If It Made Sense, It Wouldn't Be a Mystery, Would It?

Chapter 19

POV: STOCKWELL- SEVERAL DAYS EARLIER

"GINA!" Where IS that woman! God, I hope she didn't go to her mother's in a snit because I've been working late all week. I just walked into the house and I'm bone tired. The backlash from that ad of Kinney's is making my daily life at work a living hell. Fucking two-faced fag. The press won't leave me alone, and we've had to reopen the Kemp case. We're getting nowhere. Fast. I fired Horvath to make it look like he was the one who mishandled everything. I honestly regretted doing that. He was a good cop. But after I learned that he was dating Kinney's fag best friend's mother… well, it changed my opinion of him. I'm frankly glad to be rid of him.

I glance around the darkened front hall and snap on the light. Then I see the note taped to the mirror over the credenza. I peer at it, noticing from the corner of my eye that my reflection behind it looks exhausted and drained.

Honey:

I know you've been working hard, and the press has been relentless ever since that truly awful lie of an ad came out before the election. I honestly still cannot believe the gall of that horrible, horrible "man"- or whatever sub-human being that kinds is. That gay.

I pause and smile a small smile. Even at her most livid, she never cusses. We rarely argue, but when we do, she can get so incredibly angry- enraged- almost to the point where I back away from her- but never once have I heard her cuss. I remember a few years ago when she had asked me to watch Scotty while she went to get some diapers from the closet, since she'd run out; I had turned away from the changing table for a split second and at that moment, she returned to the room. I felt like she was going to actually pick up a lamp and throw it at me, and then carve me to pieces with the shards! She's so protective- like a mother bear, I think. But: not even one cuss word in the screaming tirade I endured. I chuckle. She was so contrite after that- especially, I think, because the sheer volume of her words had caused Scotty to start crying. I shake my head of my reverie and refocus my attention on the note.

Love, please know it will all pass, soon. I've taken the kids to Mom's for a few days, just so you can have some peace and quiet. Know that I love you, would do anything for you. And don't work so hard, sweetheart. I've left you three dinners in the fridge, in Tupperware- all your favorites! When you get home, just pop the lid a little on one, put it in the microwave, and heat for about 3 minutes or so. There's plenty of bottled water, iced tea and lemonade, as well. I will call you to check in. I love you.

Kisses,

Gina

I pull the note off of the mirror and look at myself full on. I am so utterly tired. I shake off my coat and throw it on the chair by the door. Geen always takes it off my shoulders and hangs it up. I snort; I have a fleeting image of myself going to work tomorrow in a rumpled old trenchcoat, like Columbo. I glance at the mail in my hand. Bills, bills, bills. I throw them on the credenza and go to the kitchen. The phone rings and I reach over and answer.

"Chief Stockwell? It's Ben Polt from the Pittsburgh Daily News, and I was hoping I could ask you some questions about this Kemp-"

"No comment!" I bark and slam down the phone. Fucking Kinney. Damned fag. Him and his blond fag sidekick. I take a deep breath and try to get a grip on myself. I've become a completely different person, lately! Even though I'm a cop, have been for years- and have been surrounded by foul-mouthed losers and cops both- only now do I find that I've developed quite a mouth. And I'm so angry all the time. I've always prided myself on my control, but lately, I'm so on edge- and even falling off of it… once in awhile.

I walk to the fridge and open it, surveying the contents. I choose the fried chicken and mashed potatoes, popping the lid a little like Geen told me. I throw it in the microwave and hit 3:00, then slump back against the counter. I find I'm gritting my teeth, and all I want, all I want is Kinney, his… his lover… all of them fucking faggots dead! And then I want to dance a goddamned jig on their graves. The thought makes me start grinning.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

POV: BRIAN

We've spent most of the day in the loft- mainly, waiting for Mikey to call. Plus, I'm in a fucked up mood and am in shit-assed shape- I ache all over. Actually, ache is hardly the word for it. I'm in agony. We promised each other that tomorrow, we would go try to find ol'Gair. And, at least suck each other off- I found myself wincing today whenever that mood struck (I was wincing a LOT). The wound on my thigh is incredibly painful, fuck it. And my head is killing me.

Bitch, bitch, bitch….

