We Have Given Our Hearts Away

Criminal Minds Fic #8: The One Where Rossi and Reid visit Caltech

Tue, 26 May 2009 16:42:18 GMT

Title: The One Where Rossi and Reid visit Caltech
Author: myrna1_2_3
Pairing: Rossi/Reid
Rating: R-ish
Summary: Rossi and Reid visit Caltech
Word count: ~10,000

The open palm of desire. Wants everything. It wants everything. ~Paul Simon

It was a rare case that ended with Aaron Hotchner’s Behavioral Analysis Unit in joking high spirits, but then again, it was rare that they were called in to profile a non-violent unsub. Quantico housed a BAU that specialized in white collar crimes, but that group was currently working a high profile case of securities fraud, and a sense of urgency had started to develop about a series of bank robberies in the northeast. These particular thieves had amassed close to two million dollars in less than a year, and given the esteem (or lack thereof) with which banks were held these days, there were mounting concerns about a Robin Hood aura attaching itself to the heists. On three separate occasions, homeless people panhandling outside a burglarized bank had been given upwards of $5,000 by the unsubs and in each instance, the public outcry was so severe when law enforcement tried to return to the money that the banks allowed most of it to remain with the fortuitous homeless people. Fears were starting to mount that the robbers’ increased notoriety was going to ratchet up the chance of violence—either from the unsubs’ growing sense of invincibility or a passerby’s wish to insert himself in the action.

Dave was particularly pleased about the assignment, because as soon as they delivered their profile and returned to DC, he and Spencer were heading to California for a long weekend, and their trip was going to be that much more enjoyable without having to decompress from a nasty case.

Of course, no case was without its dangers, and the closest they came to bloodletting was the morning they were prepping to present their completed profile.

The presence of the FBI was a pretty big deal for most of the small town sheriffs and officers in attendance, and there was a bit of a festive mood in the air. The Bridgeport PD had provided enough coffee and danish to feed a small army, and most of the members of the BAU, long accustomed to grabbing a bite whenever and wherever a bite was offered, were enjoying the spread.

Prentiss; however, was slumped in a chair, a cup of black coffee in front of her and eating what looked like a tree branch. The rest of the team was keeping a respectful distance--it was a well known fact that Prentiss was not, under any circumstances, a morning person. She wasn’t really even an afternoon person—she hit her stride in the evening, and not even Morgan could keep up with her after that. She watched Reid with a frown as he refilled his coffee cup and helped himself to a doughnut. “How many doughnuts is that?” she asked, clearly irritated.

“Three,” Reid said, mouth full of doughnut and eyes wide in surprise, not so much at her tone, but at the fact that she was talking to him so early in the morning.

“Three,” Prentiss echoed. “That’s your third doughnut? You just put half a pound of sugar in your coffee, and now you’re on your third doughnut.”

Confused, Reid rechecked the contents of the bakery box. “There’s still a lot left,” he said helpfully. “You want a chocolate…”

“Of course I want a chocolate one! And a glazed one and a vanilla cream one.”

Reid’s eyes slid toward Morgan, but Derek’s protective streak only ran so wide, and he hopped up to refill his half-filled coffee cup. Spencer knew better than to even look Rossi’s way. Rossi usually partnered with Prentiss, so she and Reid had to be at Defcon 2 or below before he’d even consider stepping in.

“Why don’t you have one?” Reid asked, his tone hesitant, as if they’d been over this before, and he shouldn’t really have to ask.

“Because there’s 300 calories and 15 grams of fat in that doughnut and if I eat it I won’t be able to haul my fat ass through the obstacle course come September.”

Having no sense of self-preservation, Reid gamely continued, “But you’re as thin as I…”

“Because I don’t eat doughnuts!” Prentiss said. She stood up to take her leave, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You should be fat!” she said,

JJ cast a sympathetic look Reid’s way, but stopped short at brushing off Emily’s words because everyone knew Reid really should be fat.

“You always score better on the obstacle course than I do…” Spencer called after Emily, but judging from the one-fingered solute she tossed over her shoulder, the words were not well received.

By the time they were boarding the plane for home, Emily’s pique was forgotten. Morgan was on the phone recounting for Garcia the number of clumsy pick-up attempts both Emily and JJ had to endure and settling up the pool on how many phone numbers Rossi had been slipped. As usual, Reid won the pool with his on-the-nose pick of three. Morgan was trying to convince the team that really he’d won because he’d guessed two, and everyone knew Rossi worked it if he had to so he could lay in the win for Reid.

Prentiss was paging through a magazine, not evening trying to refrain from gloating over Rossi letting her take Muchie while he and Reid were gone. As soon as Rossi had mentioned the trip, she’d chimed in, using the time-honored tradition of “dibs,” to get her mitts on the dog. Morgan hadn’t really stood a chance, even as he groused about dibs hardly being an appropriate means of deciding who took care of your dog.

The talk turned to Reid and Rossi’s upcoming trip. They were visiting some friends of Spencer’s who taught at Caltech, and the team started speculating about what they were going to do during their weekend.

“So what’s first on the agenda when you get to Pasadena?” JJ asked Spencer as the plane took off. “A beer from your favorite bar?”

“I was underage the majority of the time I was in school,” Reid reminded her.

“A beer from the bar you always wanted to get into?” Prentiss amended.

“Revisit your favorite library cubby,” was Morgan’s guess. “What do you wanna bet there’s a bronze plaque commemorating the spot where the brilliant Dr. Reid first set out on his educational blitz!”

“A haircut?” Hotch suggested. When everyone turned to look at him in confusion, he added with cloying innocence, “What? Reid’s hair was a lot shorter when he was in college.”

“You want me to get a haircut?” Reid asked, his hand immediately moving up as if to check if his hair was still there.

“No!” Dave answered irritably from across the aisle, and studiously ignored the amused looks flying between Morgan, JJ, Prentiss and Hotch. So he had a fucking thing about Reid’s hair. God damn it, he’d spent half his life mired down in the absolute worst aspects of humanity; a man learned to take his pleasure where he could find it, and these yokels didn’t have to ride him about it.

“The Bureau doesn’t have written regulations about hair length,” Hotch said by way of non-answer. Rossi knew his slight emphasis on the word ‘written’ was no accident. The bastard.

Okay, so maybe, maybe, Hotch was trying to get a little of his own back because maybe, and again, the maybe couldn’t be stressed enough, maybe Rossi had been tormenting Aaron for the last week or two with subtle hints that Caltech was once again pestering Spencer into accepting a teaching position. But really, the obfuscation was harmless and only because it amused Rossi to watch a cunning Hotch try to weasel non-existent information out of a clueless Spencer. Hotch may have been unbeatable coaxing a confession from an unsub, but he was no match for a Spencer Reid who had no idea what they were talking about.

Which was absolutely neither here nor there when the point was this: planting the seed that Reid should consider cutting his hair was nothing short of cruel.

“That’s true,” Reid was saying, sounding uncertain. “Still, implied regulations are sometimes more readily adhered to than written ones.”

Hotch nodded thoughtfully at Reid. “And I suppose one could argue that personal appearance…”

“Aaron,” Although he’d interrupted Hotch, Dave’s tone was a model of gentility.

“Yes, Dave?” Hotch answered in kind.

Rossi leveled a steely gaze at his friend and said, “Before you continue this line of discussion, I’d just like to say February, 2000; Biloxi, Mississippi, Lawanda De La Belle Nuit.”

Aaron studied him with a bland expression, then slowly let his attention drift back to the files on his lap. He was fighting a smile as he carefully rearranged the pages in front of him. “Touché,” he said, respect evident in his tone.

It was silent for a beat, then Morgan said, “Aw, no, man! No, no, no way do you dangle that in our face and just leave it. Details.”

Hotch refused to look up from his file, and Dave just stared at Morgan with wide, innocent eyes.

Morgan popped Reid’s shoulder. “Do you know what he’s talking about?”

“I don’t even know if Hotch really wants me to cut my hair,” Spencer said with a hapless shrug.

Morgan slumped back in his seat with a long, desolate sigh. “First Prentiss gets the dog, then there’s the bogus ruling on the pool, and now this. I’m starting to get a complex here.”

Rossi studied Morgan with pursed lips, then said, “This might be…no, no, this is against my better judgment. But following some intense lobbying on your behalf, the physical component of which I have to tell you was the..”

“Dude!” Morgan fired off a TMI warning.

“Sorry,” Rossi lied. “So, the gist of it is,” he continued, pulling his car keys from his pocket and ignoring the sound from Morgan that, had Rossi known who the Jonas Brothers were, he would have identified as something similar to a 14 year-old unexpectedly meeting one of said brothers. “I’m prepared to offer you, on an extremely probationary basis, during the course of our absence only, the use of the finest automobile you will ever have the privilege of driving.”

Morgan licked his lips like a starving man offered a sizzling t-bone. “Gimme,” he said, motioning to Rossi’s car keys.

Rossi snatched the keys back. “If I come back and find so much as a hint of a thought of a suggestion of a scratch, I will kill you,” he said.

“Understood,” Morgan answered quickly. It was, after all, only fair.

Rossi held up his hand, not finished with his warning. “If I kill you, I will go to jail. If I go to jail, the care and feeding of Dr. Reid falls on Emily’s shoulders, and he will be dead within two weeks, maybe three.”

“Hey!” Prentiss said, and at the same time, Spencer chimed in with the ridiculous, “I do not need a keeper!” and even JJ weighed in, saying, “Did Prentiss call dibs on Spencer too?”

Rossi’s helpless shrug said he was just reporting the facts. He dangled the car keys just out of Morgan’s reach. “Do you understand the monumental responsibility with which I am entrusting you?”

“I do,” Morgan said solemnly.

JJ shook her head at their foolishness. “I now pronounce you man and car,” she said dryly.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Rossi was glad for the opportunity to take a break, even if it was a short one. Spencer had been on a bit of an emotional rollercoaster since the case that brought him back in touch with his father.

In the direct aftermath of that case, Spencer had been subdued—embarrassed at how ardently he’d pursued his father as the perp, confused and lost at the odd explanation of what really happened.

The night they’d returned home, he’d said little until they were laying together in bed, waiting for sleep. “Everyone will be watching me now,” Spencer said glumly. “Making sure I’m okay, making sure I don’t fall apart, making sure I don’t start using again…”

“They care what happens to you,” Dave said.

“I know, and from the team, I guess I don’t mind it so much.” Spencer said. “Sometimes it feels like everyone is looking at me, and I just… I hate the staring. I hate it!” The sudden vehemence in Reid’s voice startled Dave.

Rossi cupped the back of Spencer’s head and held him firmly, closing his eyes and seeing a genius child trying to block out the curious gawkers; seeing the son of the crazy lady trying to pretend like she wasn’t making a scene, like everything was okay, like there was nothing to see, nothing out of the ordinary; seeing the too-young agent who’d skirted protocol at every juncture pretending he didn’t notice the jealous, cynical stares of his peers, seeing the agent-cum-victim nearly crushed by the overbearing curiosity of those who knew only enough to be titillated but not concerned.

But Dave also had an idea that, nowadays anyway, the stares had just as much to do with Spencer’s appearance. He was… different looking. His long hair and delicate features made him look curiously androgynous; his clothing choices were decidedly off-beat; the dark circles under his eyes were peculiar; he was usually one of the tallest people; certainly the skinniest in every room he entered.

God knows Dave spent the first few months that they worked together with his neck permanently craned in Reid’s direction trying to figure out what in the hell was so intriguing about the kid. Dave once overheard his niece talking with her mom about the first time she saw Spencer, and she kept having an internal debate with herself about whether or not he was attractive. She decided he was, then rethought, then decided he was, then wasn’t sure. Then Spencer smiled and how could there be any doubt after that?

Dave stared down at him, studying Spencer’s face. He looked tired and worn. Sad. Dave let his thumb brush across Spencer’s cheek bone down across his lips, then he carefully kissed the path he’d just traced. “I want to take your picture,” he whispered.

It was a request Dave had made often enough, but Spencer always brushed him off with an exasperated eye roll.

Before Rossi settled in on writing, photography had been a hobby of his. He’d even built a make-shift dark room into the house he bought between wives two and three. The advent of digital cameras had simplified life for the amateur photographer, but in the last decade or so, Rossi had been concentrating so steadily on writing books that he hadn’t kept up with the technology.

Their trip to Italy had reawakened his interest in the art, though. Garcia had helped him pick out a good digital camera before they left, and Rossi had felt a little guilty at Garcia’s incredulous reaction to his callous reply when she asked him how much he wanted to spend. “Money’s no object,” he’d said with a shrug, impatient to review the cameras already on Garcia’s screen.

“Seriously, money’s no object?” she kept saying as they paged through cameras. “Like, Between 500 and 1,000 dollars is an object and between 1,000 and 5,000 dollars is an object and between 5,000 and 7,500 dollars is an object, and you’re like, None of those are objects!?”

“Penelope, pick me out a camera!” Dave had barked, but it was a testament to how far their relationship had come the she didn’t even jump.

She did look at him from over her pink, bejeweled, cat eye glasses and say, “Just for that, I’m spending 500 dollars more on the camera than you have to.”

It was also a testament to how far their relationship had come that Rossi was fairly certain she didn’t really gouge him on the camera.

He’d grown to love the camera they found after a few weeks. It was light years from the old Nikon he’d last used—just getting used to the lack of heft took a few days--but after he got the hang of it, he loved the crisp pictures, the painless redo when the photo wasn’t quite what he wanted, even the retouching he could do later on the computer.

Reid had been happy enough to pose for pictures during their Italian vacation, happier still, when a fellow tourist or obliging native would snap the two of them together, but Dave hadn’t been able to get him to budge when it came to taking a risqué picture or two in bedroom.

“What, naked?” Reid had said, eyes wide in disbelief the first time Dave asked him if he could take his picture. They were lying in bed, sweaty and sated, and even Spencer couldn’t mistake Dave’s question for anything other than what it was.

“Mmm, naked,” Dave had answered, paying more attention to kissing Spencer’s sweaty chest than the conversation. He knew Spencer’s agreeing was a long shot, but every once in awhile he liked to throw a suggestion out there to see what might stick. Spencer was actually pretty adventurous in bed, he just had to work up to whatever it was—ruminate about it for a bit, maybe do a little research.

But thus far, Spencer had always demurred when Dave suggested taking boudoir shots. Yet, there must have been something different about his time—a more beseeching look in Dave’s eye; more supplication in his tone than Spencer was used to hearing.

“Let me take your picture,” Dave whispered.

Instead of giving Dave a half-hearted push and refusing, Spencer looked up at him, searching Dave’s face for something. His eyes slid away from Dave’s for a beat, but then returned, and he licked his lips and very slowly nodded his head.

Moving with careful deliberation, Dave retrieved his camera, flipping the switch to black and white. Dave wanted the shots to have a timeless feel; plus Spencer’s smooth, alabaster skin would look especially fetching in black and white. Dave took the first few pictures without arranging anything, just letting Spencer get comfortable with the idea. Dave was grinning in spite of himself at the sheet Spencer had pulled up to just under his neck.

The first few photos he snapped, Reid refused to look at the camera, but Dave didn’t mind. In profile his delicate features and angular bone structure were highlighted nicely. He asked Spencer to turn his head to the left then the right, made a teasing show of fanning Spencer’s hair across the pillow; he kissed Spencer’s lips, insistent, almost bruising, so that when he pulled back they were lush and swollen; his pupils dilated.

“You’re beautiful,” Dave said.

Spencer looked skeptical. “You’re kind of a lunatic,” he said.

Dave shrugged. “Lunatics can still recognize beauty,” he said. He tugged experimentally at the sheet and slid it down past Spencer’s collarbone, chuckling when the barest hint of a nipple appeared from under the soft cotton. Spencer made a grab for the sheet and stopped it from revealing anything more.

“Come on,” Dave coaxed, leaning in and kissing the spot just beneath Spencer’s Adam’s apple. “Just a little more,” he said. “Your chest is gorgeous… you know how much I love it; how much time I spend appreciating it…”

Spencer licked his lips again and released his hold on the sheet, watching it slip further down his chest. “Ohh, yeah,” Dave sighed. He sat on the corner of the bed, leaning over and kissing the newly revealed skin, sucking a nipple into his mouth and biting down until Spencer groaned and arched up off the bed. Dave stood back up and took several more pictures.

“Should you really be this aroused by taking photographs?” Spencer asked with a pointed stare at the erection Dave was sporting.

Dave laughed. “Don’t judge me, Dr. Reid,” he said. “Besides, arousal of this sort is entirely your fault.”

Dave slid the sheet a little lower, then lower still. Reid seized the sheet as it brushed over his thigh and threatened to leave his cock exposed. He blushed clear to the roots of his hair, the vulnerability in his face hitting Dave with a flood of tenderness and affection.

“This is just for me,” Dave reminded him softly. “My eyes only. Just for me…”

Reid looked troubled as his teeth cut in to his lower lip. “But I’m…”

“Beautiful,” Dave finished for him.

Spencer’s voice took on a vaguely scolding tone. “Dave…”

Dave gently tugged the sheet out of Reid’s fist and pushed it down to pool at Spencer’s ankles. “Let me,” he said, but paused, seated on the corner of the bed, determined not to move until Spencer gave the okay.

Spencer chuffed a breath from his nose, a brief smile of self-deprecation flashing over his face. Then he nodded, that careful, serious nod of his. “Thank you,” Dave said, pressing a chaste kiss to Spencer’s cheek.

He stood up and took several more pictures. “I can’t imagine having to retouch a single one of these when I get them loaded on the computer,” Dave said chattily, then nearly jumped out of his skin when Spencer’s face suddenly morphed into one of dreadful horror, and he bolted upright in the bed.

“You are not allowed to ask Garcia to help you with these pictures! If she picks up on the slightest possibility of the existence of…”

“I’m not going to ask Garcia for help,” Dave said, irritated at Spencer’s lack of confidence in his skill. Spencer knew damn well that Dave had been in complete charge of their vacation photos because he’d bitched the whole two weeks that Dave was using his computer to clean up the shots, to organize them and publish them for friends and family to view. God forbid he have to wait five minutes (two hours) to do whatever the hell he did on the computer every night.

“You accidentally put an email in the trash icon, and you flip out and make her drop everything to drag it back to your inbox,” Spencer said.

Dave rolled his eyes at the exaggeration. “I don’t make her.”

“You totally make her!” Spencer said, mouth gaping in disbelief at Dave’s audacity in suggesting otherwise.

“Penelope likes to be useful. I’m simply affording her that opportunity.”

“You know, when I can see right through you, you are really, really translucent.”

“Hush,” Dave said, pushing him back down on the bed. “Be beautiful.”

The photos turned out lovely, if Dave did say so himself. Granted, his subject was exquisite, but Dave was pleased with the lighting and composition too. Spencer’s smooth skin, the angles of his face, the soulfulness in his eyes had all been captured admirably, enhanced just as Dave anticipated with the use of black and white film. And his hair. Jesus. That hair.

The next evening, he paged through them with Spencer whose frown deepened as they moved from one picture to the next. “I don’t look like that,” Spencer said, his face a furious shade of red. It was an uncharacteristically illogical thing for Reid to say, but he was completely serious.

Dave paused on the full length shot of Spencer laid out on the bed; the one where Dave had finally wrestled the bed clothes from Spencer’s clinched fists. Rossi let his finger trace the outline of Spencer’s body, over his naked chest, down past his cock, across his leg. “You do to me,” he said.

Spencer continued to stare at the photo, brows furrowed as if trying to work through a puzzle. “Are you going to masturbate to these when we’re apart?” he asked finally.

“Well, I’d certainly hope so,” Dave answered, and quirked a smile at the flash of amusement on Spencer’s face.

“Is it weird if I masturbate to the idea of you masturbating to these picture?” Spencer asked.

“Yeah,” Dave answered, then loudly oofed! when Spencer elbowed him in the gut. “I mean, no, not at all.”

Spencer chuckled, turning in Dave’s arms and hiding his heated face in Dave’s neck. “O brave new world,” he said, voice muffled.

Dave chuffed in Spencer’s ear. “How many goodly creatures are there here,” he said, and chuckled when Spencer reflexively tightened his hold.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

There seemed to be little additional consequence following Spencer’s reunion with his father. Dave wasn’t aware of any contact between the two nor any conflict on Spencer’s behalf because of it. Cases came and went as they did; Spencer received yet another college degree as he did. Life hummed along at its usual clip.

Five, maybe six weeks after the Vegas case that reacquainted Spencer with his father, they returned home from a case in Florida. The case was mid-range on the grueling scale, but they’d had precious little sleep in the last five days, and both of them were running on fumes. Dave would have just as soon tumbled in to bed, but Spencer could never unwind that easily, so Dave offered to make some sandwiches while Reid took the pile of mail to the study to sort through.

“Hey, are you keeping that mayo for an experiment or…” Dave’s inane question died on his lips as he stepped into the study. Reid was standing stock still, head bowed over a piece of mail, but there was something about his demeanor that immediately told Dave something was terribly wrong.

“No!” Spencer said, furiously. “No, no, no, no!” His voice rose to a shout, and as he turned he gave a roar of pure rage and angrily swept everything off of the top of his desk. “He doesn’t get to be proud of me!” Spencer yelled, waving a greeting card in front of a bewildered Dave. “My mom can be proud of me and you can be proud of me, but not him! He walked out on that right, do you hear me? He walked out on it!”

With concern edging its way to anxiety, Dave managed to take the card away from Spencer and open it. It was a generic Congratulations On Your Graduation card and inside, Bill Reid had written, “So proud of your achievements, Spencer. Love, Dad.”

“I was ten years old!” Spencer shouted, pointing at the card. “How was I supposed to know how to… to pay the bills and-and-and cook the meals and keep social services away and make sure she took her meds and followed the doctor’s instructions and-and-and keep skipping grades and jumping through all their hoops just keep jumping and jumping and jumping! How was I supposed to know all those things!”

Rossi said nothing, merely watched Spencer with a thundering heart and aching throat as he paced from end to end, hands tugging at his hair.

“How could he leave me like that?” Spencer asked him, eyes beseeching Rossi to explain the inexplicable. “How he could he leave everything to me? It wasn’t fair! I was 10 years old! Just because I could… I could remember things and… and… take their tests and pass their classes, I didn’t know how to take care of everything, and he didn’t care! Why didn’t he care?!”

Dave could only shrug helplessly. He’d never seen Spencer raise his voice beyond a snide, snippy bark now and then, and though he itched to pull Spencer to him, to stop the manic pacing and hair pulling, he wanted Spencer to understand that he could fall apart in his presence, and everything would still be okay.

“He knew it would fall on me! He knew I’d have to make the call!” Spencer yelled. He was crying, his face red, wet with tears and mucus. “I was 18 years old, and I had to make the call to commit her and for months after that, for months, she called me a traitor and a killer and everything was my fault! Everything!” He was shrieking now. “It was my fault the meds made her sick! It was my fault the orderlies were too rough! My fault there were scrapes all over her arms and legs! My fault she was bleeding, always bleeding! My fault she was dying! My fault they were killing her! It was my fault! It was all my fault!”

Dave couldn’t stand it any more. He reached for Spencer and pulled him into a bear hug, more forcefully than he intended. “No!” Rossi instantly denied. “You did what you had to; you did the only thing you could!”

“No, no, no,” Spencer groaned, burying his head against Rossi’s neck and gripping Rossi’s shirt in his fists. “I should have tried harder,” Spencer said. “I should have… I was 18, an adult, I could’ve… I could’ve done something else, something more, I didn’t know what else to do or who to…who to talk to… I didn’t know what else to do!”

“You did what you could!” Dave whispered urgently in his ear.

“I read everything I could find! I read and read and read and I still didn’t know what else to do!” Spencer pushed away from Rossi, but his energy was mostly spent. He looked like he was struggling to remain standing as tears continued to course down his cheeks. “She wouldn’t…she wouldn’t eat and the house was…it was filthy and she’d go weeks, she’d go weeks without bathing and I didn’t…every time the phone rang I thought she was dead, every single time, and I didn’t know what to do anymore!”

Spencer helplessly shook his head at Rossi, eyes begging for understanding and forgiveness that he was too upset to see were already his. He turned miserably away, forehead pressed to the window. “I was selfish,” he said brokenly. “I was so tired of it. I couldn’t do it anymore.”

Rossi hesitantly moved closer. “You did everything you could,” he said.

“I should have tried harder,” moaned Spencer, covering his head with his arms, trying to block out his thoughts. “I didn’t know what else to do, and I was so tired of trying.”

“You did the only thing you could,” Dave assured him. “You’re a good son, Spencer. A good son.”

“Don’t say that, I’m not!” Spencer said

“You are,” Dave said, and gently brought his arms around the shaking man. “You’re good; decent and fair and gentle and loving. You don’t take the easy way out of anything; you do what’s right and just, and I’m so proud of you; I’m so glad I get to be proud of you. I love you. Ti amo sempre.”

“No,” Spencer moaned.

“Yes,” Rossi whispered back. “A thousand times yes.”

He gently turned Spencer in his arms, anchoring him to his chest, one hand cradling the back of Spencer’s head. Spencer shuddered violently in Dave’s arms, and Dave thought he was going to push Dave away, so he eased up on his grip, but Spencer made a frantic sound and burrowed his wet face against Rossi’s neck, chanting, “Don’t let go, don’t let go, don’t let go.”

“Never,” Dave promised.

“I’m not crazy,” Spencer whispered, the terror in his voice suggesting he wasn’t convinced.

“No, you’re not.” Dave said simply, and Dave was pretty sure his heart couldn’t break any further until they settled into bed a little later, and he spooned up behind Spencer, holding him fiercely against his chest.

Spencer shuddered in his arms, and whispered so softly, Dave wasn’t sure he was even supposed to hear the words, “I promise I won’t hurt you.”

Jesus.

Spencer was a little remote for a few days. He kept to his own head, though the minute they were alone, he was reaching for Dave—an anchoring hand on Dave’s knee or his forearm. Rossi imagined it as a slow reboot; regaining his equilibrium after a shocking—to Spencer at least—emotional outburst.

Their lovemaking had been slow and careful those few days; sometimes nothing more than exchanging wet, lazy kisses in bed. Late one night, Dave had Spencer on his back in bed; they were making out, but neither one seemed interested in taking it any further, and when they paused for a minute, Dave found himself smiling down at a contented-looking Spencer. Spencer reached up and brushed his fingers through the hair on Rossi’s chest. His eyes intently followed his fingers, then softened when he met Dave’s eyes. His hair was spread out on the pillow beneath him, his lips were swollen from Dave’s kisses. And then he licked those beautiful lips and took a deep breath and whispered, “Take my picture.”

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It was shortly after the second set of pictures were taken that Spencer shyly asked Dave to come with him to Pasadena for a long weekend.

There was something so vulnerable, so open about the request—Dave couldn’t even identify what, but sometimes his feelings for Spencer overwhelmed him, stole the breath right from him. “I’d like that,” Dave said and was rewarded with Spencer’s delighted smile.

Spencer said he wanted to show Dave the other place he’d been happy, and he was finally ready to introduce Dave to Alan and Max.

Alan Klein had been Spencer’s guardian when he was attending Caltech as a minor. He and his boyfriend Max had provided Spencer with what he referred to—with that self-deprecating huff of his—as his only respite of normalcy in an otherwise extraordinary life.

There had been a falling out of sorts when Spencer joined the BAU. Gideon had rubbed Alan the wrong way from what Spencer said and neither Alan nor Max had wanted Spencer to pursue a career working for the government, particularly in law enforcement. Spencer had been so overjoyed that Jason Gideon was willing to bend Agency rules for him that he admittedly overreacted to Alan and Max’s disapproval.

The rift had resolved itself shortly after Reid’s experience with Tobias Henkel, and Rossi couldn’t help wondering if the thaw had something to do with Spencer’s beginning to think maybe Alan had been right about Gideon. And law enforcement.

“So this is going to be my big weekend meeting the in-laws, isn’t it?” Dave said leaning against the desk in their study as Spencer booked their airline tickets. “Why now?”

Spencer smiled, a private, self-conscious smile that found him ducking his head and shrugging. “Now there’s you,” he said softly.

“Yeah?” Rossi said, matching his soft tone. “But what’s so great about me?”

Spencer laughed. “I hardly think we have time for me to list everything,” he said, head still bowed.

“Well, not everything,” Dave agreed, trying to catch Spencer’s eye and laughing at how successfully Spencer avoided it. “No reason why we can’t start a small list, though.”

“I don’t want to embarrass you,” Spencer said, but it was his own cheeks tinged with a blush.

“I can take it.”

Spencer made a show of thinking to himself, then said, “You think you can do anything.”

Dave appreciated the irony that number one on his list of faults coming from anyone else, was a trait Spencer valued above just about all others. “I can,” he said, matching Spencer’s instant smile with his own.

The smile faded into Spencer’s most earnest face. “You think I can do anything.”

Dave took Spencer’s soft earlobe into his mouth and gently sucked, then whispered, “You can,”

“Oh,” Spencer sighed, breathless.

“What else?” Dave asked.

“Um… the skin behind your knees is really soft.”

“Everybody’s skin is soft there,” Dave said. “What else?”

“But I can’t lick everyone else there,” Spencer pointed out.

“And isn’t that a lesson some of us learn the hard way,” Rossi said. “What else?”

Reid pulled back and gave Rossi a knowing look. “Your cock,” he said, chin lifted in defiance. “That’s what you want me to say, isn’t it? Your cock in my mouth. Your cock in my ass. Your cock in my hair…”

Rossi chuckled in lewd appreciation. “There’s something about filthy words coming out of that pretty mouth of yours,” he said, thumb running across those lush lips. “Makes me crazy.”

“You love to come in my hair,” Spencer said enticingly.

Rossi hummed in appreciation at the idea. “One of these days some brilliant SOB is gonna market come-scented shampoo and I’ll never let you out of bed.”

“Who needs a middleman?” Spencer said, dropping to his knees.

Dave stepped out of his pants while Spencer leaned forward, gathering his hair in his hands and then waiting, an offering to Dave who gently coaxed him forward so he could wrap his cock around Spencer’s thick, beautiful hair and produce his very own come-scented shampoo.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“What have you told Alan and Max about me anyway?” Dave asked. He hadn’t actually thought to ask that question until they were sitting on the plane, and he was pulling out Sunday’s crossword. Spencer frowned at him when he saw what Dave was doing, but Rossi refused to feel guilty. If he didn’t hide the damn crossword, Spencer had it filled out before Rossi could track down a pen.

“I told them I was coming to Pasadena and bringing you with me.”

“And you told them I was an agent with the FBI? An author? Divorced three times… what?”

Spencer shook his head at Dave’s guesses. “It’s not like I have to tell them about you,” he pointed out.

“How do you figure that?” Dave asked.

“Google,” Reid said, as if the answer was obvious.

“You left their impression of me up to Google?” Rossi said incredulously.

Spencer shrugged. “There’s no reason for you to be concerned. All of your books have been well received, and your appearances on CNN and the other news shows are nothing to be ashamed…”

“Well let’s hope they didn’t end up surfing at DeathToGovernment.org because my favorability ratings aren’t quite as high there.”

Reid settled in to the book he was reading. “I imagine that much like the judging in diving or ice skating, they throw out both the highest and the lowest score to come up with their composite.”

“Great, the East German judge doesn’t get to weigh in,” Dave muttered. “How comforting.” Reid smirked into his book and Rossi sighed. “Did you at least mention the age thing?”

“They know how old I am,” Spencer said, grinning at Rossi’s huff of irritation. “It never came up,” he said with a defensive shrug. “When someone tells you they’re seeing someone, the first question isn’t how old are they?.”

“Given your track record, I can’t imagine why not.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s supposed to mean that you have a track record for dating geezers. Didn’t Alan threaten to have some professor fired and thrown in jail when he found the two of you…”

Reid’s frown suggested he regretted sharing that story with Rossi. “He was a TA, and I was eighteen, well over the age of consent in California.”

“Eighteen is the age of consent in California.”

Spencer glared at him, but leaned in closer, only to say, “Seventeen across is ministrant.”

He smiled in satisfaction at Rossi’s irritated, “God dammit!”

Dave got back at Spencer by leaving a third the puzzle unfinished and refusing to let Spencer complete it, which lasted until Spencer had the ludicrous idea that he was going to drive the rental car, and Dave negotiated driving by agreeing to let Spencer finish the puzzle in the car.

Dave plugged their destination into the navigation system and headed out toward Pasadena. It only took Spencer five minutes to tidy up the crossword, then he avidly began to look out for landmarks. “There’s DiPaoulo’s!” he said excited as they passed a strip mall. “We’ll go there for breakfast in the morning. Best pastry in the city, hands down.” He sighed happily. “Mm, we have to have crepes at Red Door and a sandwich…”

“Crepes?” Rossi said incredulously. “Your fond college food memory is of crepes?”

“They put Nutella in them,” Reid said, as if this was something everyone knew (or should). “Grilled cheese at Pie n Burger. And peanut butter pie. And pecan. And maybe strawberry. Of course, you’re partial to apple, so we should probably get that too.”

Dave thought it a good thing Prentiss wasn’t with them or she would have thwacked Reid upside the head on general principle.

By the time they pulled in to the driveway at Alan and Max’s, Spencer was thrumming with excitement and he slid out of the car almost before it had come to a complete stop. Dave couldn’t remember ever seeing him so animated as he rushed toward the front door, which opened before he reached the front stoop.

Dave recognized the two men from a photo Spencer had shown him. Alan was a big, bear of a man. Well over six feet tall with a round belly and full bushy beard, he looked more Unabomber than professor of Integrative Neuroscience and with a whoop, he pulled Spencer into an engulfing hug. His partner Max was more polished; certainly more fitting of the image of a college professor Rossi had rolling around in his brain. Max was good-looking in a generic California way; a decade or so younger than Alan and with enough of a paunch that Rossi could at least stop sucking in his gut and take a few breaths.

“Jesus Christ, you keep growing,” Alan said to Spencer as Dave joined them on the lawn. “Upward anyway.” He shook his head reprovingly, but left off any remark about Reid’s weight or lack thereof. Reid heard the unspoken criticism anyway.

“You seem to be covering the outward for both of us,” Spencer said, patting Alan’s ample belly, looking pleased at his own humor.

Max stood back and gave Spencer and exaggerated once over. “Oh my God, did you develop fashion sense or is this just what turns up at the DC Goodwill stores?” He pulled Spencer close for a hug, still talking. “God forbid you wear last year’s Armani to this year’s thousand dollar a plate fund raiser for fund raising. Our tax dollars at work, am I—” Max’s voice trailed off when his hand brushed against Reid’s pant leg. “Jeez Louise, these pants are like butter,” he said.

Rossi gruffly cleared his throat when Max chose Reid’s ass as the best place to enjoy the softness of the fabric. Max spared him a glance over Spencer’s shoulder. “And you are?” he said.

“The only one who gets to do that to Spencer,” Rossi answered, indicating the two should move apart.

“Aw, how provincial,” Max said, but duly backed away.

“Alan, Max, I’d like you to meet my…” Reid stumbled at bit, then shrugged his shoulders and said, “M-m-my Dave.”

“Well how precious,” Max said. “Spencer’s got his very own Dave!” He gave Dave a slow measuring once over. “I used to have a Davis years ago, and he was for absolute shit.”

“Dave’s really great,” Spencer said happily.

“Mm,” Max answered, obviously withholding judgment for the moment. He turned his attention back to Spencer. “I’ve been holding on to my Plagence paper for you. The deadline’s Tuesday, so you’ve got to blow through it. You read the prelim work, right?”

Reid made a face of displeasure. “Of course I read the prelim work, but I’ve told you a hundred times, I am not going to waste my breath if Towers is the basis of your research. He’s been discredited by every reputable…”

Obviously Reid hit a button. Max rolled his eyes, his entire body heaving in exasperation. “When will you realize that just because you can read and synthesize a billion words a minute, you’re still shackled by the same prejudices and blind spots of any scientist…”

Spencer coughed in disbelief. “You are not still pushing this ridiculous ‘blind spot’ argument! The refutations of Tower’s findings are not the result of blind spots, but over 15 years of concentrated, dedicated…”

Alan glanced at his watch. “Six minutes,” he said, sounding surprised. “Don’t think they’ve ever held out that long before.” He shrugged at Rossi. “It’s five o’clock somewhere,” he said.

“And I’m on vacation,” Dave answered.

In a few minutes, Dave and Alan were sitting in the warm sunshine out on the back deck. Rossi chafed a bit at the feeling of the grownups breaking off from the children, but he was nursing an exquisite Sangiovese that reminded him of an afternoon he and Spencer had spent at a charming outdoor cafe in Pastena-Lone, and Reid would find him soon enough.

“I almost thought we’d get Spencer back after his mentor left the FBI,” Alan said, relaxing back in his chair.

“Why?” Rossi asked.

“Isn’t Jason Gideon the father of all things BAU?” Alan said snidely.

Dave offered him an easy smile. “No,” he said. “That would be me.”

Alan coughed and laughed in the same breath. “Jesus Christ, that kid goes for type,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Dave snorted, part acknowledgement, part amusement. As his father always said, ‘Facts is facts.’

Alan motioned over Dave’s shoulder. “You know, these double doors weren’t an aesthetic choice—it was the only way we could move in Max’s ego.”

“Max’s ego,” Rossi said with an understanding nod.

“It’s an age old story,” Alan said with a grin. “Unassuming, unappreciated genius hooks up with egotistical center-of-attention type. Power behind the throne and all that.”

“Mmm,” Rossi said. “I am unfamiliar with that scenario,” he said, feigning regret.

“Mmm,” Alan echoed. “Spencer said you met his mom not long ago,” he said. “How’d it go?” It wasn’t exactly a smooth segue.

“I’m not sure,” Rossi admitted. “My overall impression is that she thought I was old.”

Alan shrugged. “Crazy ain’t blind,” he said, with a knowing nod.

Rossi just snorted into his wine glass.

“Diana and I taught together at Berkeley before she was married,” Alan said. “She was brilliant. Phenomenal teacher. Her passion had this kind of energy to it…you’d walk into her classroom, and the students were buzzing with it. She’d take some bonehead frat boy who was taking a freshman intro class because he had to and three weeks down the line he’d be red-faced and bellowing that if Isolde was innocent of her actions then dammit, Tristan was too!”

Rossi chuckled. “Her sense of humor was certainly intact when I met her.”

Alan chuckled too, but the smile on his face slowly faded until he sadly shook his head, reflexively craning his neck to see if Spencer was within earshot. “She went off her meds when she was pregnant, and they never could get it right again,” he said quietly. “Now and then there’d be this glimmer, and we’d all think, maybe it’ll be okay now, but it never lasted very long.”

Rossi nodded slowly, an image of Bill Reid flashing through his brain. Perhaps some latent resentment at Spencer’s birth precipitating Diana’s long, slow decline fed into his ability to walk away and never look back. It wasn't a theory he’d pose to Spencer, but it felt like a significant piece of the puzzle. “Mental illness is tragic whenever it strikes, but schizophrenia seems to take down more than its fair share of brilliant, promising people,” Dave said.

Alan nodded sadly. “She and Bill tried to outrun it for awhile—Diana transferred from Berkeley to Stanford to UC Sacramento, finally to UNLV, but it was never about location. There was a… family of sorts when we were all at Berkeley, ragtag as all hell, but I still wonder if it wouldn’t have been better—for Spencer at least—if they’d just stayed put in California.”

Laughter sounded from inside the house and both Alan and Dave turned toward the sound. “He was supposed to be mine you know,” Alan said wistfully.

Rossi tamped down an internal burst of temper, forcing himself to remain slouched in his seat, when the impulse was to sit up straight. “What do you mean?” he asked mildly.

Alan sighed, his thoughts far away for a moment. “If something happened to Bill and Diana, Spencer was supposed to come to me. But, by the time I found out Bill had left, Diana was so far gone… The only way I was going to get Spencer would be to have her declared unfit and she would have fought me with everything in her and…” Alan’s voice trailed off, and he heaved another sigh. “I’d moved on to Caltech by then, still in the closet; AIDS was the black menace…” he shook his head at his excuses. “She would have outed me in a heartbeat, and I was a coward,” he said bluntly.

It struck Rossi that this wasn’t so much a grilling of him by an erstwhile in-law but rather a confessional. He bowed his head, unsure whether or not to voice the opinion that, to be equally blunt, Spencer was fucked either way--life with a schizophrenic mother or be torn apart by a court battle that saw his surrogate father committing his mother to a mental institution. Bill Reid might have inserted himself in the drama then and who knows what kind of damage would have been inflicted on Spencer. In any event, Spencer would have been left with different scars, but it was hard to say they’d be any less painful.

“Spencer’s turned out to be a pretty amazing guy, Alan,” Dave finally said. “Don’t live with regrets.”

Dinner that night, in honor of Spencer’s visit, was his old favorite from when he lived with Alan and Max—Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. “The bread’s homemade,” Alan said apologetically to Dave.

Rossi shrugged. “It’s not from a vending machine,” he said. “This is more upscale than we usually get.” He really didn’t care what they ate, Dave was enjoying watching Spencer interact with Alan and Max. It was the most comfortable Dave had ever seen him outside of their home. Spencer was so guarded with his mother that Dave couldn’t see a suggestion of anyone other than the Reid he knew, but here, sitting around Alan and Max’s kitchen table he could imagine a very young Spencer, momentarily freed from the drowning responsibilities of caring for his sick mom. How endless the possibilities had been for that kid.

Alan teased Spencer about the campus tour he had planned for the following day. Aside from the mathematics building and the chemistry labs, he was sure Spencer would have a hard time recognizing anywhere else on campus.

Spencer lifted his chin in that haughty way of his and said he’d had the tour planned for some time and it was going to be fantastic.

Dave wasn’t sure what he expected from Spencer’s tour of his old stomping ground, but it turned out to be less a tour and more a rewrite of the dating life Spencer would have liked to experience had he had a boyfriend when he attended school and had he attended school circa 1850.

They started with breakfast at Reid’s favorite bakery I never thought I’d be eating breakfast with my boyfriend at DiPaoulo’s! he’d whispered excitedly to Dave as they nursed cups of coffee and watched students coming and going.

They surreptitiously held hands during an observatory presentation clearly aimed at elementary school children; as they roamed around the main mathematics building, Dave was demurely presented to several of Spencer’s former professors as if Reid was seeking their permission to allow the man to court him. Spencer dragged Dave to nearly half a dozen “sparking” areas on campus--Sparking? Rossi had asked incredulously. Is that you talking or the campus. An entire campus of young people cannot be that nerdy, can they?.

Reid hypothesized that yes, it was possible, and seemed slightly disappointed that the locations which had taken on mythic proportions in his adolescent imagination turned out to be rather lame.

They stopped for drinks at a favorite deli of Spencer’s. Dave found a table outside while Spencer fetched the drinks. As Dave watched in mounting horror, Spencer walked back to their table carrying a single drink and two straws. Even though he knew it was cruel, Dave nonetheless made the split-second decision to fake a heart attack if Spencer suggested they share the drink between them.

His concern was only mildly assuaged when Spencer put the drink down squarely in front of Dave. “You’re not having anything?” Dave asked warily.

Spencer motioned toward the counter. “Mango smoothie,” he said. “She’s bringing it out in a second.”

“Of course she is,” Dave said dryly.

Spencer just wrinkled his nose at him and sat back in his chair, face turned up toward the sun. Dave cocked his head to the side and studied him for a beat, grinning when Spencer realized Dave’s eyes were on him. “What?” he asked, recognizing Dave’s measuring look.

Dave shrugged and shook his head, still smiling. “I thought you’d blend in a lot more around here, but…” He continued shaking his head in amusement. “Too much junior G-man in you now.”

Spencer chuffed in amusement. “The last time I failed my arms qualification, I complained that I looked like a teacher’s assistant.”

Dave’s look turned dubious. “You failed your arms qualification?” he said, not believing it for a minute.

“I told you about that,” Spencer reminded him. “It was at the same time as the LDSK case.”

Dave nodded, remembering now. “You’re not wearing your piece today, though. And I can pick you out of the crowd no problem.”

“I’d like to think my service revolver is hardly a defining identifier for you.”

Dave gave him a sly grin. “There are other things,” he agreed. He looked around for a beat, watching the students coming and going, admiring a young lady or two in flimsy, little tank tops. “You tempted at all by any this?” he asked. “The way those math professors were salivating over you it seems like you could name your terms, and they’d set you up.”

“Looking for more ammunition you can use to torture poor Hotch?” Spencer asked slyly.

Dave laughed in surprise. “You’re on to me, aren’t you, Babe?”

Spencer just primly pursed his lips at Dave and gave an exasperated shake of his head. He, too looked around, but quickly shook his head in answer to Dave’s question. “I’m not tempted at all,” he admitted. “You?”

Dave gave a snort of derision. “Like I’d push you to a stateside college.” He settled back in his chair with a sigh. “Nope, I’m holding out for a universitari‎ in Napoli.”

Spencer leveled his own measuring gaze on Dave. “Would you really be happy with that?”

Dave made a show of thinking it over. “Well, let’s see,” he said. “Little apartment overlooking the Amalfi coast; get up when the sun wakes me; write a little somethin’ as I’m sittin’ on the balcony watching the sea gulls fight over scraps; walk down to the square to meet my beautiful young lover for lunch and maybe entice him into an illicit tryst before he heads back to his safe, comfortable classroom where murder and mayhem are as real as a fairy tale.” He nodded approvingly at the idea. “Yeah, I’d be happy with that.”

Spencer smiled and reached for his hand. “Ti amo,” he said softly.

Dave kissed his hand and chuckled at the furious blush. “So have we completed the Spencer Reid Magical Mystery Tour?” he asked.

Spencer spared a smile for the delivery of his drink by the counter girl who was eying their joined hands with a smirk that said—to Dave at least--figures.

Sorry, Sister, Dave thought. All the good ones are gay or married. Sometimes both.

Spencer took a sip of his smoothie and sighed happily. “Just like I remember,” he said. He stood up, pulling Dave with him. “A few more stops, then we’re done,” he promised.

Dave motioned for Spencer to head out. “Lay on, Macduff ,” he said and Spencer grinned at him over his shoulder, pleased that Dave correctly cited the quote.

“Act Five, Scene Eight,” Spencer said approvingly.

“Rowr,” Dave replied with a leer that made Spencer laugh.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Several days later—well, two hours really, it just felt to Dave like several days--Reid breathlessly tugged him through the hotel door, holding tightly to Dave’s hand. Laughing in spite of himself Dave could only shake his head and say, “You are out of control.”

Spencer laughed too, his face flushed, eyes shining with an unrestrained delight Dave had never seen before. “I can’t help it!” he said, “I never thought I’d get kicked out of the Caltech library for making out between the bookshelves!”

Dave pulled Spencer to him, offering his neck which Spencer promptly began kissing. “How come you put the kibosh on me every time I suggest a little alfresco dining, hmm?”

Spencer chuckled. “Because you won’t stop at kissing, and we’ll get thrown in jail for public indecency.”

“Almost be worth it to see Hotch’s face when he has to come bail us out.”

Reid pulled back, looking appalled. “We are not calling Hotch to bail us out.”

“Why not?”

Incredulous that he would have to elucidate, Reid sputtered, “He’s our boss!”

“It’s not like he won’t be privy to the knowledge when he’s fillin’ out your performance review. He might as well do the legwork.”

“I’m beginning to think you have a lot more on Hotch than a single February 2000 incident in Biloxi, Mississippi or he would never have agreed to welcome you back to the BAU.”

“Perhaps instead of making fun of my note taking when I’m on a case, you should be more appreciative.”

“Perhaps I should.”

“Mmm, you’re being especially agreeable today. Perhaps you should remove your clothes, lube your ass, stretch a bit and see what it’s like to get fucked in a hotel on the Caltech campus.”

“What if I told you,” Spencer whispered between haphazard kisses that landed on Dave’s cheek and chin, just teasing the corner of his mouth before Spencer drew away to finish speaking, “That some of those steps have already been taken?”

“I would insist that you elaborate,” Rossi answered.

“What if I told you,” Spencer continued, unbuttoning Rossi’s shirt and kissing the skin as it was exposed. “That I spent the day slick and stretched and waiting for you, wanting you, all day, every step. What if I told you that?”

Realization dawning on him, Dave slid his hand into Spencer’s pants, under his boxers, fingers trailing down until the breath was shoved from his lungs when he felt lube leaking out from behind the butt plug in Spencer’s ass. Dave stumbled, momentarily losing equilibrium in the explosion of need-want-take-mine. He quickly rid Spencer of his pants and nearly shot his load at Spencer’s wanton groan that met the removal of the plug. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” Dave muttered reverently, forehead resting against Spencer’s for a beat. “Jesus, Spencer, it kills me when you do this.”

Spencer laughed. “That’s why…I do it…sparingly,” he said, then moaned into Dave’s mouth when Dave’s finger sought entry to his tender ass. “No, you,” Spencer said, shaking his head when Dave worked in another finger. “I want you.”

“Always me, only me,” Dave said, manhandling Spencer to the bed.

“Yes,” Spencer whispered. “You…inside me…you.”

Dave was more than happy to comply.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Jesus,” Dave sighed breathlessly, a little later. “You’re gonna have to sell a kidney for the tip we need to leave the cleaning staff,” he said.

“We can’t sell your car?” Spencer said.

“Mazlow’s hierarchy, babe. Kidneys are way before the car.”

“My kidneys,” Spencer clarified.

“Well,” Dave scoffed at such quibbling.

Spencer placed a few soft kisses on Dave’s chest and lazily rubbed his cheek against the hair there. “Let’s leave for the airport with enough time to stop at DiPaoulo’s. They’ll box up doughnuts so they travel well, and we can take them in to the office tomorrow.”

“After the way Emily barked at you, you wanna risk that?”

“I think she was just having a bad day.”

Dave smiled to himself. “No, I’m pretty sure the number of doughnuts you eat makes her really, really mad.”

“I guess I usually miss the social cues that indicate an appropriate amount of food to consume when in a public venue.” Spencer said with a sigh.

“Well, at least you know now that around Emily it’s three doughnuts.”

“It’s all so arbitrary,” Spencer said.

“Mmm,” Rossi said. “Remind me to grab a real estate brochure from the lobby before we go,” he said.

“Why?” Spencer asked around a yawn.

“I want it to sit on the corner of my desk for a couple of weeks,” Dave answered.

“Why?”

“If Hotch is gonna mess with me about your hair, then I’m gonna mess with him about his one and only genius profiler relocating to Pasadena.”

Spencer sighed and shook his head, clucking a little at Rossi’s juvenile behavior. “I hope there’s room in that Italian class Georgetown offers.”

Now it was Dave’s turn to ask why.

“Because, I have a feeling I’m going to be teaching at that universitari‎ in Napoli a lot sooner than later.”

* The End *

Criminal Minds Fic #7: The One with the Dinner Party at Hotch’s Place

Sun, 19 Apr 2009 21:20:09 GMT

Title: The One with the Dinner Party at Hotch’s Place
Author: myrna1_2_3
Pairing: Rossi/Reid, Hotch/OFC
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Hotch and his girlfriend host a dinner party
Word count: ~9,500
Author’s note: This is more Hotch/OFC with a cameo by Rossi & Reid. Focus will return to Rossi/Reid after this one-off.

If I held you any closer I would be on the other side of you. ~Groucho Marx

“You should be a prosecutor,” SSA Aaron Hotchner said to his girlfriend Laurie as they both watched a befuddled Spencer Reid sprint toward the direction of the DC train station.

With the meticulous use of silence, strategically placed “uh huh’s,” and the ability to stare intently without blinking, Laurie had managed to get Spencer to reveal his weekend plans with Rossi’s visiting brother, and then somehow enticed Reid--Reid!--to accept an invitation to a dinner party next weekend.

And even bring the main course.

“Not a profiler?” Laurie said. She’d come to pick Aaron up at the office since his car was in the shop—one of the many little things Hotch appreciated about being in a solid relationship.

“Profiling would require you to use your powers for good,” he said as they headed toward Laurie’s car. His fingers itched to reach for the car keys, but she would make fun of his sexist--gentlemanly, he would insist--assumption that he should drive. “As a prosecutor, you wouldn’t have that constraint.”

Laurie made a smug face at him. “You’re just jealous because the beautiful Dr. Reid responds to me in a way you’ve tried and tried and tried and tried to make him respond to you but he doesn’t.”

“That reminds me,” Hotch said. “We’re need to stop on the way home and refill your anti-psychotic prescription.”

Laurie had her cell phone to her ear and only had time to say, “Ha ha,” before the person she called picked up. “Next Saturday, you and Rodger are coming to Aaron’s,” she said to her sister. “Dave Rossi and the Boy Genius are coming for dinner!... No, it’s fine, Aaron’s not ready to commit to the threesome so we might as well make a party of it. Plus, Dave’s tagging along so that makes it awkward—we haven’t quite figured out what to do with him... Believe me, once you see Spencer, you’ll know what I’ve been talking about--even Rodger’s gonna be taking a number when he gets a load of him…Okay, well, maybe not Rodger. You know, Aaron acts like it’s nothing, but I’m pretty sure there’s a little tingle in his nether regions whenever Spencer…”

“Hang up!” Aaron said, making a half-hearted grab for the phone. “Do not listen to her, Eve!” he called to Laurie’s sister. “I think she was drinking before she picked me up!”

Laughing, Laurie tossed the car keys at him and walked around to the passenger side door of her car. She hung up with her sister and spoke as if she and Hotch had been discussing a possible threesome for some time. “I mean, it’s not going to be a cakewalk with the whole ‘only-has-eyes-for-Dave’ thing, but our secret weapon there is Dave himself. I can’t help thinking he’ll take it as a point of great pride when we solicit Spencer’s involvement in an innocent little ménage a’ trois.”

“I’d almost call your bluff, but Dave’s a wild card,” Aaron said thoughtfully. He lifted a knowing eyebrow at her. “You know, one of these days, Reid’s going to pick up on all of your little innuendos, and you’re going to be really embarrassed.”

“And by embarrassed, I’m guessing you mean sexually satisfied?”

Aaron laughed, amazed that he could still see the office in the rearview mirror, yet it already seemed miles and miles away.

When he and Laurie first started dating, sometimes, for just a fleeting moment, Hotch felt guilty for how much easier it seemed with Laurie than it ever had with Haley. He knew that wasn’t fair—or accurate even. The pain that attended the end of his marriage was still coloring his memories of his entire relationship with Haley. And besides, Hotch recognized that what he had with Laurie was a product of choices he was consciously making and while he felt badly that he hadn’t made those choices with Haley, he was trying not to let it cloud what he had with Laurie.

Time and distance from Haley had allowed Hotch to see that he and Haley, having met as teenagers, had never really veered from teenaged reactions to the highs and lows of their marriage. Haley resented having to tell Aaron what she needed; Aaron made so many overtures based on obligation rather than genuine feeling. They would fight, followed by a period of resentment, silent treatment, shame, then make their way back to one another only to repeat it all the next time. And the next.

Hotch prided himself on being a calm, reasoned man, but he had been just as immature and petulant with Haley as she with him. They’d been incapable of breaking out of patterns set 20 years ago and eventually the only viable option was to split up. And it had wrecked Hotch—just wrecked him—that Jack was a casualty of his and Haley’s inadequacies.

So Aaron had approached his relationship with Laurie determined not to slip into the bad habits he’d had with Haley, but he was still taken aback by Laurie’s head-on approach to conflict.

She didn’t silently resent it when Aaron put the Job before everything else, but she did challenge him on it. “So, a hundred years from now, what? The world will descend in to chaos because you’re no longer around to collar all of the criminally insane? Or better yet, during your tenure in the FBI you’ll have completely rid the universe of all major criminals? Is that your forecast?”

Laurie never complained when a case took Aaron out of town at the last minute. Any plans they made were set with the understanding that there was a chance they’d have to be scrapped. Tension between the two of them revolved more around the affects those cases had on Hotch’s behavior. He could be cold and distant in the aftermath of a case, sometimes short-tempered. Aaron knew there were times when he should have cancelled a date rather than force himself to show up in a black, impenetrable mood. The angriest he had ever seen Laurie was the night he pointed out that even if he wasn’t in a stellar mood, he’d shown up to dinner at her place because he didn’t shirk his obligations.

She’d nearly launched herself across the table at his throat. “Don’t you ever spend time with me because you think you have to!” she’d yelled at him. “I’m nobody’s charity case, and if you don’t want to be with me, believe me, there are a million other things I can do with my time!”

A lot of their disagreements centered around the relentless pace Aaron set for himself-- the hours he worked and the impossible standards he set. Aaron made the mistake once of saying Laurie couldn’t understand because her job didn’t have the life or death implications of his. It was a point for which Haley had never had a comeback because there wasn’t one. Or so Aaron though.

“Bullshit,” Laurie, who was an attorney for the ACLU, easily dismissed the idea. “Aaron, maybe what I do isn’t life and death but it has repercussions that reach far into the future. The kid selling crack on the street corner is there partly because of the economic opportunities denied his father and his father’s father and on and on before that. If I half-ass my job, if I don’t do everything in my power to expose the inequities inherent in our systems, I’m condemning future generations to lives hopelessly enmeshed in a culture of poverty. I take that really seriously. But if I don’t have a firm understanding of what I can control and what I can’t, I’m going to burn out or cut corners or make dubious, unethical choices that are just as hazardous to the people I serve. And you’d better believe the minute I think I’m the only one holy enough on the planet to do what I do, that’s when I’m getting the hell out.”

“Easy enough,” Hotch said coldly. “Attorneys who do what you do are a dime a dozen. I think you’ll find profiling for the FBI is a little more specialized.”

“Oh get over yourself,” Laurie said, rolling her eyes. “You want everyone to believe you’re some selfless martyr. You’re the only one who knows enough; who cares enough; who’s willing to give it everything he’s got. That's bullshit—it’s nothing but ego. Because here’s the thing—if it is true, and you are the only one who knows enough and cares enough, then you’re a failure anyway because you’re so craptastic a supervisor you can’t figure out how to hire people who can be trained to know enough and care enough. So either way, you’re screwed, and you really should just quit and leave the job to somebody competent!”

Hotch knew he’d been losing himself in the Job for a long time, knew he was heading full speed toward a brick wall, but he wasn’t ready to do anything about it until Laurie finally issued an ultimatum of sorts. “Aaron, I respect what you do and how you do it,” she’d said, tears in her eyes after another evening marred by Hotch’s dark mood. “God, I marvel at it because it’s really amazing. But, I’m not going to drown in it with you, and I’m not going to watch you drown in it either. If you’re unable or unwilling to figure out some perspective, I don’t want to be with you.”

Laurie’s words had especially resonated because it hadn’t been that long ago that a concerned Dave had asked a Hotch who was very nearly at the breaking point if he wanted to end up like Gideon. He didn’t, not the least of which because Aaron had never liked the way Gideon treated other people. Yes, Jason had been devoted to keeping his fellow citizens safe, but he operated from a place of such arrogance and supremacy that he was almost contemptuous of ordinary people leading ordinary lives.

The funny thing was, Hotch used to worry about Jason trying to mold Spencer in his image. Whenever Spencer fell short of that, Gideon could be so cutting in his rebukes, so unyielding in his disapproval. He pushed and pushed and pushed at Spencer, and when Spencer came through it was merely what Jason expected of him, and on the rare occasion when Reid didn’t—or couldn’t—come through, Gideon was so unforgiving, so certain no one would ever measure up to his lofty status. Hotch had worried about Reid’s ability to cope with such a demanding mentor, but never recognized that he was in danger of turning into Jason himself.

Aaron thought Jason a good, if tormented man, but he didn’t want to be like him. Aaron didn’t want the berth between himself and the rest of the world to get wider and wider as the years went by. He certainly didn’t want to sacrifice a relationship with his son because he was so self-important as to think he was the only man who could properly do the Job. He didn’t want his son to grow up thinking everything else was more important to Hotch. Aaron didn’t want to think everything else was more important.

It was a lot to think about, and he thought about it a lot following that disastrous evening with Laurie. The two of them didn’t speak for three days, and at lunchtime on the fourth day, Hotch corralled Rossi and offered to buy him lunch. Rossi tossed him a sardonic look when Hotch stopped in front of a hot dog cart at the entrance of a city park, but gamely ordered a couple of dogs and a bottle of water. “Morgan at least takes me somewhere with a roof when he’s givin’ the lecture,” Rossi pointed out as he sat down on a bench.

“This isn’t a lecture,” Hotch said. “I want to pick your brain about something.”

“Look, just because I’m sleepin’ with Spencer doesn’t mean I can help you choose new drapes or anything,” Dave cautioned.

Hotch smirked at him. “Duly noted,” he said. “I’ve been…wondering, I guess. Is it different—Spencer doing what you do; both of you understanding what we see every day?”

“You and Laurie at Go – No Go?” Rossi asked.

Aaron snorted at the laser-like insight. Hanging around profilers was a pain in the ass a lot of the time. “How long did it take you and Reid to get there?” he asked, not really expecting Dave to answer.

“We started at Go,” Rossi said. He rolled his eyes at Aaron’s wry expression. “No, I’m just sayin’ Spencer’s a unique case. I had to be all in from the start because he wasn’t going to recognize the difference between a bump in the road and a burning bridge.” Aaron thought it interesting that Rossi’s reasoning was a function of Reid’s inexperience as opposed to some perceived emotional fragility on Reid’s part. Rossi then offered his own wry grin. “Which is not to say I haven’t been sitting exactly where you are many times. Many, many, many times. A whole lot of times.”

“How did you keep going back?” Aaron asked, shaking his head in amazement. “After Haley and I were really over, I was so determined never to feel that lousy about anything ever again.”

Rossi snorted in amusement. “Yeah, well, with me, it was always the perfect storm of ego, amnesia, Catholic repression. I’m thinkin’ the affordability of breast augmentation figures in there somewhere. I kept comin’ back for a million different reasons.”

“Two anyway,” Hotch said.

They shared a lewd chuckle as Rossi sat back on the bench, as much invitation as Hotch was going to get to spill his guts.

“Laurie and I argued a couple of days ago. Almost the same argument Haley and I used to have but not quite. Haley always took my absence personally; she resented what I was doing to her, but Laurie…” Aaron trailed off, not quite sure what he was trying to say.

“What?” Rossi asked.

“I don’t know, it’s not that she objects to the Job because of how it affects her; she objects to how it affects me.”

“And that kind of reasonability is so foreign you don’t know how to respond?” Rossi guessed.

Hotch shot him a look. “I can’t just flip a switch and say, ‘okay from now on I won’t get worked up about the horror we see every day.’”

Rossi nodded in feigned understanding. “So Laurie is insisting that you stop thinking the crimes we deal with are terrible?”

Hotch rolled his eyes at Rossi’s sarcasm. “No, of course not. She wants me to stop thinking I’m the only one…”

“Who can stop them,” Rossi finished for him. “Aaron, we all rotate in and out of that one. You just haven’t rotated out for a long time.”

“You can’t tell me these cases don’t get to you and Reid,” Hotch said. “How do you deal with it?”

Rossi took a few beats to gather his thoughts. “We’ve been lucky enough, I guess. We react pretty differently when cases get to us and so far, different cases get to us.”

“Lucky,” Aaron repeated the word with a snort at the irony.

Rossi acknowledged the relativity of his point with a shrug. “When a case gets to Spencer, he needs quiet, you know? He gets on overload and it’s like, the physical world—sight, sound, touch—is too much. And what he needs is silence.” Rossi gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Now, unfortunately, my inclination is to take over—get in there and force him to let me take care of everything, of him. And that focus, that attention, the noise it adds—it makes his skin crawl. Makes everything worse for him. Harder. I’ve learned to just stand there next to him and breathe. That’s the only thing I can do that actually makes it better. So I stand there and breathe so he knows he’s not alone and for whatever reason, it helps. And besides, when a case gets to me…”

Rossi trailed off like Hotch knew how that went, but Aaron had no idea. “When a case gets to you…” he prodded.

Rossi shrugged. “When a case gets to me, he lets me.”

Hotch didn’t follow. “Lets you?”

“Yeah, he lets me go all Italian grandma on his ass.” Hotch must have still looked confused because Rossi affably provided some detail. “Like this,” he said, “After Zoe Hawkes was murdered; about three days after we got back, I wake up, middle of the night, and he’s… who the hell knows what he’s doin’, but I march in his study and I start barkin’ about how things are gonna fuckin’ change around here and he’s gonna sleep at a reasonable hour and eat fuckin’ regular meals and…Jesus, I don’t know, brush and floss between meals and start God damn taking care of himself, and he just… he just says, ‘Okay.’”

Aaron cast a dubious glance at his friend. He couldn’t recall seeing a marked change in Reid that would suggest more sleep. God knows the kid didn’t look like his diet had improved any.

Rossi’s shrug conceded the point. “So, for, I don’t know, a few days, he eats whatever ridiculously portioned meal I put in front of him; clock strikes ten he hops into bed; cuts back on the coffee, puts down the text books and journal articles and lays around for once, ‘til we’re drivin’ home from work one night, and he says, ‘You’re okay now, right?’ and I say yeah, and he acts like he’s never heard such fantastic news and says, ‘Good, ‘cause I really want Cheerios for dinner,’ and that’s the end of it, ‘til the next time.”

Aaron traded grins with his friend. The David Rossi in front of him—all easy self-deprecation and contentment--was so unlike the one Aaron used to know. Sometimes Hotch felt disloyal for liking this one so much better.

“How do you keep from slipping into patterns you know won’t work?” Hotch wondered aloud.

Rossi ducked his head and studied his hands for a moment, wrestling with whether or not to speak his mind. “Aaron, I’m gonna ask you this as a man with three strikes to his name, okay? There ain’t a pretty answer to the question from me, and I know that. How hard were you trying with Haley there toward the end?”

Aaron didn’t answer the question, but bowed his own head, which was answer enough.

“We don’t expect perfection of one another, as much as some of us expect perfection of ourselves. It’s the trying that counts. So the question isn’t how do you keep from slipping but how do you keep trying not to slip, you know?”

“Yeah, I do,” Hotch said. He half-laughed in his own go at self-deprecation. “I guess Laurie and I are at Go,” he said. “She makes me want to at least try.”

Rossi chuckled along with him. “Glad to hear it,” he said. “But for God’s sake, when you talk to her come up with somethin’ a little prettier than ‘You make me want to at least try.’”

“Not all of us are award-winning authors, you know,” Aaron said, getting up and tossing his napkin in the trash.

“Some of you are farther away than others.”

Later that night, Hotch thought to himself that he would have loved for Jack to grow up in a house with a mom and a dad who loved one another and were committed to one another, but that wasn’t going to happen. But he couldn’t go back, and really, he didn’t want to. He could, though, move forward, and that was the direction he was determined to go.

He dialed Laurie’s number and was immensely relieved when she picked up the phone with a quiet, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Aaron said. He took a deep breath and imagined Laurie smiling gently at how shaky it was. “I’m playing hooky from work on Friday,” he said. “Wanna come with me?”

There was a pause, and when Laurie spoke, maybe her voice was shaking a little too. “Are you kidding?” she said. “My office falls apart without me there.”

Aaron huffed in amusement. “There’s going to be ice cream,” he coaxed in a sing-song voice.

Laurie sighed in defeat. “Damn me and my insatiable lust for all things frozen dairy!” she said. “Fine! I’m in!”

Aaron grinned stupidly. “Good,” he said. “We’ll go out to dinner Thursday and come back to my place so we can start our goofing off bright and early Friday morning.”

“Why, Mr. Hotchner,” Laurie said, feigning the accent of a southern belle. “I believe there may be some impropriety in your invitation.” She waited a beat and then said, sans accent, “There is, isn’t there?”

Hotch laughed. “I love you,” he said, and it wasn’t the first time he’d said it; nor the first time he knew it to be true. But it was the first time Laurie answered with something other than an embarrassed, what’s not to love?

“Good,” she’d said. “’Cause I love you too.”

=========================================================================================================

Things had been good between them since then—Aaron was never going to be Little Mary Sunshine, and Laurie understood that. She didn’t begrudge him the solitude he needed to reboot after a grueling case, and he found himself spending less time doing things he thought he should and much more times doing things he wanted to. It brought a balance and perspective to his life that he’d been missing for a long time.

By the time the day of their planned dinner party rolled around, Aaron couldn’t say he’d experienced the same level of anticipation as Laurie and her sister—at least not judging by the roughly 250 phone calls the dinner seemed to entail—but was looking forward to a fun, low-key evening. And as a bonus, he thought maybe he could ask Spencer to take a look at the new TV/Stereo combo that had been languishing unused in his den for well over a month pending some kind of complicated wiring process.

Laurie’s sister Eve and her husband had arrived well before the other guests were expected, ostensibly so that Eve could help with the food preparation, but Aaron had a sneaking suspicion they were laying some kind of trap for the unsuspecting Spencer Reid. Certainly with Spencer’s partner—and both of theirs—in attendance, Reid was perfectly safe.

Hearing Eve and Laurie giggling over scallops that weren’t doing anything remotely humorous, Hotch vowed to keep an eye on his genius agent.

From where he stood in the kitchen, Aaron saw Rossi zip up in front of the house. He grit his teeth since it looked like his mailbox was a goner, but there was no sound of crashing or scraping so Dave must have managed to avoid it.

“Nice ride,” Rodger said enviously.

The front windows were open, and Hotch could hear Dave and Spencer’s discussion as they approached the front door.

“Are you sure we’re not underdressed?” Reid asked fretfully.

“It’s just dinner,” Rossi answered. “Even if the queen’s invited, she’s probably too busy to come.”

“Appropriate attire for a dinner party is known to include a dinner jacket…”

“Only if you’ve accidently been teleported to 1930,” Rossi said.

“Why would it have to be an accident?”

“Who’s going to purposefully teleport to 1930?”

With a “Hey guys,” Aaron opened the door (wearing khakis and a button-down shirt).

“I have a tie in the car!” Spencer said by way of a greeting.

“Hey Aaron,” Dave said, pushing Spencer through the doorway.

Laurie walked into the hall to greet them. “Hi!” she said brightly, relieving Dave of the pasta bowl he was carrying and welcoming his kiss hello. She patted Dave’s cheek and smiled as Spencer waved from a safe distance behind Dave. She lifted her chin in determination and said, sotto voice, “The night is young.” Dave chuckled and shrugged his willingness for her to have a go.

“I have a tie in the car,” Spencer said faintly.

Laurie nodded to show she’d heard him. “My vote is always gonna be for whatever’s easier for you to get out of later,” she said breezily and led the way to the kitchen.

