Shadow Self
Written by Pamela Rose

---

"I don't know if you've noticed this, Frank, but I haven't really been happy for a long time."

Frank Pembleton turned over and kicked at the bed covers, cursing under his breath. Tim's flat statement repeated in his mind like a mental acid reflux. He didn't want to think about it, didn't want to remember the sadness of Tim's puppy-dog eyes. Eyes that had always been too innocent, lacking guile or protective barriers.

"Frank?" Mary's sleepy voice spoke from the bundle of quilts beside him. "What's wrong?"

"It's too hot in here," he grumbled. "What's the thermostat set on, 90?"

"It's January and it's freezing. You set it at 65, remember." She rolled over and touched his arm. "Do you have a fever, Frank?"

"I don't have a fever," he replied grumpily.

"Then what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. Why does something have to be wrong just cause I say it's hot in here?"

She sighed and rolled over.

"Bayliss had a date tonight," Frank said abruptly, with an air of announcement.

"That's nice. And I should care because . . .?"

"He had a date with a man."

A moment of puzzled silence, then, "Really? What do you mean, a date?"

Frank sat up, rubbing his hand over his bare head. "A date, Mary. You know, a date. Dinner . . .hell, dancing for all I know."

There was another silence. "I didn't know Tim was--"

"He's not!"

Mary sat up and switched on the light. "You're really bothered about this, aren't you?"

Frank blinked in the light, then glared. "Me? Why should it bother me?" He relented under Mary's calm expression. "Okay, I just don't think he knows what he's doing, that's all."

"But Tim knows this man is gay?"

"Of course he knows. He's ingenuous, not stupid."

"So you're worried about him?" Her pleased expression set his teeth on edge.

He started to deny it out of habit, but realized that was pointless. Mary knew him too well. He should've followed his first instinct and kept his mouth shut. He took a sip of water from the glass on the bedstand, trying to decide how much he wanted Mary to know. It was potentially dangerous ground. "Maybe I'm a little uneasy about this," he admitted reluctantly. "Christ, Mary, this is Tim Bayliss we're talking about. Look in the dictionary under naive; there's his mugshot."

"Frank, he's a homicide cop. I hardly think he's . . . well, unsophisticated."

Frank shook his head. "You're wrong. That's exactly what he is. You have no conception of how ill-equipped he is to deal with something like this. I mean, a year ago he was one step away from being a homophobe."

"Then you should be glad he's past that. What exactly are you worried about? That this man will make a pass? Come on, Frank, Tim is a big, strong guy. Not to mention the fact he carries a gun. He can say no."

Frank didn't answer, remembering what happened nearly a year ago. It was nothing he could explain to Mary, but the responsibility weighed on him. He'd regretted that impulse a thousand times, mostly because of the distance in Tim's eyes; the careful, almost rigid avoidance of anything personal between them. Not that Tim had ever mentioned that one strange night; it could have been a dream for all the reaction either of them allowed to show by expression or touch. In fact, the distance became physical as well. From the Bayliss who touched, patted, invaded personal space, he withdrew into a man who kept secrets. Even after Frank discovered Tim was taking care of that bastard uncle, the walls remained up. While this had improved since their return from three months in the Robbery Unit, Tim still kept himself very private. It rankled that he hadn't even caught a hint of Tim's relationship with Julianna Cox.

I don't tell you everything, Frank.

He wasn't sure why that bothered him, except that after all those years of being compelled to hear the minutiae of Bayliss' life, from his whim of learning Spanish to his favored brand of toothpaste, Frank suddenly felt cheated. Like someone was withholding the seminal chapter of a mystery.

He couldn't remember the last time Tim had touched him.

Even after Frank, Jr. was born, Tim had been there for him, supporting him, waiting with him, but only gave him a hearty handshake and a pat on the arm after the birth was announced. In contrast, when Olivia was born, Frank had to practically pry Tim's arms off him, and for days afterwards, Tim kept hugging him at odd moments in a flurry of happiness.

It surprised him to realize he missed it. That he missed Tim's impulsive, sometimes clumsy warmth.

"He's a grown man, Frank," Mary said. "I can't pretend I know Tim as well as you, but I think you underestimate him. He can take care of himself. I'm sure he just likes the man as a friend. Relax."

He settled back in the bed. "Yeah, sure." He laughed darkly. "What am I doing? I'm not his mother. What am I doing wasting my time worrying about his sex life? He's just somebody I have to work with."

Mary touched his arm. "That's not what I meant. I'm glad you're interested. He's your partner, your best friend. Of course you should worry--"

"No, no, NO!" Frank pulled away. "You're absolutely right. He's an adult. What he does is none of my damn business."

"Frank--?"

"Goodnight, Mary."

She hesitated, wondering whether she should push the issue. Frank loved Tim, but getting him to admit it was more of an effort than she wanted to make at 10:45 on a Wednesday night.

She switched off the light with a sigh. "Good night, Frank."

Frank stared up into the darkness, trying not to imagine what Tim was doing or what was being done to him.

* * *

"Ummm, very good."

"More?"

"Please."

"You like it?"

"I love it. I could take a lot more of this."

"That's good. I have a lot more."

"Umm, I could get addicted."

Chris Rawls poured more red wine in Tim's glass, finishing up the bottle. "I'm counting on it."

"This stuff could be dangerous."

"But you like a little danger, don't you? I do. That's why I asked you out."

Tim set down the wine glass and looked into the wide, green eyes, giving a mental critique of that gaze as if it were the wine 'buoyant but modestly hopeful, with an electric power that zings through the nerve ends; not pushy but obvious in its tasteful yet sensual intent.' Whoa.

He licked his lips, and smiled shyly, feeling awkward and bashful. "Why was asking me out so dangerous?" An obvious question, but he was curious.

"You're a dangerous man, Tim Bayliss."

Tim knew he was blushing, both from the effect of the wine and the flattering expression in the steady, long-lashed green eyes. He couldn't remember anyone looking at him like that before.

He laughed uneasily. "Me? You've got to be kidding."

"Straight guys can be easily offended. I'm not so much of a coward that I would do it over the phone, but I'm not stupid either. I figured you probably wouldn't slug me in the middle of the squad room; that's why I came there to ask you out. But you could have been insulted that I even dared to ask. A lot of straight guys would be. It was a risk."

"So why risk it?"

"I like you." Chris paused, lashes flickering, eyes closing for a second as he took a deep breath and plunged on. "And maybe you don't want to hear it, but because I'm attracted to you. You knew that."

Tim looked down. "I kinda thought . . . I figured you might . . . it seemed . . . uh . . . yeah, I did."

"But you still came. Takes a lot of guts, Tim. It makes me like you even more."

Tim didn't know what to say. He took another sip of the wine. "This really is excellent." He lifted the glass, smiling weakly, "The wine, I mean."

Chris smiled back. "I've made you uncomfortable. I'm sorry."

"No, no, not at all--" Unsurprisingly, he ended up spilling the wine; a purple slash across the snowy tablecloth. "Sorry. I'm a klutz."

Chris touched his wrist, sliding over it gently, cupping it with soft warmth. "It's okay, Tim. We can change the subject if you want."

Tim looked up, meeting the eyes again, captured by the sincere, open gaze; direct, unguarded, the unabashed pleasure at their physical contact. It was so rare in his world. Tim's own self-honesty made him admit, "I like you, too, Chris. A lot. Because you weren't afraid to ask. And because . . . something about you made me able to say yes."

Chris' smile widened, his eyes sparkling. "Wow."

Tim felt the charged current through the touch, through the expressive look. He put down the wine glass and turned his hand so their fingers could thread together and hold tight. He couldn't remember holding hands with another man before. It felt good. The hand was nearly as large as his own, as powerful, as warm, and the grip felt comforting; it was good to connect to another human being in a tangible, physical way. It didn't happen often. In the last year, it had happened less and less. He didn't count any of his sexual gymnastics with Julianna Cox in that category. She was hungry, but detached, almost cold outside the throes of passion. He hadn't been really sorry when they ended it. All he had felt was a profound relief, like he had escaped something perniciously unhealthy. This felt very different, strangely wholesome and pleasing.

"You have beautiful hands," Chris said softly.

The sensation radiated up Tim's arm and down to the pit of his stomach, to an empty place; to a place he had long needed filled. For some reason he felt accepted, approved of.

Unwilling to let go of that warmth, Tim still felt obligated to say, "I'm straight, Chris. I've never . . . I mean, it's not something I've--"

"I know." Chris smiled and tightened the grip. "I know. I'm not pushing. Or at least I'm trying like hell not to. It's not easy." He shrugged sheepishly. "One doesn't meet the man of his dreams every day."

"What?"

Chris didn't try to hold on as Tim reflexively jerked away. Chris added ruefully, "I've got this problem about being bluntly honest. I can't seem to help it. But I guess it's best you know anyway. The first time I saw you-- I know you're straight, I know you don't feel the same, but I can't pretend. I won't lie or hide how I feel."

Tim stared at him. He had no idea how to respond.

Chris shook his head. "I probably should have been more discreet about this; maybe just said I wanted to be your friend first. And I do want to be your friend. But that's not all I want, and I can't lie about it. I had to take a chance."

He reached out for Tim's hand again, asking this time, hesitant. Tim let him take it, stunned at the openness. Maybe he had been with Frank too long; a man who could never admit what he wanted or needed, let alone that he needed at all. Not that he was much better, for that matter. Tim was well aware of his own cowardice in that area; the fear of rejection had kept him silent and alone most of his life. But Chris wasn't afraid of being hurt or rejected; he was willing, even eager, to put himself out, to lay himself open to possible pain.

What was even more stunning was that Chris was saying that the risk was worth it. He was worth it.

Tim offered more enthusiasm to the hand clasp, totally thrilled at the notion. When had anyone believed he was worth taking a risk?

"You're a beautiful man," Chris said softly, the green eyes so wide and intense Tim felt he would drown in them. "Do you know how attractive you are?"

"Uh. . . no. I never thought . . . it's not something . . . I mean, no . . . no one's ever said . . ." he finally trailed off, realizing he was babbling. He always babbled when he was nervous, particularly if it had anything to do with matters sexual.

It was Chris who gently released the grip and pulled back. "Believe it or not, I'm not trying to crowd you. I only wanted to be clear about what I felt; I'm not expecting anything."

Part of Tim was a little disappointed. He wanted Chris to press the point, to do something extreme enough where he would have to make a decision. It was uncomfortable to realize he actively wanted Chris to make a pass. He still wasn't positive how he would respond, but he was frustrated that Chris wasn't going to do it. It was hard to test your limits when you weren't even asked.

In fact, Chris had changed the subject and was discussing restaurants. It was something they had in common since Tim was a part owner in the Waterfront, although the bar could hardly be put in the same category as the Zodiac. Chris talked about his own restaurants (in the plural) and it took a minute before Tim clued into what it meant.

"So you own others like the Zodiac?"

"Yes. One in Aspen, one in Seattle and one in San Francisco."

"Are they all this successful?"

"Actually, this is the least successful. That's why I've been here so much the last few months. My family was from Baltimore, so I'd hate for this one to go under. It's a tough business, though. You know that."

"I'm just an amateur. The first year was awful. We were losing our shirts. But it's gradually getting better. This year we even made a modest profit."

"The first year is the worst. You'll do fine now."

"Is this your first year here?"

"Yes, and there are problems. It's barely breaking even."

"And if it doesn't?"

Chris smiled. "I can float it for a while. You've figured out I'm not too worried. I'm well off financially. Family money. Is that a problem?"

"No. In fact, I wish it was my problem."

The rest of the evening passed very quickly. Tim discovered he was very comfortable with Chris. They looked at a lot of things the same way. They discussed everything from politics to books to movies.

Tim finally glanced at his watch, amazed to see it was after eleven. "Gee, wow, it's late. I've got to get going. Work tomorrow."

Chris stood with him. "Thanks for coming. I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed this."

Tim located his coat and put it on, suddenly feeling awkward again. "Yeah, me, too, Chris. We'll have to do this again--"

"How about Friday?"

Tim froze in the process of buttoning his overcoat, meeting the expectant eyes. Chris hadn't given up.

He felt a strange flutter in his stomach, the warm tingle of excitement that the opportunity to walk on the wild side was still open.

"Tim?"

He belatedly realized he hadn't answered yet. "Uh . . . Friday, I . . . yes, Friday. That's good. Sure, yes."

"Maybe you'd like to go somewhere else. Some place nicer--"

"Nicer?" His mind was blank.

"Would you like some other kind of food? French, Chinese--?"

"Oh. No, this is great. It was wonderful."

Chris looked pleased. "Well, we didn't get through many of those wines I promised you. There are a couple that I've been saving I'd love you to try."

"To be honest, it'll probably be wasted on me. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I'm more used to stuff with screw tops."

Chris had walked him to the door, now he stopped and touched Tim's lapel, then looked up through his lashes. "It won't be wasted. Even if you don't like it, you'll never know until you taste it."

Tim's mouth was suddenly dry. He stuck out his hand awkwardly. "Uh, Friday then, right?"

Chris shook his hand, holding it between both of his. "Same time?"

"I . . . I'll call you. In case something comes up. You know, in my job, it's hard to make solid plans."

"Sure, I understand. Good night, Tim."

"Good night, and thanks again for dinner."

Tim made it to his car and leaned against it, looking up at the sky. What the hell was he doing? Did he really want to see Chris Rawls again? Well, that answer was easy. Yes. He liked Chris a hell of a lot. Whether it was fair to Chris was something else again. The man was refreshingly direct on how he felt; agreeing to see him again was what? Leading him on?

Tim laughed out loud, then put his hands over his face, rubbing his eyes. It was too late to think about this. He'd had a lot of wine. He was tired.

But as he unlocked his car door he realized he was happy, too.

* * *

Pembleton peered back through the diner window, watching as Laura Ballard was charmed and disarmed by Tim's boyish smile. Frank shook his head and grinned in amazement as he walked away. He had always been a little puzzled that Bayliss didn't score more often. He was a good-looking guy, smart and often funny. More importantly, he was gentle, honest, and probably the most fundamentally decent man Frank knew. What was not to like? But somehow even Munch had more notches on his bedpost.

Then again, women tended to be attracted to bastards for some bizarre reason. Witness his marriage to Mary.

Tim was just too damn nice, that was his problem. A dim memory of a conversation between them returned. It was after the Emma Zoole fiasco; the dragon lady who had thoroughly stomped on Tim's heart. The kind of tiny, exotic beauty that a man should always wear a protective cup when approaching. Bayliss, romantic fool that he was, damn near offered her his testicles as a trophy. Pulling his gun on an unsympathetic convenience store clerk over eleven cents hadn't made Tim feel better. And neither, Frank suspected, had his own cynical observations on falling in love, true as they might have been.

"Most of the time it's just sheer, dumb luck and you, my friend, are just not lucky."

Frank walked up the long flight of steps to the squad room, wishing he'd been a little more -- he grimaced wryly at the thought -- sensitive. Tim could use a little encouragement, a bit of ego-building. After all, Tim was his partner and all right, he might as well admit it, at least to himself his best friend. It couldn't hurt to be a tad more supportive. Maybe ask him home to dinner again.

Christ, if Tim was accepting dinner invitations from . . . well, from some guy who was practically drooling over him, then he obviously needed some personal attention, maybe even affection. Bayliss was a pretty lonely guy, after all.

Frank waved a casual greeting to Munch who was chomping on a huge donut, and sat down at his desk.

He recalled what Tim had said just before Ballard had entered the diner this morning.

"It was just dinner, Frank. You and me have had dinner before."

There had been a subtle emphasis, both in Tim's eyes and in his voice. Very much the same as when he'd been talking about going out with Chris Rawls. He'd leaned forward, holding Frank's gaze with a heavy intensity, "We're going to drink some wine, and we're going to laugh, talk, enjoy ourselves. Be happy. Is there something wrong with that? Hmm?"

Frank hadn't wanted to believe Tim was implying anything about what had happened between them, but that night almost a year ago had leapt to the front of his mind both times. Something about the pensive tone of Tim's voice, the not-quite-accusing expression in the brown eyes that flipped on a guilt reflex.

On the other hand, Tim was a master at manipulating him; God knows he'd successfully done it several times in the past (the infamous cheese sandwich battle sprang to mind), but he couldn't believe Tim would be playing with this. It was too potentially destructive. And why would he wait this long to drag the subject up?

"Pembleton!"

Frank jumped, realizing he'd been staring blankly at his desk blotter, almost trancing. Giardello's booming voice often reminded him of a very pissed off God.

"Where's Bayliss?"

"He was having breakfast at Jimmy's, Gee. He'll be here in a few minutes."

"He'd better be. We need to clear up this vehicular homicide before the press gets hold of it and turns it into more than it is."

"We're on it, Gee. Traffic Investigation is checking out the car now. Maybe we'll get lucky and they'll come up with something mechanical to explain the accident."

"Let's hope so. Dragging a sweet old lady away in handcuffs doesn't look good on the evening news. Haven't you read the memos? We're now to be the kinder, gentler BCPD. We find lost puppies, we assist little old ladies with their groceries. We don't throw them in the slammer. Have Bayliss see me when he gets in." He glanced at his watch. "He's late." He glared at Pembleton as if it was Frank's personal responsibility to make sure his partner was awake and dressed, with his shoes tied and zipper up. Knowing Gee, that's probably exactly what he thought. "He's twenty minutes late."

Frank nodded happily. "Yes, he is. He must be enjoying himself."

"On my time? Nobody enjoys himself on my time. It doesn't please me at all. Ten more minutes and it's coming out of his paycheck. Ten after that and it's coming out of his hide!"

"Anything you say, Gee," Frank replied, knowing the Lieutenant was blowing smoke. Bayliss put in so much of his own time unauthorized and unpaid on cases, Gee wouldn't report it if Tim didn't show up til noon.

Frank couldn't stop grinning, hoping that would be the case. Tim Bayliss and Laura Ballard; they would make a very nice couple actually. The more he thought of it, the more he approved. She was a good cop, he was a great cop. They were both smart, close enough in age; she obviously liked him. He didn't know Ballard that well, but what he did know he cautiously respected. She didn't take a lot of bullshit, but she wasn't as hard and defiant as some women cops. She didn't overcompensate or apologize for being female.

"Hi, Frank. Is the report in yet?"

He was so involved in his fantasy matchmaking, he just nodded absently, "Tim." Then he did a double take. "Tim. What are you doing here?"

Bayliss raised his eyebrows as he removed his overcoat. "I work here, remember? Did the report on Mrs. Nichols' car come back?"

"Uh . . . no. Not yet."

"Too bad. I don't really want to do anything until we have some facts on that. She seemed like a nice lady."

"I didn't expect you to finish breakfast this quick," Frank commented, fishing to discover how it went.

Tim looked puzzled. He opened his mouth to answer when Gee bellowed out, "Bayliss!"

"Coming, Gee."

"You're not coming, you're going, Bayliss! You and Pembleton, get down to the City garage and hurry up those brazzoles. We need answers. I want that report. Now!"

When Giardello roared, no one was brave enough to argue. Bayliss and Pembleton grabbed their coats and hopped to it.

* * *

Lost in apparent fascination with his empty desk top, Tim reviewed the conversation in the garage.

"Who aren't you attracted to?"

Now what was that supposed to mean? Tim wondered, feeling annoyed. Of course he knew exactly what Frank meant. But in true Pembleton style, he'd skipped over what he didn't want to deal with; moving from Julianna to Laura without a pause or hint of Chris, even though Chris was the pink elephant in the conversation. In fact, the conversation would never have taken place at all if Chris Rawls hadn't existed. Or if Chris hadn't been homosexual. Frank had never given a flying fuck about his personal life before. Whenever Tim had offered to tell him, Frank had usually looked bored, barely even politely interested until now. Now, all of sudden, he wanted details.

Tim had tried very hard not to feel resentful. He'd hinted to Frank many times that he'd like them to have more involvement in each other's lives; that it was something he missed. Frank, in his usual, incisive, brilliant manner had dashed his reasoning on the family feeling Tim found lacking in the Homicide unit.

"We're a family, but we're like a real family."

Well, Frank didn't have to tell him anything about families. His family hadn't given a damn about what he was doing, let alone what he felt. He loved his mother, but she was a gentle, ineffectual woman, who disapproved of what her son did for a living, but wasn't strong enough to object in anything but the most sadly wistful terms. Just enough to make him feel inadequate to expectations, but not enough to enable him to make a vocal stand defending his choice of career. Don't make waves, don't cause trouble. Even his cousin, Jim, the only person in his family he felt close to at all, didn't want to hear about Tim's life; he was too involved in his own.

Tim chewed on the end of a pen, trying to imagine how Jim would react if he knew about Chris, even disregarding the fact he was considering . . . well, he didn't know what he was considering, except that he wasn't willing to close himself off to the possibilities just yet. He should be grateful that Frank was so self-consciously liberal that he merely preferred to ignore it.

"How was the nosh at the Zodiac, Tim?"

Bayliss swung around in his chair, startled. Luckily, Munch was half-engrossed in his newspaper and didn't notice the nearly-guilty reaction.

Before he could answer, Frank jumped in, "I hear it's pretty good. Sorry I couldn't make it. We don't often get gratitude dinners for solving crimes."

Tim turned his head, staring at Frank with narrowed eyes.

"Yeah, that's one of the great things about queers; they have impeccable manners," Munch commented, glancing up from the News of the World. "So how was it, Tim? What did you have? Pasta Primavera? Calamari? Chicken Alfredo?"

Tim was still looking at Frank, his irritation level rising. He wasn't sure he liked the way Frank smoothly implied the invitation had been for both of them, obviously trying to tone down possible speculation. Tim was nettled (conveniently ignoring the jolt of adrenaline he'd experienced himself at the unexpected question). He didn't need Frank's protection. He wasn't ashamed of having dinner with Chris Rawls; he didn't give a damn what anyone thought.

"Rigatoni. The food is fantastic. The best in town," Tim replied with enthusiasm and a hint of defiance. "In fact, it was the best dinner I've had in months. And the wine list is something else. Chris insists on serving only the best. Maybe we should think about something like that for the bar."

Munch shook his head. "Too pricey. We'd better stick to beer. Don't want to turn it into some kind of frou-frou wine bar."

Munch returned to his paper, oblivious to the crackle of tension grounding between the other two. Tim turned his back pointedly to Frank, staring at his desk, eyeing the phone and considering calling Chris to confirm their date. What was he waiting for? He wanted to go, didn't he? He reached for the receiver, then stopped. It was only Thursday; it was too soon. It made him seem too eager. He realized what he was thinking and grinned to himself. God, he was an idiot.

"Listen to this," Munch said gleefully and read aloud, "From the Modesto Bee: 'Steven Richard King, 22, was arrested for trying to hold up a Bank of America branch in Modesto, California without a weapon. He used his thumb and finger to simulate a gun, but unlike most robbers who use this tactic, poor Steven forgot to put his hand in his pocket.' You just gotta love feebleminded felons. Where would we be without them?"

"You'd be livin' off foodstamps, Munchkin," Meldrick commented as he sauntered past. "Anybody seen my comic book?"

Munch shot back sarcastically, "I'm sure it's with your copy of Nietzche's Thus Spake Zarathustra."

* * *

It was early afternoon and Tim was struggling miserably over his time sheet, trying to remember when and if he could report any overtime. It was a tricky dance, and even after six years, he couldn't get all the steps down.

Frank sat on the edge of his desk.

"Oh, hi, Frank. What's up?"

"I was thinking, why don't you come over for dinner tonight. I think Mary's making pasta and I know you love her sauce."

Tim's smile was instinctive, joyful. Frank's invitations were too scarce to take for granted. "That's gre-- Oh, geez, I can't. Laura and I are going to a gallery tonight. Contemporary primitive or something like that. What is it with women and art galleries anyhow?"

"Laura?" Frank's face perked up. "Laura Ballard?"

"Yeah. We were talking this morning at breakfast--"

"So you and Ballard have a date, huh?"

"Well, it's not exactly a date. I mean, she was telling me about it and it sounded interesting."

"Interesting, yeah." Frank's grin was teasing.

Tim regarded him blandly. "I like art, Frank."

"Contemporary primitive? What exactly is that?"

"I--" he faltered, then admitted, "Okay, so I don't have a clue. But I'm trying new things, Frank. I'm open to new experiences." And he was recalling that he was irked at Frank. "Besides, I had pasta last night," he added pointedly.

Frank held up his hands. "No problem. So how about tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?"

"Yeah, dinner, remember? You haven't seen Frank, Jr. since New Year's and I think Olivia misses her Uncle Tim. At least she misses his toys. And don't you dare bring another one; Mary's getting tired of picking them all up."

Tim stared at him, relenting. Seeing the babies was hard to turn down. "Tomorrow's Friday, right?"

"Well, yes. Since today's Thursday, I guess that makes sense. What, do you have another date with Ballard?"

"No, but--"

"But what?"

"Friday's not good for me, Frank. How about this weekend? Maybe we could take Mary and the kids out, give her a break, yes? I'm sure she'd appreciate not having to cook--"

"What's wrong with Friday?" Frank demanded suspiciously. "If you don't have a date--"

"I didn't say I didn't have a date," Tim cut in, then fell silent, wondering why he suddenly didn't want to tell him.

"So . . . what? You do have a date?"

Tim's jaw clenched and he tossed the pencil down and stood.

"I'm going to dinner with Chris, okay?"

It was almost a repeat of yesterday, with Frank pursuing him into the coffee room. "Another date?"

Tim poured his coffee and sat down at one of the tables, grabbing a newspaper and leafing through it, quietly fuming. "We're having dinner together again. If you want to call that a date, I guess it is."

Frank hesitated then poured a cup of hot water and joined him. "Food must be good at the Zodiac?"

Tim turned the page, pretending to focus on a story about a new sewer system. "Just like I told Munch."

"Tim . . ."

Bayliss put the paper down and met Frank's eyes, his suspicions confirmed. "Is that why you asked me to your home? To keep me busy? What do you want to know, Frank? Just ask me."

"Okay, what's going on?"

"With what?"

"With you and this . . . Rawls guy."

"Why do you care, Frank? You've never been interested before."

"Of course I have. Don't be ridiculous."

"No, no you haven't. So don't start now. Not with this. Just drop it, Frank."

Pembleton stood up abruptly. "You're right, it's none of my business."

"Frank!" Tim called after him, then put his hands over his face and let out his breath in a long sigh. Someone had left a garish comic book on the table, and Tim picked it up and started to read.

* * *

The next day, Pembleton very carefully and pointedly didn't ask about the gallery visit with Ballard. Nor did he feel it necessary to inform Bayliss of that asshole Gharty's attempt to spread rumors. He was still indignant about it, surprised and irritated that his partner's private life was station house gossip so quickly. He thought he had managed to shut Gharty up for the moment, but if Tim insisted on continuing this . . . socializing with a very prominent gay man, it was going to have some nasty repercussions sooner or later. He didn't understand why Tim couldn't see that.

More importantly, he couldn't conceive of why Tim was doing it at all. This Jung shadow-self crap he'd been spouting didn't explain it. And whatever Tim said, he was trying to lay it on him, on something he'd blathered about four years ago. He'd probably just been trying to knock some of the green off Tim who'd been the most naive homicide cop he'd ever known. The Tim Bayliss who'd started on the squad six years ago might as well have grown up in Podunk, Nebraska instead of a lower-middle class neighborhood in Baltimore. Forget the fact he'd been on the SWAT team, was a Class A marksman, and a clever, sharp-eyed detective; the aura of naivete surrounded him like the cloud of dust around Charlie Brown's pal Pigpen.

The more Frank pondered, however, the more he wondered if Tim did perceive the consequences. Maybe Tim was trying so hard to overcome his homophobia, he just didn't realize how it might appear to other people. People who weren't quite as enlightened as his partner.

Frank nodded to himself, sure he'd figured it out. The best thing he could do was to gently explain the situation to Tim. Let him understand that it wasn't necessary to go quite so far to prove his lack of prejudice particularly when he was dealing with a man who openly had the hots for him. Christ, Tim's tie was the last thing Rawls had been admiring.

Feeling better, Frank went in search of Tim and found him in the coffee room still poring over the asinine comic book that he found yesterday.

"Hey Tim."

Bayliss glanced up. "Hey Frank."

Frank sat down, steepling his hands in front of him, waiting to get Tim's full attention.

"What?"

"Listen, this thing with Chris Rawls--"

"What thing is that?" Tim slapped the comic book on the table with the air of throwing down a gauntlet.

Frank held his hands up, making a calming gesture. "I know there's nothing going on, but not everyone . . . I mean there are some people who might think . . ." he trailed off, seeing by the expression on Bayliss' face that he was treading on precarious ground.