We made calls. To Ben, who says Hunter's condition has not yet changed. Ben sounded thoroughly worn out- but he was relieved that we'd heard from Michael. I told him I'd have Mikey call him from my phone. Ben forgot to take his cell when he dashed to the hospital. And, of course, Mikey doesn't know he's there. Besides, Michael might not have even tried Ben's cell because of his stupid phone tapping paranoia. Christ. And we called Deb… and then we debated whether to tell Horvath about what happened. For whatever reason, Justin seems to think we shouldn't. But, to be honest, I figure Deb'll tell him anyway, so I just said fine.

At around 10PM, as achy and sore as I feel, I'm going fucking stir-crazy. And it's pretty evident to me that Justin's about to climb the walls if we don't do something. He's been in a strange mood since the accident, although he tries to cover it with a million smiles and tons of activity. But: something's bothering him.

Right now, he's in the kitchen bustling around, cleaning pots and pans or some such LOUD shit, and it's driving me insane. I'm at my computer, surfing around on e-bay. I sold some of my shit on e-bay, and haven't yet gone in to see what each thing went for.

"Justin!" I bark.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Justin jumps a little, startled. "Fuck! What??"

"Let's get out of here. You're about to fly out of your skin. We can't fuck. I'm stiff and need some loosening up. C'mon." I get up slooooowly, then pause a split second. Hm. "And maybe we COULD fuck if I loosened up; that fucking shower didn't help much..."

Justin immediately flashes that mind-numbing grin. "Where to?"

I pause to think. "Maybe just a walk? Or… or, the diner?"

Although, I really don't want to go there. Too many fucking people. But maybe he's going crazy from being with me non-fucking-stop the last few… days. Or so…

"Sure! But let's just go for a walk. A short one though, okay? It's just the diner's… well, there are too many people at the diner."

I nod. "Smart boy." I mutter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am fucking wrung out by the time we get back to the loft, me hobbling with these goddamned- GODFORSAKEN crutches… a fucking WALK? Who's fucking idea WAS this?

I shoot a glare at the back of Justin's head. But then I sigh.

Oh. Yeah.

So I busy myself, fumbling with my keys when Justin twists his in the lock. Fucker. He slides open the door and immediately I notice the light is on in the bathroom. And the door is closed. "Justin!" I whisper, grabbing his sleeve. He looks at me, startled, his jacket half shrugged off. He follows my eyes to the sliver of light under the bathroom door.

"What the --?" Justin whispers. "Did you leave the door closed after your shower? With the fan on? That might explain-"

"No." I say simply. We tread- I hobble- forward very slowly; I look around for something to use as a weapon. All I see is a bottle of Beam on the counter- I grab it. I note that the bottle hadn't been there before. And I see a glass in the sink. I have the bottle in my good hand, so I gently toss the crutches towards Justin. He catches them.

"Brian! No!" Justin hisses as I limp quietly- painfully- towards the bathroom.

"Shhh!" I wave with my fucking casted arm for him to stay put, but he's right behind me, his finger hooked inside my waistband. God, even whispering, I feel like surely whoever's in there must hear us. I hear the bathroom cabinet close. Stealing my meds? Fuck that! But fuck if I don't feel like a flipping cripple. Although, maybe it's the adrenaline- but suddenly I don't feel much pain. "Justin! Go back!"

"Fuck that, Brian. I'm staying with you…"

Stubborn ass.

The only light is the dim shine from a street lamp coming through the windows, the subdued glow from the kitchen's evening lights, and the small light from under the bathroom door. We tiptoe- or whatever the fuck it is that I'm doing- closer.

The door swings open. "Fuck!!!" Justin screams as we both jump. I instinctively do three things, practically simultaneously- I lose all awareness of my condition and practically kill myself landing on both legs, I shove Justin further behind me with my good arm, gripping him behind me with my casted arm- then raise the good arm, with the bottle of Beam, and- somehow suddenly, vaguely, I know it's Mikey, and I fucking collapse onto the floor, Justin falling with me- I stupidly raise my good arm again, threatening to do God knows what with the bottle. Some superhero. Fucking cripple.

Then, I am quite quickly in fucking agony…

Oh. My. GOD.

