits. He has to admit the fire feels good. There's no answer and he looks up from his sip to find Brian staring at him, openmouthed, and he has to work hard not to laugh again.
        "All right, that's it, no more hanging out with Jack and David while I'm out," Brian declares. "They're corrupting you."
        "Are you saying you're not?"
        "Um, no. . . but that's my prerogative."
        Billy leans back, sipping his coffee, which is more like coffee-flavored hot milk. Clearly Brian stopped at Starbucks on the way home. "Oh yeah? Well, actually, I got that from Maddie. You gonna cut me off there, too?"
        Brian's eye go wide. "Maddie? You've been discussing our. . . ."
        Billy sits up so fast he almost spills his drink. "Fuck no, Brian! Jesus. I still get embarrassed even thinking about the fact that she's got to know. . . stuff. No. We were just talking about the. . . um. . . culture, of San Francisco. She told me about that whole top/bottom thing, which I don't really get, you know. I mean, sometimes you want to do one, sometimes the other. Why lock yourself into just one thing?"
        "Why indeed?" Brian asks, opening a cabinet to take out a plate, looks at it, shakes his head. "Bill, we need to discuss your taste in home furnishings."
        Billy grins. "Nothing wrong with melamine, Brian, don't be a snob. Besides, it's retro."
        Brian chuckles at that and turns back to the counter, Billy hears rustling, and a moment later Brian's turning back, coffee in one hand, plate in the other. Plate with round, white things on it. Billy grins. "Oooh, very healthy, Brian," he teases as Brian settles next to him.
        "No problem, Mr. Health Conscious. You don't want any, I'll eat them myself."
        "I never said that," Billy says, reaching, but Brian keeps moving, holding the plate of donuts out of reach. Billy's finally figured out Brian's habitual 'declarations of war' and where they usually lead. He puts his coffee down on the floor and looks at Brian, who grins and puts his down as well. By the time the struggle is over, they're both covered in powdered sugar and donut crumbs, and Brian has the last remaining intact pastry in his hand.
        "How come you always win?" Billy complains, laughing.
        "Age and deviousness will win out over youth and energy every time," Brian says smugly, taking a bite.
        Billy leans over and licks powdered sugar off Brian's shoulder. "Mmm, like this better anyway."
        Brian chokes, either on the sugar from the donut or because of Billy's tongue, Billy's not entirely sure, until he feels Brian's fingers in his hair, pulling him up into a sweet and sticky kiss. He feels a shiver go through him, feels his nipples tighten as that broad tongue seeks his, as those big fingers tighten almost painfully in his hair, feels a purr in his mouth. Yeah. Oh yeah. It's good to know he affects Brian just exactly like Brian affects him. He puts a hand on Brian's thigh, moving upward to cup his swelling cock, fingers stroking and molding over the sudden hardness there. Brian's mouth finally leaves his, and he's breathing a little fast.
        "God, you get me so hard, so fast. . . oh, damn. . ."
        Brian moans a little, pushing upward as Billy squeezes gently and returns to licking the sugar coating off of his bare chest, pausing for a moment to suck at a nipple, nipping as it hardens beneath his lips. Brian makes that explosive little sound Billy was trying to provoke, and he laughs against the smooth, warm skin under his mouth. The warmth of the fire plays along his own bare back, warmth of desire between his thighs, a different warmth inside. Sweet. Not just from the sugar. Never knew it could be.
        He fumbles with button and zipper, and then his hand is slipping inside well-worn denim to bare flesh. Oh yeah. Loves that. Brian's a commando kind of guy, too. Convenient. He wraps his fingers around the pulsing thrust of cock, strokes, slides down so his face is in Brian's crotch and nuzzles aside the fabric so he can lick and suck, finding salt-bitter a nice contrast to the sugar. Brian's arching now, fingers buried in Billy's hair, holding him, encouraging him, as if he needed that. He catches the waistband of Brian's jeans in both hands and tugs down, Brian lifts his hips to help, and they're out of the way and he can get his mouth where he wants it, full of thick, solid flesh.