Reid stopped so abruptly when he realized someone else was in the kitchen that Aaron almost ran into him. Hotch saw him cast a quick, accusing glare toward Rossi, and Hotch imagined he was telegraphing a ‘you said there wouldn’t be anyone here I didn’t know…’

“This is my sister Eve and her husband, Rodger,” Laurie said, setting the pasta next to the stove.

As introductions were exchanged, the doorbell rang, and Aaron almost laughed when that earned Rossi another dark look from Reid. Hotch jogged back to the front door to greet his brother Sean and his date. He was more than a little relieved for the chance to hang out with Sean at a quiet dinner party. The first few months after Hotch’s divorce, Sean had been insufferable about trying to get Hotch “back in the game.” As much as Aaron tried to point out that he’d never really been in the game, Sean was determined to “help” his brother jump into the dating scene. And Aaron knew it wasn’t entirely altruistic of Sean—part of it was the overwhelming amusement Sean got from dragging his reserved brother from one God forsaken bar to another. More than one evening had ended with Sean doubled over in laughter after watching Aaron gamely try to strike up a conversation with yet another woman. “I can’t help it!” Sean had said, still laughing despite an icy glare from Aaron that had been known to stop a criminal or two in his tracks. “You’re great at everything, but you totally suck at picking up women!”

Which was true enough, but Sean didn’t have to enjoy the fact so damned much. Laurie had won Sean over the first time they met when he jokingly asked how an inept Aaron had managed to catch her eye.

“Are you kidding?” she’d said. “I’m over 40 and desperate. As long as a guy has a pulse and keeps to the terms of his probation, I’m in.”

Heading back to join the others, Hotch realized he hadn’t caught the date’s name. Dammit, Sean, he thought, irritated that Sean hadn’t introduced her. Or reintroduced her as the case may be. The woman had acted like Aaron was supposed to know her, and he couldn’t recall now if they’d actually met before or if Sean just made it seem to her like of course he mentioned her to his brother. Most likely the latter, Aaron sardonically thought to himself.

“Sean!” Dave said in pleased surprise as they walked in the kitchen. He extended his hand to Hotch’s brother while Spencer offered a resigned waved from behind him. “I figured they’d have you slaving in the kitchen on a Saturday night.”

“I’m on for the wedding reception of Senator Roth’s daughter next week,” Sean said. “They owe me a month of Saturday’s for the headache that thing’s been. Honest to God, the bride insisted that the grill marks on the steaks go left to right, not right to left.”

“But how could she tell…” Reid started to say.

Sean shrugged away the question before it was fully asked. “I just told her our grill could only make marks that go from left to right.”

“I thought everyone who’s anyone in DC was supposed to get an invite, but Aaron’s must have been lost in the mail,” Laurie said with a pout.

“You want ours?” Rossi asked, helping himself to a stuffed mushroom from the platter Laurie just set down.

“You’re really invited?” Eve asked, eyes wide.

Rossi nodded absently, his concentration on the spread of h’ors d’oevres. “You work in DC long enough, you hook up with all kinds of unsavory characters.” He gave a shrug. “Funny thing--I thought Greg and I were kinda tight, but now I get this wedding invite, and I figure he’s been lying in wait for the opportunity to stick it to me.”

“You don’t want to go?” This asked incredulously to Reid who’d been summoned over by Rossi to try the mushrooms. Rossi nudged Reid’s arm when it was apparent he didn’t realize the question was asked to him.

Spencer looked up quickly and Hotch almost expected him to blurt out something along the lines of, “I don’t even want to be here!” but he said, “Witnesses to a marriage ceremony were introduced in the late 10th century to overcome the possibility that unmarried men and women might cohabit, falsely claim to have married clandestinely, or engage in bigamy, but modern-day record keeping has rendered that necessity moot…” Spencer trailed off when Rossi handed him another mushroom. He smiled self-consciously and shrugged. “No, I don’t want to go,” he said.

“I’d take the invite just to gawk at the big muckity mucks,” Laurie said, “But I’m still on the Secret Service’s Shoot on Sight list, so it’s just as well.” When Spencer lifted a curious brow at her, she said, “I signed a lot of anti-government petitions when I was in college.”

Reid took a breath, and Hotch was sure he was going to explain that signing petitions would not be an egregious enough offense to constitute government monitoring but Rossi distracted him. “Try the scallops,” he said, so Spencer shrugged and helped himself.

“Hey, Aaron said your brother was down last weekend,” Sean said to Rossi. “I wish you’d come to the restaurant. I’ve been throwing the pureed peppers into the marinara just like he said, and it’s been fantastic.”

“Yeah?” Dave said. “Paulie’s head’s already swelled up a couple of sizes too big, so it’s just as well he doesn’t know that.”

Aaron slid by with a hand on Dave’s shoulder. “That ringing sound you hear is the pot calling, Mr. Kettle,” he said.

Dave threw him a smirk, then pointed toward the bowl of pasta on the counter. “Besides, he had work to do.”

“Aw, man, making the house guest sing for his supper?” Sean said. “I know that drill.”

“Hey!” Hotch interrupted. Sean had been invited under expressed orders not to bring any food. “ Tonight was no strings attached,” Hotch pointed out.

“And I appreciate it!” Sean said with a laugh. “Chefs eat more pathetically than almost anyone else on the planet,” he said. “Adding jelly to the peanut butter sandwich is fine dining.”

“You and Spencer should trade recipes,” Rossi said, ignoring the elbow Reid jabbed into his side. “He’s more a cereal kind of guy.”

“I don’t know,” Sean said. “Bowl, spoon, open box, pour milk…seems like a lot of effort.”

“The first modern and commercial cereal foods were created by the American Seventh-day Adventists,” Reid said. “The Adventists formed the Western Health Reform Institute in the 1860s, and the Institute was later renamed the Battle Creek Sanitarium after its location in Battle Creek, Michigan.” It was one of those statements that slowed the conversation for a beat. Rossi rubbed Spencer’s back as he reached for some crab dip, and Spencer nervously cleared his throat. “I like Cheerios,” he said.

Laurie and Eve spread the appetizers around the kitchen and the eight of them moved around to fill plates and drink glasses. Hotch played bar tender for a few minutes, but he was within earshot of Laurie and Eve who had cornered Spencer near the stove.

“So what do you and Dave enjoy doing when you’re not working?” Eve asked.

“Um, are you asking about what we like to do together or individually?”

“Yes!” Laurie said.

Spencer paused, eyes flashing involuntarily to Dave who was across the room in a spirited conversation with Sean and his girlfriend. “Dave is currently reviewing two of his books that are up for reprint. Advances in investigative techniques require some addendums and rewrites. He’s also working on a novel, though I believe he’s encountering a degree of frustration in that his editor and I consistently offer vastly differing critiques.”

“Sounds like what happens when I bring cupcakes to the PTA bake sale,” Eve said, trading knowing nods with her sister. “Too much chocolate, says this one; not enough chocolate, says that one. What can you do?”

The look on Spencer’s face suggested he did not think the two situations were similar, but he gamely plugged on. “I just finished an article for publication in a psychology journal and am considering pursuing some additional chemistry courses. It’s been several years since I’ve concentrated on a hard science and since mapping the human genome there are so many interesting avenues to explaining the complexity of human behavior. The use of empirical evidence to predict how human beings will respond to various stimulus is an invaluable prospect.”

Laurie and Eve nodded along as Reid spoke. When he finished, Laurie gave him a stern look and said, “Are you making a pass at me?”

“No!” Reid said, horrified at the very idea.

Laurie’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

Hotch slipped his arm around Laurie. “Honey, Spencer’s not going to want to play with you if you don’t play nice.”

“Sorry Spencer,” Laurie said, sounding like a chastised child who wasn’t sorry in the least. She and her sister shared an amused look as Laurie called Rossi over to help her select the next bottle of wine to open.

Aaron figured he should take pity on Spencer. He’d never realized until Dave mentioned it that many of the behaviors Aaron always thought were eccentricities were really Spencer dealing with physical issues. That overarching intellect of his was accompanied by exaggerated reactions to light and sound and touch. Watching Spencer flinch at the banging of a cooking sheet on the stove top, Hotch figured he might appreciate a moment or two on his own.

Motioning for Spencer to walk with him, Aaron cleared his throat and said, “Spencer, I want to ask you something, a favor really, but I don’t want you to feel obligated in any way or that my position as your supervisor requires you to…”

Spencer’s eyes darted nervously between Hotch and Laurie and Rossi who were sharing a laugh as Rossi opened the bottle of wine they’d brought. “No, uh, I wouldn’t…you can…um what?”

Aaron shrugged diffidently. “To be honest, I wouldn’t have even thought to ask, but Laurie mentioned it a few times, and knowing what you’ve done for Dave, I thought maybe it wasn’t too out of line to ask…”

Spencer’s eyes had grown impossibly large as Aaron spoke, and now he was not only casting furtive glances to Laurie and Rossi but also the front door as if planning an emergency escape. He licked his lips and started shaking his head. “I’m not sure I…well the thing is I don’t really…uh….”

“I’m just going to come right out and ask,” Hotch said. “Spencer, would you…wire my new entertainment system?”

A frantic answer burst from Spencer before Hotch had finished speaking. “But I don’t even know what…” Spencer froze, his face comically confused for a beat before it smoothed out and brightened in anticipation. “Wait, what? An entertainment system? Of course! Where is it?”

Aaron started to lead the way before Spencer’s reaction fully registered with him. He turned and asked over his shoulder, “What did you think I was going to ask you to do?”

Reid looked innocently at him. “The stereo,” he said. “Wire the stereo. Help with the stereo. Or some electronics. Help with them.”

Aaron nodded slowly, biting the inside of his cheek to keep his amusement in check. The rest of the team often professed relief that Reid had never turned his genius to a life of crime, but Hotch didn’t think the universe was in much peril. The kid was, without a doubt, the worst liar Aaron had ever known. With chocolate all over his mouth and an empty plate of crumbs in front of him, Jack was more convincing about the monster who’d eaten the cookies right before dinner than Spencer Reid was about just about anything.

Hotch couldn’t wait to tell Laurie that Spencer wasn’t quite as oblivious to her joking overtures as she thought. Then again, maybe he’d keep that little tidbit to himself, at least for awhile.

He opened the door to the den where his shiny new TV, stereo and speakers all sat awaiting their fate. Spencer brightened even further. “Unpacking the boxes is the most time consuming part of the whole project!” he said happily. He pursed his lips and surveyed the equipment, then said, “This should just take 20 minutes. Do you want me to do it before dinner or after?”

“Twenty minutes?” Hotch echoed in disbelief. He’d taken one look at the instruction tomb for wiring the TV to the speakers and given up without a fight.

“I’m assuming you want the wires hidden,” Reid said. “I can do it in 10 if you…”

“Twenty’s good!” Hotch said quickly. “Before dinner’s great, but don’t feel like you have to miss the…”

“I’ll get started then,” Spencer said just as quickly. He opened the instruction manual and began zipping through the first few pages.

Aaron wondered how long it would take before Rossi tracked Reid down. Dave lasted about 10 minutes before setting down his wine glass and heading for the den. “I’ll go check on him,” Aaron said, blocking Rossi’s exit from the room. “Wouldn’t want you to miss the party.”

“It’ll just take a minute,” Rossi said, testing to see if he could slip left or right and move beyond Hotch.

Hotch dodged left and right along with him. “Look, I’ll level with you,” Hotch said with a grin. “I don’t want the two of you doing something untoward in the hallowed room where I watch baseball.”

Rossi snorted and gave Hotch an innocent look that even a blind man wouldn’t buy. “Spencer and I are not going to mess around in your den,” he said. “Not again.”

“If you’re not back here in 90 seconds, I’m coming to look for you,” Hotch said dryly.

“Curious,” Rossi said. “That’s exactly what Laurie said.”

When Laurie indicated it was time for dinner before Rossi and Reid reappeared, Hotch headed back to the den to get them. As he approached the door, he saw that Rossi had his arms loosely wrapped around Spencer who was calmly finishing up his task while Rossi planted a series of kisses from one side of his neck to the other.

For one, split second, Aaron toyed with making his presence known, but Reid would be mortified, and Hotch didn’t want to be responsible for wiping that smile off Spencer’s face.

“Are you having a nice time?” he heard Rossi ask. The question might have been ironic if asked to anyone else who’d spent the first part of a dinner party splicing together the host’s entertainment center.

“Very much so,” Spencer replied without a trace of irony.

“See? I was right,” Rossi said.

Hotch guessed that just prior to a social engagement, there were many a discussion at the Rossi-Reid household about the merits of staying home instead.

Spencer cocked his head, offering just slightly more of his neck to Rossi. “You almost always are,” Spencer pointed out.

“Almost?” Rossi said, obviously taking offense, but he still pressed a kiss to Spencer’s neck.

Spencer smiled and cupped Rossi’s chin and gracefully turned (gracefully? Spencer Reid was hardly graceful) in Rossi’s arms. He kissed Rossi’s cheek and then whispered something in Rossi’s ear.

It couldn’t have been more than 10 words, but Aaron could have sworn that Rossi’s knees faltered for a second, and even in the shadowed light, Hotch saw a deep flush cross Rossi’s face. Spencer stepped back, brows raised in a look of challenge and slowly sauntered to the bathroom to wash up.

“Fucker,” Rossi muttered and stood there for a moment, watching the space where Spencer used to be, his face revealing equal parts pride and frustration.

Aaron could hardly believe he had just witnessed Spencer Reid whispering what had to have been sexual innuendos to another human being. He was almost disappointed that Laurie missed the whole exchange.

But only almost.

He turned back toward the dining room and simply called out, “Hey Dave, dinner’s on,” and returned to fill the wine glasses around the table.

Aaron was still half grinning to himself when Reid slipped in to his seat and Rossi placed a proprietary hand on Spencer’s thigh. Spencer’s hand followed, and Hotch was certain Reid was going to primly remove Rossi’s hand from his leg, but he simply covered Rossi’s hand with his own and gave it a squeeze. Spencer’s cheeks flushed, but Aaron had an idea it was less embarrassment at the public display and more Rossi’s smug smile.

Laurie and her sister traded looks that, if Aaron spoke teenage text would be translated as OMG, hawt!. He lifted an imperious eyebrow at Laurie who responded with a bland, Stepford wife smile that made him laugh, which was a good cover because the whole scene tickled his funny bone.

If someone had told Hotch five years ago that one day Dave Rossi and Spencer Reid would be sitting at his dinner table, holding hands, he wouldn’t have said a word, merely cuffed them and handed them over for a psyche eval they were sure to flunk.

He neatly ducked the dinner roll Laurie hurled at her sister who caught it with one hand and set it on her plate with a pleased smile. Come to think of it, if someone had told Hotch five years ago that one day he’d be hosting a dinner party with a woman who thought nothing of line-driving a roll across a crowded table, he might not have believed that either.

“To friends and family,” Hotch said, raising his wine glass in a toast. “And all the surprises they bring.”

Conversation around the table continued at a reliable clip. Sean and Aaron began discussing their fantasy baseball teams, and Aaron thought nothing of bringing Spencer into the conversation by mentioning that he had run his probable line up by him just the week before. Rossi proudly volunteered the fact that for his last birthday, Spencer had read and committed to memory an encyclopedia of baseball.

Aaron’s internal Uh oh sounded at the same time as Sean said, “Wait-wait-wait.” He held up a hand to halt the conversation. “You ran your line-up past Spencer?” he clarified. “What about the rule that says you can’t use information taken from a professional source to complete your team?”

“Well, I’m no Nate Silver,” Spencer said, eyes sliding between Sean and Aaron.

Aaron shook his head, staving off his brother’s objections. “That rule applies to obtaining advice from those employed in the baseball field, not someone who’s read a book or two…”

“Like I was gonna phone A-Rod and ask for his opinion of my infield?” Sean said in disbelief. “The rule means you can’t use statisticians, reporters, and other people with firsthand knowledge of the game to build your roster.”

“Don’t act like every major league team hasn’t eaten at your restaurant…” Aaron said.

Sean sputtered in disbelief. “I hardly have the opportunity to solicit fantasy baseball advise when I’m in the kitchen…”

“I didn’t solicit advice from Spencer, merely asked his opinion…”

“He’s got an entire baseball encyclopedia memorized…”

Spencer looked curiously at Dave. “Should I have refused to help Tommy with his fantasy team?”

Rossi shook his head. “He’s family.”

“When I think of how many lectures of yours I’ve sat through over the years,” Sean said, shaking his head at his brother. “Sean, the spirit of the law is just as important, often more so, than the letter…”

“Oh man, when he pulls out the more so’s and the heretofore’s,” Laurie, casting an exaggerated look of sympathy in Sean’s direction.

“Don’t even try, Miss Let-the-Record-Show,” Hotch said.

“You really memorized the whole book?” Rodger asked Spencer.

“Memorized isn’t exactly the most accurate…” Spencer started to explain.

“Yeah, he really did,” Rossi said. He motioned at Spencer with a nod of his head. “Who won the most regular season games in 1972?”

Spencer pursed his lips like the question was irksome, but said, “The 1972 season was delayed two weeks by a strike, and it was decided not to make up the missed games. The Cincinnati Reds won the most regular season games that year, taking the National League pennant with a record of 95 and 59, 10 and a half games in front of the LA Dodgers.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin and leaned over closer to Dave and said something that sounded like, “Nine.”

Dave just grinned and ate another forkful of pasta.

“Who won the American League?” Rodger asked, eyes wide.

Spencer’s eyes slid over to Dave who was feigning great interest in his wine glass. "The Oakland Athletics won the AL pennant with a record of 93 and 62. They finished five and a half games in front of the Chicago White Sox.” He turned to Dave, but Rossi spoke before Spencer had a chance.

“Uh uh,” Rossi said. “Not on my tab.”

“Who’s the fifth winningest pitcher of all time?” Rodger asked.

“Pud Galvin with 365 wins,” Spencer answered, looking a little nervous when Eve gave her husband’s shoulder a smack.

“Rodger, he’s not a windup toy,” she said, ignoring Laurie’s sudden coughing fit.

“It’s fascinating,” Rodger said.

“Only because it’s baseball. If he was reciting facts about 18th Century artists you wouldn’t be interested.”

“Actually, I just recently read…” Spencer started to say, but Rodger interrupted.

“What kind of nut is gonna waste his time memorizing crap about 18th Century artists?” he asked. “Am I right?” he asked Spencer.

Spencer faltered for a minute, mouth trying to form a response, but Dave answered for him with a smooth, “Right.”

Rodger took a bite of garlic bread and slid his chair farther away from his wife. “What shortstop has the best lifetime batting average?” he asked.

Rossi snorted in amusement as Spencer gamely replied, “The answer varies depending upon whether you’re considering a player who was a shortstop at some point in his career versus a player who was only ever a shortstop. Honus Wagner would apply to the former category with a lifetime batting average of .329. Turning to the latter category, Ozzie Smith would be a leading contender with a lifetime batting average of .262.”

Sean was still slowly shaking his head at his brother. “You are so busted,” he said.

=========================================================================================================

Aaron hadn’t been allowed to help when it was Laurie’s turn to wash up for months, due to his penchant for re-rinsing dishes she had already placed in the dishwasher, so it was with very little guilt that he was sprawled on the couch in the den, flipping mindlessly through the TV channels and basking in the surround sound. It wasn’t quite the flashy set up at Dave and Spencer’s but Morgan would still be envious as hell when he saw it. Sean had already promised a meal with all the trimmings if Reid performed the same miracle at Sean’s place, and Rossi was considering the merits of a Will-Wire-for-Food side business.

When Laurie stuck her head in the study, Aaron motioned her over, making room for her to sit down. “Did you see Rodger’s face when Dave called Spencer ‘Sweetheart?’” she said, flopping down with a sigh. “I’ll give him points for trying, but you can tell he thinks The Gay might be contagious.”

“It made Dave’s eye twitch,” Aaron said. “Until they got on to baseball, and by the end of the evening, I think old Rodge had a little crush on Spencer. Rodger and Eve might just beat you to that coveted threesome.”

“Bite your tongue,” Laurie said. “Or better yet, let me bite it!” She launched herself at Hotch and with an “Oof!” he returned her energetic kiss.

“Should I care that time spent around Spencer Reid makes you so amorous?” Hotch asked.

“You never have before,” Laurie pointed out. “And as an attorney I expect you to have a healthy respect for precedence.”

“I wasn’t aware you had a healthy respect for anything,” Hotch said, which earned him a jab in the ribs that left them both laughing.

They settled down, reclined together on the couch. Aaron reached for the remote and switched the TV off and the stereo on. A jazz CD began to play and Laurie gave him a knowing look. “Smooth,” she said.

Hotch chuckled. “Is it just me or are Sean and his girlfriend on their way out? It’s like they were moving in concentric circles the whole night.”

“I give her four more dates or six weeks, whichever comes first,” Laurie declared.

“Ouch, harsh!” Hotch said around a surprised laugh.

Laurie shrugged. “Come on, she’s pretty, period, the end. That only takes you so far.”

“Usually that’s as far as Sean wants to go,” Aaron said.

“I don’t know—he’s knocking on 30’s door. That’s when a lot of guys start realizing they want a little more. You wanna put money on it?”

Hotch narrowed his eyes at her. “You only bet on a sure thing,” he pointed out.

“Would I set you up like that?”

“In a heartbeat,” Hotch said.

“Maybe you just bring out the wild risk-taker in me,” Laurie suggested.

“I do tend to do that for a lot of people ,” Hotch agreed. “Look, I don’t want to do this, but you’re forcing me to go all FBI agent on you.” He slid out from under her and stood next to the couch, legs spread and hands on his hips. “What do you know and when did you know it?”

Laurie sat up and shook her head with a tsk, tsk, tsk. “This kind of duress is precisely why I became a defender of the downtrodden,” she said. “Fine, I’ll spill. When we met Sean at O’Malley’s last week, he asked my friend Megan for her number.”

“Dog,” Aaron said, shaking his head with more than a little pride.

“He’s not allowed to call until he jettisons Molly.”

Aaron’s eyes widened in sudden horror. “Crap, I thought her name was Amanda.”

“Oh shoot, maybe it is,” Laurie said, lips pursed in thought as she tried to recall the woman’s name. She gave up with a shrug. “What’s worse—making the guests at your intimate dinner party wear Hello My Name Is badges or calling them by the wrong name?”

“Reid would probably have some quantifiable measure for that,” Aaron answered.

“Well whatever her name is, don’t shed any tears over her. She was coming on fast and furious to Dave tonight.”

“No way,” Aaron said. “When?”

“You didn’t see her giving him that what you do must be so emotionally draining shtick?” Laurie demonstrated, bobbling her head with a wide, vacant look in her eyes.

Aaron chuckled and said, “Did Spencer notice?” He held out his hand and Laurie took it. He pulled her up off the couch and led the way upstairs.

Laurie shrugged at Aaron’s question, suggesting it wouldn’t matter any if Spencer had noticed. “He thinks everyone should talk to Dave that way,” she said.

Aaron could only agree. “He does, doesn’t he? It is almost funny. Dave gets phone numbers shoved at him on a pretty regular basis, and Reid doesn’t bat an eye. In fact,” Aaron chuckled at the sudden memory, “Emily… Prentiss, you remember her, right? She was getting rather incensed about it on Reid’s behalf, and Spencer didn’t understand why--Dave wasn’t soliciting the numbers, and he said he wasn’t going to call any of them, and really, he’s a very interesting man, so what could possibly be the basis for finding fault with Dave?”

“Good heavens, I hope Dave and his ego weren’t on hand to hear that.”

They got ready for bed as they talked—changing clothes, washing up, brushing teeth. Aaron laughed at Laurie’s comment. “I’m sure Reid told him anyway—probably wanted Dave to explain to him where Prentiss was coming from.”

“Boy that’s a dangerous road to hoe, isn’t it?” Laurie said. “I can’t imagine the ideas I would have formed if my boyfriends were responsible for shaping my expectations of acceptable behavior.”

“Present company excluded,” Hotch reminded her.

“Of course,” Laurie agreed. “Although I appreciated your explaining how making every Tuesday Naked Booby Night isn’t gratuitous or anything.”

Aaron shrugged, arms held out to her as if mystified they were having this discussion yet again. “Do I not take my shirt off as well?”

“You do, sir.”

“And I never suggest we include anyone else either.” There was a slight hint of accusation in Aaron’s voice.

Laurie rolled her eyes at him. “That’s only because everyone already knows how much you want us to have a threesome with Spencer.”

“I believe what you mean to say is that everyone knows how much you want me to want to have a threesome with Spencer.”

“Tomayto, tomahto, my dear.”

“Not even a little bit.” Aaron finished brushing his teeth and walked out of the bathroom with a question. “What was Sean doing when his date was putting the moves on Dave?”

“Revamping his fantasy baseball line-up with Spencer,” Laurie answered.

“What?” Aaron said, instantly incensed. “He can’t… that’s not… you cannot alter your lineup after it’s been officially submitted!” He marched over to his nightstand and grabbed his cell phone.

Laurie lifted a curious eyebrow at him. “Those fancy suits you wear cover up a multitude of dork,” she said.

“It’s not dorky to respect the rules of the game,” Hotch said, preparing a scathing text for his brother.

“The rules of the pretend game,” Laurie corrected. “If the game’s pretend, then aren’t the rules…”

“No,” Aaron said curtly. “The rules are the rules.”

“Maybe if you complain to the pretend commissioner, he’ll start a pretend investigation and get Sean thrown out of the pretend game of baseball.”

“Are you mocking my well honed sense of justice?”

“You really can’t tell?”

Aaron texted his brother, promising dire retribution if Sean tried to alter the team he’d already committed to follow. Sean immediately texted back an emoticon Hotch couldn’t quite make out, and when he showed it to Laurie she laughed and said, “You’re brother is not cowed by your threats.”

With a hrmph, Aaron tossed his phone back on the nightstand, but didn’t get in to bed. Laurie was already under the covers reading a book, but Hotch had something to ask, and he wasn’t quite sure how to start. “Um, hey, I was thinking,” he began, feeling his face heat.

“I’m way ahead of you,” Laurie said without looking up from her book. “First time through, I’ll take the middle, so you don’t have to worry about whose boy parts are where.”

Hotch sighed a sigh of the long-suffering. “No, I was actually thinking about the two of us. Just the two of us. Maybe…taking our relationship to, uh, the next level.” Jeez, that sounded kind of stupid, Aaron thought.

“Is the next level Hyperspace?” Laurie asked. Yeah, okay, she thought it sounded stupid too. “I get a little queasy on a teeter totter, I’m not sure I need to be…” Hotch let himself fall face-first onto the bed. Laurie laughed and leaned down to muss Aaron’s hair. “Okay, okay, I’ll be good,” she promised.

Hotch spoke directly into the bed covers, his voice muffled. “I want you to meet Jack.” he said. He felt Laurie grow still, so he took a deep breath and rolled over on to his side. She was smiling warmly at him.

“That’s big,” she said, eyes shining. “That’s bigger than I’ve ever even been close to.”

“I know,” Hotch said, reaching for her hand. They lay on the bed, side by side, hitched up on elbows, their shoulders just barely touching. They’d already discussed Jack a lot, and they’d both agreed at the start of their relationship that Laurie and Jack wouldn’t meet unless she and Hotch were in agreement about their future as a couple.

“You’re the best guy I’ve ever been with; this is far and away the best relationship I have ever had,” Laurie said. “I’m ready, Aaron.”

“I am too,” Hotch said. He ducked his head, a little embarrassed at the sentimentality he was about to display, but he smiled faintly and said, “Spencer was in the hospital over the winter with pneumonia and I went with Dave to pick him up when he was released. When they got back home, Spencer sat down on the couch and took this deep breath and told Dave it was the first breath that made it down in a long time. That’s how I feel since we’ve been together. Like I’m finally breathing deep, full breaths again.” He bumped his shoulder against hers, dispelling some of the embarrassment. Laurie let her head rest against Hotch’s arm for a beat.

“I wondered what that blue around your lips was when we first met,” she said with a smile.

“You didn’t chalk it up to my love of all things Goth?”

“If we’re going to make it, you’re going to have to never, ever say the word ‘Goth’ again.”

“Understood,” Hotch said. “You know,” he added, almost taunting in his tone, “After Hyperspace, the next step is…”

“A long ways off,” Laurie said, so quickly both she and Hotch started laughing.

“A long ways off,” Aaron agreed with a grin. He took a deep breath and then let it go. “So, next weekend. You, me, Jack. We’ll go to the zoo and get ice cream and maybe ride the merry-go-round at the park.”

Laurie nodded, still smiling. She kissed his cheek and squeezed Aaron’s hand, then said earnestly, “We should probably find something Jack likes to do too.”

# The End #

Criminal Minds Fic #6: The One Where Rossi’s Brother Visits

Sun, 22 Mar 2009 02:19:22 GMT

Title: The One Where Rossi’s Brother Visits
Author: myrna1_2_3
Pairing: Rossi/Reid
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Rossi’s brother visits
Word count: ~7,300

When our relatives are at home, we have to think of all their good points or it would be impossible to endure them. ~George Bernard Shaw

FBI Supervisory Special Agent David Rossi had seen guilty perps caught red-handed acting less furtively than Spencer Reid. Spencer was so preoccupied with the time he couldn’t tear his attention away from the alarm clock long enough to decide on a shirt and pair of pants to wear. “Would you relax?” Dave said. “We’ve got hours before he shows up.”

“But his voice mail said between nine and ten!” Spencer reminded him, casting another worried glance at the clock.

“And his driver’s license says he weighs 190. It’s all bullshit.”

Spencer sighed and turned to face the closet, exposing his bare back--an enticement to Dave if ever there was one. Sliding up behind him, Dave kissed a meandering path from one shoulder blade to the other. It was possibly a little unfair. Dave was intimately familiar with Spencer’s erogenous zones and that part of his back was one his most responsive. Dave grinned wolfishly at Spencer’s helpless-sounding, “Oh!”

“Your libido is sparked by the strangest things,” Spencer said, shuddering in arousal.

“I trust that isn’t a complaint,” Dave said.

“We just got out of the shower!” Spencer said, good manners precluding him from reminding Rossi what they’d done in there.

Dave chuckled. “It’s been 15 minutes,” he said. “I’m ready to go again.”

Spencer huffed at that exaggeration, which earned him a playful bite on one of those sensitive shoulders.

“Come on,” Dave whispered. “I’m gonna be on short rations for the next few days. I’ve gotta store up…” He was already fully dressed, so chances were Spencer wasn’t really buying his come-on, but they probably did have some time to kill.

“You’re the one who invited your brother for the weekend,” Spencer reminded him.

“Yeah but you’re the one with the hang-up about having sex when other humans are within a five mile radius…”

“What you call a hang-up, I consider common courtesy.”

“I’ve got your courtesy right here, Baby,” Dave said, but couldn’t keep a straight face, and they both started laughing.

“Go make coffee,” Spencer demanded.

“Mmm, you know what it does to me when you start giving orders,” Rossi said and went back to nuzzling Spencer’s back. He ooffed! dramatically when Spencer elbowed him in the belly. “Good God, what the hell is Morgan teaching you in those classes of his?” he groaned, but dutifully headed downstairs to get the coffee started.

Passing the front door, Dave saw his brother pulling into the driveway. Paul’s son was attending a baseball camp at Georgetown for the week. Paul had driven Tommy and several teammates down for the start of the camp, and one of the other kid’s parents was going to bring them home at the end of the week. Dave had gladly invited Paul to stay for the weekend instead of immediately turning around and driving the four hours back home.

Dave opened the door as Paul was walking up the walkway. “Paul,” Dave drawled, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“Hey, Davie Boy. Didn’t get you and the mister out of bed did I?”

Dave made a face at his brother. “You said you’d be here between nine and ten.”

Paul held his arms out, implying, Well I’m here, aren’t I?

The clock in the den struck 11:00 as Dave smirked at his brother. “I forget how Paulie Time works,” he said, moving aside to let his brother in the door.

Spencer came trodding down the steps, fastening his pants and carrying his shirt. “Do I have enough time to…” he was saying, then looked up and started when he realized Paul was there. “Oh jeez Paul, sorry, you’re early!” He held his shirt to his chest like a maiden might clutch a towel after being caught bathing in a stream.

Paul assumed the you’re early comment was his brother’s handiwork and smirked at Dave then said to Reid, “Don’t worry about it, kid. We all got what you got.” Reid still hurriedly pulled his shirt over his head.

Dave nodded toward his brother and snidely added, “Except Paulie’s is under 25 pounds of fat and a ton of fur.”

“I can still take you,” Paul said to his brother.

“Still?” Dave scoffed. “Like at some point you actually could?”

Paul ignored him and held out his arms to Spencer. “Don’t you gotta hug for your brother-in-law?” he asked innocently.

Now it was Spencer’s turn to smirk at Dave. At one time, Spencer had naively assumed Dave had mentioned Reid’s aversion to personal contact as some kind of altruistic gesture, but it was really just a means of torturing him. He sighed and grudgingly walked the rest of the way down the stairs, standing resignedly in front of Paul with his arms at his side. Paul threw his arms around Spencer, lifting him up off the ground and shaking him a little, snickering when Spencer sighed yet again as he was set down.

“What’s not to like about that kind of hello?” Paul asked as Spencer smoothed down his wrinkled shirt.

“The rearrangement of my kidneys?” Spencer hazard to guess.

“Hey, watch this,” Dave said to his brother, and then threw an arm around Spencer and said, “Who was the winning pitcher of Game 7 of the 1962 World Series?” Spencer looked like he wasn’t going to answer for a beat, then Dave said in a sing-song voice, “Fifteen.”

Spencer pursed his lips but gamely answered. “Ralph Terry,” he said, and added—almost against his will, “Who, it should be noted, gave up Bill Mazeroski's Series-winning walk-off home run two years earlier in Pittsburgh.” He shrugged apologetically at Paul, and pointed a finger at Dave before heading to the kitchen for coffee. “Fourteen,” he said sternly.

Dave grinned at Paul. “Spencer read the Total Baseball Encyclopedia for my birthday. It’s all in there now. The team records, individual stats, the rosters. All of it.” Dave gleefully bounced on his toes, then sobered somewhat. “I only get to trot him out like a trained seal 25 times, though. I have 14 left.”

“Twenty-five?” Paul said indignantly. “That’s nothin’!”

“I know,” Dave said, leading Paul to the guest bedroom. “I figure it’ll be easy negotiations on 25 more. After that he might dig in a little.”

“You could liquor him up, I guess,” Paul said, always one to be helpful. “Maybe you’ll get a little somethin’-somethin’ along with your baseball stats.”

Dave snorted at that. “We’re both guys, Paulie. The last thing I gotta do is liquor him up for sex.”

Paul threw him a sympathetic look. “That’s gotta suck--all the sex you want and no effort to get it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say no effort.” Dave didn’t want to exaggerate his good fortune. “Sometimes I gotta kinda nod my head toward the bedroom.”

“Aw jeez, stop, my heart’s breakin’ over here.”

Dave held his hands out in supplication. “Hey, if it’s any consolation he can’t cook for shit, and he thinks Deep Purple is a flavor of Ben & Jerry’s.”

“That does not console me,” Paul said. “Gimme the keys to the Porsche. I gotta drive away my heart ache.”

Dave tossed over his keys and followed Paul downstairs. He stuck his head in the study where Spencer was now working at the computer. “Paulie and I are gonna take the baby for a spin,” he said to Spencer, then spoke to Paul over his shoulder. “Spencer’s editing an article for Mad Scientist Monthly. He’s an expert in thermodynamic whatchamacallitty.”

“Cluster weighted modeling and geographical regression,” Spencer corrected, not looking up from his screen.

“Isn’t that what I said?” Dave asked, as he and Paul headed toward the garage.

“Why d’ya always act like I need a chaperone?” Paul asked.

Dave didn’t mention the number of times they’d been called on to hand over the car’s registration, which always involved Dave’s wallet opened to reveal his Bureau ID. Instead, he offered the most obvious reason. “Because if I’m not with you, you’ll leave town in my baby, and I’ll be stuck with your Old Man car.”

“I do not drive an Old Man car.”

It was easy enough to quash that ridiculous argument. “Spencer likes it,” Dave said.

Paul sighed in defeat. “Point taken.”

Chuckling, Dave got in the passenger side of the car. “How’s Gina?” he asked.

“She’s good,” answered Paul, revving the engine with a grin. “You know, when she’s not bellowin’ at me; or tryin’ to kill me in my sleep, or cryin’ ‘cause she loves me so damn much she doesn’t know what she’d ever do without me. Who the hell timed menopause with the last kid leavin’ for college?”

“You still plannin’ on a trip after Tommy starts school?”

“Yeah, I figure Italy oughta do the trick. We leave a week after we fling Tommy outta the car. He gets expelled in the two weeks we’re gone, he’s gonna sleep on your floor, all right? I don’t want that hoodlum to have the run of our place.” He peeled out of the drive with a happy sigh.

Tommy, vice-president of his senior class, co-captain of the baseball team and one of his class’ valedictorians, was attending Princeton on a full-ride baseball scholarship in the fall. Rossi wasn’t unduly concerned about his showing up on their doorstep, at least not because he’d been expelled.

“Don’t let me forget to give you the name of the place we stayed in,” Dave said. “It was unbelievable.”

“I’m not sure I want to be right on the ocean. Too easy for Gina to dump my body if I piss her off.” Paul slammed on the brakes ,and the car screeched to a halt at a red light.

Dave shot a hand out to brace himself against the dash. “Jesus—you handle your woman the way you handle my car, no wonder she wants to kill you,” he said.

“Fuck you,” Paul said around a laugh. “Lately it’s inconsequential things like inhaling and exhaling that tend to set her off.”

Dave laughed. “Aw, don’t worry. Gina’ll be planning Ava’s wedding before you know it, and you’ll be home free.”

“Bite your tongue. She better not marry that yahoo she’s seein’ now.”

“He didn’t seem that bad,” Rossi said, thinking back to the innocuous young man Paul and Gina’s daughter had brought to dinner the last time he was visiting.

Paul shrugged. “Compared to the serial killers and mass murders you meet every day, probably not. And yet still he is a yahoo.”

Dave supposed it was all relative. “I’m starting to get the impression that no guy will ever be good enough for your little princess.”

“Hey,” Paul took exception to that remark. “I’d let Ava marry Spencer in a heartbeat.”

“Because he’s gay or in spite of it?” Dave asked mildly.

“Exactly.”

“Be a little embarrassing when people ask how they met and you have to explain he’s your brother-in-law,” Dave pointed out.

“Technically, he’d be my ex-brother-in-law.”

“I ain’t goin’ quiet,” Dave warned.

Paul shrugged. “All I gotta do is turn Gina on you in one of her rages, and we’re good to go.”

“I carry a gun.”

Paul stomped on the gas and peeled out of the red light. “That’s what makes it a fair fight.”

Dave just laughed and shook his head.

He and Gina were actually great friends. Paul and Gina had been together since they were fifteen years old. They had two kids, though the house was always filled with many more, a multitude of dogs, cats, and fish over the years, and a household in a perpetual state of noisy chaos. It was one of Dave’s favorite places on the planet.

He’d been apprehensive the first time he brought Spencer with him for a visit. He’d never been so deeply involved with a man that introductions extended to his family, and God knows Spencer had never spent time with a crew as unruly as the New Jersey Rossi’s. Hell, it was hard enough to get Spencer to agree to the long weekend when he learned they’d be staying at Paul and Gina’s house. Spencer’s Victorian sense of propriety was vexed at the very idea, but Dave calmly brushed aside his concerns with promises of homemade pasta and Boston cream pie.

Shortly after they arrived, Paul had taken Dave’s bag from him and led the way to a guest bedroom with Spencer trailing nervously behind. Paul had tossed Dave’s bag on the bed, grabbed the keys to Dave’s car and said he’d see them in a bit. Spencer had anxiously watched Dave unpack until he couldn’t stand it any longer and finally he whispered, “Where am I sleeping?”

Dave froze as he reached for a pair of slacks, and it was only years of law enforcement training that kept a bark of laughter at bay. “I’m almost positive you’re in here with me,” he’d said.

“Are you sure that’s… appropriate?” Spencer asked.

“Paulie doesn’t care that I’m with a guy, but I don’t think he’s ready for you to bunk with him and Gina so…”

Spencer huffed impatiently. “What if I, like, drop my shoe or something and they think we’re… you know…”

Dave made a show of thinking through such a calamity. “Well, there aren’t any sodomy laws left on the books so after we’re hog tied and led from the house in chains, it’ll probably all get settled amicably at the local police station, after which we’ll be driven to the county line and politely asked never to return.”

“Sarcasm is rarely an effective means of waylaying concerns…”

“And yet I risk legitimizing unfounded anxiety by addressing it as founded.” Rossi shrugged at Reid’s glare. “Hey, I’ve read my fair share of psychobabble text books too.”

Spencer was wound so tight that sleeping was nearly impossible the first night. After they both tossed and turned for an hour, Dave decided he’d go downstairs and raid the fridge for the last of the pie. “Two forks,” Spencer had said, refusing to venture down to the kitchen with him.

Which was probably a good thing. As Dave hit the bottom of the stairs, he realized Ava and her mom were sitting at the kitchen table, sharing a slice of pie between them. Ava spoke before he had a chance to make his presence known. “Uncle Dave’s awesome and everything but …how did he land someone who looks like Spencer?”

Dave stopped in his tracks, thinking he who eavesdrops is bound to hear ill of himself.

“Tell me about it,” Gina said breathlessly. “What? Don’t look at me like that! Mama ain’t dead.”

“His skin is unbelievable! You think he’ll be embarrassed if I ask about it?”

“Don’t bother,” Gina said. “He’ll just tell you he splashes water on it once in awhile.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. You know, I’m sitting across from him at dinner, and I’m thinking Is he good looking? Yeah, yeah, he’s good looking. No, wait, is he? And then Uncle Dave said something and Spencer laughed and it was like Ahhhhhh! Angels singing!”

“Uncle Dave has always had an eye for pretty things,” Gina said knowingly.

“Did you see how much he put away at dinner?” Ava continued in an awed voice. “In what universe is that even remotely fair?”

“A fourth of a pie!” Gina said, admiration clearly in her tone. “He ate one-fourth of the pie, and he’s invisible when he turns sideways.”

“That kinda made me want to stab him,” Ava admitted.

Dave returned quietly to the bedroom sans pie. “Do not get lost on your way to the bathroom,” he had cautioned as he slid under the covers.

“What?” Spencer said. “Why?” Dave didn’t answer, and it was quiet for a beat until Spencer rose up on an elbow and indignantly asked, “Hey, where’s the pie?”

“Shhhh,” Dave said. “They’re gonna think we’re you knowing.”

The next day had been Sunday which meant Sunday Brunch to Paul and Gina and what seemed like 50 of their closest friends. There was food everywhere, kids laughing and shouting. Tommy and his friends were throwing a ball around in the back yard, and Ava, judging by the number of nubile young women loitering near Spencer at the buffet table, had apparently sent out word that today’s brunch featured some interesting eye candy.

At one point, Paul walked by carrying a platter of roast beef and nudged his brother. “Just like the days back at 120 Cambridge, yeah?” he said, referencing their childhood home.

“Your house was like this growing up?” Spencer had asked him, avidly taking in the scene.

Dave surveyed the bedlam with a bemused smile and nodded. “Pretty much,” he said, half expecting a dry that explains a lot from Reid.

Instead, Spencer jumped when one of Tommy’s friends lunged for an errantly thrown football. He unconsciously moved a little closer to Dave, a half-step behind him, their arms almost entwined. Dave could have wrapped his hand around Spencer’s without moving an inch. “Good,” Spencer had whispered, almost to himself.

Dave moved slightly closer, still not holding Spencer’s hand. He turned his head and caught Spencer’s eye and shared a look that said what would have been inadequate for words

Then Dave smiled because Spencer had blushed as if Dave had brazenly kissed him on the mouth right there in front of everyone.

==================================================================

There was no sign of Spencer when Dave and Paul returned to the house after their drive (ticketless for once, though the weekend was young). Paul followed Dave to the kitchen and grabbed a soda from the fridge while Dave brewed a new pot of coffee and toasted a bagel. When the coffee was ready, Dave poured a cup, put the toasted bagel on a plate then carried them into the study.

When he came back, his brother was still sitting at the kitchen table, looking at him as if Dave had just come out in favor of the designated hitter rule. “You know you’re nauseating now, right?”

Dave seemed unconcerned with the criticism. “Why’d you drive all this way to tell me stuff you could just tell me over the phone?”

“No, I’m serious,” Paul said. “You used to be my go-to guy. Gina was pissed at me, I’d arrange a weekend with you and whoever, and by comparison I smell like a rose. Now we come down, and all I get is a slap upside the head and a ‘why don’t you treat me like Davey treats Spencer?’”

“You might want to remind Gina how many times it took me to get it right. At least you’re still practicing with the original model.”

Paul nodded slowly. “Yeah, all that’s gonna get me is sleepin’ on a roll of blankets out in the garage.”

“Probably not the way to go on second thought,” Dave agreed.

“So thanks to you I’m gettin’ smacked around by my wife, and Ma’s all weepy ‘cause you married a doctor…”

Dave laughed at that. “Oh don’t even try to float that BS. You gave Ma grandkids when I was nothin’ but the divorced loser playing cops and robbers.”

Paul shrugged and said, “Good thing Markie didn’t end up a priest or we’d both be dog meat.” His cell phone sounded and he flipped it open without checking to see who was calling. “Hey G,” he said. “Yeah, dropped him off a couple of hours ago and made it here around eleven. Yep, already had Dave’s baby out for a spin…What? Of course I mean the car…”

Dave chuckled and shook his head, nodding his head to Paul’s comment about Mark. Their younger brother Mark had planned to enter the priesthood until the local bakery hired a beautiful new cashier three weeks before he was due to leave for the seminary. To say their mother had been upset when Mark eloped with young Sarah Finkelstein was something of an understatement. Of course, now, almost 30 years later, Sarah was as much a Rossi as anyone.

Dave remembered visiting his mom and dad in Florida years ago. Mark and Sarah and their kids were there, and everyone was out on the beach watching the sunset. A neighbor of his parents had stopped on their nightly walk to chat, and they watched the kids playing in the surf.

“Is it your son or daughter?” the woman had asked watching Sarah and Mark chasing down one kid and then another.

Mrs. Rossi made a show of thinking it over then finally shrugged and said, “You know? I don’t remember anymore.”

It was funny to think now that Spencer may have been reticent to meet Paul and Gina, but he’d been outright fearful about meeting Mark. He’d assumed Mark’s religious background would make him intolerant toward his and Dave’s relationship. Dave had been almost shocked at the idea which was ridiculous given the religious climate of the world, but the idea was such an anathema to who Mark was that it threw him for a minute. “No, no,” Dave had said in response to Spencer’s concerns. “Mark thinks religion is an excuse to love people, not hate ‘em.”

The comment had intrigued Spencer, and it turned out Mark and Sarah’s place was much more Spencer’s speed. At the opposite end of the spectrum from the happy chaos of Paul and Gina’s was the peaceful contentment of Mark and Sarah’s. They had four children, all of them scholarly and either accomplished artists or musicians. While a raucous contest of Rock Band was likely to take up an evening at Paul and Gina’s, it was more common to sit down to a game of Trivial Pursuit at Mark and Sarah’s.

And just as Dave suspected, Sarah and Spencer seemed to share an affinity of spirit. Sarah had been raised by her maternal grandparents after her mother and father were killed in a car accident when she was 14 years old. She and Spencer both shared the quiet reserve of children who’d learned far too young how unfair life could be.

After Spencer had been hospitalized that winter with pneumonia, it was Sarah who arrived on their doorstep and spent nearly a week quietly and efficiently taking care of the both of them.

She of all Dave’s family was the one who recognized that Dave’s relationship with Spencer was different than all of the relationships he’d had before. When Dave had clumsily tried to thank her for coming, she’d merely winked at him and said, “I know a kindred spirit when I see one.”

Dave didn’t have to ask what she meant. Several years earlier, Mark had undergone surgery to replace a valve in his heart. Retired from the BAU and between book tours, Dave had gone down to lend a hand, but as usual, Sarah had everything under control. Whether reassuring her kids their dad would be fine, cooking dozens of meals ahead or bolstering Mark’s confidence, she was the picture of composure.

The night before the surgery, with Mark already checked in to the hospital, Dave had gone downstairs to get a drink and was curious to see the door to the garage ajar. He’d stuck his head out the door and saw Sarah sitting in her car, winter coat balled up and pressed to her face to silence her hysterical sobs.

“I don’t know how to be without him!” she’d whispered brokenly to Dave, sounding almost bewildered at the words, as if she was just realizing she felt that way.

Dave had comforted her as best he could; chalking up her feelings to stress and anxiety and, if he were to be honest, a certain amount of melodrama. Dave had never bought into any I can’t live without you bullshit.

But then came a late night in Spencer’s hospital room. They were on their third antibiotic, and it wasn’t working either. Dave had started to hear whispered concerns of septic shock. It was past four in the morning when one of the monitors started frantically sounding a warning. Dave jumped out of the chair where he’d been half-asleep and watched Spencer’s eyes rolled back in his head as he started to convulse. Rossi remembered robotically backing away from the bed as several nurses and an attending physician bolted through the door. And he remembered watching them working on Spencer and thinking bitterly—furiously--to himself that he wasn’t going to live in a world without Reid in it.

The Catholic in him—lapsed though he might be—was later ashamed of the sentiment, but, oddly, he wasn’t particularly alarmed by it. Being a profiler all these years, Rossi had long since learned that feelings and emotions could exist without judgment; it was how you acted on those feelings and emotions that counted.

Besides, the third antibiotic kicked in several hours later, and Reid made a speedy recovery after that. Dave could compartmentalize with the best of them.

Dave shook away the dark memories as he leaned against the counter and waited for Paul’s phone call to end.

“How the hell would I know?” Paulie was saying. He looked over at Dave. “She wants to know what Spencer’s wearing.”

Dave grinned as he emptied the coffee pot in the sink and began to wash it. “Tell her neither Spencer nor I appreciate the objectification.”

Paul lifted an eyebrow at his brother which clearly said, Are you fucking crazy? “Davie says he’s wearing khakis and a button-down shirt.”

“Coward,” Dave mumbled.

“Oh yeah, he’s as beautiful as ever,” Paul said, rolling his eyes. “I did not make a face. I’m agreein’ with you, aren’t I?...Yeah, well, I’m thinkin’ that all of a sudden I start pointing out to you how beautiful I think this guy is and that guy is, you start wonderin’ what the hell my dealio is…all right Babe, I’ll talk to you later. Love you too.” He was snapping the phone shut when Spencer loped in the kitchen carrying his empty coffee cup and plate. And wearing jeans and a t-shirt. “Oops, got that wrong,” Paul said. “Hey, anyone asks, you’re wearing khakis and a button-down.”

“Why would anyone ask?” Spencer wondered, sounding confused. “Is it time to start dinner yet? I’ll take Muchie for a walk and then we can try the pasta again,” he said.

“Ah, no can do,” Paul said. “Gina’s got me on some friggin’ birdseed and wheat germ diet.”

“But we always make pasta when you come,” Spencer said hopeful eyes looking dewy and wide. “And this time I really think I’ll get the hang of it!”

“What am I supposed to do with that?” Paul asked his brother.

Dave shrugged. “Say no?”

“What, and then we’ll all go shoot some puppies?”

Spencer scratched his chin. “Umm, I think Dave and I are supposed to bring some of your pasta to a dinner party next week.”

“We are?” Dave said, sounding surprised and pleased at once. Social invitations were pretty exclusively Dave’s domain. He was proud of Spencer for stepping up to the plate.

“Well, Laurie was picking Hotch up last night because his car was in the shop, and we were waiting for the elevator together. She always looks at me like she’s kind of hungry, and that made me think of Paul’s dinners, so I told her Paul was coming and then I told them about all of the pasta he usually makes and then all of a sudden she was saying we could bring the pasta and they’d have dessert and they’ll see us next Saturday.” With Muchie leashed up and excited for his walk, Spencer gave a go figure shrug and let the dog lead him out the front door.

Paul watched after him for a beat. “He has no idea women think he’s good lookin’ does he?”

“Nope,” Rossi said affably. “And it would only upset him if he did, so shut up.”

“Kid’s lucky to have you, Bro. You’re a prince among men.”

“That’s what I tell him. Every day.”

==================================================================

“Isn’t one of those fancy degrees of yours in Chemistry?” Paul asked Spencer, pointing to the hopelessly sticky glob that should have been a smooth pasta dough.

Mouth quirked as he studied the mess in front of him, Reid slowly nodded. “Yes it is,” he said thoughtfully.

Spencer had come back from walking the dog, washed up and told Paul he was ready to try his hand yet again at making the homemade pasta dough. Dave was in charge of the red sauce and had been throwing out insults and suggestions as Paul walked Spencer through the elementary steps of putting the dough together.

“How’m I supposed to introduce my brother-in-law the doctor in Chemistry to anyone when that is the travesty you make of flour, eggs and water?”

“Chemistry formulas are significantly more precise than ‘add flour ‘til it feels right.’ There’s no scientific measure of ‘feeling right.’” As Dave took a breath to speak, Reid quickly added, “Hush.” He looked trustingly at Paul. “How do you fix it?” he asked.

“Più vino,” Paul said dryly.

Spencer wrinkled his nose. “You put wine in it?”

“No, I put wine in me and make you go sit over there.”

“I really thought I’d get it this time,” Spencer said, walking around the counter and sitting down on one of the kitchen stools.

Shaking his head, Paul added flour to Spencer’s sticky mound of dough and began kneading it into a recognizable texture. “You’re gonna have enough pasta to feed an army,” Paul said. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and looked sharply at his brother. “Did you just high five him?” he asked, pointing at Reid.

Spencer stared at him with wide eyes. “High what?” he said.

“I was brushin’ off flour,” Dave said with a shrug. “Kid’s a mess.”

“I am on to you both,” Paul said menacingly.

“You’ll probably want to make an extra pan of lasagna,” Spencer said helpfully. “We’ll just freeze the extra one.”

=================================================================

Later that night, Rossi pretended to be editing a chapter of his book, but he was really just watching Spencer skulk around their bedroom. The kid was humorously ill at ease whenever they had guests, scandalized by the very idea that someone in the house might think they were having sex. Before they moved in together, he wouldn’t have entertained for a minute the idea of spending the night with Dave with someone else in the house. Even now, Dave figured he’d probably rather be sleeping in the little den off his study. Dave usually took it as a personal challenge to see if he couldn’t entice Spencer into messing around at least a little, but he had a sneaking suspicion, watching Reid slowly reorganizing his sock drawer, that Reid was on to him.

They’d had a nice dinner with Paul. Paul really did make fantastic pasta, and the red sauce was Grandma Sarducci’s famous recipe, so the meal was amazing if Dave said so himself. There was something immensely satisfying to Dave watching Spencer grow more comfortable with his family. Maybe Dave would never hear his mother struggle to remember if Spencer was one of hers or not, but he liked it that his family was starting to see beyond the stereotypical genius to the real Spencer underneath. Plus Paul’s teasing assaults to Spencer’s dignity were an evening’s worth of entertainment.

When it looked like Spencer was about to refold his entire underwear collection, Dave finally caved. “Spencer, for God’s sake. If I promise not to ravish you, will you leave that damn drawer alone and come to bed?”

“I’ve learned to view your promises of abstinence with great skepticism,” Reid said primly.

“Aww, come on, Baby,” Rossi cooed. “Don’t be like that.”

Spencer pursed his lips in disapproval, but reluctantly approached the bed, then stood there, staring expectantly at Dave who was wearing his most innocent expression. While sitting on Spencer’s side of the bed.

Finally Spencer just crawled on top of him and straddled Dave’s waist, knees on either side. Reid lifted an eyebrow in challenge and made a show of finding the most comfortable spot for his ass.

Dave matched that lifted brow. “Do not write checks you’re unwilling to cash,” he warned.

Spencer laughed, then gave a muffled shriek when Dave tickled his ribs. “Stop it! Stop! Stop!” he hissed grabbing wildly at Rossi’s fingers.

“Too late!” Rossi said wearing an exaggerated “uh oh” face. “Paulie thinks we’re goin’ at it now!” He pushed Spencer to the side and rolled over on top of him. “Spencer!” he called amorously. “Oh Spencer! There, Baby! Right there!”

Reid tried to cover Rossi’s mouth with his hand. “Would you stop it?” Spencer said. “You are 12 years old every time you’re with one of your brothers!”

Dave laughed. “You know how to keep me quiet,” he said with a suggestive leer that made Spencer laugh in spite of himself as he began struggling in earnest to regain his spot on top of Rossi.

It was rare to see such a playful side to Spencer, and Dave loved it.

Early in their relationship, Spencer had warned him that if Dave was looking for some happy-go-lucky young boyfriend, Spencer probably wasn’t the guy for him. The conversation had started after Dave had taken Spencer out to dinner one night. They’d ended up back at Dave’s house and were engaged in one of those innocuous discussions about what they’d do if they had millions of dollars at their disposal. Rossi had enumerated the places he would want to visit and the sites where he’d build vacation homes. He’d pressed Spencer for what he’d do, and Spencer just shrugged and shook his head. Dave tried to coax an answer out of him, but Spencer became agitated, trying to form words, but unable to. Spencer had escaped from Dave’s kitchen table to his family room, standing in the middle of the room as if he was thinking of making a run for the front door.

“Hey, I’m sorry if I was bein’ pushy,” Dave said, taken aback by the force of Spencer’s reaction. “You don’t have to…”

“I saw you watching those women at the bar,” Spencer interrupted to say. Dave had heard similar claims from others in the past, but they’d been leveled resentfully, never in such sad defeat. “I’m not like them,” Spencer said.

There had been a group of women at the restaurant, a bachelorette party Rossi had gathered from their raucous behavior. They’d caught his attention to be sure, but he could read Spencer well enough to know this wasn’t a typical conversation rooted in jealousy. “What do you mean?” Dave asked gently.

Spencer shook his head like he wasn’t going to answer, then shrugged. “Just…laughing all the time and-and carefree and-and-and frivolous. If you think because I’m young that being with me means I’ll be like them, then…”

“Okay, wait,” Rossi said, then paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. He understood where Spencer’s fears were coming from—he’d made no secret of the fact that Reid’s youth was a huge turn on. But it was Spencer’s youth, not youth in general that was the draw. “Look,” he finally spoke. “We both know I get off on how young you are.” He chuffed a laugh at the understatement, and Spencer managed a smile of acknowledgement. “I love how quick and agile your mind is,” Rossi whispered. “How soft and unlined your skin is. That long, beautiful hair of yours.” He was silent for a moment, hoping Spencer was remembering the myriad of ways Rossi showed his appreciation. Dave leaned forward and caught Spencer’s eyes. “But Sweetheart, I have no illusions about what you’ve lived through and how that informs who you are.” He kissed Spencer’s temple. “You’re who I want. All of you. Okay?”

For as fast as Reid’s brain worked, his emotions churned at a much slower pace. Rossi stayed quiet, gently bringing Spencer over to the couch and sitting close enough for their thighs to touch, but otherwise just waiting for Reid to process.

Spencer eventually laid his hand over Rossi’s. “There’s a private hospital in Connecticut that specializes in mental disorders,” he said, so softly Dave had to turn his head and lean in to hear him. “It’s so exclusive it won’t even accept insurance payments of any kind; you have to privately fund the cost through an annuity. If I had all the money I wanted, I’d move my mom there.”

Reid had understood it wasn’t really a matter of offering up how to spend an imaginary windfall so much as an exercise in trust, and Rossi realized yet again that this dance with Spencer required careful, deliberate steps. There were so many hidden minefields to cautiously navigate.

And maybe Reid had been perceptive enough to realize that there was something of a white knight impulse that drove Rossi. As determined as Dave was to give Spencer’s future a decidedly happily-ever-after bent, he would never be able to undo all that had come before. It seemed ludicrous that he would need to be reminded of this fact from time to time, but Rossi was trying to accept his ridiculousness with as much equanimity as possible.

So even if Dave knew not to expect a frivolous, carefree Reid, he was certainly going to appreciate it when he got one.

Breathing hard, a quietly laughing Spencer took it as a victory when he ended up straddled back on top of Dave, not that Dave saw any downside in the way things were going. Spencer stared down at him while he caught his breath, pinning Dave’s wrists to the mattress. “Paul called me his brother-in-law twice today,” Spencer said, cautiously eyeing Rossi to see if he’d try to escape his hold.

Why in the hell would Dave try to get away? “Did that bother you?”

Reid had a maddening poker face when he wanted to. “It’s factually inaccurate.”

Dave grinned. “And that bothered you?”

Spencer shrugged. “I don’t think bother is the right term. Makes me curious.”

“That bothers me,” Rossi said, laughing at Reid’s ineffectual poke. “Paulie probably feels stupid saying ‘boyfriend.’ At his age it’s a little unseemly.”

Reid kindly refrained from mentioning there was just a two year age difference between the men. He released his hold on Dave’s wrists and sat back on his heels. “But if I were a woman, he’d still say girlfriend, right?”

Dave took enough time answering that Reid began to lightly bounce on him. Rossi groaned as their pasta dinner made itself known. “It’s a difficult question,” he said defensively, arms now crossed behind his head. “I’m trying to imagine Gina letting Paulie visit on his own if I was living with a 26 year old woman.”

“That’s sexist,” Reid said.

“Take it up with Gina.”

“It’s maddening the way society has construed language to force same-sex couples into yet another sense of ‘otherness,’” Reid said. “I mean, the term ‘lovers’ really only encompasses one aspect of our relationship and in what I consider an inappropriately explicit manner which, it bears pointing out, straight couples are not forced to reveal. ‘Significant other’ is more encompassing, but certainly off-putting in its starkness.”

“See, this is why I don’t like it when you drive the car. I don’t think you’re concentrating on the road.”

Reid continued as if Rossi hadn’t said anything. “’Partners’ is accurate, but because we’re in law enforcement, it’s imprecise and could lead to misunderstandings. ‘Love interest’ isn’t a term generally used in casual conversation and again is more revealing than heterosexual couples are forced to admit…”

They’d had this discussion before. Or, to be accurate, Reid had given this lecture before. If the kid got excited over ellipses and hyphens; it stood to reason that when you got him going on semantics, he’d drone on for hours. Days even. “So you can see why sometimes we invoke the spirit over the letter,” Dave said.

“That’s why you just say we’re married.” It wasn’t really a question.

“Mm hm,” Dave answered.

Reid looked thoughtful then shrugged. “Marriages can end,” he said. “I don’t want to think of us as something that might end.”

“We won’t,” Dave said. The certainty of his tone never failed to make Spencer smile. As bowled over as Dave was by Spencer’s staggering intelligence, Spencer marveled the same way at Dave’s confidence.

“I didn’t go into any of my marriages thinking they’d fail, but I knew…” Dave paused, unsure exactly how to explain his point to Spencer. “Right from the start, I knew I wasn’t a man worth staying with for the long haul.” Spencer looked stricken at such an assessment and shook his head, ready to defend Dave against himself. “The only decent man I’ve ever been,” Dave quietly continued. “Is the man I am with you.”

Spencer nodded rather absentmindedly. He understood even if he didn’t agree that Dave had been anything other than a decent man before he met Reid. “If people could read one another’s’ minds and know what someone meant regardless of what they said, then I could just introduce you as my Dave and everyone would know everything they needed to.”

“Mm, I like that,” Dave agreed, warmed by the words. “Maybe then I wouldn’t have to watch coffee shop employees hit on you every morning.”

“I have never been hit on when ordering a cup of coffee in my entire life!” Reid sputtered. “And if you figure I’ve been drinking coffee every single day since I was 14, that’s well over 5,000 opportunities.”

“I don’t know what universe you live in, but it is not customary to get a lap dance with your latte.”

Reid rolled his eyes. “I was waiting to the side, and she walked over to hand me my drink.”

Dave snorted in disbelief. “Standing to the side because for the second morning in a row, there’s no milk up front for a latte? I’m not buyin’ it.”

“I’m sure with the gallons of milk they go through, there are going to be occasions when they run out of said milk …”

“Let’s review—it’s a coffee shop--at seven in the morning, they’re not going to have extra cartons of milk out front? They’re gonna have the counter girl sashay into the back room, get a single carton of milk, make the latte and then trot it out to the customer so she can press her ample bosom against him for a cheap thrill? I don’t think that’s the SOP in the employee manual.”

“If news of your delusional observational skills gets out, every one of your convictions is going to be up for review.”

Rossi studied Spencer’s superior face for a beat, then said; well, yelled, really, “Oh Spencer, do me, Baby! Do me!”

Rossi thoroughly expected the thwack! of the pillow in his face, but had to laugh in surprise when Spencer proceeded to smother him with it. Oh well, he wasn’t too worried. Dave was pretty sure Spencer wasn’t ready to be rid of him yet, and figured if he did give up the ghost at least they’d find him with a smile on his face.

#

Criminal Minds Fic #5: The One that Starts with Rossi Mad about Psychics

Sun, 01 Mar 2009 15:11:18 GMT

Title: The One that Starts with Rossi Mad about Psychics
Author: myrna1_2_3
Pairing: Rossi/Reid
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Rossi’s mad about psychics and then he thinks about other stuff
Word count: ~6,800

Scepticism is the beginning of Faith
~ Oscar Wilde

Rocky shoreline my ass, SSA David Rossi thought darkly as he made his way to the Bureau’s private plane. You don’t have to be a fuckin’ psychic to throw out something that God damned generic.

He stomped on to the Bureau plane and threw himself in the seat next to Spencer. Sort of, almost on Spencer. He moved Spencer’s hand from under his ass (not such a bad spot, really) and forcefully put it on top of his leg. He answered Reid’s unvoiced question with an icy, “I’m off the clock.”

Reid removed his hand from Rossi’s leg. “Not that far off,” he answered, eyebrows high on his forehead.

“Hey, Reid, feelin’ lucky?” Morgan asked, shaking a deck of cards in his hands as he walked past their seats.

“No thanks,” Reid said, holding up his book.

Prentiss was following along behind him, but stopped at Reid’s side. “Penelope and I are grabbing a drink when we land, wanna come?” Prentiss asked. And Rossi was probably (maybe) included in the invite, but she was looking at Reid in that way that, at least to Rossi, suggested Ditch the old man.

“We were just planning to head home tonight,” Reid said. “Lunch at Wally’s tomorrow, though, right?”

Next came JJ offering dinner with Will and Henry. Rossi probably wasn’t on that guest list, but Spencer declined so it didn’t really matter. As JJ headed to her seat with what Rossi’s was coming to view as her “Mom” look at Reid, Rossi felt Reid’s curious eyes on him. “What?” he asked sourly.

“What have you done?” Reid asked suspiciously.

“Me?!” Rossi said indignantly. “Nothing!”

Reid’s narrowed eyes studied him skeptically, but he said nothing.

Hotch suddenly appeared out of nowhere. “Up for some chess, Reid?” he asked.

Jesus Christ, Hotch, too? What the hell?

“All right, listen up!” Rossi said, voice raised. “Spencer does not want to play cards or chess or tiddly winks or whatever else sounds fun. He does not want to get a drink when we land; and he is not interested in getting a bite to eat once we’re home. So if one of you could kindly inform the pilot that Reid is not entertaining any…”

Without looking up from his book, Reid leaned over into Rossi’s space. “Evelyn,” he said.

“What?” barked Rossi.

“The pilot,” Reid said. “It’s Evelyn today.”

Rossi grit his teeth and heaved a deep breath. “If one of you could kindly inform Evelyn that Reid is not entertaining any additional invitations this evening, that’ll pretty much take care of every damn person on the plane!”

Rossi hunched his shoulders and buried his head in his briefcase, hoping they all choked on their stifled laughter.

“Andrew is the name of our other pilot,” Reid said conversationally. “I tell you this because it was pointed out to me not long ago, in a very supercilious tone, I might add, that it would behoove me to make more of an effort to engage with the people I meet.”

“Shut up.” Rossi grabbed Reid’s hand and placed it firmly on his own leg and on general principle refused to sigh happily when Reid affectionately squeezed that leg and offered a few comforting pats.

“It really doesn’t bother you?” Rossi finally said.

“I am going to need a lot more information to answer that.”

“These bogus psychics. You don’t find them offensive?”

Reid’s entire body heaved in the universal signal of ‘Oh that’s what’s going on.’ He shook his head at Rossi’s question. “I don’t see them as significantly impacting anything to the point where…”

“It just peeves me that these parasites attach themselves to these tragic situations and for what? Money? Notoriety? The need to insert themselves in someone else’s drama?”

“That’s a fairly wide swath of condemnation, don’t you think?” Reid said. He still hadn’t looked up from his book, and Rossi was starting to get that itchy feeling he experienced whenever Reid’s attention wasn’t focused where it should be.

“How could the swath possibly be narrowed?” Rossi asked.

Reid finally closed his book. Most people would have marked their page, but it wasn’t like he was going to forget where he was. “It seems to me you’re working from a flawed assumption that all psychics are frauds,” he said. “I’m sure many of them truly believe they’re prescient.”

“But they aren’t! It’s a load of horse shit.”

“The veracity of one’s belief bears no relation to how deeply those beliefs are held.”

Rossi rolled his eyes. “Where did you read that—a fortune cookie?”

Reid squeezed the hand still on Rossi’s leg. “When my mom was having an episode, she was utterly convinced that whatever outrageous thoughts were going through her head, they were true.”

Rossi’s features softened. “That’s different, Spencer, and you know it. There is a physiological basis for her condition.”

Reid’s shrug conceded the literal truth of those words, but he didn’t agree with Rossi’s point. “Physiology or no, there are plenty of psychics who believe they’re providing a legitimate service to people.

“What they’re providing is false hope,” Rossi said. “Exploiting people when they are their most vulnerable; encouraging them to believe in something there’s no possible way of substantiating to gain, what? Money? Power?”

“The exact same thing can—and often is--said about religion.”

Rossi slid a few inches away from Reid. “Only by people who aren’t afraid of getting struck by lightning.”

Spencer huffed a sound of amusement. “There are well documented instances of psychics providing law enforcement with case-breaking information.”

“So you’re telling me you believe some people have psychic powers?”

“No, not at all,” Reid said reasonably. “I believe they are privy to information for which there are rational explanations that have nothing to do with the paranormal. Maybe they have a memory like mine but it’s gone undiagnosed. What they think are flashes of psychic insight are really memories they don’t even know they have. Maybe they caught a glimpse of something out of place or heard a conversation out of context or read an article that later triggered a memory…so they really are providing a service to investigators, it’s just that they’re misinterpreting the source of that service.”

