It was hot. So hot.

The sun was something too big, too bright, like a monster, like a dragon her daddy had once read a story about, and it breathed fire like that dragon, burning the top of her head, her shoulders.

The air was hot, like when daddy, baking the good things to eat she never had any more, opened the oven door, so hot it made her lungs hurt as she ran, as hard as she could. She had to keep running, to get far, far away.

Tall yellow-brown grass whipped at her bare legs. Sweat stung her eyes, and her dark hair, stringy and dirty, stuck to her cheek, to her neck.

She tripped and fell hard, and for a minute she stayed there, coughing at the reddish dust that puffed up like a cloud as she'd fallen. Her legs hurt from running so far, and her chest hurt from breathing so hard, but most of all, her heart hurt because she was scared and wanted her daddy.

The man's voice called to her, calling her by that name, calling her Emily. She'd never be Emily, though, no matter how much he scared her. No matter how much the lady slapped her when she said it wasn't her name. She'd never be Emily. Never, never.

His voice came closer, and she pushed herself to her feet and ran again. Behind her, she heard him say bad, bad words, and yell at her to stop, to come back home because mommy was worried. She ignored him. This wasn't her home, and that lady wasn't her mommy, because she didn't have a mommy. It was just her and daddy. And this man, this scary man who said he was her new daddy, was a liar. Liar, liar, liar, because this man was thin and had mean blue eyes, and her daddy, her real daddy, was big and had a soft tummy and brown eyes like her own. This man yelled a lot and drank things that smelled bad. He never smiled like her own daddy, who smiled with his whole face and had a beard that tickled when he kissed her.

And she had never been afraid of her daddy. He'd never yelled at her, never kept her locked up in a hot, hot house, never kept her away from school, never kept her from her friends. The lady frightened her too, with her scary-looking eyes, calling her Emily, hugging her too hard, petting her too often, until she wanted to just scream and run away from being held too close by someone she didn't like and couldn't trust. They both told her that her daddy had given her to them, that he didn't love her anymore, but she knew that was a lie. Her real daddy had loved her, because he always said so, always kissed her and hugged her and sang to her. She knew he loved her and he would find her soon and take her back home.

The shed had become her hiding place, an old grey building almost falling down, the boards of the walls so far apart that she could see the whole big field through the cracks. It was full of spiders and squeaky little mice, but the lady was afraid of it, so it was her place to hide when she could sneak out.

She hid behind some old bales of hay and tried not to sneeze from the dust. The man was coming. She could hear his feet, in their big boots, running, hear the keys on his belt jingling. Reaching into the pocket of her old faded shorts, she pulled out the hair ribbon she'd kept hidden for all the time the people had kept her. It was pink, grubby from her fingers stroking it every night before she went to sleep, dirty from keeping it hidden from the lady. The lady had found it today, had screamed and cried and tried to take it away, but she'd snatched it out of her hands and had run.

It was all she had left, a hair ribbon her daddy had given her. In darker pink writing, it had her name, her *real* name, almost rubbed off from her touching it. She could spell it, but never wrote it around the lady and the man, because it made them so angry. The lady had wanted to throw it away, but she would never let that happen. She'd hide it, and the lady would never find it.

Her fingers scrabbled in the dirt beside the hay, until she'd made a little hole, just big enough to hold the ribbon. She folded it up, gave it a kiss, and put it into the hole, covering it with dirt and hay. It would be safe there, safe from the lady, who would never come into the shed.

The man came in, and she made herself small, like a little mouse, hoping that he wouldn't find her. Hoping, hoping, wishing so hard it made her head hurt. Wishing her daddy would come and find her, come and take her back home.

But of course the man found her. He always found her, no matter how well she hid, or how far she ran. His hands were rough and hard as he jerked her to her feet, and she cried out, "Daddy! Daddy!" as he swore at her and jerked her out of the shed, back into the hot, hot sun, back to the ugly old house he said was their home now.

Chris jerked suddenly awake, his heart hammering in his chest, his head pounding, his breath rasping in his lungs as if he'd run ten miles. Ran them uphill, and in the blazing sun. He scrubbed his hands through his damp hair, then over his sweaty face, nausea rolling in his belly, sour on the back of his tongue.

"Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck." His voice sounded even higher-pitched than normal, breathy and thin with adrenaline. It had been so real. He could taste the dust on his tongue, feel the heat pounding down atop his head, the dirt under his fingernails, smell the musty, rotting hay.

Automatically, he reached for Howie to ground himself in the warmth of reality, but his hand slid across smooth cool sheets. Alone. Oh, yeah. He needed to get used to that. After two months of living alone in the apartment they'd shared for so long, he should remember he didn't have Howie any more. But then, two months of solitude had nothing on four years of living together, right? Sure.

Chris reached for the bedside lamp, his hands shaking. Golden lamplight puddled across his bed. He fumbled his glasses on, and his bedroom sprang into sharp focus. The bedside clock mocked him with the time: four thirty-seven. Hell.

Too restless to lie there a moment longer, he flung off the covers and levered himself up to sit at the side of the bed. Sweat trickled down his back, an itchy tickle, and his tee shirt stuck clammily to his skin. He was tired, tired to the bone, as his gramma would say. Six fucking nights he'd dreamed of this kid. Six nights of vivid dreams, of hearing her call for her daddy, of feeling her confusion and despair.

He hated his fucking gift, hated his gramma and her grandfather and every other member of the family before him who'd ever had the Sight. Why the hell couldn't it have skipped him? He drew in a deep breath, and blew it out, again and again, until the shaking in his hands stopped and his head cleared, until he couldn't hear her calling her for her daddy anymore. He rubbed his hands over his face, scrubbed them through his thick hair until it stood on end. Who was he kidding? He certainly didn't hate his gramma, and definitely wouldn't wish this off onto any of his sisters, even Taylor, who was going through a bratty stage, and likely to drive his mom insane.

Whether he wanted it or not, it was his gift, his obligation, to deal with. He couldn't say it was all bad, couldn't say he hadn't helped people. Hadn't he brought families back together with it? That alone was worth the headaches, the sweats, the nightmares, the fragments of visions.

It was even worth the loss of Howie.

There was no point in trying to get back to sleep; he felt too unsettled, too jangly with adrenaline. Chris pushed off the bed and ambled into the closet, stripping as he went. He needed a shower, but he might as well get in his morning run before he did and it would help work off some of his tension. He'd go on his run, shower, get dressed and let himself into the office, and maybe, if he was really lucky, he'd search through the files until he came to a name to put to that pretty, dirt-smudged little face.

He knew from long experience he'd have no peace until he did.

Mmmmmm.

Coffee. Chocolate. The scent tugged Chris out of a light nap. He cracked open one eye, and a Starbuck's cup swam into his bleary vision. Opening both eyes, he wondered why Lance was standing on his head, and then realized, duh, Lance stood over him as he'd fallen asleep leaning back in his office chair. He wondered if he had been snoring or drooling, and wiped at his mouth just to be sure. It was way too early to endure Lance's mocking if he had.

"Bass, Bass, divorce Laura and join me in a big gay love affair. You can keep me in chocolate and coffee forever, and I'll be your gorgeous yet freakishly gifted and intelligent boytoy." Greedily he reached for the cup, but Lance laughed and backed away, holding the cup out of reach.

"Sit up. No way am I giving you this until you do. I don't want to replace another keyboard."

Chris recognized the finality in Lance's smooth, deep voice, and sighed. He sat up straight, cracked his neck, and pulled his glasses back down onto his nose from their place on the top of his head. His head ached dully, and his eyes felt blurry from lack of sleep and three hours of staring at the National Missing Children's website. "I'm up. I'm awake. Give me my damn coffee already."

Lance leaned over and put the cup into his grabby hands. Chris inhaled deeply then took a sip. Perfect. Heaven had to have a Starbuck's on every cloud. "Seriously, I love you, man. You're the best."

"At least you didn't call me the Coffee Fairy this time," Lance said as he picked up a pile of files and books from Chris' spare chair, held them for a moment as he looked around for a place to put them, and finally just stacked them on the floor before pulling the chair up to Chris' desk and sitting down with his own coffee.

"Yeah, well, you hit me in the back of the head with a file for that, Bass. Saw stars for hours. And they weren't even Brad Pitt or Colin Farrell, either. I was robbed, I tell you."

"Quit bitching," Lance said without heat, and put a paper bag next to Chris' elbow. "Laura sent this to you."

Chris opened the bag, and the warm, sweet smell of fresh blueberry muffins rose to tickle his nose. He just barely held in the moan of happiness, because Laura made the best baked goods ever, even better than Momma Bass, who had long ago achieved legendary status in Chris' mind. "Oh, man. Forget you. I'll marry Laura instead, 'cause obviously, she loves me."

Lance snorted. "Oh, yeah, *that's* a likely scenario. Wrong equipment, remember?"

"Hey, I could learn to like girls in exchange for regular meals." It was an old joke between them. Laura was well-acquainted with his outrageous flirting, and Lance just rolled his eyes, knowing Chris liked dick way too much to ever be any serious threat.

"Yeah, well, whatever." Lance leaned back in his chair, sipping at his coffee. He looked smooth and perfectly put together as always, trousers perfectly pressed, shirt unwrinkled, silk tie just so. Chris had an unreasonable urge to either smack him, or mess up his spiked hair. He knew that fashion-wise, he suffered terribly in comparison, wrinkled and unkempt in jeans and an old Rancid tee shirt, but it didn't matter. He wasn't meeting with clients today, and sitting at a computer for hours, looking through files and files of pictures called for comfortable clothing. He was just glad he wasn't like Lance, the owner of Bass Investigations, who had to look polished and professional at all times.

"You look like shit," Lance said, after Chris had wolfed down one muffin and was working on the second. "When was the last time you slept?"

"I sleep," Chris replied indignantly, and Lance calmly wiped muffin crumbs from his trouser leg. "Sorry," Chris muttered. "What the hell are you doing here this early, anyway?" He didn't particularly want to talk about his sleep, or rather, the lack thereof. The best defense was often a quick offense.

Lance smiled crookedly, rueful. "This morning, Laura threw my ass out the door and told me she never wanted to see me again, and that we were never, ever having sex again."

"See? She's realized her lapse in judgment. She should've married me, after all."

"Nah. She called me by the time I'd driven around the block, and wanted me to bring her some sweet and sour shrimp for lunch. With a side order of tacos." Lance shook his head. "She's gone past being as big as a house. She's an apartment building now."

Chris rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Man, I do hope you didn't say anything like that to her face. Even *I* know better than that." He'd been raised in a house full of women, and prided himself on his ability to relate well to them, to charm them, even if he had little or no desire for them.

"Of *course* I didn't say anything like that, you moron. And besides, I think she's gorgeous now. Don't get me wrong, she's beautiful even when she's all covered in mud from weeding the garden, but now that she's pregnant, she sorta...glows." Lance's pale green eyes, always as sharp as razors, went all soft and hazy.

Chris laughed; he couldn't help himself. "If you could only see the dopey look on your face. Worth a mint, I tell you."

"Fuck off," Lance said sweetly, and unfolded enough to kick Chris in the shin with his expensive Italian loafers. Chris yelped and jumped, spilling coffee down his hand and wrist.

He sniggered as he licked mocha from his wrist. "Underneath that solid, serious exterior is a solid, serious man, but way underneath *that* is a mushball. Don't worry. I'll keep it under my hat. Scout's honor."

"You were never a boy scout," Lance scoffed.

"No, but I did a lot of them back in the day," Chris replied cheekily, and grinned at Lance's sour expression.

"TMI, Chris." Lance tilted his head and looked at Chris speculatively. Chris hated being at the receiving end of that pale, intense stare, but refused to wriggle uncomfortably just out of stubborn principle. "I don't suppose you'd have any idea when Gabriel's going to decide to be born, do you?"

Chris finished the last of his coffee, and tossed the cup into the trash. "Hey, I already told you that you were having a boy, you greedy bastard. Now I have to tell you when he's coming?"

Lance rubbed the back of his neck, and color chased across his cheeks. "It's just that Laura's so restless, so...on edge. It'd be kinda nice to know how much longer to expect, y'know?"

"It's not a party trick," Chris replied, and wiped at his chin to make certain he'd gotten the crumbs out of his short goatee. "I can't just put on the Captain Clairvoyant tee shirt and wave my hands around and come up with answers, y'know. It comes when it comes, and I have no control over any of it."