"SHIT!" I hear. Mikey. Through the pain I'm feeling, although I'm still shielding Justin for whatever the fuck reason, I know it really IS Mikey.

Oh, my God, it's Michael.

"GodDAMMit, MICHAEL!!" I yell. My shoulders slump and my raised arm drops to the floor with a clunk, the bottle still clenched in my fist. The adrenaline that had me coiled like a spring immediately dissipates into a mixture of relief, anger, and jittery nerves. And. Again: Unbelievable pain.

For some reason, I notice that I have goosebumps. I feel Justin lean against my back suddenly- I suspect he's steadying himself after the shock. I, myself, am fucking dizzy.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE???" Jesus H. Christ, I could murder Michael. I regain my balance against Justin and cast a glance at the bottle in my hand- I consider it a few moments.

Michael, his arm supporting himself against the doorjamb, takes a few deep breaths. "Fuck… fuck me…" he takes one more breath.

Now all I am is pissed. Royally. I glare over at my so-called best friend, who's been the source of my enormous concern, intense fear, my most incredible relief- and now, my fucking stroke. I continue to heft the bottle in my hand, although I'm still crumpled helpless on the floor. I cast an eye his way that I hope conveys how I'm considering fucking killing him right now. Instead, I use Justin's body to wangle my way up, wincing the whole time- hopefully not visibly- and lope-stalk over to the kitchen, pull out a tall glass, and pour myself about a cup of whiskey. Jesus. H. Christ.

Justin is up, brushing himself off. I look at him closely. He seems a bit shaken, but okay. Okay.

"Brian, not too much- if you want to take any pain medication," Justin says quietly, coming towards me. "And I suspect you will want to after that fall. Are you okay?" He eyes my leg and then shifts his glance towards my head.

"Yes, Mom," I hiss, leaning against the counter, my glare trained on Michael. I have to sit down or I'm going to collapse again, I swear it. I slowly lower myself onto one of the stools. Justin, my ever-faithful sidekick, reaches over to help me. I sigh. Remind me never to be a helpless freak again. Theodore did one thing right when he made that living will.

I push that memory away.

Michael looks me up and down. "Brian- what happened?" His voice is full of concern.

"Well, you scared the living shit out of me-" I glance at Justin, "-US, that's what happened." I grimace, gulping down a large swallow of Beam. Out of the corner of my eye I see Justin reach for the glass to take it away from me and I yank it out of his reach.

"No- I mean, what happened? I mean, you've been hurt!"

Gawd, like mother, like son. "Yes, Sherlock. We were in a car- in a car wreck." Hey, speaking of-"And speaking of cars-"

Justin shoots me a look, like now is not the time. I just stop talking and sigh. Asshole.

Mikey doesn't seem to notice. He walks unsteadily into the living room. "Brian, I'm sorry. I just came from Ben's, but he must have a late class- no one was there, and Horvath's probably at Ma's and I don't really feel like dealing with him; and Emmett - well, I… I chose to come here," he says hurriedly. "Did you get my message? Hunter fucking ran off after talking to you- I stayed at the rest stop for hours and then finally went driving around looking for him." He's still out of breath. I wait, trying to ignore the intense pain in my leg and head. "Then… then the car fucking broke down and I had to get it fixed."

"Mikey, Hunter is…" I say, stealing a glance at Justin who has just walked past me over to the fridge. Jesus, is there ever a time when that boy doesn't have an appetite? But then I notice him pause.

Michael looks at me. "He's what?"

I decide to be my blunt self. Go with whatcha know. "He's in Mamaroneck. In a… in a coma. Mikey, you need to turn on your cell."

Mikey just stares at me incredulously. Justin has come up next to me, sits down and puts his hand on my shoulder. It feels good. It's the only thing that feels good right now. I take a long pull from my glass.

After a moment, I decide to continue. "He had called me. He said after he'd run off that morning that he had gone back to the rest stop after awhile and you were nowhere to be found. The car was gone. He was scared, so he called me." I take a deep breath. Justin wraps his arms fully around me. "Why the fuck he did, I have no clue. But anyway, we went and picked him up. Next thing we know, we're in Justin's mother's car, mangled on the side of the highway. Then, we're in the fucking hospital." Justin tenses a little. "Someone forced us off the road- and Hunter… he got pretty hurt." I look at Mikey for a moment.