Tim waited a moment, very obviously holding on to his temper by sheer force of will. "Chris was a complete gentleman, Frank. If that's what you're asking."

Frank laughed uncomfortably. "Come on, that's not what--"

Something about Tim's feral smile shut Frank up. Tim leaned forward until they were almost nose to nose and said in a soft but menacing voice, "Chris was a gentleman -- maybe I wasn't. Did you ever think of that?"

Before Frank came up with any sort of reply, Tim grabbed his coffee mug and comic book and disappeared into the squad room.

* * *

Tim was so furious, he didn't think twice about picking up the phone and dialing Chris' number. He didn't stop to consider it was odd that he'd memorized it by heart.

"Tim! I was hoping you'd call."

"Just checking that we're still on for tonight."

"I'll start lining up the wines," Chris replied happily. "Are you off tomorrow?"

"Definitely. I need a break."

"Bad day at work?"

"Difficult co-workers. But I want to forget all that tonight."

"Sounds great. Eight again?"

"Let's make it seven."

Chris laughed. "Even better. I'll see you then."

"Yeah, see you. Bye." He hung up and stared at the phone, taking a deep, cleansing breath. Even the sound of Chris' voice had created a reaction in the pit of his stomach. A tension. A good tension, but tension nonetheless.

Last night at the Gallery with Laura, he had kept thinking of Chris. As he had looked at the ceramic masks, it had occurred to him that Chris Rawls was the only person he knew who refused to wear a disguise, who wasn't afraid to show his true face. It was discomforting to recognize that he, himself, was more guilty than most.

It had been obvious that Laura had at least expected a good night kiss, and he had obliged with a brotherly version, all the time wondering what it would be like to kiss Chris. Talk about masks.

Focused deeply on nothing, he jumped when Frank spoke at his elbow.

"Tim, I don't know what you're thinking--"

"Shut up while you're ahead, Frank."

Frank stared down at him for a second, then spun on his heels and walked away.

* * *

The food was just as good the second time, and the wines, as promised, were even better. As was the camaraderie between them. Tim felt he could ask anything, even if he hadn't quite reached the stage where he wanted to tell everything.

"Did you go to Larchfield Prep?" Tim asked suddenly.

Chris looked surprised, "Yes, why?"

Tim shook his head and laughed softly. "Nothing, it's just we might've been in school together, if my family had been rich. Or if I'd been smarter. No, even that wouldn't have cut it, because my cousin Jim couldn't get in and he was a hell of a lot smarter than me."

"Does it help to know I went through school with a permanent wedgie?"

Tim grinned, "Yeah, that helps."

"The Academy wasn't so great, trust me. At times it was sheer hell."

Hearing the inflection in Chris' voice, Tim asked, "Did you know you were gay even then?"

The smile evaporated and Chris looked away. "Oh yes, I knew."

"That must have been difficult. I mean, I can imagine how--"

"No, you can't," Chris interrupted darkly. "You don't have a clue."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--"

Chris waved his hand dismissively. "No, forget it. It's my fault. It took a while for me to come to grips with who I am. Too sensitive, I guess."

Tim couldn't help but laugh.

"That's funny?" Chris looked wounded and surprised at Tim's reaction.

"No, it's just . . . hard to explain. I've been accused of the same thing. Being too sensitive, I mean. It's not exactly considered an asset in a Homicide cop. Believe me, I wasn't laughing at you. So when did you, uh, know about yourself?"

"Pretty early, but I wouldn't accept it until I started college. Then I met someone who made me very sure."

Tim's mind flashed on a dark face against a white pillow case. But it wasn't the same Frank had made things anything but sure. The truth Frank demanded usually splintered, shattered, distorted certainty. Tim wasn't sure about anything anymore, but he couldn't blame Frank for that. The questions had been there before; Frank just forced them to the surface.

But he didn't want to think about Frank right now.

"So who was he?" Tim asked.

"Jay was . . ." Chris trailed off, lost in thought for a second, then looked up, eyes even wider, as if just discovering something. "He was very like you, actually. He was tall, like you. Handsome, smart, ambitious. Soulful brown eyes. I suppose I should have seen it earlier."

Tim knew he was blushing again, but Chris wasn't noticing that. He was lost in the memory of someone else, and it was obvious he wasn't trying to flirt or compliment. He was offering a treasured memory, freely, without embarrassment at the depth of his emotion, and strangely without sentimentality. Despite the feeling, there was something matter-of-fact and unvarnished about his story.

"Jay was straight, too. I think he always preferred women. But he was able to love me. And I never doubted that he did. He always said that gender didn't matter, it was the individual."

That echoed something Frank had said to him, although he thought Frank's point had been quite different. "Go on," he encouraged, once again pushing Frank from his thoughts.

"Jay just said that if you found the right person, the rest was just habit. Skin on skin is good, and if you love someone enough, the shape of the skin is irrelevant."

"Do you believe that?"

"Well, I've never been that keen on women, but I think he was basically right." He offered a rueful smile. "Just the same, I hope you're not considering a sex change."

Tim chuckled. "I'll cancel the appointment. It sounds like you were happy. So what went wrong with you two?"

"Nothing. Everything was right with us. Always."

"So why . . . ?"

Chris took a drink of wine, and Tim noticed that his hand was shaking. "When he died, I thought I would, too."

"He died?" Appalled, Tim wished they'd never started discussing this.

"We were together for almost ten years, although we had to be pretty discreet. He was a Navy pilot. He died in the Gulf War."

"I'm sorry." It seemed inadequate to the pain easily read on the open face.

"It's been seven years. It took a while, but I'm okay. Life goes on, right? At least, that's the cliche."

"There's been no one else since?"

"Not really, nothing like that. A couple of brief tries, but it was never even close."

"That's a long time to be alone."

"Not so long. It seems like yesterday sometimes." Chris shut his eyes tightly. "I was convinced I would never feel the same about anyone ever again." The green eyes opened, staring directly at Tim. "But now . . . I'm not so sure."

Tim's breath caught in his throat. "Chris . . ."

Chris laughed, shattering the solemn mood. "I warned you I was honest, didn't I? Don't worry, you're a bit like Jay, but there are plenty of differences, too. That's a good thing." Then, with one of his mercurial mood shifts, he switched the subject again. "Enough heavy stuff. Let me tell you something that happened last week at the San Francisco Zodiac."

He proceeded to tell a humorous story about two customers and an overdrawn credit card, and a prosthetic arm deposited for surety against payment for dinner, and Tim found himself laughing, giggling, and countering with the lighter side of Homicide. Stories of Munch's droll, offbeat comments; Meldrick's eight-hours'-notice wedding; the saga of the lunch bandit. From there Chris told of his French chef who only spoke Chinese and left the restaurant every night with a briefcase full of expensive wines and a place setting of flatware. Tim gave him the history of Brodie, who at one time or another been a very brief roommate to half the Unit; how one night was the limit anybody could bear of his, admittedly colorful, personality.

"But he was really good with that camera. He could make evidence tapes seem dramatic. As a matter of fact, he did a documentary on our shift of the Homicide Unit."

"I saw that! It was wonderful."

"It was embarrassing."

"Not at all. It was real, powerful. It made me appreciate what you have to deal with day after day. To tell you the truth, it might have been one of the reasons I trusted you and Detective Pembleton when you were investigating Alan's murder. I'm not sure I would have before. You should thank Brodie."

"Well, he's moved on to greener pastures. He's in L.A. now, doing some kind of PBS stuff. I do kinda miss the little dork."

"How long have you and Detective Pembleton been partners?"

"Frank? Five and a half no, almost six years."

"That's a long time."

Tim considered it. "Well, off and on. But, yeah, a long time, I guess. Now that I think about it, we've been partners longer than anyone else in the Unit."

"You don't talk about him much."

Tim shrugged.

Chris waited, but when there was nothing more forthcoming, he asked, "Did he give you grief about coming out to dinner with me?"

"What? No! Why would you say that? He's not . . . I mean, he doesn't care who I see. Why should he? Why would you think . . .?" He trailed off, realizing he'd reacted too strongly to a simple question.

"He's very possessive of you, you know," Chris remarked in a casual voice.

Tim almost spit out the wine in his mouth. "What? Why do you say that?"

"Just an observation."

"Observation. What kind of observation is that? Frank hardly knows I exist."

Chris' eyebrows lifted in a combination of surprise and scepticism. "Really? He certainly seemed to notice the reactions of everyone around you."

"I don't know what you're talking about." He felt more ill at ease than when Chris was complimenting him.

"Tim, whether you know it or not, your partner is very territorial. It's subtle, but it's there. He checks out everyone that interacts with you."

Tim shook his head doubtfully. "Nah, he just looks at everyone with suspicion. It's got nothing to do with me. I've got to get under his nose and shout before he even notices me."

As if sensing unsafe territory, Chris left it alone, moving the subject again to something amusing and frivolous.

Two glasses of wine later, Tim was feeling no pain; physical or emotional, other than a pleasant stitch in his side from laughing. He felt light, giddy . . . happy. What he hadn't felt for so very long that the memory of true happiness was dusty. Precisely what he had wanted to feel and had sensed Chris could help him find. And Chris was looking more attractive by the minute. Nothing seemed impossible. Or unacceptable. Or unreachable.

He kept looking at Chris' mouth, his lips, the cleft in Chris' chin. The glow in the green eyes was like a magnet. He found himself leaning closer, caught in a golden, red-wine glow.

"I had Brian call a cab."

Tim came down to earth with a thud. "What? A cab?"

Chris looked uncomfortable. "You've had too much to drive; so have I for that matter."

Tim looked around. It was obvious the restaurant was closed, the last customers leaving as he looked up.

The restaurant manager, Brian, shrugged on his coat and gave a wave as he headed out.

"Jesus, what time is it?"

"It's after midnight. Come on, the taxi should be here in a few minutes."

All the glowing feeling was doused. Tim was inebriated enough that he felt crushed and he wasn't at all sure why. Then he remembered why. Another night where he had felt happy if confused and another taxi.

Tim pulled on his coat and followed Chris outside, watching numbly as Chris locked the door. Tim turned, looking up at the sky. It had been cold that night, too. But tonight was cloudy, no stars. And there were a few light flakes of snow falling. As he looked back at Chris, he saw one white crystal catch on his long eyelashes.

The man is fantastic, Tim thought. He had a movie-star type face. Striking, memorable, if maybe a little too pretty. Nothing at all like his own boy-next-door looks.

I'm an idiot, Tim thought sadly. Frank was right; Chris was only flirting with me. It was a game, and I've bored him now. He does this all the time. I'm such a fool I believed every word.

The taxi pulled up to the curb and Tim opened the door, determined to be cool. "Thanks for the dinner, Chris. I'll see you around."

"Hey, wait a minute!" Chris slid in the seat beside him, pushing him over. "It's my cab, too, okay?"

"Oh. Right."

"Where to?" the driver asked.

Chris gave his address in the Inner Harbor before Tim could speak. He glanced uncertainly at Tim. "I thought . . . I was hoping you'd want some coffee. At my place, I mean. I know we could have had some in the Zodiac, but I thought . . . but if you'd rather go home, I . . . it's okay if you want to call it a night. It's late, I know, but I was . . . would you . . .?"

Tim was amazed and delighted. He wasn't being dismissed or ditched or used and discarded. This time the taxi was only a taxi not an unspoken message, not a code for an anonymous ride to an emotional vacuum. But this wasn't Frank, was it? And the night wasn't so very cold after all.

The other man was nearly stuttering, both nervous and hopeful. Tim had always thought it was only him who could be so awkward and unsure.

"I'd love some coffee," Tim replied, feeling more confident than in recent memory. The good feeling was back in spades, and he sought out Chris' hand in the darkness of the cab.

Chris jumped when he took it, obviously still wary of Tim's reaction.

Their conversation during the ride was innocuous and easy, comments on Baltimore, the neighborhoods, that morning's headlines. When they reached the address, Chris paid the driver as Tim stood looking up at the swanky high-rise. He'd driven past it a thousand times, but he'd only been inside once before. He didn't see a point in telling Chris about the domestic homicide that took place on the 7th floor last year. Murders seldom happened in beautiful places.

Even at this hour, there was a doorman to let them in. Chris' apartment was on the 17th floor, and walking through the door, Tim let out a whistle of amazement. He had thought Rader's apartment was great, but obviously the higher the floor, the swankier it got.

"Wow. This is . . . incredible."

Chris switched on a couple of lights, looking chagrined. "I inherited it." He said it offhandedly, like he didn't want to take credit for something he hadn't earned on his own. Tim liked him better for it, although he was already starting to feel a little uneasy.

"God, what a fantastic view!" Tim was delighted and awed. The lights of the city sparkled outside one set of windows, stretching out in a wide, brilliant pattern; on the other side, beyond a large balcony was a view of the bay with the lights of the harbor and twinkling glimmers of fishing and pleasure boats.

Chris hesitated. "Take off your coat, relax. I'll put on some coffee." He vanished through a doorway, and Tim shrugged off his overcoat and draped it over a chair. He wandered around the beautifully decorated living room, checking out the art, some of which he was positive were originals. Hell, probably all of them. This wasn't the kind of joint that would hang prints.

He thought of his own modest apartment with its self-conscious seascapes in cheap frames, the painted mugs on a wooden rack in the kitchen, his unmade bed and sour milk in the fridge, and felt out of his depth.

What the hell was he doing here?

What could he possibly have in common with a man who lived like this, who had always had money, security, family? Everything Tim had only hoped for. It seemed a bridge wider than the black/white separation between him and Frank. At least they had both had to work hard for every inch they'd gained; they respected each other for that. Both of them had come from lower middle class families. Both had been driven to succeed. Both had been different, outcasts, uneasy with their peers.

Looking around, Tim could see none of that in Chris' life. The resentment he felt for this ease would have to tint any feeling he had for Chris. It was one prejudice he had never been able to overcome.

He was reaching for his coat again when Chris spoke from behind him, making him jump.

"You're leaving already?"

"Uh . . . it's kinda late."

Chris walked forward and put the coffee tray on the table. "I thought it might be a mistake to bring you here. At least drink your coffee before you go."

"Sure. Of course." Tim sat down and picked up a cup, unwilling to meet Chris' gaze.

Chris sat down beside him on the sofa and watched him with that uncomfortably perceptive gaze.

Tim tried to think of something to say, but his mind was blank.

After a long, considered silence, Chris finally spoke, "What's wrong, Tim?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all." Tim added cream to his coffee from what was undoubtedly a pure silver pitcher. He stirred it with an engraved silver spoon with an ornate initial "R", and wondered again what the hell he was doing here.

"Tim--"

"Chris--"

They both spoke at once and then cut off.

"You first--"

"No, you--"

They met each other's eyes and Tim looked away first. "Listen, it's been great, but I really should be heading home--"

"You're being an asshole, you know."

"Excuse me?"

"You're judging me on all this," he waved his hand.

"No, that's not--"

"Tim, please. I've been honest with you. Can't you do the same?"

Tim set the cup down and faced him. "Okay, yeah, it's a bit much for a guy like me. I'm just a poor homicide cop. That painting on the wall over there is probably worth more than my year's salary. It's a little intimidating, okay?"

Chris didn't reply, just kept looking at him with that uncanny, knowing look, like a frigging emotional x-ray.

"I'm just not used to this kind of life," Tim added lamely, "It's nothing personal--"

"It's not?"

"No, it's just . . ." Tim shrugged.

For the first time, he saw Chris Rawls angry. He stood up and glared down at Tim. "Fuck you."

"Chris, don't--"

"Don't take it personal? Give me a break. Do you want to know something funny? I would've been able to accept if you couldn't handle the fact that I'm queer. I wouldn't have been at all surprised if you'd told me thanks but no thanks when I told you I was attracted to you. But you didn't. Because you were attracted to me, too. Whether you want to admit it or not, that's why you're here. If that spooked you, no problem. I'd understand. But if you think I'm going to sit quiet while you snub me just because I inherited money, you better think again. If all this," he gestured around the room, "makes a difference in how you view me, then you're a snob and a fuckin' asshole. This doesn't change the person I was when you first met me."

Tim blinked in surprise, totally speechless.

Still angry, Chris stalked across the room and picked up Tim's overcoat. "You think I'm trying to buy you? Is that it? Well, trust me, Timmy, you're too damn expensive, even for me!" He tossed the coat at Tim. "If that's what you think, just go. Get the fuck out." He turned away, but not before Tim saw the sparkle of tears in the green eyes.

Appalled, Tim clutched his coat, realizing everything Chris said was true. He was assuming things just from the fact Chris had money.

He flung the coat to one side and stood, instinctively wanting to fix the hurt, moving to stand behind Chris. "You're right. I'm an asshole. That's not a surprise. And I was being unfair. But you're wrong about one thing. It didn't occur to me that you were trying to buy me, because it never crossed my mind I was worth buying. That wasn't it at all."

Chris didn't move, didn't respond, but the stiff set of his shoulders told Tim that he didn't believe him.

Again, impelled by instinct, Tim grasped Chris' shoulder and swung him around. One look in Chris' eyes told Tim the disappointment was deeper than he had imagined, that the hope must have been very high. A hope in him.

"Chris . . ." He didn't know what to say, what else to do. There was nothing else he wanted to do. He didn't even have to think about it; the instinct was too strong.

He took Chris' face in his hands and kissed him.

Chris made a soft sound, a sweet, startled whimper of pleasure that echoed in Tim's gut, making him press even closer. Chris' mouth was as sexy as he'd imagined, silky, sensuous, giving. He was drowning in it, their tongues caressing, urging, asking for more. His hands slid back into Chris' hair, his arousal immediate and helpless as always. Kissing was a primary stimulus for him; it switched on all his hormones. And the last time he had a kiss like this well, he couldn't think about that.

It was Chris who finally pulled back, breathless, and looking strangely unhappy.

Still caught in a sexual haze, Tim asked, "What? What's wrong?"

"Don't do this." He shook off Tim's hands and moved away.

"Do what? I thought--?"

"You thought I just wanted to get laid? Wrong, Tim. I can do that any time I want. I thought I explained to you . . . I thought you understood."

Right now all Tim understood was that he had a raging erection and that he very much wanted to kiss Chris again. And again. The details on what he expected beyond that were still unspecific, but he had no desire to stop what they were doing.

Chris ran his hands through his hair, frustrated. "Tim, you're straight, remember?"

Tim didn't feel particularly straight at the moment; stiff, but not straight. He took a step forward, but Chris put up his hand, holding him off.

"I didn't ask you up here to seduce you."

Tim laughed. "I don't think--"

"Please, listen to me. I want you; I was clear about that. But I don't just want sex with you. I want you. All of you. You don't want me."

"But I--"

"No, Tim. Right now you want to fuck me. There's nothing wrong with that -- in fact, I'm delighted that I'm physically attractive to you -- but you don't want me. In fact, you're still not sure you like me. You definitely don't know me."

"Now you're not being fair. You don't know me any better, yet you're allowed to say how you feel, what you want."

"But I do know something about you, Tim. More than you imagine. I see a man who is extremely attractive but has never believed that about himself. I see a man who is ambitious, an overachiever. Someone who will practically kill himself to prove his worth. I'll bet you're a crack shot, because you wouldn't quit until you were."

"Listen, Chris--"

"Am I right?"

Tim shrugged. "Well, I'm a good shot."

"I'll guess that you never felt a real part of your family. You were a misfit, but always good enough that no one could make fun of you or give you serious trouble. So basically, you ended up hardly being noticed at all."

Chris paused, but the expression on Tim's face must have made it clear he was on the right track. He continued, "You have the impulse to take responsibility for everything, even things outside your control. You like order, stability. That's probably why you became a cop."

Before Tim could answer, Chris added one more thing, "And I know you're in love with your partner."

Tim had been ready to reply until Chris reached the last point. For a second it took his breath away. What Chris had said was uncannily accurate, but that last, that was . . .

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it?"

"Frank's married with two kids. He loves his wife."

"So?"

"I don't know where you're getting this. I haven't said anything to make you think--"

"No, not a word. Not a single word."

"Then why--?"

"From the way you act with each other, from the way you say his name. Call it intuition. You do love him, don't you?"

Tim looked in Chris' eyes and couldn't lie. "Yes. But it's not . . . not the way you think."

"Because you don't have sex?"

Tim couldn't even say that honestly, but he still replied, "Sex is the last thing Frank wants from me. And whatever I feel and I'm not saying . . . well, it's not the same for him. It's not possible. And I wouldn't want it to be. He needs Mary. He needs his children. He needs that security. I'm okay with that."

"I'm sure you are. But that doesn't change how you feel."

"What are you saying? I don't understand what this has to do with us," Tim demanded, confused.

"Maybe that I need you to feel some of what you feel for him for me."

Chris smiled sadly at Tim's stunned expression. "You're surprised? Queers only think with their dicks, right? I should just be happy you -- a straight man -- wants to fuck me."

"No, that's not--"

"Yes, it was," Chris snapped.

Tim shut up. After a moment, he stepped forward and hesitantly lifted his hand to grasp Chris' arm. "I don't think that anymore. And I don't know what I feel, except that I didn't mean to hurt you. Can you believe that?"

Chris moved closer, into the circle of Tim's arms. "And I didn't mean for this to get so heavy. But I know this has to be clean and open between us, because it's . . . because I know, whatever it will mean to you, it's going to mean too much to me to play games. You scare the hell out of me, Tim. It's been a long time since anyone has made me feel like this. I've told you that. You're not a replacement for Jay, but you are the only man that's made me feel even a tenth of what he did. That's pretty damn scary for me. Part of me wants to just tell you to get the hell out of my life before I end up hurting even a tenth as much."

Tim held him closer, still uncertain of what he felt, but sure that he didn't want to let go. "Just a tenth?"

"Right now, yes. That's what's so scary. Once we have sex, god knows what the percentage will be."

Tim nuzzled Chris' throat, his cock urging him to risk it. "You said part of you. What's the other part say?"

Chris put his head against Tim's shoulder and sighed. "That part of me wants to drag you into the bedroom and suck your cock til you scream."

The words went straight to Tim's groin. He made a little sound against Chris' hair, then let out his breath in a long sigh. "Do I get a vote on this?"

Chris laughed and pulled back. "Unfortunately, no. Not tonight, anyhow."

"Fair enough. Is it okay for me to say I'd like to see you again? That I've figured out that I'm straight with a few kinks. And that right now you're a kink I'd dearly love to explore."

Chris grinned crookedly. "I'm a kink, huh?"

Tim let out his breath in a slow whoosh. "Trust me, it's kink in a very good way. In a very let-me-get-to-know-you-and-then-I'll-jump-your-bones way." He fluttered his own not inconsiderable lashes. "Is that bad?"

Chris laughed. "No, that's great."

"Two things, though."

"What?"

"First, call me another taxi and kiss me again."

"In that order?"

"We'll see," Tim replied and moved forward.

* * *

He could barely reach the sink but he was washing his hands. Over and over, he would use the bar of Lava, almost too big to hold, to lather up his hands, rinse, then soap them up again. Mom never had to tell him to wash his hands. She always said what a good boy he was. What a clean boy. The scent of the soap was so strong he could almost taste it, like the taste of salt from his tears. But he didn't worry so much about his face being clean just his hands.

They were never clean enough. He scrubbed harder--

Tim woke with his hands tangled in the sheets; depression weighed him down so that his movements to free himself seemed slow and clumsy.

The ubiquitous dream couldn't really be called a nightmare. It was repetitive and downright boring. Just himself at various ages washing his hands. His uncle seldom made a star appearance; it was the aftermath that haunted him the weeks between visits when his young self could never get his hands clean enough. He would scrub until his hands were so red and raw it was painful even to hold a baseball. He never tried to hide the condition of his hands, but no one ever noticed. Not even his mother, who seemed inordinately pleased with her son's preoccupation with hygiene. She had her own fixation with germs, so she probably just assumed he shared her concerns.

He had experienced these dreams at least once a month for most of his adult life. Actually, he was more fortunate than most. He'd read all the books, knew all the terms. He knew precisely what was wrong with him and what caused it. It was just taking a hell of a long time to fix it.

Obsession-compulsion was just a minor little side effect on the bigger, darker neuroses. Everyone needed a hobby, right?

He didn't stop to wonder about it, he just followed his normal pattern. He got up and went to the bathroom to wash his hands.

* * *

"Another tasty dinner?" Frank asked.

Tim glared at him. "Incredible. Now, will you drop it?"

"You're awfully touchy on the subject."

"And what subject is that?"

"The subject you're so touchy about."

"I'm touchy? I'm not touchy."

"You all are both touched," Meldrick interjected, tossing a couple of run sheets in their general direction. " and I do not mean that in a good way."

"Good thing you clarified that," Kellerman said darkly, "they might confuse you with a friend or something."

Frank grabbed one paper in mid-air while the other fluttered to the floor. Tim scooped it up and pretended to look it over. "What was the question again?"

"I was just asking how your dinner went, but I obviously struck a sore spot."

Before Tim could answer, Naomi called out, "Bayliss, line two."

"Excuse me," he said pointedly to Frank, and picked up the receiver. "Bayliss, Homicide."

"Hi."

"Oh, hi." He glanced up, feeling Frank's presence like a bird of prey circling to attack. Putting his hand over the receiver, he said, "This is private, okay?"

Frank threw up his hands and stalked off. In the background, Kellerman was saying something acidly to Meldrick, who just shrugged.

Sighing, Tim turned toward the wall and said, "Sorry, Chris. What's up?"

"I'm going to have to break our date tomorrow night."

"Really?" Tim's spirits sank.

"Something came up at the Zodiac in Aspen and I have to fly out tonight to deal with it. I'm really sorry."

"I understand."

"Do you? I don't want you to think--"

"Chris, the way my job goes, I can't afford to question anybody else's. It's okay, really. How long will you be gone?"

"That's hard to say. A few days at least, maybe longer. It's going to take a while to find another manager as good as Barry."

"Will you call me when you get back?"

"Of course."

There was a short silence, and strangely Tim felt an overwhelming need to touch Chris, to have some physical contact to reconnect with some of what they were feeling Friday night. Nothing at all was settled between them, it felt so unreal in a way. He could still almost taste the flavor of Chris' tongue, feel the heat of his skin, and yet it was fading as the morning and reality wore on. The mere sound of Frank's voice had nearly dissolved all the hazy romance of the evening. Now, knowing it would be days or weeks before he saw Chris again was disturbing.

"Would you like a ride to the airport?" Tim asked suddenly, wanting some contact. "I could probably get away--"

"No, thanks, but I have to leave in fifteen minutes if I'm going to catch the next flight."

"Oh, right."

There was another silence.

Then Chris said softly, "I'll miss you, Tim."

Tim thought about it, then simply said it, "I wish you weren't going."

"I wish you were going with me." A pause, then in a cautiously hopeful voice, Chris suggested, "Why don't you?"

"Why don't I what?"

"Come with me?"

It took a second for that to sink in. "To Aspen, you mean?"

"Yes, Aspen. Why don't you come, too?"

"In fifteen minutes?"

Chris laughed. "Well, I guess you'd have to take a later flight, but why don't you come out for a couple of days? I won't have to work all the time. We could have some fun."

This was moving too fast. "I don't know . . ."

"That's all right. I understand," Chris replied quickly, covering himself, protecting himself. Tim recognized the tone of voice, and suddenly realized that there was nothing more he wanted than to be with Chris, to be away from Baltimore and the job and Frank. Part of him sensed that time and consideration could shatter the fragile, untested feelings he had for Chris.

"Okay, I'll come," he said quickly before he could change his mind.

There was a slight gasp on the other end of the phone. "You're serious? You mean it?"

"Hell, yes. I haven't had a vacation in . . . well, I can't remember."

"Tim, I . . ." He could almost hear the convulsive swallow on the other end of the line. "This is fantastic! There'll be a first class ticket waiting for you at the United counter."

"No, I can--"

"Hey, it was my idea. Please, let me do this. I can write you off on my taxes as a consultant."

Tim laughed. "Hey, I'm a cop. Should you be telling me this?"

"But I will be consulting you. You own a bar, right? I need your expertise."

"Oh, right, I'm sure."

"So we'll talk legalities later. Take the ticket and you can pay me back later if you insist."

"Okay, okay. Aspen, wow! I've never been there."

"Do you ski?"

"Not a lick. I tried once when I was sixteen and discovered my legs were really pretzels."

Chris laughed, sounding so happy Tim felt his own spirits lift like he was inflated with helium. "Neither do I. I'm not even that crazy about ski lifts."

"So what does one do in Aspen if you don't ski?"

The silence this time was warm and full of implications. When Chris replied his voice was a little hoarse, "I guess we'll find out."