His granmma had better control of the gift, but he'd never learned to manage it as well as she could. She'd told him the men in the family who'd had the Sight tended to have lesser control of it, and he'd had to take her word for it. Not like he could ask his great-grandfather about it, after all, and he was the only one in his generation who had it, so no help from that quarter. Sometimes he had flashes of visions when he touched items belonging to people, and could imprint on them that way; that method worked better when he was actively searching for someone. Sometimes he had bits of visions that never seemed to relate to anything, that he could never figure out or connect to anything concrete, like randomly spinning the tuning dial on a radio and getting bits of this or that. And sometimes, as in the past week, he had vivid dreams.

"I know, I know. I was just hopin'." His Mississippi accent had deepened, and Chris realized that in spite of his cool exterior, Lance was really stressed with Laura so heavily pregnant with their first child. He'd worked hard at softening his thick as molasses accent over the years they'd been friends.

"If I see anything, you'll be the first to know, okay?" Chris said, relenting a little. It was the least he could do for Lance's easy acceptance of his gift, and the opportunity to put it to good use. Lance was a good guy, though he'd probably deny it, and his best friend. He flung his arms over his head and stretched hugely, then yawned. His neck ached, his shoulders felt knotted tight, and his head throbbed from staring at the screen.

"I appreciate it," Lance replied. He leaned forward in his chair, peering at the screen. "So. Is this something new, or something old?"

"Something new," Chris said with a sigh. He clicked through another file, and another, waiting to recognize the face that haunted his dreams. "I don't have a handle on it yet, so I'm just looking around until something clicks, y'know? Kinda a 'I'll know it when I see it' type of scenario." He clicked rapidly through three more files, three more missing girls in the right age range. "It's a fucking pain in the ass, 'cause she could be anywhere."

"No hints? No clues as to where she might be?" Lance edged closer, until his shoulder touched Chris', and Chris could feel his warm concern.

Four more files went by before Chris answered. "I have a sense of where she is now. It's hot, really hot. Tall grass that seems to go on for miles, but that might just be the perspective of a small kid. A few old dilapidated buildings. It made me think of the Thirties, back in the Depression, actually."

"You sure it's something current, and not just..." Lance paused, thinking, his graceful hands moving, attempting to give his thoughts some shape, "...maybe something you've seen on TV, or read recently?"

Chris leaned back in his chair and thought. Before he'd left, Howie had been doing some research on the Depression for his classes at Valencia, and he remembered watching some of the old film clips. He wondered, for a brief moment, if this might not be some aspect of that creeping into his mind.

"I don't think so," he said slowly. "I did see some documentaries on that time frame, but man, this was too real to be a spin-off of that. The little girl was too real. The documentaries just gave me a frame of reference, more than anything else." He scrubbed at his face. "Besides, I've been dreaming of her for more than a week now."

"Well, hell," Lance said. "No wonder you look so tired. I just thought it was...well, never mind."

"You can say his name, Bass," Chris said, suddenly weary. "He just left me, he's not like, dead, or anything."

"Sorry. It's just that you guys were together longer than Laura and I have been, and really? I thought you'd be together forever. Howie's a great guy."

Chris picked at a hangnail on his thumb, and frowned when it began to bleed. Lance handed him a kleenex, which he ignored, popping his thumb in his mouth to suck away the blood. "Yeah, he is. Smart, funny, good in bed. But sometimes, things just don't work out, in spite of your best intentions. This whole," he flapped his hand around to encompass the office, and himself, "psychic thing was just like the icing on the cake. But I gotta give him credit for hanging in there as long as he did. I think the McBride case was the one that finally broke him." It had almost broken him, and Chris never, never wanted a case like that ever again. He couldn't blame Howie for bailing; he'd been almost crazed in his search for the little girl, and ultimately, for her killer.

Lance opened his mouth to say something, but closed it as they heard the main door of the office open, and JC's clear, bright voice singing a happy hip-hoppy tune. Chris' mouth crooked in a half-grin. "Looks like it's time for you to start doing the boss-man thing."

"Guess so." Lance rose fluidly, and patted Chris on the shoulder. "Tell me if I can do anything to help, okay?"

Although Chris knew the offer extended beyond his office and into his private life, he chose to interpret it as work-related. "Not much you can do, at the moment. Only I know what she looks like. And what I saw probably has nothing to do with where she was actually taken. The point of origin could be *anywhere* in the country. She looks like she's five or six, but I have no idea of how long ago they took her. Her memory of her daddy seems pretty strong, so it's probably not been all that long." He shrugged, pushing away how desperate she'd felt to him, how sad it had been to hear her calling for her daddy. "So, it's just slogging through thousands of files until I recognize her."

Lance winced at the thought. "I don't envy you. If you need anything, let me know." He moved to leave, then stopped, a thoughtful expression on his face. "JC's good at sketching. Maybe he could work with you, and get a picture worked out so he could help you look?"

"It would probably be quicker for me just to look, but I appreciate the offer. Now get your shapely ass outta my office so I can concentrate, okay? And send JC in with another cup of coffee when he gets it made, willya? His coffee is like, worlds better than that shit you make." Already he'd turned back to the computer screen, having gained his second wind, ready to slog through as many files as he had to in order to find her.

After three cups of coffee, a bagel, and rollerblading around eight blocks to work off the caffeine buzzing through his blood, Chris found her in the files.

He let out an ear-splitting crow of victory, and did a little victory dance at his desk, elated. He bounded out of his office, caught JC in the hallway, grabbed him around his slim waist and polkaed him halfway down the hall, scattering the papers JC had in his arms in their wake. Chris finally released him in the main lobby, gave JC's forehead a loud smacking kiss, and left him blinking big blue-grey eyes, looking as if he'd been run over by a train. Dani, in her place at the receptionist's desk, didn't even bat an eye.

"Bass, I found her!" he announced as he blew into Lance's orderly office like a tornado. Lance rose from his desk, grinning, and pounded Chris on the back when he hugged him. "And fuck me, if she's not a hometown girl, too. After searching all over the country, she's from here. Briahna Fatone."

"Right under your nose, huh? Isn't that something?" He wheezed as Chris hugged him again, hard enough to make his ribs creak. "Chris. Need to breathe."

"Oh, sorry," Chris said, and released him. As he slid away, Chris suddenly felt a wave of disorientation and grabbed onto Lance's firm biceps. Lance's spicy cologne faded, and the brightness of Lance's office darkened.

The smell of antiseptic was cool and sharp, contrasting with the warm, animal smell of body fluids, edged with the coppery scent of blood, the salty smell of sweat. The light was subdued, bright enough to see, but not intrusive. Lance stood at the bedside, clad in wrinkled, sloppy blue surgical scrubs, his smile huge and brilliant, the crooked one, all big teeth and gums, so different than his cool, professional smile. He wiped at his face, and his hand came away wet, then he leaned down and kissed Laura tenderly, smoothing away her sweaty dark hair with gentle hands. She smiled up at him, exhausted, but so happy she almost glowed with it. Lance kissed her again, murmured soft, loving words to her. A moment later, he leaned closer and ran a fingertip of the soft pink cheek and rosebud mouth of his son, bundled in blankets, held closely to Laura's breast.

The vision poured out of his mind like water out of a pitcher, and he stood blinking, once more in Lance's familiar office. Lance leaned in, peering at him. "Chris?"

Sweat beaded on his upper lip, at the nape of his neck, the small of his back. He blinked again, and his vision cleared completely.

"You okay? Your pupils went all weird. Normal, then blown huge, then normal again."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Quit mother henning." Chris slapped half-heartedly at Lance's supporting hands. "And you know I don't do drugs, so don't even start that."

"What was it then? Did you see something?"

"Yeah, you." When Lance arched a fine dark brow, Chris continued. "Tonight, man. Ten thirty-six in the evening. Gabriel James Bass makes his debut upon the world stage."

"What?" Lance flushed, then paled. Chris had never seen him look so poleaxed. "Tonight?" And in all the years he'd known Bass, he'd never heard that deep voice squeak before. It was fucking wonderful to see and hear.

"Tonight," Chris said, warm with satisfaction.

"I was just gonna go and get her lunch. Are you *sure*, Chris?" The accent was back, as thick as honey.

"The poor kid has your huge fucking nose," Chris replied, and laughed as Lance, finally convinced, turned back to his desk and began throwing his things into the leather satchel he always carried. "What are you doing still here? I'll tell Dani you're leaving, okay?"

Chris stood at the door to Lance's office as he watched him tear out, moving faster than he'd ever seen the normally laid-back Bass move before. He snickered, and hoped Lance paid attention to the speed limits.

"Wow," JC said as Lance sped by him, almost bowling him over, muttering "sorry, C, sorry" as he ran. "Did Laura call, or something?"

Chris leaned against the doorjamb. "Not yet. She's probably just starting to feel labor pains."

"Oh, you saw it?" JC smiled down at him, the happy, squinched-faced real smile Chris had always loved to see. "That's gotta be great."

"It was that time," Chris replied, crossing his arms over his chest. Too many times it was so far from great as to be in a whole different universe. He'd had way too many visions that were horrible, bloody things; more times than he cared to admit, the visions or dreams had forced him to his knees, vomiting helplessly, sick at what he'd seen. "So I guess he's out of the office for the next few days. Wanna play since the cat's away, little mouse?" Chris offered him an exaggerated leer.

"You're awful," JC said, but he looked pleased; he loved it when anyone flirted with him, and Chris was always happy to oblige. "Straight, remember?"

Chris cocked his head and allowed his gaze to roam from JC's long, wild, curly hair, to the wide, soft mouth, to the pink henley stretched across his chest, to the low, hip-hugging embroidered jeans, to the assorted beaded bracelets around his wrists, and his bare feet clad in flip-flops. A turquoise toe ring winked in the light.

"Dude, you're like the poster child of randy gay boys everywhere. You just *cannot* be straight."

"I'm merely secure enough in my manhood to wear what pleases me," JC said with a flip of his curly hair. "And besides, I don't believe in stifling stereotypes."

"You're a braver man than I, Gunga Din," Chris replied, and unfolded himself from his slouch. "What do you say I treat you to lunch, sparklyboy?"

"I'd say I'm also secure enough in my masculinity to accept," JC answered, blue-grey eyes glinting with amusement.

"And I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that you're also the cheapest bastard I know." Chris put his hand in the small of JC's back, and steered him toward the door. "Just so you know, I'm so gonna expect you to put out for it." He paused long enough to say, "Hey, Dani. C and I are out to lunch. Should be back in four or five hours, after cheap food and wild monkey sex. Don't let the cockroaches take over while we're gone."

"Totally disgusting, Kirkpatrick," Dani replied, not bothering to look up from her filing. "Thanks ever so much. I'll see you in one hour, just like always."

As they reached the door, JC sent a merry glance over his shoulder. "Hand off my ass, Chris."

"So sorry," Chris replied with mock sincerity as he did just that. He congratulated himself on being a big enough man that he didn't even give a final squeeze before he did it.

"Y'know," Justin said quietly, hitching up his jeans over his narrow hips, "I remember when this used to be fun. When it used to be more than just fuckin' in your office after hours, just gettin' off, and gettin' out."

Joey sat sprawled in his big office chair and watched the smooth movement of muscles in Justin's back as he jerked at his zipper. Justin had a spray of freckles across his broad shoulders, and Joey could remember lying atop him in bed on a lazy afternoon when Kelly had Briahna out, pinning Justin to the bed, and licking across them slowly, then working his way down the bumps of his spine, feeling Justin shiver beneath him in pleasure.

It had been a long time since he'd taken the time to do that. A whole lifetime ago.

"I don't make you come here," Joey said, exhaustion overwhelming the momentary pleasure Justin had given him. Justin had the best mouth, the most clever hands, and just the thought of him crouched between Joey's spread thighs would've been enough to get him up and ready to go again. But that was before. Now, even the reality of a lean, naked, beautiful Justin was barely enough to get him hard. Joey thought he should probably be worried about that, but was too weary to care much at the moment. "Nobody says you have to show up."

"I know." Justin turned, his tee shirt in hand. Joey stood up from his chair, and hitched up his own trousers. He pulled on his shirt, avoiding looking at Justin as he tucked in, buttoning and zipping up. "But I keep thinkin' that maybe. Well."