I see him look at Justin, then me. Then Justin, and then he fixes his gaze back on me.

"Will Hunter be alright?" He whispers.

"Looks good," I say, kind of lying. I really don't know. "Here, call Ben." I toss him my phone. He misses the catch and it clatters on the floor. Mikey never could catch for shit. For some reason, I flash to my father beating the fucking shit out of me when I missed catching the glass he'd thrown- or more accurately, hurled- at me for me to pour him another. I shake my head. Why the fuck did I just remember that? I reach for the tall glass of Beam on the counter beside me and take another drink. I'm in a fucked mood.

"My cell is actually dead… completely dead." Michael says, absently, wandering over to pick up the phone from the floor.

"Just call Ben." I say. "He's with Hunter. Justin, do you have the number handy for the hospital? Ben doesn't have his cell."

Justin fishes around in his jacket pockets and pulls it out. He hands it to Michael.

"Does anyone else know he's there?"

"No." God, I'm tired. All I want to do is go to fucking bed. The relief of knowing Michael is okay now is a potent sedative. But not a pain reliever, I note to myself wryly, grabbing the glass of Beam again.

Mikey goes into the bedroom for privacy.

"How do you feel?" Justin asks, eyeing the glass in my hand disapprovingly. I ignore that.

"Like I never want to grow old and/or decrepit." I say. "I'm calling my lawyer and making a living will first thing tomorrow. I'm dying at 39, tops."

"You can't afford a lawyer." Smartass. I just smirk, shrug and lean back.

My leg feels warm, wet and very painful. "Justin, would you mind looking at my leg? It feels like the wound may have opened up with that fall." I wince, extending my leg. "My robe's in the bathroom." I look down and there's a stain on my sweats where the bandage covers the wound and I groan. Terrific. I glance up and see Justin notices it, too.

Justin gives me a worried look that I wave off and then hurries away to get my robe. I gingerly stand up, shrug off my shirt, then gently take off my sweatpants before the blood fucking glues them to my leg- ow, ow, ow, ow, OW! Then I immediately notice this is the moment that Mikey comes back into the room.

"Oh, sorry." He says. His eyes sweep over me. I wince. I must look almost like a cross between a clenched naked freak and a blood-covered mummy, I think.

Justin walks over, apparently noticing Mikey staring at me.

"Don't worry- you won't be subjected to viewing this hideously disfigured body long," I grimace.

Michael must suddenly realize that he's gaping at me like he's looking at a circus clown because he averts his eyes and places the cell on my desk. Justin smirks, rolls his eyes and hands me the robe. Then he turns his attention to my leg.

"God, Brian- you might have to go back to the hospital!" He gasps as he peels back the bandage. I look down. It's a mess of blood. "You might have pulled out some stitches."

Shit. Last thing I need or want is to go back to the hospital and spend more goddamned money to have some quack look at me and say, 'Yep. He's hurt. That'll be $500.'

"Let's just clean it up and if it's still gross in the morning, we'll go." I say quietly. Justin just nods and starts doing his nursing 'duties'. I look down at him and can't help snorting.

"What?" He says, suspiciously.

"Justin Nightingale." I say. Michael seems to decide that it's now okay to come fully into the room.

"Do you have any juice?" He asks. Then he looks at my leg. "God Brian! That looks serious! Do you want me to drive you to emergency?"

"No. It looks worse than it is," I say simply, earning a look from Justin, who apparently does not agree with me. "And I have Guava." I reply. Then consider a moment. "And Beam," I add, holding up my glass. "So, Mikey- the car's all better?" Justin rolls his eyes and finishes up with my leg. God, he's suddenly in a sarcastic mood. I'm just glad he's keeping his mouth shut. For the most part, anyway. He wanders over to the fridge.

"I'll take the Beam, actually," Michael says surprisingly, ignoring my question and reaching for the bottle.

"You know, Mikey? That bottle was this close to being embedded in that little paranoid head of yours," I remind him. "So: How. Is. The. Car?" I repeat.

"Ha!" He says, ignoring the question again, pouring a finger into the glass he'd placed in the sink earlier. "In your condition, you never would have reached me! You were pretty protective of Boy Wonder, though. Must be true love." He mocks in a high voice, batting his eyelashes.