“Service,” Rossi scoffed at the word. “They’re just looking to make a buck off a suffering family’s misfortune.”

“But so are some bankers and some attorneys and some clergymen and some physicians. There are predators in every profession.”

Rossi sat back with a dramatic flounce. “Must you conquer all of my irrational prejudices?”

Reid lifted a brow. “Only the ones that make the team think they have to rescue me from your dastardly temper.”

Oh. Yeah, that might explain all the mother henning. Huh.

“It’ll only free them up to think they have to rescue you from my dastardly jealousy, my dastardly selfishness, my dastardly…” Not surprisingly, after only two examples, Rossi ran out of dastardly things from which Reid needed to be rescued.

Reid helpfully took up the cause. “Ego? Lack of even a rudimentary sci-fi education? Unbalanced retirement portfolio?”

“Shut up.” Rossi was quiet for a beat. “My retirement portfolio is not unbalanced.”

Reid snorted but had now gone back to his book. “Mrs. Hollister has a more daring mix of stocks and bonds, and she’s 83.”

“Do you really want to gamble our future on Margie Hollister’s investment advice?”

Reid chuckled but said nothing as he settled a little more firmly against Rossi’s side. Rossi grabbed a notebook and opened it to a blank page. Lately he’d been fooling around with the idea of writing a mystery novel and wanted to jot down a few ideas.

But as he stared down at that empty page, pen poised to write, he felt more of Reid’s weight against his shoulder and looked down to find him dozing. Rossi considered nudging him awake seeing as he’d suffer later that evening when Spencer couldn’t sleep. Rossi made a sardonic face, figuring the rest of the jokers on the plane would have protective services waiting for him on the tarmac if he disturbed their precious little agent.

It was probably the mention of Margie Hollister that had Rossi thinking back to an image of a sleeping Reid on another plane ride, over a year ago.

They weren’t together yet, and Rossi had been struggling against what felt like the inexorable push of fate. Christ, the reasons to walk away before anything ever started were long and varied and utterly, utterly reasonable. But he couldn’t stop thinking about Spencer and studying Spencer and wanting Spencer. He recognized obsession in himself and he was riding a thin line of it over Reid. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so fascinated by anyone. So captivated.

And realizing that Spencer’s interest may have moved beyond hero worship to something deeper should have been welcomed, but instead, it made Rossi feel… imperiled. And that was melodramatic, but still an accurate reflection of his emotional state.

Spencer, befuddled and unsure about his interpersonal skills at the best of times, clearly had no idea exactly what was going on between them, at least, that was Rossi’s impression, and Rossi felt like it bought him some time to figure out what in the hell he was going to do. He knew the appropriate response was to do nothing, but he also knew keeping to the appropriate response was a long shot. It had been a long time since he’d wanted to the degree that he wanted Spencer Reid.

Then came a case in Southern California—three sexually assaulted and murdered children with DNA results indicating the same unsub in all three cases. The only commonality among the three children they could find was that at some point in their lives the three had been in the state’s Children’s Protective Services system.

Rossi had an idea that Spencer’s keen understanding of not only the CPS system, but also how kids in the system would think and feel and react to interviews was not entirely academic.

Reid had disagreed with the notion that they should look for complaints filed against CPC social workers to see if the unsub was exacting some kind of revenge. “A kid complaining about a social worker is like someone being audited complaining about the IRS agent,” Reid had said with a definitive tone that broached little argument. “It doesn’t happen. Period.”

Reid also instructed the team as they were set to question kids who had been in the system around the same time as their victims “Their number one concern is going to be protecting their parents,” Reid said. “Make sure they understand that nothing they say will impact their current living situation, and if you don’t trust that they believe it, you can’t trust what they’re telling you.”

One of the interviews had solicited a memory from a teenager who remembered a “creepy dude” who worked the CPC office where he’d been processed. The boy didn’t think he was a social worker, more of an office manager or something like that. The kid couldn’t remember the guy’s name, but he did remember that his first name was the same name as a school because he and the other kids would make fun of him--calling him “USC,” instead of by his given name. The boy remembered not liking the way the man stared at him.

It was precious little to go on, but they had to start somewhere. Legwork was all that was left and late that evening Rossi and Reid were going over lists of current and former CPC personnel looking for the name of a man that sounded like a school.

“What?” Rossi asked, when Reid made a surprised sound and sat up straight in his chair.

“Nothing, sorry,” Reid said, “I just… I recognized a name. Shirley Granger. She used to work in the Nevada system but moved to California five years ago.”

“Important to the case?” Rossi asked.

“Oh, gosh no.” Reid licked his lips a couple of times. He and Rossi were the only ones in the hotel conference room, but he still lowered his voice a notch when he spoke. “A couple of time my mom went off her meds we ended up on the CPS radar. Mrs. Granger was our social worker. At the time, I thought of her my evil nemesis. Moriarty to my Sherlock Holmes.”

“What did she do?”

“Her job,” Spencer admitted with a sheepish look on his face. “But when you’re 11 and scared to death what will happen to your mom if you’re not there to take care of her, I guess it was easy to cast her in the role of villain. I told myself she was miserable and unhappy and wanted everyone else to be as well. I think I was pretty awful to her. Certainly disrespectful.”

“You think?” Rossi asked with a grin. He’d seen the barest glimpses of a Reid on the verge of losing it, and it wasn’t pretty.

“I’m sure I was insufferable. I thought I was so much smarter than all of them…”

“You probably were,” Rossi said.

Reid shrugged. “If we were sitting down to a physics exam, maybe. I’m not sure I was always so brilliant when it came to answering their questions. I thought I was being clever, but talking to kids now the way we do, I don’t think I was convincing anyone of anything. I think Mrs. Granger cut me and my mom a lot of slack.”

“Maybe she thought you deserved a break.”

“Maybe,” Spencer mused. “It almost embarrassing now—how clever I thought I was being. No matter how they phrased their questions; no matter what they were trying to get me to tell them, I would answer ‘Diana Reid has never neglected Spencer Reid; ’ ‘Diana Reid has never endangered Spencer Reid;’ Diana Reid has never hurt Spencer Reid.’” Spencer was speaking at that soft, high decibel that wrenched Rossi’s heart no matter what he was saying. “The literal truth was sort of my shield, you know?”

Rossi nodded. He did know, having seen it on the Job more times than he could count. “But sometimes your mom wasn’t Diana Reid, was she?” Rossi said softly.

Spencer slowly shook his head and licked his lips again. “And sometimes… she didn’t know that I was Spencer Reid,” he said.

Rossi nodded sympathetically. “Not everyone would appreciate the distinction you were making,” he said. “But almost anyone would understand your need to protect your mom.”

Reid nodded. “In the end, I guess it was a good thing. It scared my mom back on her meds and then things were okay.”

Rossi smiled at him. “I’m glad,” he said, and ducked his head as if returning to the list of names in front of him. Jesus, he wanted to fold Spencer in his arms and turn his back to the rest of the world; build a fucking time machine and take away all the bullshit the kid had endured. He wanted to take Spencer to bed and show him the beauty a single moment in time could give them.

It would be an understatement to say that Rossi was shocked when a moment later, Spencer reached out and covered Rossi’s hand with his and stroked it. Rossi looked up to find Spencer staring at the hand he was caressing with wonder. Rossi slowly turned his hand over, offering the palm to him, but that brought Reid out of the moment with a start. He snatched his hand from Rossi’s as if it had been burned. “I’m so sorry!” Spencer said, mortified at his audacity. “I don’t even know what possessed me…I would never… I’m sorry!”

“Don’t be sorry,” Rossi said, surprised by Reid’s reaction. “Spencer, there’s nothing wrong with what you’re feeling.” He gave a chuff of laughter at the smirk on Spencer’s face that said he knew when he was being patronized. Rossi leaned in closer. “You’re not the only one feeling it,” he said and felt warmed by the flush that crept over Reid’s face.

“But?” Reid said, shoulders hunched against whatever reason Rossi was going to use to shoot him down.

There was a “but,” wasn’t there? Rossi was so unprepared for Reid’s innocent little pass, he wasn’t completely sure what his objections were supposed to be. He had them, though. Right?

Rossi took a breath and offered platitudes, buying time yet again. “But what we do next has repercussions beyond just you and me, and we have to be really sure about where we’re going and what we’re willing to do to get there.”

“I don’t understand,” Spencer said.

Who the hell would? “This isn’t something I can do lightly,” Rossi tried again. “I need to have in my head what this means; how this would work.”

“I…I’m not sure what you mean when you say this,” Reid answered guilelessly.

“Spencer, we work together; we’re men; there’s more than a few years between us; the amount of baggage I bring to a relationship is gonna be inversely proportional to yours… We have to know how we’re gonna handle things before we make some decisions we might regret.”

“How will we know when we know all those things?” Spencer asked and with anyone else, Rossi would have assumed they were being sarcastic. Spencer looked so flummoxed it was obvious he was just looking for information.

“I don’t know,” Rossi said.

Reid slowly nodded his head, looking miserable and ashamed. He was taking Rossi’s convoluted words for rejection. Well who the hell wouldn’t? He sounded ridiculous.

They returned to their lists and Rossi couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so… inadequate.

Jesus, and when you thought about it, when was the last time he’d been so God damned stupid? He could be on his way to a hotel room to sex up Reid. Had he really just spent 10 minutes ineptly turning him away? What the hell just happened?

At least the evening wasn’t a total wash. Not long after their disastrous little interlude Rossi made a discovery. “Hey, lookee here,” Rossi said. “Stanford Lewis. He’s worked at all three offices where our vics would have been processed.” Rossi scanned the personnel file. “Fits the profile well enough to warrant a question or two.”

“Let’s call it in,” Reid said, and ten hours later the unsub was in handcuffs.

Later, during the flight home, Reid had curled up on a bench and fallen into a restless sleep, and Rossi knew it was ridiculous and indulgent and all kinds of treacly crap that he despised, but the plane banked to the left and a stream of sunlight shone through the window and landed on Reid, highlighting the sharp angles of his face and the smooth alabaster of his skin and Jesus fucking Christ, Rossi was only God damned human!

It was like God was smacking him on the back of his head and saying, Wake up! All the evil and darkness you see every day, and you’re going to pass up a chance at beauty and light? What the hell’s wrong with you?

He was probably paraphrasing there, but he received the message loud and clear.

He thought of the line from Dante he had quoted to the team not long ago--Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate. But sitting there, staring at Reid and finally—finally—letting go of all the manufactured reasons not to pursue him, it didn’t feel at all like Rossi was abandoning hope—it felt like he was embracing it.

He made a decision then. He was going to apologize to Reid for jerking him around the night before and then… well then they were going to see where in the hell this thing would take them.

And so late morning on their next day off found Rossi moseying up the front walk into Reid’s apartment building. It was a more non-descript building than Rossi would have guessed. Reid had a charmingly old-fashioned sensibility about him; Rossi assumed he would have chosen an older building with character. Instead, it seemed to Rossi like Reid had stepped off the train, looked left then right, computed which complex was fewer steps from the station, and moved in there.

Rossi walked in the front door and immediately assumed he was at the address wrong. The lobby was less a lobby and more a community living room. Four white-haired men were playing cards in one corner, and three older women were gathered around a blaring television set.

“What do you need, Sweetheart?” one of the women on the couch called to him.

“Look out, Margie’s got a live one,” said one of the old men.

“Is this… 725 North Wakefield?” Rossi asked, almost certain they were going to tell him it wasn’t.

“And this one can still read,” said another man, sounding pleasantly surprised.

“Recognizes his numbers anyway,” said the third.

The woman—Margie, one would presume—waved off the men in the corner. “That’s the right address, Sweetie. Who are you looking for?”

“Spencer Reid?” Rossi said, even more certain no one would know him.

Margie’s face brightened. “Oh my stars, are you Mr. Reid? Why that Spencer is one of the nicest young men I have ever met.” She turned to her friends. “Lovely manners on that one, right, Jan?”

Rossi’s first thought--This is a colossal mistake--was followed quickly by Do I look like I could be Mr. Fucking Reid?

“Just as pleasant as you please,” Jan agreed.

“That boy was raised right,” one of the card players chimed in with a definitive nod.

“Actually, I’m a colleague of Re…uh Spencer’s,” Rossi said, edging toward the elevator.

“Well that makes more sense,” said one of the men, now shuffling and dealing the cards. “Because if you’d said you were Spencer’s daddy, I was gonna have to ask what the mailman looked like.” The men in the corner chortled at that.

“Oh Ed, for heaven’s sake,” Margie said. “Spencer’s up in apartment 305, but he stepped out awhile ago. Should be back in a minute.” She looked around as if checking to make sure they were alone. “He’s out doing Kate Patterson’s bidding is what he’s doing, just so you know. Everyone knows she has him wrapped around her finger. ‘Course, in his defense, Spencer has a hard time saying no to just about everybody.”

More chortling from the men in the corner.

Rossi was wondering how easy it would be to go wait for Reid in his car when the front door opened, and Spencer came in, loaded down with plastic grocery bags. When Spencer saw Rossi, he looked horrified. “Did I miss a call?” he asked by way of greeting, struggling with the myriad of bags to check the phone clipped to his belt.

“Hey,” Rossi said. “No, there’s no call.”

Spencer grew still, eye haunted. The bags he was holding drooped nearly to the floor. “Has something happened?” he asked, the tenor of his voice soft with dread.

Rossi was sorry he hadn’t called ahead. “Everything’s fine,” he said gently. “Can I talk to you?”

“Um, okay,” Spencer said, and then stood there, waiting for Rossi to speak.

Rossi swiped at his goatee to keep a laugh in check and said, “I, uh, thought we might sit down for a minute.”

Reid glanced over at the sofa where Margie, Jan and the third woman were sitting, all watching he and Rossi with good-natured curiosity. “Well, it’s not exactly private,” Reid said sotto-voice, motioning over toward the couch with a slight toss of his head.

Rossi had to cough to disguise his amusement. “Maybe we could go to your apartment?” he said.

Spencer looked perplexed, as if Rossi had suggested they hold their conversation on Mars and could he please figure out a way to get there. “Okay,” he said finally and headed toward the elevator. The rode up the two floors in silence and when the doors opened, Rossi eyeballed the apartment numbers and took a left, heading to number 305. Reid; however, was walking in the opposite direction. “Um, I have to…” he said, gesturing with the grocery bags. “Just a sec…” Rossi shrugged and followed Reid to Apartment 307 where he knocked softly on the door. “Ms. Patterson, it’s Spencer. I have your groceries.”

Ah ha, Kate Patterson, perhaps? Rossi parked himself against the wall across from the door so he could get a good look at the woman’s whose bidding Reid was apparently doing. It took a minute before Rossi could hear the locks clicking, and then the door opened revealing a tiny, stooped-shoulder woman in her eighties. She had sharp eyes and a ready smile for Spencer. “Well thank you, Honey, that was fast,” she said. “How much do I owe you?”

“Ten dollars as usual,” Spencer said. All of the bags were full to overflowing, and there was no way the bill was as little as ten dollars. Rossi leaned back against the wall, a grin spreading across his face. Spencer walked the bags to Mrs. Patterson’s kitchen where Rossi heard him gently cautioning her to put away the milk and other refrigerated items now. Pocketing a ten dollar bill, he let himself out the door and seemed surprised that Rossi was still standing there.

“You live in an old folks’ home!” Rossi sounded positively delighted at the discovery.

Reid pursed his lips in that way that said Rossi wasn’t nearly as humorous as he thought he was. “I do not. It’s a complex that happens to house some retirees,” he said.

“Retirees and exactly one 25 year old FBI agent,” Rossi said.

Reid just rolled his eyes and let Rossi in his front door. Reid’s apartment was pristine in the extreme. There wasn’t much furniture—and what there was looked like it had been purchased one piece at a time in a second-hand store (or perhaps found abandoned on the curb). Rossi couldn’t spot a single, superfluous item from front hall past the kitchen into the living room. Surprisingly, though, it wasn’t cold. The walls were painted in warm tans and browns and the immaculate rooms seemed an almost expected counterbalance to Reid’s rumpled, dressed-in-the-dark appearance.

“I pictured overflowing wall-to-wall bookshelves,” Rossi said.

“Most people do, but I don’t generally keep the books I’ve read,” said Reid. He shrugged and sheepishly explained. “No need to.”

As Reid was speaking, Rossi noticed that there was one bookshelf in the corner of the room. He ambled over and perused the titles, none of which were familiar to him. Looking more closely, he thought most of them looked old enough to be valuable. “These are special, then?” he said.

“They’re my mom’s mostly,” Spencer said. Rossi nodded at him and offered what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “She was a literature professor.”

“Yeah?” said Rossi, happy for the nugget of personal information. “All of your doctorates are in the hard sciences, aren’t they? What did Mom think about that?”

Reid smiled, pleased, Rossi supposed, by a question that didn’t center on his mother’s illness. “I actually considered a literature degree, but by the time I started college, Mom had already educated me in most of the classics. Literature felt redundant.” He shrugged, half apology, half acceptance. “She was never concerned about my fields of study, though she would have preferred that I stay in the university environment regardless of the subject matter I ultimately pursued.”

“Did you consider that?”

Reid huffed a laugh and shook his head. “Not for a minute. Some day we’ll go on a joint recruiting assignment, and you’ll understand why.” He stood there, looking awkward and unsure, then brightened when a thought suddenly occurred to him. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked, sounding almost like he was quoting from a book.

Rossi found himself smiling as he said. “Sure, thanks.”

Reid’s brightness faded a bit as his eyebrows knit in consideration. He chewed on his bottom lip for a beat then retrieved a glass from the cupboard and filled it with tap water. He hesitantly handed it to Rossi. “Um… I’ve don’t really have…my apartment is too small to have the team over so I never buy…”

Rossi nodded in sympathetic understanding. “No, I get it. You don’t want someone telling HR you’re moonlighting as the cruise director for the Sunny Day Retirement Village.”

The teasing brought out that sardonic look again, and seemed to relax Reid a peg. Rossi took his glass of water out to the living room and sat down on the couch. He stared at the glass in his hands. “Look,” he said, “An apology is due, and I…” He stopped when Reid jumped up from his seat.

He had flushed a furious scarlet and looked imploringly at Rossi. “I… I understand that my demeanor has been less than appropriate, but I assure you that it won’t…”

Rossi knew his mouth was gaping open. Jesus Christ, Reid was apologizing to him. “Spencer no, stop, stop, stop,” Rossi said, careful to keep his voice calm. “You misunderstand. I’ve come to apologize to you.”

Spencer looked flummoxed. “But I’m the one who…”

“Spencer, you haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I don’t understand, you said we shouldn’t…”

“Spencer, I’ve been in panic mode, that’s all—terrified of accepting what already is and resenting the sense that I never really had a say in where my feelings went.” Rossi leaned in closer to Reid, trying to explain where all the panic came from. “I was close to your age the last time I was in a relationship with a man. I’ve always respected the boundaries of professionalism; I’ve never been with someone ten years my junior much less twenty—and don’t you even think of correcting my math there—and all of this just coalesced into making me an unforgivable bastard.”

Spencer’s face was so painfully hopeful that Rossi felt it like a hand around his throat. “But what’s changed?” Spencer asked softly.

Rossi slowly shook his head as if he didn’t know the answer even though he did. “You were sleeping on the plane ride home and when the sun came through the window…” Jesus, he sounded like a movie on Lifetime. “With all of the crap we see day in and day out, I just felt so tired of fighting against something beautiful and good. Something I know would be joyful. Why should I fight that? Why should I deny it?”

Spencer stood up again and fretfully shook his head. “That seems like a rather perilous foundation upon which to change…”

God, the kid was just so fucking… dear. Rossi carefully stepped closer to him, knowing that trust would only come with time; that words could sometimes be insufficient even for Dr. Spencer Reid. They were never going to talk themselves into being together. The only answer was for them to be together. “May I take you to dinner tonight?” Rossi asked.

“I don’t…um…what did you…uh… dinner?”

“Yes. I’d like to take you to dinner.” Rossi smiled and stepped closer still, a socially acceptable distance from the young man, but well beyond Spencer’s comfort zone. “I want to pick you up at 6:30 and take you to dinner some place nice and quiet so we can talk; I want to share a bottle of wine and learn a few new things about you; and I want to drive you home and walk you to your door, and I want to ask you for another date and then I want to kiss you goodnight.”

“Um…” Reid was wearing his most puzzled expression. “You already know you want to have another date?” he asked.

Rossi’s smile grew more relaxed. The room seemed inexplicably lighter all of a sudden. “Yes,” he said.

“You seem very certain,” Reid said dubiously.

“Funny you should say that because I already think I was wrong about something.” Rossi kept his tone light, so there was no alarm at his words; just curiosity. “I don’t think I can wait until later to kiss you.” He cupped one of Reid’s elbows in his hand. “May I kiss you now?” he asked.

Reid flushed a brilliant red, and he ducked his head, but Rossi still caught his shyly delighted smile. Rossi lifted Reid’s face with a light touch at his chin. He nuzzled behind Reid’s ear, whispering, “Don’t hide your smile from me.”

Reid hunched his shoulders against the chill caused by the whisper and perhaps by the words themselves. “Dave, you have to know…” Spencer began, unconsciously offering more of his neck to Rossi’s caress, even as he shook his head. “I am…woefully—“ he laughed at the understatement—“ill-equipped to…”

“No, none of that,” Rossi said gently. “There’s just things you know and things you don’t yet, that’s all.“ He pulled back and measured Spencer’s expression—and smiled affectionately at the myriad of emotions he saw—trepidation and panic and confusion and hope. Somewhere in there was the permission he’d sought, and he carefully moved forward and covered Reid’s lips with his own.

==================================================================

Now, over a year later, Rossi chuckled to himself, remembering his shock at how very, very proficiently the ill-equipped Spencer Reid returned his kiss.

As the pilot—Evelyn—announced that they were preparing to land, Reid stretched and yawned and sat up straight. Rossi smiled at him. “Have I complimented you lately on how very equipped you’ve become?” he asked. Spencer gave him a curious sidewise glance, but didn’t answer. “Next free night we have, let’s take Margie and Ed out to dinner,” Rossi said magnanimously.

“Not so much a free night as a free late afternoon,” Reid said, but he nodded at Rossi’s suggestion. True enough. Margie and Ed did enjoy the stereotypical early bird special. “Rethinking the portfolio advice?”

“Absolutely not,” Rossi said. “But if we play our cards right, Margie will give us some of her famous sugar cookies.”

Spencer agreed. “True. These days they’re probably worth more on the open market than most stocks.”

=================================================================

When Rossi startled awake later that night, it took him only a few seconds to peg the cause. He might as well have set the fuckin’ alarm. Another dull thud from out in the kitchen had him heaving a sigh before taking a fortifying breath and eyeing the clock.

Two-fifteen. Yeah, that was about right.

Spencer Reid was a force of nature completely and utterly unto himself. The kid’s quirks and eccentricities were many, and Dave knew he was ridiculously charmed by most of them; though it would be fan-God damned-tastic if fewer of those quirks and eccentricities were on display between the hours of, say, midnight and six a.m.

It wasn’t that Reid had insomnia exactly. If you charted the number of hours he slept in a week, it would probably be close to anyone else who got a solid six or seven hours of sleep a night. Reid just took his hours at strange intervals. He’d sleep two or three hours one night, then retire at 7:30 the next evening and sleep close to 10.

It wasn’t uncommon to wake up and find Spencer knee-deep in some crazy organizational project. For whatever reason, the activity soothed Reid’s over-active brain, allowed it to slow to a more normal pace so he could sleep or eat or simply relax. It was for much the same reason that Spencer could often be found spinning in an office chair. It might look like a childish gesture of boredom, but it was really a way for Reid to focus—to shut out over stimulating bright lights, loud noises, and uncomfortable chill.

The freezer, fridge, linen closet, and office supply drawers had all been recent targets of Spencer’s attention. One night, Rossi found him in the garage sorting a large box full of screws and nails and other fasteners. The organizational focus was usually random—alphabetical, size, color, use—it hardly mattered to Reid so long as every item could be duly sorted.

Every item. If one sub-category ended up with an uneven number of objects the entire strategy needed to be rethought.

Arriving at the entry to the kitchen, Rossi was actually pleased to see that the pantry was this evening’s restructuring project. It had most recently been organized based on where in the color spectrum an item’s label fell. It wasn’t the most logical means of organization, but when Rossi complained about how hard it was to find anything, Reid just explained that he was trying to nurture his aesthetic side.

Rossi leaned against the doorway, assuming he’d made enough noise so that his voice wasn’t going to startle Reid. “Is there a problem?” he asked dryly.

Reid answered without turning around. “The various weights all cluster too close to the mean to make that a viable sorting option. I tried alphabetic, but that leaves a can of white beans as the odd man out. If I go by food groups, that leaves the fruit cocktail.”

“When did you buy a can of fruit cocktail?” Rossi asked. “More to the point, why?”

“I didn’t buy it,” Reid said. “When have I ever bought anything with ‘lite’ on the label? It must have come from Ms. Patterson.”

Reid’s former neighbor had passed away during the winter, and her daughter had insisted that Reid take most of the non-perishable items in her cupboards, rightfully assuming Reid has purchased most of them himself.

It was pointless to suggest Reid simply throw out one of the offending cans. That would invite a discussion about the letter of the law versus the spirit, not to mention numerous statistical rejoinders regarding wastefulness.

Rossi thoughtfully pursed his lips. “Fruit cocktail or white beans, huh?” he said.

Reid nodded, looking comically forlorn.

Rossi proffered an overly dramatic sigh as he unenthusiastically slipped the fruit cocktail from Reid’s hand and placed it on the counter. He opened the can and doled the contents out into two bowls. “Forks or spoons?” he asked, sounding resigned.

“Forks,” Reid answered quickly. “That way we’ll avoid as much of the lite syrup as possible.”

Rossi headed for the kitchen table. “I consider this worth at least three get-out-of-jail free cards. Let’s say two short-tempered outbursts and one refusal to listen to reason.”

“Deal,” Reid said, and Rossi realized he’d lowballed his demand.

“Should’ve gone for five,” he muttered.

They ate quietly, companionably, for a few minutes, until they both experienced an identically-timed shock of realization. Rossi froze with the fork midway to his mouth, instantly aware that Reid had gone still and was holding his breath.

The lone cherry of the entire fruit cocktail was in Rossi’s bowl.

Very slowly, Rossi’s eyes slid from his bowl over to Reid’s, then upward to the center of Reid’s chest, past chin, then nose, then finally he was looking at Reid square in the eyes. Reid’s face was demurely hopeful.

“You woke me up!” Rossi said accusingly.

Reid nodded, looking contrite. “I know.”

“It’s 2:30 in the morning!”

Reid wasn’t about to argue with him. “And we have to leave before seven tomorrow morning,” he pointed out.

“I don’t even like fruit cocktail!”

“No one does,” Reid said reasonably.

“We don’t know where this came from. We’re probably gonna be dead from food poisoning before the day’s out.”

Reid nodded agreeably. “A terribly undignified end for both of us.”

Rossi sighed and forcefully speared the cherry on his fork. He twisted the fork back and forth, frowning sourly, then, without looking up, held the fork out to Reid.

Reid closed his mouth around the cherry and pulled it from the fork. He chewed it slowly staring at Rossi who sighed again and met his gaze.

Rossi thought of all the grand, romantic gestures he’d made in his lifetime—gifts of jewelry, trips to Europe and Hawaii, a remodeled home, new automobiles--yet no one, not one person, had ever looked at him with an iota of the adoration shining forth from Reid’s pretty green eyes. And all because Dave was sitting in his half-lit kitchen at 2:30 in the morning eating crappy fruit cocktail from a can so the balance of the pantry could be preserved.

Heaven help them all, he’d never been so God damned happy in his entire life.

Rossi entwined two of his fingers with two of Reid’s and gave them an affectionate squeeze. Reid smiled at him as if he’d just hung the moon, and Rossi wondered at his chances of sneaking a couple of cans of fruit cocktail into the cart the next time they went shopping.

#

Criminal Minds Fic #4: The One where Reid Graduates

Thu, 19 Feb 2009 00:41:32 GMT

Title: The One where Reid Graduates
Author: myrna1_2_3
Pairing: Rossi/Reid
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Reid receives a degree
Word count: ~7,500

"Oh, but you’re lovely."
Jerome Kern

Seated at the breakfast table, their breakfast table, for the first time in 12 days, David Rossi realized that a black cup of coffee, a piece of whole wheat toast and the Sunday New York Times was just about as close to heaven as he’d been in quite some time.

A “hmmm” from his lover, sitting across the table opening their piled up-mail, made him amend his list. Perhaps last night he’d been slightly closer to heaven. The thought made him grin and the grin became a lusty chuckle which made Reid shoot him a curious glance.

“What are you reading?” Rossi asked, nodding toward the letter in Reid’s hand. He recognized the Georgetown letterhead and pursed his lips. “Is there something you need to tell me about your studies, young man?” he droned.

Spencer lifted an eyebrow at him. “You’re the one who freaks out whenever Jerry Fowler’s mom asks you how that lovely son of yours is doing,” he reminded him.

With a glare, Rossi snatched the letter from him and made a production of reading it aloud. “Yadda yadda yadda, pleased to inform you…completed the credit hours necessary … conferring upon you … Bachelor of Arts in Philosophy. Hey, this is great!” Rossi re-read the letter, but couldn’t find the information he was looking for. “When’s the graduation ceremony?”

“I don’t know,” Reid answered.

“You don’t know?” Rossi repeated. “What do you mean, you don’t know.”

“I mean that I am not in possession of the answer you seek.”

“You’re so literal,” Rossi said, tossing the letter back toward Reid and returning his attention to his newspaper. “And yet, whenever I tell you to suck my dick, nothing happens.”

“Only if you say it at a time or place where it would be improper to comply,” Reid replied.

“And you are nothing if not a proper young man.”

Without lifting his head, Reid shifted his eyes to Rossi. He relaxed with a shy smile at the warmth in Rossi’s gaze. “It’s very charming,” Rossi assured him.

Reid lifted his chin and said haughtily, “Goethe said a man's manners are a mirror in which he shows his portrait.”

Rossi smiled sweetly at his lover. “Suck my dick.”

Reid pursed his lips around a smile and replied archly, “I am disinclined.”

Rossi grinned and folded the paper to begin the crossword puzzle. Nothing ventured, as they say. “So you must be an old hat at this graduation thing,” he said. “Are we gonna go or skip the ceremony?”

“What do you mean?” Reid said.

Rossi looked up at him. “It’s not every day you get a degree conferred upon you.” He shrugged and added, “More like every other day, but if you want to go to the graduation ceremony, I’m game…”

Reid had long since lost the shameful demeanor that used to greet Rossi’s questions about Reid’s “pre-Rossi” years, but any time they discussed it, Reid’s first move was to reach out for Rossi. Something else Rossi found charming. “I don’t think so,” he said, his hand on Rossi’s arm. “I was at my high school graduation because the paper wanted to take pictures. I didn’t want to go—it’s not like my mom could come, and I was nothing but glad to be done with that place, but the principal came to my house and gave me clothes to wear, and it was just easier to go, I guess.” He shrugged and licked his lips. “I had pictures taken with the Cal Tech president when I got my first undergrad degrees, but no one made me go to the ceremony. After that it wasn’t much news anymore, so I didn’t go.”

Rossi nodded and ducked his head for a second. His graduations—both high school and college—had ushered in a week of parties. Of course, the joke in his family was that a successful trip to the grocery store was reason enough for a celebration. Both of his graduations had been attended by mom, dad, grand parents, aunts, uncles, brothers, cousins, neighbors. There was always room at the table for one more when they were celebrating; that was his family’s motto. (Also when they were mourning or, really, just feeling neutral about something).

Rossi sat up straight and made a snap decision. “Well seeing as this is the first graduation of your Rossi years, we’re going to have a party,” he said.

“Dinner at Dragonfly?” Spencer hazard to guess, eyebrows raised at such a bold idea.

“That’s not a party!” Rossi said. “I mean, we buy a ton of booze and a ton of food and fill the back yard with people to celebrate.”

“But I can’t think of anyone else who cares about my getting another degree,” Spencer said, brows now furrowed in consternation.

“They’ll care about the booze and food, and since they’re here, they might as well care about your new degree.”

“I don’t know,” Reid said, nervously licking his lips, as if Rossi were suggesting they take up mountain climbing or lion taming.

Rossi smiled at him, reaching over for Reid’s hand. “Nothing overwhelming,” he promised. He supposed he could drop the idea, but he wanted Reid to celebrate—to be celebrated. “We’ll have a cook-out,” Rossi said. “Give me a chance to use that ‘monstrosity of a grill’ you’re so fond of criticizing.”

“Who will you invite?” Reid asked, moving now from nervous to curious.

“We’ll start with the Bureau…”

“I hardly know anyone outside of the BAU!” Reid squawked. “Outside of our team even!”

“Again with the literal,” Rossi sighed, eyes toward heaven. “We’ll invite the team,” he clarified. “Give us a chance to eyeball Hotch’s new friend.”

“You think Hotch will bring her?” Reid asked. “Morgan hardly ever brings a date, and Emily said after we all went to that Mexican restaurant that she’s not bringing anyone ever again.”

“My pointing out that her date was gay did not make him gay,” Rossi said, clearly tired of defending himself on this issue.

Reid just shrugged. “I guess we can mark a spot for ‘And Guest,’” he said. “Garcia and Kevin will come together,” he said. “He’s been insufferable about the fourth season of Starbase Alpha , and he’s so totally wrong about the commander of the army. General Beytron is not half-cyborg, but try reasoning with him about it! And there is no way Garcia’s buying it, because we went through the first three seasons totally on the same page, but now that they’re dating she’s conveniently forgotten that we saw Beytron bleeding—red--in Season 3, Episode 8!” He looked beseechingly at Rossi, as if he might be able to explain such lunacy.

“That’s the spirit,” Rossi said. He had no idea what the hell Reid was talking about. “We’ll invite the Muellers, the Fowlers and the Calhouns…”

“But I just wave at them when I’m getting the mail,” Reid said uneasily.

“You have a party, you invite the neighbors,” Rossi said. “That way no one calls the cops when things get out of hand.”

Reid thought about that for a moment, obviously unsure if Rossi was serious. “Jerry Fowler’s mom is 86 years old,” he said.

Rossi couldn’t tell if he was saying it was improbable she would cause enough trouble to rouse the police or if he was pointing out that it would be unsafe for her to attend a party where there was a potential for police involvement. “We’ll keep an eye on her,” Rossi said, figuring the response worked regardless of Reid’s point.

“Are you going to wear an apron that says “Kiss the Cook”?”

“Sometimes I get the impression that everything you’ve learned has come from an ‘80s sitcom.”

Reid shrugged, conceding the point, but only slightly. “Just things like never invite two dates to the same prom and don’t turn your house into a bed & breakfast when your parents go out of town.”

============================================================

The BAU team was predictably enthusiastic about the idea of a barbecue, and Rossi enjoyed the points he earned for being the ever-thoughtful partner. Never mind that the idea of a party was somewhat agitating to the fair Dr. Reid.

Morgan in particular was pleased at the idea. He’d been the hardest one for Rossi to win over when he first took up with Reid, which was ironic given the fact that Rossi credited Morgan with changing the course of his relationship with the young man.

Reid had been confounding to Rossi from the moment they met. One day he looked like a refugee from a Goodwill store circa 1965; another day he was so drop-dead gorgeous Rossi found himself staring at him all day long trying to fathom the difference from the day before. One day it looked like Reid had gone weeks without a meal and even longer without a good night’s sleep, another day he looked like some Michelangelo representation of beauty. And that was just his physical appearance. Reid’s intellect was both staggering and off-putting—barely believable and yet the entire team blindly accepted everything he said with such equanimity that at first Rossi thought they were setting him up as the butt of some joke. But no sooner had Rossi come to terms with (grown accustomed to?) Reid’s unsettling memory than he began to question the way the team seemed to coddle him.

It was nothing overt, and yet to the profiler in Rossi it spoke volumes. Reid had obviously been pushed and pulled through the normal Bureau vetting process. Rossi knew enough of that through discussions with Aaron long before he returned to the Job. But if they were going to bend and break an overabundance of rules to get Reid where he was, it was even more important that he be given no special breaks now that he was there.

Rossi and Aaron had tussled over it privately more than once—small things to be sure—Reid’s absence from a victims empathy seminar; the way the team hovered around Reid during a case where the unsub filmed his crime on a webcam and then publicly posted it on the internet. The sheltering behavior always seemed arbitrary to Rossi; and ultimately damaging and unprofessional for Reid.

Rossi understood later that as Reid’s supervisor, Hotch couldn’t fill in the blanks for him, so it eventually fell to Morgan. That seemed fitting somehow. Though he and Reid were fairly close in age, Morgan seemed more paternal to Reid, though a teasing older brother sometimes surfaced.

One day, after a rather public disagreement between Rossi and Hotch over Reid’s involvement—or lack thereof—in an upcoming seminar involving the veracity of multiple personality disorder, Morgan took Rossi to lunch.

A disgruntled Rossi had walked with Morgan to a sit-down restaurant near the office; Rossi glowering at being subjected to what he was sure would be an hour-long defense of Reid; Morgan uncharacteristically anxious.

Morgan had said little on the way to the restaurant, and it wasn’t until they’d ordered that he was ready to talk. He’d spun a water glass between his fingers for a moment, then without preamble said, “Reid was the agent in Georgia.”

It was common knowledge that an agent of the BAU had been held hostage during the case the year before. Anyone who’d been on board at the time surely knew who that agent was, but baldly asking about something like that after the fact was taboo, and Rossi knew that the information would eventually come to him one way or the other. It had never crossed his mind that the agent might have been Reid; that the agent might have been one under Hotch’s command. And reviewing behaviors he’d considered curious at the time, Rossi realized it wasn’t that Hotch and the others had taken pains to conceal the truth; Rossi simply hadn’t allowed for the possibility.

Hell, even hearing the truth bluntly stated, Rossi could barely comprehend it.

He would remember it later with renewed appreciation for the complexity of the human psyche. He’d heard Morgan’s words, and despite the fact that Morgan would never joke about something like that; would never purposefully lie about something like that; despite the fact that Morgan had participated in the case; despite all of that, Rossi was utterly certain that Morgan was mistaken.

“No, that’s not…” and even now Rossi wasn’t sure what he’d intended to say. That’s not right? That’s not possible? That’s not what I want the truth to be?

Morgan hadn’t waited for Rossi to complete his thought, just leaned closer to him and kept talking. “And those fucking stories that a recording of it was found after the fact are bullshit. Fucker was streaming it live.”

“You saw what was happening to him?”

Morgan had nodded. “Not everything. Enough. At one point, toward the end, the guy holds up a .45 in one hand, a bullet in the other, shoves the bullet in the chamber and then spins it. The gun’s almost touching Reid’s forehead and the fucker says, ‘Pick one of your teammates to die.’ Reid says kill me. Guy says no, you pick one. Reid says no. Click. The chamber advances a round. Guy tells him again, pick someone to die. Reid says no. Click. Tells him one more time to choose someone. Reid says, I won’t. Click. Bullet’s in the chamber now, Reid can see it—that’s how close the barrel is. So he names Hotch, gives a bunch of BS reasons why, then quotes a line from the Bible, gives the chapter and verse. Hotch figures out that the kid is sending him a message, looks up the Bible verse, and sure enough, it’s not what Reid had said out loud; damn if he wasn’t telling us where the hell he was bein’ held.”

“Jesus,” Rossi had said, lunch forgotten in front of him.

Morgan had shook his head—obviously he still couldn’t quite believe it either. “And after all that? Kid’s been drugged up full of shit; smacked around; the asshole took a fuckin’ wooden board to his bare foot; he’d had a seizure, gone in to cardiac arrest, was given CPR, has the trigger of a gun pulled in his face at point-blank range not once, but four God damned times. And after all that, you know what? He saved his own ass. The fuckin’ psycho has him digging his own grave, and Reid manages to get his hands on the gun—only one bullet in it, remember—and save himself. Here comes the cavalry ridin’ in to save the day and the kid’s just… waitin’ for us.”

Rossi had realized he was still shaking his head no, even after Morgan had stopped talking to stare down at his glass, letting the memories play out. “Why the hell is he still here?” Rossi had wondered allowed. “He’s got a boatload of degrees, right? Doctorates. He could be teaching, doin’ research, runnin’ some…”

Now Morgan was shaking his head. “No, man, you gotta understand, the kid has nothin’ but us and the Job. His mom’s schizophrenic, been committed since he was old enough to sign the papers to lock her in. I don’t know what the deal is with his father, just that he’s not around. There’s no siblings, no aunts, no uncles, no old neighbors, no family friends. There’s us and this job.”

“Christ,” Rossi had swiped at his mouth, trying to fathom it all.

“No one would tell you the kid wasn’t shaky for awhile, all right? He went off the rails a bit, but we weren’t turnin’ a blind eye. He got himself straight; got his head back together; he’s a hundred percent—every last one of us believes that.“ Morgan had leaned in again, arms on the table. “Dave, I just… I want you to understand that it’s our issues you’re seein’ play out here, not some reaction to mistakes Reid’s made in the past or some… lack of confidence in his abilities. He’s proven himself far beyond what anyone should ever have to. I guess the rest of us are tired of him havin’ to, you know?”

“Jesus,” Rossi had said, shaking his head. “I feel like I owe the kid an apology, but that’s about me isn’t it? What the hell good does that do him?”

Morgan had smiled, relieved that Rossi got where he was coming from. “Nah, just give him a little attention,” he said. “Let him quote a few more of your books back at you. Ask him a couple of questions. He’s pretty easy once you tiptoe close enough.”

Morgan probably thought twice about those words later.

Rossi had sighed, still having a hard time grasping what he’d learned. “I have a feeling the closer you get to Spencer Reid, the more you have to revise what you think you know,” he said.

Morgan had waved him away as Rossi reached for his wallet. He’d tossed a couple of twenties down on the table and grinned at him. “Ain’t that the truth. Hey, ask Hotch to tell you about that hostage situation we had at a hospital with an LDSK.”

Rossi had snorted. Okay, Morgan would pull his leg about that. “Yeah right. He gonna tell me that it was Reid who pegged the shooter between the eyes?”

Morgan gave a decisive nod as he slid his wallet in his back pocket. “Damn straight he did.”

It was a month before Rossi had the nerve to verify the story. Of course, he was sleeping with Reid by then, and hardly had to ask to know that it was true.

Rossi enjoyed a friendly relationship with Morgan now, though Derek still periodically summoned Rossi out to lunch for a man-to-man talk when he felt it necessary. If Rossi were the more foolish man of his youth, it would irritate him, he supposed. As it was, he reacted with a mix of amusement and resignation. Hell, it always meant a free lunch and the opportunity to torture Morgan with unwanted details about his sex life.

“I don’t get you, man,” Morgan had said, shaking his head at Rossi the last time a lunch had been arranged.

“Yeah, I’m a mystery,” Rossi had said around a gigantic mouthful of cheeseburger. Since he’d managed to spend close to $100 at one of Morgan’s lunchtime lectures, the restaurant picks had been decidedly lowbrow.

“No, I mean it. Reid’s out there careless as a uniform his first day in the field, and you waltz through it all like it was a day at the beach. Why?”

Rossi swallowed a couple of french fries and sat back in his chair, wiping the grease from his fingers. “Derek, it’s the oldest reason in the book. Sex.”

“What?”

Rossi shrugged, as if the reason was completely beyond his control. “Sex,” he repeated. “I come down on Spencer about this kind of thing, and he’ll stop having sex with me. I don’t want him to stop having sex with me. And since you and I are doin’ the dishy girlfriend thing here, I might as well tell you, quite frankly, I’d like him to have even more sex with me than we’re currently having, because he does this thing with his tongue…”

“All right, all right, that’s enough,” Morgan said

Rossi shrugged again, but relaxed his posture, signaling to Morgan he’d be serious now. “Look, there’s a reason—a good reason—that agents who are personally involved shouldn’t work together. Don’t think Spencer and I both haven’t given a lot of thought to it. But… I don’t know, enough rules have been broken for Spencer to be where he is that maybe one more won’t make a difference. Maybe I’m just too fucking selfish to see it any other way. Besides, Hotch is here as his supervisor to chew his ass for bein’ an idiot; you’re here as his peer to chew his ass for bein’ an idiot…”

“And you?” Morgan asked.

Rossi’s shit-eating grin was enough to tell Morgan he shouldn’t have asked. He was already making a face as Rossi said, “I’m here to do something else entirely to his ass, although come to think of it…”

“Dave, Jesus!”

Rossi laughed and held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry, I’ll behave,” he said.

Yeah, right, said Morgan’s look.

“Morgan, the way this team works; specifically, the way this team works with Spencer is the main reason he and I can work together and be together. Don’t think for a minute that I don’t know that or appreciate it because I do; probably more than you’ll ever know. But for me and Spencer, the goal here on the Job is that our being together affect it only to the extent that bein’ in a good place with someone you love makes you better at what you do, all right?”

Morgan looked more revolted than when Rossi was going on about sex. “So, you’re off to write greeting cards if this profiling thing doesn’t work out?”

“Hey, don’t knock my skillful prose ‘til you take a gander at the projection TV it bought.”

Morgan shook his head in disappointment at Rossi. “How come whenever I’m lookin’ out for my man Reid, you gotta rub my nose in the projection TV? That’s cruel, man.”

Rossi shrugged. “You get squirrelly whenever the subject is sex. If we can’t talk electronics the only thing left is the Carrera GT I test drove last week.”

“Dude, seriously. That’s just heartless.”

==================================================================

The day of their barbecue dawned with a favorable weather forecast and an anxious Spencer, certain they were making a mistake.

Rossi kept him busy enough in the morning--making a final run to the grocery and liquor stores, setting up the back yard, walking the dog.

After applying a dry rub to the ribs and putting them back in the fridge, Rossi came out to the family room, intending to make some notes for the book he had just started.

Spencer was just standing there in the middle of the room. “What if nobody comes?” he said, gnawing on his bottom lip.

“We’ll be eating ribs for months,” Rossi said, unconcerned.

“We shouldn’t have bought so much food,” Reid worried.

“Babe, look at it this way--who wouldn’t want to spend an afternoon with me?”

“I’m going to put some of the stuff in the freezer,” Reid said, heading for the kitchen.

Laughing, Rossi grabbed his wrist to keep him from going too far. “Would you relax? Spencer, you handle the most extraordinary things without blinking an eye, but regular, every-day crap gets you up in arms.”

“The ordinary is what’s extraordinary to me,” Reid said with a self-deprecating shrug.

Rossi chuckled. “Spoken like a man with a degree in Philosophy,” he said. He pulled Reid down on his lap and held him tightly around the chest until he quit struggling to get up. “It’s a beautiful day, and we have good friends coming over to enjoy a few drinks and what will be the best ribs they’ve ever had in their entire lives. I want you to have fun, okay?”

“Okay,” Reid said, sounding more determined than resigned, which Rossi appreciated. Spencer leaned back against him so he could kiss Rossi’s cheek. “Just for the record? The most fun is when it’s just you and me.” He yelped when Rossi flipped him over on his back and laid down on top of him.

“Believe me, I know,” Rossi said. “Seems cruel not to dole us out a bit to the rest of the universe, don’t you think?”

Reid laughed. “You didn’t feel that way when that nice DA asked us to go to lunch the other day.”

“He wasn’t asking us to go anywhere. He was asking you. And he was an asshole.”

“How could you tell? We’d only known him for a couple of hours.”

“There is a reason the words preeminent profiler describe me whenever I am introduced somewhere.”

“Because you write the introductions,” Reid said, yelping again when Rossi poked him in the ribs.

The doorbell rang and Rossi glared at his lover. “This timing is very suspect,” he said.

“Indeed,” Reid said.

Rossi snorted and planted a wet, noisy kiss on Reid’s cheek, laughing when he grimaced and shoved Rossi off of him.

While Reid took Muchie to one of the back bedrooms, Rossi opened the door to find the majority of the BAU arriving together. Emily, Garcia and Kevin were on the doorstep along with JJ, Will and Henry and what looked like two week’s worth of baby supplies. Rossi barely kept from making the clichéd joke asking how long they were planning to stay.

Will pretty much made the joke for him. “Am I gonna scare you if I tell you this is just the first load?” he drawled, earning a smirk from JJ.

“It is kind of ridiculous,” she agreed, coming in and setting down the largest bag so the rest of the group could get through the door. “But it’s a nightmare when you’re out somewhere and you’re missing something you really need.”

Emily said, “What’s the big deal? All he needs are diapers and a boo…”

“Hey, hey, hey,” JJ said, pointing to the men in the room. “Mixed company.”

“Oops, I forgot,” Emily said. “Delicate sensibilities.”

Reid stuck his head around the corner and was greeted with a chorus of cheers for the new graduate. JJ, Emily and Garcia hugged Reid, who as usual reacted as if he were in imminent physical danger. Will heartily shook his hand--more wincing on Reid’s part—and Kevin offered a friendly one-armed hug.

“Come on, let’s head out back where the drinks are,” Rossi said, ushering them through the kitchen out on to the deck.

A few neighbors came around to the back yard and let themselves through the fence and Rossi had to chuckle as Garcia took over hostess duties for a tongue-tied Reid. “Degree number six—Philosophy--can you believe it?” Garcia was saying to Ann and Rodger Calhoun and another man he didn’t recognize. He guessed it was Ann’s brother given the family resemblance.

Morgan soon walked in, an arm thrown casually around the shoulder of a woman Rossi hadn't seen before. Rossi didn’t understand the stormy look that crossed Emily’s face at the sight.

Happy to escape his current situation, Reid scurried over to greet Morgan and was promptly yanked into a bear hug and slapped on the back which might actually have caused some physical pain. Morgan introduced his date as Carla—no last name provided, Rossi noted.

While a curious Garcia and JJ traded small talk with Carla, Prentiss glared at Derek. “Damn it, Morgan!” she hissed. “You said you weren’t bringing a date!”

“She told me last night she’s moving to Boston!” Derek whispered back.

“So, coming with you today is a parting gift?” Emily asked.

Morgan shrugged his confirmation, and Emily almost sprained an eye she rolled hers so hard. “We were havin’ a good time last night,” Derek continued, “And it just happened…”

“God, you sound like my college roommate every Saturday morning for the entire three years we roomed together,” Emily groused. “As the last two devoutly single members of the team, we had a pact!”

Garcia leaned over to Emily and said, “One of Reid and Rossi’s neighbors brought their brother. Single, appropriate age range, full head of hair.”

Emily huffed in irritation, but said, “How tall?”

“Taller than Rossi, shorter than Reid,” Garcia reported. “He’s over there drinking a beer by the dogwood.”

Emily craned her neck and took a fortifying breath. “All right, I’m on it,” she said and with a final glare at Morgan, headed out to the back yard.

“I owe you, Baby Girl,” Derek said.

“Already added to the tab, Rico Suave,” Garcia said.

Morgan grabbed his date’s elbow and nodded toward the house. “Come on, Carla, you have got to see the entertainment set up downstairs. I gotta warn you though, I get emotional every time I see it. I’ll might cry a little.”

Rossi laughed. “I know a guy with a PhD in Engineering who can help you set something up at your place,” he told Morgan.

Morgan shook his head. “It’s not the designer I need, it’s someone who’s written enough best-sellers to finance the operation.”

“Good luck with that,” Rossi said, giving him a helpful shove toward the door.

Rossi was just loading the ribs onto the grill when Hotch and his date walked out through the back door. Rossi waived his spatula at the two of them and they headed over.

“Welcome, welcome,” Rossi said. He wiped his hand on a towel and held it out to Hotch’s date. “Dave Rossi,” he said.

Hotch’s date shook Rossi’s hand. “I’m Laurie McLean,” she said. “So nice to meet you. I’m a big fan of your books,” she said. She was about Hotch’s age, tall and athletic-looking—Rossi guessed she was a runner. Hotch was wearing a smile Rossi would have characterized as goofy, no matter how stridently Hotch would deny it.

“Well how nice that Hotch is seeing a woman of taste and distinction,” Rossi said.

“But sadly not much class,” Laurie said. “I’ve got a couple of books in the car for you to sign. Sorry if that’s really gauche.”

“It is never gauche to feed Dave’s ego,” Hotch said. “Those of us who have to work with him may not forgive you, but he won’t mind a bit.”

“There’s always time and place for a little graciousness,” Rossi answered Laurie with a superior sniff, as though Hotch hadn’t even spoken.

“Thank you,” Laurie said. “So where’s the guest of honor?” she asked with interest, and Rossi recognized in her the curiosity of one who’d been told of Reid’s unusual intellect.

Hotch looked around and spotted Spencer in an animated conversation with Garcia and Kevin. “There he is, in the navy shirt.”

Laurie followed the direction of Hotch’s nod. “No, I’m sorry,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “That’s not possible.” Rossi lifted a brow in question, but Hotch looked just as confused. Laurie explained, “No god is going to make someone off-the-charts brilliant and then wrap it in a package that looks like that.”

“Jesus would,” Hotch said with over-the-top smugness that made Laurie laugh.

“Well, get ready to hire a new agent because that man is destined to be my pool boy.”

Rossi just grinned proudly and contentedly basted the ribs.

Hotch didn’t seem concerned as he brushed some non-existent lint from his shirt. “You don’t have a pool.”

Laurie shrugged at such an easily overcome objection. “I’ll get one.”

“You live in a town house,” Hotch reasonably pointed out.

“I’ll move.”

“In this real estate market?”

She narrowed her eyes at Hotch. “Why are you throwing road blocks in the way of my destiny?”

Hotch sounded resigned. “Jealousy, I guess.”

“You’ve had years to make him your pool boy and suddenly when I want him, you do too?”

“In my defense, it’s only in the last year that he’s moved beyond a stereotypical façade…”

“Year and a half,” Rossi mildly corrected as he tossed his empty beer bottle and retrieved another.

“So what are the odds I can get Dr. Reid to sit on my lap and talk to me for a little bit?” Laurie asked brightly.

“Very slim,” Hotch estimated.

“You’re his boss, make him.”

Hotch smiled politely at Rossi. “Have I mentioned that Laurie is the Associate Director of Employment Practices for the ACLU?”

Laurie sighed in dramatic disappointment. “When we started seeing one another it was with the understanding that I would benefit from your gross abuses of power.”

“I told you, I only use my powers for good,” Hotch insisted.

“And it would be really, really good if Spencer sat on my lap and told me about his day.”

Rossi nudged his friend with his beer bottle. “I have to say--and this is experience talking—Laurie is absolutely right about that.”

“Have you ever noticed that you have no objections when women have designs on your boyfriend, but let some random guy give him a second look, and you…”

“Designs on?” Rossi echoed. “What are we—in a Harlequin romance novel?”

“Oh, he’s coming over!” Laurie hissed excitedly. “Look busy!”

“You made it!” Reid said happily to Hotch. He stopped just behind Rossi, more than an arm’s length back so he wouldn’t have to make any decisions regarding a hand-shake, one-armed hug or anything else on the greeting spectrum.

“We did,” Hotch said. “Congratulations on the new degree.” He placed his hand on Laurie’s back and introduced her to Reid. “Spencer Reid, Laurie McLean.”

Spencer did offer his hand to Laurie, eyes bulging when Laurie pushed his hand away and embraced him. “Oh come on now, it’s your party,” she said. “Congratulations.”

“Um, thank you. Thanks. Um, thanks,” Reid said, shooting confused, flustered looks between Hotch and Rossi, both of whom seemed inordinately interested in the beer labels on the bottles they held.

“So Hotch said this is something like degree number 15? Amazing!”

Reid’s brows furrowed. “Just the sixth,” he said, looking curiously at Hotch for having so gravely misrepresented the number.

“Oh, only six?” Laurie said, copying Reid’s look to Hotch. “Still, that’s kind of impressive,” she said.

Reid looked like he might suspect Laurie was joking, but Rossi knew he wasn’t going to say anything, lest he be wrong. “I waylaid Laurie on her way to a glass of wine,” Rossi said, one hand casually rubbing Reid’s back. “Why don’t you show her the way?”

“So, tell me everything you know about cleaning pools,” Laurie said as they walked toward the drink table.

Reid looked puzzled. “Well, I can tell you the chemical components of the pool water, but I’m afraid I don’t know much about the actual cleaning of them.”

Rossi watched Reid and Laurie for a beat before asking Hotch, “She gonna be okay with him?”

“No,” Hotch answered in all certainty and without a moment’s deliberation.

Rossi laughed. “All right, go rescue her.”

“Oh, it’s not Laurie who’ll need to be rescued,” Hotch said taking a pull on his beer.

Rossi looked back over and nodded in understanding. “He got pissed at us about the detective in Orlando,” Rossi reminded him.

“I still don’t understand why was he angry at us,” Hotch said, and Rossi had to remind himself that Aaron Hotchner did not whine. “It’s not our fault Detective Archer kept trying to … what did she call it again?”

“Touch his naughty bits.”

“Right, right.” Aaron took another sip of his beer. “Why was he mad at us?”

Rossi shrugged, and it was obvious he was quoting Reid when he answered. “He says we knew her intentions were less than honorable and that for purposes known only to ourselves we conspired on multiple occasions to leave him alone with her.”

“He really thought the purposes were known only to ourselves?”

“That is his contention.”

The idea was so outrageous, it was necessary for Hotch to clarify. “Even after we flew home with the insufferable trio of Morgan, Prentiss and JJ, he thought the purposes were known only to you and me?”

Rossi shrugged. “Whaddaya gonna do?”

Hotch chuckled. “He’s grown so much when it comes to his social interactions, I forget that he’s still so…”

“Retarded?” Rossi offered.

Hotch smirked at him. “I was going to say naïve.”

“There’s naïve and then there’s not understanding what a 48 year old woman means when she keeps finding one reason after another to grind her ass against your dick. Sometimes that kid needs special classes.”

“I keep expecting his association with you to propel him completely from naïve to jaded in one fell swoop.”

“It’s not for lack of trying, but I’m not a miracle worker,” Rossi said as he turned the ribs. “At least his naughty bits are safe with Laurie.”

Hotch made a scoffing noise. “What makes you think that?” he asked.

Rossi looked at Laurie and Reid, then looked at Hotch. He stared at the ribs with pursed lips until sighing in resignation. He shoved the spatula at Hotch and grumbled, “Watch the ribs.”

=================================================================

When the ribs were finished and piled high on trays ready to be served, Rossi called for attention. Standing a step behind Rossi, Spencer reached nervously for his sleeve, touched it and let his hand drop.

“Thanks for comin’ everybody and helping us celebrate,” Rossi said. “I wasn’t fortunate enough to be there when Spencer got his first college degree… Or his second. His first doctorate, his second, the third…” The crowd laughed as Spencer blushed and ducked his head. “That’s probably a good thing,” Rossi continued. “Because, uh, the underage graduate and I shouldn’t have been fraternizing at that time anyway.” More chuckles from the crowd. “I’m not gonna say much more,” he said, smirking at the hoots and smattering of applause that greeted the statement. “Only because, knowing Spencer, you’ll probably be back here for another 15 or 20 of these things.”

Cheers met that statement as Rossi lifted his glass in a toast. “To Spencer,” he called, turning toward Reid with a proud smile. “Congratulations, Babe!”

“Hear! Hear!” the group voiced their approval, and Reid beamed at his partner. The sound of clinking glasses and bottles filled the backyard.

Equally embarrassed and delighted, Spencer toasted with Rossi, who leaned in and kissed Spencer’s mouth after they’d both taken a drink. Delight outweighed embarrassment at the public display, and Reid smiled at Rossi as if they were sharing a secret.

Rossi watch Spencer surveying the line of people piling their plates with food, pouring drinks and looking for places to sit and eat. His eyes were shining, and he hugged himself, bouncing on his heels in a show of childlike happiness.

Rossi told himself the stinging in his eyes was smoke from the grill, so he gruffly cleared his throat and shut the lid.

==================================================================

Having picked up the last of the trash in the back yard, Rossi found Spencer in the kitchen, washing the wine glasses by hand. Their division of labor from the start had been Rossi cooked (on the rare occasion when dinner wasn’t ordered in or eaten out) and Reid washed up. Where Rossi cooked by touch and taste, Reid cleaned with precision. He appreciated a repetitious task that had a beginning, middle and end, and Rossi enjoyed watching him, so they often had their most meaningful discussions over a sink full of dishes.

Tonight, though, there were no deep discussions to be had, just a comfortable rehash of the day’s event.

“I think Emily made a date with Ann Calhoun’s brother,” Reid said.

“Isn’t he, like, a Mountie in Canada or something?” Rossi said. He was sitting on the kitchen counter, nursing his last beer of the night.

Reid shook his head with a surprised laugh. “He’s with the US Forest Service here in town. How in the world did you get Mountie from that?”

Rossi laughed too. “I don’t know. Forest-outdoors-horse-Mountie. There’s a trajectory.”

“I’m reminded why you have to take such copious case notes.”

Rossi pushed at Reid’s hip with his foot for the insult. “So if Emily’s booked a date out of this, I guess Derek’s not in hot water anymore?”

“I don’t know,” Reid said. “It doesn’t exactly negate the broken verbal contract, does it?” He concentrated on a stubborn stain on the lip of the glass he was washing. “Still, it does seem like a one-time only kind of thing. How could Morgan know his friend was going to announce she’s leaving for a job in another state?”

“Guess we’ll have to wait ‘til after Emily’s first date for the final verdict,” Rossi said. “Looks like you and Kevin managed to remain civil. No blows over Spaceship Troopers.”

Reid wrinkled his nose. “Starbase Alpha,” he corrected. “You should remember the name--we watch it every week.”

“If you say so,” Rossi answered.

“We didn’t really get into it,” Reid continued. “You’d think Garcia and Kevin had never seen a baby before. Henry’s great and all, but I don’t think applause is the appropriate response whenever he spits up. He’s going to form an affirmative association between regurgitation and social acceptance.”

Rossi pondered the idea for a beat. “JJ and Will seem pretty grounded, though. I think he’ll be okay.”

“All the same, I think I’ll pass on holding him after he eats.”

“I like Laurie,” Rossi said. “She’s funny. Lightens Hotch up in spite of himself.”

Reid nodded his agreement. “She told me her brother skipped the second grade,” he said. “She said she was mad at first because instead of two grades between them there was just one, but she got over it.” Reid placed a glass in the drying rack and began washing another. “I think she’s putting a pool in at her house,” he said. “She sure did ask a lot of questions about them.”

“You think?” Rossi said, but the grin on his face made Reid suspicious.

“What?” he demanded.

Rossi laughed and shook his head. “Nothin’,” he said, but explained anyway. “She thought you were really good looking, and she was teasing Hotch about making you her pool boy.”

“Yeah right,” Reid scoffed.

Rossi cocked his head. “You don’t think you’d make a good pool boy?” he asked, pointedly refusing to address the ridiculous idea that Reid might not actually be good looking.

“It would probably be a pay cut,” Reid said, correctly reading the obstinate look on Rossi’s face.

“Stress-free, though.”

“Would you come with me?” Reid asked, smiling at the glass in his hand that he was rinsing.

“Too old,” Rossi said with a forlorn sigh.

“Then I’ll stay with the BAU too,” Reid said quietly.

Rossi supposed that was fodder for a serious conversation another day. Reid could pursue just about any career he wanted—the list growing longer with every degree he tossed on the pile. Dave never wanted Reid to feel tied to the BAU because he didn’t realize all of the other options out there—and he sure as hell didn’t want Reid staying at the BAU for him. Besides, maybe he was too old to be a pool boy but he wasn’t too damn old to be kept. If Reid wanted to pursue another career somewhere else, Rossi would gladly tag along.

Reid neatly folded the dish rag and dried his hands before moving to stand in front of Rossi as he sat on the counter. Reid gently parted Rossi’s legs and slid gracefully between them, his hands resting lightly on Rossi’s thighs. “Thank you for today,” he said softly.

“You’re welcome,” Rossi answered, just as softly.

Reid ducked his head, diffidently drawing shapes on Rossi’s thighs with his fingers. “I’ve never had a toast in my honor before.” There was a small, private smile on his face as he spoke.

Rossi lifted Reid’s chin so he had to meet his eyes. “Consider it the first of many,” Rossi promised, leaning in to kiss him. “Every time I looked over at you today, you had the most beautiful smile on your face,” Rossi said.

Reid nuzzled at Rossi’s neck. “My Rossi years are very happy,” he said.

Rossi grinned. “Good thing they’re going to last ad infinitum.” He felt it on his neck when Reid’s smile widened, followed by several soft kisses.

Reid pulled back and just looked at Rossi for a moment; his face serious but untroubled. He traced Rossi’s lips with a finger and said, “I wish… I wish I had the words to tell you… how you… how you make me feel.”

“You do,” Rossi said. “I know.”

Reid shook his head. “It’s so big… so much.” He worked his mouth, trying to articulate his feelings, then just shrugged helplessly. “Everything,” he said finally.

The thought would have sounded unfinished to anyone else—barely started, even. But Rossi’s whole body felt flushed with heat as he smiled and kissed his lover and rested his forehead against Spencer’s. There was only warmth and sincerity in his reply. “Me too.”

Reid placed a gentle kiss on the corner of Rossi’s mouth. “Take me to bed,” he whispered,

“Yes,” Rossi answered, kissing him soundly back. “Yes.” He slid off the counter, carefully backing Spencer toward the bedroom.

It was a familiar path they traveled, and they kept kissing until Reid was backed into a wall with a thud. “Why aren’t we better at this?” he asked, laughing breathlessly.

“Mmm, we’re perfect,” Rossi said. “Perfect, perfect, perfect.”

They carefully maneuvered the rest of the way to the bedroom, Reid laughing again when the back of his knees hit the bed, and Rossi pushed him the rest of the way down. Spencer’s breath caught at the end of his laugh and he flushed at whatever it was he saw in Rossi’s eyes. Rossi had never seen anything so beautiful.

“I love you,” Spencer said.

“I love you, too,” Dave answered.

There was nothing else to say for awhile, but somewhere, in the back of Rossi’s mind, a personal soundtrack whispered to him.

So big.

So much.

Everything.

#

Criminal Minds Fic #3: The One told from Hotch’s Point of View

Tue, 03 Feb 2009 23:21:44 GMT

Title: The One told from Hotch’s Point of View
Author: myrna1_2_3
Pairing: Rossi/Reid
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The ubiquitous hurt/comfort fic
Word count: ~8,000

"I cannot play with you," the fox said, "I am not tamed."
From The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint Exupéry

Hotch stepped out of the hotel shower and out of reflex stuck his head out of the bathroom door to see if he’d received a phone call while he was showering.

He and Rossi were in Kansas to interview Harold Melkin who was serving three life sentences for a string of nursing home murders in the last eighties. He’d played coy with law enforcement personnel for years, and usually cooperated only when his ego flared up because he’d been out of the spotlight for too long. Still, there was always something to be learned from the criminally insane, even when they thought they were pulling a con.

The phone indicated that there was, indeed, a message, so Aaron checked the screen and frowned. It was a text was from Garcia and said Please phone asap-private, which meant she didn’t want to be on speaker phone when Hotch called.

He hit Recall and Garcia answered before the first ring ended. “Thanks for calling so quickly, Hotch,” she said, and Aaron’s concern clicked up a notch. No ‘Ahoy there Captain,’ or ‘Bonjour Monsieur Cappyton.’ It was never good news when Garcia cut to the chase.

“Can you talk?” she continued.

“I’m still in my room, Garcia,” Hotch said. “I’m meeting Rossi for breakfast in 15 minutes.”

“Sorry for the cloak and dagger,” she said, her tone moving to its more chipper norm. “Just didn’t want to needlessly alarm our revered Mr. Rossi. Spencer looked like death warmed over when Morgan and I went over last night. He wouldn’t hear a word of going to the doctor though, so this morning, Morgan hog tied him when he walked out the front door and bundled him over to the ER. It looks like they’re going to keep him there for a bit. We’ve set up a pool here in the office and odds are on a pneumonia diagnosis, with Morgan taking malaria as the long shot.”

Hotch chuckled even through his concern. “We’re scheduled for two more days here, should we cut it short?”

Garcia paused, and the pause was enough of an answer that Hotch started gathering up his toiletries. “I don’t want Rossi fretting the whole trip home or anything, but…you know how it is with Reid. One day everything’s fine, the next he’s allergic to the two in O2…I think maybe Rossi should come home.”

Hotch said, “Book us both on the first flight to DC. Harold Melkin isn’t going anywhere for the next 150 years.”

“I’m a step ahead of you,” Garcia said. “You’re on American 538 at 10:30 in to Dulles.”

“Thanks, Garcia.”

“One more thing, Boss. I got off the phone with Morgan about five minutes before you called. He had to leave the waiting area to get cell reception, so tell Rossi in that civil, diplomatic way of yours not to freak out if he can’t reach Spencer.”

Hotch snorted in amusement. “You’re the one he’ll unload on when he can’t get through,” he warned her.

“I will be bracing for impact from the moment we disconnect.”

Rossi was reading the paper in the hotel restaurant as Hotch approached his table. He looked up and saw Hotch with his bag slung over his shoulder. “Live one?” he said, pushing back from the table.

“Ah, hold on a second,” Hotch said. “I just got off the phone with Garcia. Reid wasn’t feeling well, and when he went to get checked out, the hospital decided to admit...”

“Wait, wait, stop,” Rossi said, shaking his head. “I talked to Spencer last night. He had a cold. Morgan and Garcia were coming over for dinner, and…”

“They wanted him to see someone last night but he wouldn’t. I guess this morning, Morgan just chucked him over to the ER.”

Rossi was still shaking his head with a grimace of irritation at the inconvenience of having to prove Hotch wrong. He pulled out his phone and looked at the display. “There’s no message,” he said, as if that was proof that Aaron was mistaken.

“No cell phone reception at the hospital,” Hotch said. “I just got off the phone with Garcia. Morgan is with him, and they’re waiting to get a room assigned.”

“Why the hell did she call you?” Rossi groused. He forcefully pushed back from the table and a glass of water tipped over.

Hotch quickly reached over and set it upright, grabbing a couple of napkins to sop up the water. “I must be on speed dial,” he said wryly.

Rossi looked slightly chagrinned as he waited for Garcia to pick up. “What’s up?” he said into the phone. He gave Hotch a wave as he headed toward the elevators, returning to his room to pack his things.

He was back in the lobby 15 minutes later, still trying to raise Reid on his phone.

“Leave any skin on Garcia?” Hotch asked mildly, as they stowed their bags in the trunk of a taxi.