Without looking up, he could see Justin's big hands wadding his shirt into a tight, wrinkled ball. Slowly, he tracked up Justin's smooth, muscular body, until finally he could see his face, young and etched with worry, half-hidden in the shadows of his office. Justin's soft pink mouth was set in an unhappy shape, and for a moment, pity for Justin welled up within him. He'd certainly not made it easy for Justin lately; but no matter how much he felt sorry for Justin, his own misery quickly crushed any other emotion.

"Maybe what?"

Justin's dark blue eyes regarded him steadily. "That maybe, you'll decide it's time to start livin' again. It's like. Like Briahna wasn't the only one who. Who."

"Died," Joey supplied, his voice cold and flat. "You don't have to fuck around with it, Jus. Go ahead and say it. She's dead."

"Man, you don't *know* that."

"I know it," Joey said, and the crushing certainty of his knowledge made him fierce, made him take a step forward, his big hands curling into fists. Whatever showed in his face made Justin give ground. But only for a minute, because Justin was as persistent, as stubborn as he was. Justin's chin set in a manner that often had his kitchen assistants scrambling for cover, and Joey knew the fight was on.

"They never found anything. They never found her bo.... They never found *her.* You just don't know, Joe, if she really, truly is dead."

"It's been a fucking year and a half," Joey said, and his voice lowered dangerously, grew louder, harsher, in the quietness of his office. Anger and sorrow burned deep inside him, hollowing him out, leaving him empty of anything good or clean or human. "They'd have found her by now if they could've. I've accepted it, and moved on."

Justin pulled on his muscle tee. It clung like a second skin, and once, Joey would've noticed such a thing with pleasure, would've wanted to touch his flat belly, would've wanted to lick and bite the long line of his throat. But not now. "Liar," Justin said in his soft voice. "You've accepted it, but you haven't moved on. You're still in that moment when they took her. You're still in that place of grief, and man, you're not goin' anywhere. You've moved in permanently."

And what burned more than anything was the realization that Justin was right. His life had stopped; he'd never gotten past that day, that hour, that moment when the nanny had called, frantic, to tell him Briahna had disappeared without a trace from the market where she'd been shopping. It had been a small market, without cameras, and no one had seen anything at all. It had been as if she'd disappeared into thin air. Frantic, he'd waited by the phone, thinking it a kidnapping, but no call had ever come, no demands for her release, nothing. The police had no leads, and the FBI had nothing.

Briahna had just disappeared. When days, weeks, months, and finally a year, then a year and a half had gone by with no word, no clue, no atom of information, Joey had finally just accepted that she was gone, forever. He'd given up hope.

And all the joy, all the light went out of his life in that moment of realization. Life had no pleasure, no flavor. All he had was his work, the running of his restaurant, Il Giardino Bello, and into that he poured what little of himself he had left, working sixteen, eighteen hours a day, letting the work, the routine, the stress, numb him to everything else. His parents, his family, could not comfort him, and in spite of their best efforts he'd drawn away from them, wracked with grief and guilt, inconsolable.

Even Justin, who had shared his bed for two years, could not bring him pleasure, just a momentary release, a temporary easing of the heaviness that shrouded his life.

"There's nowhere else to go, Justin," Joey said finally. "There's nothing left."

Justin sucked his lower lip between his teeth, then stepped forward. His hand slid over Joey's forearm, and squeezed gently. "I waited. I waited for you to come back. I tried to help you, but I don't think you can come back to me. To us. You've got everyone else fooled, got them thinkin' you're okay, you're handlin' things, but, man, I know you better than that."

He moved even closer, and Joey let Justin slide a long arm around him, pull him against his body. Justin felt warm, and strong and young. Vital. Full of life; too alive for him.

"It's time to stop waiting, Jus." He pressed his hot face into the side of Justin's throat. "Time for you to move on."

"The really shitty thing is, I know you're right," Justin murmured, stroking his hands over Joey's back. "Known it for awhile. I wanted to hold on to what we had, and I can't do that. You need to move on, and you can't do that with me around. I'm just a reminder of life before it happened, and I think that maybe." He swallowed hard. "Maybe we just need to cut loose from one another and start over again."

In the time Briahna had been missing, he hadn't wanted anyone in his life, but he hadn't wanted to be completely alone, either. Justin stayed, offering himself, and Joey took what he gave freely, even knowing it was unfair that he couldn't offer anything in return; he'd been like a black hole of grief and loss. Justin deserved more than that; deserved someone who could meet him halfway, who could give of himself. And Joey knew that person would never be him again.

"You're a decent guy, and I haven't treated you like you deserved. I've been a selfish shit. I'm sorry." Joey pulled back, and slid his hand over the nape of Justin's neck, squeezing gently.

"Man, you didn't do what I didn't let you do. We'll call it good, still be friends, okay?" Justin had the bluest eyes, and they shimmered a little in the half-light. Color chased across his cheeks, and he ducked his head.

"Still friends," Joey said, and brushed his lips across Justin's short buzzed hair. "Always that."

Justin looked up, and his eyelashes were wet, but he smiled. "And I'm still the best damn chef this roach motel has ever seen."

Joey smoothed his hand down Justin's back, one last caress before pulling away. "And the worst diva I've ever seen."

"I'm worth every fit I throw, Joe. You've got the awards of excellence to prove it." Justin gave a nod to the plaques hanging on the wall, commendations, awards from the local newspapers.

"I can't deny that." Joey's mouth curved upward slightly; Justin Timberlake was temperamental, without a doubt, but his perfectionism, his creativity, was well worth smoothing a few ruffled feathers.

Justin's smile grew wider, and he sat on the edge of Joey's desk to pull on his socks and shoes. "Wanna come out with me for a quick beer? I wouldn't keep you out long."

Joey ran his fingers through his thick hair. It had grown long and shaggy; he'd forgotten to get it cut again. "I'm kinda tired, really. Think I'll go home."

"Did you eat today?"

"I think I ate lunch. Not really hungry, though."

Justin buffed his shoes with his chef's smock. "Figures. Surrounded by food, and you forget to eat. You've lost a lot of weight, and your clothes are too big." He slanted a glance down at Joey as Joey slipped on his own shoes. "I kinda miss the belly."

"Yeah, well, you don't look like my mama, so shut up," Joey said without heat, and stood up, smoothing down his slacks. They really were big on him now; he hadn't noticed.

"Man, I am way prettier than your mama," Justin replied, and snapped his fingers in an S-shaped curve. "I am *fine*."

"Need to work on that inferiority complex, kid," Joey said, and switched off the desk lamp. "Ready?"

"Sure." Justin lead the way out of Joey's office, and Joey closed and locked the door behind them. The huge, immaculate kitchen, the heart of Il Giardino Bello, stood quiet and still, everyone else having gone home after closing. Seeing it had always made Joey feel full of joy and pride, and even now, those feelings stirred somewhere deep in his chest.

Justin opened the back door, and Joey set the alarms, then pulled the door closed behind them, locking it. Even at close to midnight, the summer night pressed down upon them, humid and heavy after the air conditioning of the restaurant.

"Man, fuckin' hot," Justin said, and ran his hand over the back of his neck. "Orlando in August. Gotta love it."

"Complain now, but you've never lived through a Brooklyn winter."

"Not likely to try, neither. Snow's okay for vacations, but give me the year round sunshine and warmth. I'm a southern boy, through and through."

Justin's car, a red Sebring convertible, stood not far from Joey's own more sedate black BMW, both parked under one of the lot's lights. Another car sat close by, a red PT Cruiser, and Joey frowned; he couldn't remember anyone he knew who owned one. They started walking out to their cars, when the door to the Cruiser swung open, and a man stepped out, closing the car door behind him. Joey stopped in place, reaching for his cell to call the cops, while Justin said, "Now what?"

The man held out both hands to show they were empty of any kind of weapon. "Mr. Fatone," he said, in a clear, light voice. "My name is Chris Kirkpatrick. I'm not a mugger or anything, honest. I just came to have a word with you."

"It's midnight," Justin said with a frown. "Don't you think it's a little late?"

"I'm fully aware that it's midnight," Kirkpatrick replied with some sharpness, his face turning toward Justin. The light flashed off the lenses of his glasses for a moment. He was a small man, on the slim side, with a shock of dark hair and a short, neatly-trimmed goatee. Dressed in an orange shirt over a black tee shirt and trousers, he didn't really look like a typical mugger, or really, given the difference in their sizes, much of a threat. "I'm sorry for the lateness, but I needed to speak with you. It's important."

"So important it can't wait until tomorrow?" Joey asked.

Kirkpatrick hesitated a moment, and Joey had the odd feeling that hesitancy wasn't much a part of his normal behavior. Even at the late hour, and fidgeting a little, from one foot to the other, he seemed to almost crackle with energy. He made Joey tired just watching him.

"Not really," he said finally. "I left a couple of voice mails on your cell, but you didn't answer, and as I said, it's very important."

Joey clicked on his phone, scrolled through, and sure enough, two voice mails, presumably from Kirkpatrick. Wearily he said, "I have no idea who you are. Why should I waste any more of my time with you?"

Kirkpatrick went still, and the effect, after all his movement, was startling. "It's about Briahna."

Joey felt every muscle lock into painful rigidity, and couldn't draw a deep enough breath. Beside him, he heard Justin draw in a quick, startled breath, but didn't dare to look at him. Couldn't look at him, only stare at the dark man standing in front of him, who looked as serious as anyone he'd ever seen. His heart thudded in his chest, and his blood seemed to prickle in his veins. He wanted to turn away, to wrap his misery around himself and disappear, but he was a Fatone, and didn't back down. He drew himself up to his full height, and stared down at the smaller man.

"What about Briahna?"

"I think she's still alive. I. I've had these dreams about her--"

And whatever else Kirkpatrick started to say was lost as rage, heavy and hot and crimson, slammed into him, pouring into him like lava, filling all those hollow places, wiping away the sadness, the tiredness. He had a moment to register Kirkpatrick's surprised eyes just before he drew back his arm and let go, arm driving smoothly from the shoulder, his fist landing in Kirkpatrick's face.

The asphalt was really fucking hard, still radiating heat from the day.

Above him, Chris could hear scuffling, low, fierce swearing, and a softer, higher-pitched voice saying, "Joey, Joey, cut it the fuck *out*, man."

Slowly Chris rolled to his belly, and his head spun wildly. His belly lurched, and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick, but the sensation passed as he drew in a couple of deep breaths. Asphalt, check. Tire to the BMW in his line of vision, check. Throbbing in his left cheekbone--hell, the whole left side of his head--double check.

Fatone had hit him. Chris had seen it coming, just a second before it happened, and only his quick reflexes kept him from having a broken nose, because Fatone had fists as big as Chris' entire head. At least they'd looked that big coming at him. He'd twisted enough to avoid the main impact, but it had still connected, spun him around, knocked him to the ground.

Chris dared to turn his head; the swearing and scuffling had stopped. He blinked, his vision fuzzy, and decided that it wasn't a concussion, but the lack of glasses that affected his sight. He could see the lenses glinting in the light from above, just out of his reach. Not broken, thank God.

At least the tall kid had kept Fatone off him, and for that, he could be grateful, because Fatone was a big guy, a lot bigger than him, and evidently as strong as an ox, from the way his face hurt. The kid now held him closely, one big hand smoothing over the broad expanse of his back, the other long arm looped around his waist. After a moment, Fatone raised his arms and wrapped them around the kid, clutching him tightly, and Chris could almost see the waves of misery radiating off him. And hell, if that didn't make him feel pretty shitty, because misery was the last thing he'd wanted to offer him; he'd wanted to give him hope. He could hear the rise and fall of the kid's voice, and although he couldn't make out the words, he could hear either Tennessee or Kentucky in his accent, curiously soothing.

The pose, the way the kid held Fatone, was too close, too intimate to be merely friends, even very close friends; their tall bodies melted into one another as only lovers did. Ah. Interesting, the observant, analytical part of his brain said, and the rest of it said ow, ow, ow, our face hurts, and get out of here before you fuck it up any more. The analytical portion replied, hey, moron, you probably can't screw it up any more than this.

He knew he should've waited until tomorrow to approach Fatone. He knew he should've given himself a chance to calm down, to put on his professional armor, to get his thoughts into alignment. He knew he should've brought with him either JC, who could charm the scales off snakes, or Lance, who was smooth and cool and polished, the consummate professional investigator. But no, he'd hared off, excited he'd made this much of a connection, eager to start the hunt for her.

And besides, on a more selfish note, he'd not wanted to have that dream yet again.