        He hums softly, and Brian squirms under him, gasping. It's hard not to laugh, out of sheer enjoyment. He hasn't just had fun in so long he'd nearly forgotten how-- or maybe never knew how. Even sex was never really fun before, it just. . . felt good. Now it's fun, too. He shifts position again, gets Brian's knees over his shoulders and slides one hand down to caress the soft weight of his testicles. Brian hasn't got any leverage now, and the muscles in his thighs and belly are taut with trying to move, to thrust, when he really can't. Billy thinks about the whole top/bottom thing and he chuckles, which makes Brian writhe.
        "You . . . laughing at . . .me, Bill?" Brian pants out.
        Billy shakes his head and starts to suck in earnest now, one hand working the base of Brian's cock in tandem with his mouth, the other sliding down and back, a finger circling the small opening there and Brian's way past verbal now, past moaning, into those little animal sounds that make Billy a little crazy. He can feel the tension mounting in the body under his hands, his mouth, feel it coming, and normally about now he'd be backing off, just using his hand, but he doesn't want that any more. Wants more. Wants it all. He uses his tongue to caress the underside of Brian's cock as he suckles, his hand sliding easily in the saliva and pre-ejaculate as he strokes.
        Brian lets go of his hair, claws his fingers into the futon, shudders and groans. The pulses start, way down, against his palm, and Billy doesn't pull away, even now, just lets the thick, salty fluid spurt across his tongue, down his throat, and he swallows, swallows again, swallowing his own doubts, his own fears, washed away in a bitter flood. And it's good. He's good. Everything's good. Amazingly good. He eases Brian down, rests his head against Brian's thigh and just waits. After a couple of minutes he feels Brian's fingers in his hair again, gentle now, stroking, moving down along his cheekbone, tracing the curve of his mouth, back and forth,
        "Bill?"
        "Mmm?" he asks, kind of lethargic, even though he didn't come.
        "C'mere," Brian says huskily, his hand moving down to Billy's shoulder, urging him upward. Billy climbs onto the futon, stretches out, his face against Brian's chest.
        "Bill, don't hide," Brian says. "Come on. Look at me."
        Reluctantly he looks up, sees the amazement in Brian's gaze, amazement and more. What he sees there scares him, but he knows it's reflected in his own eyes. No, not reflected. Returned. He feels strangely shy, and looks down, only to have Brian catch his chin and bring his face up again, and their lips meet. It's a long, slow kiss, soft, but intense, and it sends little pulses of pleasure through him. He puts his arms around Brian and eases closer, his cock against Brian's hip, separated from naked skin by the thin barrier of washer-softened fleece. There's just enough friction to feel good. He doesn't feel any need for more than that.
        Brian hugs him back, slides a hand down to his hips and presses him closer. Nice. Kisses him again, that's even better. They lie like that for a while, just kissing, moving a little. Brian's hand moves up a little, to his waist, slips beneath the fleece, caresses the bare skin underneath it, back, hip, ass. Nice. Billy can't resist a little rhythmic humping against Brian's solid frame. Brian finally lets go of his mouth and pushes up on one arm, tugging at Billy's sweats. "Off, please," he whispers.
        Billy shimmies out of the soft fabric, kicking his pants onto the floor. They're both naked now. It's still raining, harder even, the sound of it on the roof and windows a steady susurration. With no lights on the room is dim, only a flicker from the fireplace painting shadows on their skin. He can't stop watching that, the play of light on Brian's smooth, satin flesh. There's a slow, almost dreamlike quality to the day that might scare him if he wasn't starting to accept that being with Brian, that being happy, isn't a dream.