Rossi gave a look of mock affront. “I’m not one to shoot the messenger.”

“Pardon me, I don’t believe we’ve met,” Hotch said, extending a hand that Rossi brushed aside with a smirk as he got in the cab.

He shook his head at Hotch. “I’m gonna throttle him when we get home. He’s coughin’ up a lung last night; can barely stand upright, and he digs in at Morgan and Garcia like a two-year-old who doesn’t wanna go night-night.”

“I’m sure he just thought…”

“Don’t stick up for him,” Rossi said, still working the speed dial on his phone. “He’s a fucking idiot. I am continually amazed that someone with off-the-chart intelligence can lack the most fundamental levels of common sense…”

Hotch had to stifle a belly laugh when Reid obviously picked up the phone. Rossi’s entire physical being—from tone to facial features to body language—melted as soon as he heard Reid’s voice. “Hey, Babe, what’s goin’ on?” he asked gently. “Yeah? Where are you now?...Is Morgan still with you? Good...When do they think they’ll get you a room?” Rossi made a sour face. “Flash your badge around. A God damned Federal Agent of the United States of America shouldn’t be cooling his heels in a waiting room, coughin’ up a lung…I don’t think you’re protecting and defending anyone by letting them get x-rayed before you…Well, Morgan’s right…Fine, we’ll agree to disagree on that.”

“No, Hotch and I are heading back. The flight leaves at 10:30 so I should make it to the hospital by 3:30, four at the latest…” Now Rossi’s face clouded into anger, though his tone was still fairly mild. “Well, news flash, Einstein, this is what you do when your partner is in the hospital. You get a call some day that I’ve keeled over in my oatmeal, you’re gettin’ your ass on a plane and comin’ home, all right?...You don’t know that--I might start eating oatmeal…Are we seriously gonna have a fight right now about whether or not you’re calling off work when I’m on my death bed?... I’ll tell you what—you admit you’ll come home if I’m ever laid out, this is a discussion; you insist on leaving me all alone in some God forsaken hospital room, it’s a fight…Thank you…They give you any idea how long you’ll have to stay—this just overnight or…Yeah, I know, worse than attorneys aren’t they?”

Rossi looked over at Hotch with a grin that morphed into a chuckle at Hotch’s We are not amused glare.

“I know, Babe,” Rossi said into the phone. “That’s easy enough to fix, though. Just let Morgan pick you up a change of clothes at the house…Why?...Sweetheart, it’s not like he thinks you’re sleeping in the chandelier… I mean he got the last puzzle piece he needed when he helped you move in a year ago… Okay, fine, seven months, four days…You’re being ridiculous--Victorian spinsters were less uptight than you are…No, no, you’re right, it isn’t fair to assume spinsters were more uptight than anyone else…Are you going to let Morgan get you the clothes or not? All right, good…I assume Prentiss already nabbed the dog?... We should probably do a tox screen to make sure she didn’t slip you something just to get her mitts on him…We’re at the airport now. I’ll have the phone on for another hour, so call if you need me, okay? And leave me a voice mail when you get your room number, and I’ll see you in a few hours…I love you…What me too? That’s bullshit, say it back…I don’t care--Aaron’s sitting right here next to me. I want the full treatment…So what, you’d rather he think you’re livin’ with some guy of whom you’re quite fond? Say it…There now, was that so hard?”

Hotch could tell by the way Rossi jerked his ear from the phone that Reid had hung up on him. Rossi was grinning as he slid the phone in to his pocket.

“Seems mean to torment him when he’s sick,” Hotch said.

Rossi laughed. “It’s good for him.” He made a face and gestured at the phone in his pocket. “Tells me there’s no reason to cut the trip short. What the hell is that?”

Hotch shrugged. “He’s used to fending for himself.”

“Don’t stick up for him!” Rossi said again. “I swear to God, if he were a puppy there is not an inch of the BAU that wouldn’t be peed on, chewed up, or totally trashed.” Rossi lifted his bag onto his shoulder and headed toward the security gate. “Besides,” he grumbled. “I’m the last God damned sap on the planet he needs to be protected from.”

Flying commercial was a pain in the ass when you were armed law enforcement; unless you had Garcia paving your way. Within the hour, Rossi and Hotch were buckled up and ready for takeoff. Hotch muttered an inward Thank God when Rossi turned off his phone and slipped it into his pocket. Between Rossi’s checking for messages every few minutes and nervously flipping the case open and shut and open and shut, Hotch was getting ready to hurl the damn thing into the nearest toilet.

Hotch grinned to himself, moved—even through the irritation--by Rossi’s obvious concern for his partner. Funny to think he had been worried about Reid when his relationship with Rossi began—though not really because of anything particular about Rossi, but rather because of how different the two of them were.

Underneath the intellect and the awkwardness, there was something about Reid—a formality of speech and body language--that made him seem of another era. When he first met Reid, Hotch had theorized that Reid’s parents were older, perhaps in their late 40’s when he had been born. Learning that Reid had been raised with a schizophrenic mother wasn’t a shocking moment, so much as an “ah-ha” one where the pieces finally clicked into place. Reid’s quiet, deliberate ways had been borne of a childhood that had no time nor place for impulsiveness or exuberance. And besides, Hotch had an idea that the majority of Reid’s social cues had been gleaned from books published a century or two earlier.

Hotch had always pegged Rossi’s style as, well, 1970’s swinger. It certainly seemed an incongruous match to Reid’s demeanor, but Rossi was nothing if not a world-famous profiler—a world-famous profiler, it appeared, who had no trouble recognizing Reid’s old fashioned ideas about relationships.

“I tell you, he’s courting him,” Prentiss had reported one morning in the break room. They had just come back from a case in…God, somewhere…and they’d all been watching Reid and Rossi with growing curiosity. “All with the chivalry and the ‘if you please’ and ‘may I have the honor.’ It’s sweet. Disturbing, too, don’t get me wrong. But sweet.”

“He’s taming our Reid,” Garcia had cooed. She had demanded details the moment Prentiss stepped through the door for a cup of coffee. “Like the fox in the Little Prince. Every day Rossi sits a little closer and a little closer…”

“You become responsible forever for what you have tamed,” Prentiss had said sagely.

“I love that book,” Garcia had sighed.

Morgan had sighed too, but there was more exasperation to his. Before he could say anything, Garcia snapped at him. “If you say one more time that Reid can’t be mixin’ it up with Rossi because he hasn’t cleared it with you…” She rolled her eyes at the ridiculousness of the very idea.

“What could you possibly do to me, Baby Girl?” Morgan had asked with a smirk.

Garcia smiled sweetly at him. “Ask me that the next time you’re sitting in a swanky restaurant with one of your honeys and your credit card is declined, my dearest darling.”

“You know how I hate to be the voice of reason or getting back to work,” Hotch had said. “But I’m sure Reid and Rossi wouldn’t appreciate all of you speculating about the two of them.”

Prentiss snorted. “Rossi doesn’t want us speculating about him,” she had agreed. “I’m surprised he’s not hosting weekly seminars to help us discover new and better ways to speculate about him and Reid.”

“For God’s sake,” JJ had quickly broken in. “Do not even joke about that around Rossi or we’ll be sitting around with 25 page PowerPoint presentations by the end of the day. Annotated footnotes and all.”

“Ooo, but maybe there’ll be a video accompaniment!” Prentiss had said hopefully.

“There’s no video,” a thoroughly disgruntled Garcia said. She clearly felt eyes on her demanding further explanation. She had looked offended. “It’s not like I looked for one!” she said. “Not intently. Over an extended period of time.” She had shrugged with mild superiority. “That would be rude.”

Morgan refilled his coffee cup. “You know, for as much as fraternization rules get tossed in my direction…” he had muttered.

Prentiss, JJ and Garcia all rolled their eyes at the complaint. “Reid’s the only one who ever tosses those your way,” JJ said. “Obviously he’s been sublimating.”

“Transferring,” Prentiss had corrected in a stage whisper.

“What’s the difference again?” JJ asked.

“Sublimating,” Hotch had said. “As in, the BAU team sublimated their insatiable thirst for gossip with an insatiable thirst for completing backlogged expense reports in a timely fashion.”

That broke up the coffee klatch, except for Emily who stood in the doorway shaking her head at Hotch.

“What?” Hotch had asked, more defensiveness in his tone than he liked.

“You!” Prentiss had said. “Acting like you couldn’t be less interested in Reid and Rossi if you tried.”

“Beyond the supervisory issues it might present, I’m not,” Hotch had said.

Prentiss had tossed her head back in disbelief. “Pah-leeze! Contortionists would kill to be able to twist themselves into the position you were in last night trying to watch them on the plane.”

“There was a noise over the wing,” Hotch had said.

“So why were you looking at Reid and Rossi at the back of the plane?”

Hotch had felt a tug at the corner of his mouth. “All right, maybe I’ve got an eye peeled. Rossi is hardly Reid’s speed, is he? I don’t think Reid has any idea…”

“Not you too,” Prentiss had groaned. “You and Morgan with this idea that Rossi might take advantage of our timid little Reid. Rossi is totally, 100 percent, certifiably besotted. Reid hiccups and the man acts like a national holiday should be declared.”

Hotch had a hard time believing that. “What?”

“Rossi’s lucky Reid has no clue. Can you imagine Reid wielding his powers for evil?”

Hotch had paid a little closer attention after that and had realized that Prentiss was right—about Rossi’s degree of infatuation and Reid’s obliviousness to it. There was something sweetly comedic about it, and Hotch had come to agree with Emily that Rossi was lucky Reid was both naïve and inherently kind enough not to use Dave’s feelings against him.

==================================================================

“Where are you going?” Hotch asked after they debarked the plane. Rossi was heading toward the escalator to baggage claim. “The car’s this way.”

“I was gonna catch a cab,” Rossi answered.

“I drove us here from the office,” Hotch reminded him.

“And yet, I can still take a cab to the hospital. Which is across town from where you live.”

“Shut up,” Hotch said.

Rossi laughed and fell in to step with Hotch. “I’m not really gonna throttle him—you know that, right?” he said, as they neared the car.

Hotch smirked at him and motioned for him to get in. He’d opened his door when he heard Rossi’s sharp inhale, as if he’d stepped of the curb and nearly lost his footing. Hotch looked over to see had happened, but Rossi was frozen with a hand outstretched toward the door.

He gruffly cleared his throat and wouldn’t look at Hotch when he spoke. “Aaron… Garcia didn’t… tell you somethin’ I don’t know yet, did she?”

“Dave, no, absolutely not.”

Rossi nodded, eyes still averted. He swiped at his goatee, nodding to some inward conversation and got in the car.

They ran in to Morgan heading toward them down the hall. “Hey, guys!” he said. “I was just getting ready to call you. Cell phone reception is spotty in Reid’s room. There’s an area down the way where the reception works best.”

“What’s wrong?” Rossi asked. He’d been growing more nervous as they’d approached the hospital, not less as Hotch had assumed.

“Aw, man, sorry,” Morgan said quickly. “I was just calling with an update. He’s feeling pretty crappy, but it looks like they’re done pokin’ and proddin’. Now they’re just pumpin’ him full of meds.”

Rossi jogged the rest of the way to Reid’s room, but forced himself to slow down and walk calmly inside.

Reid was lying flat on the bed, an oxygen mask covering his nose and mouth. Rossi muttered, “Jesus,” as he tossed his bag to the side and moved to Reid’s side.

Reid was panting for breath and restless with discomfort, and the naked cry of relief he gave when he caught sight of Rossi made Hotch smile. No reason to cut short your trip indeed.

Rossi leaned down and kissed Reid’s forehead, running a hand through Reid’s hair. “I leave you alone for a few nights and you gotta scare the shit outta me?” Rossi said. His words may have been coarse, but his touch was gentle, his gaze revealingly tender.

“Sorry,” Reid whispered.

Rossi quickly perused the room, noting the pile of books on the bedside table and an overnight bag of Reid’s. He cast a grateful look at Morgan who seemed embarrassed. He waved away the look.

Morgan leaned around Rossi and said. “I’m done with my babysittin’ for the day.” He clapped Rossi on the shoulder. “Good luck, my man,” he said. “And hey, sorry about Much. I tried to grab him, but Prentiss is mean, and she bites.”

“Understood,” Rossi said. “Thanks. I owe you, all right?” He obviously didn't want Morgan brushing off the gratitude.

Morgan started to go, but Reid reached for his sleeve, looking slightly self-conscious. “I might have been slightly aggravated earlier,” he said diffidently.

“Might?” Morgan echoed.

“So, if I said things that were…”

“Cruel,” Morgan supplied helpfully.

“Well… I just want to say…well, you totally deserved it!”

“What!” Morgan yelped, laughing in spite of himself. “I saved your life, Pretty Boy! You’d be drowning in your own phlegm if I hadn’t swooped in and saved the day!”

“I’d be asleep in my own bed is where I’d be!” Reid protested. “You and Garcia are alarmists!”

“This from the kid whose lung x-ray had to be taken three times because the tech couldn’t believe it was for someone who hadn’t been under water for the last three days.”

“Alarmist!” Reid repeated.

“Yeah, I’ll collect on what you owe me later,” Morgan said. “Hang tight.”

A nurse walked in as Morgan was leaving, and she paused and watched him go, leaning around the door as he loped down the hall. When she turned back into the room, Reid, Rossi and Hotch were all looking at her.

“Did I come in here for a reason?” she asked.

Rossi extended his hand. “I’m Dave Rossi,” he said. “Spencer’s…”

“Ahh, the intimidating boyfriend. The lovely Mr. Morgan warned us about you,” she said with a smile.

“Intimidating?” Rossi repeated. “I’m a teddy bear.”

Perhaps Reid’s coughing jag was a coincidence, but the timing of it did seem comically precise. As he struggled to breathe through the fit, the nurse brought an oxygen mask to his face and held it gently to his nose and mouth.

“Mr. Reid, you use that oxygen when you need it, okay? Take lots of shallow breaths. You probably can’t take a good deep breath right now, and that can make you feel panicky, which makes it harder to breathe, which makes you panicky…you get the idea, right? So the best thing right now is to just stick to those shallow breaths. The leads will tell us if you really aren’t getting oxygen and it’ll take us about 10 seconds to get to you. That’ll be about 8 seconds too long for your partner here, but don’t you worry, okay?”

Reid nodded carefully. His stomach growled, and he blushed and smiled apologetically at the nurse.

“Can he eat something?” Rossi asked.

The nurse looked Reid up and down and shrugged. “Well, on the one hand he’s got teeth and a mouth, so I’d say yes. On the other, it sure doesn’t look like he knows how to use ‘em.”

Reid glared at Rossi who held his hands out in a gesture of innocence. “Hey, I just got here!”

The nurse winked at Rossi. “No diet restrictions. The antibiotics might make him nauseous so nothing too complex.”

Hotch chuckled. “I can run downstairs and get something. What sounds good?”

Reid said nothing, frowning in concentration as Rossi helped him pull on a pajama top. “How about a strawberry milkshake,” Rossi said, but it wasn’t much of a question.

Reid nodded absently, then said in a hoarse voice, “And French fries.”

Rossi smiled at him like he’d said something brilliant, and Hotch heard Emily’s voice in his head. Reid hiccups and the man acts like a national holiday should be declared. “Yeah? French fries sound good?” he said. He nodded at Hotch. “And French fries,” he said. “Thanks.”

When Hotch got back with Reid’s food, Reid was sitting up in the bed, leaning forward with Rossi holding the oxygen mask to his face with one hand and rubbing his back with the other. It was a toss up whose face was grayer.

“Everything okay?” Hotch asked, concerned at the flecks of blood he could see on the oxygen mask.

Rossi nodded. “Yeah, we’re good,” he said, sounding anything but.

Hotch set the food down on the bedside tray, feeling ill at ease while Rossi set the oxygen aside an fetched a washcloth for Reid. Rossi moved the tray closer to Reid and slid the straw through the lid of the cup.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat fries,” Rossi said, clearly amused. He turned to Hotch, “When I met Reid, he only ate five things,” he said.

Reid smirked at Rossi as Hotch counted off on his fingers. “Coffee, espresso, cappuccino, latte… what’s the fifth?”

Reid narrowed his eyes at Hotch. “I have noticed a serious up tick in your sardonic side since Dave returned to the Bureau.”

Hotch nodded in agreement. “I’m probably speaking out of turn, but as his supervisor, I can confirm more than one mention in his personnel file of his being a bad influence on others.”

Reid made a noise that sounded like, “Hrmph.” Then he said, “I only like French fries when I’m sick. Morgan said for him it’s macaroni and cheese.”

“I’m an old fashioned chicken soup guy,” Hotch said. He winked at Reid and pointed at Rossi. “What does David Rossi consider comfort food, filet mignon? Goose liver pate?”

“You’re a laugh riot, Hotchner,” Rossi said dryly.

Hotch said to Reid in a conspiratorial tone, “I once saw him pay $125 for a hamburger.”

Reid grinned in delight. “In Italy, he ate a $45 dollar slice of pizza!” he reported with an excited bounce.

“Et tu?” Rossi said to Reid. He looked over at Hotch. “I’ll have you know Dr. Spencer Reid of the PhD in Mathematics messed up the exchange rate. I had no idea what I was paying for that pizza.”

“I was off by four cents!” an indignant Reid exclaimed. “The exchange rate was adjusted that morning!”

Rossi sniffed. “A man makes decisions based on information presented as fact.”

Reid just shook his head as he pushed the tray table away from him and settled back against his pillow.

Rossi frowned at the barely-touched food on the tray. “Can’t you eat a little more?” he asked.

Reid shook his head. “Tastes funny.”

“Come on, a few more bites,” Rossi said, his voice deepening to a coaxing timber.

“Hm mm,” Reid said.

“Just a little more?” Rossi said. “For me?”

Reid’s eyes widened, and he cast a sideways look toward Hotch then back to Rossi. The look turned horrified when it seemed like Rossi might be reaching for a fry.

Hotch cleared his throat as Rossi’s finger twitched, and Hotch could swear he heard the riff from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly playing faintly in the background. Reid looked nervously from Rossi to Hotch and back to Rossi. Hotch spoke in a deadly serious voice. “If you feed him a French fry, I will fire you.” Rossi blinked slowly, but otherwise gave no indication he’d even heard, so Hotch continued in a tone that had broken serial killers and madmen alike. “And I will see to it that you never work in law enforcement again.”

Rossi moved his head like he was working out a kink in his neck and slid both hands into his trouser pockets. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said smoothly.

“Honestly,” Reid muttered as he grabbed another fry and ate it. He pushed the tray further away with a look toward Rossi that dared him to say anything. Rossi shrugged with exaggerated innocence.

Reid reached toward the bedside table and handed Rossi a book so old the spine barely held the pages together. Rossi glanced at the title and smirked at Reid. “More comfort food,” he said, shooing Reid over in the bed so he could sit down. Once he was stretched out on the bed and Reid was settled against his side, Rossi kissed the top of Reid’s head and opened the book.

Hotch stood up. “Well, this is so precious, I’m actually getting nauseous, so I’d better go,” he said.

Reid turned and snickered into Rossi’s side. “Thanks for coming, Hotch,” he said, voice muffled.

“Feel better,” Hotch said as he buttoned up his coat and headed out the door. He paused on the other side of the door and listened, just for a moment, as Rossi softly read to his partner.

I feel that there is much to be said for the Celtic belief that the souls of those whom we have lost are held captive in some inferior being, in an animal, in a plant, in some inanimate object, and so effectively lost to us until the day (which to many never comes) when we happen to pass by the tree or to obtain possession of the object which forms their prison.

================================================================

Driving home from the hospital, Hotch thought it a shame there wasn’t an activity of Jack’s he could attend by surprise. He was making an effort to push aside all of the crap that had held him at bay from Jack and just be there for his son. Things could still be touch and go with Haley--if he showed up late for something, Haley’s attitude was See?; if he showed up early, it was Why couldn’t you have done this before?. But lately, they’d settled into peaceful coexistence. The relationship with the man Haley was seeing—Nick—had grown serious, and she told Aaron that they were planning to marry in the summer.

Nick was an okay guy; he was good to Jack and that was the only litmus test Aaron afforded himself. He was in medical sales; safe to be sure. But jeez, what did it say about you when Aaron Hotchner found you boring? Oh, well, maybe there was another litmus test or two to be had.

Aaron found himself grinning as he remembered the pre-school play he’d attended the week before. He’d arrived 15 minutes or so before the start Why couldn’t you have done this before? and traded banal chitchat with Haley and Nick, but managed to excuse himself to the restroom a few minutes before the production started. When he returned to the auditorium, he had to (thankfully) sit several rows back from Haley and Nick. They’d already mentioned joining them for dinner after the show, and while Hotch appreciated the offer, the thought of it was suffocating.

Still, he saw them whispering and chuckling as the performance started, and he felt a wave of—it wasn’t jealousy—nostalgia was more like it. He remembered what it was like to have a co-conspirator at silly events like this.

Hotch was sitting next to a woman around his age who’d obviously just arrived from an office job. He didn’t recognize her, though most of the parents were starting to look familiar to him. At first, he thought she was crying during the show, and he made a mental note to change seats at the intermission. Sure, the kids were cute, but come on.

During a break in the action someone sitting on the other side of the woman elbowed her hard enough that she brushed Hotch’s shoulder. The pusher hissed, “Would you stop it?”

“I can’t help it!” the woman next to Hotch whispered back, and Hotch realized then that she’d been laughing.

“They’re four!”

“I know that! It wouldn’t be so funny if the parents didn’t think they were all little Brandos up there.”

Hotch coughed a laugh and she looked over at him. “Sorry,” she said. Hotch waved away the apology in complete and total understanding. “My niece is the rock,” she said, pointing to a tiny girl with frizzy blond hair.

Aaron laughed again in spite of himself. “I think she’s supposed to be a potato,” he said.

The woman nodded slowly. “Oh, yeah, okay. The duet with the butter makes more sense now. Which one’s yours?”

“The broccoli,” Hotch said pointing to a group of vegetables waiting for the show to restart. He winced as Jack made an abrupt turn and one of his stalks smacked a carrot in the back of the head.

“Just applying to Ivy Leagues or are we gonna give some of the state schools a whirl?” the woman asked politely and Hotch laughed again as she was elbowed once more in the side.

“I’m not worried,” Hotch confided. “His forte is playing breads and other cereals.”

“I can see that. He’s got the build for it.” She took a closer look at Hotch from head to toe, then guessed, “Fed?”

Hotch nodded with feigned resignation as she laughed and sat back with an air of defeat. “Ah, shoot, and it was going so well between us,” she said with a sigh.

“Career criminal?” Hotch made a stab at her employment.

She shook her head. “Worse. I’m an associate director for the ACLU.”

Hotch nodded in understanding. “Hard at work reversing all my arrests?”

“I wish!” she joked. “I’m in Employment Practices. Not quite as sexy as freeing all those innocent death-row inmates.”

“It’s funny,” said Hotch. “You don’t look like a godless hippie.”

She nodded sympathetically. “I know. You should see me when I’m dressed for work, though.” She offered her hand. “Laurie McLean.”

“Aaron Hotchner,” he said, then added with an air of farewell. “Nice knowing you.”

Laurie laughed. “Well, we’ll always have “Our Vegetables, Ourselves,” won’t we?”

“There is comfort in that,” Hotch had agreed.

Then the kids had begun the second…third?... act and their attention returned to the stage. Laurie turned to Hotch after the curtain call. “I’m sure I’ll see you again,” she said, handing Hotch her business card. “There are five other food groups after all. But if you’re ever up for some hands-on, food-group practicum, give me a call.”

Stunned for a moment, Aaron took the card, but before he had a chance to politely decline, Laurie’s niece came racing up.

“Lolly, did you see me?” she called. “I only forgotted the part about tanassium!”

“You were awesome!” Laurie said excitedly.

Jack came toddling up then, still encased in his broccoli costume. “Dad! Did you see? I made the strong muscles and the healthy bones come!”

“You sure did. I’m proud of you! You kinda knocked that candy bar over pretty hard, didn’t you? Did you make sure she was okay?”

“Yeah, that’s why she gots a pillow on under her wrapper. Come on, Dad! Mommy says we’re havin’ pizza for dinner! You haveta come too!”

Aaron did end up having dinner with Jack, Haley and Nick and the awkwardness was manageable, at least. He could picture the future now—he could see how he and Nick would coexist, and that brought some peace of mind. Jack was a smart, happy kid. Well-adjusted. Aaron liked him, and somehow that made the overwhelming sense of failure less acute. After months—years if he were to be honest—of uncertainty and doubt, Aaron was finally starting to regain a sense of equanimity.

Pulling into his driveway, Hotch acknowledged that he might not be deliriously happy, but he wasn’t hopelessly miserable either. He snorted at himself. Kinda sad to consider “not hopelessly miserable” as a step-up, but there you go. He thought suddenly of Rossi’s pinched, worried face and his anxious demeanor throughout their flight home. Sharing your life with someone didn’t guarantee smooth sailing, did it? Maybe it wasn’t so bad returning home to an empty house at the end of a long day.

==================================================================

Hotch was at the office the next morning by 7:15, but there was already a voice mail message waiting for him. An exhausted-sounding Rossi said Reid had had a bad night and he wouldn’t be in until later. Frowning, Hotch checked the time stamp of the call—6:45 that morning—and dialed Rossi’s cell phone.

Rossi picked up on the first ring. “Hey, what’s going on?” Hotch asked.

Rossi sighed, “Hey,” he said. Aaron heard him speaking to someone in the room with him. “I’m going to take this out in the hall.” Aaron couldn’t make out the response, other than it came from a female voice. “You there?” Rossi asked a moment later.

“Yeah, how’s Reid?”

“Doing a pretty good impression of the girl from the Exorcist right now.”

“Oh, no. He okay?”

“He will be as soon as they light on an antibiotic that doesn’t make his head spin around and pea soup come flyin’ out of his mouth.”

Hotch chuckled. “What can I do?”

“Nothin’ thanks, we’re good,” Rossi said. “Just call me if you need me.”

“I will,” said Hotch. “Reid up for visitors?”

“What do you think will happen if I say no?”

“Pretty much the same thing that’ll happen if you say yes.”

Rossi laughed. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. I don’t suppose anyone’s heading out of town anytime soon?”

“Not today, anyway. Look, if Reid really isn’t up for it, let me know, okay? I’ll run interference.”

“Can’t imagine anyone will show until lunchtime. Hopefully he’ll feel better by then.”

“All right. I’ll stop by after work tonight, take you out for a reasonable dinner.”

“I’d tell you not to put yourself out, but how else am I gonna teach you what reasonable means.”

“I’ll sell some plasma at lunch and see you around 5:30,” Hotch said.

Morgan ran over to the hospital midday and came back to report that Reid was doing okay, but Rossi hadn’t ticked off any of the hospital staff, so Reid was obviously pretty sick.

When Hotch arrived that evening to take Rossi to dinner, Prentiss, Garcia and JJ were already there. A disgruntled-looking Rossi had been relegated to a folding chair near the door, and he jumped up when Hotch walked through the door. “Hey, all right then, back in a couple of hours,” he said, grabbing his coat.

“You’re leaving me here alone?” Reid asked, more than a little squeak to his voice.

Three female voices immediately chimed in.

“Hey!”

“Whaddya mean alone?”

“Helloooo, lookee here Boy-o!”

Hotch didn’t even have time to ask Reid how he was feeling before Rossi had manhandled him out the door.

“Christ, it’s Spencer Has Three Mommies in there,” Rossi groused.

Hotch punched the elevator button for the lobby. “I would’ve thought Prentiss had dog sitting duties to perform.”

“She’s picking him up at six. Apparently he’s having a spa day.” The look on Rossi’s face would have been more appropriate were he viewing gruesome crime scene photos.

“Nice to have friends, isn’t it?”

“Aaron, there are moments when I look at my life and the only explanation is that I’m on some reality show where the joke’s on me.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed how miserable you’ve been this last year. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it.”

“I’m in too deep now.” Rossi sighed like a man who had suffered long and hard in his life. “All I can do is keep guttin’ it out.”

“Your fortitude is commendable.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

They decided on a diner a couple of blocks from the hospital. It was a fair evening—chilly, but no precipitation. Cooped up all day in the hospital with Spencer, Rossi asked Hotch if he minded the 10 minute walk. Hotch didn’t mind and in 15 minutes they were sitting at the diner with their meals already ordered.

“So when are you guys gonna get out of there?” Hotch asked

Rossi lost his joking demeanor and sighed. “They still haven’t found an antibiotic he can tolerate. So not only does he feel crappy because of the meds, but the pneumonia isn’t getting any better.” Rossi shrugged. “You know what it’s like--hospitals are no place for sick people, right?”

Aaron chuckled and nodded in agreement.

Rossi shrugged diffidently and leaned in closer. “On top of that, he’s got this voice in his head—his mom’s voice—tellin’ him, hospitals are… hell, I don’t know, governmental institutions stealin’ his brain cells and replacing them with synthetic mind-control tchotchkes.”

Hotch stared at him blankly.

“I’m paraphrasing,” Rossi said with another shrug. “But the illogic of it just galls him. He can’t stand that the voice is there, but it is, no matter how crazy he knows it is. And every time they hand him a pill or replace a line in the IV, his heart rate takes a jump and it pisses him off.”

Hotch’s chuckle was sympathetic. “I never thought of him having to sift through the things he heard growing up—this is true, this isn’t; this is sane, this isn’t.”

Rossi nodded in agreement. He smiled ruefully. “You can’t help but wonder sometimes where he’d be if he’d been raised by Ward and June Cleaver.”

==================================================================

By the time they returned to the hospital, JJ and Emily had left, and Reid was watching Garcia play a video game. Her hand rested absent-mindedly on Reid’s forearm. Hotch wouldn’t have even noticed it if Rossi hadn’t brought up the issues with his mom, but now he wondered if Garcia hadn’t picked up on Reid’s anxiety and sought to calm him. Like JJ, she was something of a profiler too.

Rossi slid his hand under Reid’s. Spencer loosely held the hand in both of his; drawing it to his chest the way a child might clasp a beloved stuffed animal. Aaron ducked his head, embarrassed not by the action itself, but by the way it moved him.

“You okay?” Rossi asked Reid.

Reid nodded. “Tired,” he said.

Rossi leaned down and kissed the hands holding his. “I love you,” he whispered, somehow making the words seem extraordinary. Maybe they were. How unlikely was it that this thrice-married, fifty-year old man and this pristine young man nearly half his age would somehow find one another? And not just find one another but trust in one another. Reid’s entire life been built upon such an unstable foundation— a schizophrenic mother; an absent father; tormented by his peers when not invisible to them; paraded around like a circus attraction by officials of every school he’d ever attended and, yes, to an extent, Jason Gideon, all of whom were nowhere to be found when Reid needed someone to lean on. How on earth had Reid found the strength to let Rossi in? Suddenly, Hotch was stunned by the enormity of it. He swallowed past a lump in his throat and inwardly rolled his eyes at such sentimentality.

“All right, Honey McSweetie Pants,” Garcia was saying. “I’m off.”

“Thanks for coming,” Reid said.

“You’re welcome. So long as you understand that logging in and playing under your user name is a one-time-only, congested-lung, stomach-hurling event that will not be duplicated.”

Reid’s eyes widened and his forehead wrinkled in concern. “But you have to play everyday to keep your ranking,” he said.

Garcia pointed a finger at him. “What have I told you about that look?”

Reid looked confused. “Use it to get Hotch to spring for dinner more often?”

“After that.”

“Use it to get Mrs. Jackson to make Chocolate Chip Cookies on Mondays and Wednesdays?”

Garcia looked toward the ceiling for strength. “I always forget about that memory of yours. Don’t use it on me, that’s what I told you.”

Reid nodded. “That was the 14th thing.”

Garcia impulsively kissed the top of Reid’s head. He flinched with what would have been exaggeration on anyone else. “See you tomorrow,” Garcia said, with an affectionate laugh.

“You’ll only have to play for a little bit,” Reid promised.

==================================================================

It was three more days before Reid was released from the hospital. Rossi has started showing up at work in the afternoon, but between obsessively checking his cell for messages and calling Reid to see how he was doing, he wasn’t particularly effective. Nothing felt right anyway when they were a man down.

It snowed the night before Reid was to be released. Hotch called Rossi that morning—he’d been sleeping at home the last couple of nights—and told him he’d pick Rossi up and then they’d head to the hospital to get Reid. Rossi had started to protect—there was only a few inches of snow on the ground. He’d grown up in New York, for God’s sake. This was nothing.

Hotch said “I am amazed that someone or your intelligence can lack the most fundamental levels of common sense.”

“Fuck you,” Rossi said.

“See you in ten,” Hotch said with a laugh.

The roads really weren’t that bad. Hotch knew Rossi could have managed on his own, but he felt better seeing for himself as Rossi helped a shaky Reid in their front door. Reid was dressed in sweat pants and a sweatshirt that made him look ridiculously young. He always had dark circles under his eyes, but the alabaster cast of his skin made them more pronounced, now, almost like bruises after a broken nose. He looked tired and frail, but above all he seemed vastly relieved to be home.

Hotch wasn’t quite sure Reid really needed help to make it to the couch, but he had an idea that Rossi wasn’t about to let go as he guided Reid over. He settled Reid down on the couch, and maybe it was just their positions—with Reid seated and Rossi standing in front of him. But Reid was gazing up at Rossi with a look of such adoration, as though he’d just helped Reid scale Mt. Everest instead of make his hesitant way across the living room.

Rossi’s look was no less affectionate as he tucked Reid’s hair behind his ear and caressed his jaw and chin. He carefully sat down next to him, and they both heaved long, loud sighs.

Reid’s breathing was hitched, but he smiled as he exhaled. “That’s the first breath in over a week that made it all the way down,” he said, eyes closed.

“Me too,” Rossi said softly, looking at him with warm eyes. He leaned over and kissed his cheek, then cocked an eyebrow at Hotch. “Too precious again?” he asked.

Hotch shrugged. “I’m getting inured, I think,” he answered with a shrug.

Rossi stood up with a groan, cracked his knuckles and headed for the telephone. “All right, I’ve gotta negotiate with Prentiss for the return of my own damn dog,” he said.

“What are you willing to offer?” Hotch asked, putting on his coat.

Rossi pursed his lips. “I’ll start the checklist when she picks up. I’ll tell you one thing, I sure as hell ain’t offering spa time.”

Hotch clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Starting with an ultimatum? Bad idea.”

Rossi nodded his I know. “To be honest, I feel a little guilty bringin’ him home. Much’s probably enjoyed a whole week without Spencer forcing him to learn magic tricks.”

“I’m not teaching him magic, they’re basic physics theorems,” Reid called from the couch. He looked over at Hotch and earnestly explained. “You need opposable thumbs for most magic tricks.”

==================================================================

Arriving back home that night, Aaron unholstered his gun and locked it in the mudroom safe. It was exactly a week since he had entered his house after dropping Rossi off at the hospital and felt a sense of relief that he wasn’t anxiously tied up with someone else.

Tonight, though, a slow-motion set of pictures and sound bytes floated through his brain as he went through the routine motions of heating up dinner in the microwave—Rossi’s irritated glare on first hearing that Reid was in the hospital; the desolate look on his face when he asked Aaron if there was something Aaron wasn’t telling him; his head bowed over Reid’s hand whispering ordinary words with so much reverence, I love you. He remembered Reid’s head resting on Rossi’s shoulder and the way he gingerly held Rossi’s hand to his heart, and he remembered Reid’s look of dazed devotion as Rossi gently settled him on the couch.

Aaron wasn’t aware of a decision being made—he wasn’t aware of any thought-process, really, but suddenly there was a voice in his ear and he heard himself say, “Laurie? This is Aaron Hotchner. We met last week at… Right, right. I’m good, thanks. How are you?...That’s good. Would you like to have dinner Saturday night? My brother’s a chef at DuBois’, and if I promise him a kidney or two, there’s a fair chance we might get a table.”

End

Criminal Minds Fic #2: The One Where Reid Speaks at the Law Enforcement Conference

Sat, 17 Jan 2009 22:03:35 GMT

Title: The One Where Reid Speaks at the Law Enforcement Conference
Author: myrna1_2_3
Pairing: Rossi/Reid
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Reid speaks at a law enforcement conference
Word count: ~5,500

"Become who you are."
~ Friedrich Nietzsche

Special Supervisory Agent Emily Prentiss raced into the Grand Ballroom of the upscale Madison Hotel trying—and failing—to look like she wasn’t running. Hotch thought fleetingly that the daughter of an ambassador should have more composure, but he admired her grace when she slid into an aisle seat like a baseball player stealing second base. She leaned in towards her colleagues and reported with an agitated whisper, “Rossi dressed him!”

“No!” Agents Garcia and JJ instantly denied, while Derrick Morgan wildly craned his neck to catch a glimpse.

“Holy crap,” Morgan said when he finally honed in on Reid.

He did look well turned out, Hotch had to agree as Reid strolled into the meeting room looking more like he was on his way to a runway in Milan than a speaking podium to refute a recently published hit job on profiling.

Rossi waltzed in behind Reid wearing a look so smug Hotch wouldn’t have been surprised to see canary feathers at the corner of his mouth.

Thank God we’re not in the military, Hotch thought. Rossi’s attitude from the start of his relationship with Reid had been Whaddya Mean, Don’t Tell?

Rossi once said to Hotch that he wouldn’t risk Spencer’s thinking he harbored an ounce of regret or reserve about what they were doing.

Even as he cautioned his friend to exercise at least a little discretion, the staid and reserved Hotchner couldn’t help being impressed by Rossi’s confidence and integrity. He said as much one night when they’d scored tickets to a Georgetown basketball game. Rossi had shrugged off the compliment, “Yeah it only took me three failed marriages to get my head out of my ass. Someone oughta give me a medal or something.”

The supervisor in Hotch still had to ask, “Aren’t you concerned there might be repercussions to being as… well… out as you are?”

Rossi thought about that for a moment before answering, “I don’t need the Job the way I once did, Aaron. Financially I’m set. I’ve already found other things I’m happy doing. And Spencer’s gonna invent a thought-control device and become supreme ruler of the world one day, so we don’t gotta worry about him…” Hotch had laughed as Rossi continued. “Besides, I don’t think we’re as out as you think we are. You know as well as I do that someone not looking for something usually doesn’t find it.”

“I don’t know--I get the impression you’re inviting people to look.”

“Only ‘cause you’re a suspicious bastard,” Rossi had said, then earnestly asked, “You ever thought about bein’ a cop?”

Hotch shook his head now, inwardly amused as he remembered that conversation. He put on the blandest face he could and said, “Is Reid picking up a new shirt over the weekend really this shocking?”

“Are you kiddin’ me?” Morgan said. “That ain’t off the rack--that’s couture, man.”

Prentiss kept her eyes solidly on Reid, but leaned in closer to Garcia. “Are you sure Morgan isn’t the gay one?” she asked.

Morgan just elbowed her as he shook his head in proud disbelief. “I can’t believe this is the same kid who ordered buttered noodles the first time we went to a restaurant together.”

“I’m not sure graduating to buttered pasta constitutes all that much growth,” Hotch said. “Could someone explain to me again why the entire team needed to be here?”

“Profiling is under fire,” Morgan said, sincerity oozing from his pores. Hotch almost looked down to see if it was spilling on to his new shoes. “We need to show a united front.”

“By eating mass quantities of pastries?” Hotch said. “ What is that, your third danish? We’ve been here 20 minutes.”

“Gotta feed the belly before you feed the soul,” Morgan replied, popping the last of the pastry in his mouth. “Besides, the Bureau is encouraging our attendance at conferences and symposiums for which the Bureau will not incur additional expenditures like hotel, meals and other sundry items.”

“Thank you, Dr. Reid,” Hotch said.

“Focus, people!” Prentiss said. “So Reid and Rossi walk in the door and Gideon’s there in the lobby and sprints over to give Spencer a bear hug,” Prentiss relayed.

“Did Reid hug him back?” Morgan asked. “Remember how Gideon used to go all Deepok Chopra on Reid--he’d throw that arm around him, and Reid always acted like Gideon’d just bathed in Uranium or something?” Morgan demonstrated with Garcia who accordingly stiffened at Morgan’s contact. The others laughed at the exaggerated look of horror on her face.

“Well he seems to have gotten over that particular neuroses,” Hotch said wryly.

All of them, having caught Rossi and Reid in one compromising position or another, nodded wisely in agreement.

“Did Gideon and Rossi shake hands?” Morgan asked. Prentiss nodded and Morgan fired back for additional details. “Any shoulder slap, back slap, cupping of the elbow?”

“No, 100% business all the way, hand-shake, crisp nods. Rossi had his left hand at the small of Reid’s back.”

They all digested this with knowing looks and thoughtful nods.

“All right JJ, time for a little recon,” Morgan said, motioning with a tilt of his head to where Reid and Gideon were talking.

“Why do I have to go first?” JJ asked.

“Because you already talked to Gideon for 15 minutes in the lobby,” Morgan said. “He’s not going to have to stop what he’s doing and give you the meet and greet.”

“But I just got a cup a minute ago…”

“So? You need caffeine! You’ve got a baby at home, waking you up at all hours!”

“To breastfeed!” said JJ. “We’re trying to keep the caffeine to a minimum at least until Henry’s capable of sitting upright.”

“Go!” Emily ordered.

JJ marched over to the refreshment table, giving Reid, Gideon and Rossi a sickly smile as she passed. She poured herself a cup of coffee, leaning back toward them at an awkward angle that might have made sense if the coffee had the potential to erupt from the carafe like lava from a volcano.

Her cup filled, JJ strolled back with studied nonchalance that was matched only by the indifference of the team that immediately swarmed around her demanding details in hissed whispers.

Hotch made a mental note to schedule some additional training in the art of role-play.

“Reid’s telling him about Italy!” JJ whispered.

“You are lying!” Prentiss whispered back.

“Details!” Garcia ordered. “Italy like I went to Italy and saw a lot of beautiful art or I went to Italy with my sugar daddy and by the way do you like the 20,000 dollar outfit he bought me?”

“How long do you think it takes me to pour a cup of coffee?” JJ said. “I heard Reid say, ‘…in Italy,’ Gideon said, ‘Oh, where?,’ and Reid said, ‘That’s when we were still in Amalfi.’.”

“He said ‘we,’?” Prentiss clarified. “You’re sure he said, ‘we’?”

“Positive,” JJ said.

“Gideon knows,” Prentiss said decisively. “He’s not going to let Reid drop a ‘we’ and not follow up on who that ‘we’ is unless he already knows the answer.”

“No way,” Garcia said. “Look at Rossi pacing around. If Gideon knew, Rossi’d be standing there next to Reid doing the coupley ‘we-spent-our-honeymoon-in-Italy’ thing.”

“Says the woman who thought Reid was making time with Angela O’Neil in White Collar,” Prentiss said.

“She’s really nice.”

“She’s 62.”

“You act like that takes her out of the running,” Garcia replied.

“The “she” part does!” Prentiss answered.

Garcia waved away the discussion. “Dammit, Jim, I’m the IT girl, not a profiler!”

“Fat lot of good that does us,” Prentiss said. “One little mike tucked over by the coffee pot and we wouldn’t have to guess what they’re saying.”

“Well if you hadn’t opened your big mouth in front of Hotch, he would have been fine with our checking out a couple of pieces of equipment…”

“No, he really wouldn’t have,” Hotch said. “Am I lacking in form and substance today? You can see me, right?”

“Morgan, what say you?” Garcia asked.

Morgan shook his head. “Tough call, tough call,” he said. “The thing is, Rossi won’t be able to stand Gideon not knowing. No way, no how.”

“Even if Reid doesn’t want him to?” Garcia asked.

“It’s an issue of passion,” Morgan said. “Rossi’s ego about this thing with Reid way over trumps Reid’s reticence. He ain’t gonna put the brakes on the old man. Anyway, my money’s on Reid not caring if Gideon knows.”

“Where’s your money when it comes to Reid caring about the four of you skulking around like this?” Hotch asked.

“Skulking?” Morgan indignantly repeated. “You make us sound sinister. We’re just keepin’ an eye on our boys.” He winked at Garcia. “Chop chop, Baby Girl. Coffee time.”

“What exactly are you going to do if you don’t like something Gideon says?” Hotch asked Prentiss.

“That is a good question,” Prentiss said. “The only thing that comes to mind right now is stop, drop & roll, but I’m not sure that will help.”

Hotch sighed and shook his head as he watched Garcia tiptoe—Good heavens, why was she tiptoeing?—over to the refreshment table. She was staring so intently at Reid while she filled her cup that the coffee overflowed and burnt her fingers.

Aware of Garcia’s scrutiny, Reid absent-mindedly started brushing presumed crumbs from his face. “Do I have something on my mouth?” Hotch heard him ask Rossi. Rossi gave him the once over and shook his head, then whispered something into his ear. Whatever he said must have been lewd because Reid blushed crimson right up to the top of his forehead.

Garcia scooted back over to the group, blowing on her fingers. “Delicious!” she sang excitedly. “Gideon just asked Rossi if he had any children, and Rossi said he always assumed he’d adopt an older child later in life!”

Prentiss clasped a hand over her mouth to keep her squeal in check while Morgan muttered, “Get out!” and JJ took Garcia’s cup and put it with the 10 others that were on the table next to them.

“What did Gideon say?” Prentiss asked.

“I don’t know--that’s when I got the third degree burns.”

Prentiss studied the trio. “With Gideon and Rossi trying to out-cool each other and Reid with his usual public-speaking-nausea thing, it’s impossible to know what’s going on.”

“How exactly would things be different if you knew?” Hotch asked to no one in particular and was soundly ignored.

There was a moment of commotion in the room and it took a minute to find the cause, but finally, Hotch realized John Burton, second in command of the FBI had entered the ballroom. That was a bit of a surprise—he hadn’t heard that any of the higher-ups were going to be in attendance. Burton had risen through the ranks of the FBI, one of the few men to opt in at the bottom rung and work his way up to the near top. Convention wisdom had Burton on the short list to be named Director if Barack Obama won the presidential election in November.

Burton greeted a few colleagues who had been standing near the door, but his attention was elsewhere. He intently surveyed the room and damn if he didn’t point toward—Reid?—and head over to the young man. Reid wasn’t expecting him, that much was clear in his surprised reaction. But he smiled in welcome and shook the Assistant Director’s hand, promptly introducing him to Gideon. Hotch felt like Rossi’s greeting was familiar. He wasn’t meeting Burton for the first time, but given his notoriety in the Bureau that was hardly surprising. Burton kept a hand on Reid’s shoulder as he spoke, and Hotch wracked his brain to try and remember when Reid would have come in to contact with the man.

“Morgan!” Hotch barked and Morgan’s head snapped his way. “You look thirsty. Go get a cup of coffee.”

“I’m on it,” Morgan said. He loped toward the coffee table, stopping halfway there to lean down and polish the side of his shoe.

Hotch wondered idly how in the hell any of them had ever managed to scam a confession out of an unsub. They were really, really bad actors.

Morgan came back with a cup of coffee and another danish—what was that, number five?--“You are not going to believe this. I’m walkin’ by and Burton says to Reid, and I quote, ‘Ellen loved the exhibit, she just wished you could have gone with her to explain the history.’ God’s truth.”

“Unbelievable!” Garcia exclaimed. “All this Rossi drama the past few months, and we completely missed that Reid is BFFs with the FBI’s second in command!”

“Do he and Rossi go back?” Prentiss wondered.

Morgan shrugged. “That wouldn’t explain why he and Reid are so chummy.”

Garcia rolled her eyes and demonstrated for him. “Hello John, old buddy, have you met my fiancé Spencer Reid?”

Prentiss turned suddenly and glared at Hotch. “I cannot believe you were going to make us miss this.”

“It has gotten interesting, hasn’t it?” Hotch said, tossing the last of a cinnamon danish in his mouth. “I’m going to go get some coffee.”

=================================================================

Reid was the third speaker on the program and he walked up to the podium following a pat on the back from John Burton, a shoulder squeeze from Jason Gideon and a searing gaze of confidence from David Rossi. Hotch felt a wash of affection for their youngest team member. Did he feel the weight of expectation from these three icons of law enforcement? Was it a comfort or a curse? No doubt a mixture of both, Hotch thought.

“With apologies to Somerset Maugham,” Reid began with a shaky smile, “There are three rules for making an interesting speech at a law enforcement conference. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.”

At the sound of laughter, Reid visibly relaxed, his smile growing bright and natural. He met Rossi’s heated stare with a look of delight, then cleared his throat and began his talk in earnest.

“The ovaries of all five women sitting in the third row just exploded,” Prentiss whispered to Morgan, who snorted into his coffee.

Hotch leaned closer to Rossi and clucked his tongue, whispering, “Writing our boyfriend’s papers now are we? What’s next?”

Rossi chuckled. “Just the opening. To understand what he wrote, you have to be fluent in Latin, 15th century literature, and Bell’s Theorem of No One Knows What the Hell You’re Talking About.”

“Oh,” Hotchner said. “Well, thanks for dumbing it down for us.”

Rossi said nothing--his rapt attention was all on Spencer Reid who was confidently explaining to a crowd of over 200 law enforcement personnel why a profile that seemed to encompass every trait possible was remarkable for the traits it had purposefully left out.

Six speakers and roughly 400 PowerPoint slides later, the conference was adjourned. Attendees milled about for awhile, exchanging business cards and small talk. Reid introduced John Burton to the remainder of his team and accepted their praise of his presentation with chagrin and pleasure.

As Burton took his leave, Hotch heard Gideon—who’d been talking privately with Rossi—excuse himself to the restroom. The door was swinging shut behind him when Rossi loudly slammed shut his briefcase. Rossi stalked up to the group and before anyone could say a word, he glared at Reid and said, “Car.”

Reid smiled at his co-workers. “I guess we’re heading out, then,” he said affably. “See you in the morning.”

Morgan, Prentiss, JJ and Garcia watched them go with wide eyes. “What was that about?” Prentiss asked. “Dammit! Who was paying attention to Rossi and Gideon?”

“Did Reid play us?” Morgan wondered. “You don’t think he brought Burton over here to keep us from pickin’ up on Rossi and Gideon, do you?”

“Reid doesn’t have a devious bone in his body!” Garcia said. “But Rossi has hundreds. Maybe even thousands. How many bones are in the human body anyway?”

“We should have filmed this,” Prentiss said. “Much easier to deconstruct video than memory.”

Gideon returned to the ballroom and walked over to Hotch. Morgan, Prentiss and Garcia were now making plans to stop off somewhere for dinner, while JJ begged off to get home to the baby. They were almost to the door when Hotch stopped them.

“Hey, guys?” he called. Four heads turned at once. “Just so we can document how worthwhile it was for all of us to be here, I want Morgan, Prentiss and Garcia each to draft five page overviews of the topics covered with recommendations for further study. Have them on JJ’s desk first thing tomorrow morning so JJ can synthesize them into a single document for my review.”

The four of them stared at each other for a beat, then Morgan raised his hand in the middle of the circle they formed. “Totally worth it,” he said. In absolute agreement, Garcia, Prentiss and JJ all brought their hands up for a group high five.

==================================================================

Watching the door of the ballroom swing close behind his old teammates, Gideon’s smile was fond, warm. Hotch could only grin back and shake his head. They’re crazy, but they’re mine.

“You were right,” Gideon said placidly.

“I know,” Hotch said, then a beat later, “About what?”

Gideon chuckled. “Spencer. He’s…thriving.”

Hotch took exception to the vindication in Jason’s tone, and a petty part of him wanted to say, “In spite of you, Jason,” but what would that accomplish? Gideon seemed to be thriving as well, and Hotch was glad.

“Your team is supportive of the relationship between Spencer and David Rossi.”

It wasn’t a question; but then again, the not-ready-for-primetime players were hardly subtle today. Hotch nodded and didn’t mask the pride in his tone. “They are.”

“What, exactly, were they afraid I was going to do?”

Hotch laughed at Gideon’s puzzled curiosity. “You know, it is funny. The steadier Reid becomes, the more comfortable he is in his skin, the more protective we’ve become. We’re lucky Reid is more amused than irritated.”

“Yeah?” Gideon asked, and Hotch knew the Reid Gideon remembered probably wouldn’t have been attuned enough to the people around him to even realize what they were doing.

“Yeah,” answered Hotch. “He even humors us now and then and let’s us think we’re actually helping in some way. He’s recognizing where he fits in the family dynamic. Accepting it.”

“I’m glad,” Gideon said. He sighed, and if there was melancholy to it, there was an equal amount of contentment. He cocked an eyebrow at Hotch, motioned toward the door Rossi and Reid had just walked through and said, “Don’t you worry about the power imbalance?”

“Well, of course,” Aaron admitted. He patted Gideon on the back and urged him toward door as well. Their dinner reservations were for seven and DC traffic was unpredictable. “So far, though, Spencer seems to be taking it pretty easy on him.”

==================================================================

Rossi opened the door that led to the underground garage and motioned for Reid to go through first. “You’re evil,” Reid said, looking straight ahead.

“I was perfectly pleasant to Gideon,” Rossi said, unlocking the doors as they neared the car.

Reid pursed his lips. “No, I mean that little performance you put on for the team.”

Rossi grinned as he got behind the wheel. “Evil seems harsh,” he said.

“They’re going to be insufferable for days now, trying to pry details out about some manufactured altercation that never even happened!”

Rossi shrugged. “It’s not like they’re all that sufferable anyway.”

“It’s easy for you—your office has a door!”

“And walls,” Rossi affably agreed.

“Even Hotch was all…curious. I don’t understand, that—he knows I had dinner with Gideon last night.”

Rossi laughed and shook his head. “Yeah, but he didn’t know John Burton was going to drop by with an atta boy for you—that’s what’s on his radar. The only reason Hotch isn’t always stickin’ his nose in is because he thinks he knows what’s goin’ on. The minute he might not, he’s right in there with Prentiss and the rest of our motley crew.”

“Who get no encouragement whatsoever from you,” Reid added sarcastically.

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” Reid echoed incredulously. “Three days before we left for Italy, you asked Garcia to research gay marriage in Europe.”

Rossi wiped the grin from his mouth and put on his most earnest face. “Not during work hours and certainly not using the FBI’s computer.” Reid looked unimpressed. “I can’t be curious about other cultures?”

Reid just rolled his eyes. “What about the time you asked Morgan if he personally knew someone who was willing to be a surrogate mother?”

Rossi reacted with affront. “That was related to the missing person’s case we were investigating.”

“Paula Shaver is a dog groomer!”

“Of childbearing years.”

“Asking Prentiss to recommend some good books on understanding the transgendered mind? What was that about?”

Rossi tried to mask his laugh as a cough, but finally conceded. Torturing Spencer with illogic was close to cruel and unusual punishment. “Okay, maybe that time I was just messin’ with them.”

“Maybe,” Reid agreed.

“They’re going to stand around and speculate anyway. What does it harm to steer them a little?”

“I say again, you have an office with walls and a door.”

Rossi laughed, reaching over and pulling Reid’s hand to his lips for a kiss. He lifted a curious eyebrow when Reid’s stomach gave a noisy growl. “Hungry for me?” he asked with a comically lecherous look in his eye.

Reid groaned theatrically and probably would have smacked Rossi’s arm save the fact that two percent of all auto accidents could be attributed to passenger interference with the driver. “Hungry for dinner,” he said.

“You wouldn’t be if you ate the stuff I kept bringing over. I’m going to weigh 500 pounds if I have to eat all of the danish I fetch you out of the kindness of my heart.”

Spencer hardly sounded sympathetic. “And yet you always only ever fetch the kind of pastry you like.”

“What?”

Reid began to list as proof, “Apricot turnovers, apricot danish, apricot muffins, apricot breakfast bars…”

“What do you like?”

“Anything that doesn’t have apricots!” Reid answered, his tone suggesting this was not the first time he’d mentioned it.

Rossi laughed. “I’ll try to remember that.”

Spencer smoothed down the front of his shirt. “Morgan liked my clothes,” he said in that shy voice that never failed to charm Rossi.

“He should,” said Rossi. “You look great.”

Reid’s self-deprecating tone was more familiar. “Hotch is concerned that my finances are going to be investigated now.”

“That man spends more on ties in a single year than you’ve spent on your whole wardrobe in the entirety of your 27 years on this planet.”

“Thank you doesn’t seem the appropriate response to that statement.”

Rossi snorted in agreement with that thought. “I hope you told Hotch it’s not your fault you were born to wear sinfully expensive designer clothes.”

“Garcia says it’s because clothes look the same on me as they do on a hanger.”

Rossi’s grin had more than a little leer to it. “I disagree,” he said, and slid a possessive hand across Reid’s leg to rest at his inner thigh.

When they got back to the house, they shifted into domestic mode. Reid retrieved the mail and tossed it on the kitchen desk, then rifled through an impressive stack of take-out menus and placed an order for dinner. Rossi let the dog out in the back yard while reading the ridiculous dog walking report card that sat on the counter by the phone. Not only did it record asinine details like “amount of snuggle time” and “number of belly rubs,” but it was written from the dog’s point of view. “I had three treats!” the sheet exclaimed. “I pooped!” It seemed beneath Muchie’s dignity, but the outfit had been vetted by the Bureau and the dog needed exercise, so what could he do? Still, every time there was a handwritten, first-person note on the bottom of the page—I loved the new park on West Elm!--Rossi didn’t know if it was from the dog walker or the dog.

Spencer seemed a little lost as he watched Rossi toss Muchie’s dinner in his bowl. Rossi cocked his head in question and Spencer shrugged, looking embarrassed and confused.

Speaking to a crowd of law enforcement officials would have been unnerving to Spencer anyway, add to the mix seeing Gideon again, John Burton’s unexpected appearace, and the silly interest of the team, and he was on overload.

Rossi drew him into an embrace and just stood there for a bit, letting Spencer ease in to the physical contact and organize his thoughts. There were no signs of an impending panic attack, so Rossi just held on to him.

Rossi, closed-mouthed bastard that he was, didn’t think it fair to badger Reid to talk about things if he didn’t want to, and Reid gravitated to solitude anyway. It had been a slow, steady effort to get Reid to decompress in his company. That Reid now did it in his arms was a reward he sure as hell didn’t deserve but was glad to take.

They eventually sat down on the couch and Reid began to talk. “At dinner last night, Gideon told me he reconciled with his son,” he said. “I’m not sure what the rift was about, but they spent a couple of weeks together camping out west last month.”

Rossi made a noise that conveyed little more than I’m awake which made Reid smile.

“It is interesting, isn’t it? He reconnects with Steven around the same time I find my dad…Not the same outcomes maybe, but…” Reid sighed, still puzzling out exactly what he was thinking. He gazed at Rossi with doe eyes and said, “Do you think if Gideon and I were still working together…” his voice trailed off and he looked irritated at himself. “I guess it doesn’t matter, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t.” was all Rossi said.

“Gideon asked me what I liked best about Italy, and I said the DaVinci museum, but that wasn’t even close.” Reid didn’t seem bothered by the deception, and he and Rossi shared sly smiles with each other. “Remember the day we spent in Amalfi and all we did was walk around and eat fresh-baked bread and gelato, and we watched the people in the square and imagined where they were going and what they were going to have for dinner and where they were going to take their vacations. And then we went back to the room and opened the balcony doors and the smell of the ocean and the sound of the waves were right there in the room with us and we m-made love in the middle of the day…”

Rossi smiled as Reid tripped over the words. Still, this was a far cry from referring to it—as he had for month after painful month--as engaging in sexual intercourse. Rossi pressed a kiss to Reid’s head. “That was a beautiful day,” he agreed, still unsure why it was troubling to Reid.

“Seeing Gideon… I can remember—precisely—how I felt and who I was when he was at the BAU, but… but it bares so little resemblance to who I am now. It’s kind of disconcerting, you know?” Spencer didn’t wait for an answer. “Dave, I’m… happy. And it’s probably odd to be so amazed by something so elementary but I am, and sometimes it’s kind of… overwhelming to realize just how much I like this life I have, this life we have. Like, hard to take another breath kind of overwhelming, you know?”

Rossi nodded, though he was more comforted by the relationship than anything. He understood what Reid was saying.

“I’ve been connecting the dots in my brain, you know? Who I was to who I am, and I started thinking how I want to stop criminals from hurting people and some day understand them enough to figure out a way to stop them before they even start. And I want to come home and eat dinner with you and read next to you and sleep with you. And I want to go on vacations to Italy with you and make love in the middle of the day. And I worry that maybe…”

Reid’s voice trailed off and the silence between them lasted long enough that Rossi kissed the top of his head and whispered, “Maybe what?”

“Maybe I want too much,” Reid whispered back.

It still shocked Rossi, these periodic shards of heartbreak that went along with loving Spencer Reid. His childhood marked by abandonment, his mother’s mental illness, and an otherness that guaranteed in equal measure both isolation and harassment, Reid had learned time and again to expect so little for himself. Beyond that, he had learned to fear that the simple act of yearning for something meant he was doomed to lose it if it ever came his way.

Rossi kept his breathing even as he protectively cupped the back of Reid’s head and held him tightly against his chest. “Well you don’t,” he whispered; glad Reid now knew him well enough to know his vehemence had nothing to do with anger. “You deserve good things,” Rossi reminded him. “And I don’t know how in the hell I weaseled into the mix, but I ain’t leavin’, and I’m gonna be a part of those good things, and I’m not gonna say somethin’ stupid like for as long as you’ll have me, ‘cause there’s never gonna be a time you won’t have me, capisce?”

Reid’s nod, with his face still pressed against Rossi, was tentative, so Rossi tightened his hold and asked again, “Capisce?”

“Yes,” Reid answered softly, but there was nothing tentative in his answer.

“I love you.” Sometimes the words sounded defiant even to Rossi as he said them, as if daring Reid to doubt him.

“I love you too.”

The doorbell rang, signaling the arrival of their dinner. Rossi motioned for Reid to stand then held up a hand so Spencer would pull him up. “You want me to be an asshole tomorrow so everyone leaves you alone?” he asked, grabbing his wallet as he headed for the door.

“No!” Reid said quickly, even as he laughed at the idea. “If they think you turn it off and on for me, they’ll make it my problem every time you’re an asshole for no good reason.”

“When have I ever…” Rossi stopped abruptly at the keen look in Reid’s eye. He’d take it as a personal challenge to list every single example he could. “Never mind,” he muttered.

They ate standing up at the kitchen counter, which never failed to make Rossi a little giddy. “You’re like a little kid who gets to have ice cream for dinner or something,” Reid had said once.

Rossi had just shrugged. “I can’t help it. We have to put up with a lot of crap, bein’ together. I kiss you in public and some asshole makes a face, some woman acts like I’m goin’ to lure her kid into the closest bathroom. Try to list each other as the emergency contact and you’d think we were ordering a truckload of yellowcake. But God dammit, it also means I don’t have to sit my ass down at the table to eat dinner. Almost makes all the crap worthwhile.”

Ice cream for dinner had become shorthand for all the things Rossi loved about being in a relationship with another man.

After they finished eating, Rossi said “ Want to run with me and Much?” He always extended the invitation.

Reid always declined it. “Not unless someone’s chasing me.” He moved to turn on his laptop. “I want to add notes to a couple of case files,” he said, but he was lazing on the couch when Rossi returned from his run.

“Case files?” Rossi snorted as he walked over to the couch. “Someone being held captive behind an elaborate Crayon Physics maze?” he asked.

Reid just grinned at the screen. “I’m cleansing my intellectual pallet,” he said.

Rossi shook his head at the insanely complicated drawing Reid was crafting. “You do realize that if you just drew a straight line between the ball and the star, you’d get your star, right?”

“Philistine.”

Rossi laughed and watched him draw for another minute then popped him on the shoulder. “Come blow me in the shower.”

Reid’s eyebrows lifted in delight. “Brilliant idea!” he said, setting the computer aside and jumping up off the couch.

He would deny it, perhaps even up to and past pulling his service revolver to make the point, but G-man David Rossi made a sound at that moment that could only be described as a gleeful giggle.

Reid gave him a look of fond exasperation. “Ice cream for dinner,” he said, shaking his head.

Rossi rubbed his hands together in exaggerated anticipation and motioned for Reid to hurry up. He caught up to him and put both hands on his shoulders, giving them an affectionate squeeze and whispering into Reid’s ear an enthusiastic, “Amen!”

End

Every Four Years Seems about Right or A Tiny Little Criminal Minds Fic

Mon, 05 Jan 2009 21:36:53 GMT

Title: The One Where Rossi and Hotch Play Golf and then Rossi Goes Home
Author: myrna1_2_3
Pairing: Rossi/Reid
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Rossi and Hotch Play Golf and then Rossi Goes Home
Word count: ~20,000
Notes: My first fic in the fandom.

Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.
~Mark Twain

The One Where Rossi and Hotch Play Golf and then Rossi Goes Home

David Rossi pulled into the golf course parking lot with an eye peeled for Hotch. He spotted the man pulling his clubs from the trunk of his car and parked next to him.

“Hey,” Hotch greeted him. “How’s it going?”

“Great,” Dave said. “Just wondering where to eat dinner tonight with my ill-gotten gains.”

Whenever the two played, they each threw $100 in the pot, with $10 going to the winner of each hole and whoever won the most holes pocketing the remaining $20. They used to split the pot pretty evenly, but Dave’s years of retirement had afforded him a lot more opportunities to play, and he tended to clean up more often than not. More than once, Rossi had accused Hotch of enticing him back to work just to even up his odds out on the golf course.

“Not so fast,” Aaron said. “My new driver was delivered last week.”

Rossi tsked tsked. “Equipment will never trump skill,” he said.

Hotch just rolled his eyes at the bravado. He wanted to win, of course, but was good-natured enough about losing, especially when—Dave suspected at least—Hotch had an ulterior motive about getting him out on the golf course on their first day off in nearly three weeks. Not that a few hours of golf were much of a hardship, but Rossi had options these days, some of them far more enticing than trying to get a dimpled white ball into a sunken little cup.

Still, it was a beautiful day—one of the first warm, dry days of spring after a long, gray winter. Rossi figured he could be—in fact he often was—in a lot worse environments than this.

They were four holes in—and Rossi was $40 up—when Hotch casually mentioned that Jason Gideon had been invited to speak at the upcoming Schoenberg Symposium on Violent Crime.

Rossi drove his ball off the tee and waited for it to land—250 yards out and square in the middle of the fairway, thank you very much—before saying, “Well how nice for Jason Gideon. Consultant fees are obscene compared to what you get as a fully-employed agent of the FBI, I can tell you that from experience.”

Aaron watched as Rossi replaced his divot and stepped aside to let him hit. He lined up his shot and drove the ball, which also landed in the fairway, but a good hundred yards behind Rossi’s. Dave slapped him on the back in sympathy as they picked up their bags and headed toward their next shot.

They didn’t say anything until they’d both putted, and Rossi was pocketing another ten dollar bill. “Of course, I know I don’t have to discuss with you how you intend to conduct yourself with Gideon,” Hotch began.

Rossi laughed. “And yet here we are with you throwing money at me like I’m workin’ the stripper pole at Mooney’s.”

Hotch’s snort could have been amusement or irritation. It was usually hard to tell. Rossi watched him glance upward as if calling upon some source of strength. “Your feelings about Gideon aren’t exactly a well-kept secret.”

“Well then I think we both know how much I’d enjoy having a good discussion with Former SSA Gideon.”

Hotch sighed and gave up the pretense of subtlety. “Dave, has it occurred to you that concerns I shared with you before you ever even thought about coming back to the BAU might be coloring your opinion of Gideon?”

Rossi shrugged. “No reason to,” he answered and grinned when Hotch sighed again.

“Not to mention you’re sleeping with the subject of those concerns,” Hotch added, lowering his voice, even though the two of them were the only ones within earshot. That made Rossi’s grin even wider. All the depravity they saw on a daily basis, and Hotch was positively scandalized by his bedding Spencer Reid.

“Aaron, my opinion hasn’t changed since we discussed this years ago. Granted, I was less invested then, and God knows a lot of shit has gone down that none of us would have ever thought possible, but I still maintain Gideon was enormously out of line in pursuing Spencer for the BAU. His reputation ghosts around the office like he was some saint when in reality...”

“He saved a lot of innocent people on this job, Dave,” Aaron interrupted to say—not contentiously but more in the spirit of fairness. “He was a good agent. A good man. ...”

“And you know what Reid was when Gideon recruited him? A boy--twenty years old, with an eidetic memory, a childhood out of a Dickens novel and starving for someone to show him a modicum of personal interest. Gideon pegged him from miles away and preyed on him with as much calculation as any unsub we’ve ever hunted. He felt entitled to Spencer, to his gifts, and when he got them, he doled out morsels of gratitude and praise in doses just enticing enough to keep Reid desperate for more. It was cold and calculating and so God damned selfish you’re lucky I’m not hunting him down to unload my “opinion” on him. Waiting around for a chance encounter seems positively genteel if you ask me.”

“I’m not asking,” Aaron said dryly. “What would Reid have to say about this, anything?”

Rossi gave another shrug. “We employ a Don’t-Ask-Don’t-Tell policy about Jason Gideon.” He thought to himself for a moment, then added to that list. “My second wife... the last three weekends I spent in Cabo before we met...”

Aaron pursed his lips and shook his head. “We’re already the red-headed step-child of the FBI,” he cautioned. “If there’s a scene at the symposium...”

“It’s not like the contempt in which we’re held can actually go lower,” Rossi helpfully pointed out. “And really, Hotch. A ‘scene?’ Look, I know you’re concerned that Gideon is going to figure out what’s going on between me and Spencer, and he’s going to feel entitled to say something to me and I’m going to, what? Slap him across the face with my glove and challenge him to a duel?”

“I don’t know why I bother,” Aaron said to no one in particular.

“Will it make you feel better if I assure you that I’ll live up to the expectations you have of me?”

The corners of Hotch’s lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. “Don’t make me wish for a case that takes us out of town.”

Rossi laughed. “I won’t embarrass you,” he said. “Or Reid for that matter. But I’m not rollin’ over and showing my belly if Gideon says something to me that deserves to be addressed, all right? That’s the best I can do.”

Aaron watched Rossi’s tee shot and shook his head in good-natured defeat at the beautiful drive. “This is not a conversation I ever imagined us having,” he admitted.

“Really?” Dave said with mock incredulity. “I seem to remember a lot of, ‘Behave yourself, Rossi,’ talks well before you were running the unit.”

Aaron’s sardonic look said Don’t even try.

“Come on,” Dave ribbed just a little further. “What was it, Week Two that I was back, and I was subjected to the ‘What are your intentions toward young Dr. Reid’ talk.”