It was Tim's turn to swallow. "Uh, yeah. Where do I--?"

"I'll send a car for you. See you tomorrow night, okay?"

"Yeah, tomorrow."

He hung up the phone, feeling buoyed and hopeful, excited as much at the idea of seeing Chris again in a different, neutral setting as at a vacation in Aspen.

Reality settled around him with a thunk. There were arrangements he had to make. Stop the paper delivery, call his neighbor to feed the cat. But, first of all, time off.

He knocked timidly on Giardello's door.

"Come in."

"Uh, Gee, do you have a minute?"

"Tim, sure. What's up?"

"I I was wondering if I could have a few days off. The Drew case is at a standstill for the moment. I know it's short notice but--"

"You want vacation days? Starting when?"

"Tomorrow. Three days, maybe four. Would that be--"

"Is something wrong?" Gee's brow furrowed, his deep voice was gruffly worried. "Problem with your family?"

"No, nothing like that. It's just . . . uh, I had an offer to go to Aspen for a couple of days."

"Aspen? You mean Colorado?"

"Yeah, I've never been there and I have a friend who--"

"A friend?" Gee's face split into his always surprisingly amiable grin, transforming him from King Kong to an oversized teddy bear. "Who's your friend?"

"Uh, Chris. But I--"

Gee stood up, beaming happily. "This is good news. You need a vacation, Tim. Things are slow, couldn't be a better time. I'm delighted to hear you've found a nice girl. Particularly one who can afford Aspen." He opened his arms expansively, "In fact, take the rest of the day off. Have a good time. Enjoy yourself." He opened the door, ushering Tim out. "What'd you say her name was, Chris? Lovely name."

"Yes, it's Chris, but it's not--"

"Great, wonderful," Gee patted him on the back, his mind already in the process of switching focus to other matters. "This will do you a world of good. Get away, enjoy yourself. You're too intense, too serious. Relax, have fun."

"Sir, I--"

"No, you and your lady have a nice time."

Tim opened his mouth again to correct the mistake, but Gee had, as usual, shut the door practically in his face and then Frank immediately grabbed his arm and jerked him away. "I need to talk to you."

"Sure, what--"

"No, alone." Frank looked around, not letting go the iron grip on his partner's arm. He dragged him into the observation room and slammed the door.

"What the hell are you thinking, Bayliss?"

Tim rubbed his smarting arm, already riled. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Gee thinks Chris is a woman, that was obvious."

"I was going to tell him--"

"Why? Why tell him anything? Why were you telling Gee about Rawls in the first place?"

"I asked for some vacation days. I'm going to Aspen."

Frank stared at him, silenced. Then asked in disbelief, "You're going with him? With Rawls?"

"Well, duh. What's your problem, Frank?"

"My problem? What's your problem? You can't do this."

"Really, why not?"

Frank took a deep breath and scrubbed at his face with his hands, as if trying to wake up from a bad dream. "Are you nuts? There's talk already, Tim. This won't do you any good at all."

Tim crossed his arms. "Good in what way?"

"Don't play dumb. If you're going on some kind of honeymoon with this Rawls guy, at least be discreet about it."

Tim's eyes flashed dangerously. "Honeymoon? You've got it all worked out, haven't you, Frank?"

"You're sleeping with him, aren't you?"

"Why should I answer that? It's none of your business."

Frank turned away in frustration, running his hand over his scalp. "Damn it, Bayliss--"

"Bayliss now. What happened to Tim? I thought we were such close, intimate pals?"

Frank spun around. "That's it, isn't it? You're laying it on me?"

Thrown for a second, Tim stared at him in bewilderment. "What--?"

"You're blaming me for this . . . whatever peculiar inclinations you're suffering at the moment."

"Frank, I don't--"

"What we did last year; it was just a bit of messing around. A momentary impulse. It was a mistake and I'm sorry. You don't have to prove anything now, Tim. Taking it further is stupid. Reckless. It can't be what you really want. It's only going to hurt you."

Tim stared at him, unable to respond, stunned by what Frank was saying. He couldn't believe Frank was bringing this up now, after all this time. That was a wound he'd spent a long time closing over and now Frank was ripping it open in a blase, dismissive manner. And the only reason Tim could see for doing that was to stop him from being with someone else. Maybe Chris was right. In fact, Chris seemed to be insightful about a lot of things.

"Have you ever heard the term dog in a manger, Frank?"

"What?"

Tim turned away, staring at the empty room beyond the two-way mirror. Is that a metaphor for something? Tim thought blackly. Seeing into an empty room, but the empty room sees only itself. It sure as hell wasn't in any of his self-help books.

He clenched his fists, holding himself tight, keeping that fragile control he'd come to know and love when dealing with Francis Xavier Pembleton. Mr. Honesty. Mr. Truth. Until it nudged his own fuckin' doorstep. "You're right, Frank. What happened last year was, how did you put it? A momentary impulse. A bit of messing around? It doesn't have a damn thing to do with what I feel about Chris. So relax, I'm not blaming you for anything. Your conscience is clear."

"So don't go."

"Don't go. Just like that. No reason. Just don't go."

"The reason is obvious."

Tim turned to face him. "Because Chris is gay."

"Because if you go, you're going to be painted with the same brush. That's how people think, Tim."

"People. You mean you."

"I mean Gharty, Munch, Kellerman, Meldrick, the secretaries, the dispatchers, the cleaning staff--"

"But not you, because you know me so well, right?"

"Listen, Tim, I didn't say I approve of the prejudice, but you can't ignore that it exists. I'm only concerned--"

"That's it! Enough." Tim swept a hand over his face, clinging to the last fragile shred of his temper. It wouldn't take much, not much at all, for him to hurt Frank now. Actually, physically, hurt him. "Your concern is noted. Anything else, Frank?"

"So you're still going?"

Tim stared at him for a minute, shook his head, then pushed past him to the door. "I'll send you a postcard."

* * *

Chris and Tim tumbled inside the door, cold, soggy, and still giggling.

"So when was the last time you were sledding?" Chris demanded, peeling off his wet scarf and coat.

"I dunno, when I was eleven, twelve. I don't remember ever stealing another kid's sled, though."

"We didn't steal it. We borrowed it. They got paid back seeing us plow into that tree."

"Yeah, ow--" Tim touched his back, arching dramatically. "Now I remember how old I am."

Chris grinned at him, helping Tim pull off his leather jacket. "But for a little while, you forgot, didn't you? Felt like we were twelve again."

Tim smiled at him happily. "Yeah, it did. It was great."

Chris leaned close, "Does your back really hurt?"

Putting his arms around Chris, Tim took in the scent of wet wool and a hint of subtle aftershave. Chris' cheek was still cold, but the cashmere sweater that had been under his ski jacket was warm with his body heat. Tim held him close for a second, soaking in the warmth and joy that exuded from the other man.

"Tim?"

"Hmmm?"

"I asked if your back was bothering you. I do a pretty effective massage."

That thought worked on more than Tim's back muscles. He pulled away a little breathless. "That's a tempting offer, even if my back is fine."

Chris smiled sweetly. "It'll feel good, either way."

For a second, Tim didn't know what to say. This was moving faster than he expected. Of course he had known the implicit potential of his acceptance of Chris' invitation, but now he wasn't sure how far he was willing to take it. Physically, he was beginning to be more than interested in anything Chris was offering; emotionally, he still had qualms.

Tim pulled away, noticing for the first time that Chris and Frank were almost exactly the same height. He looked around for a distraction. "The fire looks wonderful. This whole place is great."

"Thanks. I'm just leasing it for now, but I like the view."

Tim moved over to the floor to ceiling windows that looked out over the mountains. "Beautiful."

"How about some hot drinks?"

"Sounds great."

Chris went into the kitchen and Tim put another log on the fire and settled down on the thick rug in front of it, leaning back against the sofa.

It had been an interesting day. There had been an ice storm the night before and his plane had been delayed, arriving just after 1:00. The sun came out after a cloudy morning, and the light glittered in prisms through the ice-laden trees. The snow was blindingly white, unlike the Baltimore slush, covered with a frozen crust that crunched under their feet as they walked through the park near Chris' condo. The air was clean and sharply, almost cuttingly, crisp.

They had stopped at a few quaint shops, a couple of bookstores, where Tim bought a slim book of poetry for Laura which he was sure he would never give her, and a pioneer doll for Olivia which Frank probably wouldn't want her to have because it was white. They didn't have any black dolls. In fact, he had noticed there were no African-Americans at all. After living all his life in Baltimore, it was strange to be in place that was so totally Caucasian. It made him feel vaguely uncomfortable, like he was visiting a foreign country. Among people who looked like him, he felt he stood out. He was too tall, too clumsy, too poor, not the right kind of white. It was a totally bizarre feeling that he couldn't explain to Chris.

Nor did he know how to express how it felt to be without his gun. Going armed was second nature to him, but it was strangely freeing to accept the fact that he wasn't a cop here. It was an abrogation of responsibility, and that, in itself, was both a relief and troubling. He wasn't sure that he liked that he liked it. The whole concept was too convoluted to think about at the moment.

Aspen was beautiful, but cold. But not just in temperature. It was too white, too clean, too perfect. Strange to think he missed a little grit and grime.

Chris had felt like the only truly human warmth here. That didn't change, whatever his impression of the place. And when Chris had grabbed the kid's sled and sent them careening down a hill, he had found himself grabbing Chris's waist and laughing with sheer joy.

Tim stretched out his legs and sighed, wondering why he was ill at ease. He was in the lap of luxury, in front of a roaring fire, waiting for an intelligent, beautiful man to bring him some hot, undoubtedly alcoholic, drink. It had been his decision to come here. And he wanted to be here. Didn't he?

"Here you go." Chris handed him a mug and sat down on the floor across from him.

"What is it?"

"Hot cocoa, Tim. Did you want something else?"

Tim laughed. "No, this is fine."

The green eyes surveyed him shrewdly. "Why do I think you're not so happy you came?"

"No, that's not it. I'm just . . . feeling displaced, I guess. Like I don't belong."

"I want you here, so you belong." Chris pulled off his boots and tossed them aside, then reached for Tim's. "May I?"

Tim nodded, and Chris tugged off his boots, then began rubbing Tim's feet. It felt good and Tim let his head fall back with a sigh, living for the moment, shutting off his difficult brain. Thinking never seemed to help him a bit.

"Hey," Chris said abruptly, "want to play cards?"

Tim opened his eyes. "Cards?"

"Yeah. Do you know hearts?"

Tim stared at him, then burst out laughing.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. I'd love to play hearts."

* * *

"So Giardello hustled you?"

"Big time. Talk about a pro."

"That should teach you." Chris laid his cards down and grinned. "I win. Maybe you should switch to poker."

Tim stared at the cards ruefully. "With my face? You must be kidding. Old Maid maybe."

Chris got up on his knees and leaned forward, cupping Tim's face in his hands. "It's a great face. You're beautiful when you're humble." He kissed him, and the kiss quickly deepened, heated.

Chris pulled away, gasping. "Damn, you can turn a simple kiss into--"

"I don't do simple kisses," Tim put in. "It doesn't work that way for me. If I kiss, I want to fuck."

Chris' eyes widened. "That's blunt enough."

Tim shook his head, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry. But it does take me that way."

"So do you want to?"

Startled, Tim stared at him. "What?"

"Do you want to have sex? Do you want to make love?"

"I thought you wanted to take it slow?"

"I do. Just not right at this minute. Right now I want--" He leaned forward, pressing his mouth to Tim's, his body against his.

Tim gave himself up to the pleasure, savoring the feel of the hands sliding under his sweater, teasing his nipples, sweeping over his stomach and chest. It wasn't hard to surrender to the sensations, to give in to the instinct to return the pleasure, to let the passion flame up and swallow them both.

* * *

He woke up warm and content. It was a strange feeling, but so good he didn't want to open his eyes again, afraid it would shatter. But the sensation didn't dissolve when he was brave enough to look at the reality. It intensified.

Except for the fact his right arm was asleep from the pressure of Chris' body, he felt wonderful. He nuzzled against the dark hair that smelt like apples, probably from some obscenely expensive shampoo.

Tim couldn't recall when he had felt so safe, so totally free of anxiety or tension. Looking down at Chris' face, he felt grateful and tender, and the emotions had little to do with the fantastic sex. Well, he hedged with himself, smiling, maybe it had a little to do with it.

Except for a few treasured seconds, his memories of his night with Frank were colored with desperation, obsession, and hopeless longing. While he didn't want to compare, it was impossible not to notice the difference. Chris had wanted him, unequivocally, unabashedly, no games, no excuses. At some time during the dizzy fever of lovemaking, Chris had told Tim he loved him. Tim hadn't honestly been able to return the statement in kind, but Chris had seemed satisfied with the ardently physical reply.

Once they had managed to make it to the bed, all of Tim's doubts had dissolved under Chris' clever, sensual hands, finding it impossible to think of anything but the delight of the moment. The searing sweetness of Chris' mouth had incinerated any thought but the need for completion.

If his little experiment with Frank didn't count, this certainly did. Now he was officially bi-sexual. He still wasn't sure what that meant except that he remembered a fleeting speculation on what Laura Ballard would have looked like naked by that fireplace last night, so he wasn't willing to cut out that side of the human equation.

The current fashion was to unequivocally state you were either straight or gay. There were no politically correct "in-betweens." So why did he still feel so in-between?

It wasn't like Frank said. Tim wasn't "confused." He knew exactly what he liked. He liked Laura's smooth, milky skin, the delicacy that hid her toughness, the female scent of her. He liked Chris' sensuous mouth, the perfectly defined muscles of his chest, the dimples that highlighted his easy smile. Their very differences were intriguing, exciting. Lord knows, Emma Zoole beat them both hands down on originality. Making love in a customized coffin was a tough act to follow. Sex and death was an incomparable erotic turn-on. Not that he was eager to repeat the experience.

Tim laughed out loud at the weirdness of his life.

Chris stirred against him, turning to kiss his arm. "You taste good," Chris murmured.

Well, nobody has said that to me recently.

Tim scooted down in bed so their faces were level. When Chris opened his eyes sleepily, Tim almost gasped, seeing anew how big and brilliant those green eyes were, even sticky with sleep.

How the hell did I luck out to get a guy like this? he wondered, only now beginning to appreciate what he had. He'd always recognized the man was good looking, but he had been too nervous about the situation to really look deep. Now he saw him from the inside out.

But can I love him? That's what he wants from me. Can I do that, the way he wants me to?

There was nothing false or shallow about Chris Rawls. He was what he was. Beautiful, gentle, genuine.

Talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth, Tim thought drily.

"See anything you like," Chris said with amusement, "Or do I have something hanging from my nose?"

"No, oh no, you look just great. You take my breath away."

Chris' face wrinkled. "Isn't that a song?"

Tim laughed, "What, you don't like romance?"

"Are you romantic, Tim Bayliss?"

"Unfortunately, I'm a hopeless romantic. Hopeless being the operative word."

Chris grinned widely. "I love it. Then I can expect flowers and candy, right?"

"On my salary? Maybe some Russell Stovers and a Pick-Me-Up bouquet. Don't push it."

"You know, you look pretty damn good first thing in the morning, too. Except for those cowlicks sticking up."

"Hey, watch it, I'll shave my head again."

Chris pulled him down, "I don't care what you do. You're still perfect to me."

That was a pretty scary statement, but Tim was more than willing to fall into the kiss and let it stand.

* * *

"What do you want to do today?" Chris asked.

"I don't want to move," Tim replied, stretching out on the luxurious sheets, enjoying the silken touch along every long inch of his body. "I'm totally happy right where I'm at."

There was a twinkle in Chris' eyes as he replied. "Your wish is my command."

Chris brought him breakfast in bed, and afterwards they spent the afternoon watching movies on the 32-inch tv concealed in the bedroom wall. They discovered they were both Donald Sutherland fans and they ended up watching M*A*S*H, Invasion of the Body Snatchers and Kelly's Heroes. They chomped on Snickers bars and microwave popcorn, only interrupted by a messy takeout Chinese dinner. Tim couldn't remember when he had last spent the majority of a day in bed when he wasn't sick, and it felt delicious, decadent, and totally, delightfully frivolous. Outside, it was snowing again with the sporadic patter of sleet against the windows; inside, it was warm, sinfully cozy and safe.

The lazy day was punctuated by caresses, long, exploring kisses, and an occasional flurry of hotly erotic lovemaking.

By ten that night, Tim felt totally sated, physically, mentally and emotionally. He returned from a shower to see Chris grinning lasciviously from the bed.

"Don't even think about it," Tim groaned, flopping back on the bed. "I'm worn out. I think I have bedsores, and despite the myth, I'm stuffed with Chinese food. One more noodle and I'll explode."

Chris laughed. "Will kissing me make you explode?"

"I think that's already been proven."

"Ah, but it's so much fun. Come here."

Tim slid under the quilts and took Chris in his arms, basking in the eager welcome.

* * *

Munch grinned happily as Tim entered the bar.

"Tim, Tim, Tim. Back from the high life. Just in time for your turn handling the bar. How fortuitous. So how was it, Timmy?"

"It was great, Munch. Any news?"

"Only the latest on-dit. The usual gossip. The dark, personal secrets that make the world go round. The snippets of truth and fiction that blend into an unwholesome brew that tarnishes the very rock bed of expectations. Little tidbits one expects to hear from one's near and dear but always seem to come from a cold, uncaring public." Munch tilted his head down, looking woefully at Bayliss over the top of his glasses.

"What are you rambling on about now, Munch?"

"There are rumors, Tim. Rumors floating, sailing and soon to be crashing around us. They are happy rumors, Timmy. Dare I say gay rumors?"

Tim stood very still, holding Munch's gaze. "I don't know. Do you dare, John?"

"Me? Not me. I don't judge. From one persecuted, misunderstood segment of society to another, I sincerely wish you well. Stars of David, pink triangles, we all met an unjust fate, and let's not forget all those poor gypsies. I just need to know whether we should put some Judy Garland on the jukebox. We already have Melissa Etheridge and kd lang."

"I'm not gay, Munch," Tim replied tiredly.

"No? Not that I ever thought you were, of course. But that's good to know. I'm allergic to ferns. But are you sure you're not a gypsy?"

Tim glanced at his watch. He'd been called in to do some decoy work as a priest, bizarrely enough. "You've got Billie Lou lined up to work, don't you?"

"Yes. She'll be here soon. But you were supposed to spell her at the bar."

"Later. I've got to go."

"Where?"

Tim's eyes twinkled. He threw a wink and a kiss at Munch. "I've got to go find some Barbra for the jukebox; I prefer her to Judy. And some Village People. Maybe some opera . . ." he let his voice trail, as he exited, relishing Munch's openmouthed expression.

* * *

"We could be decoyed as nuns."

Tim stared at him, hoping that wasn't some kind of shot. But no, Frank didn't have that bad of taste. He stripped off the cassock, glancing back at Frank. He wondered why Kellerman's vitriol didn't bother him at all and it was meant to wound and here he was puzzling over a light, silly comment by Frank. Maybe because Julianna Cox was a closed issue, and what was between him and Frank was what? Still open, oozing? Frank had opened that wound and it ached. No, it hurt like hell. And if he didn't do something to fix it, he was liable to pull his gun on another hapless convenience store clerk. They couldn't go on acting like nothing had happened between them. Well, maybe Frank could . . .

"Did you have a good time?"

Tim spun around, totally taken off guard. Frank's voice had been pleasant, even interested. Not Frank at all, actually.

"Uh . . . yes, sure, it was great."

"I've never been to Aspen." Frank was bending down, tying his shoes. "But I've heard it's beautiful."

"Yes. It's very, uh, clean. I . . . uh . . . bought Olivia a doll."

Frank looked up at him with an exquisite, rare "Frank" grin that melted Tim's heart and totally dissolved any negative feelings. "Mary will kill you. You know this makes at least nine dolls you've given Livy? Not to mention the erector set and the Mister Potato Head. And that silly police bear."

"I love her," Tim said helplessly.

Frank stared at him, his grin fading, eyes growing darker and more luminous. "I know." He stood up abruptly, shoving in his dirty clothes, slamming shut the locker.

"Frank, we need to talk."

"Do we? What about?"

Tim leaned back against the lockers, surrendering to Frank's obstinate obtuseness. He couldn't fight it, Frank was always stronger than he was.

"Okay." Frank said suddenly. "Let's go to Jimmy's."

Tim looked up, startled. "Yes, okay. Jimmy's, that's good."

"Yeah, we can discuss the Drew case. There's a good chance he's coming back into town this week."

Tim's heart sank. "Right, we'll talk about the case."

* * *

"Don't order the egg cream," Tim said softly.

"What?"

"It's just that you've had it once, and you know you don't like it," Tim added, looking down at the menu.

Frank's eyes bored into him. "Maybe you just have to develop a taste for it."

Tim looked up. "Don't, Frank."

Frank's jaw clenched. "What? I'm here to talk about the case. Coffee decaf," he told the waitress as she approached.

"Regular coffee," Tim added.

Frank flipped open the file he'd brought with him. "So this Drew guy, he's been in New Jersey for the last week, supposedly left right before his wife was killed, but we have no proof. Couldn't get hold of him until yesterday. His wife's sister identified the body. There are some pretty iffy circumstances here. Considering the forensics report, I pin it on him. What do you say?"

The waitress brought the coffee and Tim added sugar and a huge dollop of cream, stirring, waiting.

"Well, what do you think?" Frank asked again.

Tim didn't answer.

"Tim, what's your take on this?"

"I'm sure you're right, Frank. I imagine it is the husband."

"So . . . why did you want to "

"Why did I want to talk to you?" Tim cut in. "Gee, Frank, I can't imagine. Just pushing that interpersonal envelope again. Oooh, having coffee, that must mean we're engaged, right?"

"Tim--"

"Forget it, Frank. Don't waste your breath. Let's just keep it to the job, shall we? You're right, it's got to be Drew. We'll get him in the box and get a confession. Case closed."

Frank leaned forward suddenly, anything but impersonal. "What is it about this guy? What's he do for you anyhow? If you're not risking your career, at the very least you're certainly risking a lot of ridicule. Why? You're not gay. I know you're not. So why do this?"

Tim felt a sudden, inexplicable, sense of relief. Frank cared. In his own, semi-insulting way, he did care.

"You really want to know why, Frank?"

Frank sat back, a little wary, obviously beginning to regret that he'd asked.

Tim shrugged, answering simply, "He likes me."

"Excuse me?"

"That's about it, Frank. He likes me. In fact, I think he loves me. That's really nice, Frank. For once in my life somebody thinks I'm okay. Just as I am. What I am. He knows I'm a cop. He knows my flaws or most of them anyhow. But he still looks at me and thinks I'm great. That what I do is noble. That what I am is worth loving. I like that, Frank. In fact, right now I'm sucking it up for all it's worth. I haven't had a lot of that in my life. Actually, I've never had it. So it's really pretty damn cool."

Frank's eyes were big with surprise. It wasn't very flattering, but Tim took a sip of his coffee and continued.

"I like that he likes me, Frank. It feels good. In all my life I've never had anybody like me this much, with this honesty."

"So he's flattering your ego?"

"Oh yeah, big time. Is that wrong? Is he making a mistake? Maybe you should warn him how wrong he is."

"No . . . I mean, Jesus, Tim, do you just want somebody to fawn over you?"

Tim laughed. "Well, yes. That's nice for a change of pace. Don't you? Doesn't everybody?"

"But you can't make a relationship out of that."

"Who said anything about a relationship?"

"But you said he loved you."

"But I didn't say I love him."

"Don't you?"

Tim looked back down at his coffee, he stirred it, watching the milky swirls, hoping it would speak to him like tea leaves. No answers. Never any answers. "I don't know what I feel. Not yet. But it wouldn't be hard."

Frank abruptly stood, grabbing up his coat. "I need to get home. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Frank--"

But he was left alone with an empty feeling and the check.

* * *

"We've read you your rights, Mr. Drew, if you'll just sign this paper here--"

"Why do I need to sign anything? I didn't do anything."

"Well, then why shouldn't you sign?" Pembleton said reasonably.

Bayliss tossed Pembleton a glance, but let it go. That was an old battle lost long ago.

But for some reason, Frank looked up and met Tim's eyes. "Unless you feel you need an attorney present. That is your right."

"I'm innocent. I don't need a lawyer! My wife is dead. I want you to find her killer."

Tim smiled at Frank, nodding slightly.

"That's our goal, too, Mr. Drew," Frank said soothingly, "So please sign this form and we'll get on with our job."

The man scribbled his name and looked up uncertainly. "Now what?"

"Now we need to ask you a few questions. When was the last time you saw your wife?"

"Like I said, Wednesday morning."

"Well, let's talk about that, Mr. Drew," Bayliss sat down and opened a file. "It says here you've been unemployed for eight months. That you were an industrial designer."

"That's right," Drew replied warily.

"But your company went bankrupt and you've been looking for work ever since."

"Yes. That's where I was Wednesday. I went up to New Jersey to check on a job."

"Uh huh. You took the train, right?"

"Right. I didn't get back until last night."

"You loved your wife, Mr. Drew?" Bayliss asked.

"Of course."

"She was a beautiful woman," Pembleton commented, tossing down a black and white glossy showing a female beaten almost to a pulp. "At least I imagine she was once. It's hard to tell from that."

The suspect stared at the photo on the table and began to sob. "I loved her. Serena . . . oh Serena . . ."

"Yes, I can see it's very disturbing for you," Bayliss said coldly. "Especially considering she died with another man's semen inside her."

"What? How can you say--"

"We just got the results from the lab. I can see that would be very upsetting for you, Mr. Drew. Especially considering she had intercourse with more than one man the night she died. None of whom were you, by the way."

"You don't know that!" Drew shouted, "You can't know that!"

"Well, we know she didn't practice safe sex."

"Science is wonderful, Mr. Drew," Frank put in.

Tim nodded. "Awe inspiring. The things they can pinpoint."

"Blood type," Frank said

"DNA," Tim nodded.

"Even race," Frank added. "You were aware that two of her lovers were black, weren't you?"

"Shut up! You're lying!"

"Why, does that bother you, Mr. Drew?" Frank asked, concerned.

"What's worse to hear, Mr. Drew," Tim demanded, "that she was screwing half the neighborhood or that she was screwing half the black men in the neighborhood?"

"Or that she didn't cut you in on the profits?" Frank added.

"Yeah, she must've made a bundle," Tim agreed.

"But I guess you were having a hard time keeping her in the style she expected, right, Jim? The lifestyle you promised when she married you. Do you mind if I call you Jim?" Frank asked politely.

"No. Listen, I don't know what you're talking about. Serena loved me. I don't understand--"

"You murdered your wife, didn't you?" Bayliss leaned forward, slapping his palms loudly on the table, causing the man to jump.

Drew looked angry and defensive. "She was raped; those bastards raped her. They killed her. What's wrong with you guys? Why aren't you out there finding these punks?"

Pembleton and Bayliss exchanged a glance.

"Because we've already found them, all three of them." Frank shook his head. "They all tell the same story. Except for one difference. Seems she charged the white guy $100 and the black guys $75. Now, why do you think that is?"

"Obviously she was taking into account socioeconomic differences," Bayliss offered helpfully. "Very politically correct of her. Or she just liked bigger dicks--"

"Shut up! How dare you--!"

"How dare we?" Bayliss cut in angrily. "You bash a woman's face in with your bare hands, and you ask how we dare-"

"He's right," Pembleton interrupted. "I'm surprised at you, Detective. That's very racist. Who says Caucasians have smaller dicks?"

"Those guys are lying," Drew shouted, "They raped her! I told you. They're covering up."

"Sure, that's why we found $250 in the bedside drawer," Bayliss snarled.

"We understand, Jim. No man could take that," Pembleton commiserated.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Drew was sweating now, his face pale, his hands starting to tremble.

"She was a stripper when you met her, right? You were married a little over a year," Frank flipped through the file.

The man nodded. "She quit working."

"Everything was just hunky dory until you lost your job. Then she went back to her old trade not stripping, but tricking. Once a whore, always a whore."

"It wasn't your fault," Frank said softly, "No real man could stand for that."

"You're wrong, she didn't--"

"If my wife did something like that, I'd want to kill her."

"Justifiable homicide," Tim nodded. "It's got to be."

"It'd sure piss me off."

"Me, too," Tim nodded. "Makes sense."

"You guys are crazy. Serena didn't do anything like that. She wasn't a whore. How can you even think that?"

"Can you imagine what it would feel like?" Bayliss said to Pembleton in a conversational tone, "Finding out your wife has a little in-home business you're not aware of?"