The two men parted, and Fatone circled around him without looking at him, trailed by the kid. Chris heard the door to the BMW open, and figured he'd probably better move before Fatone finished the job and ran him over. He wobbled to his feet, and when he bent over to pick up his glasses, his head throbbed like crazy, and the side of his face burned. He braced himself against the side of the Sebring and slipped on his glasses, and mercifully, the world sprang back into focus.

Fatone sat in his car, the door open, the kid leaning in, talking earnestly to him. Chris saw him nod wearily, and hand over a set of keys to the kid, who smiled sweetly and squeezed his shoulder gently. The kid closed the door, and Fatone started the engine. When he looked up, Chris saw dark, dark eyes, filled with such unhappiness that something turned over in Chris' chest. God knew he'd seen enough devastated parents, but something about Joey Fatone made him feel his pain more acutely.

"C'mon, man," the kid said, coming up to him. "Let's get you iced down before it swells any more, okay?"

The wasn't much else to do. Obviously, Fatone wasn't going to talk with him, at least not tonight. Chris wanted to heave a sigh at the delay this caused in searching for Briahna; he wanted to get started *now,* and obviously, he'd fucked up in some major way, to get this sort of reaction. Chris heaved a sigh, and ran his fingertips gingerly over hot, puffy skin. Yeah, it was gonna swell like a mother. "Sure. You got some?"

He waved a big hand toward the restaurant. "Got all the ice we need in there." Turning, he strode off toward the back door, jingling the keys in his hand. With a shrug, Chris pushed off the car and followed.

At the door, while he waited for the kid to unlock and disable alarms, Chris looked back toward the car. Fatone sat with his arms draped over the steering wheel, his dark shaggy head bowed. Normally, he'd have bounced back up and torn into anyone who hit him; he'd never taken shit off anyone before, and had no plans to begin now. Although he didn't like to admit it, getting hit had been his own fault; he knew better than to approach a client without getting all the information possible, without being prepared, without anticipating all the possible outcomes, including violence. But in spite of his size, his anger, Fatone felt curiously soft and vulnerable to him, filled with a sorrow that went deep to the bone. That vulnerability reached out and wrapped around Chris, wiggled its way beneath his own anger. Chris felt a prickly ball of emotion rise in this throat. He had to look away and swallow hard a couple of times to get it to go away.

"You're lettin' out all the cold," the kid said impatiently, his tone sharp. "In, okay?"

"Yeah, mom," Chris replied, and stepped inside.

They passed through a dimly-lit storage area, and then into the kitchen itself. All the equipment, eerily silent and abandoned in the dimness, made Chris a little nervous, made him imagine vividly all the scary movies he'd ever watched, and to regret every one. He half expected a raptor to leap out at him, or someone to come after him with a cleaver. He narrowed his eyes at the kid in front of him, and contemplated fleeing just in case that thought had occurred to him also.

"This is his office. You can sit in here, while I get the ice." He unlocked the door and flipped on a switch that turned on the desk lamp.

The office wasn't that big, and as offices went, it was, well, office-y. Filing cabinets, a big desk with a big leather office chair behind it, a desktop PC, a chair in front of it. A dark leather sofa that looked comfortable and was big enough to sleep on. Polished wooden floors, an oriental-looking rug. The walls were a warm orangy-red shade that made him think of paprika in the spice bottles at his mom's house. He bet the paint manufacturers called the shade that, also.

On one wall was a huge landscape that made him think of rural Italy, and duh, Fatone was hardly anything else but an Italian name. Another wall had several framed certificates and awards. But the third wall caught his attention, drew him. Photographs.

Pictures of Fatone's family. His parents, what looked like an older sister and brother. Fatone at various ages, with lots of different people; family and friends, he assumed. One picture in particular caught his eye, a fairly recent one, it seemed: Fatone wearing a baseball jersey, and a backwards ball cap, and the serious, sexy look on his bearded face, the depths of his dark eyes--whoa. Nice. His eyes lingered a moment, then moved on.

Bingo. Dark eyes, sweet face, curly light brown hair, and big, big smile like her daddy. Briahna. A lot of pictures of her, either with her daddy or with members of the family, including a woman who looked far too much like her to be anyone other than mommy. Chris touched Briahna's face, ran his fingertip thoughtfully over the curve of her cheek. Strange, that she'd never called for mommy, just for daddy.

"We'll find you, honey," he said softly to the little girl in the picture. "I promise we'll get you back home."

"You serious about that?"

Chris jumped as the kid entered the office, a bag of ice in one hand, and two beers in the other.

"Totally." Chris took the ice and laid it along the swollen side of his face, and took a long drink of the cold beer. It tasted incredibly good and soothed his parched throat. He wanted to chug it down after all the events of his long, tiring day, but forced himself to sip; he didn't need a buzz and its accompanying problems to contend with on top of everything else.

"You really a psychic dude?" He looked interested and curious, though Chris could feel disbelief and disapproval skittering along his skin. The kid disapproved of him for some reason that Chris hadn't yet discovered, but couldn't seem to quell his interest, though he had good control of his expressions.

"Absolutely." Chris kept his answer short and crisp and sincere.

Hitching himself onto a corner of Fatone's desk and crossing his arms over his chest, the kid looked down his nose at Chris. He had the height, the nose, and the attitude to do it, but Chris had been challenged all his life by bigger, meaner guys than this one, and hadn't given ground. He wasn't inclined to do so now.

The kid studied him a long moment, dark blue eyes alert and serious. Chris held himself very still and matched his stare without a flinch; he could out-stare anyone.

Evidently he passed some sort of test. "I'm Timberlake. Justin." Justin held out his hand. It was every bit as big as Fatone's, and it almost swallowed Chris' own.

"I see your name on quite a few of those awards." Chris hitched a thumb toward the wall of framed documents and awards. "Lead chef, right?"

Justin grinned, unexpectedly sweet and charming. "Yeah. I've been with Joey about three years now. Determined to get this place a five star rating. We're gettin' close."

"Three years with him, huh?"

The way he'd worded it could've gone either way, but Justin's sunny expression darkened, and Chris thought, oh, shit, smart move. Justin was bigger than he was, and if the muscles moving beneath his muscle tee were any indication, he lifted weights in his free time. And he'd been decent to him--not a great idea to antagonize a possible ally.

"Yeah, so?" He'd had Justin for a moment, and now he was slipping out of his grasp; his straight dark brows were lowering ominously. Chris knew he needed to say or do something to pull Justin back to his side.

"Chill, dude. I'm a member of the club, too."

Justin blinked; he obviously hadn't expected that little revelation. "What, your psychic powers told you that?"

Chris grinned. "Nah. The fact that you, Fatone, and this office reeks of sex told me that. And the body language you share. I'm psychic, but I'm also observant. I'm a PI." Chris set down the half-empty beer, reached into the back pocket of his trousers, and flipped his wallet open to his ID and license.

Justin studied his ID carefully. "Huh. You work for an agency, or freelance?"

"Agency." Chris took back his wallet, and fished out a card with Bass Investigation and his own name and number printed neatly below. "I'm legit. If you want to call the Better Business Bureau, feel free. Call the cops if you want. The FBI, if you're so inclined. In fact, I'd encourage it. I have a good record with them, and have nothing to hide. The agency is completely on the up and up."

"I just might do that," Justin replied, and pocketed the card.

Chris shrugged, and took another sip of his beer, then adjusted the ice bag on his face. His skin felt numb now, but still throbbed dully deep within. "If I'd introduced myself that way, I might not have had this happen to me."

"Mmm. Probably not," Justin agreed. "That's about the worst approach you could've taken, man." He shook his head. "Joey and psychics...not the best mix."

"I'm not one of those tragedy chasers. Something bad happens, and the lunatics come crawling outta the woodwork. Doesn't help the cases of those of us who are serious." Anger simmered within him; he'd had plenty of dealings with fake psychics, unscrupulous people who'd tried to profit from the pain of others. They were parasites and he despised them, had done his best to shut down as many of them as he could. Evidently, the experiences Joey had with them had been bad.

"How come you didn't come out when it happened?"

"I wasn't here. I've only been in Orlando a year now. Two years ago, I was in North Carolina." He'd liked Asheville, and would've been happy to stay, but Howie had been offered the job in Orlando, and it was too good of an opportunity to pass up, so Chris had pulled up stakes and followed. He hadn't regretted it.

Justin nodded. "Nice place, been there on vacation." He looked thoughtful. "If you'd been here then, would you have shown up on his doorstep?"

"Don't know," Chris answered honestly. "I go where I'm led, not necessarily where I want to go."

"So why now?"

"Dreams." Chris lowered the ice bag and set it on the carpet; his hand was going numb. It dripped a little onto his trousers, and he rubbed absently at the wet spots with his other hand. "I've been dreaming about her for six days. She's alive, and I want to find her. I need his help to do it, though."

"Not fuckin' likely to get it," Justin said candidly. "When the cops couldn't find her, Joey's parents listened to psychics, and lost a bundle. Huge amount of money, for nothin'. This was after he'd lost more money than he needed to lose, himself. So nope, he's not likely to listen to you."

Chris sighed. "Hell. Man, I hate that. I really fucking hate it. It makes my job a hundred times harder when something like that happens. No wonder he hit me. I mean, I didn't enjoy it, but I understand it."

"Thing is, Joey's not like that," Justin said, leaning forward earnestly. "He's not a violent guy. It surprised the hell outta me when he did it, and probably him, too." Justin's gaze turned back to the pictures on the wall. "Before this happened, man, what a great guy. Always smilin', always laughin', pullin' pranks. Generous, sweet natured, easy-goin'. And not a better dad in the whole world. She was everything to him."

Yeah, the pictures showed a happy guy with a killer grin, a man who looked totally at ease with himself, and head-over-heels crazy for his daughter. He didn't much look like the angry and solemn man Chris had seen. "And now, he's given up." Chris could feel again the misery radiating from Joey, and it was so distant from the happiness in the pictures he couldn't imagine them being the same man.

"Pretty much, yeah. On everything, except the restaurant. Tryin' to work himself to death, I say. No room for anythin' or anyone else."

Justin's voice sounded calm on the surface, but Chris heard echoes of Justin's own misery in his words. He turned back, and Justin shrugged. "I loved Briahna. Everyone who saw her loved her. You couldn't help it. I was 'Unca Jus' to her. But after she disappeared, and had been gone for so long, he lost hope. He's not the same guy." Justin paused. He pressed his lips together tightly, and in that moment, looked very young. "I can't compete with the misery."

"No, you can't. No one can." Chris drained the last of the beer. "I can help him, if he'll let me. And even if he doesn't help me, I'll still try."

"What's it to you?" Justin sounded curious. "Why is it so important? Is it the money? I can't imagine you do this for free."

"I won't lie. Hiring the agency isn't cheap. But I don't get anything other than a standard salary from this, moneywise. What I do get from it is satisfaction from finding her and returning her. And man, if I don't try, the dreams will drive me crazy."

Justin studied him a long moment, and Chris could almost see him rolling the thoughts around in his head, weighing them, the possible consequences of his actions. "Listen. Joey's my best friend. I'm gonna check you out, and if you really are on the up and up, I'll put in a good word for you. He can't go on like this. It's eating him alive."

"Yeah. You do that." Chris took another look at their happy faces, their laughing eyes and swore that even if Joey didn't help him, he'd follow it on his own time and his own dime. Joey and Briahna deserved to be happy again.

Joey slept like shit.

Finally giving up after six hours of tossing and turning, he levered himself up to the side of the bed and sat with his face in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. He'd had nightmares when he did manage to sleep, a mix of things he thought he'd finally gotten under control, and new things, like the surprised expression in Kirkpatrick's dark eyes before he'd slugged him.

Sourness rose on the back of his tongue. Not one of his most shining moments, there. He'd just been glad Justin had been there to hold him back, to talk reason into him before he did something monumentally stupid, instead of just really stupid. Even though anger still simmered in his blood at Kirkpatrick's presumptuousness, he wasn't a violent man, and shame curled hotly in his belly at what he'd done. His parents would be mortified at his actions; they hadn't raised him to be violent. He'd always been pretty good-natured, everyone's friend, and so hadn't needed to fight; those he couldn't charm, couldn't make laugh, he intimidated by his size. He'd never had much trouble with anyone, ever.