“Yeah, but that was from Garcia,” Hotch countered with a straight face. He thought to himself for a moment—obviously Rossi wasn’t the only one capable of making lists. “And Morgan. JJ. The mail guy.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Rossi said. “Fork over another ten, Tiger.”

They finished out their game, trading companionable barbs, but leaving behind the topic of Jason Gideon. Rossi skirted the topic as they were storing their clubs and preparing to leave. “Just out of curiosity, who are you sharing your concerns about me with?” he asked as Hotch got in his car and slammed the door shut.

Aaron started the car and set it in reverse, then gave a shrug as if the answer was obvious. “Why do you think Erin Strauss is on my speed dial?” he asked, leaving a laughing Rossi in the parking lot.

Dave got in his car and opened his cell phone, paging through until he found the number he wanted to call. “Hey, Frankie, Dave Rossi,” he said. “It was great, thanks, just great. I’ve gotta tell you, every place we ate was judged against Basi’s... God’s honest truth, my friend... Okay, maybe I am callin’ for reservations tonight, but the compliment stands... Seven o’clock? Excellent... No, I’ve just about given up pushing Chianti. Castiglioni? Really? Yeah, set it aside. Never let it be said I didn’t try my best to educate his pallet. Thanks a million, Frank, I’ll see you tonight.”

Rossi hung up and whistled tunelessly as he drove home, thinking back on the abbreviated discussion he and Hotch had over Jason Gideon. He hadn’t been exaggerating, really, when he told Hotch that he and Reid never talked about Gideon. It wasn’t Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell—which suggested that he and Spencer disagreed about the man—because their attitudes toward Gideon weren’t really all that disparate. And to be honest, they had discussed Gideon at length at the beginning of their relationship.

Reid always debriefed with Rossi after a therapy session, and Gideon had been a big part of those discussions at one point when Spencer was working to understand his feelings and reactions associated not only with Gideon’s leaving the BAU but with their relationship during the time they worked together. And while Rossi had always felt that Gideon had no business recruiting Reid for the BAU, his negative opinions of the man hadn’t really coalesced until Reid had drawn a more thorough picture of their relationship.

Case in point, Reid once told Rossi a story of he and Gideon being on the campus of Caltech to give one of their recruiting presentations when a former professor of Reid’s had approached him with the offer of a teaching position at the university. Reid hadn’t even considered it for a moment, but Gideon had barely spoken to him for the next few days, as if Reid had solicited the offer and was walking out on a half-finished profile.

At the time, Reid had been flattered—thrilled even—that Gideon would care so much if he were to leave. Therapy had allowed him to recognize it as one of Gideon’s more blatant episodes of emotional manipulation.

The real difference between Reid’s feelings toward Gideon and Rossi’s was that Reid had forgiven Gideon and Rossi didn’t think he ever could. When Dave thought about the horrors now indelibly etched in Reid’s eidetic memory, much less the torture he’d personally endured, he wanted to ring Gideon’s neck. So it was Rossi’s continued resentment coupled with the fact that Reid had reached whatever peace he needed that made further discussions of the man superfluous at best.

Sounded like there was at least one more talk about him in their future now, though.

It was after one o’clock when Rossi arrived back at the house, but he was quiet as he entered in case Reid was still in bed. He didn’t really keep to a 24-hour body clock. Rossi assumed it was due to the unpredictable schedule of the BAU, but Reid had said he’d always been that way—awake for 36 hours, asleep for 12; up for 20; down for five. He chafed more against the 9-to-5 hours of the job than he did working the schedule of an active case.

The smell of freshly-brewed coffee told Rossi that Reid was awake, so he made no effort to be quiet as he hung his jacket up in the front closet and kicked off his shoes. He paused in the doorway of the kitchen and watched Reid flip through five-days accumulation of mail. He was obviously just out of bed, hair a tangled mess and wearing only a pair of faded pajama bottoms that barely clung to his non-existent hips.

Rossi thought the same thing he always thought when he came face-to-face with a shirtless Reid. For the love of God, eat a sandwich. But then he said, “Hey, Babe,” and Reid lifted his head, and his face lit up, and he smiled as if Rossi was returning home victorious after months on the battlefield, and Rossi understood the rush an addict must feel every time their drug of choice kicked in.

“Hey!” Reid said. “How was your golf game?”

“Dinner’s on Hotch tonight,” Rossi answered with a cocky grin. “How does Basi Italia sound?”

Reid’s expressive brows rose high on his forehead. “Like Hotch should quit playing for money.”

Rossi laughed. “Typical Type A--he’s the one who always wants to pony up,” he said. “Especially when he wants to talk about something.”

“Lucky for us,” Reid said. “I was thinking a bowl of cereal standing over the kitchen sink.”

“The trademark Spencer Reid fine-dining experience,” said Rossi. He sidled up behind Reid, sliding his arms around him and taking over sifting through the mail, eyeing the envelopes with his chin resting on Spencer’s shoulder.

“Patent pending,” Reid added with a breathy laugh as he leaned back against Rossi’s chest.

Rossi tossed the junk mail on the counter and sniffed at Reid’s neck, smiling to himself at the clean smell of Ivory soap. They’d been unpacking groceries the day before when Reid had tossed him the bars of soap, and the slogan on the front of the package caught Dave’s eye. “Hey, ‘99 and 44/100ths percent pure,’” he read, holding up the package so Reid could see it. “Just like you before you met me.”

“Funny how quickly the inverse percentage became true,” Reid had wryly remarked, and Rossi barked a surprised cough of laughter.

“You’re welcome,” he’d said, swatting Reid’s ass on his way to the bathroom to put the soap away.

Now Dave planted a few gentle kisses against the soft skin where Reid’s delicate neck met the curve of his shoulder and figured he might as well have a go at that last 56/100ths of a percent. He rubbed his goatee against the spots he’d kissed and gave a lusty chuckle when Reid’s knees threatened to buckle.

“What did Hotch want to talk about?” Reid asked, covering Dave’s hand with his own and coaxing it to caress his nipple.

“Jason Gideon might be at the Schoenberg Symposium. Aaron wants to make sure I’ll play nice.”

“Will you?” Reid sounded curious but not particularly concerned.

“I’m always nice,” Rossi answered, grinning at Reid’s spontaneous guffaw.

“Hmmm, the meeting of two renowned alpha dogs. What on earth could Hotch be worried about?”

“Curious analogy. I told Hotch I wouldn’t roll over and show my belly.”

Reid hardly seemed interested in Gideon’s attendance. “What is Hotch afraid of—a profiling death match or something?”

Rossi shrugged. “Our Hotch is a worrier, I guess.”

“As far as profiling’s concerned, everyone is up in arms over the Gladwell article in the New Yorker. I imagine that will be the focus more than the two of you.”

“You wound me,” Rossi said. “Anyway, I think Hotch’s concerns are of a more... personal exchange between me and Gideon. My giving the man a piece of my mind, for instance, about luring a young Dr. Reid to the dark side.”

Reid rolled his eyes at the word ‘luring.’ “Keep in mind that if I hadn’t joined the BAU, I wouldn’t have met you,” Spencer said. “And I was supposed to meet you.”

Rossi made a skeptical face. “You don’t believe in fate,” he reminded him.

Spencer smiled at him from over his shoulder and said sweetly, “You do.”

Rossi narrowed his eyes at his young lover. “It’s like you’re inviting me to maul you at every turn,” he said, his tone slightly incredulous at the audacity.

“I can’t recall your ever needing an invitation,” Spencer said.

“And if anybody’d be able to recall something, it’s you,” Rossi agreed.

Spencer turned and kissed Dave soundly, sliding his arms around him and maneuvering so he could reach his coffee cup. Dave laughed when Spencer broke the kiss and triumphantly lifted his cup. “Tease,” Dave scolded.

Spencer just grinned proudly at him and took a sip. He leaned back against the kitchen counter and stared at his cup, obviously thinking to himself. “I tried to come out to Gideon once,” he said, then sardonically added. “Three days later he tried to set me up with JJ.” Dave chuckled as Reid continued. “I’m still not sure if he didn’t approve or if I was just amazingly incompetent in my explanation.”

“I suppose each one is equally likely,” Dave said, giving a shrug that said the truth’s not my fault in response to Reid’s mock glare.

Reid cocked his head and said thoughtfully, “Remember when I first introduced you to my mom and she made those, kind of, passive aggressive remarks?”

Rossi chuckled at both the memory and Reid’s understatement. He had an idea that off her meds, not only was Diana Reid brilliant, she was also fucking hilarious.

She hadn’t been the least bit surprised that Reid brought a man to meet her, but she was surprised by Rossi’s age. “Spencer, do I have to run through every colleague of mine who came to the house when you were growing up to make sure nothing untoward happened?” she asked when Rossi reached out to shake her hand.

“Mom!” Spencer had scolded, sending an apologetic look Rossi’s way.

When Diana learned that Rossi had been married several times, she’s pursed her lips and looked him up and down. “What, they graduated from high school and suddenly your differences were irreconcilable?” she guessed.

“Mom!” Spencer said.

Finally, she’d been talking about some 15th Century author, Antoine de Something or Other, and she’d looked over at Rossi and said, “Do you know him?”

“No, I’ve never read his work,” Dave had answered.

“No, I meant personally,” she had said, a deadpan expression on her face that would have given Hotch a run for his money. “I just assumed you must have crossed paths at some point.”

“Mom!” By this time, Spencer’s horrified exclamations weren’t even acknowledged.

Rossi couldn’t help but laugh. “Just a little before my time,” he’d said, and his easy acceptance of her jibes seemed to tip the scales in his favor as far as Diana was concerned. Of course, she’d threatened to claw his eyes out if he hurt Spencer in any way, but Reid didn’t even bat an eye at that, so Rossi figured the threat must have been something of a standard with her.

“I remember,” Rossi said. “What’s your point?”

“Assuming Gideon doesn’t approve, he’ll be less subtle.”

Rossi nodded slowly. “Well, you know what? I welcome the opportunity to share a little candor with the great Special Agent Gideon.”

“I don’t suppose it would matter if I were to point out how emasculating it would be to have my lover and former mentor arguing--during a professional conference no less--about whose treatment of poor Spencer Reid has been most egregious.”

“Emasculating,” Rossi dismissed the very idea with a wave of his hand.

“Could I at least have your word that you won’t instigate anything?”

“What ‘instigate’,” Rossi said, the very picture of innocence.

Reid chuckled. “You must have driven Hotch crazy today. No wonder you cleaned him out.”

“In my defense, I always clean him out. Now do you mind?” Dave snatched Reid’s coffee cup out of his hands and placed it on the counter. “I believe I was on my way to mauling you.”

“In the middle of the day?” Reid asked with exaggerated shock. “How unseemly.”

“Only if I do it right,” Rossi said and began backing Spencer into the bedroom.

=====================================================================================

It did feel a bit unseemly—perhaps decadent was the better word—Rossi thought, to lie there in bed in the late afternoon. He was on his back, one arm behind his head, the other lazily brushing through Reid’s hair. Reid was on his stomach between Rossi’s legs, chin resting on arms lying across Rossi’s chest. “I always thought afterglow was a myth,” Reid said.

Rossi snorted in amusement. “Then I guess I did it right,” he said. Spencer’s answering smile said maybe he did.

Rossi trailed his hand through Reid’s hair and over his shoulder. “Wear the blue Armani I bought you in Rome tonight,” he said, picturing Spencer in the restaurant’s flickering candlelight.

Reid wrinkled his nose. “It’s itchy.”

“It’s a $500 designer-collection shirt,” Rossi replied.

“That hardly precludes it from irritating my skin.”

Rossi didn’t have much sympathy for him. “I tried to get you to go with the silk one.”

“I looked like a pimp out of a 1970’s, x-rated movie.”

“When have you ever seen a 1970’s x-rated movie?” Rossi asked. “With a pimp in it?”

“I’ve seen the stereotypical representation. Besides, it was, like, a thousand dollars! Do you know how many shirts you could buy from JC Pennys for...”

“Spencer, what have I told you about using language like that in my home?”

Reid made an exasperated sound. “JC Pennys is not...”

“Ah ah ah, what have I told you?”

“You’re a clothes snob,” Spencer said.

“And a wine snob,” Rossi added, unbothered by the accusation.

Spencer stretched lazily and settled back on top of him. “And a car snob.”

“And a boyfriend snob,” Rossi said, admiring the tell-tale flush in Spencer’s cheek. Even a backhanded compliment set his smooth cheeks to blushing. Rossi loved it.

Embarrassed and pleased in equal measure, Spencer turned his head and looked out the window. “An all-around snob, that’s you.”

Rossi shrugged carelessly. “I’m not going to apologize for my impeccable taste,” he said, and gently brought Spencer’s face around to meet his gaze.

“You’re equating high prices with quality, when oftentimes, the price is set with the intention of manufacturing the impression of quality...”

Rossi wasn’t having it. “Says the man who wouldn’t stay the night until I mortgaged the house to buy eight million thread count sheets.”

Spender rose up in indignation. “Everything else is too rough!”

“I could’ve bought another car for what these sheets cost.” Rossi dislodged Reid from his perch, pushing him over to rest on his back. Rossi rolled over on his side and hitched up on his elbow to gaze down at his lover.

“Hardly,” Reid said. “Besides, you don’t need another car.”

“I didn’t need the sheets.”

Reid smiled fetchingly at him—saucy and knowing, sexy and confident. “Yes you did,” he said, and Rossi almost wished the other members of their team could see this Spencer Reid because they’d sure as hell worry less about their youngest member if they could. Then again, Rossi was selfish enough to be glad for the Reid only he was privy to.

He glanced at the clock on the bedside table and subtracted the time until their dinner reservation. He groaned theatrically and rolled out of bed, holding his hand out to Reid. “Come on, my fragile little flower,” he said. “We don’t want you breaking out in some hideous rash or turning in to a pumpkin or whatever else might happen if we don’t run you through a rinse cycle ASAP.”

Spencer made a face that conveyed his opinion of Dave’s humor, but let himself be pulled from the bed. Already his skin was red and blotchy where semen had dried on it, and Rossi snickered at the sight.

Reid shoved him toward the bathroom. “Studies have shown a direct correlation between IQ and skin sensitivity,” he pointed out for the umpteenth time.

“And between a city’s stork population and its birthrate,” Dave replied as usual.

Spencer was quiet as Dave turned on the water and set the temperature. Reid stepped in the shower and turned to draw Dave in with him. “You know I don’t care, right?” he said, helping to sluice the water over Dave’s shoulders.

Rossi grabbed a washcloth and gently passed it over the reddest area’s of Spencer’s skin. “I know you say you don’t care but then it’s untold hours of bitching and moaning and itching and scratching.”

Reid rolled his eyes as he reached out and gripped both of Dave’s hands to still the cleansing. “No, about Gideon,” he said. “I don’t care what he thinks. I know who I am now. And what I want and what I need and... well... I might be curious about what someone thinks, but I don’t care.”

“I know, Babe,” Rossi said.

Spencer swallowed noticeably and then said in that shy, vulnerable tenor of his, “I’m sure of you.”

“I know,” Rossi said, his voice rough with emotion. It was difficult for Spencer to say I love you, but Rossi knew it was infinitely harder for him to believe Rossi’s I love yous. That Spencer accepted Rossi’s commitment--his promise that he was in for the long haul--that was more humbling to Rossi than he could ever articulate.

Spencer smiled at him, that enigmatic smile that was slightly pleased, slightly bashful. He looked like he expected Rossi to say something, so Dave leaned in, kissed his cheek and whispered, “Wear the slacks I bought you in Venice.”

Spencer’s Mona Lisa grin morphed into a high-watt smile, then he wrinkled his nose. “They fit funny,” he said.

“No,” Rossi patiently corrected. “They fit. That’s what it feels like when you have your clothes tailored to fit you.” He turned off the water and nudged Spencer from the shower.

“Do you know how many pairs of Dockers you could buy...”

Rossi pointed an accusing finger at him. “We’ve had a nice little interlude here. Why you gotta hurt me?”

Reid laughed and easily ducked the balled-up towel Rossi tossed at his face. Rossi watched as Reid headed to the closet and began to dress for their night out.

Dave decided he’d try and get Spencer to wear the same thing when he presented at the symposium. An innocent, “New clothes?” from Gideon would open the door to a nice, pleasant discussion with the former agent, wouldn’t it?

End

TEASER: TOWJWAGABI, Teaser for Part 9

Wed, 09 Mar 2005 20:01:16 GMT

Ummm...yeah...so, what's up? Any news? Anyone? Anything interesting going on?

If the ability to finish a WIP came in a bottle, we'd all have one, wouldn't we?

I hate it that this story has languished for, oh, gosh, looks like almost a year or thereabouts, but I can only write when the spirit moves me, and the spirit has been really busy doing something...else. I guess. I'm looking around for something to show for my otherwise occupied spirit, but I'm not seeing anything concrete.

Well, the spirit is a funny thing, and the last few days, I've found myself working a bit on this story. I've written enough to at least post a bit of a teaser for Part 9!

I should probably tell you that I never really watched much of QAF's Season 4--I looked at a few scenes up through 404, but that's about it. I've probably lost some of the Brian and Justin voices, but I can't stand the thought of leaving this fic unfinished! I'm hoping that posting the teaser will give me even more momentum to get this bad boy finished!

The One Where Justin's With Another Guy, and Brian Interferes, Teaser for Part 9

The more Brian thought about it, the more he could not fucking believe Justin was even considering moving out of state with that fucking doctor. Brian had witnessed more than one of the little shit's disastrous decisions, but come on. This was fucking off the charts.

He stewed about it for two days. Whether sitting in his car at a red light, pacing around the darkened loft, or waiting for a client to pick up the God damned phone, he'd slowly shake his head at the blinding stupidity of the whole idea.

It's not that he was surprised to find himself pulling up in the driveway of Justin's little playhouse, but he couldn't recall actually arriving at the decision to do it, either.

It was early in the afternoon, and Justin's car was in the driveway. He would have walked right in the front door, but for some stupid reason, it was locked so he hit the doorbell and kept hitting it until a flushed and irritated Justin threw open the door. "Jesus, what?!"

Brian saw a suitcase in Justin's hands and lost it. "Are you fucking out of your mind?" he screamed, snatching the suitcase from a shocked Justin and tossing it toward the stairs. "What the fuck is wrong with you? You think you can just hightail it out of town and no one's gonna do anything about it? What, you're gonna go to fucking Boston and play house with some Dudley Doright asshole? You wanna live out some God damned fucking Leave-It-To-Fucking-Beaver fantasy in God damned mother fucking suburbia? You think that's gonna happen, you fucking shit? Is that what you fucking think? Is it?"

Justin just stood there through the entire diatribe, his face morphing from confusion to disbelief to anger, finally settling into sheer amazement. "You have finally gone completely around the bend," he said when Brian paused for breath. "We're going to the Bahamas for a few days, you asshole. Jesus Christ!"

Brian took a graceless step back, relief making him clumsy. He swiped at the flop sweat on his upper lip. "Bahamas?" he echoed, then added with casual interest, "Really? 'T's nice this time of year."

Justin sighed, rolled his eyes, and employed the rest of his entire body to convey how ridiculous he found Brian by flouncing out to the kitchen. Brian knew such sentiment was temporary and graciously ignored it.

"So, you made up your mind about Boston yet?" he asked politely as he followed close behind.

Justin glared at him over his shoulder. "I can't believe you. You'd think nothing could surprise me anymore, but I cannot fucking believe you."

"Yeah, I'm a real mystery," Brian agreed. "So this Bahamas thing...you celebrating the start of a beautiful new life together or..."

"I'm not having this conversation with you," Justin said.

Brian snorted at that. "Actually, you already had this conversation with me." He smiled and added helpfully, "And now we're having it again."

"No we're not."

"Yeah, we really are."

"Look, consider it a...a moment of weakness that I even told you anything about it, okay? Better yet, just forget I mentioned it at all."

"Aw, come on Sunshine, you know how much I enjoy a nice long dish about feelings and life choices and all those wonderful things!"

Justin shook his head, his face a study in irritated disbelief. Brian proffered the most angelic look he could muster which only made Justin roll his eyes.

"We're...talking," he finally said, concentrating far more than necessary removing clean plates from the dishwasher. He made a sour face, then gave Brian a look of mocking sincerity and said, "I'd try to help you understand what that means, but I've got to pack for my vacation."

He headed back toward the discarded suitcase, but Brian stopped him in his tracks.

"Don't do it," Brian said, his heart thudding painfully against his ribcage as he spoke. "Don't go."

Standing still in the doorway, Justin spoke with his back to Brian. "I'm not passing up a free trip to the tropics," he said lightly, pretending to misunderstand.

Brian's eyes narrowed. "Fuck that, you know what I'm saying. Don't do it."

Justin turned and stared at him, and every hurt Brian had ever inflicted, every hateful thing he'd ever said or done was laid bare in those blue eyes. "You have no right to say that," Justin said, his voice a strangled whisper. "God damn you, Brian! No fucking right!"

Brian had to look away, but then he forced himself to meet Justin's gaze. He shrugged, acknowledging the truth of it at least. "I have no right to do most of the shit I do," he said. "But I do it anyway. Don't. Go."

Justin abruptly stalked back to the kitchen, fists clenched at his side. "Go, stay, go, stay! You think I'm your fucking dog!"

"Ha! My fucking dog wouldn't make an idiotic decision to follow some fucking crone all over the planet out of some misguided sense of obligation!"

"Fuck you! You have no idea why I do anything!"

"Christ that is so fucking rich! I know why you choose Frosted fucking Flakes instead of Fruit Loops in the morning. I know why you do every last fucking thing you do, so don't try to sell me some fucking shit about not knowing you!"

"What's shit is you thinking I'm with Dan because I owe him. He's fucking brilliant, Brian! He's smart and funny, and so fucking good to me you wouldn't understand in a million years what he means to me!" Justin headed to the media room and started blindly collecting the text books cluttering the coffee table.

Brian followed right behind, "Here's what I understand--you can't stay with someone because you're too fucking scared to cut them loose!"

Without warning, Justin lifted the books over his head and heaved them across the room. They hit a lamp, and the light bulb shattered as it hit the floor. "Fuck you!" Justin shouted over the sound of breaking glass. "You can't cut someone loose because you're too fucking scared to stay with them!"

Brian flinched, the touche implied as he stepped back and took a deep breath. For awhile the only sound was both of them trying to catch their breath. When Brian finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "We're not finished yet, Justin," he said and he held his hands out in surrender, shrugging helplessly to show the truth wasn't his fault-it just was. "You know that," he said, voice soft and seductive, luring Justin into accepting his words. "Like you know you've gotta keep suckin' air down your lungs. We're not done."

"That's such fucking shit!" Justin said. "You finished us, Brian! We're fucking done because you finished us! You can't just waltz in here and try to undo what you did!"

"Bull shit!" Brian said. "Bull fucking shit! After Ethan, all you had to say was 'Take me back,' and I did! That was it! And I never asked how I could trust you again, and I never wondered if it would happen again, and I never fucking looked back!"

Justin gave an inarticulate shout of utter frustration. "Until you kicked me out of my fucking home and tried to ship me out of the state!"

"Christ!" Brian yelled, eyes to heaven, as if searching for a voice of reason. "If you're just gonna bring that up every single time shit doesn't go your way..."

Justin grabbed a fistful of hair and gave another growl of frustration. "Oh my God, this is fucking unbelievable! Go home, Brian, all right? Leave me the fuck alone and go home!"

With nothing left to say, Brian grabbed the back of Justin's head and fiercely pressed his lips to Justin's. He shoved his tongue into Justin's mouth and figured if all else failed, maybe he'd get his message to sink in through fucking osmosis.

TOWJWAGABI, Part 8 (complete)

Sun, 06 Jun 2004 23:29:56 GMT

Okay, I finished this part--the new part is Brian's POV. I didn't change anything from the teaser!

The One Where Justin's With Another Guy, and Brian Interferes, Part 8

Dan drove around for awhile after leaving the coffee shop. He took the car out down 23 where he could open her up and fly, yet he was close enough to the hospital that if he was pulled over, the cop would undoubtedly let him off with just a warning.

He'd already made up his mind to tell Justin about the job offer, he just wished he had a clue as to how he'd react.

Fuck. If that wasn't indicative of ... everything.

God, he should know how this news would hit Justin. He should at least know what direction the wind was blowing, but Dan had no idea how it would play out. He could barely articulate his own feelings about the situation, how in the hell could he predict Justin's?

How did this...this thing with a pretty little college kid get so far beyond his control? How the hell could it happen when neither one of them was looking for anything?

And now, nothing felt right. The thought of leaving Justin was ludicrous, but the idea of moving with him seemed equally far-fetched. How the fuck did it come to this?

No closer to figuring anything out, Dan finally walked into the house with a "Hey," and recognized immediately that Justin knew something.

The air was charged as Justin carefully set aside his sketch pad. "Al Carter called," he said.

"Dinner party?" Dan guessed, tossing the mail on the counter and joining Justin in the living room.

Justin slowly shook his head, intently watching Dan as he spoke. "He wanted to give you a hard time about your all-expenses paid trip to the Bahamas."

Dan froze for a second. He'd been so preoccupied about the Mass Gen job he'd forgotten about the medical conference. He nodded. "Ah."

"Al made it sound like a big deal to be asked to speak," Justin quietly continued. "Why didn't you say something?"

Dan shrug, careful to keep the defensiveness from his tone. "I should've. I just wasn't sure if..."

Justin sighed and continued shaking his head at Dan. "He asked me if I was going, and it was really humiliating that I hadn't heard anything about it."

"Sorry," Dan said softly.

Justin shrugged away the apology. "I figured if you wanted me to go along, you would've said something, so I told him I wasn't going. And you know, I'm okay with that. Whatever, you know? I wouldn't have cared, but he was, like, really surprised. He said it was always the one time of the year everyone knew Kevin wasn't a figment of your imagination."

"J, look..."

Justin finally stood up and began to restlessly pace in front of the couch. "I've been tellin' myself all this time that you're uncomfortable being out but that's bullshit! You never had a problem going anywhere with Kevin, did you? You're uncomfortable with me."

"What do you want me to say?" Dan said. "Yeah, I'm uncomfortable. I think everyone's judging me and thinking I'm some kind of pathetic old geezer, and you're only with me because I'm...

"Why do you care?" Justin demanded, arms flailing in frustration. "You know the truth! You know who you are, who I am..."

Dan scoffed and turned away, shaking his head at how wrong Justin was. "I don't know anything," he muttered.

"What?"

Dan sighed and turned back around, standing in back of a leather chair and grasping it, as if speaking at a lectern. "I'm not just going to present a paper. I'm also interviewing for a job at Massachusetts General."

Justin's irritation immediately gave way to shock. "Oh," he said vaguely. He gave a distracted snort that wasn't quite amusement and said, "When were you going to tell me that?"

"I don't know," Dan said tiredly and lamely continued. "Nothing's set...there's a million details still to work out..."

Justin made a sour face and rolled his eyes. "Christ, Dan, you're shitting at the idea of me going with you to some fucking conference, and you want me to believe it's all the fucking details that kept you from telling me about a new job? Bullshit!"

"Look, if you go with me to Boston..."

"Go with you?" Justin interrupted, incredulous at the idea. "How? I cannot fucking transfer to another school! Jesus Christ, I'm gonna be 40 before I get a fuckin' degree!"

Dan felt his face flushing hotly, and he stood there, mouth open, feeling flayed at Justin's initial reaction. "Wow, that was an easy decision, wasn't it?" he said, moving to sit down with a resounding thud. "Somehow I thought it would provoke a least a little discussion."

Justin gaped at him. "No fucking way are you going to turn this into some fucking pity party for yourself! If Al hadn't called, when were you gonna fucking tell me about all of this? When you were packing for the airport? I mean, granted I'm not the most observant guy in the universe, but even I would have noticed that, right?"

"Christ, I fucked up not telling you about everything, all right? I admit it, and I'm sorry! But excuse me for thinking there was enough between us that we'd at least talk about what it would fucking mean if I get the job!"

"What it would mean?" Justin echoed in amazement. "It would mean you live in Massachusetts and I live here! What else could it mean?"

Dan flushed again at Justin's callous assessment. "So you just categorically refuse to even consider coming with me?"

Justin gave a frustrated cry and pulled at his hair. "What the fuck? Are you nuts? I can't transfer again, Dan! I can't..."

Dan jumped to his feet, belligerently descending on Justin and shouting, "I'm supposed to pass on the fucking greatest job I will ever be offered because you can't spend another semester or two in school? Is that it?"
Justin looked whip lashed at the sudden change in the discussion. "No!" he denied. "Of course not. I'd never ask you to give up..."

"Why not?" Dan yelled. "If you won't go to Boston, why the fuck wouldn't you ask me to stay here?"

Justin was bewildered by the question. He shrugged helplessly at Dan. "What...what do you mean? I wouldn't ask you to sacrifice some amazing job..."

"Why not?" Dan said again. "We're lovers, Justin. That's what you do--you make sacrifices for each other. I'm asking you right now, if I get the job, will you come with me? Fuck school! So it takes you longer to get your degree, so what!"

"Dan, God!" Justin said. "You can't just fucking spring this shit on me and demand some kind of fucking..."

"Answer me!" Dan said angrily. "Will you come or not?"

Justin paled and turned away, brushing his hands through his hair. "I can't...what... Dan, I can't..." He sounded as lost and dejected as Dan had ever heard him, and the anger evaporated.

Dan came up behind him and hesitantly hugged him. "Brian Kinney may be a huge fuckin' asshole," Dan said softly, "But he's right about one thing, J. It's time to wake up. We can't keep coasting anymore."

The quiet words seemed more devastating than anything they'd said so far. Justin's shoulder slumped, and he turned to stare at Dan with hurt, haunted eyes. Dan slowly released him, and Justin backed away from him until Dan finally reached out and grabbed his hands to keep him from retreating any further. "If I get the job, do you want to go with me?"

Justin looked distraught at the question. His eyes pleaded with Dan to let it go. "Do you?" Dan asked again.

Justin stared brokenly at Dan, then dropped his gaze. "I don't know," he whispered, eyes slowly closing as if the words caused him physical pain. Averting his own eyes from Justin's face, Dan understood that pain when Justin said, "Do you want me to go with you?"

Dan heaved a sigh, but brought his eyes level with Justin's. "I don't know," he whispered, anguished by the admission.

There was nothing else to say.

Silent, they stood there, lost in thought until Justin led Dan up the stairs, and they made love wordlessly and a little desperately, and then they went to sleep.

In the morning, before they left the bed, before they'd even acknowledged to each other that they were awake, Dan whispered into Justin's ear, "Come with me to Nassau."

Justin sighed, but Dan continued. "Just...come. We're not gonna figure anything out right now, and if we're gonna be miserable, let's be miserable in the Bahamas."

Justin managed a grin and a soft snort of amusement. "What if ..."

Dan shook his head, hugging Justin hard to cut off his questions. "If we split up," Dan began, and was shocked that his voice broke. He paused for a second, resting his forehead against Justin's bare shoulder, then started again, whispering fiercely into Justin's ear. "If we split up, it's not going to be because I'm some fucking chicken shit coward."

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Bright and early Monday morning, Brian ordered his latte and moseyed over to Justin's table. The kid looked tired. Brian couldn't imagine anything he and Dan could have done over the weekend to lead to such a condition. He leaned into Justin's space and caught his eye. "I remember a hot little twink who used to recover from a night out with far more resiliency than this," he said, rubbing at the dark smudge under Justin's eye with his thumb.

Justin pushed his hand away, but grabbed his wrist before it was out of arms length. "You have to be anywhere right now?" he asked with a wistful note in his voice that cut straight to Brian's cock. Little fucker.

Still, this was new. Justin generally treated their morning ritual as something to endure. Actually engaging was rare.

Brian shrugged. "I always have time for you, Sunshine," he said magnanimously and sat down with a flourish. Justin smiled briefly at him, then proceeded to diffidently twirl his coffee cup between his hands.

After five minutes of silence passed between the two of them, Brian checked his watch. "Well this has been really nice," he said with faux sweetness. "Same time tomorrow?"

Justin snorted softly and shook his head. "Sorry," he said with a shrug. Then, in his typically direct way, he looked right at Brian and said, "Dan's interviewing for a job in Boston, at Harvard's medical school hospital."

Brian nodded slowly, sitting back in his chair to digest the information. Justin wouldn't look at him, concentrating instead on the paper cup in front of him. It wasn't like Brian was going to shed any tears at the back of Dan's head, so he waited for Justin to continue. When he didn't, Brian hazard a guess. "So... then what? He get pissed off when you said See ya?"

Justin didn't answer, just gave a careless shrug as he shook his head.

Brian leaned forward with a shrug of his own. "Fuck him. Either he gets over it or he doesn't. He gets over it, you can have some good break-up fucks before he goes. He doesn't, and he moseys off into the sunset. What's the damage?"

"Why do you just assume I won't go with him?"

Brian scoffed at the question. "Some ideas are so fuckin' ludicrous they don't come with an explanation," he said. "Or need one."

Justin gave Brian one of those steady, measuring looks that used to irritate the shit out of him. "When I say I love Dan, do you think it's something I've fooled myself into believing or that I'm willfully lying?"

Brian sighed, both at Justin's melodrama and at being lured into such a ridiculous conversation. "You're not a liar," he said, then made a dismissive face and shook his head. "But it's love like you love a pair of shoes or Deb's lasagna. It's fuckin' ordinary. And you don't follow a pan of lasagna to fucking Harvard."

Justin briefly cast his eyes toward heaven and said, "This has been nice."

Brian shrugged a what do you expect at Justin. "Callin' it like I see it, Sunshine."

Justin smirked at him. "I thought this was what you wanted all along," he said. "Me, hundreds of miles from Pittsburgh. I'm surprised you're not offering to help us pack and load the van."

"My salad days," Brian said softly, dismissing all of it with a shrug and a slow, measuring blink of his eyes.

But Justin missed it, staring vacantly into space. "I wasn't gonna be with Dan when I first met him, you know," he said. "I wasn't gonna be with anybody ever again 'cause, you know, fuck all that shit. But I saw him in here all the time, and thought he was really hot." He cast an eye at Brian as if daring him to make a comment. Brian responded with a terribly innocent what, me? expression that earned him another smirk.

"I gave him the eye once," Justin continued. "Right here, kind of... motioned to the bathroom to see if he'd take me up on it." Justin ducked his head and chuckled. "You'd've thought I asked him if he wanted to go shoot up or something. He looked...scandalized." Justin shrugged, still smiling. "I watched him for awhile after that. He just seemed so...nice. Normal. He always puts his change in the muscular dystrophy can, and he and his brother Charlie always seemed like they were laughing about something. I asked him out first, but when he found out I was in school, he wouldn't let me pay for dinner. He said I could make him dinner at his place the next night--it'd be cheaper, you know?"

Brian refrained from a snort of derision and pointing out that getting Justin back to his place might have had something to do with Dan's generosity. What the fuck, let the kid talk.

"That first night we were driving in his car with the top down, and we were stopped at a light and he looked over and said, 'Are you warm enough?' and I just... God, I thought he was so nice."

There was no censure in Justin's voice, but Brian still felt ashamed. He leaned forward in his chair and said, "So you send him a Christmas card at the holidays. No one's sayin' you have to forget the kindly old doctor who was there for you in your time of need."

"This should be a fucking slam dunk!" Justin said, looking suddenly bewildered. "He's so fuckin' good to me, and I think he's, like, the best person I know. Like, totally decent all the way through, you know? And the fucking thing is, if he wasn't gonna get this job, we'd be fine!"

"It would've been something else then," Brian said. "You would've been pushed to shit or get off the pot at some point. That's the way it fuckin' works." It would have been the perfect opportunity for Justin to point out how Brian always got off the fuckin' pot, but he didn't.

Justin nodded half-heartedly. "We already did once," he was saying. "When Mom died. Dan could've totally walked then, but he didn't. He stuck with me, and I was a fuckin' mess, Brian. There was a five-week span there when he was cutting people open on about two hours sleep a night. And he never shit on me about it, just said it was good to be reminded what it was like to be a resident. I think...maybe I owe him..."

"Stop," Brian ordered. "That's bullshit, and you know it. You don't fucking give up your whole fucking life, your whole fucking person because some asshole didn't jettison your ass when your mother died. Those were his choices to make, and you can be fucking grateful for them, but you don't owe him shit!"

"I don't understand why I feel or-or fucking don't feel..." he shook his head, frustrated at his inability to articulate what he meant.

Brian had been dancing around the very subject since he and Justin reconnected, but Justin had refused to pick up the insinuations. Brian started to speak, then hesitated just long enough to get Justin's full attention. "Do you even feel anything right now?" Brian asked.

"Don't!" Justin ordered, his face flushing in anger. "Don't you tell me I don't love him! You don't know shit!"

Brian held up a hand to stave off Justin's anger. "Wait, okay? Wait a fucking minute and listen to me." Brian almost chuckled at Justin's hostile glare as he flopped back in his chair, arms crossed before him.

"As much as it pains you to hear this, I know you better than anybody else on the planet, Sunshine. And pardon the fucking analogy but you are a shadow of the guy you used to be. Everything is fucking muted, Justin. You're so far off the playing field right now, you're not even in the fucking stadium. And the thing is, I think you know it, but you don't want to do anything about it."

Justin was crushed by the words, reacting as if they'd been hurled at him in vengeful anger. Maybe the fact that they'd been delivered in gentle affection made them that much harder to hear. Justin bowed his head and stared at his feet with hollow eyes, but there was no more joking about the quiet that fell between them. Eventually he spoke without raising his face.

"Before I totally came out of the coma, I was kind of awake. Not awake, exactly, aware. Like, I could almost hear voices in the room, and I could almost feel the bed beneath me or the covers on top of me. I almost knew my head hurt and my hand didn't work. But I stopped right before knowing what had happened."

Brian looked away from Justin's bowed head, uncomfortable as always when anything remotely related to the bashing was mentioned.

"I didn't want to wake up because I knew something awful was waiting for me," Justin said. "And when I finally did wake up, I was so fucking...devastated. And I felt really bad about that 'cause my mom and everyone was so happy, but for, like, weeks I wished I hadn't woken up." Justin looked up and stared absently at the door. "I wished it for weeks."

"So what!" Brian fiercely shot back. "Life is fucking hard. And it's a risk and sometimes really fucking shitty things happen. So fucking what?" Brian wanted to reach over and shake Justin; he wanted to chuck his long-empty coffee cup and him and shove him against a wall and scream at him to knock it off. And the irony--the unfairness--of it all was that Brian was the fucking king of coping in just the way Justin was now.

Brian numbed himself; kept himself just aloof enough to look like he was playing along, but in truth, nothing could touch him. That had been the plan anyway.

But the thing he'd always liked about Justin--Jesus fucking Christ--the thing he'd always loved about the kid was how God damned there he was. On the dance floor at Babylon, in an alley outside of Woody's, on a darkened street with a can of paste in one hand and a satchel full of fuck ass trouble slung over his shoulder, Justin was here and queer and the rest of the world had better get the fuck out of his way. He fucking lived. He didn't exist; he didn't coast; he didn't wait-and-see. He fucking jumped in, arms opened wide, ready to face whatever the fuck came next. God damn it, couldn't he remember that? Didn't he fucking miss that kid?

Brian did. God, Brian missed that fucking kid.

"That's so easy for you to say, Brian!" Justin cried. "You choose every fucking thing that happens to you! Your life is every fucking thing you want it to be! And nothing you don't. So don't sit there and tell me to suck up all the shit and get on with it because you have no fucking idea about anything!"

"Bullshit!" Brian barked back. "You think I chose some underage twink to turn every fucking thing I knew on its ass? You think I don't look at the steaming fucking pile of shit my life is right now and wonder what the fuck happened?"

"You made everything happen! You're not sitting there wondering what the fuck went wrong--you don't have to because you engineered everything!"

Brian started to argue with Justin, but stopped himself. He bit his lip and took a breath and sat back in his seat. "What do you want?" he asked. "Forget all the fucked up shit I do and just tell me what it is you want to happen."

"All I want is for everything to stay the same for five fucking seconds!"

"That's not on the menu," Brian answered gently.

Justin looked over at Brian. "Do you think... do you think if I really felt stuff like before... if I let myself feel stuff like before, do you think then I'd be okay about moving with him?"

Brian could hardly let himself think about what it said about Justin's fucked up life that he would ask that question of him. Wasn't there anyone else the kid could turn to for this shit? Brian already knew there wasn't, but Jesus, shouldn't there be?

How the fuck could Justin sit there with those big blue orphan eyes trained on him like Brian held the answer to every great riddle ever posed? And why the God damned fuck couldn't Brian look him straight in those big blue orphan eyes and say No. As a matter of fact, you're never gonna feel anything more for that pretentious fucker, so quit trying.

With a sigh, Brian stood up and moved over in front of Justin, forcing Justin to lift his chin to look at him. If anything, it exaggerated the pleading looking in his eyes, and Brian couldn't help the affectionate smile on his face. What a little fucker.

He brushed the hair off Justin's forehead and leaned in to gently kiss the spot he cleared. Then he offered the only answer he could to Justin's question.

"I don't know," he whispered, and left without looking back.

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Tiniest Teaser Ever for TOWJWAGABI, Part 8

Thu, 03 Jun 2004 18:03:50 GMT

Oh how this part is vexing me! I can't string two words together in the QAF universe right now! I open the story and instead of working on it, I play 6,395 games of Solitaire.

Here's a bit of a teaser for the next part! I'm hoping that posting it will inspire me to keep going!

The One Where Justin's With Another Guy, and Brian Interferes, Part 8

Dan drove around for awhile after leaving the coffee shop. He took the car out down 23 where he could open her up and fly, yet he was close enough to the hospital that if he was pulled over, the cop would undoubtedly let him off with just a warning.

He'd already made up his mind to tell Justin about the job offer, he just wished he had a clue as to how he'd react.

Fuck. If that wasn't indicative of ... everything.

God, he should know how this news would hit Justin. He should at least know what direction the wind was blowing, but Dan had no idea how it would play out. He could barely articulate his own feelings about the situation, how in the hell could he predict Justin's?

How did this...this thing with a pretty little college kid get so far beyond his control? How the hell could it happen when neither one of them was looking for anything?

And now, nothing felt right. The thought of leaving Justin was ludicrous, but the idea of moving with him seemed equally far-fetched. How the fuck did it come to this?

No closer to figuring anything out, Dan finally walked into the house with a "Hey," and recognized immediately that Justin knew something.

The air was charged as Justin carefully set aside his sketch pad. "Al Carter called," he said.

"Dinner party?" Dan guessed, tossing the mail on the counter and joining Justin in the living room.

Justin slowly shook his head, intently watching Dan as he spoke. "He wanted to give you a hard time about your all-expenses paid trip to the Bahamas."

Dan froze for a second. He'd been so preoccupied about the Mass Gen job he'd forgotten about the medical conference. He nodded. "Ah."

"Al made it sound like a big deal to be asked to speak," Justin quietly continued. "Why didn't you say something?"

Dan shrug, careful to keep the defensiveness from his tone. "I should've. I just wasn't sure if..."

Justin sighed and continued shaking his head at Dan. "He asked me if I was going, and it was really humiliating that I hadn't heard anything about it."

"Sorry," Dan said softly.

Justin shrugged away the apology. "I figured if you wanted me to go along, you would've said something, so I told him I wasn't going. And you know, I'm okay with that. Whatever, you know? I wouldn't have cared, but he was, like, really surprised. He said it was always the one time of the year everyone knew Kevin wasn't a figment of your imagination."

"J, look..."

Justin finally stood up and began to restlessly pace in front of the couch. "I've been tellin' myself all this time that you're uncomfortable being out but that's bullshit! You never had a problem going anywhere with Kevin, did you? You're uncomfortable with me."

"What do you want me to say?" Dan said. "Yeah, I'm uncomfortable. I think everyone's judging me and thinking I'm some kind of pathetic old geezer, and you're only with me because I'm...

"Why do you care?" Justin demanded, arms flailing in frustration. "You know the truth! You know who you are, who I am..."

Dan scoffed and turned away, shaking his head at how wrong Justin was. "I don't know anything," he muttered.

"What?"

Dan sighed and turned back around, standing in back of a leather chair and grasping it, as if speaking at a lectern. "I'm not just going to present a paper. I'm also interviewing for a job at Massachusetts General."

Justin's irritation immediately gave way to shock. "Oh," he said vaguely. He gave a distracted snort that wasn't quite amusement and said, "When were you going to tell me that?"

"I don't know," Dan said tiredly and lamely continued. "Nothing's set...there's a million details still to work out..."

Justin made a sour face and rolled his eyes. "Christ, Dan, you're shitting at the idea of me going with you to some fucking conference, and you want me to believe it's all the fucking details that kept you from telling me about a new job? Bullshit!"

"Look, if you go with me to Boston..."

"Go with you?" Justin interrupted, incredulous at the idea. "How? I cannot fucking transfer to another school! Jesus Christ, I'm gonna be 40 before I get a fuckin' degree!"

Dan felt his face flushing hotly, and he stood there, mouth open, feeling flayed at Justin's initial reaction. "Wow, that was an easy decision, wasn't it?" he said, moving to sit down with a resounding thud. "Somehow I thought it would provoke a least a little discussion."

Justin gaped at him. "No fucking way are you going to turn this into some fucking pity party for yourself! If Al hadn't called, when were you gonna fucking tell me about all of this? When you were packing for the airport? I mean, granted I'm not the most observant guy in the universe, but even I would have noticed that, right?"

"Christ, I fucked up not telling you about everything, all right? I admit it, and I'm sorry! But excuse me for thinking there was enough between us that we'd at least talk about what it would fucking mean if I get the job!"

"What it would mean?" Justin echoed in amazement. "It would mean you live in Massachusetts and I live here! What else could it mean?"

Dan flushed again at Justin's callous assessment. "So you just categorically refuse to even consider coming with me?"

Justin gave a frustrated cry and pulled at his hair. "What the fuck? Are you nuts? I can't transfer again, Dan! I can't..."

Dan jumped to his feet, belligerently descending on Justin and shouting, "I'm supposed to pass on the fucking greatest job I will ever be offered because you can't spend another semester or two in school?”

Justin looked whip lashed at the sudden change in the discussion. "No!" he denied. "Of course not! I'd never ask you to give up..."

"Why not?" Dan yelled. "If you won't go to Boston, why the fuck wouldn't you ask me to stay here?"

Justin was bewildered by the question. He shrugged helplessly at Dan. "What...what do you mean? I wouldn't ask you to sacrifice some amazing job..."

"Why not?" Dan said again. "We're lovers, Justin. That's what you do--you make sacrifices for each other. I'm asking you right now, if I get the job, will you come with me? Fuck school! So it takes you longer to get your degree, so what!"

"Dan, God!" Justin said. "You can't just fucking spring this shit on me and demand some kind of fucking..."

"Answer me!" Dan said angrily. "Will you come or not?"

Justin paled and turned away, brushing his hands through his hair. "I can't...what... Dan, I can't..." He sounded as lost and dejected as Dan had ever heard him, and the anger evaporated.

Dan came up behind him and hesitantly hugged him. "Brian Kinney may be a huge fuckin' asshole," Dan said softly, "But he's right about one thing, J. It's time to wake up. We can't keep coasting anymore."

The quiet words seemed more devastating than anything they'd said so far. Justin's shoulder slumped, and he turned to stare at Dan with hurt, haunted eyes. Dan slowly released him, and Justin backed away from him until Dan finally reached out and grabbed his hands to keep him from retreating any further. "If I get the job, do you want to go with me?"

Justin looked distraught at the question. His eyes pleaded with Dan to let it go. "Do you?" Dan asked again.

Justin stared brokenly at Dan, then dropped his gaze. "I don't know," he whispered, eyes slowly closing as if the words caused him physical pain.

Averting his own eyes from Justin's face, Dan understood that pain when Justin said, "Do you want me to go with you?"

Dan heaved a sigh, but brought his eyes level with Justin's. "I don't know," he whispered, anguished by the admission.

What was left to say?

Silent, they stood there, lost in thought until Justin led Dan up the stairs, and they made love wordlessly and a little desperately, and then they went to sleep.

In the morning, before they left the bed, before they'd even acknowledged to each other that they were awake, Dan whispered into Justin's ear, "Come with me to Nassau."

Justin sighed, but Dan continued. "Just...come. We're not gonna figure anything out right now, and if we're gonna be miserable, let's be miserable in the Bahamas."

Justin managed a grin and a soft snort of amusement. "What if ..."

Dan shook his head, hugging Justin hard to cut off his questions. "If we split up," Dan began, and was shocked that his voice broke. He paused for a second, resting his forehead against Justin's bare shoulder, then started again, whispering fiercely into Justin's ear. "If we split up, it's not going to be because I'm some fucking chicken shit coward."

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Birthday Wishes!

Wed, 19 May 2004 11:52:38 GMT

Happy 21st Birthday, josselin!

Sorry about not finishing the fic I promised. I got to the part where Brieghn realizes that Justynn is a fairy too, but I got stuck at the part where Brieghn casts the magic spell to own the rock that will free everyone in Lyhburtee from the evil oppressors.

I'll, uh, keep working on it!

TOWJWAGABI, Part 7

Sun, 09 May 2004 17:49:12 GMT

I have no control over this story. I swear, it was supposed to be, like, four parts, a little drama, a little angst, a hug or two, The End.

I promise you that was my intention...

The One Where Justin's With Another Guy, and Brian Interferes, Part 7

Justin usually worked Tuesday mornings before his classes started, so he was already up and out by the time Dan poured himself a cup of coffee the next morning.

Justin had agreed, at least temporarily, to shelve talk of moving out. Dan had tried to get him to explain what he'd meant when he'd said he'd fucked things up, but he hadn't really been able to articulate anything.

Dan was sure Brian Kinney was somehow behind it all.

God, he just didn't get it. Dan couldn't understand how Brian could treat Justin so callously. How could he just carelessly throw out one hurtful comment after another and refuse to see how Justin was reacting? Even before the heightened vulnerability left in the wake of his mother's death, Justin was such a sweetheart, Dan couldn't imagine willfully hurting him.

Dan pictured Brian as one of those kids who cackled maniacally as he yanked the legs off a spider. What possible joy did he derive from upsetting a wounded kid like Justin? It just didn't make sense.

And why in the hell did Justin just lay there and take it? It wasn't like him.

Half comatose from worry and grief, Justin had refused to be diminished by his father's poisonous attitude. Those long days at the hospital, then later the funeral and the wake, Justin had maintained such a proud and ... intractable air about him. Maybe he collapsed in misery once they were alone, but to his sister and everyone else, he was the picture of grace and strength. And no matter how unkind or cutting his father was, Justin defiantly lifted that chin of his and stared his father down with cold, hard eyes; letting that asshole know he wouldn't be broken. Dan had been in awe of Justin.

But Brian Kinney need only lift an inquisitive eyebrow at the kid, and Justin crumbled in defeat. It just made no sense at all.

There wasn't time for Dan to dwell on the subject. Early morning rounds, a routine by-pass and one post-operative infection ensured his mind was only on the task at hand. It was late afternoon when he grabbed a sandwich from the cafeteria and headed up to his office to check his messages and e-mail.

He flipped to his e-mail first and scanned his inbox, stopping short when he came to an entry that read:

From: John Kundroh @ mgh.harvard.edu
Re: Teaching Position Approved

Dan stared at the e-mail without opening it for a good five minutes. John was the Chief of Cardiac Surgery at Massachusetts General, long considered one of the top five heart hospitals in the country, not to mention the largest teaching hospital affiliated with the Harvard Medical School.

They'd talked several times over the last few years about a new position John was trying to create there. The position he'd described would be the opportunity of a lifetime for the lucky surgeon picked for the job-the chance to build from the ground-up the most aggressive, state-of-the-art surgical education program in the country, and one that would be emulated by scores of other schools and hospitals for decades to come.

Hands suddenly sweaty, Dan clicked twice to open the e-mail. It read simply Green light finally. Call me between two and four this afternoon.

Dan checked the clock-it was 2:34. He wasted no time dialing John's office.

"Daniel Forrester! I haven't even gotten the return receipt saying you read my e-mail!"

Dan laughed along with his colleague. "You know me, John. Cool and collected all the way."

They exchanged pleasantries, then John got down to business. "I've got two pieces of news for you. We just finished setting the speakers for the Nassau convention and you're on for Thursday morning. Call Cindy sometime next week and she'll arrange your travel."

Dan gave an inward whoop. "Fantastic," he said. "Not that Pittsburgh isn't charming this time of year, of course."

"Of course," John agreed. "Okay, here's the news you really want to hear. I got the okay to hire a chief of cardiac surgery education. We want to have the positional installed by June at the latest so we'll have the summer to prepare."

"And..." Dan led him further, and they both laughed.

"And... I'd like to invite you to apply."

Dan bowed his head and pumped his fist in victory. "Excellent," he said. "This is great news. God, John, just great."

"It's a short list, Dan. You, Carlos Arroyo, Lyle Burton, and Jan Barnes. That's it."

"Impressive," Dan said.

"It is," John agreed. "This is a board decision, I'm only one voice even if it is my baby, so I don't want to make any promises or encourage any kind of false hopes, but I personally submitted your name. We've talked about it enough, you know where my head is, and I'm pretty sure I know where yours is. This is an amazing opportunity, but more than that it's right up your alley. Tailor-made for you. "

"Feels that way to me, too," Dan said with a laugh. "Carlos, Lyle and Jan probably think the same."

"Yeah, they probably do. Listen, we'll get into it in Nassau. You coming alone again or have you managed to rope some unsuspecting victim into tagging along?"

"Hadn't really thought about it," Dan answered vaguely, his mind already churning at a thousand miles an hour as he mulled the potential of what John was offering.

"Well Olga's found another one she thinks is perfect for you."

Dan groaned theatrically. "Isn't it enough that she has you to torture? Why bring little innocent me into things?"

"Personally, I appreciate her spreading the wealth," John said.

"I've begged her not to help me."

"I told you begging doesn't work. Caving in and doing her bidding is your only hope."

"Tell her thanks but..."

"Now Olga thinks you'll really hit it off with this one. He's...uh....well, frankly he's an idiot from what I've seen-he's the contractor in charge of the new addition we're putting on, and it's only dumb luck that he hasn't burnt the place down yet--but Olga says he looks like a young Harrison Ford so you probably won't mind that he's an idiot."

Dan chuckled and shook his head. "Tell Olga I wouldn't have recommended her for the board of the GMHC if I'd known she was just there to pimp for me."

"Duly noted. Consider it a fair warning of future harassment, though. We'll see you in Nassau in a few weeks then. Take care."

"You too, John. Bye."

Dan hung up the phone. His heart thundering. Jesus Christ. This was what if felt like to have the whole damn world offered up to you on a silver platter. The idea had seemed like such a pipe dream, even the last time he and John had discussed it. To have it laid out there for him. Jesus.

Skittering at the corner of Dan's mind was the thought that his life was slightly more complicated now than it had been that last time they'd talked, but...

Shit. Yeah. But.

Dan snorted derisively at the vagaries of fate. Last night he'd been troubled by the idea of Justin moving out, and now...

Now.

Shit.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Brian found that if he acted like the Knight Street coffee shop was simply a convenient place for him to drive 20 minutes first thing in the morning to purchase a $5.00 cup of coffee, then Justin would too. Justin didn't seem to be one for closely examining motives these days, so he took running into Brian every single day all week long as par for the course.

Brian kept the conversation light, refraining from discussions of Justin's education or career choices. He even managed to reign in most of his opinions regarding the illustrious Dr. Forrester and was rewarded with a Justin who grew chattier by the minute.

Still, a man could only change so much in so little time, and when Justin mentioned that he and Dan were going to Babylon that night, Brian let go with a surprised bark of laughter.

"What's so funny?" Justin asked.

Brian absolutely refused to believe that Justin didn't know what was so fucking funny, and he gave him a look that said Don't be so fucking obtuse.

Justin wordlessly answered with a defiant look that said, I'll be fucking obtuse if I want to, which only further amused Brian.

"Don't let him show up in bermudas, wearing Jesus sandals with socks," he advised.

"It's February," was all Justin said.

The past few days, Brian had merely stood over Justin for a brief chat before continuing on his way, but now he pulled out a chair and sat himself down. "Now what brought this on?" he asked. "Bravely venturing out into the thriving Pittsburgh night life? Inquiring minds, Sunshine."

Justin made a sour face at Brian's amusement and said, "You know, Dan may be reserved, but he's not as rigid as you think he is."

"On the contrary," Brian said, feigning offense at Justin's observation. "I always think of him as being extremely flaccid." He smiled sweetly and stood up to go, but not before pressing an affectionate kiss to Justin's forehead. He snickered when Justin shoved him aside. "See you tonight," Brian promised.

Once at the office, Brian sat back in his desk chair and stared out the window, mulling over what he'd learned so far about the present incarnation of Justin Taylor. In a nutshell, he was playing possum-trying to fend off another blow by being as invisible-as lifeless-as possible.

You could hardly fault him, except, of course, that Brian did. God damn it, fight harder, he thought, ignoring the Michael-voice in his head that said, Why should he have to?

Because was the only answer Brian could think of.

The night they'd met, Brian had asked Justin where he was headed, and Justin had said, "No place special." Brian had promised to change all that.

Brian leaned forward in his chair as a thought struck him. That's exactly what Justin was now rejecting.

Justin was embracing "no place special." Embracing it? He was fucking tongue kissing it for all he was worth.

Brian snorted derisively at the introspection. "Too fucking bad, Sunshine," Brian said softly. You're not fucking rotting away no place special. No more playing possum.

Brian remembered that once he and a kid from school had found a dead possum in the woods behind the kid's house. Well, they'd thought it was dead. Brian talked the kid into poking the carcass with a stick, and it had nearly taken the kid's arms off.

Hmm.

That was a really shitty analogy. Fuck it, he'd work on the analogy part later. Right now he had plans to make and a phone call to place, then he had to fucking get back to work. No way in hell he'd be working late tonight, not when there was a show to see at Babylon.

Brian made sure he was parked at the Babylon bar by 9:00 sharp, drawing some surprised stares from the regulars who knew a Brian Kinney appearance before eleven was a rare sight indeed.

Emmett and Ted had gamely agreed to come along, though that meant Brian had to endure Emmett's constant razzing about Dan and Justin: The Greatest Love Story Ever Told. Brian knew Emmett was baiting him, Emmett fucking knew Brian knew he was baiting him, but there was no way in hell Brian would give that God damned Honeycutt the fucking pleasure of telling him to knock it the fuck off, so he suffered in silence. Not exactly silence, per se. He had some choice comments about Emmett's ensem and the last few guys Em had fucked, but other than that he suffered silently.

He started snickering when Dan and Justin made their entrance at 9:10. Christ, the guy probably turned into a pumpkin at midnight.

Justin looked hot in cargo pants and a tight t-shirt, and even Danny Boy looked passable in black pants and solid black button-down. How very 2001, Brian thought.

It wasn't that Brian wouldn't fuck Dan (once). He wasn't fugly by any means, just... uninspiring. No wonder Justin wasn't drawing anymore. Dan as a fucking muse? Hardly.

Justin noticed them over by the bar and expertly led Dan through the less than thriving crowd. Small or not, the crowd still gave off a vibe that said, "Here comes the prodigal son." Even Dan picked up on it, and he warily turned his head left and right, eyeing the men who were eyeing his lover with recognition and something else. Expectation maybe? Dan probably wouldn't recognize it, but Brian sure did.

Emmett and Ted traded knowing looks before Emmett gave Brian a look that said, Behave. Brian had no idea what he could possibly be alluding too, so he ignored him in favor of a warm smile of welcome at Justin and Dan.

Dan greeted Ted first. "Hey, Bob!" he said, so enthusiastically he startled the man. Brian chortled into his drink, prompting Dan to turn to Justin in confusion.

"Ted," Justin corrected.

"They have beds here now?" Dan yelled over the music. "Don't you want to have a drink first?"

Only breeding and self-control kept Brian from doing a spit-take into the back of Ted's head while Justin snickered into Dan's neck. "No, his name is Ted."

"Oh! Shit. Sorry, Ted." Dan slapped him on the shoulder while Ted shrugged.

"What'll you have?" Brian asked.

"You buyin'?" Justin asked with a grin.

"Round One anyway," Brian said.

"Two Chivas Regal," Justin said, waggling his brows at Dan.

The drinks were served, Justin and Dan toasted Brian in thanks, then clanked their classes together and tossed the shots back.

Dan was looking around like a Midwestern farmer in the middle of Manhattan. Brian found himself doubting the man had ever seen a porn video in his life. His eyebrows shot through the roof at the go-go boys, dressed like Roman warriors for the evening. Brian wondered if Justin had told his lover about his own brief stint as a dancer. Probably another reason the great doctor saw himself as savior to the poor little waif.

Justin was trying to coax Dan into dancing, but the man demurred, saying he needed a stronger alcoholic base before giving it a go.

Tired of watching Justin fawn over his timid lover, Brian sidled up to Justin and said, "Guess who my newest client is?"

Justin made a show of thinking it over. "Pat Robertson?" he said.

Brian smirked at him. "Try again."

"Trojan?"

Brian laughed and bumped Justin with his shoulder. "You're a fucker, you know that?"

"So who is it?"

"Ari Simakis."

The name instantly registered with Justin, who gave a brief nod and starting looking around, as if searching for someone in the crowd. "Mutual friend?" Dan asked.

Justin snorted and shook his head. "Never met him," he said.

"He's an art dealer," Brian said, acting only mildly surprised at Dan's ignorance. "Owns a couple of galleries here and in Philadelphia. He likes to discover new artists and ride up with them."

Given Justin's feigned indifference and Brian's triumphant attitude, Dan knew there was more to the story, so he waited it out. When Justin refrained from asking for further details, Brian offered them anyway. "I showed him some of your stuff, and he said if you can produce five more pieces by June, he'll add you to the Young Artist's to Watch..."

Justin abruptly turned away from Brian and craned his neck, now looking for the bartender. "No thanks," he said. "I've got too much going on."

"Too much going on?" Brian echoed in disbelief. "What, Old Navy having a sale?"

Justin shrugged, growing frustrated at the disappearance of the servers, but Brian roughly turned him back around to face him. "Tell me," he ordered, giving Justin a shake. "Tell me what the fuck you think is more important than a show backed by Ari Fucking Simakis!"

Justin shoved Brian off him. "I already have a job! And a full fucking course load! And I don't want to be in a show backed by Ari Fucking Simakis, and that's all the fucking reason you get!"

"No," Brian said, refusing Justin's reason and his attitude. He closed his eyes for a second and sighed deeply. His hands were back on Justin's shoulders, a thumb absently caressing Justin's neck. "I am sorry your mom died," he said, and Justin's face grew almost comically confused. "I swear to God, if there was anything that could change it, I would do it or buy it or God damn fucking will it to happen, all right?" Justin's eyes filled with tears, and he tried to look away, but Brian wouldn't have it. He followed Justin's eyes, forcing him to keep looking at him. "And I am sorry that I fucked up. Do you hear that? Do you fucking hear what I'm saying?" He pulled Justin close to him and spoke right into his ear. "I'm sorry," he said again, and it felt to him like the words were more intimate, yelled over the thumping beat at Babylon, than any whisper could ever be. "But it's time to fucking wake up now. It's time to come back."

Justin gently disengaged himself, slowly shaking his head at Brian's words. "I'm where I want to be," he said.

"Right," Brian said. "You're where you want to be, being the best homosexual you can be. Is that right, Sunshine?"

The words struck a nerve, but Justin refused to be pulled into it.

"Where are you exactly?" Brian continued, moving in on Justin, his posture just shy of belligerent. "Who are you exactly. You tell me where the God damned fuck you are and see if I believe it's where you want to be!"

Emmett took mercy on Justin-or Dan or Brian; it was a tough call to tell which one of them-and pulled Justin out on the dance floor with him just as Dan turned to Brian and fumed, "God damn it, stop!"

"What?" Brian asked innocently.

"Riding him, picking at him, trying to make him feel like a failure because he's not living up to some idea of what you want him to be."

"Christ, how fuckin' rich is that? You think he's not who I want him to be?"

Dan disgustedly shook his head at Brian. "Leave him alone. He doesn't want to be in your fucking friend's little show, is that so hard for you to understand? "

"You wanna know what I don't understand? How you fucking stroll around like you don't have a fucking care in the world, meanwhile, Justin's so totally fucked up, he's going to throw away the fucking opportunity of a lifetime!"

"I'm sensing a pattern here," Dan said. "You, being the selfless humanitarian that you are, keep offering Justin these amazing opportunities of a lifetime, and he keeps turning them down. You know what? If I were you, I'd just quit offering them."

Now Brian shook his head at Dan, unable to fathom how some fucking first-rate surgeon could be such a useless idiot. "He is nowhere and nothing right now. And if you had any idea who he used to be you'd know how fucked up he has to be to accept the fucking shell he is."

Dan's eyes narrowed. "Who he used to be is the guy you dumped, Brian. If he doesn't want to be that guy anymore, it's hardly my fault."

Brian paused for just a minute, absorbing the blow. "Yeah well, one thing about me, Dan, I always fucking clean up my messes."

"He's not a mess!" Dan barked, then had a new idea and chuckled suddenly, giving Brian a knowing once-over. "And you can't stand it, can you? He's fucking fine, and that's what's driving you crazy."

Justin came bounding up to the bar then, sweating and grinning from ear-to-ear. He jumped up and down and pulled on Dan's arm. "Come dance with me!" he said.

Dan laughed and set his glass down. "I would, but then you won't love me anymore." He stared defiantly at Brian as he waited for Justin to say his line.

"Come on!" Justin urged. "You know I'll always love you, no matter what atrocities you commit on the dance floor!"

Dan made a pretense of judging Justin's sincerity, which Justin helped along by plastering an hideously angelic look on his face. They ended up laughing at each other. Dan kissed him and they headed out to the dance floor.

Brian almost laughed out loud. You think that's gonna put me off? We'll see who's standing at the end of it, Asshole.

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Having said nothing about his potential job change to Justin, Dan was itching to discuss it with Charlie, and they'd made plans to meet for breakfast Friday morning. Those plans had sounded better when he wasn't half-dead.

Half? More like three-quarters.

Justin had popped out of bed at seven. He had a meeting at work for a project then was going to work with some friends on a breakfast cereal account or something like that. Dan was concentrating on not dying so the details were a little jumbled.

Justin had offered to make his grandmother's patented hangover remedy, but then he'd started blithely naming off the ingredients until Dan offered him cash to stop it. Justin had checked Dan's wallet and called him a fuckin' tease.

Dan rolled over and squinted at Justin through one barely-opened eyed. "I followed through last night," he reminded Justin.

Justin had grinned at him, all boyish delight, and said, "Plus I won another free night of drinking from Brian when you didn't pull a bottle of anti-bacterial soap after we were done."

"You really get off on messing around back there?" Dan had asked.

Justin nodded. "I really do," he said. Fully clothed, Justin gently straddled Dan who was lying naked under the covers. "Don't even try to tell me you didn't like having me on my knees, sucking your cock in front of all those jealous queers," he said, rubbing his ass against Dan's hardening dick.

"That could have been the novelty of the public display," Dan tried, but Justin just laughed at him.

"Nope, that was all me. Worshipping at the alter of the Holy Daniel Forrester. And you loved it."

Daniel had smiled and brought Justin down for a kiss. He'd felt a momentary twinge of guilt at keeping the job prospect quiet, and it was that guilt more than anything that kept him from calling Charlie and canceling.

Of course, when he mooched into the diner, all Charlie wanted to talk about was whatever it was that had left Dan in his present condition.

"A dance club?" Charlie hooted when Dan gave him the basics. "And Justin didn't clue me in? I should have been there, God damn it!" Charlie imitated Dan's dancing, white-man's overbite and all.

"Shut up," Dan muttered darkly, while Charlie giggled. "I mean it. I have access to drugs that leave no trace, and I'm not afraid to use them."

"You at a dance club! Jesus, I would have paid thousands to see that. J has seriously let me down here. Would a phone call have killed him?"

"What can I say? He's got my back." Dan chugged the orange juice in front of him and motioned to the waitress for a refill, then he knocked back his coffee as well, coughing around the burn.

Charlie watched him in amusement. "I could've warned him about your two drink maximum. You can't hold your fucking liquor for shit, and you never could."

Dan glared at his brother. "I can hold my liquor just fine. Justin's asshole ex-boyfriend was trying to give me alcohol poisoning. He's such an idiot. Like being able to down half a bottle of scotch is a sign of virility or something?"

Charlie shrugged and seemed on the verge of suggesting the guy might be right, but Dan's glare held him back. "Jesus, this gets better and better. A night club, binge drinking, a pissing contest with an ex-boyfriend thrown into the mix. I don't think I've ever been prouder of you, Danny."

"His ex may have drunk me under the table, but he was as lame a dancer as I was, so I've got that going for me," Dan said.

That stumped Charlie for a few seconds. "I can't picture a world where another human being dances as horribly as you do."

"Yeah, well, the magnitude of his suck matched mine, believe me."

"Weird that Justin would hook up with both of you. What are the odds?"

Dan snickered. "You said it. Shit, you should have seen Justin on the dance floor. Every eye in the place was on his ass. You've gotta admit, his ass is amazing anyway, but when he shakes it to a beat..."

Charlie held up a hand to stop him. "Leave the dishy details for lunch with the girlfriends, won't you?"

Dan just shrugged at him and chugged his glass of water.

"So what in the hell possessed you to head out to a night club anyway? Trying to stay young for your boy toy?"

"No, it's not like that," Dan said. "We go out all the time..."

"Go out," Charlie scoffed. "Sitting around at some boring as fuck dinner party is hardly going out. And as fun as a dinner at Chez Forrester can be, that doesn't really qualify either."

"It's not like he's always trying to get me out to some club, you know. I thought he was over that scene."

"Probably felt frivolous after his mom died," Charlie guessed.

Dan nodded. "Probably. I thought he was starting to come back around, but something about reconnecting with the crowd he used to hang out with, and he's back in a funk again."

Charlie nodded, waiting until their breakfast plates had been set down before he said, "Well, maybe your "business" trip to the Bahamas will cheer him up, right?"

Dan said nothing, but his eyes unconsciously slid away from Charlie's for a beat, and that was enough. "What?" Charlie asked.

Dan shrugged and shook his head. "Just... probably not his thing is all."

Charlie snorted at that. "Right. Who in the hell wants beaches, blue skies and 85 degree temperatures after a beautiful Pittsburgh winter?" Charlie gave him the thumbs-up. "Good call, Bro."