"Especially if you find out it's not Mary Kay she's peddling," Pembleton agreed. "Not that I blame her."

"What do you mean? How can you say that, Frank? It's unforgivable," Bayliss responded.

"Well, but what if your man couldn't support you?"

"Oh, yeah, I see what you mean. And what if he couldn't satisfy you sexually either?"

"That's right. What's a girl to do? Kill two birds with one stone. Make a little extra cash and have some fun as well."

"Yeah, you've got a point."

"Shut up! That's a lie!" Drew tried to stand up, but Pembleton shoved him back down in his seat.

"The guys said she was really good," Bayliss said.

"Yeah, that's what they said. Worth every penny."

" Course if I was the husband, I'd be pissed."

"More than that, insulted, enraged--

"--infuriated--"

"--teach her a lesson--"

"--who was boss--"

"--hurt her like she hurt you--"

"--just hurt her, not kill her--"

"--yeah, that was probably an accident--"

"--easy to happen, something like that--"

"--hit a little harder than you want--"

"--too late to stop--"

They were both leaning toward him, inches away, on either side, speaking into his ears in a rhythm that pushed him back and forth, giving him no opening to respond until suddenly they were both silent, very close, eyes boring into him, eager, intent, electric.

"I didn't mean to do it," he whined, looking appealingly at one then the other. "It was an accident. She shouldn't have done it. She promised me never again. . ."

The rest was boringly typical. No surprises, just the usual dark soap opera. Ugly, basic and depressingly mundane. A jealous husband killing an unfaithful wife; it was almost embarrassing to put on the board anymore.

Tim walked out of the box, realizing he was half-hard and for the first time wondering about it. He stopped dead still in the middle of the room as enlightenment came to him.

They had got the big C confession. It wasn't all that different than the big O orgasm.

He and Frank had just engaged in a sexual act with lots of foreplay. Their give and take in the box was sexual; maybe it had always been sexual. When they hit that perfect groove, it was yin and yang, slick and smooth, push and pull, good guy and bad guy. Equal and opposite, black and white. Giddy with power; equal parts seduction and aggression; tenderness and fury.

Seeing it in retrospect over six years, it was shocking, not so much that he had this reaction, but that this was the first time he had paid attention to it and saw it for what it was. It was the shadow self with a vengeance. The dark heart.

He wondered if Frank had an erection as well, and then knew he did. The box was Frank's ultimate turn-on.

Suddenly, in one clear revelation, Tim understood many things. After the stroke, Frank had been afraid of the box because failure there represented impotence, something he was struggling with anyway.

And a half-remembered dream returned to Tim; the type of dream one didn't want to look at too closely, let alone dare to analyze. He and Frank had been in the box, Tim had been laying across the table naked, handcuffed, and Frank had been above him, on top of him, inside him--

Tim shut his eyes tightly, trying to banish the image, the sensations it engendered; the secret submissive heat of the fantasy. He told himself that it was his own guilt at the pleasure and sense of power he received during a successful interrogation. That his psyche was turning it around on him, punishing him for enjoying the pseudo-sadism of the box. The dilemma was that the fantasy image excited him as well. It was that shadow self Frank talked about, told him to know and love because it was part of him. But how could he love this? The darkness waiting, lurking. Did Frank see it? Did Frank ever see what he saw? And if he did, did it scare him half as much?

Did Frank love it, too?

A large, heavy hand settled on his shoulder, and Tim nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Good work in there, Bayliss," Giardello said, patting his shoulder with a heavy paw.

"Thanks, Gee." It was Frank who answered, pulling away the attention and giving Tim a chance to retreat to his desk.

A second later, Frank was there, glaring at him. "What's your problem, Bayliss? You were standing there with your mouth open like a hooked flounder. I'm delighted you had a wonderful vacation in yuppieland, but you're back among the real people now, okay? It's embarrassing to have a partner who goes into cataleptic fits. If this Rawls guy has this effect on you--"

"Frank," Tim interrupted the tirade, "do you really want me to punch you in the mouth? I'll do it, I promise you. If you say that Rawls guy' one more time, I swear I'll smack the shit out of you."

Taken aback, Frank stared at him. "What--?"

"You might as well be saying that faggot', and I'm fucking tired of it. I told you how I felt the other night. You had plenty of time to clarify it if you wanted. He's done nothing to you, and he doesn't deserve that attitude. Consider yourself warned."

"That's not . . . it's not . . . you're being too sensitive again. I was just trying to tell you that people are going to notice if you keep daydreaming."

Tim laughed shortly. "You put a whole new spin on cruel to be kind, Frank."

Pembleton made a gesture of surrender and turned away.

* * *

Frank glanced over at his partner on the passenger's side of the car. Bayliss was slumped bonelessly in the seat, his head tilted back against the headrest, one foot propped up, eyes closed, completely relaxed, as if he'd just spent the afternoon getting a massage instead of talking down a mad bomber from atop a desk in the squad room.

Plastered over all the other emotions Frank was dealing with fear, anxiety, irritation it was provocation enough to make him want to pull the car over and shake Bayliss until his teeth rattled. His own hands were still shaking in reaction. While Frank had never considered himself particularly brave or macho, it wasn't until after the stroke that he conceptualized in a personal way that death was waiting, not forty years from now, but maybe only minutes away. It had radically shifted his perception of life. Not only his own life, but the lives of people he cared for. Frank, Jr. could die of crib death, Olivia could develop leukemia, Mary could perish in a car crash on I-95, Gee could have a heart attack. And Tim could be blown to bloody pieces because he didn't have the sense to let the bomb squad handle a sociopathic maniac with delusions of spyhood.

To make it worse, these kind of dangers never seemed to affect Bayliss much at all. Physical peril sharpened Tim, made him slightly more manic and keyed-up, but Frank had never seen him really afraid. Even when Kay and Stan and Beau had been shot, Tim's primary emotion had been guilt, not fear. That seriously pissed Frank off. It reinforced his original impression of Bayliss that he had the common sense of a guppy. It hadn't taken long working with him for Frank to realize that despite his somewhat dorky exterior, Bayliss was extremely bright, intuitive and fairly well informed. But totally, deeply clueless. It took a lot longer to understand why. Tim's innocence had nothing to do with intelligence. He was, for a lack of a better term, reality-impaired. Tim always needed to know the why of things, because he simply couldn't comprehend cruelty or viciousness. Tim wanted it to make sense, when the very nature of evil was absolute senselessness.

The Jesuits had given Frank an unwanted gift, the epiphany when he realized evil existed for its own sake. It needed no reason, no purpose. From then on, he had no thirst to know the why. He no longer cared about the why, just how to stop it and punish it.

"Get your foot off my dash," Frank burst out without warning.

Tim opened his eyes. "Hmmm?"

"Get your big foot off my dash!"

Tim flinched at the unnecessary bellow. "Geez, Frank, okay." It took a second for him to untangle his long legs and sit up. "It's not your car anyway; it's the City's."

"I'm driving, so it's my goddamned car! My goddamned dash!"

Bayliss eyed him apprehensively. "Are you all right, Frank?"

"No, I'm not all right! I've got a fuckin' macho idiot for a partner, who doesn't have the brains to let the bomb squad handle what they're paid to handle. You could've been blasted to bits back there and the rest of us with you."

"Oh, that."

Angrily, Frank jerked the car over to the curb and slammed it into park. He turned to the other man, glaring. "Yes, that! What the hell did you think you were doing?"

Tim chewed his lip, squirming under the blazing eyes. "I just didn't believe he would do it. Broyles was a coward at heart you saw that. The only way he would have tripped that bomb was by accident."

Frank threw up his arms. "Oh, well, that makes me feel so much better."

Tim stared down at his hands. "What did you want me to do, Frank? Make a run for it? Hide under a desk? He came there to talk to me. He was relating to me. A hostage negotiator would have had to build a rapport from scratch. That would have taken time; Broyles' thumbs might have gotten tired on those switches, he would have been even more careless than he was; he might have panicked. There simply wasn't time." He paused, looking over at Frank. "You know I'm right. Besides, you were talking to him, too. You were backing me up."

"What choice did I have? You were obviously determined to play the hero." Frank slammed his hands against the steering wheel. "I hope this turns your boyfriend on."

There was an electric silence, but before the atmosphere in the car could be fully charged, Tim seemed to deflate. He dropped his head back against the headrest and sighed. "Is that what you really think? I'm not going to tell Chris about this."

"You won't have to. It'll be on the news--"

"No," Tim shook his head, "hopefully not. I told Gee to try to keep my name out of it. I don't want Chris to know."

Puzzled, Frank had to ask, "Why not?"

"Because . . . he lost somebody once that mattered to him, and I don't want him worried about me."

But you don't mind if you scare me shitless! Frank nearly said it aloud before he caught himself.

Tim risked a cautious look at his partner. "I'm sorry I scared you, Frank."

A nasty retort was on the tip of his tongue, but for once Frank bit it back. There really wasn't much he could say. He could yell and bitch all he wanted, but it wouldn't change the fact that Tim was right on all counts.

Being a man who would rather stick a hot poker in his eye than admit being wrong, Pembleton simply turned on the ignition and pulled back out into traffic.

He balefully noted that Tim conspicuously propped his shoe back on the dash, but Frank gritted his teeth and let it pass.

There were times when Tim simply couldn't put a foot wrong.

* * *

Tim paid for the pizza and returned to the living room where Chris was sitting cross-legged on the sofa watching the t.v. with his hand poised on the remote control.

Tim put the pizza box on the coffee table, and looked down at him with a rueful expression. "They may not even put it on, you know."

"A drug bust that huge, of course they will."

Tim sighed and went to the kitchen for a couple of beers. Lately, when Chris was in town, they ended up spending more time at Tim's apartment than at Chris' condo. Tim couldn't deny that he felt more comfortable on his own turf; at Chris' place he always felt clumsy, certain he would break something that cost a small fortune. And after the first couple of visits, he had stopped feeling like he needed to impress Chris. He couldn't compete in that league anyway, and Chris didn't seem to care at all. Linen napkins or paper towels, nothing seemed to faze him. The more he saw of Chris, the more appealing he became. Except for consistently leaving the cap off the toothpaste and tending to drop his clothes on the floor wherever he removed them, there simply weren't many flaws in the man. Of course there were major differences. Tim was an Independent leaning toward Republican, and Chris was a firm Democrat. Tim was a Frasier fan and Chris liked Seinfeld. Tim loved The X-Files and Chris preferred Babylon-5. These deep and wide rifts were easily breached by the rich and hot ecstasy of willing flesh on flesh.

Coming back from the kitchen, Tim paused, looking at Chris silently, wondering again at his good fortune. Not that he wasn't due a little good luck, but sometimes being with Chris seemed like winning the lottery.

Chris was focused completely on the television, watching the news, giving Tim a chance to watch him. He stared at that sensual mouth, knowing what it would be doing to him and for him later tonight. He was immediately hard as a rock, remembering how it felt, how good Chris was at pleasing him; probably better than any woman he'd known. Perhaps it was because Chris knew exactly how it felt and what aroused the most, or maybe he was just naturally talented, because Tim didn't think he did nearly as well in return, although not for lack of trying. Chris had certainly never complained.

Chris yelped, "Here it is!" He pushed record on the VCR, and turned to grin at Tim as the news focused on the biggest drug bust in Baltimore history.

"I think Pinky and the Brain is on," Tim suggested hopefully.

"Shhh!" Chris waved him silent.

"Oh god." Tim flopped down on the couch, watching himself on the television and having the overwhelming urge to burst out laughing. "This is so bizarre." He looked at himself on the screen, wincing at the bemused, slightly goofy expression on his face, posing awkwardly in the off-the-rack J.C. Penney suit, then he focused automatically on Frank, who presented his usual dapper, arrogant persona. Frank looked great, very much the cool, professional, jaded detective.

"--result of an exhaustive ten-month investigation by detectives in the City Homicide Unit working in conjunction with CID Narcotics and the Patrol Division--"

Tim snorted. "Oh, man, I can't believe Barnfather shoveled that load of crap. Talk about stretching the facts."

Chris obviously didn't care about any of that. "Man, you look fantastic. The camera loves you, Timmy! Come on, you guys did stop this drug dealer, however it happened. You're a hero!"

Hero. For a second, Tim was uneasy, remembering what Frank had said, how furious he had been after the Akton case. But this was different; an ironic, almost comical case, that had ended easily and well. It had seemed safe to tell Chris about it, and there had been no way to keep it out of the news anyway, with the brass determined to trumpet it for flashy PR. "Ask Gee what he thinks. We didn't solve the case and he's ready to broil us over an open pit. We're not hired to solve drug crimes. Until we turn that name to black, he's going to keep roasting us."

The news piece ended and Chris shut off the t.v. He threw the remote on the table and slid close, nuzzling Tim's neck. "Red or black, I think you're the sexiest detective in Maryland."

"Yeah, well, you didn't see that nude photo of Munch at the art gallery."

Chris chuckled. "But you're the one with the beautiful throat. It drives me crazy."

Tim tilted his head back as Chris nibbled and kissed the line of his jaw and beneath his ear, a particularly sensitive spot that produced deliciously erotic shivers.

"I'm proud of you," Chris said, carefully removing Tim's glasses and putting them on the table, then slipping down to his knees in front of Tim, "and I think you deserve a reward, Detective Bayliss." Green eyes glinted up at him with seductive mischief.

Tim tried on his prim expression. "Serving the public is reward enough."

Chris unbuttoned Tim's jeans and toyed with the zipper. "Then I suppose you would consider a world-class blow job a form of bribery?"

Tim instinctively spread his legs to offer more room. "You don't want me to fix a traffic ticket, do you?"

Chris slowly slid down the zipper. "I'm clean, officer."

"And I assume you haven't committed a homicide recently?"

"Well, I came close to throttling my supplier yesterday, but I controlled myself at the last minute."

"Usually it only counts if they're actually deceased; otherwise it's the province of Violent Crimes. Not my area."

"I just thought about it; I didn't do it."

"That's the job of the Thought Police. Again, not my jurisdiction."

Chris laughed as he tugged up Tim's sweatshirt and kissed his stomach, his hand easing into Tim's shorts. "Then this can't be considered police corruption at least in the legal sense."

Tim gasped as wet heat of the mouth engulfed him. "Oh, Christ, this has got to be a felony with the Thought Police." Chris was too busy to answer. After a second Tim managed to ask in a squeaky voice, "What about the pizza?"

Chris lifted his head and grinned up at him wickedly. "I love cold pizza. But if you'd rather--?"

Tim grabbed the dark head and pushed it back down with a whimper. "Screw the pizza."

* * *

"We haven't had dinner together since--"

"Since our disaster of a date." Tim looked sheepish.

"We never really talked about that," Laura said.

"No, we didn't."

"Is there anything to talk about?"

Tim squirmed a little. "Uh, you know, it wasn't you, it was me."

Laura said, "How many times have I heard that one?"

"No, really."

"Uh huh." Laura played with her wineglass.

She noticed Tim was doing the same thing. "I never really talk to a lot of people about my personal life."

"You talk to Pembleton."

"Not about everything," he retorted quickly. Then, "You ever thought about . . . uh, having a relationship with another woman?"

"Am I going to have to come over there and kick you upside your head?"

"No, I didn't mean it like that."

"Yes you did," Laura laughed.

"No, I didn't."

She missed his seriousness. "Oh, come on, you and every other man on the planet means it just like that. It's like it's the ultimate sexual thrill to see two women in bed together. I gotta tell you something, not a lot of women imagine two men in bed together."

"So that disturbs you?"

She was beginning to realize he wasn't being flip. He was dead serious. "No, it doesn't disturb me at all, but it doesn't excite me."

"I didn't mean it like that either."

His persistent, gentle calm was beginning to cut through the normal flirty chat. He was serious, and he was being quietly, almost stubbornly sincere. It made her suddenly uncomfortable.

"Are you saying that--"

"I'm not gay."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm not . . . uh, strictly heterosexual either, it seems."

Laura looked at him wonderingly. She couldn't remember another man being so forthcoming, so open. She wasn't sure she trusted it. "What does that mean, strictly?"

"Well, you see I've had a lot of relationships with women, and when they've fell apart, I always blamed the women, all the time, never me. And then I met this man, and I thought that--"

"Are you involved with a man?"

"Well, I'm not in love with the guy. But I dunno. I guess the thing is that I'm never satisfied. See? When I've been involved with women, I've thought about men, and when I've been involved with men, I've also thought about women."

They both took a compulsive, embarrassed drink of wine.

Laura pushed back her hair and looked at him again. "You know, you really didn't have to tell me all this."

He met her eyes with that spookily candid expression. "I did have to tell you this." He smiled softly. "Keeping things secret is . . . no good. Doesn't help anybody really."

She looked at him, totally disarmed by his nerve-deep honesty, the calm way he was flaying his soul and secrets, like a man who was expecting pain and just didn't care anymore, the truth becoming more important. "See, the problem is that I always thought that if I told anybody who I really was, they'd run away."

"Well, I'm not running." Her voice was uncertain, but he jumped on her affirmation eagerly.

"You're not?"

"No."

"Good."

That smile was enough to make her knees weak if she'd been standing. Christ, the man was gorgeous. She'd always thought he was cute, in bland, quiet sort of way. Now she felt like Lois Lane taking a second look at Clark Kent and getting a suspicion on the Superman thing. Maybe it was the glasses, or maybe it was just the unconscious sweetness he exuded. Either way, she knew she could fall hard without much trouble. Their first date hadn't worked well because his mind had been elsewhere, that had been more than clear. Now she knew why. But when he focused his attention on her, his charm was a little scary.

What he was telling her it could be some kind of scam. Trying for some freaky three-way or something. But that wasn't what she was reading from him. Not at all. And it certainly didn't gibe with anything else she'd heard of him. Mister Sensitive. Boy Scout. None of the terms were meant to be particularly positive for a homicide cop, but none of them were negative either. Actually, everyone seemed to like Tim Bayliss. She had always found it curious that, for a detective with his excellent clearance rate, his fellow cops didn't seem to take him seriously a lot of the time. Perhaps because, as Pembleton's partner, he was doomed to stand in the shadow of the volcano. It was hard to notice Tim when Pembleton was forever on the verge of erupting.

"So . . ." she let out her breath, "why did you become a homicide cop? I don't think I ever asked."

Tim smiled again, turning his wine glass around. "I wanted to speak for those who could no longer speak for themselves." He said it like a quote, but she couldn't place where it originated.

"Good answer."

"What about you?" he asked.

"It was the one place women couldn't get in. The ultimate Boy's Club. It was a challenge to crash it."

"That's not really true. Not for a while now, anyway. We had a detective well, she became a sergeant named Kay Howard. She's incredible. Perfect clearance rate. She was my role model."

Laura laughed. "And where is she now?"

Tim looked up, serious. "She was transferred to Fugitive. Okay, you may be right. Yeah, she was probably too good." He sighed. "If that's true, I hate it. God, it's so sad. I admired her so much."

"It's possible it was her decision to stay in--"

The door to the bar opened and her attention was snagged by the man entering. Before she could catalog him as a remarkably good-looking male and return her attention to Tim, the man moved forward and touched Tim's shoulder.

Tim turned, face lighting up. "Chris! I thought you were in San Francisco."

"Just got in." He shrugged, looking becomingly shy. "I wanted to see the Waterfront. Maybe I should have waited for an invitation--"

"Don't be silly." Tim stood up and gave him a quick hug. "I'm delighted you're back. Oh, I'm sorry. This is Laura Ballard. Detective Ballard. I know I've mentioned her. Laura, this is Chris Rawls."

Chris held out his hand and she took it, also taking in the blinding smile, the dimples, the huge green eyes and long lashes and whoa, this guy was even more stunning close up. She glanced from him to Tim. Was this the guy--? This was the man he was talking about?

"We were just about to have dinner. Will you join us? It's not up to your culinary standard, but--"

"That sounds great. If you're sure I'm not intruding?"

Tim hesitated, looking at Laura. She smiled. "Of course not. I'd love it."

She had expected Tim to be uncomfortable, ill at ease introducing his "boyfriend" to a member of the squad, not to mention a potential girlfriend, but there was none of that. Tim seemed more than happy at Chris' presence. Proud to show off the bar, pleased to have Laura meet him. Not that Chris Rawls was anything to be ashamed of. Laura would take him home to mom in a heartbeat. Not only was he handsome, he had an easygoing disposition that put her at ease in moments. Judging by a quick visual audit of his wrist watch, shoes and jacket, she also figured he was more than comfortable financially. A real catch, as her mother would say.

Too bad he was--

She caught herself before she finished the thought. Then she found herself looking from him to Tim. A hint of a ghost of a speculation flitted through her mind, and she pushed it away.

"This place is fantastic," Chris said, looking around. "Wonderful atmosphere. This building must be some kind of landmark."

Tim laughed. "We have it on good authority that Washington whizzed here."

"What?"

"Never mind. It was built around 1770. Sometimes the plumbing seems older than that."

"Wow. Look at that brickwork. I saw from the sign out front: Waterfront Hotel and Restaurant. Do you rent rooms, too?"

"Nah, we thought about it, but we'd need to have someone on premises 24-7, and that just doesn't work for us. There are four rooms upstairs; two even have attached baths. Munch went so far as to fix one up, but then Meldrick and me vetoed the idea. We were afraid Brodie would move in."

"Well, that's mean," Laura interjected. "What was wrong with Brodie?"

"Nothing was wrong with Brodie. It's the entire rest of the known world that's out of synch. Anyhow, I think Meldrick finds it handy whenever his wife kicks him out; which is about twice a month."

The food was brought, with an extra plate for Chris, and Tim was busy apologizing for the ordinary quality of the fare. Chris just laughed and touched Tim's hand. There was something about that touch just a finger brushing Tim's slender, well-formed hand that sent a tiny electric shock through her groin.

From there it was easy. Looking at them, seeing the way they looked at each other; the soft smiles, the total connection of the gazes, she was helplessly imagining them kissing, tongues caressing, hands moving over bare skin. Just watching the way they smiled at each other, she could almost feel the heat of their breath moving over the other's body, the muscles flexing, the rasp of beard shadow, the masculine power--

For the first time in her life, the image of two men together was wildly arousing.

Not that she'd ever admit it.

* * *

He stared at his reflection in the mirror and felt outside himself. What he saw there couldn't really be him because he didn't live in this body any more. The water ran hot over his hands, but he hardly noticed. Part of him didn't feel it. The part of him that was "Timothy." The part that could never get clean . . .

"Tim, wake up. Tim!"

Tim opened his eyes, feeling more disembodied than disoriented. It took him a moment to remember how to move, that he had the right to direct his own body. He glanced at the clock. It was 4:30 a.m. "Chris, I'm sorry. Did I wake you up?"

"No, Tim, I woke you, remember? You were dreaming. Are you okay?"

Tim rubbed his eyes, ran his hands through his hair. "Sure, yeah, I'm fine."

Chris regarded him doubtfully. "You kept rubbing your hands, like you were washing them or something. And . . . you were crying. What was it, Tim? What were you dreaming?"

Tim sat up on the side of the bed. "Dreaming? I don't remember."

He jerked away violently when Chris touched his arm. "Don't! Please, don't."

"All right," Chris said quietly.

Tim fled to the bathroom to complete the ritual. He soaped his hands, staring in the mirror and seeing not the face that looked tired and needed a shave, but a face that had never felt a razor. A face he hated because it was helpless, hopeless. A face that didn't matter very much to anyone.

He watched as a tear leaked down his cheek and felt the old, familiar depression sink in its teeth. Then he remembered that he wasn't alone. Hastily, he rinsed his hands and dried them, not eager to repeat his last experience; the last time he'd had this dream with a bedmate, Julianna had ditched him like yesterday's bad news. Not that he blamed her. He'd literally screamed at her to get out when she'd followed him into the bathroom. And he hadn't been able to explain to her that it wasn't her he was screaming at. It wasn't something he wanted to explain to anyone. It was still hard to believe he had told Frank, let alone understand what had compelled him to do so. He'd regretted his confession the moment it was out of his mouth. He was determined to never tell anyone else ever again.

* * *

Another grey, spring day; another pointless argument.

"I think if we just get this guy in the box--"

"And ask him what? If he uses Bounce or Downy in his wash?"

"Maybe what time he put his wash in the dryer--"

"You're dreaming, Bayliss. He's not going to admit--"

"Frank, if we can get him to admit he was in the laundromat in the first place--"

"Maybe we should just check the lint traps!"

"Maybe we should! What's your problem, Frank?"

"What's yours? You're not focusing on the real point here."

"And what's your point?"

"See what I mean, you don't even know the point."

Tim threw up his hands. "I give up!"

"That's you all over, isn't it? First, you want to get this cat in the box when we don't have enough ammunition, and now you want to give up totally."

Tim paused in the process of cleaning his glasses to glare at his partner. "I didn't say I was giving up on the case. I'm giving up on you. On arguing with you. On debating you in one of these moods."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Gee walked past them and paused ominously. They both shut up like kids getting caught scuffling in the back of a classroom. He eyed them both until they had squirmed sufficiently, then smiled benignly and continued on to his office.

Tim put his glasses back on and sighed, leafing through his notebook. "Okay, so let's interview that women who was on the pay phone, Gina Wallace. Maybe she'll be more willing to talk without a lot of uniforms and police lights flashing."

"Christ, you really were born yesterday, weren't you?"

"No, Frank, and I wasn't hatched the day before you met me either!"

Munch couldn't resist putting in his two cents, "He just thinks you sprang from his head full grown, like Athena from the brow of Zeus."

Almost in unison, they both turned and snapped/growled: "Shut up!" "Stay out of this." Turning back and meeting the other's eyes, they both half-smiled, feeling that familiar connection that both bonded and insulated them from the rest of the squad.

Munch smiled, too, a little smugly. "See, and you thought you couldn't agree on anything."

Before they could reply, Kellerman unfortunately chose to pipe up in a clumsy attempt to join in, "You should know better than to come between a man and his dog, Munch."

While Munch's irreverent comment was taken in stride, this was something different. There was an uncomfortable silence as all three of them avoided even looking at Mike Kellerman. No one could remember when interacting with Kellerman had become uncomfortable, but the truth was they were all a little embarrassed when he spoke outside a purely business reason. Perhaps it stemmed from their return from rotation and Meldrick pointedly refusing to partner with Mike again. No one knew why or dared to ask, but instinctively they picked up on the fact there was a shadow over Kellerman, and unlike Tim and Frank's incandescent, often flamboyant battles or even their private pouts, this one held a dark secret that no one really wanted to acknowledge for fear it would taint them all.

Kellerman felt their exclusion, and threw down his pen and stomped away.

Tim sighed. "Okay, Frank, what do you suggest?"

Frank shrugged. "I suppose--"

The phone rang and Tim picked it up. "Bayliss, Homicide." He listened intently for a moment, then said flatly, "I understand. Yes. I'll be there soon." He hung up the phone and stared blankly forward.

"What?" Frank asked.

"Oh. Nothing." Tim opened his drawer, retrieved his gun, patted his pockets to check for keys and badge, then pushed back from the desk and stood. "I've got to go."

"Go? What do you mean? Go where?"

Bayliss looked at him without expression. "I have to go."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Wallace's address is there in the notebook. I'll be back later."

"Bayliss, what--? Tim? Tim!"

Tim didn't reply; he hardly seemed to hear him. He just walked out of the squad room, leaving Frank staring angrily after him.

"Damn it." Frank picked up Tim's notebook and stuck it in his pocket. This meant a long car ride with no one to spar with. That was no fun.

He headed for the coffee room first, wondering what the phone call was about. For once he wished he could think it was Chris Rawls, but the expression on Tim's face made it clear it wasn't anything particularly pleasant. Which meant it was either Tim's mother or god forbid that bad news uncle wanting something. All things considered, he would almost prefer it was Rawls.

But thinking about that made him angry all over again.

"What's so wrong with it?"

Frank stopped at the entrance to the coffee room. Just hearing the outraged tone in Ballard's voice stiffened his spine. Some sixth sense was warning him of the subject of the conversation.

"He's a pervert, that's what's wrong. And if you keep hanging out with him, people are going to assume you're some kind of a swinger."

Gharty's ugly voice always made Frank's lips curl and when it included that tone of self-righteous bigotry, all he wanted to do was shove the redneck bastard's head in a toilet and flush it. And I thought Beau Felton was a jerk.

"Oh, grow up! Tim Bayliss is a decent, kind man. So is his friend, from what I could tell last night."

Gharty snorted. "Friend? Don't you mean sweetie?"

"Actually, they were sweet," Laura replied defiantly, with a type of liberal shrillness that also set his teeth on edge. "They make a very attractive couple."