Sitting up straight, he flexed his right hand. The knuckles were scraped, and the joints felt stiff and sore. He hoped he hadn't done any real damage to Kirkpatrick, and frowned again as he remembered the thud of fist against face, remembered how the other man had dropped like a rock. He really didn't want a lawsuit on his hands, one he'd probably lose, given the difference in their sizes. It never looked good when a big guy hit a smaller one.

Oh, well. He trusted Justin to calm things down, do spin control. In spite of his occasional divatude, Justin was generally pretty level-headed, and good with people. Friendly, charming, even. God knew he'd fallen for him the minute Justin had smiled at him in a way that indicated he just might be interested in more than an employer/employee relationship.

He sighed and scrubbed his hands through his hair. Yet another fucking failure. At least it was over, and Justin was free now to find someone who could care for him the way he deserved.

Joey heaved himself to his feet and ambled into the bathroom. He showered quickly, and didn't even feel the urge to jack off. Slapping some gel into his hair to help control the unruliness, he neatened his beard and stared at his reflection. He could feel anger still simmering deep within him, like the seconds before a pot broke into a full boil, though he managed to keep it from his expression.

Just when he thought he'd brought some order to the wreck of his life, just when he thought he had things under control, here came Kirkpatrick, with his serious dark eyes and claims of being a psychic. When Briahna had first disappeared, his kind had come like vultures, feeding on his anxiety, his despair, his fear. If it wasn't reporters seeking him out for interviews, it was fucking fakes, offering to help him find her. They'd gotten to him at his lowest point, but worse, they'd gotten to his parents, almost mindless with grief, and his parents had lost almost everything. He'd felt partially responsible for that loss, and that was one of the reasons he worked almost non-stop, trying to replace their savings.

Fucking psychics. Fakes, the whole bunch of them.

He almost didn't mind the anger. Although it burned, cut, it was better than feeling nothing.

After he dressed, he stopped in the kitchen, trying to decide if he wanted to try and eat anything. His mom had cooked especially for him, trying to tempt him to eat, but not even her home cooking sounded appetizing. He ate at the restaurant only because Justin was such a bitch about it that it was easier to eat than to fight with him about it. Running a hand down his belly, he knew Justin had been right; he'd lost a lot of weight, but hadn't really cared too much about it. Briahna had always liked his daddybelly, as she called it.

Fuck. Joey rubbed viciously at his eyes, grabbed his extra set of keys to the restaurant, and headed out the door.

Damn Kirkpatrick.

He swore all the way to work, then plunged into the masses of paperwork it took to run a successful restaurant. By the time he looked up, it was just past noon, and Justin stood in the doorway with a sandwich and a mug of soup. He looked a little like some sort of avenging angel of nutrition, his face set with determination. Joey sighed, and pushed aside the papers. It wasn't worth an argument.

"So," he said, as Justin pulled up a chair beside his desk to make certain Joey ate, and didn't just toss the food in the trash. "What happened last night?

"You didn't break anythin', and he's not gonna sue for assault." Justin stretched out his long legs. He had flour all over his jeans, and a smudge on his cheek.

"I guess that's a relief," Joey said. The soup smelled good and rich, and he spooned it in. Minestrone, his dad's own recipe, he thought. It soothed some of the cramping in his gut. The sandwich was just as good, thick slices of roast beef and horseradish on chewy wheat bread; Justin had always known how to make the perfect sandwich. Justin sat uncharacteristically quiet while he ate.

"Yeah." Justin dug in his pocket and pulled out a small white card. He put it on the desk, and pushed it toward Joey.

"What's this?" Joey leaned forward and peered at the card. Heavy stock, simple and tastefully done. Bass Investigations, it read. In smaller print he'd need his reading glasses to really make out, he saw graceful script.

"It's his card."

Joey picked it up like it was contaminated, and flicked it into the trash. Justin sighed.

"He's a PI. Works for an agency. He's on the up and up, Joe."

Joey could feel the anger gathering in him, feel the frown pulling at his mouth. "I'm not--"

"Jesus, Joe, just shut up a minute." Justin's face clouded, and his jaw set. "Listen to me for just one sec, willya?"

Joey subsided, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, his own jaw hardening. He and Justin had never fought much, but he could be just as stubborn. "Fine. What?"

Justin drew in a deep breath, and let it out with a whoosh. "Okay, you remember Kevin? The lawyer dude I had hooked up with before you?"

Joey turned the name over in his mind. Kevin Richardson. Justin had mentioned him frequently, and they'd run into him once while out. Tall, pale, with black hair and striking dark green eyes. Handsome and urbane, well-mannered and well-spoken, and after meeting him, Joey had been surprised Justin had left Kevin for him. "Yeah, I remember. What about him?"

"I called him early this mornin' and talked with him. And no, not about hookin' up, because I know how your mind works, asshole." Justin rubbed the back of his neck. "So anyway. I had him check out this agency, and this Chris Kirkpatrick guy. The cops know him, think pretty highly of him."

Joey snorted. "Like I believe anything they have to say. If they couldn't find her, why should I believe anything he has to offer?"

"Dude, I talked with him last night. He's serious about it. I told him what happened with the other so-called psychics, and it pissed him off. He wants to help you."

"He wants to help himself to my bank account."

Justin looked as if he were counting to ten, trying to keep his anger under control, his big hands flexing. "Man, you're so bitter, I don't know if anyone can ever break through it."

"I've got reason to be bitter, Justin. I've had the rug jerked out from under me so many times. I've been offered hope, and then watched as it dried up and blew away. I've waited and prayed, mom has lighted candle after candle at church, and nothing. Nothing. I won't be played again. I've been through it once already, and I'm just not buying." Joey's voice grew louder and deeper as anger and grief bubbled up within him.

"I know this. I've been right there beside you, remember?" Justin's voice went soft, a surprisingly gentle voice for a man his size.

Joey's eyes burned, and he rubbed at them, leaning back in his chair. He cleared his throat, and his voice lowered back to normal. "Yeah. You have. I know that. But since you've been there, how can you ask me to go through that all over again? I'm just. I'm just getting back on track, and now it's all opening up again, this big huge mess that I'm not sure I can push down inside me again."

Justin sighed. "Joe, you know I wouldn't even suggest this if I didn't think it was legit. Kevin thinks it's on the level, and he's the least likely person to believe in anything even remotely spooky. He's like, the supreme logical guy. But he saw the results of what this agency, this guy, can do. He said it was fuckin' impressive. He's got no reason to lie."

Joey's eyes wandered over to the framed pictures, the only thing he had left of Briahna. He leaned forward and pressed his hands to his face. The anger had faded, had left only swirling sorrow in its wake.

"I'm not sure I can do it, Justin."

Justin's hand wrapped around his arm, and squeezed gently. "You can if you want. You're strong." He paused a moment. "And man, what would you think of yourself if you had one chance of findin' her, and you turned your back on that one chance? What if you didn't take that one chance in a million, and it turned out to be the real thing?"

Justin rose and ran his hand over Joey's bowed neck. "Think about it, man. That's all I ask."

Justin left, closing the office door gently behind him. Joey sat for a long time and thought. He thought about hope and how fragile it was. He thought about that tiny little spark of it in the back of his head that wouldn't die out, no matter how much he insisted he'd come to grips with the reality of Briahna's death. He thought of Briahna, laughing and skipping through the house, singing along with the old sixties doo wop stuff he used to play on the stereo. He thought about giving up completely, totally squashing the tiny bit of hope left in him.

Slowly, he reached down, and pulled the card out of the trash and set it on his desk. He rubbed his eyes, and thought of all the reasons he shouldn't call. None of them matched up to the one, single reason he should.

With his heart thumping hard in his chest, he reached for the phone and dialed.

"Oh, honey," JC said softly, his long fingers cool and smooth on Chris' face. "What happened?"

Leaning over him, practically in his lap, JC was very, very pretty. He smelled wonderful, some cologne that made Chris think of cool, shady woods. He had some of his "meeting the client" clothes on today, a loose, plum-colored shirt, pleated dark grey trousers, and oddly enough, suspenders. *Suspenders.* Chasez was really an odd duck. It looked really good on his tall, slim body, though Chris couldn't figure out exactly why it did. He looked soft, and very approachable, but Chris knew beneath the deliberately non-threatening exterior, JC was as sharp as a razor.

"Get off, you're smothering me," Chris said and though he might have sounded cross, he wasn't, not really. JC was simply a touchy-feely sort of guy with his friends, and never quite knew when he was too much. Chris didn't want to pop a boner, and so he pushed at JC's chest. "Cut it out, willya?"

He could understand JC's concern; he had to admit the bruise was pretty spectacular, blooming red and purple across his left cheekbone. But at least part of the swelling had gone down, and he felt pretty grateful to Justin for insisting on icing it down. It was bad enough now; he'd hate to see what it would've been like if he hadn't taken care of it.

"You're fine if you can bitch," JC replied with a smile, and hitched his narrow ass onto Chris' desk. A couple of magazines and a file plummeted to the floor, but he shrugged and ignored them with the blithe ease of long practice. "So, man, what happened?"

"Stupidity happened," Chris replied, and took a sip of his coffee. "It's fine, don't sweat it."

AJ's Doc Martens landed on his desk with a thump, hard enough to make his keyboard rattle. Chris thought for a moment about knocking the feet off, but it was pointless. AJ would just put them back; he was as stubborn as Chris.

"I can beat the shit outta him, if you want," AJ offered in his raspy voice, slouched down in Chris' only extra chair. He pulled his ever-present sunglasses down his nose, and his dark eyes glittered. "I don't mind."

AJ had just gotten in from Chicago late in the morning, and had griped at Chris over the phone until Chris had pestered JC, who had already been out working on a case of his own, into picking him up at the airport. Chris hated airports. AJ looked tired and hungover, but had come back in triumph, his case solved. Chris figured he'd be off in a little while to get some sleep, but AJ always liked to touch base with them, to make sure they were all fine. Chris knew he worried about them getting hurt. In their line of business it was an ever-present threat, but AJ would die before admitting any kind of mushy emotion.

"Nah. Thanks. Some of us aren't into mindless violence." AJ was the only one of them who went armed on a regular basis, who had a weapons permit, but then he generally took the rougher cases; Chris stayed mainly with missing children, or the occasional observation job.

"Your loss," AJ said, and shrugged. He was a small guy, hardly taller than Chris himself, and looked painfully skinny, but Chris had seen him work, seen him fight, and knew AJ could take down guys twice his size. Anyone who underestimated AJ McLean had a rude and painful surprise in store for him.

"Are you sure you want to keep at this case?" JC sounded worried.

Chris leaned back in his chair and looked up at JC. "Totally. I had the dream again last night. It won't leave me alone until I try and find her."

"Okay, fine, then." JC held out a CD in a purple jewel case. Chris took it from him and turned it over in his hands. In JC's loopy writing, it simply said 'Briahna Fatone'. "I collected everything I could find on her or possibly about her. Police reports, old news articles, coroners' reports of any body matching her description in a three state radius. Reports of known child molesters in the area. Prison releases of any molesters released around that date. Whatever I could find that seemed even remotely relevant."

Chris knew it would be an impressive and exhaustive amount of information. Computers were JC's passion; he could get information out of them that no one else could. He was also a consummate hacker, and Chris figured it was best to know nothing of how JC obtained some of his information. Chris had blessed his skills on many occasions.

"Thanks, man, I appreciate it."

JC grinned hugely, and his eyes squinched up into half-moons. "You're welcome. Information tapered off after the first six months of her disappearance, as the papers focused on the next big thing. Hopefully, you'll find something that will help, though."

Chris reached over and squeezed his thigh gently. "I'd lay a big wet one on you for all this hard work, but AJ would like, knife me in the back or something, even though I called dibs on you when I first started working here."

JC flushed, and AJ growled, "Yeah, I would, because I was here first, asshole. Your dibs mean nothing."

"Um, straight, guys, remember?" JC waved a hand to get their attention.

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much," AJ said, and when JC's eyes rounded and Chris snickered, he said, "What? Don't I look literate?" Covered in tattoos and dressed in worn denim and black leather, looking like a tough, scarred tomcat that had seen too many fights, Chris couldn't really say he did. Chris opened his mouth for a smart-ass comment, but they could hear Dani's excited squeal from the main lobby. In a moment Dani burst in with Lance in tow.

"Look, look, look," she said, and thrust pictures at JC.

Lance had a bunch of blue balloons in his fist that Chris knew had come from Dani. He looked tired but happy, rumpled in jeans and an orange tee shirt that Chris hadn't seen since their college days.