        Brian curves up close next to him, kisses the side of his neck, licks a moist path around his ear, and his hand steals over his hip to settle warmly around his cock. He turns his head a little, and Brian's mouth finds his again, taking soft, brief kisses as he starts to stroke, his thumb gliding easily over the moist tip of Billy's penis at random intervals, making his hips push harder. Brian's rhythm is slow and irregular, and at first Billy wonders if he's just teasing, but then he understands. Brian feels it too, that strange surreality, that slowing down of time, and he's trying to draw it out, to make it last. That's cool. He likes that. He closes his eyes, concentrating on their kisses and Brian's strokes and the complete perfection of the moment. A liquid warmth seeps through him, dissolving all his hidden tensions.
        Brian shifts a little, and his touch becomes faintly more urgent, in response, no doubt, to the way Billy's hips have taken up a rhythm of their own, despite his lack of urgency. The body wants what it wants. He arches his head back a little, and Brian's mouth trails down from his lips to his jaw, down his throat to his shoulder, then retraces the route back to his lips again. Kisses again. Lifts, just a little. Lips move against his, not kisses, words, silent, but formed. He speaks back, the same way, without sound. Brian's mouth covers his in an almost fierce kiss, then gentles immediately, lifts. And this time the words have sound.
        "I love you."
        Heat and pleasure explodes through him, wonder, too. And he's coming and sobbing and holding onto Brian like he's a life raft as the waves sweep through him, out of him, and leave him on a completely alien shore. But not alone. Brian's there, right there with him. With him. He's not alone. But, God, no one's ever said that to him before. Not. . . like this. Words form in his throat, stick there. He can't. Not yet. He never has. Can't. Brian pulls him close, tucks his head in under his chin, and just holds him. Finally words do come. A word. "Really?" He cringes a little, hadn't meant to sound so . . . needy.
        But Brian's arms just tighten around him. "Yeah. Really." He rubs his chin against Billy's hair and chuckles softly. "Fuck. I thought you'd take off once you realized what I said."
        Billy thinks about that, knows that a month ago, even a week ago, he probably would have. He smiles a little against Brian's chest. "Well, it's raining, and I'm naked. Kind of sneaky, Brian."
        That earns a full-fledged laugh. "Yeah." Brian says. "That's me. Sneaky. You already knew that. But I wanted to say it, because I do. I didn't plan to. You snuck up on me, too."
        "Me? How?"
        "Thought I was done with that."
        Billy pulls back and looks at Brian, frowning. "No, seriously."
        "I am serious."
        "You?" Billy feels really stupid but he's so surprised he can't even move.
        "Yeah, me, Bill." Brian sounds amused and a little surprised himself. "Figured I'd used up my quota."
        Billy lifts an eyebrow. "Are there quotas? I didn't know that."
        Brian grins. "I guess there aren't. Just thought there were. I'm fifty years old. Married. Divorced. Straight in San Francisco. I've always been swimming upstream."
        Billy snorts. "You're not a fuckin' fish, Brian. You're a man."
        Brian nods. "Yes. I am. You are. I guess I was, as they say, looking in all the wrong places." He offers a slight smile, but there's hesitation in it, and shadows in his eyes.
        The words fill Billy up again. They want out so badly. He tries, twice, to say it. Still can't. He clears his throat. "I can. . . um . . . swim upstream with you, if you want," he offers. It's as close as he can get to what he feels, what he wants to say and can't.
        Brian stares at him, and the shadows fade from his eyes. He nods, slowly. "Yeah, Bill. I want."
        Billy pulls him close, kisses him, so damned glad the shadows faded. Shadows fade. Yeah. Fuck. Yeah. He sits up and grabs his guitar, heedless of the fact he's naked, and covered in come, and Brian's watching him bemused. Plays a few notes, a few chords, settles into the music again. Oh yeah.

Shadows painted on your skin
flickering light and dark
shadows from yesterday
shadows from forever fade
in light from tomorrow
together, together
no more yesterday
now forever

        Yeah, it fits. It works. He goes through the whole thing, twice, changing a chord here, a word there, but it works. Finally he puts down the guitar to grab the steno book from the acoustic's case and scribble the new words and a few of the chords so he doesn't forget them, then picks up his mug from the floor and takes a long swallow of tepid coffee-flavored milk. And remembers Brian. He turns to find Brian watching him, a slight smile on his face, and blushes.