"Fuck that." I mutter. Very quietly. I don't want any more scoffs or eye rolls from the kid at the moment. Justin wanders back over with half of a hoagie in his fist. "Plate, Justin! Jesus- I don't need Italian dressing all over my floor." He scoffs and rolls his eyes but goes to the cabinet and retrieves a plate. O for 2 I guess.

Justin returns and turns to Mikey. "Tho, whath the fuck'th goin'on?" He asks, mouth full. Fucking Cricket Country Club upbringing. Worth shit. Usually. I can't help but let out a little laugh.

Neither seems to hear me and Michael sighs. "Fuck. Fuck if I know."

"Join the club," I say. "Why didn't you bring Hunter home after finding out about his mom being dead? And why haven't you talked to your mom or Horvath? Debbie's going out of her fucking mind, Mikey. You should talk to her."

"I have talked to her. Just not... just not about Hunter or our whereabouts. And not recently." He rakes his fingers through his hair. "Brian, all I know is that Hunter is very suspicious of the cops- and not just because of the thing with his mom. He knows something that he's not letting on, and all I can do is trust him that we should keep hiding."

"It's possible he knows about Kemp. Or, well, let me back up. We got a bunch of letters from Horvath that he picked up at Reikert's after finding him dead in the garage. Reikert and Hunter's dad were a couple, for awhile anyway; Reikert also had a regular thing on the side with that Kemp kid."

Mikey just looks at me, surprised. "Why didn't Hunter tell me about all of that?"

"There's more." I stretch out my legs, wincing slightly. I take a pull from my glass. Do you know how tired I am of recounting all this shit? Christ, I'm exhausted. I sigh. "Okay. Apparently, Stockwell found out about Reikert being gay, and semi-forced him to resign- just to get him out of the public eye, since he had been Stockwell's partner for so many years. I suppose it would have reflected poorly on Stockwell's fucking family-friendly-based mayoral campaign for him to have had a flaming fag for a partner. Reikert seemingly resigned without a fuss, agreeing to lay low. Then there's a letter from Reikert to Hunter's dad about how he suspected that Stockwell had the Kemp kid killed- because Kemp had started blackmailing Stockwell. All I can think of that he'd be blackmailing him with was threatening to go pubic about Stockwell having an ex-partner on the force who was regular fuck buddies with a 15 year old boy prostitute from the Vaseline towers. An ex-partner who was at the same time also with a 'significant other'-" God, I hate that term, "-Hunter's dad. The fact that his own partner on the force was fucking a boy prostitute and Stockwell did nothing to stop it- either because he was ignorant of it (but shouldn't have been) or because he turned a blind eye- it's pretty damaging information. Well, at least Stockwell thought so, if it's true that he had Jason offed after being blackmailed." I pause. Mikey and Justin are both staring at me intently. I feel like a fucking storyteller with no taste in stories. Plus, this particular story is so twisted and bizarre, it gives me a headache.

"So, anyway, Reikert wrote that letter to Gary- that's Hunter's dad- about how he might be in danger, too- because Jason's best friend, who was Gary's kid, was likely in on the blackmailing- that his best friend was going to get a cut of whatever Stockwell forked over to keep the boy quiet." I look at Mikey. He doesn't seem to be registering what I'm saying. "Mikey, Jason's best friend was Hunter." I study his face to gauge his reaction. Predictably, his mouth has dropped open, but he stays quiet. I'm starting to feel the Beam. Thank God. I take another sip before continuing. "So, whether Reikert started to blackmail Stockwell and got killed, too, or if he in fact did commit suicide- or if someone else altogether is responsible for his death- we don't fucking know. I'm not even certain Stockwell had Kemp killed. In the letters, it sounds like Gary had a hot temper- conceivably he could have killed Kemp in a jealous rage. But then why later on kill Reikert?" I scratch my head. "None of it makes sense to me. None of the scenarios I can figure out given what little we know seem very likely. But Horvath believes Hunter's in danger. Of Stockwell. He wants our help to find evidence to nail Stockwell." I pause. "Hunter's not saying much." Then I add, "Even before the wreck he wasn't talking."