AJ unfolded from his chair and gave Lance a hug and a couple of whacks on the back that made Lance's pale eyes widen comically. "Congrats, man. I hear Psycho was right and you got a boy."

"Hey!" Chris protested, even as he took the pictures of Gabriel from JC, who had decided it was his turn to hug Lance. "-IC, not -O. PSYCHIC."

"Right," AJ drawled.

Chris stuck his tongue out at AJ and looked at the pictures. Gabriel was a cute kid, as far as babies went, but Chris had been right; the kid would have Lance's prominent nose. Laura looked exhausted, but practically glowed with happiness. Chris knew Bass would be a wonderful father; he and Laura had wanted children from the very first.

Chris handed over the pictures to AJ, then went to rescue Lance from JC's enthusiastic hugs. Lance hugged him hard, and Chris pressed a kiss to his neck. "Congratulations, Bass," Chris said. "You're gonna be a great dad."

"I can only hope. I had a good role model in my own parents," Lance said, and squeezed Chris hard before letting go. Chris couldn't deny that; Diane and Jim had practically adopted him.

Lance grabbed his shirt as Chris pulled away, noticing for the first time Chris' face. "Hey. What happened?"

"Don't worry. My fault entirely. Just took the wrong approach at the wrong time. Live and learn." He wasn't angry at Joey's behavior; he understood it, after Justin's little chat. He'd probably have gone after him with a baseball bat, were the situation reversed. Chris could take someone shitting on him, and learn from the experience, but man, he couldn't take anyone messing with his family. Anger like that, he understood.

"Is this the something new you were working on?"

"Yeah," Chris said, and shook off Lance's hand. "The Fatone kidnapping."

Lance raised a fine dark brow. "You've been hired?" Lance didn't like to be kept in the dark about anything; every bit of paper in the office crossed his desk.

Chris rolled his eyes as AJ sniggered. "Well, I will be. It's just a technicality that I haven't. Yet. Really." He glared at AJ, but AJ had grown immune to his dark looks, if he'd ever been bothered by them in the first place. Chris liked to think that maybe he had, if only for a little while.

"Hey, Chris, wait," Dani said, pausing in her flirting with JC to grab Chris' sleeve and tug at him until Chris turned to her. Chris despaired of the shape of his tee shirt from all the tugging and pulling at it today. "I almost forgot, in the excitement of seeing the new daddy." She fished around in the pocket of her sweater--she always wore a light sweater, complaining that they kept the office too cool for her--and brought out a phone memo. "Here. You said Fatone, I recognized the name. He called just before Lance came in."

Chris took the pink slip from her. In her angular writing, it said: Caller: Joey Fatone. Time: 1: 24 pm. Message: Call me, and we'll talk. No promises. That message, followed by the number Chris recognized as Joey's cell.

"Well, well," JC said, blatantly reading over his shoulder.

Chris elbowed him. "Doesn't mean anything," Chris said, though inside, he practically danced a jig of glee. Baby, he thought, we are gonna find you and bring you back to your daddy. I promise. Smiling, he tucked the note into his jeans pocket. "Who's in favor of the new daddy buying us all lunch?"

Everyone was, and Chris laughed at Lance's chagrined expression.

Joey pulled into a parking space and cut the engine. The heat of the late afternoon sun sliced through the windshield, and within a few seconds, the interior of the car began to grow uncomfortably warm.

The offices of Bass Investigations were in an upscale business complex, the buildings classic and modern, pleasing in their lines, the landscaping gorgeous and soothing and very clearly expensive. Doctors, lawyers, accountants had their offices there, the signs for them understated and elegant. It was a classy place, and honestly, he hadn't expected that.

From what he'd seen of private investigators in movies and on tv, he'd expected a cockroach trap in the worst section of town. He'd expected dirty streets, rundown slummy buildings, shady characters lurking on the corners and in alleys, and police sirens wailing nonstop in the background. He certainly didn't expect a modern complex with the parking lots filled with Mercedes and expensive SUVs.

Of course, he hadn't expected Chris Kirkpatrick, either. If he remembered correctly, the guy had looked nothing like he expected, or like the phonies he'd seen. Kirkpatrick had looked solid, grounded, serious. He'd taken the punch and gotten up, and not offered a fight in return. That in itself had surprised him, because even in the few minutes he'd seen Kirkpatrick, he'd struck Joey as stubborn, a scrapper, a fighter.

Sweat beaded his upper lip from the heat, and Joey got out of his car and headed for the part of the complex that bore the name of the agency. He let out a sigh of relief as he stepped into the coolness of air conditioning. Third floor, F Wing. Joey stepped into the elevator and stared hard at the numbers as they counted off the floors, his hands clenched into fists behind his back. Anger still simmered within him, but he'd pushed it way down deep, where he could control it. He'd give Kirkpatrick a few minutes of his time, because in all honesty, he couldn't dismiss this out of hand. Justin had been right; he had to follow the tiniest scrap of hope, even if it didn't pan out and made him more miserable than before. He owed Briahna at least that much.

The offices of Bass Investigations took up the entire third floor wing of the complex. Their main lobby was soothing, restful, a mix of polished wooden floors, oriental carpeting, pots of palms and other plants, calm landscapes on the walls, and very comfortable-looking leather couches and chairs. Jazz music murmured in the background, nothing too jangly, and the air smelled faintly of vanilla. Everything had been geared toward soothing and relaxing potential clients.

"May I help you?"

The speaker was a busty blonde with a beautiful smile. Dressed well but in an understated fashion, she was the perfect accompaniment to the office. Nothing like a sleazy moll, and Joey did an internal eye-roll. He'd clearly watched way too many detective movies in the past.

"I'm Joey Fatone. Here to see Chris Kirkpatrick." Something squirmed in him as he said the words, and he shifted from one foot to the other. His stomach hurt.

A shadow crossed her dark eyes, but her smile remained unchanged. "Yes. If you wait just a moment, I'll tell him you're here." She picked up the phone, punched a number, and murmured into the receiver. After a moment, she hung up again, and said, "If you'll follow me, I'll be glad to take you to his office."

Joey followed her. If he liked girls, he could go for this one; she was tall, really stacked, with blonde hair. Her hips swayed gently as she walked; she made him think of Kelly and her generous curves, and he jerked his eyes from them as she led him into a hallway.

The first office to the left belonged to an older woman, salt and pepper hair, who made him think of his third grade teacher, Mrs. Harrison, back in Brooklyn. The next had the door closed, but the third had a man about his own age, with a lot of curly brown hair and blue eyes that narrowed as he passed by. The fourth office had a dark, skinny man with a moustache, dressed in black, wearing sunglasses on the top of his head, who scowled at him.

The stopped at the fifth. "Chris, this is Mr. Fatone. I know you've met him before." Though the pleasant lilt of her voice didn't change, her disapproval was like a smack in the face. Guilt curled through him; no wonder the others had glared at him.

"Thanks," Joey muttered, and the girl slipped by him as he stepped into the office.

He stopped just inside. Oh, hell. He felt heat crawl up his throat, spray across his cheeks, and his belly twisted. Chris Kirkpatrick stood there beside his desk, and the left side of his face around his cheekbone looked terribly bruised, purple and red. I did that.

Kirkpatrick was a small man, a good five inches or so shorter than himself; on the slim side but not skinny, he had thick thighs and a little softness at the belly. A folded blue bandana held back thick spiky black hair and he sported a short, neatly trimmed goatee. Two silver hoop earrings glittered in each ear, and he wore a red tee shirt tucked into faded blue jeans. He wore black sneakers, and the long silver chain of a chain wallet swung gently against his thigh.

His eyes were dark, like Joey remembered, intelligent and serious, though he could see amusement lurking somewhere in their depths. One corner of his mouth crooked into a smile.

"You can come in," he said, and his voice was light and musical. "Have a seat."

"I'm not sure. I don't."

"You can stand there if you'd like," he replied with a casual shrug. "No skin off my nose. But me, I'm gonna get comfortable." He plopped into the chair behind the desk and leaned back, folding his hands over his belly.

Joey stood there a moment longer, his belly twisting again. He was afraid, he realized suddenly. Afraid of really hoping again, afraid of having that hope ground to pieces. Afraid that he'd regret coming here, afraid of being jerked around again, afraid of having his heart torn out again. He was afraid that he really hadn't tried as hard as he could have to get her back, though he knew he'd moved heaven and hell to find her. He was afraid of the desire to believe that Briahna was alive still. He was afraid that the man sitting in front of him was on the level, but more afraid that he wasn't.

Kirkpatrick sat quietly, though his knee jiggled a bit, and there it was again, that energy simmering just below the surface, sparkling in his dark eyes. His face offered nothing but calmness. No anger, no resentment, and it surprised Joey; in Kirkpatrick's place, he'd have been seething with resentment.

But nothing would be gained by turning tail and running now. He was here, and would make the best of it. He settled into the chair on the closer side of the desk and tried to look composed.

The soft sound of someone clearing his throat made him glance back at the doorway. The curly-haired man he'd seen in the office stood halfway in the doorway, arms folded over his chest. Next to him slouched the dark man in much the same pose. Neither of them looked particularly friendly, though the smaller dark man carried it off much better.

"Chris, you need anything?" The smaller man smiled thinly.

Kirkpatrick sighed, and Joey turned his attention back to him. "Nah," he said. "I'm fine. We're good. Mr. Fatone, these are my associates, JC Chasez, and AJ McLean." Each nodded slightly at his name, and Joey swore the temperature dropped ten degrees. "And now you guys can get lost, okay?"

"I'll be in my office working, if you need me," Chasez said, and underneath the words was the not so hidden message of 'if this big lug tries to hit you again'. Joey wanted to squirm guiltily, but forced himself to stay still.

"Same here," McLean said. Of the two, he was most definitely the threat; he made Joey think of a cat, crouched and waiting to pounce; if he'd had a tail, it would've been switching back and forth.

"If we decide to do some body slams worthy of the WWF, I'll holler," Chris promised, and made a shooing motion with his hands.

"C'mon, skinny man. We're holding up business." McLean rolled away from the doorjamb, all fluid movement, and Chasez followed.

Out of sight, Joey heard a loud elastic snapping sound, an outraged howl cut short, and Chasez said, "Cut it out, you asshole!" A second later, his flushed face appeared around the doorjamb again. "Sorry. Really. Leaving now." He disappeared again.

Joey turned to Kirkpatrick, who had covered his mouth with one hand. His dark eyes sparkled with amusement, and it danced over his face. He didn't laugh aloud, though he cleared his throat before removing his hand from his mouth.

"Your associates are very...attentive," Joey said slowly.

"They're good guys." Kirkpatrick drew in a deep breath, and blew it out, as if bracing for something. "Okay. Let's get this out in the open, over with. I'm not pissed off. I can't say our introduction was the most pleasant in the world, but I've had worse, and after talking to Justin, I understand where you were coming from. If the situations were reversed, I'd have gone after you with a baseball bat and a Klingon war howl, because man, no one messes with family in my book. I'm not one of those fucking assholes who screwed you over, and it pisses me off that what they've done to you makes you not believe in me. But I can't do anything about that. All I can do is say it's fine, I'm cool, and that I'm willing to start over again."

He leaned forward and offered his hand. His face looked open and friendly; it wasn't a handsome face, but so sharp, so clever, so lively that looks became secondary. "I'm Chris Kirkpatrick. I'm a private investigator for Bass Investigations. I'm also a psychic. You can call me Chris."

Joey cleared his throat. He felt stupid for doing this, and thought it was unnecessary. But he figured he owed Chris, and if the other man wanted to play it this way, he could swallow his feelings and go with it. Slowly he leaned forward and took Chris' hand; it was small, but strong, his grip sure. "I'm Joey Fatone. You can call me Joey. Only my dad is Mr. Fatone, and not very often at that."

"I guess Justin was as persuasive as I thought he'd be," Chris said. He snagged a pen from the top of his messy desk and tapped it against his thigh. "Or else you wouldn't be here."

"He was, yes. We also had your agency investigated."

"I'd have been very surprised if you hadn't," Chris replied agreeably. "I would have, in your place."