Dan rolled his eyes. "It might not even coincide with his spring break, and even if it does, he's got work and...now that he's back with...well I don't know what the hell you call 'em, but he might not be able to get away."

Charlie shook his head with an incredulous laugh. "Even ole Kevvy managed to get away every year, and he would've fuckin' taken a shift at McDonalds if it meant two quarters to rub together. Believe me, Justin could find a way to fit an all expenses paid trek to the islands into his busy schedule."

"Kevin was not money grubbing. Why do you always..."

"Yes he was! He tried to charge me retail to program the registers at my first restaurant! What kind of fuckin' family loyalty is that?"

"We weren't even living together then!" Dan said indignantly. "And he had to ask a programmer from his office to help, you can't expect...God, forget it. I am not having this discussion with you again."

"All I'm sayin' is if Kevin made it his thing then Justin could too."

Dan was shaking his head again, studying the hash browns on his plate with far more interest than they deserved. "What would everyone think? I can just see August Burkholder's face. I didn't know you had a son, Daniel! And John and Olga Kundroh, staunch advocates that they are, wouldn't be quite so You're Here! You're Queer! if I traipse in with Justin on my arm. I'll probably be politely disinvited from interviewing at Mass Gen."

Charlie got quiet for a beat. "That teaching thing?" he asked.

Dan nodded. "It's a go. I'm on the short list with the John's backing. He's the chief of cardiac surgery." Dan shrugged his You do the math.

"I thought you were a lock for chief of cardiac surgery at Grant."

Dan sighed, slumping back in his chair. "Ed Moss is 52 years old. It's a good 13 years before the position opens up, and then I'll get a whopping 10 years or so myself? I don't want to tread water for that long." He leaned forward, hangover forgotten. "It's fucking Harvard, Charlie. The Holy Grail."

"And if Justin goes with you on vacation you won't fuckin' get the job?" Charlie obviously didn't believe it.

Dan wasn't even sure he believed it, but he tried to sound it out. "He's years younger than the residents in the program. The first three months I've got them, it's all about convincing them that they are brainless, unskilled twits until I train them to be otherwise. So then, what, I invite them over for a barbecue with Justin as the co-host?"

"What does one have to do with the other?" Charlie seemed more curious than devil's advocate.

"I'd lose all credibility. The ethics code forbids fucking around with a resident, but, hey, give me an undergrad, and I'm all over him!"

Finishing his eggs, Charlie washed them down with his last swig of coffee. "You're the worst combination of paranoia and ego I've ever seen. No one thinks about you nearly as much as you think they do."

"Most of them are barely tolerant of the gay thing, and then I show up with a kid who looks like he should be in a TV commercial for Tonka Trucks?" Dan said, incredulous himself at Charlie's easy dismissal of his concerns. "It feeds into every nasty stereotype they pretend not to have, and the bottom line is it just won't fly."

"Who's they?"

"God, Charlie, for once would you leave the left wing liberal semantics alone? You know what I mean."

Charlie obviously didn't think much of Dan's reasoning. He rolled his eyes as he stuffed the rest of his muffin in his mouth. "So, wait for him to graduate. He's got, what, another couple of semesters?"

"Right. Ask the board if they can hold the position for me while my lover finishes college? That oughta go over well."

Charlie shrugged and shook his head as he leaned back in his chair. "I thought things were good with you two."

"They are good," Dan said. "But we're sure as hell not there yet-not throwing in for the long-haul together kind of there. We haven't made plans like that. We haven't talked about anything like that."

Charlie laughed. "Jesus, you have no idea what you miss not fucking around with women. You two are livin' together for months, and you've never talked about The Future? You can't get two feet from a woman's bedroom without making up all this shit up about what's going to happen later. You got an amazing gig there."

Dan studied his brother over the rim of his coffee cup. "You know what's amazing is that every time you get divorced you sit here and shake your head and say you have no idea what happened."

Charlie offered another eye roll. "So do the long distance thing for awhile. He can join you when you're there."

Dan shrugged at that idea. He stared at the wall over Charlie's shoulder, thinking aloud. "I wouldn't hate 600 miles between Justin and Brian Kinney, that's for sure," he said darkly.

Charlie snorted. "We less Zen about the ex sniffin' around than we pretend?"

"Not the way you think," Dan said. "Justin is so blind when it comes to that guy. He makes Justin think he's weak and stupid and worthless and then he circles back around and says, 'Justin, you're so strong and smart!' and Justin buys it-he's all demoralized because the asshole is ragging on him, then he beams when the guy takes it back. It's infuriating."

"Well, sucks to be you all the way around these days, doesn't it?"

"If I do end up in Boston, I'm really going to miss these brotherly chats," Dan said dryly.

Charlie's smile was all sugary sweetness. "Uh huh. Me too."

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TOWJWAGABI, The REAL Part 6

Mon, 26 Apr 2004 00:11:07 GMT

Oh my GOD, I'm an idiot! I neglected to include a whole final part to this entry!

The additional part starts after Brian strolls out of the coffee shop.

DOH!

The One Where Justin's With Another Guy, and Brian Interferes, Part 6

For the duration of his run the next morning, Dan thought about the closing hours of the previous night. Justin had looked...incandescent out in front of the house, but strangely, once inside the well lit bedroom he seemed...dimmed.

Was messing around in front of their suburban neighbors really that much of a turn on? Justin had never really pushed that particular envelope before, not seriously anyway. At least, Dan had never considered that he was serious. Of all the issues facing them-like, say, the fact that Justin was still an undergrad, for God's sake-sex had never been on the list in Dan's mind.

Dan remembered the look on Justin's face when he'd walked through the door at Debbie's house. That was the look that had sealed his fate months ago. That first time Justin had smiled at him in the coffee shop, he'd felt something unfurl in his gut, a feeling of pleasure and want and warmth, and it was so God damned addictive, he should have turned tail and run right then.

But he'd wanted the feeling again. No matter what he told himself, no matter how often and how forcefully he reminded himself that he and Justin were just playing around, he kept seeking out that feeling... God, some days he was surprised his eyes didn't roll back in a show of ecstasy when Justin murmured, "Hey," in that low, breathy voice of his.

Though Dan would never say anything to Justin, there were times-well before he'd actually met Brian-that Dan could almost understand why Kinney performed his cut and run. Sometimes Dan felt so out of control about Justin, and that in and of itself was totally bizarre. It wasn't like Justin made any kind of demands on him; hell, sometimes it seemed like Justin barely had any expectations at all, and yet Dan still felt like it was all moving at a pace well beyond his ken. Sometimes he felt like he was caught in this endless cycle of needing Justin-need wasn't even the right word, it was a compulsion, he wanted, God, he wanted--Justin's feelings, his thoughts, his attention-whatever Dan was getting, he wanted more of it, and then he resented that need and then wanted all the more.

And Justin just seemed oblivious to it all-floating there just above the fray of hysteria and obsession, but then he'd look at Dan, give him that look and he had to know what it did to Dan. He couldn't wield that much power and not know it. It just wasn't possible.

Dan arrived back home sweaty and breathless and still unsettled by his thoughts. He quietly let himself in and trekked upstairs to shower.

Justin's first class was at ten on Mondays, but he was a light sleeper. Dan wasn't surprised when Justin stretched, rolled over and squinted up at him as he disrobed.

"What's it like outside?" Justin asked.

Dan leaned down and touched his nose to Justin's exposed shoulder, chuckling when Justin yelped and scooted away. "Cold," Dan answered. "Gray, depressing. Pittsburgh in February."

"Nice and warm in here," Justin said with a grin.

Dan sat down on the edge of the bed, a smile playing on his lips when Justin turned on his side and curled himself around Dan's back. Dan leaned down and kissed his cheek, smiling wider when Justin hummed in appreciation. "Sorry I was such a wet blanket," Dan said.

Eyes still closed, Justin wrinkled his nose in confusion. "What?"

"Last night," Dan said, shaking his head at the memory. "Outside. The driveway."

Justin rubbed his face into his pillow and chuckled. "I don't give a shit about that," he said. "I was just messing around."

"Well, I care," Dan said firmly. "God, I'm sick of being such a..." He paused, searching for the right word.

"Prude?" Justin suggested. Dan swatted him on the rear, though the covers absorbed most of the blow. Justin laughed. "Such a what then? Ninny? Girl? Ninny prudey girl? What?"

"Whatever," Dan said, deciding he preferred not actually labeling what he was exactly. "I was thinking...let's go to Babylon. I want to... mix things up a little."

Justin rolled over on his back. "You want to go to Babylon..." Justin had a look on his face like Dan just told him he wanted to dress in women's clothes...well, that wasn't an apt metaphor. Given the crowd they'd dined with the night before, Dan figured Justin would hardly bat an eye if he announced a move toward cross dressing. Justin buried his face in his pillow again and snickered.

"What?" Dan said, starting to bristle. "What's so funny about that?"

"It's not funny exactly," Justin said. "I just can't picture you at a dance club."

"Why?" Dan demanded. "I did not spring from the womb some uptight, button-down..."

Justin rushed to soothe his bruised ego. "You're amazing and smart and successful and athletic and... I think you're great. But..." Justin paused as he tried to articulate what was so odd about Dan heading out to a club. "Well, for one thing, you have got no rhythm at all. None. It's almost, like, a negative amount of rhythm... and then there's the idea of you..."

"Shut up," Dan said. "Look, it's your duty as my mid-life crisis' idealized object of romantic obsession to indulge these ridiculous notions of mine."

Justin groaned. "You are so full of shit."

"Are you saying I'm not having a mid-life crisis?"

"God, no. You're text book. The full of shit is in addition to that."

Dan took that as an agreement to go clubbing. "So, Thursday, Babylon. I'll take Friday off, so we're all set."

Justin started snickering again.

"What?"

"Nothing. You're just... you're a wild man, that's all. Planning your big night on the town four days in advance...taking the next day off work. I just hope I can keep up, that's all."

Dan laughed too, then groaned. "I'm hopeless, aren't I?"

Justin just shook his head and smiled at him. There it was, that feeling. Dan shook his head too, and snorted in amusement at his predictable self. He caressed Justin's smooth cheek with his thumb. "I meant to ask you last night what you and Debbie talked about. You looked upset when you came downstairs."

Justin sighed and closed his eyes, stretching out in a way that offered more skin for Dan's touch. "Not upset really," Justin said. "Just... sad. I told you how she and Vic took me in after I came out and my parents..."

"I remember."

"She reminded me that Mom had entrusted me to her once before, and those kind of deals never...expire." Justin smiled fondly. "Then we rehashed everything-the accident, the hospital, the funeral, the shit with my dad."

"Mmm. Sorry." Dan leaned down and nuzzled at Justin's neck.

"No, it wasn't bad. It felt...right. It seems really dumb now that I didn't call her. She was so disappointed that I didn't."

Dan briefly looked away, lips pursed in irritation. "You had enough on your plate, she shouldn't be blaming you for..."

"No, it wasn't like that," Justin said. "For Deb love really is a verb, you know? Not just a feeling. It's something she does. She wanted to make sure I knew she was still doing it to me."

"And this is a good thing?" Dan clarified, only half-joking.

Justin chuckled. "Yeah," he said, suddenly seeming shy of all things. He turned away from Dan's gentle stroking. "It is."

Dan sat there a moment longer, aware that the sentiment discomforted him, and he knew that was selfish and unseemly, but he couldn't help it.

At one point, early on, Dan figured Justin thought Dan was above going out with Justin's friends. Hell, going out with them-Dan had never even met any of them.

Even though he couldn't for the life of him picture himself hanging out with a bunch of college kids, Dan had hinted more than once that he was willing to put in the effort, especially given Justin's easy acceptance of Dan's friends and family. Justin had greeted Dan's suggestions with various reactions--from vague disinterest to irritation at Dan's repeated offers. Dan eventually dropped the subject, and he realized now that he'd gotten used to being the main player in Justin's life.

Gotten used to it. Right. How very pleasant and reasonable of him to have gotten used to it.

Okay, he liked it. Christ, liked. It was so much stronger than that. He coveted it; even worse, he'd grown to expect it.

Dan swiped his hand over his face. Real healthy attitude, there. With a sigh, he kissed Justin one last time. "Late night for me," he said softly. "Dinner meeting and then resident progress reports 'til ten."

Justin grinned. "Which means 'til midnight," he predicted. "Where's your dinner meeting? Want me to save a peanut butter and banana sandwich for you?"

With a laugh, Dan stood up and headed to the shower. "Rinaldi Steakhouse," he said. "I'll take a rain check on the sandwich."

"Mm. Call me if you get a break. I'll meet you at the coffee shop."

"Okay. It'll be after four if I can break way at all."

"Mm." Justin was drifting back to sleep, and Dan missed the luxury of waking up and lying around in bed for as long as they wanted. Friday morning seemed a long way off.

Dan showered and shaved, dressed and left for work, but for once, climbing into his flashy ode to success, he thought less of his accomplishments and more of those things which he had yet to achieve.

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Brian stood outside the coffee house on Knight Street for a few minutes before opening the door and heading in. He wasn't entirely sure what the fuck he was doing there. He may have experienced a little epiphany about his own frame of mind, but he had no sense of where Justin's head was.

We'll call this a little fact-finding mission.

Of course, there was every possibility that Justin wasn't even there, but Brian had faith in the Kinney luck, and he quickly spotted Justin's blond head bent over a text book. He was sitting in an overstuffed chair in a poorly lit corner of the shop. Still hiding our light under a bushel, Sunshine? Brian thought. He ordered a large cup of decaf and moseyed over to the fair-haired boy.

"Macroeconomics," Brian said, snatching the textbook out of Justin's grasp. "Now there's something every budding artistic genius should master."

"Brian? What are you doing here?" Justin squinted up at him in surprise.

"Well, I saw that there sign advertisin' coffee, and I thought I'd come in and see what all the hubbub was about."

Justin rolled his eyes at the sarcasm, then pointed at the book Brian still held. "Guess what? I'm a standout in Econ. I got a 59% on the last exam, and the professor suggested I consider a career in economics what with my obvious affinity for the subject. I thought, shit, this is why the economy is so fucked-the so-called experts only understand about half of what's going on."

"Long live the curve," Brian said.

"Amen," Justin answered, retrieving his book from Brian.

"So..." Brian diffidently began. "Now that Deb has clasped you to her more than ample bosom, I trust we'll be seeing more of you?"

Justin looked up again, his mystified expression turning teasing. "Brian?" he said slowly. "Are you checking up on me?"

"I'm just looking out for Deb," Brian replied, but he didn't hide his amusement in the face of Justin's knowing smile.

"I heard you last night, Master, loud and clear. I hear and obey."

Brian kicked Justin's foot. "Don't talk dirty if you can't follow through," he said pointedly.

"Can't or won't?" Justin clarified with a grin.

Brian sat down across from Justin. "Semantics don't matter if it all means my cock won't get sucked."

"Wow, there's a bumper sticker."

Brian snorted and took a sip of coffee, staring at Justin until the kid couldn't stand it and had to say something.

"You know, I always planned to come back around when I stopped being so fucking pissed at you, but..."

"But you never stopped being pissed?" Brian guessed, pouring on a look of such traumatized hurt that Justin could only laugh in response.

"I almost forgot the universe starts with you and travels outward from there."

Brian shrugged his acceptance of that call. "Being pissed at me goes a long way to explaining why you chucked the artist path for this new design thing you've got going."

Justin's demeanor instantly cooled. He didn't look up from his book, he barely even moved as he quietly replied. "I don't do anything because of how I feel or don't feel about you."

Brian leaned in close to him and just as quietly said, "Liar."

As Justin's face flushed bright red, Brian comically imagined the warning sirens of a diving submarine. Abort, abort, abort...

Right.

"My future is a way more secure with a design degree from CM. An entry level position at Merriman Shudd & Paul pays $65,000. Sixty-five fucking grand. I've sold two paintings in three years for a grand total of a hundred and fifty bucks. It's not too hard to do the math."

"Is this the kind of advice you get from that reactionary you're fucking? He must be god Damned dynamite in bed to put up with this crock of shit!"

"I told you once before not to say shit about Dan!"

"Heaven forbid," Brian said.

Justin glared darkly at him. "I fucking make my own decisions," he said. "There's nothing wrong with wanting the most marketable degree I can get."

Brian was stunned by Justin's dismissive attitude. Christ, it was one thing to be cajoled into changing his entire future, but he acted like he didn't even give a fuck about what he was losing. "What fucking load of bullshit did that asshole doctor feed you? Some fucking garbage about security and responsibility?" Brian said the words so derisively they might as well have been monogamy and marriage.

"Oh and you place so little value on financial security?" Justin said incredulously. "You want me to believe advertising was your fucking life's calling, and it's just a happy accident you pull in a fucking boatload of cash?"

"We're not talking about me. This is about you and what you want. You, Justin, not some cookie-cutter, Daddy Do-Good you think is the answer to your fucked up prayers!"

"It was my decision!" Justin jumped up and stood over Brian to angrily deliver his reply. "Mine! Jesus I look back at that stupid, naive fuck I used to be, and I want to puke! A fucking fine art degree from PIFA? What the fuck would I be fit for-drawing caricatures at art fairs and carnivals? That's fucking bullshit!"

Justin's raised voice attracted more than a few stares from curious patrons in the shop. Not only that, a two hundred and twenty-five pound no-neck came bounding up to Justin and laid a beefy hand on his shoulder. "Hey J, this guy botherin' you?" he asked.

Brian's jaw nearly dropped at the absurdity of some kid sticking his fucking nose in an obviously private conversation. "What the fuck are you gonna do?" Brian asked the kid. "Take me out back and teach me a lesson I won't soon forget?"

The hulk laughed good-naturedly at that. "Dude!" he said, "Come on! You're, like, a hundred! And, well, you're dressed like my grandmother! No offense."

"Oh none taken," Brian assured him, then gaped at Justin to ask is this guy for real?

"Hey, Chas. No, nothing's wrong. This is a friend of mine, Brian Kinney. Brian, this is Chas McNeill, Dan's nephew."

"Charmed," Brian said with a smirk.

Chas shrugged to find everything on the up and up. He slapped Justin on the shoulder and turned to go. "Yo, J, I'm not here, all right? I'm at study tables."

Justin chuckled. "All right," he said. "Fair warning, though--Dan's gonna be here in a few, and you know how he is."

"Oh man, thanks, Dude!" Chas called as he rejoined his friends.

"Chas is playing football for Michigan next year," Justin said conversationally to Brian.

"How lovely."

Chas' interruption helped reduce the charged atmosphere. They sat down, trading chagrinned looks with one another.

"PIFA grads get "regular" jobs," Brian said calmly. "Why not go back there and get the best of both fucking worlds?"

"If I'm getting a job in the business sector, a degree from CM looks a hell of a lot better than a degree from some flimsy art school."

Brian shook his head in utter disbelief. "You start dating a man your dad's age, and all a sudden you turn into your fucking father? That's fucked."

Justin grit his teeth, trying to keep his temper in check. "Dan has nothing to do with this. Is it that hard to believe that I could actually make a decision about my own life?"

"When the decision's this fucked up it is. You make smart, brave, fuckin' brilliant decisions not chicken shit, safety first crap like this!"

The backhanded compliment was lost on Justin. "I'm looking out for myself for once," he shot back. "I'm not going to be some starving artist just for the sake of some fucking teenager's unrealistic stupid ass dreams!"

"Oh right like that's your main concern?" Brian taunted. "I'm sure Granddaddy Warbucks will be happy to bankroll his blue-eyed baby boy!"

"Fuck you!" Justin said, the words delivered in a strangled whisper. "I learned my lesson about counting on anyone to fucking support my ass! I'm never, never gonna be stuck with no place to go the next time someone decides they're fuckin' done with me!"

It was hard to hear, but Brian knew it was as close to the truth as they'd been yet. Maybe Justin's decision wasn't a giant fuck you to Brian, but Brian was all over it nonetheless. Brian stared at the floor for a long time, then lifted his head and looked Justin straight in the eye. "So I guess I made the decision, didn't I?" he said and didn't even try to hide the flayed look on his face.

Justin looked stunned, but Brian wasn't sure if he was surprised to have revealed the truth to Brian or if he was surprised the truth had just been revealed to himself. "No!" Justin insisted. "God damn it! It was my decision." He didn't sound so sure now or so angry.

"You of all people know I am totally full of shit," Brian said, he leaned in close again, his intimate whisper his most effective means of convincing Justin he was sincere. "I fucked up at the end with you. You deserved better, all right? But to just trash everything you wanted... Justin, God, come on."

Justin frowned and dropped his head, staring blankly at the economics text in his hands.

Naturally, Dan waltzed through the door at that exact moment. So much for the Kinney luck.

Dan waved from the counter as he placed his order. After he was served, he smiled at Justin as he approached and offered his hand to Brian. "Brian. To what do we owe the pleasure?"

We? Like Brian had stopped by to pay the doctor a visit? As if.

Brian gestured with his coffee cup and huffed, saying, "Is my enjoying a cup of coffee really this confusing to people?"

Dan cheered a whatever with his own coffee cup. "How was school?" he asked Justin, taking the seat next to him and chastely patting his thigh.

Justin shrugged. "Good," he said absently.

Dan immediately took in Justin's subdued demeanor and cast a sharp glance in Brian's direction. Dan leaned to the side to catch Justin's eye. "You okay?" he asked.

Justin shook himself and smiled self-consciously, bumping Dan's shoulder with his own. "Mmm," he said. "You operate today?"

Dan nodded. "All morning. The guy weighed over 400 pounds. We had to strap two tables together to get him into the OR. His heart stopped twice; his kidneys are dicey. Post-op is going to be more time-intensive than the usual three patients. He's in terrible shape, but he'll pull through."

"Good," Justin said. He rubbed Dan's arm and placed a subtle kiss on his shoulder or maybe he was just wiping his runny nose-it was hard to tell. Brian couldn't help but roll his eyes.

Christ, all hail the conquering hero. He operates on some 12-ton whale, but he can't kiss his lover in a coffee shop.

Dan nodded his agreement. "Kind of makes me rethink the filet mignon at Rinaldi's," he said wryly.

"The offer of a peanut butter and banana sandwich waiting for you when you get home still stands," Justin said enticingly.

"I'll call you from the road and let you know," he said. No one said anything for a few beats. Dan stared at Brian as if waiting for him to explain his presence or take his leave, but fuck him. He was fucking there first. Finally, Dan cleared his throat and said, "Uh...dinner was great the other night. You'll have to thank Deb again for us the next time you see her."

Brian offered his most patronizing smile. "Justin will see her soon, he can tell her himself."

Dan didn't react much. Hell, he couldn't fucking peck Justin's cheek when they ran into each other, he probably wasn't going to make a scene with his lover's ex. Brian ducked his head and hid a smile, thinking that Justin had no problems making a scene with anybody. Brian wondered if word about their earlier display would get back to Uncle Dan via Bubba the Football Player. The honorable doctor would probably be horrified.

Justin gathered his books together and said, "I've got to get to class."

Dan looked at his watch. "Shit, sorry," he said. "I tried to get away sooner, but..."

"Oh that's okay," Brian interjected. "We know you're busy." It amused then twelve year old in Brian to think that Dan should have been at the shop when he got there.

Dan grabbed Justin's wrist as he stood to go. "You sure everything's okay?" he asked, casting an absurdly transparent glare Brian's way.

Justin's face softened, obviously touched by such overwhelming concern. "Yeah, it's fine," he said and God damned fucking blushed when the guy squeezed his wrist and gave his arm an affectionate shake. God damned fucking blushed.

Oh for fuck's sake, Brian thought. Pardon me while I disgorge an intestine.

Clearly throwing caution to the wind, Justin ran his hand through Dan's hair. "See you tonight," he said. He turned to go, but Brian nabbed the hem of his shirt and stopped him.

"Don't I get a good-bye?" he asked, eyes wide with humble curiosity.

"Good-bye," Justin grumped.

Brian slowly shook his head, pulling Justin closer. "I want a real good-bye," he said with a pout, and let go of Justin's shirt only to quickly grab the back of Justin's head and forcefully bring their mouths together for a loud, juicy kiss.

When he tried to shove his tongue down Justin's throat, Justin shoved him away with a huffy roll of his eyes. "Brian, Jesus," he said, and stomped off to class.

Brian lifted his eyebrow at Dan's sardonic expression and smiled with trademark Kinney conceit. "That's how the big boys do it," he said softly, the coffee shop having grown markedly more quiet than it had been moments earlier. He slowly ambled out the door and didn't have to look back to know every eye in the place was locked on his ass as he went.

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It was after midnight when Dan slipped in the door from the garage. He nearly jumped a foot when Justin said, "Hey." He was sitting at the kitchen table, school books neatly stacked to the side and the classifieds open before him.

"Hey," Dan said, bending over to plant an energetic kiss on Justin's mouth. He laughed at the taste of peanut butter. "Guess you weren't kidding about the sandwich, huh?" He looked around and sure enough, a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich was on the table next to an empty glass of milk.

Dan looked at the paper on the table but it was the apartment rental section, which made no sense. "What's this?" he asked, turning to the fridge to get a bottle of water.

Justin bit his bottom lip and said, "I think maybe it's time I looked for a place of my own."

Hand on the refrigerator door, Dan stopped cold. He let go and turned his head toward the table. "Why?"

Justin sighed and looked away. "We both know I wouldn't be living here if my mom hadn't..."

Dan stalked back to Justin, unable to let him finish. "J, where the hell is this coming from? Did somebody say something to you last night? Was Brian giving you shit about living here with me?"

"No!" Justin said, but the denial was so forceful and quick, Dan wasn't sure he bought it. "God damn it, no!" Justin cried. He buried his head in his hands. "If my dad hadn't been such a fucking dick about mom's condo, I would have..."

Dan ran his own hands through his hair and took a deep breath. "I thought we hashed all this out," he said. "Maybe you hadn't officially moved out of your mom's, but you were on your way out the door..."

"To my own place," Justin reminded him. "If I hadn't been such a fuckin' mess about everything..."

"Wrong. Okay, so, maybe if your dad hadn't been an unreasonable monster about selling the condo out from under you, you might have held onto the place, but this is where you would have lived. You know that. For all intents and purposes you were already here. Your mom wasn't being sarcastic when she invited us to brunch, J. She knew this is where you were."

"If I'd just hung out at my mom's more, maybe..."

"No," Dan said. "No, you are not going to do this. What the hell is going on? Where's your head, huh?"

Justin sighed again, shaking his head with such a lost, forlorn look on his face. Tears pooled in his eyes, refracting the light and making his pupils look enormous. "I think I fucked up some stuff," he finally whispered. "I don't know how to fix it."

Dan slowly sat down next Justin and laid his hand over Justin's. He picked it up and brought it to his lips for a gentle kiss. A tear slipped down Justin's cheek, and Dan swiped at it with his thumb. But even as he leaned over and kissed his lover, his thoughts were dark. God damn you, Brian Kinney. What the fuck do you think you're doing?

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TOWJWAGABI, Part 6

Sun, 25 Apr 2004 21:21:56 GMT

Part 6 is now complete!

The One Where Justin's With Another Guy, and Brian Interferes, Part 6

For the duration of his run the next morning, Dan thought about the closing hours of the previous night. Justin had looked...incandescent out in front of the house, but strangely, once inside the well lit bedroom he seemed...dimmed.

Was messing around in front of their suburban neighbors really that much of a turn on? Justin had never really pushed that particular envelope before, not seriously anyway. At least, Dan had never considered that he was serious. Of all the issues facing them-like, say, the fact that Justin was still an undergrad, for God's sake-sex had never been on the list in Dan's mind.

Dan remembered the look on Justin's face when he'd walked through the door at Debbie's house. That was the look that had sealed his fate months ago. That first time Justin had smiled at him in the coffee shop, he'd felt something unfurl in his gut, a feeling of pleasure and want and warmth, and it was so God damned addictive, he should have turned tail and run right then.

But he'd wanted the feeling again. No matter what he told himself, no matter how often and how forcefully he reminded himself that he and Justin were just playing around, he kept seeking out that feeling... God, some days he was surprised his eyes didn't roll back in a show of ecstasy when Justin murmured, "Hey," in that low, breathy voice of his.

Though Dan would never say anything to Justin, there were times-well before he'd actually met Brian-that Dan could almost understand why Kinney performed his cut and run. Sometimes Dan felt so out of control about Justin, and that in and of itself was totally bizarre. It wasn't like Justin made any kind of demands on him; hell, sometimes it seemed like Justin barely had any expectations at all, and yet Dan still felt like it was all moving at a pace well beyond his ken. Sometimes he felt like he was caught in this endless cycle of needing Justin-need wasn't even the right word, it was a compulsion, he wanted, God, he wanted--Justin's feelings, his thoughts, his attention-whatever Dan was getting, he wanted more of it, and then he resented that need and then wanted all the more.

And Justin just seemed oblivious to it all-floating there just above the fray of hysteria and obsession, but then he'd look at Dan, give him that look and he had to know what it did to Dan. He couldn't wield that much power and not know it. It just wasn't possible.

Dan arrived back home sweaty and breathless and still unsettled by his thoughts. He quietly let himself in and trekked upstairs to shower.

Justin's first class was at ten on Mondays, but he was a light sleeper. Dan wasn't surprised when Justin stretched, rolled over and squinted up at him as he disrobed.

"What's it like outside?" Justin asked.

Dan leaned down and touched his nose to Justin's exposed shoulder, chuckling when Justin yelped and scooted away. "Cold," Dan answered. "Gray, depressing. Pittsburgh in February."

"Nice and warm in here," Justin said with a grin.

Dan sat down on the edge of the bed, a smile playing on his lips when Justin turned on his side and curled himself around Dan's back. Dan leaned down and kissed his cheek, smiling wider when Justin hummed in appreciation. "Sorry I was such a wet blanket," Dan said.

Eyes still closed, Justin wrinkled his nose in confusion. "What?"

"Last night," Dan said, shaking his head at the memory. "Outside. The driveway."

Justin rubbed his face into his pillow and chuckled. "I don't give a shit about that," he said. "I was just messing around."

"Well, I care," Dan said firmly. "God, I'm sick of being such a..." He paused, searching for the right word.

"Prude?" Justin suggested. Dan swatted him on the rear, though the covers absorbed most of the blow. Justin laughed. "Such a what then? Ninny? Girl? Ninny prudey girl? What?"

"Whatever," Dan said, deciding he preferred not actually labeling what he was exactly. "I was thinking...let's go to Babylon. I want to... mix things up a little."

Justin rolled over on his back. "You want to go to Babylon..." Justin had a look on his face like Dan just told him he wanted to dress in women's clothes...well, that wasn't an apt metaphor. Given the crowd they'd dined with the night before, Dan figured Justin would hardly bat an eye if he announced a move toward cross dressing. Justin buried his face in his pillow again and snickered.

"What?" Dan said, starting to bristle. "What's so funny about that?"

"It's not funny exactly," Justin said. "I just can't picture you at a dance club."

"Why?" Dan demanded. "I did not spring from the womb some uptight, button-down..."

Justin rushed to soothe his bruised ego. "You're amazing and smart and successful and athletic and... I think you're great. But..." Justin paused as he tried to articulate what was so odd about Dan heading out to a club. "Well, for one thing, you have got no rhythm at all. None. It's almost, like, a negative amount of rhythm... and then there's the idea of you..."

"Shut up," Dan said. "Look, it's your duty as my mid-life crisis' idealized object of romantic obsession to indulge these ridiculous notions of mine."

Justin groaned. "You are so full of shit."

"Are you saying I'm not having a mid-life crisis?"

"God, no. You're text book. The full of shit is in addition to that."

Dan took that as an agreement to go clubbing. "So, Thursday, Babylon. I'll take Friday off, so we're all set."

Justin started snickering again.

"What?"

"Nothing. You're just... you're a wild man, that's all. Planning your big night on the town four days in advance...taking the next day off work. I just hope I can keep up, that's all."

Dan laughed too, then groaned. "I'm hopeless, aren't I?"

Justin just shook his head and smiled at him. There it was, that feeling. Dan shook his head too, and snorted in amusement at his predictable self. He caressed Justin's smooth cheek with his thumb. "I meant to ask you last night what you and Debbie talked about. You looked upset when you came downstairs."

Justin sighed and closed his eyes, stretching out in a way that offered more skin for Dan's touch. "Not upset really," Justin said. "Just... sad. I told you how she and Vic took me in after I came out and my parents..."

"I remember."

"She reminded me that Mom had entrusted me to her once before, and those kind of deals never...expire." Justin smiled fondly. "Then we rehashed everything-the accident, the hospital, the funeral, the shit with my dad."

"Mmm. Sorry." Dan leaned down and nuzzled at Justin's neck.

"No, it wasn't bad. It felt...right. It seems really dumb now that I didn't call her. She was so disappointed that I didn't."

Dan briefly looked away, lips pursed in irritation. "You had enough on your plate, she shouldn't be blaming you for..."

"No, it wasn't like that," Justin said. "For Deb love really is a verb, you know? Not just a feeling. It's something she does. She wanted to make sure I knew she was still doing it to me."

"And this is a good thing?" Dan clarified, only half-joking.

Justin chuckled. "Yeah," he said, suddenly seeming shy of all things. He turned away from Dan's gentle stroking. "It is."

Dan sat there a moment longer, aware that the sentiment discomforted him, and he knew that was selfish and unseemly, but he couldn't help it.

At one point, early on, Dan figured Justin thought Dan was above going out with Justin's friends. Hell, going out with them-Dan had never even met any of them.

Even though he couldn't for the life of him picture himself hanging out with a bunch of college kids, Dan had hinted more than once that he was willing to put in the effort, especially given Justin's easy acceptance of Dan's friends and family. Justin had greeted Dan's suggestions with various reactions--from vague disinterest to irritation at Dan's repeated offers. Dan eventually dropped the subject, and he realized now that he'd gotten used to being the main player in Justin's life.

Gotten used to it. Right. How very pleasant and reasonable of him to have gotten used to it.

Okay, he liked it. Christ, liked. It was so much stronger than that. He coveted it; even worse, he'd grown to expect it.

Dan swiped his hand over his face. Real healthy attitude, there. With a sigh, he kissed Justin one last time. "Late night for me," he said softly. "Dinner meeting and then resident progress reports 'til ten."

Justin grinned. "Which means 'til midnight," he predicted. "Where's your dinner meeting? Want me to save a peanut butter and banana sandwich for you?"

With a laugh, Dan stood up and headed to the shower. "Rinaldi Steakhouse," he said. "I'll take a rain check on the sandwich."

"Mm. Call me if you get a break. I'll meet you at the coffee shop."

"Okay. It'll be after four if I can break way at all."

"Mm." Justin was drifting back to sleep, and Dan missed the luxury of waking up and lying around in bed for as long as they wanted. Friday morning seemed a long way off.

Dan showered and shaved, dressed and left for work, but for once, climbing into his flashy ode to success, he thought less of his accomplishments and more of those things which he had yet to achieve.

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Brian stood outside the coffee house on Knight Street for a few minutes before opening the door and heading in. He wasn't entirely sure what the fuck he was doing there. He may have experienced a little epiphany about his own frame of mind, but he had no sense of where Justin's head was.

We'll call this a little fact-finding mission.

Of course, there was every possibility that Justin wasn't even there, but Brian had faith in the Kinney luck, and he quickly spotted Justin's blond head bent over a text book. He was sitting in an overstuffed chair in a poorly lit corner of the shop. Still hiding our light under a bushel, Sunshine? Brian thought. He ordered a large cup of decaf and moseyed over to the fair-haired boy.

"Macroeconomics," Brian said, snatching the textbook out of Justin's grasp. "Now there's something every budding artistic genius should master."

"Brian? What are you doing here?" Justin squinted up at him in surprise.

"Well, I saw that there sign advertisin' coffee, and I thought I'd come in and see what all the hubbub was about."

Justin rolled his eyes at the sarcasm, then pointed at the book Brian still held. "Guess what? I'm a standout in Econ. I got a 59% on the last exam, and the professor suggested I consider a career in economics what with my obvious affinity for the subject. I thought, shit, this is why the economy is so fucked-the so-called experts only understand about half of what's going on."

"Long live the curve," Brian said.

"Amen," Justin answered, retrieving his book from Brian.

"So..." Brian diffidently began. "Now that Deb has clasped you to her more than ample bosom, I trust we'll be seeing more of you?"

Justin looked up again, his mystified expression turning teasing. "Brian?" he said slowly. "Are you checking up on me?"

"I'm just looking out for Deb," Brian replied, but he didn't hide his amusement in the face of Justin's knowing smile.

"I heard you last night, Master, loud and clear. I hear and obey."

Brian kicked Justin's foot. "Don't talk dirty if you can't follow through," he said pointedly.

"Can't or won't?" Justin clarified with a grin.

Brian sat down across from Justin. "Semantics don't matter if it all means my cock won't get sucked."

"Wow, there's a bumper sticker."

Brian snorted and took a sip of coffee, staring at Justin until the kid couldn't stand it and had to say something.

"You know, I always planned to come back around when I stopped being so fucking pissed at you, but..."

"But you never stopped being pissed?" Brian guessed, pouring on a look of such traumatized hurt that Justin could only laugh in response.

"I almost forgot the universe starts with you and travels outward from there."

Brian shrugged his acceptance of that call. "Being pissed at me goes a long way to explaining why you chucked the artist path for this new design thing you've got going."

Justin's demeanor instantly cooled. He didn't look up from his book, he barely even moved as he quietly replied. "I don't do anything because of how I feel or don't feel about you."

Brian leaned in close to him and just as quietly said, "Liar."

As Justin's face flushed bright red, Brian comically imagined the warning sirens of a diving submarine. Abort, abort, abort...

Right.

"My future is a way more secure with a design degree from CM. An entry level position at Merriman Shudd & Paul pays $65,000. Sixty-five fucking grand. I've sold two paintings in three years for a grand total of a hundred and fifty bucks. It's not too hard to do the math."

"Is this the kind of advice you get from that reactionary you're fucking? He must be god Damned dynamite in bed to put up with this crock of shit!"

"I told you once before not to say shit about Dan!"

"Heaven forbid," Brian said.

Justin glared darkly at him. "I fucking make my own decisions," he said. "There's nothing wrong with wanting the most marketable degree I can get."

Brian was stunned by Justin's dismissive attitude. Christ, it was one thing to be cajoled into changing his entire future, but he acted like he didn't even give a fuck about what he was losing. "What fucking load of bullshit did that asshole doctor feed you? Some fucking garbage about security and responsibility?" Brian said the words so derisively they might as well have been monogamy and marriage.

"Oh and you place so little value on financial security?" Justin said incredulously. "You want me to believe advertising was your fucking life's calling, and it's just a happy accident you pull in a fucking boatload of cash?"

"We're not talking about me. This is about you and what you want. You, Justin, not some cookie-cutter, Daddy Do-Good you think is the answer to your fucked up prayers!"

"It was my decision!" Justin jumped up and stood over Brian to angrily deliver his reply. "Mine! Jesus I look back at that stupid, naive fuck I used to be, and I want to puke! A fucking fine art degree from PIFA? What the fuck would I be fit for-drawing caricatures at art fairs and carnivals? That's fucking bullshit!"

Justin's raised voice attracted more than a few stares from curious patrons in the shop. Not only that, a two hundred and twenty-five pound no-neck came bounding up to Justin and laid a beefy hand on his shoulder. "Hey J, this guy botherin' you?" he asked.

Brian's jaw nearly dropped at the absurdity of some kid sticking his fucking nose in an obviously private conversation. "What the fuck are you gonna do?" Brian asked the kid. "Take me out back and teach me a lesson I won't soon forget?"

The hulk laughed good-naturedly at that. "Dude!" he said, "Come on! You're, like, a hundred! And, well, you're dressed like my grandmother! No offense."

"Oh none taken," Brian assured him, then gaped at Justin to ask is this guy for real?

"Hey, Chas. No, nothing's wrong. This is a friend of mine, Brian Kinney. Brian, this is Chas McNeill, Dan's nephew."

"Charmed," Brian said with a smirk.

Chas shrugged to find everything on the up and up. He slapped Justin on the shoulder and turned to go. "Yo, J, I'm not here, all right? I'm at study tables."

Justin chuckled. "All right," he said. "Fair warning, though--Dan's gonna be here in a few, and you know how he is."

"Oh man, thanks, Dude!" Chas called as he rejoined his friends.

"Chas is playing football for Michigan next year," Justin said conversationally to Brian.

"How lovely."

Chas' interruption helped reduce the charged atmosphere. They sat down, trading chagrinned looks with one another.

"PIFA grads get "regular" jobs," Brian said calmly. "Why not go back there and get the best of both fucking worlds?"

"If I'm getting a job in the business sector, a degree from CM looks a hell of a lot better than a degree from some flimsy art school."

Brian shook his head in utter disbelief. "You start dating a man your dad's age, and all a sudden you turn into your fucking father? That's fucked."

Justin grit his teeth, trying to keep his temper in check. "Dan has nothing to do with this. Is it that hard to believe that I could actually make a decision about my own life?"

"When the decision's this fucked up it is. You make smart, brave, fuckin' brilliant decisions not chicken shit, safety first crap like this!"

The backhanded compliment was lost on Justin. "I'm looking out for myself for once," he shot back. "I'm not going to be some starving artist just for the sake of some fucking teenager's unrealistic stupid ass dreams!"

"Oh right like that's your main concern?" Brian taunted. "I'm sure Granddaddy Warbucks will be happy to bankroll his blue-eyed baby boy!"

"Fuck you!" Justin said, the words delivered in a strangled whisper. "I learned my lesson about counting on anyone to fucking support my ass! I'm never, never gonna be stuck with no place to go the next time someone decides they're fuckin' done with me!"

It was hard to hear, but Brian knew it was as close to the truth as they'd been yet. Maybe Justin's decision wasn't a giant fuck you to Brian, but Brian was all over it nonetheless. Brian stared at the floor for a long time, then lifted his head and looked Justin straight in the eye. "So I guess I made the decision, didn't I?" he said and didn't even try to hide the flayed look on his face.

Justin looked stunned, but Brian wasn't sure if he was surprised to have revealed the truth to Brian or if he was surprised the truth had just been revealed to himself. "No!" Justin insisted. "God damn it! It was my decision." He didn't sound so sure now or so angry.

"You of all people know I am totally full of shit," Brian said, he leaned in close again, his intimate whisper his most effective means of convincing Justin he was sincere. "I fucked up at the end with you. You deserved better, all right? But to just trash everything you wanted... Justin, God, come on."

Justin frowned and dropped his head, staring blankly at the economics text in his hands.

Naturally, Dan waltzed through the door at that exact moment. So much for the Kinney luck.

Dan waved from the counter as he placed his order. After he was served, he smiled at Justin as he approached and offered his hand to Brian. "Brian. To what do we owe the pleasure?"

We? Like Brian had stopped by to pay the doctor a visit? As if.

Brian gestured with his coffee cup and huffed, saying, "Is my enjoying a cup of coffee really this confusing to people?"

Dan cheered a whatever with his own coffee cup. "How was school?" he asked Justin, taking the seat next to him and chastely patting his thigh.

Justin shrugged. "Good," he said absently.

Dan immediately took in Justin's subdued demeanor and cast a sharp glance in Brian's direction. Dan leaned to the side to catch Justin's eye. "You okay?" he asked.

Justin shook himself and smiled self-consciously, bumping Dan's shoulder with his own. "Mmm," he said. "You operate today?"

Dan nodded. "All morning. The guy weighed over 400 pounds. We had to strap two tables together to get him into the OR. His heart stopped twice; his kidneys are dicey. Post-op is going to be more time-intensive than the usual three patients. He's in terrible shape, but he'll pull through."

"Good," Justin said. He rubbed Dan's arm and placed a subtle kiss on his shoulder or maybe he was just wiping his runny nose-it was hard to tell. Brian couldn't help but roll his eyes.

Christ, all hail the conquering hero. He operates on some 12-ton whale, but he can't kiss his lover in a coffee shop.

Dan nodded his agreement. "Kind of makes me rethink the filet mignon at Rinaldi's," he said wryly.

"The offer of a peanut butter and banana sandwich waiting for you when you get home still stands," Justin said enticingly.

"I'll call you from the road and let you know," he said. No one said anything for a few beats. Dan stared at Brian as if waiting for him to explain his presence or take his leave, but fuck him. He was fucking there first. Finally, Dan cleared his throat and said, "Uh...dinner was great the other night. You'll have to thank Deb again for us the next time you see her."

Brian offered his most patronizing smile. "Justin will see her soon, he can tell her himself."

Dan didn't react much. Hell, he couldn't fucking peck Justin's cheek when they ran into each other, he probably wasn't going to make a scene with his lover's ex. Brian ducked his head and hid a smile, thinking that Justin had no problems making a scene with anybody. Brian wondered if word about their earlier display would get back to Uncle Dan via Bubba the Football Player. The honorable doctor would probably be horrified.

Justin gathered his books together and said, "I've got to get to class."

Dan looked at his watch. "Shit, sorry," he said. "I tried to get away sooner, but..."

"Oh that's okay," Brian interjected. "We know you're busy." It amused then twelve year old in Brian to think that Dan should have been at the shop when he got there.

Dan grabbed Justin's wrist as he stood to go. "You sure everything's okay?" he asked, casting an absurdly transparent glare Brian's way.

Justin's face softened, obviously touched by such overwhelming concern. "Yeah, it's fine," he said and God damned fucking blushed when the guy squeezed his wrist and gave his arm an affectionate shake. God damned fucking blushed.

Oh for fuck's sake, Brian thought. Pardon me while I disgorge an intestine.

Clearly throwing caution to the wind, Justin ran his hand through Dan's hair. "See you tonight," he said. He turned to go, but Brian nabbed the hem of his shirt and stopped him.

"Don't I get a good-bye?" he asked, eyes wide with humble curiosity.

"Good-bye," Justin grumped.

Brian slowly shook his head, pulling Justin closer. "I want a real good-bye," he said with a pout, and let go of Justin's shirt only to quickly grab the back of Justin's head and forcefully bring their mouths together for a loud, juicy kiss.

When he tried to shove his tongue down Justin's throat, Justin shoved him away with a huffy roll of his eyes. "Brian, Jesus," he said, and stomped off to class.

Brian lifted his eyebrow at Dan's sardonic expression and smiled with trademark Kinney conceit. "That's how the big boys do it," he said softly, the coffee shop having grown markedly more quiet than it had been moments earlier. He slowly ambled out the door and didn't have to look back to know every eye in the place was locked on his ass as he went.

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It was after midnight when Dan slipped in the door from the garage. He nearly jumped a foot when Justin said, "Hey." He was sitting at the kitchen table, school books neatly stacked to the side and the classifieds open before him.

"Hey," Dan said, bending over to plant an energetic kiss on Justin's mouth. He laughed at the taste of peanut butter. "Guess you weren't kidding about the sandwich, huh?" He looked around and sure enough, a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich was on the table next to an empty glass of milk.

Dan looked at the paper on the table but it was the apartment rental section, which made no sense. "What's this?" he asked, turning to the fridge to get a bottle of water.

Justin bit his bottom lip and said, "I think maybe it's time I looked for a place of my own."

Hand on the refrigerator door, Dan stopped cold. He let go and turned his head toward the table. "Why?"

Justin sighed and looked away. "We both know I wouldn't be living here if my mom hadn't..."

Dan stalked back to Justin, unable to let him finish. "J, where the hell is this coming from? Did somebody say something to you last night? Was Brian giving you shit about living here with me?"

"No!" Justin said, but the denial was so forceful and quick, Dan wasn't sure he bought it. "God damn it, no!" Justin cried. He buried his head in his hands. "If my dad hadn't been such a fucking dick about mom's condo, I would have..."

Dan ran his own hands through his hair and took a deep breath. "I thought we hashed all this out," he said. "Maybe you hadn't officially moved out of your mom's, but you were on your way out the door..."

"To my own place," Justin reminded him. "If I hadn't been such a fuckin' mess about everything..."

"Wrong. Okay, so, maybe if your dad hadn't been an unreasonable monster about selling the condo out from under you, you might have held onto the place, but this is where you would have lived. You know that. For all intents and purposes you were already here. Your mom wasn't being sarcastic when she invited us to brunch, J. She knew this is where you were."

"If I'd just hung out at my mom's more, maybe..."

"No," Dan said. "No, you are not going to do this. What the hell is going on? Where's your head, huh?"

Justin sighed again, shaking his head with such a lost, forlorn look on his face. Tears pooled in his eyes, refracting the light and making his pupils look enormous. "I think I fucked up some stuff," he finally whispered. "I don't know how to fix it."

Dan slowly sat down next Justin and laid his hand over Justin's. He picked it up and brought it to his lips for a gentle kiss. A tear slipped down Justin's cheek, and Dan swiped at it with his thumb. But even as he leaned over and kissed his lover, his thoughts were dark. God damn you, Brian Kinney. What the fuck do you think you're doing?

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TOWJWAGABI, Part 5

Sun, 18 Apr 2004 19:24:12 GMT

Here's a tiny, tiny Part 5. Everything up to (and including) Part 5 has been exposition. I think I know what happens from here on in, but it's not totally choreographed, so it might be awhile before Part 6 is posted.

The One Where Justin's With Another Guy, and Brian Interferes, Part 5

Sunday night sex was for shit.

Justin used to think something about pasta and tomato sauce made Brian horny, because they'd come home from the weekly dinner at Deb's, and Brian would just fuck the hell out of him. It wasn't Deb's carb overload that did it--Brian was just pleased to get a decent Sunday lay for once in his life.

For as long as Brian had been trolling bath houses and bars, it never failed to amaze him how fucking inept the Sunday night crowds were. What the fuck? He was out and about, why the fuck couldn't fags with a modicum of talent clear a little space on their Sunday night calendar? So fucking what if the work week started bright and early Monday morning? Was there some law that said all mamma's gay boys had to be tucked in bed by 10:00? Fuckin' all gay mammas' boys--that was the fuckin' problem with Pitts-fuckin'-burgh.

Fuckers.

After Justin's triumphant return to the fold, with good old Dan in tow, Brian had gone to the baths. His flashes of brilliance were often encouraged by his dick warmly ensconced in a willing mouth or a tight ass, and he'd been looking for a little inspiration after Justin's homecoming.

Brian rarely found himself uncertain and indecisive. Hamlet he most definitely was not. But ever since running into Justin so unexpectedly, he'd been incapable of deciding what had to be done. For once, he didn't know what was best for Justin. Shit, he didn't know what was best for him. That never fucking happened.

Back at home after suffering through one sub-par performance after another, Brian helped himself to a brand new bottle of Beam. He roamed around his refurbished loft, too antsy to light anywhere.

The idea of Justin enduring the loss of his mother without him to run interference, to make necessary decisions, to handle all the details...Jesus, every time it crossed Brian's mind, it fucking galled him beyond reason. He couldn't stand it, just God damned couldn't fucking stand it.

And now to find out that Justin had all but abandoned the artist's career he'd fought so hard for...

Fuck.

This was exactly what he'd been trying to avoid; this fucking...caring, this fucking giving a shit what that kid did and thought and felt and wanted. What a crock of shit!

Before that stupid little shit bulldozed his way in, Brian had made himself a life centered around whatever fucking hedonistic impulse hit next, and he'd loved it. There wasn't a fucking fag within a hundred mile radius who didn't want his fucking life-his money, his looks, his job, his prowess-not a fuckin' fag anywhere. He was a God damned Liberty Avenue legend, and he fucking loved it.

But then, there was this one, five minute blip where he was bored, and the scene felt lame and a little too desperate, and at four minutes, fifty-nine seconds and counting, Justin Taylor sashayed his untouched ass under that God damned streetlight and everything, every fucking thing that was perfectly in place, suddenly got bombed to kingdom come.

Way to go, Sunshine.

And all of it, every last fucking bit of it, had happened in spite of any fucking thing Brian had ever done. The whole time, he'd stood there politely saying, "No. No. No. Fuck no." But Justin just kept coming. And every fucking time Brian booted him out, he fucking found his way right back there over and over again. But not because of anything Brian had ever done. He'd never lifted a fucking finger to get Justin there. Okay, fine, at some point, his vigorous no's morphed into half-hearted whatever's, but that's as much as he ever caved.

Because he hadn't wanted any of it. He hadn't wanted that fucking faux-hetero couplehood crap that ruined everyone's fucking life and made them dependent and caged and miserable and old and fat and fuckin-ass ugly as shit. He hadn't wanted any of it, God damn it, not any of it.

Except. Justin.

He'd wanted Justin.

"And there you have it," Brian said aloud, cheering his reflection in the darkened floor-to-ceiling windows. "The truth that dare not speak its name has finally been spoken." He started restlessly roaming around the room again, looking around with feigned curiosity. "Whaddya know? No opening of the gates of hell, no locusts, no cats and dogs living together. Kinda anti-climatic. I'm disappointed, frankly."

Yeah, there it was. He'd wanted Justin. Alert the media.

Fuck. Just admit it. He wanted Justin.

Still. Now. Right fucking now.

Jesus Christ.

"It's possible," Brian told his reflection, "There's a slight chance that I may have fucked up. Sort of. Perhaps."

Well, he was no stranger to fucking up. He pretty much had fucking up down to an art form, so his atonement efforts had been well honed over the years. Of course, getting Michael to forgive him for shit was about as difficult as blinking. And to get everyone else off his back, all he usually had to do was throw some cash around.

This whole pile of shit was totally different. His natural inclination was just to grab Justin by the scruff of his neck, throw him in the car and say, "Fuck what I said before, we're starting over."

That probably wasn't how these things went.

And anyway, how the fuck was he going to put everything back together again with that fucking doctor in the picture? That fucking asshole doctor-oh wait, pardon, that fucking asshole surgeon--fucking waltzing around like his shit was lemon-scented, like he was fucking owed some kind of celebration for sticking with Justin through all the shit of his mother dying, God damn it, Brian wanted to fucking puke. What an overblown shithead. Christ and on top of that, he had the charisma of a fuckin' chair. He made Michael look like some kind of fucking daredevil. Brian would fucking call Ted for a night on the town before he'd ever saddle himself with such a tedious bore.

Jesus, he could just see Justin caring about hurting the fucker, worrying about the asshole's feelings.

Luckily, none of the family would put up much of a fuss if Justin happened to...reevaluate his relationship. Reviews of the doctor had come in exactly along the lines Brian had predicted.

"Oh my God, can you say besotted?" Melanie had said as soon as Justin trotted out to his car. "Lookin' at Justin, you'd think that guy cured polio and invented penicillin..."

"While bringing about world peace and an end to poverty!" Vic had added with amusement. "I think it's sweet."

"Nauseatingly," Brian had agreed with a smirk.

"He seemed nice," Michael had said, almost grudgingly. "Kind of full of himself, though, wasn't he?"

"Justin obviously goes for type," Ted had said.

"How does he keep landing all these rich fuckers?" Hunter had wondered aloud. "My ass is as good as his, and I'm shillin' fuckin' comic books for 5.15 an hour! What the fuck?" Michael smacked him on back of the head, to which Hunter had cried, "MA!"

"I thought he seemed very loving toward Justin," Lindsay had said. "He was so proud of how well Justin's doing in school..."

"Well, yeah," Michael agreed. "But he acted like he had somethin' to do with it. I mean, Justin was on the Dean's list at PIFA every semester, so it's not like he all of a sudden got all smart because he's goin' out with some doctor."

"Surgeon," Ben and Emmett corrected in unison.

"All right, that's enough!" Deb said, playing the part of grand dame. "The guy was fine. Old, but fine. I'll grill him the next time they come over for dinner, then we'll know if he's a keeper or not."

It had made Brian chuckle inwardly that Deb was already taking over her role as Justin's surrogate mommy. And somehow, Brian didn't think Dan would get too far with her. He was too much bullshit, and Deb didn't suffer bullshitters. Not gladly anyway.

Brian bet Jennifer fucking ate the asshole up, though. Fuck the fact that the guy went to med school back before electricity was all the rage, Jennifer must have loved the son of a bitch; fucking creamed herself over his WASPy, genteel, rich as fuck, Forrester family credentials. No doubt that was all the pedigree Jennifer needed from the asshole fucking her baby boy.

Shit, if Justin had marched into Frankenstein's lab and ordered the fucking anti-Kinney, Doctor Daniel Forrester would have been the result. "Make him extra fucking boring," Brian said to his empty loft. "And pretentious. Oh, and throw in judgmental, too. And best of all, make him a fucking puritan 'cause nuthin' says hot faggot sex like some fucking God damned Amish guy."

Christ.

Justin was such a fucking Stepford wife. Graphic design? More of a business school approach? What the fuck? What the God damn fuck? Okay fine, so he was pissed that Brian fucked up in such spectacular fashion. Mea culpa for fuck's sake. It was so perfectly Justin to ruin his God damned fucking life just to stick it to Brian.

Sorry to wreck your diabolical plan, there, Sunshine, but things are about to change around here whether you like it or not.

Step one-bringing Justin back into the loving embrace of his fucked up, dysfunctional, Jerry Springeresque family-was already accomplished.

"The adoption finalized, Ma?" Brian had cheekily asked Deb as the rest of the crowd headed out after dinner.

"Justin knows where home is now," she said cryptically. Brian lifted an eyebrow at her, demanding details with the look. Deb pursed her lips, a hand on her hip, and shot the look right back at Brian, who snickered and shook his head.

"I still don't understand what the fuck that little shithead was thinking," Deb said as she scoured a dish in the sink. "The idea of him keeping this from us; of going through this without us... I felt like it was a slap in the face, like he didn't think he could count on us to be there for him, and I sure as hell was going to give him a piece of my mind."

"Buuuuut," Brian finally had to encourage her to continue.

"You know, sometimes you talk to that kid and he's a hundred and twenty years old and sometimes you talk to him and he's four. Well, he's sittin' up there and lookin' at me with those sad eyes of his, and he's four, and I can't ream a four year old for actin' four, can I?"

"You sure he wasn't scamming you to get out of trouble?" Brian asked.

Deb's shrug said it didn't really matter. "The rest of us could have paid more attention after you fucked everything up so spectacularly. If any of us had pushed at all, we would have at least known he was still in town. It didn't have to get so fucked up, but with you right there in the middle of it..."

"The important thing," Brian interrupted to say, "Is that little Sunshine knows where he belongs, right?"

Deb gave Brian a familiar look that said something along the lines of not talking about how badly you fucked up, doesn't mean you didn't fuck up.

Brian produced a sickeningly sweet smile that usually made Deb temporarily give up on him with an exasperated huff.

"Listen here, Brian Kinney, one more thing," Deb said, lightly smacking his cheek to make sure she had his attention. "I couldn't get that kid to tell me much of anything, but one thing he was happy to go on and on about was this doctor..."

"Surgeon!" Michael, Ben and Hunter corrected in sing-song voices.

Deb flipped them off and kept talking. "Whatever the hell we think about the guy, he's been there for Justin. Don't you fuck with Justin just to fuck with him, do you understand me? Just 'cause all of a sudden somebody's got what you once had and now it's lookin' good again."

"Why Deb, I'm shocked!" Brian said, "I would never..."

But Deb was quick to prove her point. "Every time I put together a box of old toys for Michael to donate to Goodwill, all of a sudden, I was givin' away his most prized possessions..."

"Those Star Wars figures would be worth thousands on eBay, Ma!" Michael called from the living room. "Thousands!"

"Jesus Christ, not with the fuckin' Star Wars again!" Deb said, eyes to heaven. She shook her finger right under Brian's nose. "I mean what I said, Mr. I-Want-What-You-Got. You lay the fuck off if it's just shittin' around."

Brian had nodded and shrugged, suddenly fascinated by the pattern of the old linoleum floor. "And if it's not?" he had mumbled, kicking at a stubborn stain that had been on that floor for the last 17 years.

"If it's not?" Deb had echoed the question, thinking it over to herself for a beat or two. She shrugged finally, and returned to her dishes. "Well, if it's not then I got nothin' to say about that."

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TOWJWAGABI, Part 4

Tue, 13 Apr 2004 17:06:12 GMT

Here's part 4!

The One Where Justin's With Another Guy, and Brian Interferes, Part 4

Brian stuck his head out the door and checked out Dan's ride before turning to the doctor. "Red Porshe a little cliche, isn't it?" he asked dryly.

"Yeah," Dan agreed with an easy smile. "So's the 20 year old I bagged to ride around in it with me. At least I'm consistent." He stepped further into the room, crowding an unmoving Brian as he did so. He had to tilt his head around Brian's shoulder to catch sight of Justin.

Justin stood at the dinner table where the rest of his curious friends sat, some necks craned at nearly 360 degrees to get a gander at Dan. Justin was wearing a pair of dark gray slacks and a black turtleneck that made his hair seem almost white by comparison. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes were bright and he smiled with delight that made Dan's breath catch.

A woman in a wild red wig, wearing a t-shirt which read, Do not disturb--I'm disturbed enough already, jumped up and said, "Jesus Christ, Sunshine! Next thing you know you'll be trolling the old folks' home lookin' for a quick fuck!"

"Debbie?" Dan hazard a guess as he made a wide circle around Brian so he could approach the table. "Dan Forrester."

"I'm on this one tonight," the woman said, pointing a dagger-like finger at Justin. "I'll get to you next time. And there better fuckin' well be a next time, you understand?"

Eyes wide, Dan nodded. "Yes ma'am!" he said.

"You got manners," she said. "I like that."

She smacked a dark-haired man on the back of his head--her son, Dan figured, based on his startled, "MA!"

"It wouldn't hurt the rest of you fuckers to learn a thing or two from him."

Justin said, "You already know Brian and now Debbie." He started at his left and made introductions around the table. "This is Emmett Honeycutt, Vic Grassi, Lindsay, Melanie, Gus, Ted, Ben, Hunter, Michael, and the baby is Hannah."

Dan shook hands as Justin went and laughed when Justin heaved a big sigh at the end. "I'm gonna need a refresher course in a few minutes," he said while everyone shifted around to free up the seat next to Justin.

As Dan moved to sit down, he boldly-for him--leaned in toward Justin for a quick kiss. "You look beautiful," he whispered.

"Shut up," Justin said, ducking his head, but he slid a proprietary hand over Dan's thigh and kept it there while Deb loaded his plate full of lasagna and salad and garlic bread.

"So a doctor!" Deb said, gazing proudly at Justin. "My Mikey dated a chiropractor for awhile, but turns out, he was a huge dickwad."

"Um, oh," Dan said, his eyes sliding over to Justin who could merely offer him an encouraging look. "I see."

"A heart surgeon!" Emmett--Dan was pretty sure his name was Emmett--said, clapping his hands and looking dreamy-eyed at the very idea. "There Justin was with a broken heart, and who should fix it but you! It's just perfect, isn't it?"

"Well, I wouldn't say he was broken hearted," Dan said. "On the contrary..."

"So you must be totally loaded," the teenage boy said around a mouthful of garlic bread. "What do you clear in a year, a million? Two?"

"Nowadays much of that salary is to compensate for the skyrocketing cost of malpractice insurance," said Bob.

"Do you find yourself malpracticing enough to make the insurance worthwhile?" Brian asked with such cloying interest that Dan couldn't help but laugh.

"Dan's one of the best surgeons in the state," Justin proudly informed the crowd. "He's been listed in Pittsburgh Magazine as one of the city's top five cardiologists for six years in a row."

"Mmm top five? That number one spot keeps eluding you, huh?" Brian looked positively forlorn at the idea.

"It's not really a popularity contest," Dan said matching Brian's supercilious performance. "It's about helping people."

Justin beamed at him and laughed and gave his friends a look that said isn't he great?

"Absolutely," Emmett happily agreed. "That's the common thread running through all of my careers, from clothier to party planner."

"Don't forget porn star," Brian prompted, casting a sidewise glance at Dan to gauge his reaction.

"You may remember Em as our own Fetch Dixon," Michael said.

"Uh huh?" Dan said and looked to Justin for some kind of translation.

"Jerk-at-work.com?" Justin said, his tone asking if it rang a bell with Dan who shrugged helplessly. "Ted founded the porn site last year. Em was one of the website's stars."

"One of them?" Emmett echoed, offended by such understatement.

"The star," Justin quickly corrected.

"I'd get the sweetest e-mails from people," Emmett said with a happy sigh. "I really saw it as a service, you know?"

Helping people indeed.

"Do you favor internet porn or are you more old school?" Brian asked, leaning toward Dan in a show of interest.

"Well, uh..."

"Old school meaning print, video, DVD, that kind of thing."

"Yes, I made that leap myself, thanks," Dan said.

"For fuck's sake, lay off the guy for a minute," Deb said. "Besides, I'm sure Sunshine and his gold medal ass keep the doc here happy enough. Trolling around looking for meaty cocks to jerk off to is hardly a regular thing, right guys?" She looked from Justin to Dan, encouraging them to confirm the statement.

"Wow," Dan said. "The lasagna is out of this world."

"Oh dear, I think we're embarrassing the doctor with our frank discussion," Brian said.

"It takes a while to get used to," Ben said amicably. "But then it starts to sound like they're discussing the weather or current events."

"Called away at the last minute because of an emergency," the elegant blonde said. "Your work must be so fast paced. So high stress."

"It doesn't feel that way when it's just me and 6,000 reams of paperwork," Dan said with a smile. "But even given the precarious state of malpractice," he nodded toward Bob, "It's an amazing time to be in the medical field. From mapping the human genome to the strides made in gene therapy and other medical research, we're almost approaching a time when patients will be healed because of what we do not in spite of it."

As varying degrees of blank stares greeted him, Dan wondered if he was imagining the sound of crickets chirping.

"Uh huh," Brian said.

"I'm glad you got here," Justin said. "They were giving me a hard time. Ben's an English professor at CM, and since he's never seen me on campus, they're not convinced I'm really enrolled. You can vouch for me though, right?"

"Absolutely. I think the coffee house over on Knight Street has named a special wing for Justin, given all the time he spends there studying on the couch..."

Brian perked up. "This might be an interesting story after all."

"Not the way you'd judge it," Justin said.

"Plus I've seen his report card," Dan continued. "All A's I doubt anyone would be surprised to hear."

"Way to go, Sunshine!" Debbie cheered. While the rest of the table offered their own congratulations, she dragged him close for a sloppy kiss on the cheek. Justin beamed at her and shrugged and rolled his eyes as he smeared her lipstick around his cheek.

"And," Dan theatrically continued. "He was chosen to represent Carnegie Mellon at the Eastern University Art Fair. It's sort of an art show for non-art majors."

Brian, who'd been engaged in a pseudo sword fight with his son using their spoons, suddenly sat up straight. "Non-art majors?" he sharply repeated. "I thought your major was art & design?"

"It is," Justin said. "I'm concentrating on graphic design. It's more of a business school approach."

Brian's face grew dark and suddenly the crickets were back. "Why?" he asked. "What the fuck happened to your art? Your art-that's how you always referred to it. That's what it was always fucking about! What the God damned fuck happened to that?"

Dan felt his hackles rise at Brian's sudden hostility, especially when Justin flushed and shrank into his shoulders, as if absorbing a physical blow. "McGinty & Schiff, the studio where Justin works part time, has already offered him a job when he graduates," Dan said. "And one of his professors recommended him to the largest graphic design studio on the east coast--Merriman Shudd & Paul--that's how good he is."

"Of course you're still drawing," Vic said, and Dan thought he seemed well versed in smoothing things over. "Just shifting to a different focus at school, right?"

"Right," Justin said softly.

"Artist isn't a job description," Vic said, trying to catch Justin's eye. When he did, he smiled gently at Justin who returned it, then simultaneously they said, "It's a life form." There was a private joke somewhere in there.

"Justin, you know my studio is available anytime you want," the blonde said. She was holding the baby now, and she gestured between the baby and the little boy. "Believe it or not, I don't get up there very often these days." The way she smiled at the baby suggested it wasn't much of a hardship.

"Gus would love it," the dark-haired woman added. "Hell, Linds and I would love it. Long about noon, I'd kill for a grown up to talk to!"

Brian snorted loudly at that, and Dan wasn't sure if it was in reference to Justin being a grown up or the women wanting grown ups to talk to. Either way, the subject started shifting again.

"So what was the emergency?" asked Michael. "Justin said they call you in on the really big cases."

Dan chuckled. "Sometimes," he agreed. "This was more I was on call when the patient came in. Turns out, it was a routine blocked artery. A little angioplasty, and he was good as new."

"Do you do transplants and stuff?" asked the teenager. "You ever put, like, a murderer's heart in a regular person, and then they turned into a murderer too?"

"I do the more run of the mill surgery," Dan said. "Unblocking arteries, repairing damage caused by accidents, poor eating habits, genetic conditions, that kind of thing."

"Once, when I worked at the Big Q, a customer keeled over right there in Small Appliances. You ever had to save someone like that?" Michael asked.

Dan nodded. "I was at a Pirates game a couple of years ago, and a man in the stands had a heart attack. And once when I was in South Beach, a woman had a seizure and fell in a swimming pool. A little CPR and they were both on their way to being good as new."

"That must be amazing," said Ben. "Saving someone with your bare hands. Very...primitive. Basic."

"It is pretty amazing," Dan agreed. "But the flip side is how devastating it is when you lose someone."

As dinner came to a close, Dan realized that Deb really was on Justin that night, and Justin was trying to avoid it. For a while, they danced around in a circle, Justin helping to clear the dishes, but always managing to be back by the table when Deb ventured over to the sink.

Judging from the poorly concealed amusement from the rest of the crowd, they were all well aware of what was going on, and no one seemed surprised when Deb finally put a stop to it. "Sunshine! How fucking stupid do you think I am?" she bellowed.

Justin gave an impressive performance of a person nearly overcome with shock. "I don't think you're stupid!" he squeaked.

"When I say you and I are going to have a nice long chat, that means you and I are gonna have a fuckin' nice long chat. Now get your ass upstairs."

"But Deb," he said, eyes wide and blinking, all innocent angel. "I have to go to the bathroom."

Deb rolled her eyes. "Fine. Go take your piss and then you march to your bedroom, you hear me?"

Dan had seen five year olds exhibit more subtlety than Justin as he slowly plodded to the bathroom.

Deb shooed everyone out of the kitchen. Emmett sociably hooked his arm through Dan's. "I know just what you mean about devastation," he said. "I thought party planning would be all about joy. Twenty-four/seven, just love and happiness and delight. But let me tell you, you see a serious underbelly society in this biz. Try telling someone there was a power outage and the 500 chicken breasts they ordered are out of commission. Talk about life and death, flashing there before your eyes."