"Except," Justin says, "we know Hunter knew Reikert fairly well and didn't let on- and he fucked him and gave us the 'evidence' we used to defeat Stockwell."

We're quiet a moment.

"Oh," Justin adds, seeming to have remembered something else, "and we did find out that Horvath apparently dated Rita for awhile."

"No shit!"

"There's a photo that was taken at a police picnic- they're sitting together on a blanket. Hunter said he's sure it's his mom in the photo; and we're sure it's Horvath."

"He must really like redheads," I mumble.

"Why didn't Hunter say he already knew Reikert? And why didn't Horvath say something about Rita? Why didn't he tell me he knew her? And intimately?" Mikey looks from me to Justin. I shrug. "No wonder," he mutters. "He seemed awfully quiet and weird when he told me about her accident."

Justin, having finished his sandwich, gets up and goes to the kitchen, placing the plate in the sink.

"Dishwasher, Justin." I say, adding a muttered, "Jesus," under my breath. He can be such a slob. I can't believe I agreed to let him move back in. He was much better off at Daphne's. He sticks out his tongue, but picks up the plate and puts it in the washer. I suddenly realize my mood's gone from fucked to Total Shit. Oh well. They can suffer; they both have before. I glance at Mikey. He's shaking his head in shock.

"Mikey? You okay, there?"

"Yeah. It's just a lot to digest." He looks at me. "Do you think Horvath wanted us to come back so he could get Hunter back to his mother? Do you think he's trustworthy?"

"Fuck if I know." I've had enough for tonight. "Probably he is. But right now, the only thing I do know is that I'm fucking goddamned exhausted, confused, and stiff. And in pain." And I feel dizzy. I guess Beam and head wounds don't go together so well.

"And in a mood." Justin snaps. Although I notice he looks a little concerned.

I ignore him. I hear my joints crack as I uncross my ankles and stand up. "It's fucking late. Let's get some sleep. Mikey, I have no sofa for you to sleep on- and while my bed is big, it's not big enough for three-"

"-Not for sleeping, anyway," Justin interrupts, grinning. Fucker. Everyone's a comedian. But, he's right, actually.

"Anyway," I continue after tossing a sneer Justin's way, "I do have an airbed." I limp into the bedroom and painfully reach in to the back of my closet and pull out the deflated bed. I throw it at Michael with my good hand. He barely catches it. Then I get some sheets and a comforter and toss them at him too.

"Make your fucking bed and get some sleep. Tomorrow, you can go to Mamaroneck to see Hunter; I think Justin and I will first go to Gary's to see if he's there." Out of the corner of my eye I see Justin wince slightly. Fucking Ian.

I yawn, then feel a small smile on my lips. "...And then I sort of feel like seeing Gus." I add. Justin smiles.

Good.

I turn to Mikey, suddenly remembering. "Hey, what about my car?" I'm suspicious. He's been ignoring that question all night. It'll be nice to have my car back, at least. Take Gus and Justin for a spin. Or leave them all behind and drive to fucking Canada to get away from this mess.

Yeah. Like I can fucking drive.

"Jesus, Brian. It's fine. It's downstairs in the garage. No dings, dents or smudges of dirt. Good as new. You'll approve." Good. I watch Michael as he wanders around the living room. "I wish I could see Ben," he says quietly, his eyes casting about in search of an outlet to plug in the air pump. He looks so sad, so worried, so tired. I hobble up behind him and pull him into a hug.

"You will, tomorrow, Mikey." I gently turn him around to face me and pull his head to rest on my shoulder, my fingers in his hair. I feel badly for him. "You can take the car- I'll borrow one of the munchers'." He leans into me and I can feel him grip my shoulders and shudder. He's been through the fucking wringer, I think to myself. "You know that I love you- always have, always will," I whisper. I'm startled when I hear a loud thwack from the bedroom. Justin 'dropped' his shoe on the floor, pointedly. Jesus. He looks over at me, a slightly resentful look clouding his features. Then he shrugs like he knows this isn't the time.

Still, I find myself thinking, 'Well, Sunshine, Mikey's different. I can say it to Mikey. I can't seem to muster up the courage to say it to you. You terrify me.'