Gharty made a retching noise. "It's disgusting. Not to mention a sin. God made Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve."

"Thank you, Jerry Falwell. I can't believe you said that," she groaned. "You're impossible!"

Frank came the rest of the way into the room, having the pleasure of seeing both of their faces flush red as they realized he must have heard some of what they'd said. He casually poured a cup of decaf and observed Gharty icily over the rim as he took a sip. "Sadly, Gharty is very possible. It's all genetics, you see. The tragic result of first cousins mating."

Gharty's face became even redder. "Listen, you arrogant shit "

"Listen to you? Are you speaking or passing wind? Not that there's a difference."

Gharty took a step forward, and Frank put down his mug, more than happy to vent some of his frustration on the fat bastard's pudgy nose.

Ballard stepped between them. "For Godsakes, give it a rest, will you? You're both boring. Not that I care if you beat each other bloody, but then I'll have to fill out the log sheets by myself, and it's your turn, Stu."

Gharty mumbled something under his breath that sounded like, "Fruits and nuts go together," then retreated to the squad room. Laura turned to Pembleton.

"I don't want to have to explain to Tim why his partner lost his mind either. You're smart enough to know that punching him out won't make him more tolerant."

"Who said anything about punching him? I want to shoot the low-rent son of a bitch."

"I can understand you wanting to defend Tim, but -- "

"Tim's got nothing to do with it," Pembleton interjected acidly. "I'm not defending Bayliss. I just don't like that mentally deficient asshole. And it's Bayliss who has lost his mind, giving idiots like Gharty reason to take potshots." He glared at her. "You're not doing Tim any favors by encouraging this lunacy either. Cooing over what a cute couple they make. Just keep your mouth shut and mind your own business. And put a muzzle on your redneck partner while you're at it."

He left Ballard standing there wide-eyed.

* * *

The next day, Pembleton sensed the looming presence of Giardello and looked up warily, already guessing what this was about.

"Bayliss isn't here. Where is he?"

"Disney World?" Pembleton ventured, risking the wrath of Gee.

"He has not graced our presence all day. Nor did he call in sick. Explain this to me, Frank."

Pembleton glared up at the Lieutenant. "What do you want me to do, Gee, set his alarm clock for him?"

"If necessary. It is my understanding that he left early yesterday as well. Is there a problem I should know about?"

"Why ask me?"

Giardello waited a minute, eyes boring into his subordinate. "Come with me; let's get some air."

Frank sighed, knowing this was not good. Being summoned to Gee's office was seldom good news; a walk on the roof was always trouble for someone. It usually implied something personal, something Gee wanted to distance from the ambiance of the squad room. Whatever it was, Frank was sure he didn't want to hear it.

But one didn't refuse a suggestion from the Lieutenant. And Giardello was the only man Frank had ever willingly and even eagerly taken orders from in his life. His respect for Giardello was such that the lines blurred between superior officer and patriarch. He couldn't imagine ever denying Gee anything.

They went out onto the roof and Frank was sorry he didn't bring his sunglasses. It was a beautiful spring day, but the sun was a little brighter than he liked. If it was going to be one of those deep, intimate conversations, he'd prefer it was night.

"I hope we're not looking at a repeat of what happened last year," Giardello's voice was his usual rumbling growl.

They walked out past the playground to the far fence overlooking the bay.

Frank didn't know what to answer. He didn't even know if Tim had ever explained to Giardello about taking care of his uncle, and if not, he wasn't sure if now was the right time to do so. It couldn't have any bearing on Tim's recent patch of absenteeism, since Tim had finally done enough penance or whatever the hell it was that had compelled him, and had paid someone to nurse the useless son of a bitch. But there was that phone call yesterday. Maybe he should have demanded Tim tell him about it, but lately he had been more than prickly with any curiosity involving his private life.

"Listen, Gee, I don't have any more idea than you what's up with him."

Giardello steepled his hands and regarded Pembleton grimly. "You and Tim have had some problems recently. Am I right?"

"Not really," Pembleton evaded. "Nothing unusual."

"No?"

"Come on, Gee, you know we always fight. That's how we work. This is no big--"

"So Chris Rawls has nothing to do with it?"

Frank was so startled, he bit his tongue. "You know about that? About him seeing Rawls?"

"Of course I know. He hasn't tried to keep it a secret. What I'm trying to find out is if it's bothering you."

"Why should it?"

Giardello paced back and forth. "You know about the talk in the squad room? The talk about Bayliss."

"I know there's been some rumors, yes."

Gee stopped in front of him, pointing the dreaded finger.

"It's up to you to make sure it doesn't go further, Frank."

"Me? What about Bayliss--"

"You're his partner, damn it! The squad will pick up on your attitude. It all depends on how you handle this. You start treating him like a leper, it'll be open season on Bayliss. A little teasing is one thing, but we both know it wouldn't take much for it to get ugly. Is that what you want, just to save your pride?"

Frank stared up at him defiantly, "Why aren't you having a little chat with Bayliss? He's the one who's causing the rumors. Hell, he's flaunting his experimentation.'"

"Because I'm talking to you, Frank. Are you listening at all? Are you willing to turn your back on your partner merely because his personal life has become unorthodox?"

"I'm not! That's not what--"

"Oh, now I see. Now I get it." Giardello turned away, shaking his head, face thunderous. "It's not your problem, right? You don't like what he's doing, so let him hang. You never wanted a partner in the first place. Everybody knows that."

Pembleton fell silent, remembering how many times he had said those exact words, and also recalling the staggering sense of loss he had experienced when Tim had stopped being his partner. Those few weeks had been miserable, topped by Mary leaving him as well. Oddly enough, the emotions had been very similar.

Giardello turned back to face him. "Maybe I was wrong, but I made you and Bayliss partners for a reason, Frank. You're good together. You're a front runner, Frank, a sprinter. Bayliss is a slogger. Together you make a damn near perfect team. He keeps you from losing focus, you keep him from being stuck in the same place, brooding."

"But you put me with Felton," Frank argued weakly.

Gee grinned broadly. "Yeah, brilliant, if I do say so myself. I knew after a few days with Beau, you'd jump at working with the rookie."

"How very Machiavellian of you."

"It worked, didn't it?"

Frank shrugged, granting the obvious. "Bayliss was wet behind the ears, but he wasn't an idiot or a bigot."

"And he's turned into a good homicide detective, hasn't he?"

Being honest on this was easy. "The best. He picks up on things I don't see. Truthfully, he usually has better instincts. But what's that got to do with "

"Frank, when you were in the hospital, he never left your side. He couldn't be budged from that hospital. I flat out ordered him back to work; he wouldn't leave. I could have fired his butt on the spot and he wouldn't have blinked an eye. I've seldom seen a partner more devoted." Giardello sighed. "I know you didn't want a partner, Frank, but after all you've been through together- "

"Listen, Gee," Frank cut in quietly, "whatever it appears, I have no intention of letting Tim be crucified. He pisses me off on a regular basis, but he is my partner. I'll back him up."

Giardello patted his shoulder. "Good, good. I knew I could count on you."

After Giardello left, Frank stood, holding onto the fence, staring out at the boats, watching the gulls soar and fight.

He remembered Falsone's words of a couple of weeks ago.

"Just like you and Bayliss are good as partners, being alike."

"Bayliss is nothing like me."

"Yeah, you're both thinkers. It comes out different, but it's the same."

Frank didn't particularly like Falsone, but the man possessed a shrewd insight. He and Tim were more alike than he felt comfortable admitting. Even at the very beginning, when their ethics and tactics kept slamming against each other, there had been a connection between them, a strange symbiosis.

"I'm complex," he had told Falsone. That was very true. But it was also true of Tim, who had a sweet, fierce heart. Who retained his stubborn innocence despite being drowned in abuse and corruption and blood. He had once accused Tim of being a Pollyanna, but wasn't Tim's dogged optimism his form of self-defense? The flip side of Frank's pessimism? The difference being that when Tim's safety net failed, reality slammed him twice as hard.

And then he recalled something else; a minor little incident that had only irritated him at the time. Back when he was smoking, Tim had a habit of picking up Frank's discarded butts from the ground and putting them in an ashtray or a nearby trash can. One day Frank had snapped at him, "What the hell are you doing?"

"You're littering, Frank."

"Littering? It's a cigarette butt, Tim, not PCBs. It's biodegradable for chrissakes."

Tim had just shrugged, which had ticked him off even more. "Why don't you pick up Kellerman's butts?"

"He's not my partner," Tim had responded as if that should be evident. "I'm not responsible for him."

At the time, it had seemed a ridiculous, if not downright insulting answer. He'd been positive Tim had just been trying to make him feel guilty about smoking, in his own, subtly manipulative fashion. He'd given him a quick and vicious tongue lashing, and that had been the end of it. Never again did he see Tim picking up another cast-off Marlboro.

Why this little exchange returned to him, he wasn't sure, except now he wasn't so certain about Tim's motivation. Tim did feel responsible for him; he saw their partnership as an almost sacred thing. It drove Frank crazy at times particularly after his stroke when Tim's mother hen act made him want to scream and yet, he counted on Tim on some level so deep he didn't even see it, just felt it.

When Frank finally returned to the squad room, someone was waiting for him in the fishbowl.

"What's he doing here?" Frank asked Naomi. "Didn't you tell him that Bayliss isn't in today?"

"He wanted to see you. I wasn't sure where you were, so I told him to leave a message. But he insisted on waiting." She shrugged and winked. "Who am I to argue? He kind of decorates the place, ya know?"

"Great. Remind me to buy you a Playgirl."

This was the first time Frank had seen Chris Rawls since the day he had came to the station to ask Tim to dinner. Frank scrutinized him with fresh eyes, watching as Rawls sat patiently, folding and unfolding well-manicured fingers. Frank was forced to admit Naomi had a point, he was an exceptionally good-looking man. Unfortunately, it also wasn't difficult to envision him and Tim together. Naked, entwined, sweating . . .

Frank jerked open the door angrily. "You wanted to talk to me?"

Rawls jumped up, his wide eyes even wider than usual. "Detective Pembleton. I don't know if you remember me--"

"I know who you are," Frank said shortly. "Tim is out. What can I do for you?"

"It's about Tim I needed to see you." He glanced through the window at the busy squad room, as if just becoming aware they could be observed. "Is there some place we can talk? In private, I mean?"

"Listen, Mr. Rawls, Detective Bayliss' private life is his own. I don't think--"

"Tim told you about us?" Rawls looked surprised, and a little relieved. "Good, then you'll understand why I'm worried about him."

"Worried?" As Rawls looked around uncertainly, Frank added impatiently, "Just tell me what you came here to tell me."

"You don't know? Tim's uncle died yesterday."

Frank stiffened, a dozen flashes of memory hitting him. The single, anguished tear streaking down Tim's face as he painfully confided the abuse he'd suffered at his uncle's hands. Tim struggling to forgive the bastard. Tim doing some kind of personal penance by taking care of the old man; displacing the guilt and responsibility to himself.

Frank released his first, heartfelt reaction, "The bastard is dead. Good. So Tim's probably out celebrating."

Rawls looked shocked, then his expression changed. "What are you saying? There's something else, isn't there? Something about his uncle?"

Frank stared at him, discerning that Rawls didn't know the truth. Obviously, Tim hadn't told him anything about the molestation. Rawls had assumed Tim was upset at the death of a beloved relative. He wasn't slow either; he'd picked up on what Frank was implying quick enough. But if Tim hadn't explained about old George, Frank certainly wasn't about to.

"When did you see Tim?"

"Last night. He didn't show up and that wasn't like him. Not without calling. So I phoned him. He was home, but he sounded . . . odd. So I went to his apartment."

"And?"

"And he told me his uncle had died. That he was making cremation arrangements. I wanted to help, but-- Well, he got very angry. Violently angry. He smashed a lamp, kicked a hole in the plaster."

That didn't surprise Frank. Tim could explode, did explode, on a semi-regular basis. "Maybe he just wanted his privacy. So Tim blows up, you leave, so what?"

"I didn't leave then. I wouldn't leave him like that." The man's gaze was very direct, offended. Frank grudgingly granted Rawls wasn't a coward; Tim in a rage could be pretty scary. "But then he calmed down, told me he was okay. That he would be in touch." Rawls shrugged. "I didn't want to leave, but he was so insistent, so withdrawn and controlled. To tell you the truth, that's what worried me more than anything. It was like he swallowed everything up again all that fury just pulled back inside. I couldn't get through to him. I didn't know what else to do. I thought, maybe, like you said, he did just need some time alone. I didn't know what he was feeling. I asked about the rest of his family, but he just kind of . . . laughed. I got the feeling he was handling this by himself for some reason." He shook his head. "Then today, I haven't been able to find him. He's not home, he's not at work. I just don't think he should be alone with this."

Frank was positive Chris was right about that. God knew what kind of mental barbed wire Tim was caught in, but without someone around to snip him out of it, he would at the very least cut himself to shreds.

"Okay, Mr. Rawls, thanks for letting me know. I'll take care of it."

Refusing to be dismissed, Chris caught Frank's arm. "I came here because I thought you might know where else to look. You know him better than I do. I know he has family here his mother, a cousin, a sister, I think. I was going to try calling his family, but--" He broke off, looking down. "Well, I didn't feel comfortable doing that." His eyes lifted, focusing on Frank. "But I thought you could. It's important that we find him. I'm afraid--"

"I said, I'll take care of it."

"So where do we go?"

"You go home."

Chris' face darkened. "No. I'm going with you."

Frank took a deep breath, trying to keep from snapping at Rawls. "This is none of your business, okay? I'll find him. I'll take care of it."

Rawls glared at him. "This is my business, detective. Whether you like it or not, I love Tim Bayliss."

Despite everything, Frank hadn't expected this open avowal. He didn't like it. He felt illogically threatened by that openness. Instinctively, he challenged it, "So if you're so damned close to him, why waste my time?"

The anger faded from Chris' expression, he looked puzzled, wistful. "I'm not trying to prove anything, Detective. I'm just worried about him. Don't you care about him at all? How can you know Tim as well as you do, and not care?"

" Years of practice!" he had the impulse to reply anything to rip that sad, concerned expression from Rawls' face.

Frank jerked back the rein on his own emotions, fighting the impulse to smash the man's face. How dare he ask how he felt about Tim? Tim was his partner, his best friend, his . . . Tim was his. This man was an interloper, intruding where he wasn't wanted. Tim hadn't told Rawls his secrets, hadn't opened his heart and soul--

Frank's furious thoughts stumbled and came to a halt with a thud of comprehension. What had he ever offered Tim in return for his honesty, his truth? What real comfort had he ever bestowed on his friend? True, Tim had pushed him away the first time he'd tried, had backed up frantically from his vulnerability. But how much of that was because Frank had been half-hearted, uncomfortable with his offer of comfort? He had never wanted a partner, never wanted a best friend, never wanted the responsibility. But it was his now, and it was past time to accept it.

* * *

"You're positive you didn't handle the arrangements for George Bayliss? Okay, thank you." Frank hung up the phone, and flipped a page of the phone book. He ran a hand over his head, sighing in frustration. There were more mortuaries than he'd imagined in Greater Baltimore, and so far he was batting zero.

It had taken some fast talking and a strong grip on his temper to convince Rawls to let him handle this. The man had reluctantly left, but had obviously been unhappy and slightly distrustful.

Frank had called Tim's mother, only to discover that she was in Florida visiting her sister. Apparently, the family either didn't know or didn't care about the demise of George Bayliss. Considering the way George had been living, it had been a long time since anyone in the family had cared for that particular black sheep. Anyone but Tim, that is, who found it morally necessary to take on the responsibility for a man who damn near destroyed his life.

Frank was picking up the phone to dial the next funeral home, when Munch sauntered past.

"Hey, Frank. Tinkerbell still isn't in, huh?"

Frank slammed the phone back in the cradle, brow furrowing. "What? What did you say?"

Munch had sat down at his desk, shuffling through the pink slips of his messages. "Hmmm? Oh, just wondering where Tim was. I wanted to ask him--"

"What did you call him?" Frank was out of his chair and leaning with menace over Munch. "I've warned you about that mouth of yours. You just watch how you flap your tongue, or I'll rip it out and make you swallow it!"

Munch stared at him in amazement, then straightened, shoving Frank back. "You've got a lot of nerve!"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you don't have any right to tell me what to say about Bayliss. I've known him as long as you have. I've worked with him, we own a bar together, we're pals. There's no malice behind whatever I say. It means nothing. Tim knows that. Tim knows I'm his friend, that I'll always be his friend no matter what. That's more than you can say."

"What in hell are you talking about? You call him names and you think--"

"Yeah, that's right, I think I'm a better friend to him than you." Munch stood and faced the other man defiantly. "When have you ever been a real friend to him, a real partner? When have you ever given him a good word, a pat on the back? And this, I remind you, is coming from a man who had Stanley Bolander as a partner, who was as cuddly and demonstrative as a grizzly bear. But Stan had heart, something you're singularly lacking."

Frank retreated, throwing up his hands. "Just forget it. I'm busy."

Munch followed him, still incensed. "No, I won't forget it. When you treat the rest of us like spear carriers, walk-ons in the great pageant of Frank Pembleton's life, that's okay. We're used to it; it doesn't matter. But Tim is your partner. For some grotesque reason, Tim thinks you walk on water. He defends you; follows behind trying to smooth the feathers you ruffle. Stands up for you even when you're being a total asshole. When you were sick, he took care of your family like it was his own, Frank. I don't know what masochistic tendencies caused the poor schmuck to choose you to latch onto, but he did. And what's he get in return? In six years, I've yet to see you put yourself out for him; to give him back even a tenth of the loyalty he gives you."

Frank blinked, backing away. First Gee, then Rawls, now Munch; it was too much. He couldn't defend himself from the truth. But it wasn't the whole truth. "You don't see everything, John." He went back to his desk and sat down, burying his face in his hands.

Munch hesitated, shocked that he had actually pierced Pembleton's shield. "Maybe I don't. I didn't mean anything by what I said. But I'm glad you called me on it. I'm sorry."

Frank shook his head, dropping his hands. "I know. I overreacted. I apologize."

Munch's eyebrows lifted in surprise. He approached cautiously. "Apology accepted. I'm just jealous, I guess. Anyone on the squad would give their eyeteeth to have Tim as a partner. So what brought this on? Is something wrong? Can I help?"

"Tim's uncle died yesterday and he's handling the arrangements. He didn't tell me himself, I found out . . . by accident. I don't know where he is, and I think he needs someone to be with him."

"I see." Munch considered it. "Maybe I can help. Bayliss might have called my brother, Bernie."

Frank looked up. "Your brother?"

"Yeah. He's a mortician. Tim went with me to pick out Crosetti's casket. He met my brother. Usually once people are familiar with a place like that, they return when they need the service again. It saves thinking at a time when it's hard to think. Let me give him a call, okay?"

"That would be great. Thanks, John."

"Like I said, Tim's my friend." He smiled his lopsided grin. "So are you, Frank, even if you are an asshole."

* * * .

The sun had nearly set by the time Frank found him. He had lied to Chris; he hadn't a clue where to look for Tim. But instinct and impulse had led him here to the pier. Tim had once mentioned spreading his father's ashes in the bay, so after Munch checked with his brother and discovered that he had, indeed, taken care of George Bayliss' cremation and the fact that there was no service planned and his nephew had taken possession of his ashes at 3:00 that afternoon, Frank decided to start checking out ferries and water taxis. After questioning several with no result, by sheer luck he spotted a lone figure sitting on the end of a rotting pier near the old railway station.

The sun was setting and twenty minutes later, Frank wouldn't have been able to see him at all. A lone fisherman packed up his gear and headed home as Frank parked his car and got out, certain that the lanky form sitting on a piling was Bayliss.

He approached slowly. "Tim?"

Tim didn't even look up, seemingly unsurprised by his appearance. "Hello, Frank." Or perhaps numbed to everything. The voice was flat, dull. He was cradling a black, rectangular, plastic container undoubtedly containing his uncle's ashes.

"Are you all right?"

Tim glanced at him, the fading light glinting off his glasses in a flash of red. "Sure, why wouldn't I be? How did you find me?" He tilted his chin. "Come to think of it, why did you find me?"

"Chris Rawls was looking for you. He told me about your uncle. He was worried."

"Ah." Tim nodded. "Poor Chris. I think I freaked him out last night. I kinda . . . uh, lost it for a minute."

"He understood. He was concerned about you." Frank settled gingerly on a piling near, but not too near, the other man. It bothered him that he was treating Tim almost the way he would treat a potential suicide, treading carefully, speaking in a low, even tone, trying not to push. That wasn't the case here, was it? Examining Tim's too calm face, the odd stillness of his body, a chill ran up Frank's spine, and he understood why Chris felt it necessary to seek help. Tim was at the breaking point no, he was past it. He was at the stillness before shattering.

"Poor Chris," Tim repeated, voice still wooden. "He deserves better. He deserves somebody who isn't so . . . damaged."

"Everyone's damaged, Tim, in one way or another."

Tim chuckled blackly. "Oh, that's right. I'm nothing special."

"That's not what I meant. You are special, but not because of what that bastard did to you in spite of it. I wish you could see that, Tim."

Tim looked at him, smiling sadly. "Thanks, Frank. But you don't have to babysit me here. I'm not going to pull a Crosetti on you, jump into the bay, or blow my brains out or whatever. Trust me, that's the last thing you have to worry about."

"That's good to know."

"You don't believe me, do you? But, you see, if I snuff myself I'll go to hell, right? And that means I'll have to see that son of a bitch again. Believe me, that's the very last thing I want."

"Who, your uncle?"

Tim laughed bleakly. "My uncle?" He looked down at the container, shaking his head, "No, my father. My uncle was too pathetic to make it to hell. A few eons in purgatory is all ol' George deserves. He was a sick fuck, but he wasn't evil. My dear, departed pop on the other hand . . ." Tim waved his hand expressively. "Express elevator to the deepest pit if there's any justice." He looked pensive. "Of course, that takes into account that the justice system in the afterlife is better than it is in Baltimore."

Tim tucked the container between his legs and rubbed his face with both hands. "So, you see, Frank, I can't off myself. Actually, there's probably more danger of me climbing a clock tower. I'm an excellent shot, you know."

"Yeah, I know. But you'd never do that."

Tim lowered his hands and looked at him. "You're sure about that? I'm majorly fucked up."

"No, you're not," Frank said quickly. "Not like that."

"Maybe not as much as Mariner was, but I can almost see where he was coming from. Eromitlab is Baltimore spelled backwards; it's so whacko, almost makes sense. That's kind of scary, isn't it?"

"You wouldn't hurt anybody else. You couldn't." Frank was more positive of that than he was of the Trinity. He was sure the blackest night of Tim Bayliss' soul would be a cloudy day to someone else. If he could swear to anything, he would swear there was simply no evil in this man.

Tim shrugged. "Yeah, you're probably right. I couldn't kill without reason, and I can't kill myself. So what am I left with?" He took a quick, sharp breath, as if through shards of glass. "What do I do with this rage I feel?"

"Tim, let's go home. It's getting cold. Come on, I'll buy you a drink."

Tim produced a fifth of Jack Daniels from his coat pocket; it was half empty. "Already got one, Frank. Want some? Oh, I forgot you can't drink anymore."

"Yes, I can." Frank scooted closer until they were sitting together on the crumbling piling. Tim handed him the bottle and Frank took a quick shot. "I'd rather have my preferred brand; this sucks. Why don't we--"

"I've got to finish what I started," Tim cut in with a flare of anger, a glimmer of the rage peeking through like heat lightning. "I've got a job here, Frank. A duty to the last mortal remains of one George Bayliss. A few ashes to dispose of, remember?" He held up the container and his hands were shaking.

All the disparate tensions in Frank suddenly came to a head the fear of Tim's controlled rage that he knew from experience could erupt at any second, the greater fear of Tim's despair. Enveloping that was his own disgust and fury at the worthless dead man that caused it all. "As far as I'm concerned, you're taking out the fuckin' garbage. Maybe you've forgiven the scum, but I haven't! I don't have to forgive him. He hurt you, and I won't ever forgive him that."

Driven by an overwhelming impulse, Frank grabbed the container from Tim's hands and pitched it far out into the bay. It hit the water with a splash and sank almost immediately, the ripples lost in the lapping waves. "There, the son of a bitch is gone! He can't hurt you any more, ever!" He grabbed Tim by the shoulders and shook him hard. "Do you hear me, Tim? He's gone. I'm glad he's dead. I should have shot the bastard myself. I wish I had. But he's gone now. Please don't let him hurt you any more." His fury leeched away as he stared into Tim's shocked fawn-brown eyes. Frank's voice softened to a tender plea, "Please, Timmy, don't let him hurt you any more."

Tim was still stunned as Frank took hold of his arm and pulled him down the pier and along the street. "Let's go home."

He left his car where it was, afraid to let go of his hold on Tim even long enough to drive. Tim's apartment was only a ten-minute walk away, and Tim let himself be led along willingly enough. He dug the keys out of Tim's pocket and once inside, Frank pulled off his overcoat and his suit jacket, then tugged off Tim's leather jacket. Tim just stood there like some oversized Ken doll, unresponsive, face blank.

Frank retrieved the whiskey bottle from Tim's jacket pocket, took a quick swig, then handed it to Tim. "Drink, damn it!"

Tim at looked him, looked at the bottle, then simply crumpled, sliding down the wall, as if his bones had dissolved.

"Tim!" Frank knelt in front of him, hands on his shoulders. "Snap out of it. He isn't worth this. I won't let you do this to yourself!"

A glimmer of light flickered in the dark eyes. He looked at Frank in awe. "You were angry at him? You believe me?"

"Of course I believe you! Of course I hate the son of a bitch! Tim--"

"My father . . . he never believed me. No, that's not true. He did believe. He just blamed me. He thought it was my fault. He never actually said it, but I knew--

"He was wrong," Frank said. "He was dead wrong. You were a child. It wasn't your fault. Stop torturing yourself, please. Please, God, Tim, stop it, just stop it. See the truth, see the evil and know it for what it was. Do you blame Adena for what happened to her? Don't you understand; there's no difference. You lived, she died. You were lucky. Lucky enough you can think your way past it. That ugliness belongs elsewhere. It's not yours."

Tim's expressive eyes were no longer dull or stunned; behind the glasses they were liquid with unshed tears. One escaped and rolled down his cheek as Frank watched. Frank's heart twisted as he carefully removed the glasses and caressed the drop away with an unsteady fingertip.

Tim's head fell back against the wall and he sighed heavily. "It wasn't until I saw my uncle again that I realized the truth. I never hated him. He scared me, and he hurt me sometimes, but I didn't hate him. It wasn't even the sex, it was the lack of control. I wasn't given a choice. I didn't like that; it made me feel like . . . like I didn't exist. But in an odd way he was kinder to me, paid more attention to me, even encouraged me more than my own father." He swallowed painfully. "It was my father I hated. And I still hate him. I've tried to feel differently, but I can't. Uncle George was sick, twisted, but my pop was worse. He was . . . indifferent. And I hate him because he's dead and he can't tell me why. I lied before I would like to see him again. I just wish I had five minutes with him, just five minutes, so I could ask him why he couldn't be bothered. Why he didn't give a damn that his son was being molested." He clenched his fist. "He did more damage to me than Uncle George. The look in his eyes when I told him--" Relaxing his hand, he touched the side of his face, closing his eyes and flinching as if he still felt the blow. "My father was the evil one. Maybe George wasn't able to make a moral choice, but my father was. He knew and I wasn't important enough to disrupt his ordered life."

It was easy to see how that colored everything in Tim Bayliss' life. No wonder his self-worth was low. It was a miracle he had achieved what he had, a testament to his inner strength and stubbornness.

But there was still more. "He made me say it, you know. It wasn't enough that he called me a liar, that he didn't believe me. He made me say I was lying. He hit me until I would say it. Until I said I was lying, that I was making up the whole thing. So I did. I said what he wanted to hear, and so it just went on. On and on. I never told anyone else, ever. I learned that lesson. Because nobody cared, Frank, nothing was worth causing trouble. Because I didn't matter. I wasn't worth--" He broke off with another of those sharp, cutting breaths that ripped through Frank as well.

Frank felt the tears on his own face and didn't try to stop them, refused to hide them. For once in his life he was willing for someone to see what he felt. Wanted him to see and know.

"They were fools. You're worth everything, Tim. You're worth everything to me. I love you."

Tim looked at him, part of him still deep in his hellish memories, another part awakening to observe Frank in amazement.

"Do you, Frank?"

"Yes." Frank cupped Tim's face, wondering what else he needed to do to convince him. "Yes, I love you, Tim."

"Why?"