        "Fuck, Brian, I'm sorry!" he says, embarrassed and apologetic. "I just . . . ."
        Brian shakes his head. "No, Bill, don't apologize. That was . . . amazing. I'm not a creative kind of person, I've never known anyone who was, really, not like you are. I always wondered how it worked."
        "Well, it's not usually like that," Billy says, still embarrassed. "That doesn't happen often, but when it does. . . you just have to go with it. I had part of it already, just not that last bit."
        Brian nods. "Ottawa. I remember some of those notes, those phrases. Right?"
        Billy stares at him, startled. "Yeah. I . . . didn't know you heard me."
        "I couldn't sleep."
        "Neither could I," Billy says, shooting a sideways glance at him. Wondering. "Brian. . . why'd you back off that night, in the restaurant?"
        Brian looks confused. "What? When?"
        "You were telling me about San Francisco in the late seventies. I mentioned what I was doing around that time, and you just kind of . . . closed down."
        Brian thinks, finally nods, his face tight. "Yeah. I remember now. I . . . fuck, this is going to sound so stupid, Bill."
        "Tell me anyway," Billy says, keeping his voice as casual as he can, trying hard not to let on how much it matters.
        "I was thinking about the fact that you were only fifteen then, just about the same age Maddie is now, and having to live on the streets. It made me feel old and disgustingly privileged, made me think about how easy I've had it, and how much I would love to hunt down your father and knock a few of his teeth out."
        "Jesus!" Billy's shocked by the vehemence in Brian's voice, by the anger in his eyes, by the words themselves. That's . . . so far from what he thought that it's not even on the same planet. He shakes his head. "Fuck, Brian. My dad died eight years ago. Cirrhosis."
        Brian smiles a little. "Told you it was stupid."
        "No, it's not." The words are out before he can think of not saying them, and Brian's eyebrows are up and he knows he has to explain. "It. . . well . . . you care," he says, disjointedly, not really sure himself how to explain it.
        Brian pulls him in close, squeezes hard. "Of course I care, damn it! Don't you get that?"
        "Now, yeah. Then, I thought. . . . " He shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. It was stupid too, never mind."
        "Does matter. I spilled my stupidity, it's your turn now. Fair's fair. What did you think?"
        Billy looks out at the rain, focusing on the way the water sheets down the window. "Thought you were disgusted. Low class, drop-out kid living in squats, drinking, drugging, all of that." He shrugs.
        "Oh, Jesus. That's . . . that's why you backed off. That's why you stopped talking."
        Billy nods, still not looking at Brian. He can't. Brian's arms tighten again and he kisses Billy's ear, then the corner of his mouth.
        "We have to always talk, and listen to each other. Talk and listen. No assumptions. Both of us. Bill, let me say this so you never have to guess about what I think of you. I think you're one of the bravest, most admirable men I've ever met, in addition to being the fucking sexiest man I've ever met. You've overcome things that would have sent most people to a rubber room, and you've kept your soul intact through it all. You amaze me."
        Billy closes his eyes halfway through Brian's oration, reminding himself that Brian's a lawyer, it's his job to be eloquent, but this is . . . this is . . . too much. He pushes at Brian, wanting to run now, even though he's still naked and it's still raining, but Brian won't let him go.
        "No," he says against Billy's ear. "Your turn now. Tell me what you think of me. Be straight. I can take it. Just, please, don't call me a chicken hawk, okay?"
        Billy laughs; he can't help it. Brian told him what Mary Ann had said the morning she showed up with Maddie, and he still thinks it's funny, and Brian knows that, and he did that deliberately to break the tension, and he succeeded, damn him. He pushes Brian away a little so he can look into his face, stares into those smoky gray-blue eyes with their wicked rings of gold around the pupils, he tells him, straight.
        "I think you're a fucking miracle, Brian," he says, his voice gone all weird and hoarse. "A miracle."

* * Fin * *

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