Michael is clinging to me still- either he didn't hear Justin's nonverbal protest or he's ignoring him. I'm suspecting it's the latter, although he is crying pretty hard- I can feel the moisture seeping into my robe. In the back of my mind, I'm thinking how I wish the petty weird rivalry between these two would fucking end. While it's certainly diminished since they decided to work on the next Rage, I still sense it's there and it's really starting to piss me off. Slowly, I release Mikey, cupping his chin to give him a gentle kiss on the lips. I look into his teary eyes until he looks back giving a small smile. "Good. Now go to fucking bed. I should be tossing you out into the cold instead of putting you up for the night, you know that? You nearly scared the life out of me before. Fucker!"

I turn, grabbing the crutches that are leaning against the kitchen counter and head into the bedroom and I hear his voice, very quiet, "Brian?"

I turn, eyebrows raised.

"Thanks."

"Just bring the car back in one piece," I say. Shmaltz. I hate shmaltz. Plus, I just doled out about a year's worth, for me. And he knows it and grins through his tears.

"Who says I'm bringing it back? It's as good as new right now- I think I'll sell it, take Ben and Hunter to Tahiti and wash my hands of this fucking mess!"

"You fucking do that and I'll hunt you down myself and murder your sorry ass!" I hiss. "Justin'll help me, too, right Sunshine?" I call into the bedroom. "We're becoming pretty good detectives, you know!"

"Oh yeah? Then who the fuck is the murderer?" Mikey grins.

Ass.

I swing out a crutch like I'm going to hit him, then lower it slowly. "You're fucking lucky I'm a cripple, asshole." Mikey just smiles.

At least he's smiling, I think. I lurch myself into the bedroom.

Justin looks at me, still with a slightly hurt expression, sitting on his side of the bed with only his tightie whities on. God, Sunshine: not now. Not at this hour. Just don't. It's odd to me. The tricks don't seem to bug him anymore. Well, maybe that's because I haven't been tricking. But sometimes I sense that he's still hung up on this "I love you" thing.

I sigh. The orange neons over the bed backlight his beautiful hair, and despite myself, I want to fuck him right there, Mikey or no Mikey, crummy mood or no crummy mood. Pain or no pain. As best I can, I pull him up off the bed and give him a hug, letting the crutches fall onto the bed behind him. I kiss his hair, inhaling the scent as I run my good hand in circles across his back. He resists at first, but then relents and hugs back. Gawd, but he's sexy. I pull back a little and put my lips next to his ear. "Justin," I whisper. I can feel him tense slightly- he's probably thinking I'm going to say 'I love you' or some such shmaltz. Instead, I kiss him and pause, breathing softly into his ear. Then I whisper, "Gotcha!"

I can be such a prick, I know it. Heheh. He pushes me away gently, although he gives my stomach a bit too hard of a shove as I feel the wind knock out of me with a whoosh.

"Fucker!" He says. I'm laughing. I happen to know this is actually the way to get him to lighten up.

I reach for him but he ducks. "Aw, c'mon- be fair! I'm disabled! I'm handicapped! I'm physically challenged! I'm whatever the fuck PC term is this week!" I plead. He's started laughing too, despite himself. I know he'd rather be pissed as hell at me right now. Ah, the Kinney charm, I think to myself. Gawd, Kinney, you ARE an ass.

"No, you're mean! Asshole!" I can see he's going to back up then turn and sprint into the bathroom. Yeah, dumbass. Like I can give chase in this condition, I think wryly to myself.

Instead: "Mean? Me?" I bat my eyelashes innocently.

"Yes!"

I sigh, suddenly weak, and relent. I gingerly walk over to my side of the bed and sit on the edge. "C'mere." I say seriously. Sensing my change in mood, he sits down beside me. His eyes quickly shift from smiling to pensive. I reach up and cup his beautiful face in my hand and look into his eyes, lose myself in them for a very long moment. "Thank you." Is all I say.

Out loud, anyway. And I mean it. For everything.

He looks at me quizzically for a moment; kind of oddly, actually, like he's reading me. Then, to my relief, he breaks out into one of his megawatt trademark smiles. "You're welcome." He says softly, leaning in to brush his lips against mine. "And…" He adds, thoughtfully, "thank you. Brian."

I look at the pillows longingly. I ache all over.

Okay, now. "Bed."

"Definitely!"

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