"Why do I love you? Because I do. Because I don't know what else to do with you. Yelling at you and pushing you away hasn't worked worth a damn. I might as well admit it. Damn it, I love you."

Tim shook his head, more in disbelief than denial.

"Jesus Christ, you throw every other thing I've ever said back in my face. You take to heart every foolish word I've ever spoken to you for six years. Why can't you believe this?

Tim stared at him wonderingly. "I want to, but--"

"But I'm not a hugger, right? Damn it, Tim, it doesn't come easy to me. But I do care, I do love. You know that!" He leaned forward and kissed Tim's face, tasting the salty tears on his cheek. "Don't doubt me on this. Trust me, please trust me, baby. You are worth it. You're worth being loved."

Tim stared into his eyes, hungry for the affection, the belief. But it wasn't quite enough. Not yet. "Then make love to me," he asked softly, and there was a desperate need lurking in his eyes. A helpless yearning to be loved as deeply as possible.

"What do you mean?" Frank hedged, knowing exactly what Tim was asking and totally terrified at the need he recognized.

Tim braced himself against the wall and stood, then pulled Frank up. Catching Frank's arm, he moved them both to the bedroom. Holding Frank's eyes, he carefully, almost reverently slid the suspenders off Frank's shoulders, began unbuttoning his shirt. "Make love to me, Frank. Please. Just this once."

It wasn't difficult. Frank wanted it more than he'd ever imagined. Secretly, he'd hated the very idea of anyone else touching Tim like this, loving him, taking him like this. The feeling of ownership, of possession was so strong, intoxicating, impossibly arousing. Whatever Tim and Chris had done together, he knew it hadn't included this. This was for him, only him, and it was what Tim wanted, too.

Tim's bed was firm, the sheets cool against bare skin. Bright moonlight came in through the window, streaking across Tim's face, highlighting the large, yearning eyes. Eyes that would haunt him to his grave. Eyes that reflected all the hurt and hunger a man could feel without self-destructing. And yet they were eyes that held such gentleness, compassion and warmth. And the rage was there, dammed and contained without an outlet, held in check by a gentle but iron-willed soul.

I'm complex, Pembleton had told Falsone. Now he felt simple and obvious next to such a wealth of mixed emotions. All the internal battles Tim had fought and won made Frank feel humble.

"Yes, Tim, yes, let me, let me . . ."

It hurt both of them at first, neither ready for the shock of penetration, the total pain of intimacy.

"I'm sorry," Frank said, trying to pull back.

"No, don't stop. I want it, I want you! Please, Frank."

And then there was no more thought, no more words from either of them, only inarticulate sounds of passion, of pleasure and pain and need and delight and Frank's eyes were blinded by a white light behind his eyelids, the brilliant shock of perfect release.

* * *

The moon had set and Tim woke to darkness, but he had no moment of uncertainty. It was Frank's chest he rested against, Frank's wetness on his thighs. The ache he felt was Frank's, too; not that he regretted the pain. It was a small price to pay for what he'd been given. The pain in his heart was a different matter. But perhaps he didn't regret that either. It belonged to Frank as well. And anything belonging to Frank he cherished.

Perhaps that could even include himself now.

He reached out his hand, touching the lamp which came on in a low glow. Frank mumbled something and snuggled closer.

Tim raised up on one arm, looking at him, experiencing the pain and pleasure of his presence. Frank Pembleton would never be an easy person to love, but there was no escape from it. And now-- He recalled a phrase from a book he'd read, "It can be good to be given what you want. But it can be better, in the end, never to have it proved to you that this was what you wanted."

What he'd told Laura about always being dissatisfied had been true. But it was more a case of eternally wanting the impossible. Chris was possible. Laura was possible. Frank was just not possible.

"Typical," Tim said to himself with a rueful smile.

Frank stirred and his eyes opened suddenly, looking directly at Tim. "What's that?"

"I thought you were asleep."

Frank yawned, then pulled Tim down into a kiss. "Ummm, so don't wake me up. I like this."

"You need to go home, Frank. It's late. Mary will be worried."

Frank looked at the clock, then reached for the phone.

That's it, Tim thought, well, at least I've had this.

"Hello, Mary? I woke you up, I'm sorry. Just wanted to let you know I'm at Tim's. Yes. I'll tell you later. No, he's okay, but I want to stay. Okay. Love you, too. Bye."

"You're staying?" Tim asked even after hearing the conversation. It was difficult to believe.

"Of course I'm staying."

Tim pushed back the covers and sat up on the side of the bed. "I'm okay now, Frank. I don't need--"

"It's what I need. You already know what a selfish bastard I am. Will you please look at me, Tim?"

Reluctantly, Tim turned. "I shouldn't have forced you--"

"Forced me? Give me a break. I wanted you, you wanted me. It happens."

"Just one of those things, right," Tim said, trying and failing not to let the bitterness color his voice.

"No." Frank shifted up in the bed, pushing a pillow up behind him. "The last time . . . I was using you, Tim. This was different."

"Frank--"

"Listen to me, please. It's the truth. That's probably why I felt so bad, so guilty, when you started seeing Chris. I had been impotent for quite a while, you know that. The medication was affecting me and it made me feel . . . inadequate. Then Mary left me not for that reason, but because I was a real bastard but it just made be feel worse. So when the sexual feelings started returning I was scared. Scared they would go away. Scared I would never have the chance to be with anybody again. I couldn't be with another woman, I still loved Mary, and there was no one, no one, else I wanted like that. Except you. I don't know if I even thought about it in those terms; I just knew I needed to be close in that way with someone important to me. It was unfair to you, I know that now. I didn't think it through I wouldn't let myself. I just went with my own needs. I ignored what it could do to you. I'm sorry, Tim."

"I had a choice," Tim said slowly. "And yes, it did change me in a way. Just having that choice made me able to consider the idea openly for the first time. You, I dunno, opened my eyes. You shouldn't be sorry for that."

"After what your uncle did--"

"What happened to me probably kept me from looking at that side of myself. Maybe I would never have had these feelings for men, or maybe I would have had them a lot earlier. Who can say now? I don't think it matters. You were always surprised at what a . . . I dunno, a prude I was. But it was never just that. Sex was always a dangerous thing for me, any sex. I was afraid of it for years, and then when I could enjoy it, it overwhelmed me. It was so strong, it would influence everything I did. But I always had to be in love, because that was the only way I could justify it. Anything less would make me feel well, I just couldn't deal with it." He smiled wryly. "Obviously, it made me fall in love with a lot of wrong women. It made every relationship too extreme, way too quick. I always had to give it everything. So much I would tend to smother the other person in the first week. Each time it was all or nothing. That seldom works in real life."

He shot an embarrassed look at Frank, "And you were right, I never believed I was worth being loved. So I ended up sabotaging any relationship I had. With Chris, it's been different."

Frank wasn't pleased that the name came up, but he asked anyway, "How different?"

Tim smiled. "Well, part of it's what I said to you before. There's a certain level of understanding already. Although it hasn't turned out to be as clear sailing as I'd imagined. I've still managed to say the wrong thing. If putting one's foot in one's mouth was an Olympic event, I'd be a gold medalist."

"But . . .?"

"But he still puts up with me. He still loves me. But for once I don't feel desperate. I don't feel like it's out of my control or even that I need to be in control. I have some balance."

"Because you don't love him?" Frank asked almost too eagerly. When Tim didn't answer, Frank added, "You don't love him, do you?"

"I don't know. Not yet. I care for him a great deal. Maybe it's just harder to make that leap with another guy. At least for me. At least--" He looked at Frank and the implication was obvious.

Frank couldn't help but feel warmed, flattered. He offered reluctantly, "Maybe you should call him. He was pretty upset, worried about you."

Tim shrugged. "I'll call him in the morning." He looked at Frank. "I know you don't really approve, but he's good for me, Frank. I don't want to give him up."

This was not what Frank expected to hear. It certainly wasn't what he wanted to hear. He managed to clench his jaw before he said something irretrievably stupid. "So you're going to continue seeing him? Even after . . ." he trailed off, totally blank on what he could say without sounding like a jealous lover.

"Yes, of course I want to see him." Tim looked down at his hands as he toyed with the sheet. "There's something else to think about, Frank. I would never come between you and Mary. That's the last thing I want. You need Mary, you need your kids."

An ambulance went by outside, siren screaming, and Frank wondered who else was hurting tonight and why.

"I need you, too, Tim," Frank said softly, moving closer, sliding his leg over Tim's.

Tim smiled, eyes brilliant. "That's all I wanted to know, Frank. That I was important to you. I don't need . . . this. And it wouldn't be right. Secrets are like cancer; they spread and destroy everything good. We can't do this again. And that's okay, because I know now. Even if you never say it again, I'll know. I do believe in happy endings, Frank, despite everything. For you and maybe even for me. But we won't do this again."

Frank felt a coldness, a chilled sense of loss. It wasn't that he had anticipated having Tim on the side like some backstreet mistress, but he hadn't expected that this was the end either. It hadn't been easy to accept how much he loved Tim; letting him go so soon didn't seem fair. Looking at Tim gave him the same sensation he had experienced during his courtship of Mary. Seeing the beauty, the goodness, the strength.

He had known Tim Bayliss for six years, and he was seeing him anew, in the light of deep and real affection. After fighting it for years, the surrender had been complete and total, and his feeling for Tim was so strong it was intimidating.

He touched Tim's arm, stroking softly. "But I don't want it to end."

Tim smiled with a wisdom that surprised Frank. "By tomorrow you'll feel differently. You'll know I'm right. And it doesn't have to change how we feel, Frank. We can still love each other. I'll never stop loving you; you know that."

Frank's eyes were stinging, knowing Tim was right and mourning this feeling, wishing there was a different choice. He pulled Tim back down in his arms. "And tonight?"

Tim smiled at him. "Tonight, all bets are off."

They kissed and for one night both of them were happy.

* * *

The next few weeks at work went well, and Frank was positive nobody noticed anything more than an increased smoothness in the Pembleton/Bayliss partnership. That wasn't particularly unusual, however, since they had always experienced periodic stretches of serene waters in their often stormy partnership. The rumblings about Tim's unconventional sexuality tapered off without anything outrageous to fuel them.

Tim continued seeing Chris, but Rawls was out of town a lot of the time, and Tim was still paying a great deal of attention to Laura Ballard. Whatever he was getting from Chris, his interest in females had obviously not waned.

Frank didn't want to look too closely at why that pleased him. Why he was happy to encourage a relationship between Tim and Laura, but still found it impossible to ask about Chris Rawls.

After a couple of weeks of smooth sailing, Frank began to relax. Everything was going to be fine. Tim seemed happier than ever. Life was good.

And then the Clara Slone case came out of nowhere to shake the status quo. Frank cursed to himself, seeing the expression on Tim's face as Frank explained why no one had told him of the squad room legend. The silence hadn't been meant to exclude Tim, but to spare him. It wasn't clear if Tim understood that. The look he shot Frank was one of disappointment, if not quite betrayal.

But then he opened up, told Frank of the ubiquitous dream, a horror he'd shared with Frank before. Earnestly explaining that he had solved that nightmare, had beaten it. He had looked to Frank to agree with him, almost pleading for him to see it the same way. Frank offered as much support as he could. Privately, he had his doubts. And he damned Clara Slone; wishing she had rested in silent peace and left his partner alone.

While Frank believed a 66-year-old murder had just as much importance and need to be solved as one of yesterday, that murder "t'will out," he devoutly wished that the old man had decided to come clean ten years ago, or twenty or any time but now. Bayliss didn't need this funhouse mirror, this tragic unsolved crime of still another dead little girl. Gee was smart enough to give the case to Falsone, but that hardly helped. It couldn't stop Tim from caring, from being personally involved. Once it was in his face, it wasn't possible for Tim to turn away. That wasn't in his makeup.

It was, however, totally Tim that he didn't want any credit for putting the case down, that he was more concerned with the relatives than the press conference.

At home, Frank viewed the six o'clock news, watched Falsone grinning and posturing.

"Damn it," Frank growled.

Mary came around from the kitchen. "What is it?"

"That was Tim's case. He did as much work, if not more, than Falsone."

"So why isn't he there?" Mary asked.

"Because that kind of thing doesn't matter to him. Because he would hate getting any advantage from a little girl's death even one dead 66 years."

"So why are you mad, Frank?"

"Because Tim's sitting somewhere reliving that little girl's death. Reliving Adena Watson's death. And Janelle Parsons. And all the others. And that slick bastard, Falsone, doesn't even get it. It wouldn't occur to him to think about what she suffered. It's just a clearance to him."

Mary leaned down and kissed him. "Frank, go see Tim. He probably needs you right now."

Frank looked up, uncomfortable because that's exactly what he wanted to do but there were other things he wanted to give Tim that he could never tell Mary. They had never had secrets from each other until now. He didn't like it, but he didn't know what to do about it either.

Mary sat down and took his hands. "You and Tim are closer now, aren't you?"

He stared at her, wondering if she had guessed, how she could know. "Yes. Mary, I--"

"I'm glad, Frank. For a while I was worried that you wouldn't be able to accept his relationship with this man. I know it was only because you were worried about him, but sometimes your worry comes out . . . badly."

Frank chewed on his lip, avoiding his wife's gaze. "We've worked it out." He recognized the irony of that, but it was more or less true.

"I know. I can tell. And I'm so glad, Frank, because you need Tim. He helps keep you human."

Frank snorted. "I thought that was what you did."

Mary smiled. "It's a two-man job, sweetie."

Frank chuckled. "You're a hard woman."

She leaned her head against his shoulder. "There's something I should have told you a long time ago, Frank."

"What?" Frank asked warily.

"When I left you I . . . I had no intention of coming back. Even after I knew I was pregnant with Frank, Jr., I couldn't see any future for us. I even had a new apartment lined up in Washington."

Frank stiffened. "Why didn't you ever tell me this?"

"A lot of reasons. But partially because, well, because Tim told me not to. He called me, Frank, at my parents. He asked me to come back to you."

"What?"

"He begged me. He stuttered a lot -- it was very Tim -- but essentially he called in a debt."

"A debt. What debt?"

"A couple of weeks before I left, I went to Tim and asked a favor. Asked him to take you back as his partner. I thought that was part of what was wrong with you at the time. He tried. You told me that much. So when he asked the same of me, I felt I owed him to try."

"You only came back to me because he asked you?" Frank was appalled, on the verge of being offended.

"Of course, there was more to it than that. I wanted to come back. I missed you so much. But he gave me the reason, the push I needed. Because, deep down, I wasn't sure you wanted me to come back; that you needed me. Every time we talked, we just fought. But Tim said well, Tim made it very clear that I was important to you. That you were lost without me. Was he telling the truth, Frank?"

"Oh, yeah." Frank took a deep breath. "Bayliss is a rotten liar."

"I needed to hear that, Frank. And he told me. You couldn't, but he could. We both have too much pride sometimes. It made what I wanted to do come back to you possible. I'll always love Tim for that. He didn't want me to tell you, but I thought you should know."

"Yes, yes, I needed to know," Frank's voice was thoughtful. Tim's call must have come right after their first night together. It was strange to consider, that even after his cold dismissal of him, Tim had still been concerned enough to call Mary. Had loved him enough to know what would make Frank happy. Tim Bayliss was eternally surprising.

Frank covered his face with his hands. "Damn."

"Frank, he cares for you so much. You should be with him now if he's upset by this. You're his friend. He needs you."

Frank dropped his hands, looking at her helplessly. "Mary--"

"Go on, Frank, go."

He couldn't argue. It was a terrible idea, but it felt like fighting fate.

* * *

Just as Tim didn't know what to do with his rage, Frank didn't know what to do with his love.

He parked the car on the street outside Tim's apartment building and watched sprinkles of rain eating up the clarity of the windshield. The longer he sat staring, the less he could see, until there was only a wet blur that reflected the distorted glow of the streetlight.

What was he really doing here? How much of it was his concern for Tim, and how much was it his desire for him?

Still selfish after all these years. Paul Simon should write a new song.

Strange that their first night together a year ago had left no erotic hangover. An uneasy guilt, yes, but he had never really thought about Tim in that way again. Mary had returned to him and his sexual focus had clicked over like a light switch to her. The thought of repeating the experience simply hadn't occurred to him until Chris Rawls had manifested, looking Tim over like he was a rare and juicy filet mignon. It had caused Frank to notice all over again how attractive his partner was. And it had obviously stirred possessive instincts he never knew he had.

Even as a young man, Frank Pembleton had never been one of those guys who fell in love every other week. Actually, he had fallen in love only once with Mary. She was everything he could imagine wanting in a wife; she was lovely, smart, compassionate and yet a totally hard-headed realist. There had been no disillusionment, no seven-year itch from his side of the marriage. He found her just as sexy and desirable as he had that first sunny afternoon in the park when he fell into her potato salad.

Now it was confusing to feel a similar passion for someone else. He had always believed falling in love with one person meant falling out of love with another. It wasn't working like that. What he felt for Mary hadn't altered a whit.

He knew now he was in love with Tim Bayliss, God help him. And Tim Bayliss loved him. But to confuse the issue, Tim and Mary also cared for each other; both were honestly and unselfishly concerned about the other.

This should have made the situation easier, but it didn't. The term "soap opera" sprang to mind and he hated it. Or maybe a talk show would be more appropriate Cops Who Loved Their Wives But Sexually Desired Their Partners. Forget Oprah or Geraldo; this was pure Jerry Springer. He was appalled at the fact he was actually lusting after his partner, but he had no problem with putting the blame where it lay. Damn Tim Bayliss. It was all his fault. Why did it have to become so personal between them? Why did Tim have to be such a likeable guy?

Frank knew now he should have kept Beau Felton as a partner. There would never have been this problem in a million years.

Maybe it was ironic luck or fate. How else to explain that Tim Bayliss just happened to be the type of tall, lanky white boy that Frank had found attractive in his youth. How else to explain that he also happened to be the kind of guy who managed to swallow all of Frank's verbal and emotional abuse; absorb it and transform it into some kind of intimate dance, where they both took turns leading. Tim was resilient, incredibly strong in every sense, yet yielding, flexible when needed, absorbing like a sponge, but occasionally brittle and fragile as a seashell. He was constantly bewildering to Frank; evolving before his eyes in ever increasing and complex layers.

It was infuriating. Frank didn't like change. He didn't like emotional ties that he hadn't chosen to make. He chose Mary, he chose to have children. He did not choose to love Tim Bayliss.

This was upsetting his world.

Damn those big, expressive eyes. Damn Tim's honesty, his goodness. Damn his infernal purity.

Frank stared at the rain-streaked windshield and longed for Munch as his partner, or Meldrick or anyone else, because he couldn't imagine sitting here with a hard-on for anybody else but Tim Bayliss. Christ, after all those months when he couldn't get it up to save his life now he couldn't seem to get it to stay down.

He rolled down the window, letting the rain drops fall on his face, cherishing the coolness.

He was supposedly here to help Tim, but his thoughts were hardly altruistic in nature. The thunderous vision in his head had less to do with comfort and more to do with lust. Tim naked, laid out before him, pale and long-limbed, opening for him, eager and hungry for him, responding with avid growls and whimpers of pleasure.

And Tim had wisely said no. For once in his life, Tim Bayliss had embraced reality, had accepted that such a relationship between them was imprudent, dangerous.

Once again, Frank rubbed his eyes, covering his face, trying to switch gears to something proper. Mary had sent him here to help Tim. He wished he could be sure that she didn't know what else he wanted, but knowing Mary, she could well have figured out the rest of it. And also knowing Mary, she probably wouldn't have been bothered, might even have cautiously approved the relationship. She shocked him at times with some oddly warped visions of what was acceptable. Not that he could openly ask about this, but part of him sensed that on some level she really wouldn't mind.

He turned on the wipers angrily, watching them switch once, twice, clearing the glass, before he shut them off. He was rationalizing again; indulging in some heavy-duty wishful thinking to justify doing what his libido was urging him to do.

Acknowledging the fact that if he went up to that apartment and Tim was in any kind of vulnerable state, he was too weak not to take advantage of it, Frank started to turn the ignition key. As the engine sparked, another car pulled up and a familiar figure exited the car and headed toward the steps.

Without giving himself time to think, Frank shut off his engine, jumped out of the car and met the man at the entrance.

Chris Rawls saw him and stopped. "Detective Pembleton. Hello."

Frank nodded. "I'm afraid Bayliss is otherwise engaged."

"Did some case break?"

Frank looked inscrutable. "It's not something I can really talk about."

"I see." Chris started up the steps. "Well, I'll just say hi and then--"

Frank caught his arm. "Hey, I'll have him give you a call later, okay?"

There was a long moment when it seemed Rawls was going to protest. There was suspicious expression in his eyes. Then he relented suddenly and his smile was almost beatific. "Sure, Detective, whatever you say." He turned, went down a couple of steps, then halted and looked back up at Pembleton. "You don't have to concoct a story, you know. You want to be with Tim, that's fine. In fact, he probably needs you more now than he needs me."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Chris shook his head. "Whatever you think of me, Detective, I'm not stupid. But I'm not good at playing these kind of games, either. He loves you. Don't you think I know that?"

Frank was amazed and embarrassed in equal measure. Steeling himself, he managed to retort scathingly, "I don't know what he's said--"

Chris laughed. "You've got to be kidding. Tim Bayliss talking about himself? Or God forbid, about you? Let's just say I'm very good at reading between the lines."

"So if that's what you're reading, where does that leave you?"

"In a very good position, actually. Because sooner or later, you'll be gone, and I'll still be here. I'm a very patient man." Rawls' chin tilted up with calm assurance. "He's worth the wait."

He left Frank speechless and cheerfully returned to his car, pausing once more before he opened the door. "Just be kind to him, Frank. He sounded pretty down over the phone."

Frank watched the car pull away with narrowed eyes. God, he hated that man. Nobody could be that accepting of a rival, that disgustingly magnanimous. It was inhuman.

But Rawls' words echoed back, "He's worth the wait."

There had been something absolutely sincere in the voice, and for the first time Frank fully realized this was more than just some gay infatuation. That Rawls was after more than seducing some tender, hunky straight guy.

It was unsettling, the idea that someone else, another man, wanted Tim and was so confident of getting him he couldn't even be bothered to be jealous.

All the selfish, possessive feeling returned, impelling him to move up the steps and knock on Bayliss' door.

It opened almost immediately. "I told you not to--" Tim stopped, staring blearily at his partner. "Frank. I thought--"

"I sent him home."

"What?" Tim regarded him with a blank expression; it was obvious he had been imbibing heavily.

Frank pushed past him impatiently. "I met Rawls downstairs. I told him to go home."

Tim stood holding the door, trying to absorb that information. Slowly, he shut the door and turned, leaning against it, head bowed. "Why'd you do that, Frank?"

"You didn't want him here, right? When you opened the door, it was pretty clear you had already told him not to come over."

Tim lifted his head, meeting Frank's eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"Just a visit."

"A visit."

"Sure. Something wrong with that?"

Tim let out his breath in a long suffering sigh. He pushed himself away from the door and moved to the sofa. Flopping down, he poured himself another scotch. "I'd offer you one, but I know you can't drink any more. And don't tell me you can. The point is, you shouldn't."

Frank pulled off his coat, tossed it over a chair and joined him on the couch. "You could offer me coffee."

Tim just downed his drink and stared at the t.v. The sound was off, but there was a Nick at Nite logo in the corner of the screen. Frank thought it was Mary Tyler Moore but he didn't watch enough television to be positive. It could've been Lou Grant, because he recognized Ed Asner.

"You're not supposed to drink coffee, either. I don't have any decaf."

"There are a lot of things I'm not supposed to do." He slid his hand up Tim's arm.

Tim jerked away. "Don't!" He stood and walked toward the kitchen. "You said you want coffee?"

Irritated that Tim was making this difficult, Frank snapped, "I don't want any damn coffee."

Tim stopped, laying his hand against the wall to steady himself, but not turning. "What do you want?"

"I wanted to see if you were okay. This Slone case--"

"I'm okay. I'm fine."

"Of course you are. How many more shots of scotch will it take before you believe that?"

Tim spun around, unbalancing slightly, but catching himself. Actually, he was holding the liquor pretty well. His words weren't slurred and his gaze was blazingly direct. "I can't believe you told Chris to leave. Where do you come off--?"

"Did you want him? I'll phone him, tell him to come back--"

"I didn't want anyone! I wanted to be alone, okay?"

"To sulk."

"What?"

"Did you see Falsone's finest hour? I did, and I was sulking and it wasn't even my damn case."

Enlightenment dawned, "Oh, that." Tim shook his head. "It wasn't my case. It was Falsone's case. I don't care about that."

"So you're not sulking, you're brooding."

Tim stared at him. "I am not."

"Then what are you doing?"

Tim started to answer, then shook his head. He turned and went into the kitchen. Frank could hear the water running, and he imagined that he was getting a much needed drink of water.

Frank jumped uneasily at a movement around the edge of the couch. A big, black cat jumped on the arm of the couch and regarded Frank suspiciously.

"What's with the cat?" Frank called out.

"What?"

"The cat, where did it come from?"

Tim returned, his face damp and there were drops of water in his hair. "Oh. That's Spooky. He comes and goes. I leave the bathroom window open for him."

Frank eyed the cat and the cat eyed Frank, neither thrilled. "This isn't the same kitten that was at headquarters--"

"Yes, Frank, it is. I didn't want him to go to the pound, or starve. So sue me."

The cat sniffed disdainfully at Frank, then leaped away like quicksilver, disappearing into the other room.

Frank looked at Tim. "Spooky?"

Tim shrugged ruefully. "It's not racial, Frank. He's named after the guy on the X-Files. You know, the t.v. show."

"There's a guy on a t.v. show named Spooky?"

"Never mind. Listen, Frank, I appreciate your concern, but really I'm fine. I told you I've worked through the Adena Watson thing. I feel well, not okay but I've accepted it. This Clara Slone case put the period on it. It was a final recap, a . . . I dunno . . . a final walk through, just to make sure--" He looked down uneasily. " make sure that I didn't fuck up. I mean, I know I did, but at least now I'm sure that I really did everything I knew how to do. That she didn't suffer just because she had the bad luck to have me take the call. That bothered me a lot. It didn't seem fair." He laughed darkly. "I mean, how much bad luck did this poor girl have? She was abused, tortured and murdered, and then she gets an inept rookie to avenge her death."

"Tim, you were never inept."

"No? That's not what you said at the time."

Frank ran his hand over his head in frustration. "Come back and sit down, Tim. We'll talk about it."

"We've talked about it for six years. That's the point. I'm over it. I've dealt with it."

"So why the whiskey? Why the Greta Garbo?"

"Why did you tell Chris to go?"

"All right, I'm sorry--"

"No! I didn't ask for an apology. I asked why."

For a second Frank was thrown off balance himself. He had expected irritation, maybe outrage, at his highhandedness, but he hadn't expected to have to produce a reason for his action. Mainly because he didn't want to answer it for himself.

Tim approached the sofa, and stood towering over Frank.

"You're in my box now, Frank," he said darkly. "Why?"

Frank looked up at him, feeling stripped to his soul, certain it wasn't a very pretty sight. "I think you know why."

"You're jealous?" Tim scoffed. "No, I don't believe that."

"I wanted to be here. I wanted to be with you."

"You mean you wanted to . . ." Tim trailed off unable to actually say it. But he could see in Tim's eyes that he knew exactly why Frank was here and he trying to come up with a gracious way of tossing his ass back out on the street.

Frank reached up to catch his arm; Tim moved back, but Frank snared the sleeve of his sweatshirt, jerking him down on the couch beside him. He kissed him, more out of sense of letting him know who was in charge, than a sexual overture. At least, that's what he told himself.

Tim half-heartedly tried to lever himself away, but his long legs were tangled under the coffee table, one arm was behind him, and Frank was on top of him. He surrendered with minimal struggle.

The kiss deepened, sweetened. Frank could taste the whiskey on Tim's tongue. Tim's long body relaxed, loosened, boneless and submissive beneath him. It excited him even more.

He slid his hand under Tim's shirt, savoring the sensation of bare skin, wanting more.

"Tim," he whispered, nibbling his ear. "Let's go to bed."

He expected a negative response, but Tim just made a helpless, moaning sound and agreed.

Frank was almost amazed at how fast they found themselves naked and together in the bed. The eroticism had only spiraled as they stood and shed unwanted clothes from the living room to the bedroom, pausing to kiss, stroke, rub helplessly against each other. The bed was a flat plane in which to stretch out and explore long legs and arms and torso. God, there was so much of Tim, so much beautiful expanse of pink and ivory skin to kiss and lick. And lying beside him, for the first time Frank felt smaller. All their time as partners, he never noticed how really big Tim was. A long, tall, slimly muscled man. He'd slept with him twice before, but this was the first time he really took the time to see him, feel him, know him for what he was.