"So, is there like a scorecard or something?" the teenager asked. "A bulletin bored that keeps score of all the people who live and die. Like the doctor with the most people alive at the end of the year wins an award or somethin'?"

"Hunter," Ben scolded.

Dan laughed. "You're not too far off the mark, really. You have to have a balance between reverence for the importance of the work you're doing and distancing so you don't become paralyzed by all of the implications. You have to be able to move on your gut level instincts because you don't always have the luxury of time to weigh all of the possible outcomes of a decision."

"Wow," Michael said. "I don't think I want that kind of responsibility. I mean, sell a guy the wrong comic book and life goes on, you know? I don't want to be faced with life and death every second of the day."

"It takes a certain kind of person," the dark haired woman said. "You've got to be strong enough to handle a hell of a lot of pressure, that's for sure."

Brian, who'd been following the conversation with various eye rolls and incredulous stares, finally had enough. "Jesus Christ, it's not like he's opening up soldiers on a battlefield. We all have impossibly challenging careers, don't we?"

"Absolutely," Dan agreed. "I crack open people's chests and cradle their beating hearts in my hands, and you... sell them toilet bowl cleaner. It's almost exactly the same thing."

Still trying to elude Debbie, Justin returned from the bathroom and plopped himself down on Dan's lap. He leaned back and placed a loud, smacking kiss to Dan's cheek, grinding his ass into Dan's groin for good measure. He grinned knowingly at Dan's obvious discomfort and slipped off his lap. Brian noticed of course, and given Dan's understanding of the man's appetite for flaunting himself, Dan wasn't surprised at his look of disdain.

Dan knew Brian thought his unwillingness to molest Justin in front of a crowd meant that Dan's feelings were somehow inferior to Brian's. Well, screw him. It didn't matter what Brian thought. Justin didn't have a problem with him.

Justin had always been amused at Dan's appalled reaction to his casual reports of having sex in the restroom of this restaurant or the dressing room at that store; this alley, that abandoned shipyard, a backroom here, a doorway there. What Justin had seen as defiant shows of independence, Dan had seen as crass disregard for a partner. In Dan's mind, if Brian had cared about anything other than getting his rocks off, he never would have put Justin in such potentially humiliating circumstances. What if they'd been caught? Why would anyone take something so personal and private and put it on display like that anyway?

"Justin Taylor!" came Deb's voice from the top of the stairs. "Get.your ass.up here.now!"

Justin popped up. "Um...I'm going to go upstairs for a second," he said, then took the stairs two at a time. Dan couldn't see them, but he had the sudden image of Deb grabbing Justin by the ear and towing him into one of the bedrooms.

Brian took advantage of the free spot next to Dan and slid gracefully over to it. The rest of the family had settled in around the television set, and the two of them were far enough away that their conversation remained private. "Justin's been out and loud since he was 17," Brian said. "Your acting like he's diseased every fucking time he touches you doesn't..."

Dan interrupted before Brian could make his point. "Look, I'll play along to a point. You want to poke fun at a guy my age hooking up with Justin, go ahead." Dan kept his own voice down. This wasn't a conversation that concerned anyone else. "And I know I take myself more seriously than I should, so you want to mock how uptight I am, I'll take that too. You get off shocking me with your adolescent sexual innuendo, I'll survive. Bottom line, I just don't give a shit..."

Brian chuckled. "What can I say? I guess I like to play with my prey before I dispose of it..."

"But don't tell me about him," Dan continued, as if Brian hadn't spoken. "Don't tell me what he needs or what he wants or what I should be doing. You had your chance, and God knows Justin's over it, so I am not about to consider..."

Brian's eyes narrowed even as he mocked Dan's words. "There's no such thing as over as far as he's concerned. It'll always come back to me." Brian slowly circled around Dan, leaning close to Dan's ear as he slyly whispered, "You can blow the fucking shit out of arteries from now to the end of time, and it will always come back to me."

Dan rolled his eyes at the bravado. "Yeah, well, tell you what," he drawled. "In the spirit of fair play and all, next time you make a move on him, try not telling him he's responsible for his mother's death. Just a thought there, Buddy-o, free of charge."

It was a direct hit. Brian seemed taken aback, and Dan was sure he couldn't believe Justin had told him anything about their interaction. Brian probably thought whatever the two of them talked about was sacred, never to be shared with mere mortals.

With perfect timing, Justin started down the stairs at that point. He'd obviously been crying, but he was composed--Dan would almost say relieved.

Brian feigned nonchalance, but he was instantly aware of Justin, who paused on the stairs when Brian's eyes locked on his. They had an entire conversation without exchanging a single word, but Dan wasn't sure what they said.

Justin gave Brian a rather beseeching, questioning look that made Brian carelessly shrug before averting his eyes and ducking his head, but then he brought his head back up and met Justin's eyes with a determined, unapologetic look of his own. Justin sighed, looking confused now, and Brian's eyes softened, and he shrugged again, but this time it seemed more helpless than careless. Now Justin dropped his eyes. He looked so young sometimes. When Justin raised his eyes, Brian beckoned him over with a subtle crook of his head. Justin sighed once more and finished descending the stairs.

As he passed Dan, he ran his hand down Dan's arm and continued over to Brian who led him into the kitchen. Once there, Brian placed his hands on Justin's shoulders and turned him to face the living room. Standing behind Justin, hands on his shoulders, Brian leaned down and whispered something into Justin's ear as he motioned to the people chattering unwittingly amongst themselves. Justin was still for a long moment, and Brian's body language intensified as he whispered something more forcefully in Justin's ear, briefly shaking Justin to make his point. Justin blushed then slowly nodded. Brian smiled and caressed Justin's neck with a thumb before slapping him on the ass and sending him back into the family room.

Justin sauntered over to Dan and demurely settled himself under Dan's arm. "Ready to go?" Justin said.

"Yeah, I think so."

"I'm right behind you," said Justin.

Dan waited for Brian to chime in with some ridiculous comment, but thankfully, he and Bob were talking about something.

Dan kissed Deb's cheek. "Your dinner was great," he said. "Thank you for making me feel welcome."

"Anytime, honey. I'll drag you over here by your balls if I have to, so we'd better be seeing the two of you around here from time to time, you got that?"

"I've got it," Dan said.

Five minutes after Dan left, Justin called him on his cell, obviously on the road himself. "So, how many blow jobs do I owe you for surviving the night?" he asked.

Dan laughed. "Let me think. How many did I owe after Chas' football banquet?"

"Twelve," Justin promptly replied.

"Twelve?" Dan echoed, trying to remember the logic behind it. "That many?"

Justin helpfully refreshed his memory. "You were late, I had to ride with Kate and Frank and the A-Teens, the principal thought I was an exchange student, Maddox puked on me, and Lynn kept trying to get me to pretend I was her college boyfriend. Twelve was a bargain."

"I can't believe you still go anywhere with me," Dan said, laughing, then he ticked off his own list. "Okay, the one lesbian insisted that I hold her kid and its diaper was leaking, Emmett wants to bid on my parent's 50th wedding anniversary party with a theme that highlights how sexually active they may or may not be, I'm next on Debbie's list so I now live in a constant state of fear, and your ex-lover stalked me like a jungle cat all night."

"Three," Justin declared.

"Three!" Dan echoed, obviously flabbergasted at the lowball offer. "The beefy guy talked Free Tibet for a half hour like I'm supposed to head up the resistance myself, and the greasy kid kept leering at me, and one time I think he may have actually touched some of my naughty bits."

"Oh God, that does sound traumatic," Justin said. "I'll bump you up to six, by two of those times we get to keep the TV on."

Dan turned into the driveway and triumphantly announced, "Home! I win."

"Only because you drive like a maniac," Justin said.

"Not anymore," Dan reminded him, lowering his voice to a seductive hum.

"No?" Justin said, sounding doubtful.

"Huh uh. Remember? You asked me not to."

Justin pulled in behind Dan. Getting out of their cars with the phones still held to their ears, they both grinned and simultaneously shut them off.

Justin advanced on Dan and pushed him back against his car. "Fuck me," Justin whispered. "Right here, right now."

Dan leaned back and looked at Justin like he was crazy, a look Justin mimicked perfectly. "Yeah and then Chuck Finster will take me aside at the next block party to have a little neighborly chat."

"If he takes you aside it's because he wants some tips for satisfying a hot, horny lover," Justin said.

"Lois is quite the looker," Dan said.

"Should I be worried?"

"You saw those polyester pants she wore to the Hoffman's."

"'Nough said." Justin held up his hand to keep Dan from going into any more detail. He thoughtfully studied Dan for a few seconds. "I'm going to rededicate myself to keeping you well fucked," he promised.

"I guess Lois will have to get her pleasure elsewhere," Dan said. He covered Justin's mouth with his own, his heartbeat picking up as he did. He knew it was comical to view the kiss as some brazen gesture, especially given the audacious stories Justin told.

Dan had never so much as bussed Kevin on the cheek while standing outside the home they shared. Not that it was a sticking point with Kev, who might occasionally be so bold as to give the thumbs-up sign after scoring a basket, but anything else would have been far too effusive for the staid man. The tame kiss Dan had given Justin at Deb's dinner table would have seemed scandalous to Dan when he was with Kevin.

"Come on, let's do it," Justin coaxed. "Outside, here on the drive way. Pound me against the Porshe. The two things guaranteed to make you come, and you can have them both right now. Suck me, and I'll shoot my load all over the hood." He humped Dan in a slow, steady rhythm, his intense eyes wide as they bored into Dan's. "You'll get down here in the morning and your car will be covered in my come. All for you. I'll come for you. Only for you."

A joke about the likelihood of leaving overnight any kind of stain on his car died on Dan's lips, his throat suddenly too dry to speak. Justin stepped away and unfastened his pants, pushing them low enough that a tuft of pubic hair riveted Dan's gaze.

Justin reached for Dan's hand and gently placed Dan's fingers on top of the downy hair. The gesture was so sweet and open, it stole the breath from Dan, and his head fell back as he grunted, "Uh, fuck!"

"Fuck me," Justin whispered enticingly, his wet lips wrapping around Dan's earlobe. "Fuck me, Dan. The neighbors want to know who leads when we dance. Fuck me. You take the lead, don't you? Don't you want to show them how you fuck me? How you own me? How you make me beg? Don't you want to show them how I beg? Please, Dan? Please? I'm begging, see? Please? Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me."

Head spinning and dick throbbing, Dan couldn't help the sudden thought that the whole scene had been orchestrated by Brian Kinney. Maybe he dropped some sly comment as Justin was leaving that suggested a man's love required a sordid public display.

And then Dan felt twice as aggravated because a part of him felt like maybe for once in his God damned, play-it-safe life he might have actually gone for it if Brian Fucking Kinney hadn't been right there in the middle of it. "Shit, I can't" he whispered.

Justin didn't seem put out. "That's why God created kitchen tables, right?" he joked. He took Dan's hand and led him inside, peeking over his shoulder with a mischievous gleam in his eye. "And stairs, and couches, and showers..." The gentle affection of Justin's face disquieted Dan. It wasn't so much a look of anticipation at the evening's coming attractions but more the benevolent look you'd give an old, arthritic dog as he struggled to jump down off the couch.

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TOWJWAGABI, Part 3

Thu, 01 Apr 2004 17:25:05 GMT

Here's Part 3, in it entirety.

The One Where Justin's With Another Guy, and Brian Interferes, Part 3

Before Jennifer Taylor died, Sunday was their day of sloth. If he wasn't on call, Dan got up early and ran then woke Justin with a decadent breakfast-omelets or ginger pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausage, sometimes French toast. Justin staggered downstairs without fail just as the coffee finished brewing. They traded sections of the Sunday New York Times and bumbled their way through the crossword puzzle.

Dan watched football or baseball or basketball, hockey or soccer or lacrosse, while Justin studied and sketched and made fun of Dan's butch obsession with sports, prompting Dan to demonstrate various moves and holds he'd used when he'd wrestled in high school.

There was plenty of time for fucking around and napping and more fucking around.

If they hadn't managed to finagle a dinner invitation out of anyone, Dan often put together an impressive spread, then declared Justin responsible for all of the remaining meals that week. Sometimes there was a small, quiet dinner at Jennifer's condo, and sometimes they made an appearance at the Forrester Family Dinner.

Dan now found it laughable that he'd been so hesitant to expose Justin to his family. It made sense enough early on. Charlie's reaction to Justin's age was a good indication of how the rest of the family would fall in, and Dan didn't particularly relish suffering the incessant jibes of his siblings and their spouses.

But there was more to it than that. While Dan would never characterize Justin as shy, he was quiet, and having spent an evening or two around the dinner table with Jennifer, Dan was sure his family would scare the shit out of Justin. An unheard request to pass the butter could segue into a blistering screaming match about the one time when Kate was 12 and Dan was six, and he scalped all of her Barbies and hung them by individual nooses from her bedroom window.

And although Dan and Charlie didn't have any kids, between Dan's two sisters and his other brother, there were nine kids, and most of them seemed to bring a friend or two with them to dinner. The house was always full, the walls reverberating with shouts of laughter and outrage, children crying, siblings fighting, parents refereeing.

But Justin actually enjoyed the chaos of those dinners. While he was still hesitant to join in the insanity, he appreciated it all-from the fawning interest of Dan's sisters and sisters-in-law to the crying baby to Charlie's oft-repeated observation that Justin was a mere three years older than their nephew Chas.

Justin happily fit himself into the bedlam with little difficulty which was fortunate, because the boisterous Forrester Family Dinner became a great antidote to the melancholy of Justin's Sundays after Jennifer's death.

Sunday was now a day of fulfilling obligations. Justin called his sister at 10:00 every Saturday morning, and they watched an episode of Spongebob SquarePants together. Justin tried to draw her out about her new school and life with his father, but she rarely had much to say about that. Craig Taylor had yet to get on the phone, not even to discuss issues of the estate. Those inquiries were always handled through an attorney.

Later in the day, Justin would sift through sympathy cards and gifts to his mother's memorial fund, then write thank-you notes to the donors. Jennifer had lost a brother to leukemia when she was young, and Justin chose to dedicate her memorial fund to several cancer charities. Justin made detailed notes of who donated what, then he mailed the list, along with the cards and condolences to his sister. He hoped as Molly grew older she would appreciate having that connection to her mother.

The cards and donations were now coming in more sporadically, but Sunday still seemed to be a day colored with an extra tinge of sadness.

One cold, rainy Sunday shortly after Brian Kinney made an appearance in their living room, Dan strolled into the media room eating an apple. "That was Ken. He and Jeff are barbecuing tonight if we're interested. Mom's ordering in from Pizza World. What sounds good?"

Justin said nothing as he sat there fingering a sympathy card.

"J, 'd'you hear me? Ken and Jeff's or Mom and Dad's?" Justin still didn't answer. Dan nudged him slightly with his hip. "What's up?"

Justin shook his head to clear the cobwebs and looked up at Dan with an apologetic smile. "Brian donated twenty-five hundred dollars to my mom's memorial fund," he said. "He must have gone back and found the obituary."

Dan read Brian's handwritten note over Justin's shoulder. The fierce way you care is a testament to your mother.

That sentiment was over the top as far as Dan was concerned. He'd always found Jennifer to be very reserved. That she loved Justin and wanted him to be happy was obvious, but there was a remoteness about her. She was gracious, always impeccably polite, but it was without an excessive amount of warmth.

Of course, much of that was Justin's doing. He was prickly with Jennifer, irritated at her attempts to mother him; irritated at himself for still valuing her opinion, especially when it didn't coincide with his own.

He wasn't quite through that phase of separating from his parents and their influence. Dan hadn't been particularly close with his own parents when he was Justin's age. It was only after he'd been out on his own for a few years that he'd grown to appreciate his parents, one adult to another.

It was a luxury Justin would never have and an additional source of guilt he certainly didn't need.

The day of her accident, Jennifer had invited Justin to lunch. She had to pick up a painting she'd had framed at a shop near the CM campus. Justin hadn't felt like going, so he declined, telling his mom he would pick up her picture and bring it over to her place the next day. He'd jokingly said that if Jennifer were to make brunch, he guessed he'd stay to eat it. She'd told him to bring Dan and then rang off.

Three hours later, Jennifer made a left turn at the intersection of her neighborhood grocery store and was struck broadside by a pick-up truck.

And now, two months later, Justin was still dealing almost daily with the ramifications of that careless split-second.

Dan gently rubbed his lover's back, unsure why Brian's donation was so perplexing to Justin. "Well, that was nice of him, right?" Dan said.

"Yeah," Justin agreed. "I just...don't know what to say to him."

Dan took a seat on the couch. "What do you mean? You're not going to give it back, are you?"

"Oh, no, huh uh," Justin said vaguely. "It's just...the thank you note. It sounds dumb. Generic." He handed the note to Dan.

Brian,
Thank you for the generous donation to my mother's memorial fund. The money will be used to fund cancer research as well as provide housing and other support for families dealing with the disease.

Best regards,
Justin

"That's fine," Dan said. It was generic, but what else was there to say?

Justin shrugged and sat down next to Dan, pulling Dan's arm around him which made Dan chuckle and tighten his hold for a second.

"It'll piss him off," Justin said, resting his head on Dan's shoulder.

Irritated at Brian's imagined upset, Dan snorted derisively. "What are you supposed to say? Dear Brian, you and your 12-inch cock are to be commended for your stunning display of selfless generosity..."

Justin turned to nuzzle Dan's neck. His chuff of laughter tickled the skin there. "You're getting warmer," he said dryly.

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It was a given that Brian would find himself back in the offices of McGinty & Schiff at some point, but it might not have been quite so soon if he hadn't been pissed about that fucking thank-you note.

What the fuck was that God damned, lame ass shit about? The fucker knew how to use a God damned fucking phone, didn't he? Maybe Justin's 500 year old sugar daddy limited the amount of time the youngster was allowed on the new fangled talking contraption.

Whatever the reason, it was fucking bullshit, and he wasn't going to God damned fucking stand for it either.

So after a perfunctory visit with Bill McGinty, Brian casually asked if Justin was working. Bill checked his watch. "Well, he's off the clock, but I bet he's still down in the art department. He doesn't have classes on Friday afternoons, so he usually takes pity on our overworked asses and stays late."

Brian tsk'd tsk'd. "Stealing work from the lowly intern, Bill? I'm shocked."

Bill laughed. "I toss a Starbucks gift card at the kid every couple of weeks. He always says I've given him a hell of a lot more than lattes, whatever that means."

Brian couldn't puzzle it out either, but he didn't really care. He wandered down to the art department and found Justin in one of the cubby holes reserved for lowly interns.

He stood just behind Justin and watched him put the finishing touches on a logo for soap. Or cheese. It was impossible to tell really. "Do you eat that or clean with it?" Brian asked, and to his credit, Justin didn't even flinch.

"I know," he said, sounding sadly resigned. He didn't turn around or acknowledge Brian, just kept working on the logo. "But the account exec has her heart set on this. What can you do?"

"Make a mental note to call on her client in a couple of months," Brian answered. He stood there silently, waiting for Justin to finish, but he was standing so close, Justin couldn't even roll his chair back from his desk. Eventually, Justin put down his stylus. He spared a glance over his shoulder at Brian then turned back to stare into his computer screen.

"Thanks again for the donation to my mom's memorial."

"Yes, I received your pleasant acknowledgement," Brian said evenly. "Best regards to you as well, by the way."

Brian could see Justin clench his jaw muscles, then take a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Is there something you needed? I think Aaron is working on your stuff. He's in Philadelphia this week, but should be back on Monday."

"That's fine. This was more of a social call anyway."

Justin shrugged and returned to his logo. Brian pursed his lips in thought as he registered an unaccustomed flash of uncertainty. He'd thought he wanted to chastise Justin for sending him such a ridiculous note, but standing there in the face of Justin's bland demeanor, he wasn't sure what he'd hoped to accomplish.

Brian moved in a little closer so that every time Justin moved his hand on the screen he bumped Brian's hip or thigh. Several times, he tried to change the angle at which he sat, but Brian's foot next to the chair's wheels made it impossible to move. The tips of Justin's ears grew red, and Brian smiled, forgetting how fun it was to antagonize Justin from slow burn to eruption.

"Damn it!" Justin finally huffed, tossing the stylus across his desk. "Move or I'm not responsible for your fucking Italian loafers, all right?"

Hiding a grin behind his hand, Brian stepped back. "We're going to go have a cup of coffee."

"I can't just leave. I have to work."

"Bullshit," Brian said, tugging the chair back and tipping it forward so Justin had to either stand up or find himself sprawled on the floor. "Bill already told me you're working pro bono. Fucked up move, by the way. You do something for nothing you get a reputation as a guy who'll do something for nothing."

"I like to think of it as paying it forward," was Justin's snide reply, but he logged off the computer and reached for his portfolio case.

"Chop chop, Sonny Boy. Let's go."

As soon as they sat down with their drinks, Brian asked about the funeral, but Justin just shrugged and shook his head.

It took twenty minutes of silently sitting there nursing a cup of decaf before he finally opened up a little. Brian knew Justin would start talking eventually--silence always got to him after awhile, and he'd blabber on just to hear some noise.

"It's weird, but I hardly remember any of it," he said. "It's all dumb shit, like, Mrs. Kendall's hair was dyed so black it looked blue, and my aunt had a run in her hose. Molly was wearing this white dress with a pink belt that Mom got her for a school dance. That was sad, you know? She should have worn it to a dance, but she wore it to her mom's funeral instead."

"She doin' okay?" Brian asked.

Justin shrugged listlessly. "I guess. I think so. What's okay?" He slid his coffee cup back and forth across the table. "My dad's in Chicago now, so Molly's there. We talk on the phone every Sunday. I hope she's okay."

"Was he a total shithead?"

Justin's snort wasn't exactly amusement, but he made a wry face and said, "One thing I do remember about the funeral was the look on my dad's face when he realized Dan's father was Charles Forrester. Swear to God, he was, like, a thousand times nicer to me after that."

"Mmm," Brian nodded, recognizing the name of one of the big boys at Pittsburgh Steel.

"Dan's whole family came to the funeral," Justin said, and started to say more, but Brian interrupted.

"And your whole family would have been there too if we'd known."

Brian expected Justin to react with embarrassment and guilt, but he just nodded slowly, not so much agreeing as acknowledging the fact that Brian had said something.

"Deb's hurt you never saw fit to tell her," Brian continued when it became apparent that Justin had nothing more to add.

"I hadn't talked to anyone in months," Justin said. "It would've been ridiculous to pick up the phone and say, 'Hey, remember me? My mom just died!'"

"I never said she didn't understand. I said she was hurt."

"Well...I'm sorry then. I didn't mean to hurt her."

"Let's back up then," Brian said, leaning back in his seat. "Why just drop the fuck off the planet?"

"Just because I was off your radar doesn't mean I dropped off the planet," Justin said dismissively. "I was working, going to school..."

"Fucking geriatric cases. Yes, I can see you're living a very full life. But you've got room for a few old friends, don't you? I mean, fuck me, right?" Brian leaned down to catch Justin's eye and they shared a smile. "But Deb and Vic, the lovely lezzies, they want to see you."

Justin shoved Brian away and shrugged, but he kept smiling.

"Come to dinner on Sunday," Brian said. "Bring a loaf of French bread. Better yet, bring the old guy. The gang will get a kick out of that."

"I can't," Justin said shortly, then added, "Thanks."

"You can't as in you're not allowed or you can't as in you have other plans?"

Justin gave Brian a sour look and for an instant it seemed like he wasn't going to answer. "We usually eat at Dan's mom and dad's."

"Just the four of you? Oh that sounds delightful."

"More like 24," Justin said, then shrugged at Brian's inquisitive brow. "It's a big family."

"And I just bet they've embraced you with open arms, Sunshine, haven't they?"

"Why are you being so shitty?" Justin asked. "Yeah, they're nice. What, you think they should be crappy to me or something?"

He started to get up, but Brian reached for Justin's wrist and gently encircled it with his large hand, tugging lightly to keep Justin there. "No, they should be really good to you," he said softly. With a thumb, he lightly caressed the underside of Justin's wrist.

Justin grimaced in disgust at the involuntary flush that heated his face, and Brian felt an unsightly thrill of victory in his gut. He could still move Justin with his voice and his touch. That was never gonna fucking change no matter what Justin thought he wanted.

"You didn't have to disappear," Brian said. "Fuck me..."

"Brian, quit begging," Justin said and then gave a genuine laugh, and Brian felt like a parched man handed a tall drink of water.

Brian smirked and rolled his eyes. "I would have come around. You didn't have to drop everything."

Justin shrugged as his face grew more serious. "You could've just said you felt suffocated and wanted out. You didn't have to arrange to have me carted out of town like some fucking embarrassment you couldn't stand to have around."

"Yeah, well, I fucked up. So what the fuck is new? But at least I set you on a path to something extraordinary. The New York Art Institute is the fucking holy grail of art schools."

That obviously wasn't the right thing to say. Justin snorted scornfully. "Gosh, you know what? You're right! I guess I should have thanked you that in my pleasant little note."

"I was trying to make it okay for you. I was trying to give you a...a fucking direction."

Still not the right thing. "Fuck you! I didn't need any steering from you, I was doing fucking fine on my own. You just felt guilty that you didn't want to fuck with me anymore, and you didn't want me around as some fucking reminder of that."

"There you go, Sunshine. You have me all figured out, don't you?" Brian never did well when he felt backed into a corner. "Maybe if you'd listened to me, we wouldn't be sitting here now talking about all this shit, you ever think of that?"

Justin stilled until it seemed like he wasn't even breathing. He turned bright red and sat there for some time, just blinking rapidly. When he spoke it was in a dangerous voice that grew louder with his mounting fury. "Are you saying it's my fault my mom died? Because I didn't follow the fucking life plan you concocted for me? Fuck you, you asshole! Fuck you!"

Brian shut his eyes tightly and collapsed back in his seat. Jesus Christ, talk about fucking up. He sucked at this. Really, really sucked at it. "I didn't mean that," he said calmly, reaching out yet again to grab Justin's arm and keep him from escaping. "You know I didn't mean it like that. I just meant maybe you wouldn't be..."

"What?" Justin snapped.

Brian shrugged, a thousand words tumbling through his brain, but he could only lamely say, "Fucking geriatric cases for one."

Justin lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes-an indication of approaching danger. "Dan could be a hundred years old, and he'd still be amazing to me so shut the fuck up."

Now it was Brian's turn to nod, though not necessarily in agreement. "Just...damn it, Justin, come to dinner," he said, staring intently at him. "Tell me you'll come. I want to hear you say you'll be there"

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Dan was sitting down at his desk for the first time all day when his cell phone rang. Sighing at the files scattered all over, he checked the number display and grinned. "Hey J."

"Say something reasonable to me," Justin ordered.

Dan dutifully replied, "A diversified investment portfolio's rate of return should beat the rate of inflation by at least four percentage points."

Justin's chuckle widened Dan's grin. "Thanks," he said.

"You're an odd duck," Dan said.

Justin laughed and said, "What'd you say? I'm a hot fuck?"

Dan laughed too. "What's up?

"Nothing," Justin said, and Dan could picture the way he diffidently played with the phone cord while he geared up to contradict himself. "Brian was in the office today."

"Ahh," Dan said knowingly.

"Don't say ah like you already know what happened!" Justin barked.

"Don't give me a script to follow!" Dan shot back with equal sharpness. Tense silence reigned for a few beats, then Dan lowered his voice and said, "What happened?"

"Nothing," Justin said sourly. "He just...God, he, like, basically said that if I had just marched along and followed his fucking orders my mom wouldn't have died!"

It took Dan a few beats to respond. "Wow," he finally said. "That's how he's gonna get you to dump me and crawl back to him?"

Justin's surprised laughter made Dan laugh too. "Right after he was all, 'You know that's not what I meant,' but it's not like there's a thousand ways to interpret what the fuck he was saying, and I know I should have fucking gone to lunch! I'll take that part of it. One fucking hour out of my whole fucking life, I should have just gone, all right? But just because I didn't..."

"Justin," Dan gently interrupted. "Your mom died because some impatient asshole ran a red light. It was a really awful accident."

Justin took a shaky breath and said, "I know." He sighed heavily. "It's so fucking typical! We were talking, and...it was, nice, you know? And I'm thinking, he can be so...he makes me think we could be friends, and then he says this shit and it's like getting slammed with a...!"

Dan's beeper sounded shrilly, and he grabbed it with a muttered, "Damn it!"

"Shit, you've gotta go," Justin said quickly. "We'll talk later..."

"J, I don't want..."

Justin laughed but there wasn't much humor in it. "No, God. I'm being a fucking twat."

"That's him talking!" Dan said, immediately incensed. "That is bullshit, and you know it!" His beeper sounded again.

"You've gotta go," Justin repeated.

Dan sighed. "I'll be home around seven, okay? Eight o'clock tops."

"Later," Justin said, and they both disconnected.

It was past eleven when Dan wearily walked into the bedroom, tossing his jacket and tie on an easy chair then stripping off his pants and briefs. Naked, he headed to the bathroom to brush his teeth and take a piss, then he crawled into bed.

"You eat?" Justin asked sleepily.

"Yeah. What'd you have?"

Justin snickered. "Hot dog and mac 'n' cheese," he said.

Dan was always opening up the refrigerator after a late night and groaning about Justin's adolescent dinner leftovers. Now he laughed into the back of Justin's neck. "Mmm, sorry I missed it," he said.

"Me too," Justin said.

They laid there entwined for a little while, Dan placing a gentle kiss or two on Justin's neck and shoulder from time to time. Curious, Dan slipped his hand between them and slid down Justin's flank and then around, pushing a finger into Justin's asshole. He inhaled sharply, his body jerking with excitement when he found Justin already well-lubed. "Oh Jesus, you're gonna fucking kill me," he whispered breathlessly. It drove him crazy, absolutely crazy, to climb into bed and find Justin wet and slick and waiting for him.

"Kill me fucking first," Justin said.

Dan fumbled with the condom, smacking Justin on the ass when he started snickering after the first one broke, and Dan had to reach for another. He slid home, and they sighed in unison. Justin finally began to pace them, setting those talented hips in motion and encouraging Dan to get moving.

Justin's guttural moans were mixed with breathy chuckles, so Dan knew he was keeping time to his thrusts with a mantra of "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck."

He never realized he was doing it, and Justin always teased him, saying, "D, you're really good at it, you don't have to keep reminding me what you're doing."

Dan chuckled too, hearing himself now. "All righty, J, big finish," he said and they were both laughing hard when he came.

"Mmm, awesome way to end the day," Justin muttered.

Dan couldn't have agreed more.

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In the winter, Dan played basketball at 8:00 on Saturday mornings. It was a crap shoot when he returned around 11:30 whether or not Justin would be up and at 'em. If he was still sleeping, Dan would usually shower and get back in bed with him.

That morning he'd had to park a block away from the Y, and it was sleeting when he jogged back to the car. Cold and wet, he was a little disappointed to hear Justin rummaging around in the kitchen when he walked in the door. He ambled into the kitchen to find Justin rummaging through the wine rack.

"Little early to be hittin' the sauce isn't it?" Dan said, laughing when Justin jumped. "Do we need to sit down and have a little talk, my precious?"

Justin flipped him off over his head. "I was looking for a chianti," he said, finally finding it and pulling it from the rack. "Brian invited us to dinner at Deb's house and chianti will go with whatever she makes."

Dan didn't say anything at first, too surprised to form a reply. "But he was shitty to you yesterday," he finally said. "Why would you want to spend an evening with him?"

"It's not just Brian, it's everyone. Besides, he wasn't an asshole the whole time."

"So it's a percentage thing? If he's not a shit to you at least 50% of the time, it's okay? That's nuts."

"If you don't want to come, don't come," Justin said, abruptly turning away and rinsing his breakfast dishes in the sink.

Dan sighed and rolled his eyes. "I don't care if we go or not, I just don't get why the hell you'd want to."

Justin didn't say anything for a beat, and when he turned his head slightly, he kept his eyes on the kitchen floor. "It's Sunday at seven," he said quietly.

Dan circled his arms around Justin and kissed his cheek, then rested his chin on Justin's shoulder. "That'll work. I'm covering for Al Hollings, so I'm on call 'til six."

Justin nodded and folded a dish towel with far more care than it deserved. "No matter how shitty I was to my mom, the next time we talked it was like nothing had ever happened. Not like, I got away with everything. I'd get grounded or whatever, but it was like she was totally over it, you know? No matter how shitty I was."

"Is this your way of telling me you want to adopt Brian, 'cause I've got to stop you right there..."

Justin laughed and gently elbowed Dan in the gut. "No." He leaned back against Dan's chest, baring some of his neck in invitation. Dan obligingly nuzzled the soft, pale skin. "I never thought about it before. Never appreciated it."

Dan stilled for a moment, pulling back slightly, massaging Justin's shoulders as he spoke. "J, a parent offering unconditional love to a child is one thing. But from everything you've told me about Brian, I'm not sure he deserves the same..."

"No, God, I know. I don't even know what I'm trying to say." After thinking about it for a minute, he tried to explain. "It's weird when no one has any history with you. At first, I kind of liked it, before my mom died anyway. I mean, I'm whoever I am, not whoever I maybe was one time a long time ago. But when I was talking to Brian, it was... I don't know, it was nice to be known, I guess." Justin met Dan's eyes, shyly gauging whether or not he was making sense.

"When I was trying to decide where to do my residency, the fact that my family was here in Pittsburgh was on the pro and con list," Dan said.

Justin smiled. "Yeah, that's it. And then I was driving home, and I just remembered how Deb's kitchen is, like, one of the best places I know. My mom and dad sold the house where I grew up when they got divorced, and Mom's condo was never home, and for awhile, I was moving back and forth between all these different places. But sitting around Deb's table always felt so... familiar. I guess I miss it."

There was something really sweet about how excited that dinner made Justin. Sunday morning he was giddy and silly, more animated than Dan had seen him in such a long time. In a joking parody of a discussion they'd had shortly before the first Forrester Family Dinner, Justin straddled Dan's lap at the breakfast table and said, "I think I need to prepare you for a few things."

Dan smirked at him. "Are you making fun of me?"

Justin laughed and shook his head. "First of all, I'm just going to offer a blanket apology right now for whatever Debbie says."

"You've met my Aunt Gladys. How much worse could..."

"Aunt Gladys is Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca next to Deb."

"Whoa," Dan said, and could hardly imagine what that implied about Debbie.

"Yeah, and, um, I find that phrases like uh huh and I see are sort of the best way to just accept whatever someone says without, you know, prolonging the conversation or anything."

"I think I can manage," Dan said dryly.

Justin looked horrified. "No, no, no! Over-confidence will kill you here. It's best to just hope really hard that you walk away standing upright and barely limping."

Dan laughed. "It's a good thing I've got you to protect me," he said.

Justin nodded sagely. "I'll do what I can," he promised. "At some point, though..."

"It's every man for himself?"

"I love you, I really do, but..." he shrugged helplessly, his eyes dancing with mischief like Dan hadn't seen in months.

He eyed Justin shrewdly and matched his slow nod. "Understood."

Justin's happiness was infectious, and Dan had spent the rest of the day with a buzz of anticipation in the background as well. So he felt particularly shitty when he called Justin at a little after six that evening.

"Hey, you on the way?"

Dan winced at Justin's eager voice. God damn it. He should have known better than to commit to anything when he was on call. Murphy's Law seemed to have a particular grudge against him.

"J, the lieutenant governor's in town, and he just had a mild heart attack. I'm gonna have to scrub up and oversee a procedure."

"Dan..." Justin said, then stopped short. Dan bit his lips and winced, picturing the way Justin snapped his mouth shut and turned off. He could shut down at the turn of a dime. "Yeah. Um, I hope the guy's okay. I'll see you when you get home..."

"I'm really sorry. A little advance notice, and next time I'll make sure I'm free..."

"Don't be sorry, God, Dan. It's a fucking dinner. You're saving someone's life. I know what's more important."

Dan felt his skin burn with irritation at Justin's scornful tone. "You're important, God damn it! I told you I was on call. You know this always happens..."

"Don't be pissed at me 'cause I'm not making some fucked up scene!" Justin said angrily. "Every time you cancel, you end up pissed at me 'cause I don't flip out. I get it. You can't come. It's not like you wanted to anyway. I think I'll live."

Dan held his tongue for a beat. Justin had a point. He and Kevin had fought almost every time he had to cancel at the last minute, and he was so sure it would be the same with Justin that if there wasn't a fight, he found a way to make one. "Yeah," Dan said, his tone conciliatory now. "You'll be fine. It's me we'd worry about if I was going in alone, right?" The joke fell flat. Justin said nothing, so Dan cleared his throat and said, "Okay, well, I'll call when I'm done and see if there's enough time to swing by, okay?"

When Justin replied, his own voice sounded mollified as well. "I'll see you."

The procedure ended up being far less complicated than Dan anticipated, and a little after 7:30 he was showered, shaved, and heading for the west side. Stopped at a light, he punched up Justin's cell phone number and hit Dial.

"Hey," Justin said, sounding surprised. There was laughter in the background and the sound of silverware clinking against plates.

"Hey-any spaghetti left?" Dan grinned as he pictured the smile obvious in Justin's tone.

"Only a few gallons," Justin said with a laugh. "How'd it go?"

"Another life snatched from the jaws of death by yours truly," Dan said, followed by a dramatic sigh. "In other words, same old, same old. How do I do it, J? Inquiring minds want to know."

Justin chuckled. "You're probably tired. You don't have to show. I'll bring home some leftovers..."

"Aw, come on! The hospital stylist cut my hair this morning and everything."

"Yeah?" Justin said.

"Yeah. I look really pretty."

"Well, in that case I guess you have to come."

"Good, because I'm standing on the front porch. Open the door for me, would you?"

The door magically opened, but it wasn't Justin on the other side, it was Brian, whose face brightened at the sight before him. "Well look who's here!" he said jovially, stepping back and opening the door wide. "How nice is this? Now Uncle Vic will have someone from his own generation to talk to!"

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Teaser: TOWJWAGABI, Part 3A

Tue, 30 Mar 2004 18:54:49 GMT

I haven't posted in awhile, so I wanted to put up this teaser for Part 3 of TOWJWAGABI. I hope to have the whole part finished by the end of the week!

The One Where Justin's With Another Guy, and Brian Interferes, Part 3A

Before Jennifer Taylor died, Sunday was their day of sloth. Dan got up early and ran then woke Justin with a decadent breakfast-omelets or ginger pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausage, sometimes French toast. Justin staggered downstairs without fail just as the coffee finished brewing. They traded sections of the Sunday New York Times and bumbled their way through the crossword puzzle.

Dan watched football or baseball or basketball, hockey or soccer or lacrosse, while Justin studied and sketched and made fun of Dan's butch obsession with sports, prompting Dan to demonstrate various moves and holds he'd used when he'd wrestled in high school.

There was plenty of time for fucking around and napping and more fucking around.

If they hadn't managed to finagle a dinner invitation out of anyone, Dan often put together an impressive spread, then declared Justin responsible for all of the remaining meals that week. Sometimes there was a small, quiet dinner at Jennifer's condo, and sometimes they made an appearance at the Forrester Family Dinner.

Dan now found it laughable that he'd been so hesitant to expose Justin to his family. It made sense enough early on. Charlie's reaction to Justin's age was a good indication of how the rest of the family would fall in, and Dan didn't particularly relish suffering the incessant jibes of his siblings and their spouses.

But there was more to it than that. While Dan would never characterize Justin as shy, he was quiet, and having spent an evening or two around the dinner table with Jennifer, Dan was sure his family would scare the shit out of Justin. An unheard request to pass the butter could segue into a blistering screaming match about the one time when Kate was 12 and Dan was six, and he scalped all of her Barbies and hung them by individual nooses from her bedroom window.

And although Dan and Charlie didn't have any kids, between Dan's two sisters and his other brother, there were nine kids, and most of them seemed to bring a friend or two with them to dinner. The house was always full, the walls reverberating with shouts of laughter and outrage, children crying, siblings fighting, parents refereeing.

But Justin actually enjoyed the chaos of those dinners. While he was still hesitant to join in the insanity, he appreciated it all-from the fawning interest of Dan's sisters and sisters-in-law to the crying baby to Charlie's oft-repeated observation that Justin was a mere three years older than their nephew Chas.

The boisterous Forrester Family Dinner became a great antidote to the melancholy of Justin's Sundays after Jennifer's death.

Sunday was now a day of fulfilling obligations. Justin called his sister at 10:00 every Saturday morning, and they watched an episode of Spongebob SquarePants together. Justin tried to draw her out about her new school and life with his father, but she rarely had much to say about that. Craig Taylor had yet to get on the phone, not even to discuss issues of the estate. Those inquiries were always handled through an attorney.

Later in the day, Justin would sift through sympathy cards and gifts to his mother's memorial fund, then write thank-you notes to the donors. Jennifer had lost a brother to leukemia when she was young, and Justin chose to dedicate her memorial fund to several cancer charities. Justin made detailed notes of who donated what, then he mailed the list, along with the cards and condolences to his sister. He hoped as Molly grew older she would appreciate having that connection to her mother.

The cards and donations were now coming in more sporadically, but Sunday still seemed to be a day colored with an extra tinge of sadness.

One cold, rainy Sunday shortly after Brian Kinney made an appearance in their living room, Dan strolled into the media room eating an apple. "That was Ken. He and Jeff are barbecuing tonight if we're interested. Mom's ordering in from Pizza World. What sounds good?"

Justin said nothing as he sat there fingering a sympathy card.

"J, 'd'you hear me? Ken and Jeff's or Mom and Dad's?" Justin still didn't answer. Dan nudged him slightly with his hip. "What's up?"

Justin shook his head to clear the cobwebs and looked up at Dan with an apologetic smile. "Brian donated twenty-five hundred dollars to my mom's memorial fund," he said. "He must have gone back and found the obituary."

Dan read Brian's handwritten note over Justin's shoulder. The fierce way you care is a testament to your mother.

That sentiment was over the top as far as Dan was concerned. He'd always found Jennifer to be very reserved. That she loved Justin and wanted him to be happy was obvious, but there was a remoteness about her. She was gracious, always impeccably polite, but it was without an excessive amount of warmth.

Of course, much of that was Justin's doing. He was prickly with Jennifer, irritated at her attempts to mother him; irritated at himself for still valuing her opinion, especially when it didn't coincide with his own.

He wasn't quite through that phase of separating from his parents and their influence. Dan hadn't been particularly close with his own parents when he was Justin's age. It was only after he'd been out on his own for a few years that he'd grown to appreciate his parents, one adult to another.

It was a luxury Justin would never have and an additional source of guilt he certainly didn't need.

The day of her accident, Jennifer had invited Justin to lunch. She had to pick up a painting she'd had framed at a shop near the CM campus, and since she was in the neighborhood she wanted to visit with Justin, too. Justin hadn't felt like going, so he declined, telling his mom he would pick up her picture and bring it over to her place the next day. He'd jokingly said that if Jennifer were to make brunch, he guessed he'd stay to eat it. She'd told him to bring Dan and then rang off.

Three hours later, Jennifer made a left turn at the intersection of her neighborhood grocery store and was struck broadside by a pick-up truck.

And now, Justin would forever deal with the ramifications of that careless split-second.

Dan gently rubbed his lover's back, unsure why Brian's donation was so perplexing to Justin. "Well, that was nice of him, right?" Dan said.

"Yeah," Justin agreed. "I just...don't know what to say to him."

Dan took a seat on the couch. "What do you mean? You're not going to give it back, are you?"

"Oh, no, huh uh," Justin said vaguely. "It's just...the thank you note. It sounds dumb. Generic." He handed the note to Dan.

Brian,
Thank you for the generous donation to my mother's memorial fund. The money will be used to fund cancer research as well as provide housing and other support for families dealing with the disease.

Best regards,
Justin

"That's fine," Dan said. It was generic, but what else was there to say?

Justin shrugged and sat down next to Dan, pulling Dan's arm around him which made Dan chuckle and tighten his hold for a second.

"It'll piss him off," Justin said, resting his head on Dan's shoulder.

Irritated at Brian's imagined upset, Dan snorted derisively. "What are you supposed to say? Dear Brian, you and your 12-inch cock are to be commended for your stunning display of selfless generosity..."

Justin turned to nuzzle Dan's neck. His chuff of laughter tickled the skin there. "You're getting warmer," he said dryly.

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TOWJWAGABI, Part 2

Sat, 13 Mar 2004 21:21:32 GMT

This is more experimental than I usually am. Usually, I totally know where the story is going and even though I adore comments and feedback and suggestions from readers, I've already got the story mapped out in my head, so the suggestions don't really figure in to the rest of the story.

I really don't have anything mapped out for this story. I go back and forth trying to decide what I want to have happen, and I haven't really come to any conclusions.

That said, here's a little bit more!

The One Where Justin's With Another Guy, and Brian Interferes, Part 2

It wasn't that he passed on the Chicago job offer that confounded Brian, it was that he never even considered it.

And fuck, it wasn't like passing on the Chicago opportunity ever made him think twice. Weeks after that, weeks in which Brian never even thought about that fucking job offer, Cynthia asked him if he and Justin wanted her extra set of tickets for the hockey game, and that's what totally floored Brian.

"Why the fuck would I go to a hockey game with Justin?" Brian asked sharply.

Cynthia rolled her eyes. "Are you asking about hockey or Justin?" she sweetly shot back.

"Don't fucking assume I'm bringing Justin anywhere..."

Cynthia ran her tongue across her teeth and said, "Is Halverson still coming in tomorrow morning to review the new campaign?" she interrupted to ask.

Brian answered impatiently, "Yeah."

"Then I don't have time for this." She turned on her heels and headed back to her office, but only after tossing the tickets onto Brian's desk.

That's what opened the can of worms, and Brian supposed he should have been grateful to her for finally, God damn finally opening his eyes to the epic ridiculousness that was his current state of affairs.

Brian couldn't fucking remember the last time he'd just up and done something without calling to see if Justin was up for it too. When had nights of drunken debauchery been replaced by fucking on the couch? When had underwear parties and circuit parties and white parties been replaced by something as fucking mundane as dinner and a movie? What the God damn fuck?

Brian slumped behind he desk as he tried to grasp the fact that he couldn't fucking remember the last time he'd ingested an illegal substance. February, right? He and Justin were at Babylon and Tiny McCracken had offered...no, Jesus fucking no, that was in January.

Jesus Christ, this was a fucking disaster.

Driving home that night, Brian had a heart attack.

Well, he thought he was having a heart attack. A mile before the exit to get home, he found it impossible to draw his next breath, and his heart slammed against his rib cage with loud, angry thuds. Gasping and choking, Brian pulled over to the side of the road and sat there waiting for death to finally come and take him.

A few minutes later he eased back onto the highway.

Instead of going home, though, he drove to the airport. He booked a round-trip ticket to New York City, turned off his cell phone and boarded the flight.

When he arrived in New York City, Brian took a cab to the Roxy, and then he proceeded to spend the next 42 hours as drunk, stoned, and overly sexed as was humanly possible when that human was Brian Kinney.

Early Sunday morning, Brian stood in the middle of some nightclub, the lights strobing overhead in all the beautiful colors of the rainbow as beautiful, hot, sexy men--Jesus Christ, so many fucking, fuckable men--presented themselves to Brian. He was a starving man brought before the most luxurious, ample smorgasbord in the world, and he almost started to cry at the delicious feeling of finally coming home.

If Brian was a man who wondered about things, and he absolutely wasn't, he might have wondered later what would have happened had he simply gone home that Friday night. Justin would have been there, blabbering on about whatever the fuck happened that day, and he would have let Brian fuck away those feelings of panic and suffocation.

When Brian turned his cell phone on late Sunday afternoon, there were 12 messages waiting for him, but only one from Justin. It was delivered on Saturday afternoon, wondering where Brian was, but that was it.

Unsure how to explain to Justin that being with him was going to kill Brian, he managed to avoid Justin for another two days, but being a total chicken shit loser wasn't really his style, so he drove over to Justin's apartment after work on that second night, prepared to set the record straight.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Justin asked, but he turned and walked into the kitchen, not really expecting an answer.

"Look," Brian said. "We've always said it's about being where we want to be, and I don't want to be here anymore."

Justin looked at him like he was a moron. "So go home," he said with a shrug.

"I'm serious. This whole playing house domestic shit is over. I'm not playing anymore."

"Okay," Justin answered. "Are my acrylics on the shelf over there? My mom cleaned last week, and I can't find shit around here."

"Are you listening to me?" Brian said.

Justin looked up from his work table where he was setting out jars of paint. "You don't want to be here, you're serious, you're done playing house," he parroted back.

"So, okay then." Brian started to leave, he really did. But it dawned on him that the last time they'd fucked, they hadn't known it was the last time they were going to fuck around, and it didn't seem right to leave it like that.

So he fucked Justin on his work table and again on the couch and then in the shower, but he didn't spend the time because he was done with all of that domestic shit.

Several nights later, Brian had to explain it to Justin again. "I meant what I said," he insisted, fucking Justin against the backroom wall. "I'm done with all this shit. It's over."

"Right," Justin said, then grunted and pushed back against Brian's thrusting cock. His breathy, Ah! Ah! Ah! rang in Brian's ear.

Brian thought maybe he wasn't doing a good job getting his point across. When things between the two of them grew more acrimonious, Brian knew Justin was finally beginning to understand that he was serious.

It had been weeks since the last time they'd spent the night together, and Justin started asking Brian what the fuck was going on, and Brian kept patiently explaining that he'd already told Justin he wasn't engaging in anymore bullshit.

"What happened?" Justin asked. "Did someone say something or God forbid imply something? I mean, what the fuck?"

Justin kept wanting the why. As if the why would negate any of it. There wasn't a why, as far as Brian was concerned, there was simply what was.

Brian hated how petty and ridiculous it grew between the two of them. He hated seeing Justin at the diner, the bars, and Sunday dinner. He hated fucking Justin after vowing to himself that it wouldn't happen again.

Justin wore those fucks as proof that Brian was full of shit, and Brian hated that more than anything.

They needed time apart-good and fucking far apart, that's what they needed. Which made the idea of the New York Art Institute one of Brian's more fucking brilliant ideas. It was one of the oldest and certainly the most prestigious art college in the United States. PIFA was a joke next to NYAI, and a degree from the world renowned school would allow Justin to pursue any fucking path his heart desired.

Brian knew his change in attitude had come with little warning, and maybe that was why Justin thought it was just some fucking phase Brian was going through. Brian was determined to prove to Justin that it wasn't a phase.

Brian met Timothy Cranston, an NYAI trustee, through Lindsay's gallery. The gallery was bringing to town an exhibit by Marilee Park Naughton, who'd died the year before. This was to be the biggest exhibit of her work since her death and it was attracting attention from galleries all over the world.

Brian was coordinating the inter-gallery advertising, and it was sitting in on a snooze-worthy presentation about a tie-in with young, local artists that the idea of sending Justin to New York took root.

Cranston started describing a similar program between MOMA and the New York Art Institute while Brian surreptitiously pulled Cranston's bio from his portfolio.

What he read made the very notion of Justin attending NYAI seem like it had been preordained.

After the presentation, the attendees were free to roam the amateur wing of the gallery and view the submitted works. Brian sidled up to Cranston and ushered him over to some familiar canvases. "Justin Taylor, the artist, was bashed in high school and nearly lost the use of his right hand," Brian said sadly as Cranston looked on.

Timothy Cranston turned wide eyes to Brian. "Justin Taylor? I know that name!" he said. "I'm on the board of a judicial watchdog organization. The judge who presided over that case was one of our main targets in the last election."

"Really?" Brian said, his own eyes wide. "You know, Justin is something of an activist himself," Brian said, slipping a companionable arm around Timothy Cranston's shoulder. "You must have heard about the Stockwell mayoral campaign, right?"

Several hours-and a combination blow job/fuck-later, Timothy Cranston vowed to do everything in his power to get Justin Taylor admitted to the New York Art Institute.

Two weeks letter the acceptance letter arrived. Brian drove over to Justin's and presented the letter to him with a flourish. "What's this?" Justin asked, reading the letter with a furrowed brow.

"This is the rest of your life on a silver fucking platter," Brian answered.

Justin took so long to read the letter he must have gone back over it three or four times before he shook his head and returned it to Brian. "I'm not going to the New York Art Institute," he said dismissively.

"I hope it's not because you think you have some fucking little life here that you can't leave, because that's bullshit."

"Tell me why you're doing this!" Justin yelled. "Just fucking tell me why!"

"Because this is fucking bullshit!" Brian shouted back. "Because I'm sick of this fucking farce of a life! Because I'm not going to play out this fucking bullshit any more! Because you can't seem to get it through your fucking head that I am not buying into some fucking hetero bullshit fuck of an idea about what life is all about! Does that answer your fucking question, Sunshine? Does it?"

Justin stood there, his eyes wide and brimming with tears. "Yeah," he said in a strangled voice. "Yeah it does. Get out."

Three days later, Brian showed up at his apartment again. Justin tried to slam the door in his face, but Brian got a foot in the door and just barreled on in.

"You've got to formally accept the offer of enrollment," Brian said, having received a phone call telling him they needed Justin's acceptance so they could process the necessary paperwork.

"I'm not going to school in New York!" Justin said. "Get the fuck out of here and leave me alone."

"Why are you being such a fucking twat? You'll be able to write your ticket with this degree."

"I am not some fucking mistake you can spirit out of town so you don't have to fucking look at it anymore," Justin said. "You don't want to be with me? Fine, whatever! But you're fucked if you think I'm gonna slink away with my tail between my legs just because Brian Fucking Kinney is done with me!"

Brian rolled his eyes. "Get over yourself. I called in favors I haven't even earned yet to get them to consider you midterm. Twenty-two hundred students on the face of the earth are granted this opportunity. Do you know how many applicants they had last year? Over fifteen thousand. You ought to be fucking grateful."

Justin flushed bright red and spoke to him through gritted teeth. "Get.out.of.my.house."

"Is this your plan, Sunshine?" Brian sneered. "You're going to ruin your fucking life to show me how wrong I am, to make me sorry for walking away? Is that your brilliant little plan?"

"Get out!" Justin shouted. "Get out and leave me the fuck alone!"

"I'm leaving you with a hell of a lot more than any of the others ever got," Brian said smoothly. "They got a good night's fuck and that's it. I'm giving you the fucking world right there. That ought to mean something to you."

"Fuck you, you fucking shit!" Justin said. "I never asked you for anything, and I don't want the fucking world if it's coming from you!"

A week before Justin was required to check in with the NYAI registrar, Brian called Justin's cell and learned the number was no longer valid. He smirked when the recording told him no forwarding number was available. A week after Justin was due to report at school, Brian drove over to his apartment and found it vacant with a For Rent sign in the window.

Brian drove home whistling under his breath and feeling unduly proud of himself.

For months after that, whenever Brian walked into Babylon, it was with the smug arrogance of a returning war hero. Whereas that first, shocking split from Justin had been tinged with humiliation and failure, this return to his roots was all about freedom and fucking life after near-death.

Brian basked in the glow of his newfound independence. He went out when he wanted, stayed in when he wanted, ate when he wanted, slept when he wanted. There wasn't a white party he didn't attend; an orgy he didn't grace with his presence; or an able and willing ass he didn't fuck. He flew to Milan for a long weekend one August afternoon just because he fucking could.

And if every once in awhile he looked down and to the left, ready to share some sardonic comment or trade wiseass remarks, well...that was just habit. And habits were easy enough to break.

Brian understood Justin's bruised ego and hurt feelings, and it didn't surprise him not to hear from the kid for a few months. The summer came and went and Brian sure as hell would've picked a summer in New York City over languishing in the Pitts, so Justin's silence was hardly unexpected.

Thoroughly unexpected, albeit pleasantly so, was the lack of hounding Brian got from the rest of the crowd about Justin's absence. Granted, that was helped along by the long-awaited arrival of one Hannah Rachel Novotny Petersen Marcus.

Apparently Debbie, Melanie and Michael were the only three people in the universe ever to bring forth life, and the rest of them indulged the three with varying degrees of tolerance.

As far as Brian could see, the kid ate and slept, peed, puked and shit just like it was supposed to. As long as it didn't do it on his suit coat or dress shirt, he was fine. Deb's occasional, "Where the fuck is Sunshine? Don't they have fuckin' phones in New York?" was forgotten the minute Hannah cooed. Or peed. Or shit. Whatever.

More months passed, and Brian wondered if maybe Justin had attended summer school to ensure that he graduated with his class. That's how Brian would have played it anyway. September brought the start of the fall session, so even though Justin's continued absence was starting to rankle, Brian accepted it.

Come November, Brian was convinced he would hear from Justin over the Thanksgiving break. And if he dressed a little sharper than usual when out on the town, no one mentioned it. If he watched the door at Babylon and Woody's with more attention than was his wont, it went unnoticed by the others.

Brian half expected Justin to just show up out of the blue at the Novotny Thanksgiving celebration, but it turned out there would be no celebration at the Novotny home that year.

Debbie announced she was spending two weeks in Arizona with a Carl who'd been feeling neglected since the arrival of baby Hannah, and the idea of spending Thanksgiving without his precious mommy threw Michael into a hysterical tailspin. Lindsay declared she would host the holiday for their erstwhile family, but then hysteria reigned anew when a pipe burst at the gallery just three days before the big day.

Naturally, the Liberty Avenue crew promised to pitch in and ensure the holiday went on, but Christ, the Liberty Avenue crowd was fucking inept. Melanie was responsible for the turkey, but it turned out she neglected to get it all the way in the refrigerator, and the morning after she bought it, they came downstairs to a refrigerator door slightly ajar and a kitchen that smelled like a slaughterhouse on a warm summer day.

All Michael and Ben had to do was cough up a couple of casseroles and a dessert, which prompted a nearly titanic blow-up when Ben insisted that sweet potatoes with marshmallows on top were a dessert. Ted was supposed to be responsible for drinks, but Emmett didn't think the recovering drug addict should have to supply the alcohol, not that he volunteered to do it himself. Emmett fucking planned parties for a living, and he was acting like he'd never had more than three people sit down at a table together.

Brian ended up pulling all of their asses out of the fire by having the entire meal, down to the linen tablecloths, fine silver and Waterford crystal, catered by Valjean's.

Brian decided that Justin must have spent Thanksgiving with a friend from school, but there was little time to dwell on that with the Christmas season approaching. Debbie was out of control, insisting that Gus and Hannah experience the joys of every winter holiday ever invented. In what Brian dubbed The 138 Days of Christmas, there always seemed to be a dinner or party or an extravaganza of some kind planned For the Children.

And it was sitting on a folding chair at Gus' preschool, watching numbingly untalented children roam around a stage dressed in bathrobes and confusing the identities of Jesus and Santa Claus, that Brian realized he missed Justin.

Fucking missed him.

Justin would have been as bored as Brian, but he would have looked interested. Justin knew how to play shit like that with great conviction. Whether it was attending Molly's band concert, suffering through a dry-run of Emmett's latest party theme or listening to Cynthia drone on about home improvement projects, Justin had a knack for making people think he was fascinated by their shit.

Brian didn't have that.

But he was curious about Justin's school and the New York nightlife. He wanted to hear Justin tell him that the freedom and independence were fucking amazing and that Brian had had the right idea all along. He wanted to dance with Justin and fuck him and tell him all the stupid shit that had happened with his agency and with the family. He wanted to look down and to the left and see Justin standing there.

Two days before Christmas, Brian took the scenic route home from work and found himself driving right past Jennifer Taylor's condo. If a car happened to be in the driveway or someone he knew happened to be visible through the window, the only neighborly thing to do would have been to stop in and spread some holiday cheer.

But when Brian drove by, two dark-haired kids were building a snowman in the front yard, while a dark-haired woman unloaded groceries from a van parked in the driveway.

Apparently Jennifer Taylor et.al. had a new address.

Three short weeks later, all of the little mysteries were revealed when Justin Taylor strolled by the conference room where Brian was finalizing his outsourcing plans.

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Ever since he was 16 years old, Daniel Forrester had known the kind of life he was going to live. He was going to major in pre-med at an ivy league school, attend medical school at his grandfather's alma mater, UVA, and complete his residency at the hospital of his choice. He would join the most successful cardiology practice he could find; spend four weeks a year as part of Doctors Without Borders; buy a sports car; furnish his home with the finest antiques his mother could find; vacation in Europe or the Caribbean every year; and he would take a lover whose goals and ambitions matched his own.

Dan's sexuality had never been an overriding factor in anything. He wasn't going to live his life in the closet, but he wasn't marching in parades and waving banners at political rallies either. He'd never been a fixture in the gay community-whatever the hell that was. The life of a med student and later lowly resident bred its own community, and Dan thought of himself as a doctor before anything else. The hours were so ridiculous, the schedule so grueling, the lifestyle so punishing that the only other humans who could understand were fellow doctors. They worked together, played together, ate together and slept together. As one of only a few out doctors on the staff, Dan may have lagged behind the others in the sleeping together department, but he never felt any more deprived than the next guy.

After finishing his residency, Dan spent his early thirties building a medical practice, which didn't leave much room for hanging out at the clubs on Liberty Avenue, not that Dan minded all that much. It wasn't his scene.

Not that he had a scene really. Still, he wasn't looking for a relationship when Martha Ross introduced him to her brother, Kevin, but they clicked so fast and so completely that it all just seem to happen by itself. Kevin was an analyst with a Big Eight consulting firm, intent on making partner by the time he hit 40. He was as likely as Dan to work 18 hour days, and he often took out of town assignments that would help further his career.

They eventually bought a house in the trendy suburb of Bernhard and amassed wealth and career success; art from their European travels and attractive pictures for the frames that sat on their antique tables.

Years later, when he knew things were no longer good, but before he'd resolved to do anything about it, Dan often wondered if he'd mistook simple compatibility for something deeper than it really was.

In the end, they just drifted apart; it was like they'd become furniture-accessories- in one another's lives. They couldn't even work themselves up to any anger over the split. One day they were together and the next day they weren't, so Daniel had to go buy a new dining room set.

It bothered Dan that he couldn't even pinpoint when the fun and passion had turned to complacency and disinterest. He wondered if embracing a stricter code of monogamy would have made a difference; he wondered what would have happened if one of them had been less ambitious, less driven. He wondered if he should have taken the chief resident job in Connecticut. Maybe a new city would have forced them, encouraged them, to turn to one another in a way they simply didn't.

"Maybe you were supposed to be with Kevin for awhile, and now you're supposed to be with someone else," was his brother Charlie's simplistic interpretation of it.

Thrice married-and thrice divorced-Charlie wasn't much for introspection.

But it was because of Charlie-inadvertently to be sure--that Dan and Justin got together.

Despite being the most laid back, least motivated person Dan had ever known, Charlie had managed to open two of the most successful restaurants in Pittsburgh. Their sister Kate had always described Charlie as Ishy. Everything with him was -ish. He'd meet you at noonish. He return the car he borrowed on Fridayish. The restaurant would be completed in Octoberish. He'd pay back the loan in 2004ish.

It drove Dan crazy. If you told him to be somewhere at noon, he was there at 11:55, by God, and ready to go.

Dan made plans to meet Charlie at the coffee shop near the hospital at least once a week, but it was always a crap shoot whether or not Charlie would show. And every time he did show there were usually three phone calls between when he was supposed to be there and when he actually showed.

After nearly 40 years of dealing with Charlie, Dan thought he probably should have grown used to Charlie's breezy interpretation of time, but it still bugged the crap out him.

It bugged Dan less when he waited for Charlie on days that the cute blond kid with the killer ass was at the coffee shop studying.

The first time Dan made eye contact with the kid, the kid gave him an extremely unsubtle once over. Then his blue eyes darted over to the bathroom and back to Dan, the invitation unmistakable and a little shocking.

It had been years since Dan had noticed a public come on. He'd flushed, embarrassed and titillated, and pretended like he hadn't caught the obvious pass. The kid was pretty as hell, but looked like he was in high school, and Dan wasn't the least bit inclined to break in some inexperienced kid.

And if trips to the coffee shop became a little more frequent, it was entirely coincidental. So was knowing the kid was always there at 4:30 on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

It was one of those Thursdays when Dan was impatiently waiting for Charlie that he formally met Justin. Charlie was already 20 minutes late when Dan's cell phone rang. "I don't want to hear it," Dan said by way of hello. "I don't care that the new sink is the wrong size or the oven was scratched or the refrigerator smells funny. You're either here by one o'clock or..."

"I told you, I'll be there..."

"If you say soonish, I will kick the shit out of you when I see you."

Charlie just laughed. "For once in your life would you lighten up and go with the fucking flow?"

"Charlie, if you don't drag your sorry ass through the door in the next 15 minutes..."

"Driving...tunnel...can't...hear..." Charlie said and clicked the phone off.

"Asshole," Dan muttered, pocketing the phone. He looked up, and Pretty Blond Boy was looking at him with a knowing smile.

"Charlie your boyfriend?" the kid asked.

Dan thought the question pretty audacious given that they weren't anywhere near Liberty Avenue or any other gay Mecca. Fifteen years ago, he never would have made that assumption about some random guy sitting at a coffee shop.

"God no. My brother. A boyfriend you can get rid of. I'm stuck with Charlie whether I want him or not. And I generally lean to not."

The kid smiled and wrinkled his nose. "Liar," he said. "You meet him here at least once a week. I've seen you." Dan had a feeling the kid wrote his ticket with that smile.

"Then why'd you ask if Charlie was my boyfriend?"

"Well, I know the guy who meets you is your brother because you look alike," the kid said. "I just didn't know his name was Charlie. And I assumed the guy you were talking to on the phone was your boyfriend because you've never asked me out. That means you have to be in a relationship with someone." The kid grinned happily at his logic and Dan outright laughed.

"That's your litmus test? Either a guy comes on to you or he's in a relationship? Those are the only two possibilities--couldn't it just be that they're not interested?"

"You've seen my ass," the kid said, and Dan laughed again. The kid cocked his head and said, "If you let me take you to dinner tonight, you'll get an even better look, guaranteed."

Dan thought later that if a million little things had happened differently that day, he never would have met Justin and most certainly wouldn't have agreed to meet him for dinner. More than anything, the second the invitation was offered, Dan heard Charlie saying for once in your life would you lighten up and just go with the fucking flow?

Dan narrowed his eye and gave the kid an exaggerated look of appraisal. "What are you, 15, 16?" he said. "Do you even have a driver's license?"

Justin threw back his head and laughed, and the effect was nearly blinding. Oh yeah, the kid wrote his ticket with that smile. "I'm legal," he said. "Would you feel better if I told you I had an old soul?"

"Hell no," Dan answered. "If I'm going out with a boy toy, I want the whole package. Boy and toy."

"Believe me, you get the whole package with me," Justin said, and the line was so silly they both laughed at it.

Dan said, "That sounds dirty but it's been so long since I've dated, I'm not sure why."

"We'll research it further tonight," Justin promised.

Dan knew he'd never have a relationship with that brazen kid. He knew it would be a casual, sexual fling, and if he was lucky he would have a hell of a good time and then get out before any of his friends caught wind that he was doing something he'd always mocked--dating a much, much younger piece of eye candy.

But, shit.

Justin was fun. He was smart and interesting and up for anything-an art house movie, a trip to the hardware store, a night at the symphony or a blockbuster matinee. He was wild in bed and had such a joyful attitude about sex that half the time whatever plans they'd made were chucked in favor of staying in for the night.

And it almost confounded Dan how understanding Justin was about his work. Dan assumed a student like Justin would grow quickly irritated at the time and attention Dan's job required. After all, what kind of practical experience would a 20 year old have with the demands of a full-time career?

A certain amount of understanding was always evident at the beginning of a relationship. Dan was a surgeon-of course there would be medical emergencies, life and death calls to return, plans that inevitably had to be cancelled or rescheduled. In Dan's experience, those last minute cancellations wore real thin, real quick.

Justin just shrugged them off and used the free time to study or work or drop by his mother's place. To play hours of uninterrupted video games, Justin often joked.

Every one of Dan's carefully constructed notions about what their association would and wouldn't be fell by the wayside as day-by-day he grew closer to Justin.

When Dan realized that his relationship with Justin was deepening, the first person he introduced Justin to was Charlie.

Dan had tried to tell Charlie about Justin before they were introduced. Charlie knew Dan was seeing someone. He knew it was getting progressively more serious. And he also knew there was some reason why he hadn't yet met the guy. Dan had managed to get out that Justin was "kinda young," but the details always seemed to stick in his throat. In the end, it just proved easier not to say anything, just to show up with Justin and say, "See? Here."

They walked in to Mortie's where Charlie was waiting, and to Charlie's credit, he didn't look remotely surprised while Dan made the introductions. He shook Justin's hand and sat down, then turned to Dan and with a perfectly straight face said, "I didn't know you were adopting one of those Russian babies."

Dan thought that if Justin hadn't nearly snorted water out of his nose, the situation could have been salvaged, but no such luck. While Justin pretended the water had simply gone down the wrong way, Dan glared at his brother and muttered, "Shut up."

Dan tried to facilitate some discussion between Charlie and Justin. If nothing else they could have talked food service for a little while, but Charlie's high pitched giggle made talking about anything pretty much impossible, and Justin's snickering wasn't helping anything either.

After the waiter took their order, Charlie started to tell them about the latest construction mayhem with the new restaurant, but his face turned red, and he was sputtering with poorly concealed laughter and finally he had to put his head down on the table and let go with a belly laugh.

"Charlie!" Dan said, exasperated. "Cut it out!"

"I can't help it," Charlie said, wiping his eyes with a napkin. "This is funny!"

Justin was laughing right along with him and Dan glared at him. "What are you laughing at! It's just as embarrassing for you!"

Justin shook his head. "No way! I bagged a rich doctor," he said. "What do I have to be ashamed of?"

The rest of the hour was just one ridiculous comment after another, and Dan ended up leaving both of them in a huff and stiffing Charlie with the bill.

He was still peeved when he got home that night and not even the sight of Justin in tight jeans and t-shirt and a candle-lit kitchen replete with lasagna in the oven and homemade garlic bread could assuage his hurt feelings. Much.

He sat down at the kitchen table and refused to acknowledge Justin's grinning amusement at his pique. Finally, Justin slid onto his lap and snaked his arms around his neck. "You're a very proud man," he said.

Dan sniffed and looked away. Justin undulated slightly, moving his hips to a slow, steady rhythm. Justin licked his lips and whispered, "Who makes me hard when he walks in the door and says, 'Hey.'"

Dan sighed and shrugged. "Me," he grudgingly admitted.

"Who made me completely reverse my sacred oath to swear off men for the rest of my whole life just six weeks after I made that vow?"