"Yeah, well." Joey looked around the office. It was about the same size as his own, though cluttered. On one wall hung framed Bruce Lee movie posters, and on another hung a framed hockey jersey, pennants, and various pictures and articles about hockey. On the shelves below, books that seemed to have a lot to do with various sports, an eclectic collection of biographies, a baseball tucked neatly into a worn glove. Beside the shelves lay a pair of roller blades, a battered hockey stick, and a beat-up looking skateboard. On another wall, shelving held a stereo system, and scattered CDs. One wall held pictures, of a woman he assumed was Chris' mother, and four girls who looked like him in varying degrees. He also had pictures obviously drawn by those girls, all matted and framed, displayed proudly. And everywhere were books, files, and magazines, in haphazard stacks.

"This surprises me," Joey said, with an absent wave around the office. "It doesn't look like anything I expected."

"What, you expected crystal balls? Incense? Spooky lighting? A fog machine producing atmospheric mist? Me, in a turban and long robes?" He looked amused. "That's all fake sideshow crap. I'm just a regular guy. I'm not a fake or a quack. I don't channel voices from the netherworld, read tarot cards, or any other shit like that. I don't read minds."

"What the hell do you do, then?" Joey knew he was being deliberately argumentative, but he couldn't seem to help himself. It didn't seem to bother Kirkpatrick in the least; he acted as if he expected it. He probably did, Joey thought sourly.

"On the normal side, I investigate. I poke, prod, and dig, until I find what I'm looking for. I'm very stubborn and persistent, don't give up easily. On the paranormal side, sometimes I see things that other people don't see, know things that others don't know. I take my skills, my talents very seriously, because I'm in a serious business. Most of my job is finding kids, and man, as far as I'm concerned, that's the most important thing in the whole world, bar none."

"Nice little speech," Joey said flatly.

Chris shrugged. "Take it or leave it. I refuse to downplay what I can do, and refuse to apologize for it."

Joey sat there a moment, struggling with his disbelief, the rising wave of anger and sorrow. "Why now? Why, after a year and a half, do you suddenly bring this all up again?"

"I had no idea who you were until yesterday morning. I've been having dreams for a week about a little girl. They keep occurring, and are almost always the same, down to the little details." Joey watched Chris' sharp gaze soften, as if he looked at something in memory. "I had no name, no information, no anything. So I came in and started looking through our database of missing kids. And I finally found her. And you." His eyes lost their faraway look and fixed on Joey with an unnerving intensity.

"And now, here you are. You've made yourself believe that she's dead, tried to move on, but you can't, not really. You've convinced yourself that you have no hope, but I don't believe that. You'd like to convince yourself that I'm a quack, but there's a part of you that doesn't want to give up on the idea that I might not be." Chris looked down at his nails, then his gaze flicked back upward. "Right?"

For a moment, Joey sat there and struggled against the constricting bands that seemed to have locked around his chest, preventing him from drawing a deep breath. "I thought you said you weren't a mind reader."

"I'm not." Chris' mouth turned up into a smile, but it had nothing of humor in it. "I've just been doing this for a very long time." He rubbed at the back of his neck. "Okay, so. We can sit here and go another ten rounds about how you don't believe in me, in what I can do, or we can get on with the business of finding Briahna. Personally, I think that's the most constructive approach, because you and me, we don't matter a bit. She's the important one."

Two days ago, he'd have laughed bitterly if anyone would've suggested that he would be here, listening to this. Part of him still damned himself for an idiot, a fool, wishing for something that so obviously wasn't true. But that little spark of hope deep inside him, the spark he'd tried to crush, to kill, wouldn't die; at Chris' words, his quiet self-confidence, it grew a little bigger, a little stronger.

He rubbed at his face, tired from lack of sleep and the rollercoaster of emotions. "You said you had dreams?"

"Yeah. Every night, for the past week. She's alive. I know it."

He wanted to believe, he needed to believe, but it was so hard after being burned as he had, as his parents had been. "How accurate are these dreams you have?"

Chris shrugged. "It's not like tv or the movies, man, where the psychic," he made little quote signs with his crooked fingers at the last word, "gets everything played out in his or her mind in technicolor and surround-sound. They're not...hmm...predictions, exactly. More a feel for things, a sense of how things are. Or were. Or will be."

Joey felt the frown tug at his mouth, his eyebrows. "Sounds like a lot of double talk to me."

"Nothing is ever black and white. I know what I saw. It feels like a recent occurrence, either in the near future, or the near past. I can't tell. It feels like maybe the near past, though I can't really say why."

That wasn't what he'd hoped to hear, what he wanted, needed to hear. Frustration welled up in his chest, followed by anger. "Man, you're just jerking me around and I...." Joey heaved himself to his feet, ready to leave, unable to stand the pain of having his heart ripped out again.

"I'm not." Chris' voice sharpened. He rose as well and circled around the desk, stepping right into Joey's space, intense and unafraid. "The picture of Briahna on the far left, next to you in the baseball jersey? You know that one?"

Oh, yeah, he knew that one. He'd had it done the day before she'd been taken, dressed in pink, looking like a confection, as sweet as marzipan. The photographer had loved her, because Briahna was as much a natural ham as he was. He remembered how much they'd laughed during the session, and how they'd gone for ice cream later. She loved strawberry.

"The pink ribbons in her hair." Chris looked up at him, willing him to believe. "They have her name on them, don't they? In darker pink, with little white daisies, right?"

Joey blinked hard against the stinging of his eyes. Kelly had made the ribbons, a pair, and Briahna had her picture taken with them in her hair, because she had been so proud of them. Joey had sat with her in his lap, and showed Briahna her name on them. She had been delighted; she'd known how to spell her name for awhile, but the way Kelly had written it with puffy craft paint on the ribbons, had fascinated her. The next day she'd insisted on having one decorating the ponytail Joey had pulled to the crown of her head. He could still feel how the curls, the softest things he'd ever felt, had clung to his fingers as he'd worked.

The matching ribbon lay curled on the top of his dresser.

"How the fuck did you know that?" His voice caught, sounded suspiciously wet. How did Chris know? In the picture, no one could see the writing on the ribbons; by some angle of the camera, the lighting, they just looked plain pink.

"I told you. I saw it. She's kept it all this time, kept it hidden away from the people who took her. She remembers you, man. She wants to come home." Chris' dark eyes bored into him, slicing through the layers of pain and bitterness he'd built up between himself and the rest of the world. "I swear it." His voice softened. "I want to bring her home. Please let me help you."

Slowly, as though the weight of the entire world rested on his shoulders, Joey felt for the arms of the chair, and sat, willing to listen.

Chris knew he had Joey, if only for the moment. A part of him wanted to dance around the office in victory, shriek in the hallway, and while he wouldn't normally hesitate to do that, or worse, around his co-workers, to a stranger, something like that would be unnerving. And disrespectful. Although others might not think so, he had a sensitive side, was empathetic in spite of his usual brashness.

Handling Joey required tact, a certain amount of sympathy, and the timely application of a cattle prod. He had to find that balance between allowing Joey to feel his grief, and not let it overwhelm him, cloud his thoughts, his judgment. He understood Joey's hesitancy; Joey seemed a practical sort, and even if he hadn't been so burned by fake psychics, it would probably still not have been easy to win him over to something a bit outside the box.

Right now, he seemed a little overwhelmed, and Chris couldn't blame him. He folded a hand over Joey's broad shoulder, squeezed gently, then stepped out of the office. The kitchen was just next door, and he went to the fridge and picked out two Cokes. Between the coffee he'd had, and the assorted sodas he'd consumed during the day, he'd probably have a hell of a time sleeping tonight. Even now he felt a little jittery. Part of it, he knew, was nerves, because he didn't really have any experience to prove Joey wouldn't hit him again, though he believed Justin when he'd said it wasn't Joey's nature to be violent. He'd gotten that impression easily enough. Part of it, and probably the greater part, was the urge to begin the hunt.

He opened the cans and carried them back to his office. Although Joey hadn't lost control of himself, Chris had the notion it was a close thing; the emotion lay thick and heavy in the air, like the pressure just before a storm. Joey lifted his head, and well, hey, hello. Chris found himself impressed all over again at what dark, arresting eyes Joey had.

Definitely not something he needed to contemplate.

"Here," he said, and held out the cold can to him. Joey had such big hands, with long thick fingers, the hands of a construction worker, not a businessman. He tried to avoid brushing his fingers against Joey's as he passed him the soda.

"Thanks," Joey said, and Chris sat down behind his desk, setting his soda perilously close to his keyboard. Lance would bitch a blue streak if he saw it. "So," Joey said quietly, "tell me about the dreams."

So Chris did. He described the place as well as he could, the impressions he'd been able to get from a young child's perceptions. The heat, the dust, the ramshackle appearance of the buildings. The tall grass. The thin man, who wore boots and had a ring of jingly keys at his belt. He hadn't seen the man's face, though; that had been disappointing. When he told of Briahna calling for her daddy, Joey had looked down at the carpet, long lashes blinking. Chris wanted to reach out and put his hand on Joey's arm, to offer comfort, but guys generally tended to reject that sort of thing, so he folded his hands together, instead. He didn't tell Joey about Briahna's fear, her despair; he knew Joey knew, and why kick the man when he was already down.

"I think," Chris said slowly, "that she's being cared for. I didn't get the impression that she was being mistreated. Or," Chris paused, then had to force the words past the tightness in his throat, "or anything else."

He didn't have to say anything else; it had probably preyed on Joey's mind since the day, the hour, the minute she'd been taken. It was a horror of any parent, the possible sexual abuse of a child. And Briahna was a very pretty child.

"Thank God," Joey said softly.

"Yeah," Chris said. He wasn't a religious man, but he knew it gave comfort to others, and he was all about whatever it took to get through a tragedy such as this. "I don't get that impression at all." He cleared his throat, and tapped his fingers on his thighs, thinking. "A lot of times, people take kids when they can't have any, or when they've lost their own. I think. I think that's what this is. An attempt to replace a lost or non-existent child with her."

Joey rubbed his eyes. "I sat by the phone for days, waiting," he said wearily. "Waiting, thinking I'd hear from someone, asking for ransom. I'm. I'm not like, a *really* wealthy man, but I do well, money-wise. I've got the restaurant, and I've been lucky to invest well. But no one called. It wasn't that."

"Y'know, it's probably better that it wasn't," Chris said, and wound the chain of the wallet around his fingers, watching his fingertips go red.

"How can it be better?" Joey's voice sounded sharp, and Chris looked up at him, releasing the chain. It slithered back down his thigh, jingling softly. "How can this be fucking better?"

"Because. Most of the time, in a kidnapping, you don't get the child back, even if you turn over the money. They're killed, to make a clean break of it. No witnesses, no descriptions of anything. I think Briahna was taken by someone who wanted her, who needed her, and who will take care of her. That has kept her alive."

Chris took a drink of soda to gain a moment to think. "What about Briahna's mom?"

Joey blinked at him. "What about her?"

"I don't think it is, but I need to be sure this isn't a custody problem. The police reports don't mention that, but we have to start with the basics. Where is Briahna's mom? She doesn't think about a mom, only you, so I'm just curious."

"Her name is Kelly. Kelly Baldwin." Joey hesitated a moment. "What did Justin say?"

Chris shrugged. "Nothing. In the pictures hanging in your office, I saw a woman who looked too much like Briahna not to be her mother. But Briahna doesn't think about mom. I was just trying to piece together relationships."

"It's not a custody battle. Kelly is." Joey thought for a moment, clearly weighing things in his mind, debating what to tell him. Chris fidgeted within, but held himself relatively still. It was better to get information given willingly, and in his experience, people eventually talked, given enough time and encouragement. "Kelly is a good friend of mine. We've known each other since junior high school. Best friends. I'm." Joey rubbed the back of his neck, drew a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "Okay, so here it is. I've always known I would never get married. Ever. But I still wanted a kid. I could've adopted, maybe, though it's still hard for single guys to do so." Joey paused for a heartbeat, then plunged ahead. "Especially gay guys."

Chris kept his expression completely neutral. Evidently Justin hadn't told Joey about Chris' own preferences, or else Joey wouldn't be having such a hard time admitting this. "No, it's not," Chris replied. "I understand. Really, I do." His gaze rested on Joey, willing him to understand, and it took a second or ten, but Joey was a smart guy and Chris watched the understanding blossom in his eyes. "Totally understand, man."

"Yeah?" Chris watched as Joey relaxed fractionally, evidently realizing that Chris really did understand to some degree the difficulties he'd faced. "Okay. So, I wanted to have a kid, but didn't want to get married. Kelly offered to help me out. So we." Joey cleared his throat, and warm color crept into his cheeks, out into his ears. "Anyway, she got pregnant, and I took care of her, paid all her bills, paid the hospital bills when Briahna was born. And as we agreed, Kelly signed over custody to me, and I've raised her. Briahna knows her as Aunt Kelly, and that's worked out fine all around."