As Frank lay beside him, on him, he felt small. Felt that Tim was the larger man in so many ways.

It didn't stop him from taking him, from loving him in the only way he knew. Owning him because he needed him, because he had to have him in this most intimate way. Yet at the same time, for the first time, he felt owned as well.

Tim Bayliss had never been a man who could be dominated, and this was not a new thought. Deep inside Tim's body, flush with passion and pleasure, he knew this as truth more than ever before. Tim would give, but he never gave in.

Frank came, soaring on the impossible sensations, trembling with the power of it, feeling Tim freezing and shivering under his own release. It was beautiful, transcending. This much pleasure made a man sure that heaven existed.

But coming down from the height made one positive of hell.

He had to move. He couldn't rest on top of Tim forever. If he stayed here much longer, the ME would be prying them apart. Tim wasn't complaining, but he had to be uncomfortable. Frank sighed and reluctantly rolled off the incredibly sweet body.

He cuddled close, kissing Tim's shoulder. "That was . . . that was . . . "

"You love me," Tim said flatly.

Surprised by the darkness in his voice, Frank slid his hand across the smooth chest, caressing it. "Yes."

"Then say it."

"I love you, Tim."

Tim sighed, turning his head away. "Thank you."

That seemed a strange response. Frank wasn't sure he liked it. "Hey, Tim. I love you. I'm not doing you a favor by loving you. I just do."

There was no answer, and Frank began to feel uncomfortable. "Was it okay for you?" Realizing how trite that sounded, he added quickly, "I mean, I wasn't too--"

"It was great, Frank. Honest, it was wonderful." Tim turned back and kissed him. "You know that."

"But--?"

"But what?"

"There's something wrong. Something's not right with you." He caressed Tim's face, running a finger along his jaw line. "Tell me."

"What do you want me to say?"

"Why did you agree?" Frank asked, knowing he shouldn't. He didn't think he wanted to know the answer, but some part of him knew he had to.

"I don't know. Maybe it's something as simple as I've never learned to say no. Probably because I wanted it, too."

"What's that mean?"

"Forget it. It's not important."

"No, I think it is. What do you mean, you never learned to say no? I don't like the sound of that. It sounds like--"

"It's not important, Frank. Drop it."

"No. Tell me."

"There's nothing to tell."

"There is, damn it." Frank sat up, watching as Tim curled to one side as if protecting himself. "Tim. . ."

"What do you want me to say, Frank?"

"What hurts you? What bothers you?"

"If I tell you, you'll misunderstand. Because it's not the same. It is, but it's not." Tim uncurled and looked at him, the big eyes open and frank. "I love you."

"Yes. But?"

Tim sighed. "You're only here because I told you no. The attraction of the forbidden. You wanted what you thought you shouldn't have. I understand that, Frank. It's okay."

"You think I don't love you?" Frank was appalled. "Tim, I--

"No, no, I do believe that. That's why I said we didn't have to do this again. It was enough. To do more to continue this, it wasn't right. We both know that. The first time was need; the second time was an accident of sorts, but this was . . . it wasn't right. It was because you wanted it."

"Just me?" Frank retorted. "You didn't?"

Tim smiled sadly. "Of course, I did. But I'm going to feel guilty about it. For a long time."

"Guilty?"

"Yes. I am. You don't think this is right any more than I do. The difference is, you're a Catholic; you can go to confession, get absolution. I can't, Frank. I have to carry this. It's not right, what we've done. I accept that."

"Wait a minute--"

"Frank, I don't care how we try to rationalize it, it's wrong. You're married. You're committed to Mary."

"Yes, I am. So it's my sin, not yours--"

"Oh, no, that's too lenient. It's my sin, too. It's not so easy for me."

"What, you think going to confession is easy?"

"I don't know. I'm just saying it's just not an option for me. I have to live with what we've done."

"You're sorry?"

"No. I wish I was. But, no. I'm ashamed, but not sorry."

Frank stared at him, trying to understand. "So if I come back to you . . ."

"I'll do it again. I'll never turn you away, Frank. I can't." He sighed deeply. "I can't say no to you, Frank."

There was something else there, unspoken, that made Frank uneasy, but he didn't know what to ask. He wasn't sure he wanted to ask.

"But you'll feel guilty, right? So I'll be responsible for your guilt. Is that what you're saying?"

Tim didn't answer.

"Damn it, Tim, that's not fair. You want me, too. Don't you?"

There was a long moment of silence. "What I want doesn't matter. And my guilt is my own, not yours. But . . . I wouldn't come to you . . . I won't."

There really wasn't anything left to say.

Once again Frank was amazed at his partner's unconventional brilliance. There was probably nothing else that would more effectively appeal to Frank's conscience. Frank could live with his own guilt, but he couldn't be responsible for Tim's as well. Tim knew that. He knew Frank very well.

"So we're left with what?"

Tim shut his eyes tightly. "I don't know, Frank."

Frank moved close. "So we have one more night. We have tonight--"

Tim pulled away and sat up. "I won't say no to you, Frank, but it hurts too much to wake up with you. Can you understand that?"

Frank nodded. He went into the bathroom to take a shower, knowing this would have to be the end. And yet part of him clung to the idea that it would never be over.

* * *

Tim glanced at the clock. It was near closing. There were only two customers anyhow; one was pretty much passed out on a table near the back, and the other was Mike Kellerman.

"Mike, it's almost closing," Tim said quietly.

The blue eyes looked up blearily. "So give me one more Jim Beam."

"No."

"Waddaya mean, no?"

"Just no. You've had too much."

"I'm not driving. I walked. You know that."

"I don't care, the bar's closed."

"You self righteous son of a bitch--"

Tim caught the accusing hand and held it in a crushing grip. "No, Mike, I'm not that. But I am worried. What's going on with you, huh?"

Kellerman jerked away, wincing. " s none of your business."

Tim shrugged, and went back to cleaning the taps. "You're right. Sorry."

After a minute, Kellerman sighed. "Why couldn't you be my partner?"

"Pardon?"

"It's all fate, y'know?"

"What's fate, Mike?" Tim put the cloth down and leaned over the bar.

"That I ended up with Lewis as a partner. It would have been so different if it'd been you."

"How so?"

Kellerman shrugged. "You'd have stood up for me during the arson thing, wouldn't you?"

"I thought you were mad at me because I didn't?"

"But I wasn't your partner. If it'd been Frank--"

"You're right," Tim replied. "I would've stuck by Frank. But I also knew him. Don't be so hard on Meldrick; you hadn't been partners all that long. He lost Crosetti not so long before."

Kellerman's blue eyes narrowed. "Funny, isn't it? Instead of trying harder with the next partner, he backs off."

Before Tim could answer, Mike held up his hand. "No, that's not completely true. I almost killed myself once, and he stopped me. Did you know that?"

Tim stared at him, unsure how to respond, uneasy with Kellerman's drunken confidence. Finally, he just picked up the rag and continued cleaning. "No, I didn't know that."

Mike waved his hand and downed the remainder of his drink. "Yeah, Meldrick was great at intervention. Not so hot with the follow through."

Tim went on scrubbing the brass, wishing Mike would put a sock in it. It felt wrong, like listening to a woman bitch about her ex-husband's neglect.

"He was never the same with me after that." Mike looked at him and asked, "If your partner tried to kill himself, what would you do?"

This was more than Tim could fathom. Frank's self-worth was so overwhelming, his personal light so bright, Tim couldn't imagine the man wanting to extinguish it. "I don't have a clue, Mike. But I'm sure Meldrick was just shook up. When people are affected strongly, they sometimes retreat. Doesn't mean they don't care."

Kellerman snorted, "Yeah, right." He twisted his empty glass around in circles on the bar. "But you'd do anything for Frank, wouldn't you?"

That was easy. "Sure. Yes. Anything I could. He's my partner."

"See, that's what I mean. You should've been my partner. We would've been great together, don't you think? We see it the same way. Being partners, I mean. But you're stuck with Frank--"

"What's wrong with Frank?" Tim cut in sharply.

Kellerman snorted. "Come on. Everyone knows he treats you like crap. You're his puppy dog."

"That's right, 'a man and his dog,' wasn't it?"

Kellerman looked blank. "Huh?"

"That's what you said one day about me and Frank. I'm assuming I was the dog."

"Oh, yeah." Kellerman flushed, his pretty Irish face brightly illustrating his embarrassment. "Sorry. I didn't really mean--"

"It's okay," Tim assured him, smiling, thinking of all the times he'd had Frank following his lead. Appearances could be deceiving. In truth, he didn't give a damn what anyone else thought about his relationship with Frank. The only one he felt he needed to prove anything to was Frank himself. Tim laughed. "He's taught me to fetch and heel pretty well, but that roll over and play dead thing just isn't sinking in."

"Yeah, well," Mike continued, eyeing the liquor behind the bar, "I still think he treats you like crap. You have a rotten partner, I have a rotten partner. Bad luck."

"I have no complaints with Frank," Tim said flatly.

"Of course not," Mike said with drunken sincerity, "because you're a good partner. That's the point, right?"

"Go home, Mike. You're drunk. I know things have been tough for you, but "

"You think I want sympathy? I don't need you feeling sorry for me."

No, Tim thought, you're feeling sorry enough for yourself. He didn't say it, however, because he had been there himself. He did feel a reluctant pity. He didn't know what devil was driving Mike at the moment, but he recognized the signs all too well. "Okay, I don't feel sorry for you. But I do want you to go home so I can close up."

Mike looked up at him slyly, and the crystal blue eyes would have been very fetching--if they hadn't also been quite bloodshot. "Why don't you come home with me?"

"What?"

"You heard me. Come back to the boat with me."

Tim shook his head, concentrating on polishing the brass.

"You're scared of me, aren't you?"

This time, Tim did look up, smiling. "Yeah, Mikey, you're one scary guy."

"I'm serious. All the time I've been on the squad, I've tried to be your friend and you keep backing off. How come?"

Tim sighed. "I am your friend, Mike."

"But you don't like to be alone with me. That scares you."

"Don't be stupid. I went out on your boat with you, didn't I?"

"Yeah, and you acted like a nervous cat the entire time."

"So, I'm not keen on boats. So what?" Remembering that day, Tim knew Kellerman had a point. There had been a few moments, late in the evening after uncounted beers, when there had been an unsettling electric sexuality between them. One of those definite turning points between people when the relationship reaches a crossroads. It can go many ways afterwards, but that one crucial moment will always tint all future contact, consciously or subconsciously.

For Tim, his feeling for Frank would always be shaded with one warm image of them standing on a wooden dock watching a rowboat pull away into a lake carrying Jake the Police dog to his final rest. And alone, just the two of them, Frank's impulse had been to reach out when he saw the tears in Tim's eyes, to want to help. There had been nothing stilted or uncomfortable about Frank's compassion then; it had flowed so naturally and honestly that Tim had been hard pressed not to fall on his neck and spill his life story. Because, although he had told Frank that he was upset about Adena Watson and that was certainly true he had also been thinking of his father and the day he had spread his father's ashes. At the time, it was nothing he could explain to Frank, because he didn't know how to tell him that he wasn't crying about his father, but because seeing how loving and grieving that officer was over losing his partner a dog it brought home to him how very little he had felt about his father's death.

It was the compassion in Frank's eyes, the softness in his voice that Tim remembered. They hadn't been partners very long, but Frank had seen him, noticing his pain and was willing to help.

From that moment on, no matter how much Frank bellowed or snapped, Tim never lost sight of that other side of Frank Pembleton. That when he was caught off guard, and when he wasn't trying to prove something, his first inclination, his true nature, was to be kind.

"I thought I was supposed to be the drunk here," Kellerman complained, slapping the bar.

Tim gave a start. "What?"

"I've spoke to you twice and you were zoned out. Just for that, I deserve another drink, don't I?"

Tim frowned, but poured another Jim Beam. "Sorry, I was just thinking of something."

Kellerman leaned forward, "The night on the boat?" His voice was suggestive, throaty.

Tim stared at him blankly, then remembered that was what had made him go off into the reverie in the first place. There had been a moment that night on the boat, swaying in the soft rhythm of the waves, the moonlight shining on the bay, and the lights of the City sparkling, the alcohol singing in their blood . . .

Tim shook his head and poured himself a beer. "What about the night on the boat?" he asked nonchalantly.

The drunk at the back chose that time to stumble to his feet and make his way to the door. They both turned to watch his wobbling departure, then Mike looked back, up into Tim's eyes. "So now we're alone, just like that night."

"Listen, I'm almost done here, Mike. There's a room upstairs you can use if you don't feel like walking home--"

Kellerman smiled brilliantly. "That's handy."

Tim looked into the open face, the needy blue eyes and felt just a hint of what he had that night. It had been a crossroads, not only in their relationship, but in his own self-knowledge. It had been the first time he had openly admitted to himself that he could be attracted to another man. And, frankly, it had scared the shit out of him. He hadn't been ready or willing to even consider the idea. So he had done the sensible thing: run away. Ever since then, he had been both very aware and very wary of Mike Kellerman as any prudent man would be when confronted with a possible occasion of sin.

"Are you just not talking to me, or what?"

Tim took a swallow of his beer. "I've just got a lot on my mind, that's all."

"Yeah, I'd guess so. I've heard what they say about you," Kellerman said with a nasty edge to his voice.

"Oh yeah? And what's that?"

"That you like guys."

Tim halted his movements and met Kellerman's eyes squarely. "So?"

"Is it true? You're queer?"

"What do you think?"

"I think I'm always the last one to know anything. I didn't even hear about you and Julianna until -- Was that some kind of smoke screen?"

"No."

"No? Just no? Is that all you have to say?"

"You're drunk, I'm tired. I don't want to have this conversation with you." Tim came around the bar, jaw set as he held his temper in check. "Time to go home, Mike."

"So tell me the truth. Are you queer or what?"

"It's none of your business."

"Again with the business. It's not business, Timmy, it's pleasure. How do you get your pleasure? Just give me a hint, huh?"

Tim stopped in front of him. "Go home, Mike."

Kellerman stood, looking up at Tim. "Maybe we could just go upstairs?"

Tim's eyes widened. "Excuse me?"

Kellerman stepped closer. "Com'on, Timmy. You were always interested, right? You think I didn't pick up on your vibes on the boat that night?" Before Tim could react, Kellerman reached up and pulled Tim's head down, taking his mouth in a kiss.

Tim grabbed his arms, shoving him back. "Stop it. Are you nuts?"

"Don't tell me you haven't thought about it before."

Tim stared into the bleary blue eyes and realized that he had thought of it. Mike Kellerman was an attractive guy, and Tim had noticed it, had given it a fuzzy fantasy life at one time or another. He couldn't deny that the more Mike had tried to be friends, to increase the level of their relationship, the more Tim backed off, felt wary. Now the only thing left of the original feeling was pity. The man was self-destructing, and for all Tim's sympathy, his sense of self preservation prevented him from latching onto a sinking ship.

Kellerman must have read some of that in Tim's eyes, because he took a step back, almost falling over a bar stool. "You think you've got the world by the tail, don't you, Timothy?"

Bayliss winced. He hated that name. "Most of the time I've got my tail between my legs, Michael. Right now, I just want to get out of here and go home. Something you'd better do right now."

Mike snorted disgustedly, "I really must be Typhoid Mike, if I'm even getting turned down by faggots now."

Tim's fist clenched with the overwhelming need to beat the holy hell out of the other man. But something held him back. Perhaps it was the suspicion that was exactly what Mike wanted him to do. Instead, Tim sighed and said softly, "There's a happy ending out there somewhere, Mike. We just have to keep looking for it."

For a split second, Kellerman looked as if he might start crying, but then he just turned and stumbled unsteadily out the door.

* * *

A roll of thunder awoke Tim. He turned over in bed feeling languid and relaxed. Then he sneezed explosively. He wiped his nose on his hand and coughed. Doing a quick survey of his body, he wondered if he was catching something. He felt okay, mostly. He sniffed, blowing and wiping his nose again with a tissue from the bedstand. He lay back in the bed as he recalled the night before, toes curling in pleasure.

He could hear the t.v. playing in the next room, almost muffled by the sound of rain against the roof. Tim got up, stretching widely and yawning. He went to the bathroom, took a leak, brushed his teeth, avoiding his own eyes in the mirror. He found his robe and stumbled blearily into the living room, tying the belt as he entered.

Chris was there, sitting cross-legged on the sofa, eating Rice Krispies and watching cartoons. Rocky and Bullwinkle. He was dressed only in a pair of Tim's boxers and an undershirt.

He glanced up with a bright grin. "Good morning, beautiful!"

Tim made a sound, part growl, part snarl.

"There's coffee ready," Chris offered as if to appease an ill-tempered god.

"Hmmmmmm," was Tim's grumpy answer. He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a steaming mug. He sat down on the sofa and took a slow, slurping drink.

Chris grinned at him. "Feel better now?"

Tim dropped his head back. "Christ, I'd kill for a cigarette."

"You're kidding. You quit smoking, what? Four, five years ago?"

"Doesn't matter. I'd love a cigarette. I'd sell my soul for a good, deep puff. Rainy Sunday morning, wake up, coffee, nicotine. That is the ideal pattern of life."

"How about rainy Sunday morning, wake up, coffee, and a kiss?" Chris suggested.

"That'd be nice, but I think I'm getting a cold. Don't want to give it to you."

"Anything you've got, I'm sure I've already caught," Chris replied with a laugh.

There was a sudden, heavy silence as all the deeper implications of that occurred to both of them.

They avoided each other's eyes for a time, both thinking their own thoughts. Tim placed his cup on the coffee table and rubbed his eyes, sighing heavily.

Chris put his cereal bowl down, used the remote to switch off the t.v. and turned to face him. "I suppose this is where we come clean and pour out all our sexual history. A little late--"

"No kidding."

"Well, I knew about myself, and I just assumed--"

Tim looked at him, indignant. "Assumed what?"

"All right, I admit it, we were stupid, okay? I'm in love with you, Tim. What's your excuse?"

Tim opened his mouth, then shut it. He looked down at his hands, twisting his fingers. "I'm clean."

"So am I."

There was another long silence. "Okay," Chris said, sighing, "I was tested January second. It's something I do every year. I was clean then. It had been eight months since my last sexual encounter before you. I'm very picky. And I was also very careful before you."

Tim looked at him.

Chris stared back flatly. "You don't believe me? Tim, I was in a long-term relationship with a man I loved for ten years. I'm not saying I was celibate after he died, but it wasn't easy for me, okay? I've never been promiscuous. Ever. It's just not the way I am."

Sex is love. Period. Tim remembered saying that to Frank once, ages ago, and how many times had he proved his own words wrong since?

Chris was looking at him, eyes wide with concern. "Do you have something to tell me, Tim?"

Tim shook his head. "No, I was tested -- I get tested every six months."

"Whoa. Six months? Why, because you're a cop?"

"Because I'm a hypochondriac."

Chris smiled, "So everything's cool, right?"

Tim looked at him and felt himself freeze inside. He remembered Frank, couldn't be positive that Frank wouldn't come to him again. Frank was totally clean, there was no doubt there, but how could he expose Frank, or Mary, to something he was responsible for? Whatever he risked for himself, he couldn't risk for Frank.

He stood up abruptly. "I can't-- We shouldn't do this. Not anymore. I'm sorry."

Chris looked up at him, mouth open, stunned. "What?"

Tim shrugged. "I hadn't thought about it before. But this isn't a good idea."

"What, me and you? Sex? Safe or not?"

"Just . . . everything. You know. It's just not a good idea."

"What's not a good idea? Explain it to me, Tim. I'm assuming you're not HIV positive?"

"Of course not."

"And you're not screwing anybody else, right?"

"I--" Tim turned away. "That's got nothing to do with--"

"You are!" Chris stood, the truth sinking into him slowly, then burning, like acid. He walked away a few paces, then turned and walked back to stand directly in front of Tim. "It's Frank, right? You're doing Frank Pembleton!"

"That's none of your business!"

"Oh, it isn't?" The color drained from Chris' face. He swallowed painfully. "What else is this about? It's all about him, isn't it? None of this bothered you until you realized I might give him something. You weren't worried about Julianna Cox or any other woman you've screwed, but I'm different, right? I'm a queer, so god knows what I have. You can't very well take my word for it. I'm queer, so I must go down on my knees for anyone and everyone. It's the nature of the beast, right?"

"No! That's not--"

"No? But you're worried about Frank, right? Not yourself, not me. Frank. That's it, isn't it? You've been having sex with him and now you're worried about what I might have given him."

"I didn't say--"

"You're going to look in my eyes and tell me you haven't slept with Frank Pembleton? Christ, more than that. More than we've ever done, right? You've fucked him. Oh, yes, I can see it. Oh, god."

Chris turned away, the tears were streaking down his face, but he swiped them away angrily. "Fine, I get it. I understand." He grabbed his jeans from under a chair and jerked them on, found his shirt draped over the coffee table. His shoes were by the door, his leather jacket hung on the coat rack. He shoved on the shoes, grabbed the jacket and opened the door.

"Chris, wait--"

Chris stopped, looking back, eyes drenched in pain. "Am I wrong, Tim? Please tell me I'm wrong."

Tim couldn't say anything. What could he say?

Chris left, the door slamming. Tim stood for a moment, feeling abandoned and powerless. What Chris had thought was true. He was afraid for Frank. As unfair as it was, he had been afraid that something Chris might carry would go through him to Frank.

And it occurred to him that letting Chris Rawls walk out that door was just about the most enormous mistake of his life.

"No." He said the word aloud, imagining that it echoed in the empty room. "No," he said again, thought about it, and determined he had to fix it. He had to fix it now, right now. This wouldn't wait. It wasn't the kind of thing that a day would help.

He scrambled into as many clothes as was necessary and rushed outside. It was pouring rain. Not just a drizzle, but a downpour. His long legs ate up the distance and after a couple of blocks, he spotted Chris, walking fast, head down, hunched against the rain, looking as miserable as Tim felt.

"Hey," Tim said, loping up beside him.

Chris glared at him. "Fuck off."

"Let me drive you home."

"I said, fuck off."

"I don't know if you noticed, but it's raining. I could call you a cab."

Chris stopped and looked at him, green eyes blazing. "What is it about 'Fuck Off' that you don't understand, Detective?"

"I love it when you talk dirty," Tim said softly.

Chris glared at him, then shook his head and continued walking.

Tim kept pace, splashing through the puddles, feet squelching in wet socks and shoes. "I was wrong. But you can't expect me to overcome my prejudices overnight."

"Four months should have put a dent in them," Chris snapped.

"Okay, I'm sorry. I was wrong. I'm a rat."

Chris didn't reply, didn't look at him.

"I'm an idiot. I'm an asshole. I'm a worm."

No response.

They walked on for another block.

"You're right, I slept with Frank."

No answer.

"I love Frank. I don't know how to stop that."

Again, silence except for the slosh of feet through water on the sidewalk, the drone of rain on the pavement. There was no one else on the street in this deluge; their privacy was total.

"I let Frank fuck me, is that what you wanted to hear? I didn't stop it I didn't want to stop it. I wanted it. Damn it, is that what you want to hear?"

Chris shook his head, raindrops flying off his hair. "Tell me something I don't know."

"So if you know that much, you must know that I don't want it to happen with him again."

"Why?"

"Because it wouldn't be right."

Chris tossed him a scathing look, "And you, Saint Bayliss, always do what's right."

Tim stopped suddenly as if he'd been slapped. "No. No, I don't. I want to, I try . . . but sometimes . . . sometimes I can't. Sometimes I can't stop it, even if it's wrong."

Chris halted and looked back at him. "Tim?"

Tim stood there in the rain and let himself cry, trusting that the tears would be swallowed by the downpour. "I never said no. Not to Frank. Not to-- It was wrong, but I couldn't--"

Chris took another step back toward him. "Tim, what is it?"

"I couldn't say no. Not to my uncle. Ever. By the time I got old enough to stop him . . . he wasn't interested anymore. I was too old for him to want me. So I never even got the chance to say no. I was . . . never . . . able . . . to say . . . no."

Chris couldn't hear most of what he said, but he caught the desperate pain in Tim's voice. He returned and pulled Tim down on a nearby step. "Shhhh. It's okay. Sit down. It's okay, Timmy."

Tim wiped his face with his hands, the tears and rain feeling cool and pure against his skin. Chris' arm was strong and sure around his back, giving comfort where he wouldn't have dared to ask, was sure he didn't deserve it.

"Damn it. I can't promise anything, Chris. I keep screwing up; making mistakes with you. Hurting you. I'm sorry. I just don't want you to leave. I've got no right to ask, but-- Please don't leave me."

"Why?" Chris asked softly, tilting Tim's chin up to look at him. "I need to know why, Tim."

"Because I want this chance. I . . . I want to love you."

It was hardly the most definite or passionate of declarations, but Chris was smiling now, his heart in his eyes. He shook his head helplessly, "Oh, Tim, if you only knew what you do to me." He offered his hand to help him up. "It's all right, Timmy. Let's go home."

Tim stood up, sniffed and rubbed his nose against his sleeve, feeling completely pathetic and about twelve years old. "I'm going to get pneumonia."

He couldn't understand why Chris laughed all the way back to the apartment.

* * *

He tried to ignore the soft, sly knock on the bathroom door. He concentrated on the soap, on the water which was running cold now. He was frozen, hypnotized and fascinated by the way the water swirled around the drain and down into darkness. But there was another tap on the door and the voice calling, hungry and hoarse like the wolf in a fairy tale

"Timothy . . . Timothy, let me in."

"No . . ." he whispered. "No . . ."

"No!"

Tim woke up angry, the back of his hand smarting where he had scratched it with his fingernails. It was the dream he suffered so often, but this time he felt buried rage erupt, and he struck out, sweeping out with his arm, knocking the lamp, books and alarm clock off the bedside table with a satisfying crash.

He lay back in bed, resisting the habitual urge to wash his hands. Instead, he located nail clippers and file and performed a quick manicure. When he'd finished, he surveyed the wreckage on the floor with annoyance.

This was the second lamp he'd demolished in less than a month. But, then again, he did feel better.

He grinned. Hell, it was way cheaper than therapy.

* * *

Tim didn't like it. Frank was too silent and Frank was never silent when he drove. He bitched, moaned, complained, berated the other drivers, waxed philosophical, and on the rare occasion, even chatted pleasantly. But he was never silent.

Tim waited as long as he could bear it, then broke the silence.

"I'm glad we got out of the office, the smell was getting to me."

"I didn't notice," Frank said quietly, too quietly.

Tim looked at him. "You didn't notice the smell, you didn't notice the blood and powder residue? We were working right in the middle of a crime scene--"

"I noticed, okay," Frank finally came to life with his usual irritation.

Tim went on, "I knew Ketchell pretty well. From the Mayor's detail. A decent guy."

"I worked with Charlie Moore in the Western, same sector. He was a good man."

Relieved that Frank was talking, Tim said, trying to work it out, to pinpoint where everything went to hell, "You know something, I didn't see it. Didn't see it coming, didn't see him. And he was coming in there and he was playing all hard, but we get a lot of guys coming in there doing that same thing, you know."

"You think we were supposed to know he was the one? That this punk, out of all the other punks who come through the squad room, this one's going over the top? Please."

"Well I'm running around to my gun locker and I'm trying to get my backup gun because my gun is in my desk. It's in the bottom left drawer. He's blowing up the place and my gun's sitting down there; it's sitting with the pencils, with the paper clips . . ."

"Nobody was ready," Frank said flatly.

"Well, I'm ready, now," Tim said firmly, purposely ignoring that Frank had had his gun with him. He didn't want to think about that.

"Ready for what?"

"Anything, Frank. Anywhere."

He felt Frank's gaze but before he could meet it, Frank turned back to the front. Tim's worry deepened. He had seen Frank scared before, but never like this. Never so shell-shocked. Frank Pembleton was no wimp, but guns had always unnerved him. There was something about firearms and shooting that terrified Frank on an elemental level, offended him in some basic way. Tim had known this for a long time, but hadn't fully understood it, since he, himself, had a respectful, if not affectionate, relationship with his own weapon, and shooting was one of the few things he was genuinely good at. Excepting maybe Gee, Tim knew he was the best marksman on the squad.

Frank carried a gun only because the Department made him carry it. Frank wanted to be Columbo, but today a cop in Baltimore was better off being Dirty Harry.

Not that there had ever been a day as horrific as this.