"Me again," said Dan.

"Who fucks me so long and so hard, so fucking fantastically, that my mama calls in the morning to thank him, to thank him, for turning her boy inside out and back again?"

"Me," Dan said, his tone telling Justin to just get to the point already.

"So what exactly are you so pissed off about?"

Dan grinned in spite of himself. "It's getting kind of hard to remember."

"Does it really bother you?" Justin asked later. They'd been making out at the kitchen table for half an hour and at some point Dan had come in his pants like a hapless teenager. Justin could have asked him if having a fork shoved in his eye bothered him, and he would have said no.

Dan smiled at Justin and brushed back the soft blond hair. "Not bothered," he said, feeling more embarrassed than anything. "I was such a judgmental asshole before about pathetic old losers making fools of themselves with gold-digging twinks."

Justin laughed in delight. "It's the taste of crow making you cranky!" he said.

Dan laughed too. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Some gold digging twinks have really fabulous asses," Justin said between slow, wet kisses.

"Some pathetic old losers have so much fun with those asses, they don't care if they're making a fool of themselves."

Justin laid kisses all across Dan's face, finally traveling over to his ear where he finally stopped kissing long enough to whisper, "Some gold digging twinks really love those old guys."

Dan got really still. He slid his hand behind Justin's head and held him there against his shoulder for a moment.

God, Justin was ...brave. Given everything he'd experienced he was still willing-determined, even-to put himself out there, to live the life he wanted to live. Dan found it amazing. He wasn't anywhere near that brave, which went a long way to explaining why it was eight years before he and Kevin finally called it quits.

Dan had to swallow a couple of times before he could say anything. "I love you too," he whispered.

Justin pulled back and looked at Dan, eyes blazing. "Fuck me," he said. "Inside out, Dan. Fuck me."

Dan did, right there on the kitchen floor. He ripped off Justin's clothes and fucked him crazy, until Justin was howling and shrieking, and he was bellowing back like a fucking caveman.

Months later, whenever Dan was crossing the kitchen to put something in the fridge, he'd remember and chuckle to himself. And sometimes that memory was so visceral, so vivid, it would suck the breath right out of him.

And every time that happened, Dan had to track Justin down and say, "Hey," and when Justin looked up from his book or the TV, a drawing or his computer, Dan would shrug at him, an apology for interrupting, and then he'd say, "I love you."

And Justin would smile and sometimes blush and sometimes shake his head at the non sequitur. "You're nuts," he'd always answer. And Dan would laugh and sit down next to him or turn to go or whatever. And that's when Justin would say, "But I love you, too."

End Part 2

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Apologies in Advance

Mon, 08 Mar 2004 19:17:26 GMT

Just kind of dabbling with a new story here--unrelated to any other universe. It's Justin/OMC with Brian re-entering the picture after an absence. It's unfinished, and I have to admit, I'm not sure which way it's going to go!!

For all three of you whom I haven't scared away--enjoy!

The One Where Justin's With Another Guy, and Brian Interferes
When Brian Kinney glanced out of the conference room door just as he and Bill McGinty were getting ready to sign a contract, the last thing he expected to see was Justin Taylor walking by. Brian would have been less surprised to find his dead father tap dancing on the stage at Babylon.

Brian jumped up out of his seat and stuck his head out into the hall. "Hey!" Brian called, stopping Justin in his tracks. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

Justin turned and gaped at Brian, eyes wide, mouth hung open. "Brian?!"

"Is there a problem?" Bill asked, coming up behind Brian.

"No," Brian said shortly. "I'm just surprised to run into Mr. Taylor here. He was an intern at Vanguard when I was there."

"Yes, I'm aware of that," Bill said. "I didn't think it would be an issue of any kind, given..."

"It's not," Brian said quickly, softening his tone, aware that Justin's reaction was wavering between rage and panic that Brian was going to interfere with his position. "Like I said, I'm...surprised."

An awkward silence followed until Bill gruffly cleared his throat and said, "Well, I'll, uh...return a few phone calls then. Let you two...talk."

"Why aren't you in New York?" Brian demanded. "Why aren't you in school?"

"I am in school," Justin said coolly. "I work at McGinty & Schiff part-time."

"You're commuting to the Pitts for a part-time job?" Brian asked incredulously.

"The New York Art Institute was your idea, Brian, not mine. I never had any intention of going there. I'm majoring in art & design at Carnegie Mellon."

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Brian never thought twice about following Justin home. Home turned out to be a rather impressive house in the upscale suburb of Mount Claire. Brian was surprised when Justin's car--a two-door Saturn that looked to be a few years old-took the Mount Claire exit instead of heading east toward the university district.

"Why didn't you call me to tell me you weren't going to New York?" Brian said the second he stepped out of his car.

Struggling to open the front door, Justin dropped his keys and turned to face Brian, his face red with outrage. "Jesus, are you fucking brain damaged?" Justin yelled. "Where do you get off fucking even thinking that?"

Brian rolled his eyes are Justin's indignation. "Since when have you been so fucking literal about anything I say? Stop acting like I'm being unreasonable to think you would..."

"Fuck you," Justin muttered and pushed the door open. "It's a fucking good thing I wasn't in New York because all this shit went down, and I sure as fuck didn't need to be a thousand miles from home."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"My mom had a car accident in November," Justin said tersely.

"Oh," Brian said, mollified. "So why didn't you call me?"

Justin stared at Brian in stunned disbelief. "Jesus," he muttered, shaking his head.

Brian was saved from having to say anything by the slamming of the front door. "Hey J!" came a call as some guy bounded up the stairs without coming into the living room. "Christ, I am so fucking late! Hammie's gonna kill me! You have a good day?"

Justin smiled to himself. "Yeah, it was good!" he called back. "How 'bout you?"

"Totally fucked!" the man shouted. "My triple by-pass is tanking. I told his family he was too weak to risk it. He won't last another week."

"Sorry!" Justin said.

"You hear from that financial guy at CM?"

"Yeah, the loan's approved--everything's gonna work!"

"Excellent! What'd I tell you? Unclog a valve or two and people are more than happy to do you a favor! We're playing at the Y on Cranston. How 'bout I pick up a pizza from Rotolo's?"

"That sounds good."

Justin finally cast a glance at Brian, defiantly lifting his chin in deference to Brian's narrowing eyes.

Pulling a sweatshirt over his head, the disembodied voice jogged into the living room. With his head covered by the sweatshirt, he moved right past Brian so that all Brian caught at first was the back of his head. He had close-cropped, curly hair, brown with some gray mixed in. He was taller than Brian; broad shouldered. He gave Justin an energetic hello kiss then Brian's presence finally registered.

"Oh, jeez, I'm sorry!" he said sheepishly to Brian. "I didn't realize anyone was here." He was in that murky age range-somewhere in his 30's, mid- to late, Brian judged, noting with some satisfaction the lines around his brown eyes. The guy held his hand out to Brian. "Dan Forrester," he said.

"Brian Kinney," Brian said, certain the introduction was unnecessary.

"How are you?" Dan said, the name not registering as familiar. "Sorry I can't stay." He kissed Justin again. "If anyone calls, I left 15 minutes ago, and you heard there was an accident on 279. Traffic's backed up for miles!" Justin gave him an exaggerated look of disapproval, prompting Dan to shrug helplessly. "Last one there has to wear the Jersey of Shame(tm)," he said, his shrug suggesting the reason for lying was self-evident. He swatted Justin on the ass, winked at him and turned to go.

"Good to meet you," Dan said to Brian, and at the same time, Justin called after him, "You're such a liar!"

"Love you too, Precious!" Dan hollered and slammed the front door behind him.

The echoing silence was uncomfortable in such a familiar way that the sense of deja vu practically superimposed an image of the loft over the room in which Brian actually stood. "How cozy," Brian said.

"Don't you say anything," Justin warned, his mood morphing from light and amused to defensive and angry. "Not a fucking thing! Dan is the best person I've ever known, and you can't say one fucking thing about him!"

Brian looked away in irritation. Shaking his head at the whole fucking situation, he finally shrugged and headed for the door. "Whatever," he muttered to himself. Brian stopped with his hand on the door knob and turned to look at Justin over his shoulder. Almost an afterthought, he asked, "Is your mom okay now?"

Justin seemed taken aback by the question, then embarrassed. He flushed and said apologetically, "She died two weeks after the accident."

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Dan got back home with dinner a little before nine. He'd played for shit, thrown more than he anticipated by the site of Brian Kinney in his living room. The room had crackled with energy. It was one thing to hear Justin describe the intensity of his relationship with Brian, but it was another thing altogether to actually witness it.

He stopped in the doorway, enjoying the warmth of seeing Justin at the end of his day. Dan had been nearly two years out of an eight-year relationship when he met Justin, and he'd forgotten how nice it was to come home to someone was waiting for him. He'd forgotten a lot of the simple comforts a steady relationship provided, and he'd spent the last six months eating crow with all the friends to whom he'd insisted he wasn't ever going to tie himself down again. This was nowhere near the amount of crap he took for hooking up with someone so much younger than he. Damn him and his self-righteous opinions anyway.

Justin was sketching in the living room, a box of Pop Tarts, another of oatmeal, and one of rice set out before him on the coffee table. Dan guessed it was something for work.

"Hey," Dan finally said. "Soup's on!"

Justin looked up and smiled. "Hey! How was your game?"

"No one bought the traffic story," Dan said glumly on the way to the kitchen. "I had to wear the Jersey of Shame(tm) and fetch all the out of bounds balls."

"You didn't like being the ball fetcher?" Justin asked sympathetically.

"Don't even start," Dan ordered. "They think it's so funny, making the token homo chase the ball all over the court. It's like playing with a bunch of fifth graders."

"I wouldn't play anymore if they're going to be so mean," Justin said haughtily.

Dan sighed tragically. "And then there's all the emotional turmoil of coming home from work and finding my lover's ex hanging out in the living room. It's hard to play with that kind of trauma going on."

Looking up from where he was loading pizza slices onto a plate, Justin's expression was bemused as he gently scolded, "You didn't have to act like you've never heard his name before."

Dan's grin stretched ear to ear even as he concentrated on filling his own plate. "Yes I did."

Justin shook his head. "Why am I always falling for such mature grown-ups?"

"Have you fallen for me?" Dan asked with exaggerated curiosity, as if this was the first he'd ever heard of it.

"Against my screaming better judgment," Justin said wryly.

On his way to open a bottle of wine, Dan laughed and hooked his arm around Justin's neck, pulling him close and kissing the top of his head. "Why don't you just give up and admit I'm the best thing that ever happened to you?"

After dinner, Dan re-edited the article he'd written for the New England Journal of Medicine. He hoped to present it at a conference in Nassau in March. Please God, give me Nassau in March.

Justin sat on the couch in the office and read a text for his history class. That's where he'd studied for a good month after his mom died. Lately, he'd taken to working in the media room with the stereo blaring and the TV on mute. Dan couldn't understand it. Even as an undergrad, he'd needed absolute silence, the complete absence of distraction to study. That was hardly the case with Justin, who was more apt to study in a bustling coffee shop than the library

When he finished for the night, Dan shut off the computer. He stood in front of the couch and held his hand out to Justin, leading him to the media room. They stretched out together on the couch, Justin lying with his head on Dan's chest. Dan could feel the smile on Justin's face as he listened to the heartbeat beneath his ear. Dan ran his hand through Justin's hair, humming softly along with the CD.

Some time later, Justin hid his face in Dan's shirt and cried quietly for a little while.

Dan wasn't obtuse enough to ask him what was wrong.

Jesus. Poor kid. The hits just kept coming, over and over and over.

Dan had been so sure when he first ran across Justin in a coffee shop near the hospital that he was some run-of-the-mill rich kid from South Hill. He was a pretty kid to be sure-with a killer smile and an ass that went from zero to 60 in less than five seconds. He was worth a tumble just on face value, but Dan had been surprised-and intrigued-at how much more there was to the young man. It became clear very early on that behind the intelligence and quick humor was more than a little heartache.

And that was before Jennifer Taylor's death. But already there had come Justin's estrangement from his father over his coming out; his being bashed in high school; suffering the humiliation of an unexpected end to what Dan understood to be a profound if not volatile affair.

Brian Kinney had been front and center at every one of those dramas. Except the loss of Justin's mother. Dan had been there for that, and it had offered him a glimpse of nearly everything that had come before.

He'd met Craig Taylor at the funeral, finding him remote and barely tolerant of Justin, certainly unsympathetic to Justin's grief. Nightmares of the bashing had followed swiftly on the heels of the funeral and now, right when Justin was starting to gain some equilibrium, Brian Kinney bulldozes his way back onto the scene.

Enough already.

Dan wasn't about to tell Justin everything was okay, so he offered the only truth he had at the moment. "I love you," he whispered. The words made Justin clutch at him harder. When the CD stopped playing, Dan hugged Justin tightly. "Let's go to bed," he said. Justin nodded against his chest but didn't move. Dan chuckled. "Let's go to bed," he tried again.

Justin snickered and rubbed his cheek against Dan's soft T-shirt. "You are, you know," he said in a sleepy voice.

"I am what?"

"The best thing that ever happened to me."

-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Across town, sitting at the bar at Woody's, Brian spared another impatient glare at the front door. Fuck-an-A, what he wouldn't give for the old days when Michael was at his fucking beck and call. Still, it was a mere fifteen minutes after Brian had called and said merely, "Get your ass to Woody's now," that Michael walked through the door and sat down next to his best friend.

"I fucked up," Brian said without preamble.

Michael accepted a beer and took a long pull on it. "I'm gonna need more details," he said, grinning at Brian's smirk.

"I ran into Justin today. He's working part time at a graphic arts studio I'm gonna outsource some jobs to."

"Whoa, I thought he was in New York," Michael said.

"You and me both."

"So how'd you fuck up? You didn't, like, refuse to use the company unless they fired him or something, did you?"

"Your faith in my integrity is a beautiful thing," Brian said.

"You're the one who said you fucked up," Michael pointed out. "I'm just trying to move the conversation along."

"I might have...misjudged some things about art school in New York."

"Misjudged," Michael tried the word on for size. "You ordered him to go to school in New York, he refused, you told him to get the fuck out of your life and never darken your doorstep again. You're thinking there was a better way to handle it?"

"Let's just say it didn't go down the way I thought it would."

"What did you think would happen?" Michael asked.

"I thought...he'd get to school, make some friends, get into the classes. Realize I was right about everything."

"Then what?" Michael said. "Beg you to let him come back?"

"No!" Brian said. "That would have happened...naturally."

"That is so fucked," Michael said.

"It had to be his decision! He wouldn't have gone otherwise!"

Michael stared at him open-mouthed. It was almost like he thought Brian wasn't making any sense. "But you didn't let him make a decision! His decision was not to go!"

"He only thought he didn't want to go! A few years down the road he would have resented the lost opportunity and me for taking it away from him." Irritation rose full force again. "He should have figured what I was doing," Brian said.

"Why should he have to?" Michael said in exasperation. Brian rolled his eyes, but then so did Michael. "So what the fuck?" Michael said. "Justin didn't go to New York, and now you're pissed that your master plan tanked?"

Brian sighed and stared morosely at his drink. "I fucked up," he said again. "He never had any intention of going to New York-he enrolled at CM. And that's not the worst of it."

"What's so bad about going to CM?" Michael asked, affronted on Ben's behalf.

"Jennifer Taylor died a couple of months ago. In a car accident."

"She died?" Michael echoed, shocked by the news. "Shit. Two months ago? Jesus. He didn't get in touch with anyone? Didn't he think we'd...I mean, he didn't think we wouldn't..."

"Who the fuck knows what he thought," Brian groused dismissively. "He's playing house with some fucking do-good shithead who doesn't know shit about shit. Fuckin' asshole, acting like he fucking has a right to...fuckin' asshole." Brian shook his head, grimacing at his drink. "Justin didn't even fuckin' call me. You know, fine, he doesn't want my condolences, I still deserve the courtesy of a phone call. Maybe I owe his mother some fucking respect. I mean, Jesus Christ, we traded custody of him back and forth for two fucking years. You get to fuckin' know a person..."

"Well, you know, you did tell him not to...

"I fucking know what I told him, all right?" Brian interrupted. "I don't need a recap! Fuck! This is so fucked!"

Michael sighed. "Jesus. Well, okay, so, what the fuck are you gonna to do now?"

Brian sat up straight on the bar stool and drained the last of the whiskey. "What I always do when I fuck up," he said, slamming the empty glass down on the bar. "Fix it."

End Part 1

Domesticity 6 by Myrna and featuring the talents of Josselin

Sun, 15 Feb 2004 23:53:48 GMT

Another Domesticity fic. This one was a bit unwieldy so josselin was kind enough to read it through and offer suggestions. And words. All much appreciated!

Domesticity 6
by Myrna
and featuring the talents of josselin as The Writer Responsible for All the Good Parts

Brian tried to school the smug look from his face as the first class passengers were invited to board the plane, but the way Justin rolled his eyes and shook his head, he was obviously failing. So what? He'd earned a bit of self-satisfaction.

Six months ago, the idea of their enjoying some spare-no-expense, first-class-all-the-way trip to New York seemed as likely as Ted Schmidt getting laid at a...well fuck, getting laid.

Even now, when the start of his own ad agency could safely be labeled a success, Brian couldn't have paid cash for the weekend he was planning if it weren't for several bonuses that had just come through. It was customary to build into a contract a bonus structure based on a percentage of the increase in sales after a campaign was launched. Brian had kept the bonuses separate from the rest of their finances and was using them to cover the plane tickets, hotel and other expenses they would incur over the weekend.

Fuck the mountain of debt--they were going to party for a few fucking days and forget the shit they'd been mucking through for the last year.

Brian had thought Justin would jump at the chance to get out of the gray and gloomy Pitts for a few days, but he'd been reluctant to request any days off from work. Brian sweetly pointed out that the lost wages would amount to a candy bar, a box of paper clips and a Happy Meal, but Justin remained unconvinced.

It took Justin's boss offering two days of paid vacation (to compensate for his working through several weekends) before the uptight little shit finally agreed to go, which pleased Brian.

About a half hour into the flight, Brian was wondering why he'd ever been pleased. Apparently airports or planes or the fucking altitude made Justin horny as hell, and he'd spent the entire flight time pawing all over Brian. Granted Brian normally encouraged this kind of behavior, but he was trying to finish up some last minute shit on his laptop.

"Jesus Christ, for the last time, get the fuck off me!" Brian growled, throwing Justin's hand back into his own lap.

Justin laughed. "Hundred bucks says you won't be saying that a couple of hours from now."

"I'll probably be thinking it."

Justin laughed even harder at that. "More like Fucking get me off!"

They took a taxi into Manhattan where Brian had booked a suite at the St. Regis. Justin had remained unphased during the drive in, though Brian remembered being somewhat shocked his first time in the city when a taxi ride proved wilder-and more death-defying-than a roller coaster ride. Of course, this wasn't Justin's first time in the city.

Justin was suitably impressed when the concierge showed them to their decadent rooms. The bathroom was done in Italian marble; the living room in lavish Louis XIV. Justin started laughing when the concierge opened the door to the bedroom. The gigantic king-sized bed, draped in shimmering gold fabric, looked like it came straight from the set of an Arabian Nights film "Oh, man, I wish I'd known about this place the last time I vacationed in New York," Justin said.

"You'd still be paying off my credit card," Brian pointed out.

Justin took a running start and launched himself onto the bed, saying, "What's a few thousand more on the pile at this point?"

Brian snorted as he handed the concierge a twenty and requested a hand-culled list of gay night clubs they would enjoy. Brian assumed Justin followed them out of the bedroom, but when he turned away from the door, the living room was empty. Brian stuck his head in the bedroom, but Justin wasn't there either.

Smirking at the sound of running water, Brian headed for the bathroom where Justin was firing up the hot tub. Brian leaned casually against the doorway. "Not even here five minutes, and already your cock's flappin' in the breeze. I knew there was a reason I threw in with you."

"How fuckin' awesome is this?" Justin said, fiddling with the switches on the wall until he found the one that controlled the hot tub jets. "Why the fuck aren't you naked?"

Brian headed for the honor bar. "Someone's gotta get the booze."

Justin laughed when Brian returned with a small bottle of champagne, four beers and ten mini bottles of hard liquor. Justin reached for a beer Brian set on the marble ledge of the tub. "We should pace ourselves."

"Amateur," Brian scoffed as he opened the champagne. He found two flutes on a shelf and emptied the bottle into them. He carried them back to the hot tub and set them on the ledge as well. Then he undressed and settled into the tub with a sigh.

Justin took a long slug of his beer and fit himself into the crook of Brian's arm. "When you're rich again, I'm going to quit my job and be a kept boy," he announced grandly.

"What do you mean when?" Brian asked, making a show of taking in their opulent surroundings.

"You're so not rich right now."

"How do you figure that?"

"I'm still working, aren't I?"

"Well you're not riding my cock, that's for sure."

Justin swung a leg over Brian and teasingly settled down on his lap. "Wanna make a bet?"

"Always after the easy money, you kept boys," Brian said, then downed the rest of his champagne in a single gulp.

Justin brought his face close to Brian's, whispering against Brian's mouth, "There's nothing easy about me."

"Ain't that the truth," Brian muttered, but strangely enough, he didn't sound the least bit unhappy about it.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

They talked about going out to eat, but Justin liked the suite--or more likely the hot tub--so much that he voted they order room service before heading out to the clubs.

Brian was as amenable as he was ever going to be after several energetic fucks so he agreed.

Naked and dripping on what Brian believed to be a Persian rug, Justin scanned the menu. "Oh, sweet! Crab cakes! Let's get those. Ew. There's a cream sauce. Those are totally unreliable. I'll order a bowl of melted butter just in case."

"Your cholesterol has got to be off the charts," Brian called from the hot tub. "Just because you don't have a gut doesn't mean your arteries aren't fucking clogged full of shit."

"Did you know," Justin said conversationally, "That a lot of the time when you're talking to me, what I actually hear is the wah wah wah from a Charlie Brown cartoon?"

"Is it wrong to care so much about your health?" Brian asked with touching insincerity. Justin flipped him off without looking up from the menu. "If you expire in flagrante delicto, I'll be so scarred it'll be three or four days before I have a sex again. I can't let that happen."

Justin cast him an irritated look and rolled his eyes as he waited for room service to answer. "Um hi, I wanted to place an order. Yeah. Okay, an order of the crab cakes and the wings too. Hot. Yeah. And the loaded fries. Yeah, that sounds good. Oh, and my grandpa wanted to know if you had a crudites platter or anything? Great, we'll take that. Oh no, no dip. Gramps is watching his cholesterol. Okay, thanks."

Brian tackled him onto the bed before the phone was back on the hook. Justin screeched with laughter, shouting and squirming against Brian's tormenting fingers. "Stop it! Stop! Don't!" He grabbed Brian's hand and gave him as stern a look as he could muster. "Don't! I hate that!"

Oh yeah, that was going to work on him. Brian rolled over and resumed his torture until Justin swore he was either going to throw up or pee on the bed.

While they ate, they read over the club guide the concierge had provided. "Fifteen dollar cover charge?" Justin said when they found the club Emmett insisted they had to visit. "That's fucked! Forget that place."

"You suck at being kept," Brian said.

"I'm not kept yet," Justin said. "When I'm kept I won't give a shit how much anything costs."

"Let me know when that is--I doubt I'll notice the change on my own."

They cabbed it over to Beige, and it wasn't that the scene was all that different from what they had in the Pitts, it was just kicked up several notches. Whatever your kink, apparently you had to exaggerate it to an outlandish degree or you'd be lost in the sea of human beings. Whether your deal was TOP or BOTTOM, LEATHER, GYM RAT or some other shit, moderation was obviously not the word of the day.

Sheer volume alone dictated that even if it was the same percentage of fuck-worthy guys as back home, the probability of reaching out and landing a hot one was far greater. A foot inside the door, Brian spotted his first of the night. He grabbed the guy by the wrist and kept walking.

"Try not to pick up any ax murderers," Brian said as he prepared to split from a slightly more discerning Justin. "And for fuck's sake don't take a drink from anyone and if someone tries to..."

"Bye, Grampa!" Justin shouted as he picked up his pace to escape from Brian. "I'll miss you! Eat healthy!"

"Fucker," Brian laughed, grabbing his trick again and pushing him toward the back of the club.

"Who's that?" the trick asked.

"My sister's kid," Brian said easily. "He goes to special school so I like to take him out in the world every once in awhile."

"Really?" the guy said, looking back over his shoulder and craning his neck to get another look. "He's hot."

"Yeah, but retarded, so..."

"Man," the guy said, slowly shaking his head in consternation. "You think he's okay there by himself?"

Brian shrugged. "Eh, he lives he lives, he dies he dies."

"I don't know, I think maybe...

Brian pushed the good Samaritan down to his knees. "Suck my cock. If you feel the need to think after that, go right ahead."

Brian and Justin met back by the bar halfway through the evening and debated the merits of sharing a trick. It seemed wasteful to Brian when there was a throng of men ripe for the plucking whom neither one of them had yet to enjoy. Justin agreed in theory, but the investment broker he'd picked up had done things with his mouth and Justin's cock that simply had to be experienced first hand. Brian was of a mind that Justin had an uncanny ability to pick up new sexual techniques, and he would undoubtedly be able to recreate the magic with Brian later. Justin granted that, yes, he was astonishingly talented in that regard and conceded that perhaps Brian was right in suggesting they continue to sample the available goods.

They tabled the discussion when three beautiful men, one of whom, Justin would later swear, had recently played a young mobster in several Sopranos episodes, approached with invitation in their eyes. Brian started to head off with two of them, calling to Justin, "Take good notes, Sonny Boy. Remember to pace yourself."

Justin swung around Brian and picked off the pretend mobster. "You too, Gramps."

Brian shook his head in disgust. "People have no sense of decency these days," he said to his remaining trick.

"That's nothing," said Tall, Dark and Juicy. "Apparently some fucker brought his retarded nephew here tonight and fuckin' left him to fend for himself!"

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

It was a little after four when they walked into the suite, still drunk and buzzing from the night's free-for-all.

"Talk about cleaning up! We'd do all right in the big city!" Justin said happily.

"You're quite the metropolitan queer about town, aren't you Sonny Boy?"

"I probably shouldn't've called you over to look at that guy's cock, but I've never seen a piercing like that."

Brian snickered at the memory and said, "Yeah, you were the picture of cool and laid back."

"Shut up. I scored us a free lunch at Andre Chason's. He's got that cooking show on the Food Network! He said to give the Maitre'd our names, and he'd personally prepare our meal."

"Maybe that kept boy thing is going to work out for you after all."

"I thought we could meet there for lunch and then go to MOMA to see the Tattinger exhibit."

"Meet there?" repeated Brian, amused. "You have some appointments in the morning I'm unaware of?"

Justin laughed. He was reclining on top of the bed with his eyes closed. "I was gonna go to the Richard Saunderson gallery and then meet you...later..." He smiled to himself. "That wasn't so hard," he said, then giggled. "Wonder why I couldn't tell you weeks ago?"

Brian stopped his lazy undressing. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Nothing," mumbled Justin. "Just...talking about tomorrow's schedule and stuff."

Brian stared hard at Justin, irritation tightening his chest and accelerating his heart beat. "Which obviously includes something Brian won't like," Brian said, speaking very slowly, as if Justin really was his slow nephew. "Because all of a sudden, Justin's acting like a fucking twat."

Justin was losing the fight to stay awake. "Just a gallery I want to visit. You'll freak... 't's easier not to say anything to you."

Justin fell asleep while Brian was still standing there gaping at him like he'd never seen him before.

What the God damned fuck was this? What the God damned fuck?

It took some time before the buzzing in his ears stopped, and for awhile, Brian moved on autopilot. He brewed a cup of coffee. Did a shot of Beam waiting for it to brew. Added a shot to his first cup. That tasted so good he added a shot to the second as well.

He toyed with all sorts of ideas for Justin's little deception, but all of them were for shit when he could just wake up the fucking sorry-assed loser and make him talk.

Brian kicked the bed a couple of times, but when Justin didn't wake up, he reached over and shook him the fuck awake. "Where the fuck do you get off fuckin' lyin' to me? Tell me where the fuck you get off!"

Justin sat up in alarm, unsure where he was and obviously clueless as to what the hell Brian was talking about. "What the fuck?" he said, squinting at the clock by the bed. "What are you doing?"

Brian laughed cruelly. "Right! Christ, of course you have no idea! You fuckin' lie about everything, how the fuck would you know what I'm talking about without specifics, right Sunshine?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Justin said, still looking around the room as though the clues to Brian's mood could be found somewhere.

Brian spoke in demeaning baby talk. "Does little Justin not remember what we were talking about before he went night night?"

Justin fell back against the pillows and whined, "Brian..."

Brian kicked the bed again. "Let's talk about the gallery you want to visit today, and why the fuck you've been lying about it, how does that sound?"

Justin still looked sleepy and half out of it, so Brian was shocked when he sprang up to a sitting position and shouted, "It's not lying if they make you lie, and you make me lie all the time! We never talk about the bashing! We never talk about it!"

Brian took a couple of steps back. What the fuck? What the hell did the bashing have to do with anything?

"Tell me about the gallery you're visiting today," he said again.

Justin was silent, sitting there on the bed rubbing his eyes with his fists like a fucking three year old. He gnawed on his bottom lip and finally spoke. "In 1993, Richard Saunderson was attacked by three men after leaving a gay bar. They raped him with a beer bottle and stabbed him four times. A couple jogging by broke it up. They happened to be doctors or he would have bled to death in the alley."

It was a good minute or two before Brian could fully fathom the colossal insanity of what Justin had been thinking. He stood there putting the pieces together in his head. Justin had been planning on traipsing off to a gallery devoted to some bash victim. Alone. Fucking brilliant, Sunshine. Fucking brilliant.

"You're fuckin' nuts," Brian muttered when he finally found his voice. "We never talk about the bashing because you still hyperventilate when you happen to catch a baseball game on TV! Parking garages give you nightmares and you flip out watching someone put ketchup on their French fries! You're fucking lucky that Rage is done by computer because if it was by hand the pages would be ruined with all your fuckin' tears, and don't you fucking lie to me and tell me otherwise! How the fuck are you going to look at some fucker's bloody paintings by yourself?"

Justin got up out of bed and went into the bathroom. "So what? So what if I freak out! Maybe I want to know I'm not the only fucking person in the world who thinks the way I do or feels the way I do! God! Sometimes I want to fucking think about what happened to me!"

"Oh Jesus, give me a fucking break!" Brian said, standing in the doorway while Justin took a leak. "I thought we were done with the violin music, but we need some musical background to that maudlin little sentiment."

"You're fucking impossible!" Justin said. He headed into the living room and threw himself down on the couch. "Why can't you just..."

Brian kept pace with him and stood over him in front of the couch. "No! Why can't you fucking just! What is it? Huh? I really want to know what it is. Does it make you feel special? Is that what it is? You get some kind of thrill knowing someone hates you so fucking much they tried to splinter your fucking head? Does that give you some fucking inflated sense of self the great unbashed can't fucking understand?!"

"You can't stand it, can you?" Justin jumped up and yelled. "One fucking thing where you aren't the God damned fucking star of Liberty Avenue, and it fucking eats at you! That's why you want to pretend it never happened because God forbid Queer Pittsburgh stop thinking about Brian Fucking Kinney for one fucking second!" Justin ran back to the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.

"What I can't stand is that you're a fucking liar who's full of shit!" Brian yelled back, stalking after Justin. Brian's face was screwed up into an ugly sneer as he whined outside the bathroom door, "Oh, my boyfriend's so mean! I can't tell him I want to wallow in my fucking victimhood! I'll just lie my fucking ass off until it's too late for him to say anything!"

Justin threw open the bathroom door. "That's not what I'm doing! I didn't lie about anything! Jesus! Don't fucking come to the gallery with me! I don't give a shit what you do!"

"Fuck, you're such a huge, fucking liar you can't even tell the difference between a lie and the truth anymore!"

Justin was heading back to the bedroom, but he stopped and turned around, fists clenched at his side. "I didn't lie about anything!" he shrieked. "Fuck you! You're so fucking crazy! I'm not supposed to remember that I was fuckin' bashed and now I'm not supposed to fuckin' know about other people who were bashed? That's fucked!"

"Oh Christ, that's right! It's been a good, what, 15 seconds since we rehashed The Famous Justin Taylor Bashing! By all means, let's get back to it!"

"Fuck you. FUCK. YOU! You wanna erase what happened to me but you can't! Not ever! Do you hear me? Not ever!"

"Shut up! Shut the fuck up!" Brian screamed.

"It happened!" Justin yelled back, tears streaming down his face. "Fuck you! It happened! It happened! It happened!"

The hinges on the hotel room door made it impossible to get a satisfying slam on the door. Brian marched over to the elevator, headed down to the lobby, then walked straight out the front door.

"Sir, are you sure you want to leave..."

Ignoring the call of the doorman, Brian took off down the street.

God fucking damn shit fuck cunt fuck God damn fuck shit! What the fucking shit? Justin knew the only two things in the fucking God damned universe he couldn't stand were fucking lies and dredging up all that fucking ass shit about the bashing.

It was like he God damned fucking sought out ways drive Brian fucking ass crazy.

Why the fuck couldn't he just fucking forget about it?

They couldn't change anything! There weren't any fucking useless bullshit fuck ass words that would make it any less horrific. There wasn't any fucking thing any of them could do to take away the God damn fucking stink of ruin that fucking bashing caused.

So what was the God damned point of thinking about it?

Would it kill Justin for once in his God damned catered-to life to do something for him? Couldn't he just fucking forget the fucking bashing and tell the God damned fucking truth about shit? They were two fucking measly little things. Would it kill Justin to fucking try?

And Brian knew, he knew he was the last mother fucker on earth with the right to think such fucking utter bullshit. There were a million fucking things he could do-and not do-because they'd make life easier for Justin, but it's not like he was gonna fucking do any of them.

Jesus Christ, they were gonna end up killing each other.

Miles later, Brian let himself back in the room. Justin had pulled the easy chair over by the sliding glass door so he could look down at the city. He was sitting there, leaning forward, his forearms on his knees.

They stared somberly at each other until Justin chuffed a breathy laugh and shook his head. Brian shrugged and rolled his eyes.

Justin stood up and squared his shoulders. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you," he said quietly. Brian stepped close to him and tried to cut him off with a finger to his lips, but Justin kept talking as always. "I should have told you three weeks ago when I decided, and we could have fought *then* instead of wasting our time here, and that would have been way more efficient, but..." He trailed off, smiling faintly in response to the growing smile on Brian's face. Brian placed his hands on Justin's cheeks and then moved them back to card through his hair.

"But you're a fuckin' liar," Brian gently finished for him, leaning in to press his cheek to Justin.

"But you're a fuckin' asshole," Justin corrected, equally gently. And Brian thought once again how stupid other people were, because words *were* bullshit. It didn't matter what syllables tripped off your tongue, "Sorry" and "I love you" were always in the tone.

Afterward, while they were still naked and on the floor, Brian decided that if the rug was truly Persian neither one of them would have such nasty rug burns.

"I tell myself all the fucking time that when something comes up, I'll just fuckin' put it out there," Justin said. "I hate fuckin' up the same way over and over again."

Brian said nothing as he stroked Justin's flank. Justin played absentmindedly with Brian's hair, combing his fingers through it and massaging Brian's scalp. Brian grinned to himself thinking he was going to fall asleep any second with his face planted in Justin's groin. Housekeeping would get an eyeful in the morning.

"I know it drives you crazy that you can't undo it. Whenever it comes up it's like...you look... You want to undo it. Make it not have happened. But you can't."

"Yes I can," said Brian, his voice muffled.

Justin gave a gentle laugh as he pet Brian's hair.

Brian nuzzled the soft hairs right below Justin's navel then looked up at his lover, his brown eyes wide. "You said it always goes away when I fuck you." There was a challenge in his tone, a suggestion that Justin hadn't been truthful when he said it.

"It does."

Brian's grin turned feral. "Then all I have to do if fuck you 24/7. I'll fuckin' banish it for good."

Justin laughed affectionately and shook his head, but didn't say anything. Brian lifted an inquisitive eyebrow at him, inviting a response. They stared at each other until Justin shook his head again. "What, like I'm gonna fight that?"

"Which one of us is the practical one again?" Brian asked.

"One of us is practical?"

Brian snorted, but could hardly refute the point.

"Besides, if I wanted practical I'd be with Ted," Justin said, his laughter jostling Brian's head. "Pre-Meth Head, of course."

"Shit. I can fuck away the horrors of a bashing, but the image of Ted Schmidt in bed? I'm not Superman."

"Yes you are," Justin said, and when Brian didn't say anything, Justin mimicked his earlier expression by lifting his own questioning brow.

"What?" Brian said with a shrug. "Like I'm going to fight that?"

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

The next morning, Justin ordered breakfast while Brian was in the shower. He looked a little sheepish when he joined Brian in the stall, and well he should have, Brian thought, when the waiter wheeled in a shamefully overloaded cart of food.

"I like breakfast!" Justin said with a shrug. There were waffles and scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, a basket of assorted breads, a fruit plate and cereal as well.

"Oatmeal?" Brian said, lifting one of the stainless steel lids.

"It's so good at a hotel!" Justin raved around a mouthful of Belgian waffle. Brian shook his head as Justin poured cream-mother fucking cream--over a bowl of oatmeal topped with a pile of brown sugar.

"You might as well be eating fucking oatmeal ice cream," Brian said.

Justin shrugged. "It's no worse for you than a croissant," he said, nodding at the roll on Brian's plate. "There's eight hundred pounds of butter in one of those things."

"I bet you a hundred dollars you need CPR before I do," Brian said.

"You're on," Justin said, wiping a sticky hand on his bathrobe before offering it to Brian to seal the deal.

"Alcohol poisoning and drug overdoses don't count," Brian added.

Justin jerked his hand back. "Then no way!"

"Chicken," Brian taunted.

"Mmm, let's have that for lunch!"

Brian pouted his lips. "But I already had some in the shower."

The Saunderson Gallery was in Greenwich Village, so they cabbed it over there. Brian guessed they'd have to take the owners' word for it that this was an up-and-coming art district. Brian's label would have been more along the lines of "long-established drug refuge," but what the hell did he know? Maybe the discarded syringes were performance art.

Justin looked like a man who'd stepped in a pile of dog shit with more on the way. "When I'm a kept man, you're going to buy me a much better gallery than this," he said.

Brian laughed at the assumption. "You'll be lucky if I fix up the shed in Deb's back yard."

"As much as I suck at being kept, you suck much worse at keeping."

Brian cast a sly, sideways glance at Justin. "You're not going anywhere," he said.

Brian ignored his accelerated heart rate, and ten minutes into their visit, he was ready to concede that perhaps he had overreacted slightly. There was nothing in the artwork that hinted at being bashed. As far as Brian could tell there was little in the artwork that hinted at anything. Apparently talent wasn't necessarily a prerequisite to securing a Greenwich Village art gallery.

The last room was called Afterward and contained the artwork that had obviously been inspired by the man's bashing.

The most striking piece was a mural that took up an entire wall. There were nearly a hundred ugly, angry faces, mouths captured in mid-scream as they obviously hurled epithets at an unseen object of their hate.

Brian wanted to vomit.

What could Justin possibly glean from that? How the fuck would that help him make sense of some fucking monster swinging a baseball bat at his head? How would that make it any easier to walk in a world that didn't give a fuck that it ever even happened?

Justin stood at the doorway, giving the collection one final look. Finally he turned to Brian, and lifted his chin in his haughty way that always amused Brian. "I'll say it better," he vowed, and they left and headed over to the Museum of Modern Art.

"I thought he was...ordinary," Brian said when Justin asked him what he thought of the artist. "They throw around words like avante guard, but the words have lost all meaning. I didn't see anything there that was challenging conventional ideas about anything."

Justin nodded along with Brian's words. "Yeah, I'd agree. And the thing is even if you're presenting the opposite of whatever society dictates, they're still dictating to you because you're waiting to see what society dictates, and then you're doing the opposite of it. What's avante guard about that?"

"So tell me, in what fucking universe was that mural empowering? All those people cursing him, condemning him because he's queer? What the fuck is that all about?"

Justin stopped in his tracks and said, "Whoa, that's wild. I thought they were yelling at all the fuckers trying to oppress them." He bumped Brian's shoulder with his own. "You have a persecution complex."

"It's not a complex if they really are out to get you," Brian said dryly.

They were stopped on a corner waiting for the signal to cross when Justin said, "Thanks for coming with me."

The last few blocks they'd pretended like Justin wasn't cringing at the hordes of people rushing toward them on the crowded sidewalks. Brian cast a sidewise look at Justin, but he was staring resolutely at the crossing signal. Brian carelessly shrugged away the thank-you. "I couldn't leave my retarded nephew to fend for himself again, could I?"

Justin nodded slowly in agreement. "You're too good to me."

MOMA was relatively uncrowded for a Saturday, and the room housing the Tattinger sculpture exhibit was pretty empty.

Tattinger was renowned for his oil painting, but it was actually his sculpture that captivated both Brian and Justin. It had been a brief foray for the artist-there were probably less than 25 marble, wood or bronze offerings-but they were astonishing. Each piece was caught in mid-motion, mid-thought, mid-feeling, the work more intimate than a photograph or painting could ever be.

Brian and Justin slowly toured the room, sometimes viewing a piece together, sometimes wandering around solo. Brian had an idea that Justin could've spent three weeks immersing himself in each and every work of art.

At one point, Brian left to take a piss, and when he walked back into the gallery, he stopped short, taken aback by the transcendent look on Justin's face. Jesus Christ, he looked beautiful. Brian bowed his head, momentarily embarrassed by the raw emotion he saw. Sometimes he was ashamed at how numbly he moved through life, especially in the face of Justin's openness. Justin's way seemed... braver somehow.

Brian ambled up behind Justin and slipped his arms around him. He whispered low, his lips brushing against Justin's ear as he spoke, "When you're a kept boy, I'll line your studio with Tattinger sculptures."

They didn't discuss it, but they skipped the clubs that night and got back to the hotel around ten. True to form, Justin was stripped and firing up the hot tub before Brian had hung up his suit jacket. For some reason, it struck Brian as ridiculously funny that he should have hooked up with such an oversexed little shithead.

"What?" Justin asked, standing in the middle of the bubbling jets.

Brian shook his head. "Nothing," he said. "You."

"What!" Justin said, laughing along with Brian in spite of himself.

Brian discarded his shirt on the floor and stalked over to the hot tub. He jumped over the ledge, prompting a surprised shout from Justin. "Your pants are dry clean only!" he said.

"Fuck 'em," Brian growled. He grabbed the back of Justin's head with one large hand and shoved their faces together, devouring Justin's mouth as though he hadn't tasted it in months.

"Oh Jesus," Justin whispered when they came up for air.

Brian kissed him again, the fire and hunger and surrender reminiscent of another kiss in another hotel room. But the throaty chuckle and easy tease were proof that not everything was the same. Brian lifted that familiar, mocking brow at Justin then whispered into his ear, "I like it better when you call me God."

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

They left the next morning after another one of Justin's break-the-bank-breakfasts. Brian had to admit there was something about oatmeal made at a restaurant. He was sure they boiled it in heavy cream or something equally toxic, but it was fucking good.

Justin had his head buried in a book before the plane was even in the air. He held the book with his right hand while his left sat absentmindedly on his thigh. Brian cast his eyes sideways, waiting for Justin to realize something was amiss, but he was oblivious to everything but his book. Twice Brian "accidentally" dislodged Justin's arm from their shared armrest, but all Justin did was shift in his seat and verify that his seatbelt was securely fastened.

Jesus Christ, subtlety was wasted on that little fucker.

Finally, with a huff, Brian reached for Justin's left hand and deposited it on his own thigh.

There was little reaction from Justin, save the slightest quirk upward at the corner of his mouth. That could have been amusement. Or maybe he was just getting ready to sneeze. Brian wouldn't bet on it, one way or the other.

Spoiler Misconceptions

Fri, 13 Feb 2004 18:09:44 GMT

I often read the spoilers and apparently get things all wrong. Anyone else seem to think there are a lot of different interpretations going on with what was recently spoiled?

Can anyone clarify whether or not I'm missing the boat here?

1. Brian gets cancer
I think Brian has a cancer scare. It doesn't sound like he's actually diagnosed with cancer, just that the doctor finds a lump that requires further testing. I can't imagine Cowlip taking Brian out of commission by having his pee pee operated on, but I'm almost done trying to figure out what goes through their minds.

2. Justin tells Michael that Brian has cancer
The way I read the spoiler, Justin thinks something is wrong with Brian and goes to Michael to see if Michael knows what it is. Michael doesn't know, but later goes to Brian and asks if something is wrong. Brian wants to know why Michael thinks something is wrong and Michael says Justin came to him (Michael) about it.

I've re-read the spoilers several times and this point is ambiguous to me.

Also, WHY DO I CARE?!?!?!?

Glory Be, Another One!

Tue, 03 Feb 2004 22:51:51 GMT

I'm taking all of my hysterical, out-of-control angst-fest fics and turning them into itty bitty Domesticity fics!

Domesticity 5

It was close to 7:30 when Brian finally staggered home. It didn't seem like he used to get this beat up on a daily basis, even after he made partner at Vanguard. Striking out on his own was proving to be a decision whose merits fluctuated more than Deb's weight.

Today had brought the high of securing another client-The Benton Group of Restaurants, which was a major coup. But then the rest of the day had been spent haggling over advertising fees he'd thought were spelled in the proposal. The way they ended it, Brian was practically fucking paying them for the honor of working his ass off on their account. Fuckers.

But the name was going to look awfully beautiful on his client list. The prestige of landing that big fish would probably bring him five or six lemmings in the next two weeks. Oh yeah, bring it on, Brian thought.

He'd missed lunch that afternoon, and fuck if he was going to treat Alan Benton to dinner after having the life sucked out of him all day. He was tired and starving; pissed and triumphant all at once. And fuck if he didn't have to do it all again tomorrow. He groaned theatrically as he stepped into the elevator and slumped against the wall.

Brian almost longed for the days of yesteryear when his arriving home to Justin was met with all the excitement of a soldier returning from the front. An ass in the air and dinner on the stove-Brian understood what it must have been like to be a husband circa 1952.

Alas, that was then. The elevator door opened to reveal no pleasing aromas--no garlic and basil, no poaching fish or baking chicken. If not for the trail of jacket, hat, scarf, bag that led from the front door to Justin's desk, it was hard to tell Justin was even there.

"Hey," Brian called, but Justin didn't look up from the computer. He was leaning in close, bracing his right arm with the left, intently concentrating on something. He had a laptop from the office, so it was obviously work related.

Irritated at being ignored, Brian stalked to the kitchen to rifle through take-out menus. "Why, hello Brian," he said in a mocking falsetto. "How delightful to see you. And how was your day?"

Justin slowly turned to look at him as if he were the star attraction at the carnival freak show. "Sorry, Nancy, I didn't hear you come in," he said.

Brian flipped him off, but he'd gone back to his computer so quickly he might have missed it. "You want to order Thai?" Brian asked, loosening his tie. "I'm sick of that organic deli."

"I already ate," said Justin.

Brian smirked at the back of his head. "How neighborly of you to save me some."

"Christ, you're on the fuckin' rag today."

"Fuck you. If you're goin' to the fuckin' trouble of making dinner, it wouldn't kill you to make enough for me."

Justin stomped into the kitchen. He flung open the cupboard and retrieved a bowl, then snatched a spoon from the drawer. He grabbed a box of Wheat Chex and slammed it all down on the counter. "Knock yourself out!" he said.

Brian rolled his eyes and headed to the bedroom to change. He passed behind Justin and glanced at the work on the screen. "They're letting you use three different colors now? Alert the media."

"Fuck off."

Brian took his suit off and hung it up. He stuck his head further in the closet before stepping back and turning to Justin. "Where'd you put my suit?" he asked.

Justin's wince was all Brian really needed to see, but he also put his stylus down and rolled the chair back from the table. "Yeah, about that..."

"Justin, Jesus Christ, I asked you this morning if you'd have time to pick it up!" Brian said. "All you had to do was fucking say no. You always fuckin' do this! You don't want to say no so you say you'll do something then you just blow it off. I have a huge meeting tomorrow with a client and whether or not you buy into the psychology of it, shit like that makes a difference!"

"Now wait a minute!" Justin started to say.

"No!" Brian barked. "You fucking wait a minute! If you didn't have time to pick the shit up, you should have told me so or fucking called me! God damn it, you are so fucking inconsiderate sometimes!"

"This is bullshit!" Justin said, and began packing up his laptop. "For the first time since I started this lousy, fucking job, they've given me something to do where I'm not just the guy in Row 2, Cubicle 6, so excuse fucking me if I don't do some fucking victory dance to welcome you home!"

"Fuck you, this has nothing to do with that! It has to do with you following through with something for once in your God damned fucking life!"

"Screw you!" Justin shouted. He headed for the door, but after sliding the door open, he stopped and turned around to face Brian. "And for your information, you fucking asshole, Mel called and said Lindsay was stuck in traffic and for every five minutes after 5:30 that you don't pick up your kid, that fucking preschool charges 25 dollars. So between springing Gus or picking up your fucking suit, astonishingly enough, Gus won out! Asshole!" And with that, Justin stormed out the door and down the stairs.

Brian stood there in the bedroom for a second before slowly walking over and closing the door. Fuck, he should have known better. Justin only engaged when he had the moral high ground. When he legitimately fucked up, the little shit moped around like a puppy with its tale between its legs.

Still, he could've fucking called and said he wasn't going to make it to the cleaners. Brian would've swung by on his way home. Maybe. Or at least mentally prepared another ensemble for tomorrow's meeting. A little early notification wasn't too much to ask.

Fuck it, Brian thought. Brooding about it wasn't going to change anything. Might as well take advantage of a free night and enjoy a little extracurricular activity.

=====================================================

Brian awoke the next morning fifteen minutes before the alarm sounded. That was irritating. Though marginally less irritating than the half-assed blow jobs he'd encountered at Babylon. What the fuck is happening to this town? he wondered. Used to be a man could get his rocks off--maybe not always in stellar fashion--but certainly with enough skill for the encounter to be passable. Last night's offerings were disappointingly sub-par.

Brian groaned and rolled over onto his back, staring morosely up at the ceiling. Fuck starting up some lame-ass, far-superior-to-all-the-others ad agency. He should have taken that capital and opened The Brian Kinney College of Sexual Proficiency. Sure there'd be some resistance, some public outrage, but when graduates of his patented program spread out across the country, sharing the orgasmic joy begat from his prowess, they'd be erecting statues in his honor, declaring a national holiday on his birthday and celebrating him as the avant-garde genius he was. A grateful nation would offer tearful testimonials to the miraculous changes in their lives after leaving his school or at the very least hooking up with an esteemed graduate. Fame, fortune, and the certainty of a decent blow job would be his.

Fuck. Or he could just make nice with Justin. Hmm. Choices, choices.

Brian showered and dressed, glaring at himself in the bathroom mirror when he was finished. Sure, he looked incredible. That was never in question. It was about attitude; and he fucking rocked when he wore Prada. He was born to it, and that showed in the way he walked into a room and owned it. Owned it, mother fucker.

The Armani was classic, though. Not as edgy as Prada. A little safer than Brian had wanted to play it, based on what he'd read about Thomas Sinjahni, but he could work it. A lesser man would be lost. But then, he wasn't a lesser man.

His meeting wasn't until ten, but Brian had read several articles about working out of the home, and all of them suggested a noticeable break to transform "home" into "office." Most mornings, Brian either met the guys at the diner for breakfast or headed to the Starbucks on Rockport for a latte. When he arrived back at the loft, he was at the office.

It was well before seven when Brian walked into the Starbucks, and he glared at the unexpected line of people before him, mentally calculating how many customers would order a simple black coffee and how many would want some fucking fifty-step coffee experience. His latte didn't count because it was a God damned coffee shop for fuck's sake, they could make him a fucking latte.

Brian's internal grumbling was interrupted by a group of kids, undoubtedly Carnegie Mellon students, who were sitting at a large table, laughing raucously with one another. Brian tried not to spare them an annoyed glance, but as his eyes raked over the table, he still ran an unconscious inventory: straight, straight, straight, straight, straight. Figures.

"I'm so pissed at my dad," whined one of the girls. "He said he'd give me $500 for spring break and not a penny more, and I'm like, 'Great Dad, six weeks before is a good time to tell me!' If I'd known that I would've been pocketing my allowance all along. Granted, it's only fifty bucks a week, but still."

"God, that is lame," said another, who then started to laugh. "Oh my God, I just got the mental picture of you saving gas money by riding the bus to campus every morning!"

Horrified shrieks went up from all around the table.

"Oh right, like I'd sit my sorry ass down on some skanky piece of public transportation? I don't think so!" sniffed the girl. "I'd rather shop online than submit myself to that indignity!"

Brian gave her another once over and thought, However you shop, it ain't workin', Bitch.

Another student joined the crowd, asking, "Where's Darrell? I thought he was meeting us here."

"Probably moping around his room. He's such a fuckin' buzzkill right now."

"Come on, give him a break! He's facing, like, a totally impossible choice right now. I mean, he got accepted to the Harvard MBA program, not to mention the Wharton School. But get this, Carla told me that if he started today at his grandfather's company, he'd get mid-six figures. Mid-six figures! I mean, how do you pick from all that!"

"I guess he's entitled to be a little preoccupied," the guy grudgingly agreed. "But if you ask me, he's just pissed because he was so drunk at Loomfield's party he puked in the backyard, and Karen Richards ditched him for Matt Carlson."

Once again, gales of scandalous laughter rang forth.

Jesus Christ.

Brian looked away and shuffled forward in line and thought of Justin, whose father had dropped him from his insurance and, at least temporarily, forced him out of school and into a dreary job he didn't want; Justin, who dragged himself out of bed at 5:30 every morning so he could sit his sorry ass down on a bus that took him to that fucking job, whose "impossible choice" was between picking up the dry cleaning or picking up a three-year old at preschool.

Brian made a sour face and shook his head. As much as their fucking prattle revolted him, he still sort of wished Justin was sitting there with those over privileged brats. Sort of.

Not that I'd get an occasional fucking dinner out it if he was, he thought.

Fortified with a venti latte and a large black coffee for later, Brian returned to the loft in full "office" mode. He booted up his laptop and checked his e-mail, then refined his schedule for the day. Setting the calendar to notify him a half-hour before his ten o'clock appointment, he then picked up his cell phone, scrolled through the list of programmed numbers and selected Justin's office number.

Justin answered before the second ring. "Justin Taylor, Color Department."

"Finish your project?" Brian asked.

"Yeah. Turned it in a couple of minutes ago."

"Parker like it?"

"Like's a pretty strong word. He grabbed it and said, "Well for once I get something that doesn't suck the first time through!" then he stomped into his office and slammed the door."

"You're good."

Justin chuckled. "Yeah, it's a shame no one else is here yet. They're not going to believe Parker was so complimentary."

"Yeah, too bad," Brian said. The silence stretched between them for a minute or two before Brian started speaking again. "So, uh, I know you're not gonna be able to concentrate all day so I just thought I'd call and tell you not to worry about yesterday." Brian grinned in spite of himself, and he knew it was there in his voice. "I don't expect you to apologize. In fact, I don't even want you to."

Justin burst out laughing, and it was a good thing it was still early or he would have disturbed his fellow dungeon-mates. "Your selflessness never ceases to amaze me."

"I know how it works with you," Brian magnanimously explained. "You'd try frantically to reach me all day, leaving long, drawn out messages on my voice mail about how you're wracked with guilt, and you'll never forgive yourself if I don't realize how terribly sorry you are and how I'm all that matters to you in the whole world, and you couldn't live with yourself if I didn't accept your apology. Sometimes there won't even be words, just the sound of you sobbing into the answering machine."

"Wow," said Justin, in the tone of someone having an epiphany. "I'm a flaming queer, aren't I?"

"Well, I would never say anything like that myself but..."

"Right. 'Cause you're so selfless."

"Yeah!" Brian sounded pleased that Justin understood so clearly.

"It's almost shocking how none of that has rubbed off on me," Justin said. "Three years now, you'd think I'd pick up a little something."

"I know," Brian sounded scandalized as well. "It's almost like you're willfully refusing to follow my example of always doing unto others."

"And usually you do unto in a really nice way."

"Usually," Brian agreed. "So... since I've forgiven you for everything, does that mean I can do unto you tonight?"

Justin thought this over for a moment. "I guess I owe you, don't I?"

"You really do." Brian was almost apologetic to have to tell him so, but he was an honest man if nothing else.

"Fine. You want me to pick up a box of Frosted Flakes? The least I can do is spring for dinner."

Brian laughed. "I was thinking something more along the lines of Martine's. Just as a change of pace."

"It is good to mix things up once in awhile."

"Yeah, it is," Brian softly agreed. It was quiet for a moment, then he heaved a resigned sigh. "So, if you feel like you have to go on and on about how much you love me or whatever, you can."

Justin snickered and said, "No, I'm good."

"I'm just saying, if that's something you need to do, go ahead, 'cause, you know, I'm okay with it, this once."

"No, really, I'm fine," Justin assured him.

"It's just if you don't, later today you'll start the calling again, and I'll be with Sinjahni, so it just seems like now would be a good time, you know, if that was something you had to do. Or whatever."

Brian could picture the look on Justin's face as he mulled over Brian's more than generous offer. Finally, he spoke, in a low voice that suggested some dungeon-mates had arrived. "Brian, I love you, madly, passionately, deeply. You're my world, my whole life. You're all I think of and dream of; you're everything I'll ever want or need. I love you. I'll always love you. Always."

"Wow," said Brian. "You are a flaming queer."

"Click," said Justin and set the phone down on its cradle.

Brian laughed and turned off his own phone. With a satisfied sigh, he grabbed his latte and leaned back in his chair, content to sip slowly and wait for his next brilliant idea to hit.

Paying the Price for My Writer's Block

Sun, 01 Feb 2004 17:44:44 GMT

Yeah, that would be you guys.

Sorry, but I just can't seem to get a good, long story out of myself right now.

I can't even get a good, short story out of myself, but I'm tired of moaning about it and made myself finishing something. Now I'm making you read it. Or at the very least, look at the link to it.

On a completely random note: the socks I'm wearing to tennis today are either a really, really old faded pair that were once light blue or they are a relatively new pair that were once white until I laundered them with a load of darks. Either way, I'm just going with it.

Of his own volition, Michael would have never ordered take-out from The Onyx Bistro, but Ben had trounced both him and Hunter in last night's game of Trivial Pursuit, and to the victor belonged the dinner pick. The serving sizes at the bistro were minuscule, which was just as well because Michael only recognized about three ingredients on the menu anyway. Before he'd left to pick up their order, he and Hunter had made a show of double-checking the supply of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese in the pantry.

The restaurant was crowded with several groups waiting to be seated and five or six people in line ahead of Michael to pick up take-out orders. Hanging back by the door, Michael noticed blond hair out of the corner of his eye and turned almost involuntarily to see Brian and Justin seated at a table-for-two and sharing an appetizer between them.

Both men had obviously come straight from work. Michael chuffed in amusement at Brian's impeccable, pinstripe suit. He was self-employed now, and could work in his bathrobe if he wanted to, but every time Michael met him for lunch or ran into him at Woody's at the end of the day, he was dressed to the nines.

Justin had returned to PIFA for a single semester before shocking everyone by dropping out and taking a full time job at a local animation studio. But it wasn't like he was all that thrilled with the new job. More often than not he was complaining about how boring and unchallenging it was.

The whole thing had irritated Michael. Well, it wasn't so much irritation as jealousy. He'd grown up dreaming of producing his own mainstream comic book, duking it out against Superman and Batman and all the rest. That Justin had apparently walked in the door on a whim just grated on Michael. That fucking kid never had to lift a finger for anything in his whole fucking life. For anything.

"I'm a total drone," Justin had finally said one afternoon after Michael tried to point out how fucking lucky he was to be working at Lewis. "There's like, 15 of us, and we're in this skanky basement and we're each responsible for, like, one thing. Like, I'm Blue 475. So whenever a cell calls for Blue 475, I color in the shirt or the bird or the shoelace. I don't even know if I'm working on a comic or one of their loser cartoons or some lame-ass commercial. I'm surprised they even let us peons venture into the cafeteria. I don't think we're supposed to see the light of day."

"So why leave school for that?" Michael had asked, but Justin just asked something about what they were going to do with the next issue of Rage, and the subject was dropped.

The Onyx Bistro was across the street from Justin's office, not that the pretentious, over-priced restaurant wasn't right up Brian's alley anyway, so it wasn't all that surprising to run into them. Michael started to go over to say hello, but stopped when he heard Brian say, "I just don't get what you see in him."

Michael's eyes widened, and he stepped closer to the partition that separated the dining tables from the waiting area. Curiosity easily beat out decorum.

Justin shrugged and said, "But you can't explain things like that. It's like trying to explain to someone why you like root beer or beets. How do you make someone understand how something tastes to you or feels to you? Words don't work. You just have just accept that Tattinger's art speaks to me in a way that Fessler's or Krause's doesn't."

"You're full of shit. Where was that attitude when I was picking out a couch?"

"That was beyond a question of taste. I'm not sitting my ass down on that monstrosity every day. It was fuckin' hideous!"

"Your tastes are so plebian," Brian said, and Michael didn't have to see his face to imagine the look of superiority on it.

"That was on your Word-of-the-Day calendar this morning, wasn't it?"

Brian snickered. "This dip is good. Don't you like it?"

Justin wrinkled his nose. "There's too much cilantro. It tastes like soap."

"Too much cilantro or are you still pouting because I won't go for a dog?"

"Jesus again with the puppy!" Justin said. "I don't want a fuckin' dog, Brian! Ten minutes with one, and my nose is totally stuffed up, and I'm looking for a fuckin' inhaler. All the time I spend with your dick down my throat, I try real hard to take care of my nasal passages."

"There's other places I can put my dick."

Justin laughed. "Talk about full of shit. You were the one watching TV with the dog on your lap."

"He was sniffing my balls--I thought it was you for the first half hour."

The waitress bringing their entrees interrupted Justin's reply. As she walked away, Michael just about shit when Brian reached across the table and helped himself to a forkful of the pasta dish on Justin's plate. Michael was surprised Justin didn't spear Brian's hand given that there were only about four bites on the plate to begin with.

"MOMA is going to have a Tattinger exhibit in February," Brian said. "Take off the 19th and 20th, and we'll go."

"I'm not eligible for paid vacation 'til April," Justin said, and his tone suggested he'd told Brian this before.

"Take it unpaid," Brian said dismissively, prompting a sigh from Justin and a reminder.

"Brian, this is After."

"Mmm," was Brian's answer. "You know, if someone was back in school, this wouldn't be an issue."

The silence between the two felt icy, even from where Michael stood. He could barely hear Justin's quiet, "That's not fair."

"What's not fair?"

"Acting like I'm some fucking quitter because I'm not in school. I want to be in school, you know that. I can't afford it! Christ, it's like everybody being pissed at Debbie 'cause she's not spending her winters on the Riviera!"

"You could afford it if your fuckwad of a father had waited another six months to toss you off his insurance. We'd be fine then."

Justin gave a derisive snort. "Yeah, like that's the way things go with me. I started doing some figuring, though. I was thinking maybe I'd just let it ride for a few months, not worry about the insurance, but..."

"But then you remembered how much you hate it when I ridicule your stupid decisions?"

"Shut up. I called Dr. Berhendt, the neurologist, remember? I asked him about not taking the anti-convulsant anymore..."

"What?"

"Without all that, it wouldn't matter that I didn't have insurance."

Brian gave a derisive cough at Justin's reasoning. "How do you figure that?"

"That prescription costs, like, 275 bucks! It's gotta be refilled every six weeks, and they won't refill it without a check-up with one of the specialists, and that's, like, 320 just to walk in the door, and if they run tests and send you to someone else it keeps adding up..."

"So your answer it to just fuck it? Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Brian was getting really steamed. The chatter in the restaurant suddenly dimmed, and Brian lowered his voice. "Justin, I swear to God the things that you come up with..."

"Don't flip out. Berhendt was all, "That wouldn't be prudent," and then he freaked me out by telling me all the shit that could go wrong if I stopped taking 'em. Besides, the way my luck goes, the second I don't have insurance a safe'll fuckin' fall on my head..." Justin shrugged and moved the pasta around on his plate. "So I'll stay at Lewis, Yearling, Gerling and Weiss. Coloring pretty pictures is a small price to pay for full medical, right?"

"Six months," Brian said bitterly. "Just six fucking months, and the debt would be gone, and we'll be rakin' it in. Shit, I could shove a couple of mock-ups in your face, you say, 'Uh huh,' then I could put you on the books and have the company cover the insurance."

"Then you and Martha Stewart could share a jail cell!" Justin said with feigned excitement. "That does sound good."

"That's not illegal."

"It's unethical."

"I should have reviewed your course load when I was footing the bill because I would have vetoed a Business Ethics class."

"No doubt," Justin said. "Well Dad did me one favor. In a year, I'll be eligible for all the financial aid the world has to offer."

Brian seemed unimpressed with that bit of news. "In a few months, Lewis will cough up, what, 90 percent of the tuition? You're fucked not to take advantage of that."

"No way. You have to sign that fucking draconian agreement not to leave the company for, like, three years. Fuck that! Besides, they don't bring artists up through the rank and file. Neil said if Parker had known about Rage, he wouldn't have hired me because they would've thought I was trying to break into the art development side of it."

All this time gone by and Michael was still surprised when he heard Brian and Justin talking like... well ... regular people. He tended to think of them only in various stages of the fuck process. It was either right before, during or right after, and the rest of the time they just sat there and looked at each other.

"It's not that unreasonable," Brian was saying. "They're not a fuckin' charity. They have a right to try and recoup a little of their investment."

"It's not unreasonable for them to ask, but I don't want to be locked in for that long. Especially if it's not going to lead to anything."

"Right," Brian said scornfully. "You need to be free to fly. To pull up stakes and head out into that big world to make your mark."

"Don't worry, I'll never leave you," Justin said with such fake sincerity people three states over were probably rolling their eyes. "I love you way too much for that."

"Mmm, you'd think I'd quit trying to shake you wouldn't you?"

Michael couldn't help taking a step to his right so he could see Brian's face. He flushed, oddly embarrassed by the warmth of Brian's affectionate smile.

"Oh no," Justin said, smiling back. "I respect your tenacity."

"That was on your Word-of-the-Day calendar, wasn't it?"

Justin laughed. "Oh, hey, don't let me forget to show you the 401K shit. I have to pick everything and submit it by Friday. How fucked is it that they vest your right away, but make you an indentured servant if they pay for your tuition? It just goes to show you they're not interested in growing any of the talent from within."

"Well, take the free money where you can get it. At least they give you a boatload of choices. My first job out of college, they let us buy their shitty stock or nothing."

Justin nodded, then ruefully shook his head. "I used to sit there with you guys in the diner, and I couldn't wait 'til I was bitchin' right along with you about work, my boss and the stock market and my 401K. But so far, being a grown up totally sucks."

He was joking, but Brian's face fell, just for a second. Michael was shocked when Brian reached for Justin's hand and thread his fingers through Justin's. "There must be something you like about being a big boy?" Brian gave him a lazy grin, then flashed his trademark tongue-in-cheek.

Justin made a show of trying to think of something. "Mmmm, well, no one says anything when I have Oreos for breakfast. That's a bonus. No one tells me it's time I headed up to beddy-bye."

Brian obviously didn't think much of Justin's list. "What about talented tongues rimming your pretty little ass, huge dicks lodged up that ass, blow jobs that make your head spin..."

"That airline pilot last week was pretty amazing now that you mention it," Justin said thoughtfully, then laughed when Brian tossed a roll at him.

"Someone needs a little re-education, I see."

"Ooo, how Orwellian," Justin said. His grin turned playful. "There's tablecloths on the tables. No reason why the Re-Education of Justin can't start right now, is there?"

"That depends," Brian said.

"On what?" Justin asked with a laugh.

"On how fucking long Mikey's gonna stand there stalking us, that's what!" Brian jerked his head to the side and glared at a startled Michael, who blushed furiously.

"I was waiting for a lull in the conversation!" he yelped. "It's rude to interrupt!"

Justin just laughed at Michael's embarrassment. "Michael, what are you doing here! I can't see you getting a craving for The Onyx Bistro!"

"Tell me about it," Michael glumly agreed. "Ben got to choose, so I'm picking up dinner."

"Relationships are all about compromise," Justin said sagely.

Michael huffed at Justin's smugness. "Yeah, that or saying, Yes, Brian. Of course, Brian. Whatever you want, Brian."

Justin chortled at that. "Oh man, you've got our number," he said affably. "Hey, I've got those changes we've talked about in the car. We were gonna drop 'em by on our way home. Let me grab 'em." He hopped out of his seat, giving Michael's shoulder a friendly slap as he jogged past.

Brian eyed Justin's plate, then tossed a casual look around Michael out to the parking lot. "I don't have to tell you to keep your mouth shut, do I?"

"You don't have to, but you will," Michael pointed out. "Contrary to your totally warped brain, most of us don't spend every free moment talking about you and yours."

"Walk a mile in my shoes, and then try to sell that," Brian said, scooping up another forkful of Justin's shrimp pasta.

"You're just afraid I'm gonna tell everybody Justin lets you eat little bites off his plate. 'Cause he wuvs you soooo much."

"Like that's a news flash?" Brian scoffed. "That boy's been gone on me since day one."

Michael snickered and suddenly had the image of wheeling around a hundred year old Brian who kept looking over his shoulder saying, "Is that kid still followin' me?"

Justin came back in with the panels Michael needed, and they briefly went over the changes he'd made. Then Michael's name was called and he headed over to pay for their take-out.

"Now where were we?" Brian asked Justin with exaggerated curiosity.

"You were going to re-educate me, on account of my not remembering whose tongue and dick and whatnot are so amazing."

"Whatnot? I'll show you whatnot."

Michael cringed a little at Justin's startled yelp, and he refrained from turning around to see what in the hell they were doing. Strangely enough, it was less disconcerting to imagine them messing around at the table of some foo-foo restaurant than engaged in mundane discussions about insurance and investment portfolios.

Michael suddenly chuckled at Brian's warning not to say anything to anyone. Michael knew it was the shit about Justin's father that Brian wanted kept private. But the idea of Michael blabbing to everyone that he'd caught Brian and Justin going over their joint finances was pretty fucking hilarious.

Because really. Who in the hell would ever believe that?