Tim shut his eyes, reliving it yet again. Gunfire exploding, glass shattering, Laura screaming in pain, the sickly satisfying kick of his gun as he pumped bullets dead center into Junior Bunk's heart, adrenaline surging, as they all fired almost in unison Gee, Kellerman, Lewis, and himself. It would be impossible to know until the ballistics came back whose bullets had actually ended the scumwad's life. All of the shots had to be fatal hits.

All but Frank's.

He didn't even pull the trigger. The thought ambushed him again, and he bit his lip, listening to the silence. To a Frank Pembleton who did not rant and rave and curse. The silence was so horribly loud, Tim switched on the radio. It was something they almost never did, because they were always talking, always discussing, arguing, fighting, laughing, bitching.

It was the Rolling Stones singing about somebody's 19th nervous breakdown, and Tim snapped it off again, rolling down his window instead.

He sneaked another glance in Frank's direction, noting the death grip on the steering wheel. Was it bothering Frank that he hadn't pulled the trigger? Or was he just shaken by the blood bath, by the violence and death?

All he could think was that Frank wasn't ready. He would never be ready. Frank would never be able to pull the trigger. It was something he had suspected for a long time, but now it was important. Gee had switched up the heat and their job was no longer simply an intellectual pursuit. A thinking man had no advantage in this turn of events.

He would have to watch Frank's back.

* * *

Bayliss leaned his chair back against the wall, trying to be discreet while keeping his attention focused on Frank's back as he sat hunched over his desk. The whole squad room was tense, vibrating, crowded with emotions. The bodies were gone, the blood mopped up, but the smell lingered, the fear and anger hovered like a persuasive fog over the room.

Giardello walked out of his office, looking grim and worn. "Until we locate Georgia Rae Mahoney, there's not much to be done here. You, Pembleton, Bayliss, Lewis, go home for a couple of hours. Get some sleep."

"Stivers and Falsone are checking out that photo Bayliss found at Georgia Rae's house," Lewis replied. "I'm searching through--"

"That can wait a couple of hours," Gee interrupted. "Let's see what they come up with."

"You could use some rest yourself, Gee," Bayliss put in.

Giardello didn't reply. He went back into his office and slammed the door.

Tim noticed that Frank hadn't even looked up.

Judy walked by Tim's desk, looking pale and shaken.

"You okay, Judy?"

"As much as anybody, I guess. You have a call on line two."

"Thanks." He picked up the phone, "Homicide, Bayliss."

"Tim--" there was a break in the voice, then, "--you're all right?"

"Chris? Yes, I'm fine. Where are you?"

"I'm across the street at the Waterfront. I tried to come in the station, but they wouldn't let me--"

"Yeah, they've stepped up the security. For all the good that does now," he added bitterly.

"I heard what happened on the radio. I was in a cab on the way to the airport. They said that policemen were killed right in the station. In the homicide unit. I thought--"

"I'm all right, Chris. I'm here, right? I'm talking to you. Obviously, I'm fine."

"But people were shot?"

"Yes. Three uniforms are dead. Gharty was shot in the chest. Laura caught a bullet in the ankle."

"God. How are--?"

"We're not sure yet."

He could hear Chris take a deep breath. "I have to see you, Tim."

Tim felt a flash of irritation. "Chris, this isn't a good time."

"Please, Tim. All you have to do is walk across the street. Is that too much to ask?"

Tim glanced around the squad room, realizing there really wasn't much he could do here right now. "Okay, I'll be there in a few minutes." He hung up the phone and looked at Frank, who hadn't moved.

He paused by the reception desk to tell Judy to call him at the Waterfront if anything came up.

As soon as he looked into Chris' eyes, Tim knew this wasn't the place to talk about this. He took Chris' arm. "Let's go upstairs. Billie Lou, if they call from the station, come get me right away, okay?"

She regarded them curiously, but nodded.

Tim took Chris upstairs to one of the rooms they had once thought about renting out. It was furnished simply: double bed, dresser, 19-inch tv on the chest of drawers, side table and lamp, a small bath off to one side. The room was decorated in Munch's idea of early American, but actually screamed amateur Jewish decorator. The bed was mussed, giving evidence that Meldrick had been in residence recently and hadn't bothered to change the sheets.

As soon as the door was closed and the bolt thrown, Chris was all over him, frantic. "Tim . . . all I could think was that you were hurt . . . dead . . . I couldn't stand--"

Tim took his shoulders and shook him back. "Stop it, Chris."

The green eyes were huge, the long lashes damp, the sensual mouth was trembling. "Stop what? Stop loving you? Stop needing you? I can't, Tim. I'm sorry, but I can't!"

A wave of lust swept through Tim like a tsunami; the adrenaline cocktail he'd been sipping for twenty-four hours exploded. The remembered sound of breaking glass echoed in his ears, the smell of blood, the animal instinct for flight or fight all condensed into this sudden heat. It wasn't life affirming it was life demanding. The saliva felt hot in his mouth and he swallowed convulsively, then surrendered to the impulse and grabbed Chris' face in his hands and kissed him brutally.

Chris was startled by the violence of the grip and tried to pull back, but Tim just increased the pressure, pushing him backwards until they fell on the unmade bed. He grabbed at Chris' clothes, tugging off his jacket, tearing off buttons on his shirt.

"Tim--"

Tim caught his hands and pinned them over his head. "Shut up! You wanted me to come here. Now I'm here."

"I didn't want to be raped!" Chris snapped.

Tim paused a second, looking into the other man's eyes, but what he saw there didn't persuade him to hold back. Along with the anger there was something else; a secret heated gleam. He didn't want to think what his own revealed. "Yes, you did," he growled. "That's exactly what you wanted."

Chris tried to get free. "Don't--"

"You're so honest, right?" Tim's anger and raw lust upped a notch at the denial. "Be honest, damn it! You thought I might be dead, and when you found out I wasn't it turned you on. You're hot for me now. Death and sex. You want me to fuck you really fuck you." He leaned down, kissing the other man hungrily, biting his lip until he tasted blood. "Say it!"

This time the green eyes were burning, blurred with passion and just a thrilling edge of fear. "Yes," Chris whispered hoarsely. "Fuck me. Do it!"

The remainder of their clothes were discarded in seconds, tossed aside between caresses that bordered on violence. For once Tim had shut off his brain, was letting his instincts, his needs drive him. It felt so good to let go, to stop thinking, to let his lust and darkness free.

The shadow self was alive and well and starved for attention.

Either Chris was wise enough to read the danger, or he was excited by it, because his submissiveness was total now, willing to be turned and positioned, prepared and entered with hardly more than a whimper. Whether it was pleasure or pain, Tim didn't care. Not then. And the whimpers that followed were not protests, but eager little encouragements for more and more . . .

Strangely enough, it was the instant before orgasm when Tim felt a flash of melancholy, sad that their first time of this intimacy would be this way, nourished by the taste of mortality and an old rage he'd never let himself release.

Afterwards, he stared at the ceiling, feeling lost, emptied and empty. He wanted to cry. For the dead cops, for Gharty and Ballard, and for himself, for what he'd just lost. Sex is love, he'd once told Frank. There was little love in what he'd just done. Just lust and desperation and fury. And the release had only dulled the lust; everything else was still smoldering in his heart like banked embers.

A hand snaked across his chest, trying to soothe. "Tim?"

Tim turned his head away, ashamed. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Did I act like I was complaining? Come on, Timmy, so it was a bit more intense than usual. That's not a bad thing."

Tim jerked away and sat up. "You're saying you liked that?"

Chris sat up, too, pulling the sheet up around him protectively. "Some of it, yes. Not all. But I understand--"

"You understand what?"

Chris took a deep breath, obviously trying to make an effort to keep his voice calm. "I understand you were stressed. And I'm not going to lie. It did turn me on."

"Yeah, that's right, you told me you like a little danger. And you're hardly a virgin." Tim's voice was scathing, and Chris flinched.

Then he looked directly in Tim's eyes. "You're determined to feel bad about this, aren't you? Nothing I say is going to make a difference."

"You're telling me I didn't hurt you?"

"I'm saying maybe you read me right. Maybe it was what I needed. What we both needed to feel alive and safe again. That doesn't make you a sadist or me a masochist. It just makes us human. Sometimes pain and intensity is what it takes to make us feel alive when everything else seems unreal, out of our control."

"I don't feel very human right now," Tim muttered, "and neither of us were exactly in control just then."

"What is it, Tim? Are you afraid I couldn't have fought you off if I'd wanted to? Give me a break. I lived with a military man for ten years; I'm a gay man living in a world full of skin heads. Don't you think I know a trick or two to defend myself? You're a big guy, Tim, but, trust me, if I'd wanted to stop you, I could've."

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying it wasn't rape, and stop beating yourself up because you for once in your life let yourself go. That's not you, Tim."

Tim laughed harshly. "You don't know me."

"I love you," Chris countered. "I know enough."

"Is that right? Well, a few hours ago I was repeatedly smashing a man's face against a table. Do you love that? Do you?"

Chris stared at him, appalled. "Why?"

"Because I could. Because I had the power. Because I was angry." Tim lay back on the bed, wishing he could sleep, wishing he could stop thinking, wishing Chris would go away and leave him alone. Above all, he wished he could feel guilty about what he had done. There was a time when it would have bothered him, but now he simply didn't care. Even Frank had been upset at his actions Frank favored mental, not physical, brutality toward prisoners. The knowledge that he'd let Kellerman set it up was even more disturbing. Mike had been on a slow train to hell for months. Such perfect, unspoken communication with someone pushing toward destruction must mean something. Maybe he and Mike had more in common than he'd thought. Maybe they were both on that train.

I should have had sex with him, he thought suddenly. That day on the boat . . . or the other night at the bar. He would have gone for it. What's the difference? We're all going to hell.

"Tim . . . Tim!"

He turned to look at Chris, realizing he'd been calling his name. "What?"

"You have to quit." Chris crossed his legs and leaned forward earnestly. "I've been thinking about it. You can come to work with me. We can be partners. The Waterfront is a great bar. We can buy out your partners and--"

"What are you talking about?"

"You can't do this anymore, Tim. It's eating you alive. I know you're a good cop, but you're burning out. You've told me yourself that you've thought of quitting. This isn't anything new."

Tim sat up again, running his hand through his short hair. "I know, but--"

"Quit, Tim. Quit now, right now. I can't stand seeing you like this. What you said before about smashing-- well, that's not really you. It's what this job is turning you into."

Tim shook his head, feeling bored and impatient. He glanced at his watch. It had been less than an hour since he left the squad room, but maybe he should go back. Something might have come up.

He stood up. "I'm going to take a shower."

Chris jumped up and grabbed his arm. "Didn't you hear what I said?"

The touch on his arm felt clinging, possessive. Tim fought the urge to fling it off. Carefully, he pulled away. "I'm a cop, Chris. I was a cop when you met me. Nothing has changed. You can't expect me to quit now, of all times. We just had three of our own killed, two shot, and you want me to just tiptoe off into the tulips with you?"

Chris' eyes narrowed, "You mean with the nellie queer, right? Listen, I haven't said anything you haven't said yourself. The job sucks. It tears you apart. Just because I'm on the outside--"

"But you are on the outside, Chris," Tim said, realizing it was true. Chris wasn't one of the fraternal order badly named because it included Howard, Ballard and Stivers, but excluded Chris. He wasn't a cop. He was alien, or as Gee would put it, he wasn't la famiglia.

For the first time Tim understood how difficult it must be for Frank to explain to Mary. Why Beau's marriage failed. And Munch's many tries. And Meldrick's. There was no one no one in Homicide who had a stable relationship. This was why. Because no one understood what it meant to speak for the dead. That it was a calling, like the priesthood. And perhaps they should be celibate, too. They heard confessions, but instead of turning water into wine, they turned red to black.

He laughed again, and from the expression on Chris' face he could tell it had more than a touch of hysteria in it. "I'm sorry, Chris. I'm tired, I'm stressed, I'm sorry you were scared, I'm . . . I'm just sorry, okay? But I'm not going to quit. That's not how it works. Now, I've got to take a shower and get back to the squad room--"

Chris caught his arm again. "I don't think I could stand to lose you, Tim. Can't you see that? After Jay . . . I don't think I can go through that again."

Tim regarded him with compassion, but wasn't swayed. Unfortunately, right at this moment, his strongest emotion was exasperation. This simply wasn't something he had the patience to deal with right now. "You shouldn't have fallen in love with a cop."

As he started to turn away, Chris snapped, "If it wasn't for Frank--" Tim whipped around, coming very close to backhanding him. Instead, he grabbed Chris' arms and probably left bruises on his shoulders. "Don't ever say that! This has got nothing to do with Frank. I was a cop long before I met him. Don't you dare put this on him!"

Chris looked up at him, stunned by the intensity. "All right. I get it."

Tim relaxed his hold and closed his eyes. "Please try to understand. I love Frank. But I . . . I think I love you, too. But loving you can't change what I am, Chris. You've seen the darkness in me now, and that's part of me, too. It isn't only the job. Don't fool yourself about that." He opened his eyes and looked at Chris, feeling far more naked than he really was. He pulled Chris close holding him tightly. "It goes a lot deeper. Someone told me that I would have to learn to love my darkness. I've always found that hard to do. But maybe you'll have to love it, too."

Chris held him close for a long moment, then pushed away. "I'm not sure I can, Tim."

Tim sighed and turned away, weary of the whole thing, mind still flashing on crimson slashes of blood and the smell of cordite. Everything else seemed frivolous. "We'll talk about it when you get back from Seattle."

"Sure, whatever."

Hearing the tone, Tim hesitated and looked back. "It'll be okay, Chris. We'll work it out."

"Yeah. Love conquers all, right?"

"Not in my experience," Tim answered bleakly.

* * *

The alley was so quiet. The music from the house had faded away. Frank had always loved that song; he wondered if he would ever hear it again without a repeat of the fear and tension in his gut. Now there was only light and shadows, the occasional crackle of the police radio. It was so quiet he could hear the sound of Bayliss' footsteps moving cautiously behind him, could hear the rustle of his overcoat as he aimed his gun at a cellar window.

The alley smelled damp, but not bad. One expected urine, used condoms, garbage. It distracted him for a second, because he kept smelling mint.

There was muffled gunfire from inside; then the radio "--coming right at ya--"

And the light was strangely beautiful, the branches of the trees like lace, the moonlight pure and bright as a promise of salvation.

It made no sense, creeping through the moonstreaked darkness with a gun in his hand. This wasn't right. This wasn't real.

There were more gunshots, louder, and as Frank came beyond the edge of the building, a man darted out onto the fire escape. Frank sighted on the figure, watching him turn, noting the blue-checked shirt, seeing the glint of metal in the man's hand. Time stopped as he found himself in the other man's sights, knowing there was something he should do. He should pull the trigger. Just tighten his finger, that's all he had to do. Wasn't it? Wasn't that the right thing to do? Pull the fuckin' trigger . . .

Then Bayliss was there, in front of him, trying to level on the shooter, throwing himself forward like a shield. Frank felt a violent jolt and heard a pained grunt from Tim. Frank tried to re-aim, but the man was gone from the fire escape. The sound of gunshots resounded in his ears now, ricocheting off the metal fire escape, off the brick walls. He felt deafened by it, blinded by the moonlight and the flashes of gunfire.

And Tim was grabbing his shoulder, and suddenly the panted breath was loud in his ears, the surprised groans of pain shuddered through him. He could feel Tim's frantic grasp on his overcoat, holding him so tightly he was pulling him down, too, down to the ground in a slow, agonized motion. Tim's eyes were wide, ringed with white, shocked and desperate. The eyes were holding him with a power beyond the grip of his hands. All the long, slow fall to the ground, Tim held onto him, with his urgent clench, with his stunned gaze.

Kellerman paused on one knee beside them. "Son of a bitch!" Then rushed off again.

"Frank . . ."

The adrenaline rushed through him like heroin, and Frank shouted, "My partner's down! My partner's been shot!"

"I'm okay, I'm okay," Tim gasped.

"You're hit. You're hit, baby." Frank pulled Tim's coat back and saw the blood, knew immediately it was bad. "Oh, God. Somebody!"

Tim' head was tossing, but he still repeated breathlessly, "I'm okay."

"Somebody!" Frank screamed, beyond adrenaline rush into sheer panic. He felt Tim writhing under his hands and tried to soothe him. "Stick with me, baby, stick with me. Somebody!! Somebody!!" He kept screaming it, even after he heard someone calling for assistance on the radio. Frank was trying to hold Tim still, stop him from reaching for his wounded side.

Then Munch was there, and Frank said, "Hold his arm. Hold his arm, man."

"It's alright, it's alright, Timmy," Munch said, grabbing Tim's arm.

"Damn it, get me an ambo, John!"

"On their way!"

Frank jerked off his overcoat and jacket, trying to pad the wound, to stop the flow of blood. He couldn't smell mint anymore, only blood. Tim's blood.

There was the deafening beat of a helicopter overhead, and the flash of searchlights. Frank caressed Tim's face, his hair, murmuring to him.

"Did we get him? Did we get him?" Tim demanded, eyes still wide, still shocked.

"It's okay, baby, don't move," Frank petted him frantically. He glared at Munch, "Where's the fuckin' ambulance, John?" He saw the tears in Munch's eyes as he answered, "It's coming, Frank. Hold on, Timmy."

Tim gasped, body convulsing as a wave of pain hit him. "It hurts, god, it hurts . . ."

"I know, I know, honey, I'm here, I'm here with you." Frank leaned down and kissed his cheek. "I'm right here."

"We're all here, Timmy," Meldrick knelt down by Tim's head, reaching out to touch his hair. "You're going to be just fine."

"Lewis?" Tim gasped.

"Yeah, I'm here."

"It's hot." Tim's head fell back and he writhed again, fighting to get free of the controlling hands. "Frank, tell Meldrick it's hot!"

Frank held Tim down, looking up desperately at Lewis. "What's he talking about? What's he mean?"

Lewis looked sick in the sweep of the searchlights. "He . . . I asked him once . . . after Kay and the others were shot. I asked him what he thought it was like. And he . . . thought it might be cold because bullets are metal . . . but then he said it would be hot . . . oh, Jesus . . . he's remembering that now?"

"It shouldn't be Timmy," Munch moaned. "He's the best of us. It should have been me; it was my turn. Third time's the charm, right? It should've been me. Where's that damned ambulance!"

Frank couldn't think. None of this felt real. He just touched Tim's face, his throat, feeling the warmth, the life there. He kept repeating, "I'm here, baby. I'm here."

A few moments later an eternity later the paramedics arrived. Tim latched onto Frank's hand and refused to let go until they loaded him onto the ambulance, but he kept calling Frank's name and they relaxed the rules and let Frank ride with him.

Frank had no idea of all of the things they did, the lines they inserted, the work they did on him. Tim fought the oxygen mask, didn't want his face covered. He kept trying to touch his side. They finally strapped down Tim's arms, but to Frank's amazement, Tim ripped the restraining strap away as if it were paper.

"Shit!" The paramedic looked at Frank. "Keep holding his hand; talk to him. Keep him as still as you can."

Frank gripped Tim's hand, combing through Tim's hair with the other hand. "Shhh. Tim, shhh. Lie still, baby."

Tim shook his head violently, fighting the oxygen mask, convulsing as waves of agony shook him. He knocked off the mask, appealing to Frank. "Don't leave me . . . please . . . I'm scared . . . Frank . . ."

"I'm here. I'm right here."

The soft brown eyes were dark and wild with pain and shock. They met Frank's and cleared for a second. "Are you okay, Frank? You're okay?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine, baby."

Tim's head fell back. "Good." Then he cried out as the pain took him again.

"Can't you do anything?" Frank screamed at the paramedic. "He's hurting!"

"You know better than that. We can't afford to give him anything yet. Not until we know the extent of the damage."

Logically, Frank knew that ride was no more than seven or eight minutes. But it was more like an hour. Probably the darkest hour of his life. He had seldom felt so helpless; even after the stroke, even during the troubled labor Mary had with his son. This time it was his fault. All Tim's pain belonged to him.

* * *

"You need to go home, Mary," Frank said, kissing her on the forehead.

"You, do, too, Frank. You haven't slept for--"

"I can't leave. You know I can't."

She smiled softly. "Yes, I know. But I don't want to leave you."

"Tim would want you to be with the kids. You know how he loves those babies."

"Particularly Olivia."

"Oh, yes, particularly Olivia. He's going to be worse than me when she starts dating. He's going to be a real pain in the ass."

She patted his cheek, acknowledging what he was doing, that he was trying to assure himself that Tim would still be here, would still be alive to worry about Olivia. Despite what the doctors said, despite the fact his temperature had spiked and they were worried about infection.

Frank saw it all in Mary's compassionate brown eyes and fought the anger it made him feel. He wasn't kidding himself. Tim was going to live. He had to live.

"Go home, Mary, please."

"All right. Call me in the morning."

"I will." He kissed her. "I love you, Mary." He watched her leave.

He felt Gee's eyes on him, and turned away. He couldn't talk to Gee now, not now. Right at this moment, he hated Gee. He hated everyone who brought Tim to this, including himself. Most particularly himself.

But Gee was there, at his elbow, a force to be reckoned with.

"You were right," Frank said, "and Munch was right. I was a lousy partner." He stared through the glass at the still figure. "Bayliss deserved so much better."

"So you're saying Bayliss is a fool."

Frank turned, looking up at Gee's stern face. "What?"

"He believed you were a good partner. He wanted to be your partner. Did that escape your notice? Maybe I give him more credit than you do, but I've never thought of Tim Bayliss as a stupid man. He made his own decisions. I don't think he was wrong."

"But you're not lying in there ripped up by a bullet. Don't you get it? He took that bullet for me, Gee."

"That doesn't sound like somebody who thought of you as a bad partner. Whatever you think you did wrong tonight, you must have done something right these past six years."

Right. What had he ever done that was right where Tim was concerned? Every move, every thought, every complaint and every caress had led to this.

"Go home, Frank. Get some rest."

"No."

"His family is here--"

"His family?" Pembleton glared at him darkly. There were a lot of things he wanted to say about Bayliss' family, few of them complimentary. While Frank couldn't bring himself to dislike Tim's mother, he also couldn't forget that she hadn't stopped the horror of his childhood. Maybe she hadn't known, but she should have. He found it hard to forgive.

"I'm not leaving him." There was nothing else he needed to say. And after a few minutes, Gee accepted that and left him there, accepting also that his sway with Frank was a thing of the past, that his opinion would no longer be a primary influence. He had pushed too far and broken that fragile bond forever.

Frank waited and soon Tim's mother left, taken away by worried relatives that hardly looked twice at Frank. One of them was Tim's cousin, Jim, who refused to even acknowledge Frank's presence.

That shouldn't have been surprising, all things considered, and yet it bothered Frank because Tim was lying there helpless, and the cousin Tim loved was holding grudges.

Then again, Frank was selfishly pleased to be left alone with Tim, to be able to sit close by his bed and hold his hand. He glanced up at the clock 3:17 a.m.

It was painful to think that the only one willing to sit through these dark hours was a partner who never wanted to be a partner. A man like Tim deserved so much more.

Frank found himself praying again. More sincerely and deeply than he ever had in his life. He wasn't willing to leave Tim's side, but he would have gone to confession if he could have. There seemed so much to confess, so much to repent. A thousand hail Marys would not put him right with this. He knew what he was feeling was more superstition than religion Tim wasn't being punished for his sins. Yet it didn't change the bleak fear he felt, the overwhelming need to be absolved, to make amends.

Once again, he prayed: Please, God, please don't let him die. I repent my sins. I regret my pride . . .

He sensed someone watching and looked up. Chris Rawls was standing there, tears in his eyes, focused on Tim. Frank had never been able to bring himself to like Chris Rawls, but the totally lost vulnerability on his face made it impossible for Frank to be cold. Rawls loved Tim, and right now Tim needed all the love and support possible.

"Chris?"

Chris looked at him, eyes tortured. "How--?"

"His temperature's up. They don't know. It doesn't look good, but they don't think it's critical yet."

"Not critical."

"I know. It's scary."

Chris took a deep breath and moved close to the bed. He looked at Tim's face, hand reaching out to touch the pale cheek. "He looks so beautiful."

"He's not dead," Frank snapped, hating the way Chris said it. It sounded like a funeral remark.

Chris looked up, startled. "No, I didn't mean-- This is hard for me--" He broke off again, shrugging. "I know how stupid that sounds. I know it's hard for you, too. I don't mean it like that either. I'm just not sure how to deal with this." He looked into Frank's eyes. "I came earlier, but his family was here, and I didn't know . . . well, how to explain myself. Why I care so much. Do you understand?"

Frank nodded, understanding all too well. It wasn't fair, but it was true.

Chris was still touching Tim's face; he leaned over and kissed the slightly parted lips. "Good-bye, Tim."

Frank jumped up, a sudden rage sweeping up through him. If Rawls had been closer, Frank would have punched him out. "What do you mean good-bye'? Why are you ?"

Chris held up one hand, the other still touching Tim's cheek. "I'm leaving, not Tim. I didn't mean I thought he was . . . ." he trailed off, looking back at the pale face. "I just can't stay around to . . . I just can't be here anymore."

"You're leaving? Leaving Tim? Leaving Baltimore? What?"

"Both. He'll understand."

Frank was outraged. As much as he didn't like this man, didn't like Tim being . . . intimate with him, he hated the idea he would desert him now of all times. He was strangely disappointed as well, for he had thought Rawls had more backbone.

"You son of a bitch! You're leaving him now? I thought you loved him."

Chris was still looking at Tim, a sad smile on his face. "Oh, I do, Detective. I can't imagine how anyone couldn't love Tim."

"So, why--?"

"He doesn't need me. He doesn't love me. Whether I'm here or not is not going to matter at all to him. Knowing that, I'm not so much of a masochist to put myself through it."

"How can you be so sure?"

Chris looked him straight in the eye. "Oh, I'm sure. If I thought for an instant that my presence would really matter to him, nothing would keep me away. But it's not like that. I wish to God it was."

Frank was stunned, not only by what Chris was saying, but by the fact he felt the impulse to deny it. It wasn't like he wanted Tim with Chris Rawls. And yet

"He cares for you; he told me that. I don't see how you can just walk away when . . . when he's so hurt."

"You're here, Frank. That's all that matters to him. You know that."

Frank still felt angry, for Tim, on behalf of Tim. "So you're jealous?"

Chris shook his head, smiled again. "He's got a really big heart; there's room enough for both of us. No, that's not it. But he hasn't really let me in yet. Even if he did, I don't think I'd have the courage for this; not again. Take care of him, Frank."

He leaned down and kissed Tim again, then spun around and walked out without looking back. Frank sat down and took Tim's hand again. It felt chilled. He lifted it to his cheek. "Tim . . . Tim. He loves you, Tim. More than I wanted to believe. You're going to have to come back and go after him, baby. But right now, just come back. Come back to me."

* * *

Tim opened his eyes, surprised that he was no longer hurting. He had been shot. He remembered that. He hadn't wanted to believe it, hadn't wanted to believe it was possible. He had been careful, he had been wearing his vest, it wasn't supposed to happen. But he did remember the slam into his side, he remembered the wet warmth pouring out on skin. He remembered Frank screaming screaming for help.

And he remembered Frank's hand, holding his, tight, warm, desperate. Everything else was foggy. The pain had swallowed everything else, it was so huge so all consuming. He'd never known pain like this, never imagined it. Its teeth ripped at him, swallowed him whole. He had never considered himself a coward, but he was scared now, scared he would have to feel this forever. Because he couldn't he couldn't stand it.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry."

He was sorry for all the things he did wrong. All the mistakes he made. Maybe if he was sorry enough, the pain would stop.

And then it did.

There was no more pain. It was simply gone.

But it was replaced by . . . nothing.

There was no feeling, no sense of anything.

He looked around, knowing he was in a hospital bed, but there were no tubes, no machines, no walls. He lay on a bed and stared into infinity. It scared him, but it thrilled him even more, because he realized that this was the stuff that stars are made of, that he was made of, and that there was no ending and no beginning.

He turned his head and saw the little girl.

She was standing by his bed, quiet, sweet and beautiful. The serenity and beauty of her face calmed him, made him feel safe and loved. She was wearing a red raincoat.

He reached for her hand.

"Adena?"

* * *

Frank jerked awake, lifting his head off the bed, listening intently. There was something . . . something terrifying. No alarms had sounded, but something was very wrong.

He grabbed Tim's hand desperately, then put his head against the too-still chest in the most primitive, instinctive manner, listening in vain for a heartbeat. Belatedly, the heart monitor bleated an alarm. "No, please, Tim, no. . . ."

But what had alerted Frank had been the most terrible sound, something impossible, indescribable: the whisper of an angel's wings.