"And you have no reason to suspect she changed her mind?"

"No. She's devastated. It was really hard for her, because she was supposed to have had Briahna that day. She had to get the nanny to take her because she had a rescheduled business meeting. I tried to tell her it wasn't her fault, but man, guilt is a hard thing to shake."

Chris rubbed at his nose. "Yeah, it is. So, in your opinion, she had nothing to do with it?"

"Nothing. I trust her completely."

"And the nanny? Elizabeth Hernandez?" The cops had checked out everyone, and hadn't had any reason to implicate anyone, but Chris wanted Joey's viewpoint, to get a feel for what Joey thought.

"God, no. She's a friend of my mom's. I've known her for years, since we moved here from Brooklyn. No way, man. She's eaten up with guilt over this."

"Okay. Going with whom you and the cops eliminate as possible culprits helps, if only a little."

"So what do you need from me?"

Chris smiled. Though Joey might not believe in what he could do, Chris knew he'd put aside his disbelief, his bad experiences with frauds just enough to trust him, if only a little. It simplified things tremendously; he'd had clients with whom he'd had to fight tooth and nail to get even the most marginal cooperation. Joey was smart enough, brave enough, to put aside his preconceived ideas, and work with him. Chris had to admire him for that.

"I need cooperation from you. That's all I ask."

"Cooperation? Whatever I can give, whatever I can do, you've got it. All I ask in return is that you let me help."

"Done, man."

Joey blinked. "Really? It's that easy? I expected you to, I don't know." Joey made vague hand gestures. "I guess, wanna do things on your own."

"If it were me, I'd want to be involved in any way I could. I figured you were probably the same way."

"When the FBI were involved, they had this 'hands off, go sit in the corner' attitude going. I didn't like it. At all."

"Yeah, they're pretty famous for that. They need to learn some people skills." Chris took another drink of soda, his leg bouncing a bit. Restlessness bubbled in his blood, the urge to do something, anything, strong. "So. What I'd like to do, if you'll allow it, is to go through and look at Briahna's things."

"Go through her things? Why?" Joey's face took on a mulish slant, and Chris thought, here we go again. He avoided rolling his eyes only by a margin, and reined in the impatience. Really, he should be accustomed to this by now, and generally, he was, but on occasion, it still rankled.

"Sometimes it helps me to...hmm...lock onto the person I'm looking for. Kinda like baby ducks imprint on the first thing they see. I wouldn't ask, if I thought it wasn't something that might help."

"Fine." Joey still didn't look happy, but Chris could live with that. Whatever it took to find her, he could endure. "When do you want to do this?"

"Today. Tonight. The faster we get started the faster we can find her." Chris' leg bounced a little faster, and he pressed his palm against his thigh to stop the movement.

Joey glanced at his watch. "I need to be at the restaurant for the evening rush, but after that's over, I can get the assistant manager, Nick, to close up for me. How about nine? Is that too late for you?"

"Nine. No problem." He stood when Joey stood, his blood thrumming.

"So it looks like I've hired your agency." Joey slanted a look at him from beneath his lashes, a little sheepish, and Chris thought, *oh.* A little curl of something--attraction, maybe--warmed in his belly, and he thought, hey, none of that, this is a client, and it's strictly business.

"It does look that way. Lance, my boss, will be pleased, because I'd have followed this, regardless of whether or not you hired me."

"You would have? Why? I mean, why would you do that, if you weren't getting paid to do it?"

"Because I have to." And it was true. He'd get no rest, no peace, until he resolved this, until he found her. Somehow, she'd wedged herself deeply into his heart, and he felt connected to her, responsible for her. He would find her because he had to.

"I can't say I'm not thankful for that attitude, because I am. I'm still not sure I believe in this psychic shit, and I can't promise that I won't have problems with it, but...I'll try."

"That's all I ask," Chris replied.

Joey stuck out his hand, and Chris took it. Joey's hand enfolded his, warm and big, and sensations washed over him like water: anger, despair, and others, so quickly he felt dizzied. But the one he felt most strongly was hope. Joey dared to hope again. Chris hoped he didn't lose that during the time it would take to find her.

"Guess I'd better sign some forms, make it all legal," Joey said, but he didn't release Chris' hand. The desk separated them, but still, his hand in Joey's, Chris felt very close to him.

"Yeah." Chris pulled back, and Joey released him. Chris closed his hand into a fist, as if he could hold in the feeling, but already it had begun to fade. "Lemme get you back to Dani. She's the whiz at paperwork."

Joey nodded and followed him back out to Dani's desk, and Chris explained to her what they needed. He left Joey in her care, and as he started back down the hall, he turned and said, "I'll see you later, okay?"

"Yeah. Nine." Joey looked up from the clipboard Dani had given him, his eyes dark, and Chris smiled back at him and walked down the hall, rubbing his fingers together to get the last sensation of connectedness before it faded entirely.

Joey and Briahna lived in an upper-middle-class neighborhood, in a house that while plain compared to some of the others, still managed to be really nice. Chris pulled his PT Cruiser into the driveway and sat for a moment, listening to the sounds of the night: a dog barking somewhere in the distance, the murmur of insects, the light whoosh of wind in the trees. Far more peaceful than nights he could remember growing up, which were full of neighbors screaming at one another, kids shrieking, tvs or radios blaring, and the sirens of cops and ambulances. But that was his past, unchangeable, and it did little good to dwell on it.

The only past that now interested him was that of Briahna, and only for what he could learn from it to apply to the present, and to the future.

He stepped out of his car and walked to the front door. He rang the doorbell, fidgeting from one foot to the other, jingling his keys in his hand before frowning and stuffing them into his pocket. Drawing a deep breath, he let it out slowly, trying to settle himself, because he didn't want to freak out Joey with his constant moving around. Generally, he could curb it, but the need to get moving, to start searching for Briahna, crawled up his spine and took a couple of laps around his brain. He wasn't certain why, but he felt that something had, or was about to change, and not necessarily for the better.

Just as he was about to ring again, the door opened and Joey stood there, his tee shirt and shorts rumpled and his thick dark hair damp. He ran a big hand through his hair, leaving it even more disheveled than before, and offered Chris a half-smile that made his heart skip a beat.

"Sorry. In the shower, and didn't hear you. C'mon in, man."

Joey stepped to the side, and Chris brushed past him to enter, close enough to feel the heat from his skin, smell the fresh, crisp scent of soap and shampoo. He had an urge to lean in close, and take a deep whiff, to study the combined scents of soap and fabric softener and the faintly salty-musky scent of clean skin, but didn't because even he knew that was just a little freaky.

"No problem." Chris stepped out of the foyer and into the main room. It was cool inside Joey's house, welcome after the wet heat of outdoors. Joey's home seemed bright and cheerful, light woods, bright colors, but still it seemed dark, heavy-feeling. Even if he hadn't been psychic, Chris thought he could still have felt the sadness in the air. "How was the restaurant?"

"Busy. We do a good business. Ever been?" Joey stepped forward, leading the way into the main room, and gesturing for Chris to sit on one of the comfortable-looking couches.

"Once. We'd just moved to town, and Lance and his wife Laura took us there for a fancy 'welcome to Orlando' dinner." He made little finger quotes, grinning. "It's great. A little too expensive for daily dining, at least for me, because I'm such a cheap bastard, but I liked it."

"We?" Joey's dark eyes studied him.

"Yeah. Me and Howie. We moved from North Carolina because he got a job offer he couldn't pass up, teaching at Valencia. Lance and I have been friends since college, and when he offered me a job here, it seemed like the thing to do." Chris shrugged. On the coffee table was a collection of Superman figurines; some of them looked vintage.

Joey flopped down on the opposite couch, putting his feet on the table. A bright Superman logo tattoo decorated his right ankle. He had huge feet and long, long legs with muscular thighs. Chris pinched his own thigh to keep from looking too long.

"I've been here since junior high school. I like it fine." Joey's broad shoulders heaved in a shrug of his own. He studied his thumbnail a moment. "How do you guys like it?"

"Separately, now," Chris replied. His leg jiggled, and the chain of his wallet clinked softly. He nodded toward the tattoo. "Nice ink."

Joey took the change of subject gracefully. Surprisingly flexible for a guy his size, he twisted his leg around, and ran a finger over the tattoo. "Thanks. My present to myself for graduating college. Have a couple of others. Kinda like marking special events, a way of making them your own, y'know?"

Chris nodded in agreement; he had a couple of his own, for the same reasons.

Joey dropped his feet to the floor with a thump, and leaned forward, serious. "Okay. So I gotta tell you, man. This whole thing about looking through Briahna's stuff? It weirds me out. I don't like it. It's like...voyeurism, or something."

"I've been called a voyeur before. Hell, I've been called a lot worse. There's nothing you can say to me I haven't heard before. It just goes with the territory."

"Probably does, at that." Joey looked thoughtful, and almost sympathetic. "So. You want a beer, or do you want to get to it?"

Chris rubbed his hands together. They felt oddly cold; generally, his hands were always warm. "I need to do it with a clear head. So, no. But later, if you're still offering, I might take you up on it."

He didn't really expect that to happen, because looking through a child's things tended to either totally depress people, or make them angry out of grief and frustration. He suspected Joey was one of the latter; after all, he'd seen it in action.

When Joey stood, Chris did also, and followed him into the depths of the house. Joey had a lot of Superman memorabilia---posters, pictures, shelves of stuff, all displayed artfully, instead of just strung around. Either Joey himself had a good eye, or he'd paid someone to organize and display it. All the cheerfulness seemed in keeping with the pictures he'd seen of Joey in his office, the laughing, happy Joey, but didn't seem to fit the Joey he saw before him, serious and somber and depressed.

They stopped in front of a door, and Joey paused. He slanted a look at Chris, dark eyes giving away nothing, but Chris could read the tension in his broad back, in powerful biceps and big hands. He could feel it radiating from Joey like heat from the sidewalks. "You're sure," he said softly. "You're sure that it will help?"

Chris nodded, equally serious. "I wouldn't ask otherwise. I wouldn't put you through it if I didn't think it would help us find her."

Joey nodded, then opened the door, reached in, and turned on the lights. He stepped aside so Chris could enter, and his sadness drifted over Chris' skin. Chris offered him a small smile, then entered the room.

Briahna's room was large, bright, cheerful, like the rest of the house. A little girl's room, with pale wood furniture, including a small table and chairs, two of the three chairs filled with large stuffed animals. One corner held a small easel with a drawing pad and supplies; the picture on the paper was of a bright yellow sun smiling down on a lumpy figure on an even lumpier bicycle. She'd signed her name in big scrawling purple letters, and Chris felt sadness curl in his chest.

On her bed, covered by a pastel pink cover, sat a lion, looking ragged and well-loved. Her closet door stood ajar, and without moving, Chris could see two levels of clothes hanging up, and on the floor, in a neat order, several pairs of small shoes. Low bookshelves held dozens of small, brightly-covered children's books, and on top, more toys, and a cd player with stacks of jewel cases. A game of Chutes and Ladders lay on the floor, stuck for a year and a half in mid-play. Obviously, Joey had touched nothing, because a thin film of dust lay on the dresser, on the night stand, on the table.

Chris looked over his shoulder. Joey stood in the doorway, quiet, his bare toes just touching the carpet, as if afraid to enter. For the moment that suited Chris; his misery was so strong he thought it might interfere with anything he might feel here.

He turned back, and closed his eyes, deliberately blocking out Joey and his emotions, and opened himself to whatever he might find left of Briahna. Like a whisper against his skin, like the faintest breath of breeze, the energy, the essence of her young life curled around him. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, feeling her seep into him, but Joey's voice seemed very far away, calling softly, "Chris?"

"Very happy," Chris said dreamily, still not back into the sharp-edged now. "She was very happy here. You were both happy in this house." He paused, sifting through feelings. "Not without some fights, because she was a very strong-willed child who knew exactly what she wanted and how she wanted it. But almost always cheerful. Always singing. That she gets from you, because you taught her all your favorites, all your dad's favorites. The love of drawing she gets from Kelly. Kelly took her to art classes at the museum, I think--it's a big, cool building next to a park." Slowly, Chris' hands moved, describing a large building. "Justin taught her how to ride a bike. She...skinned her hand, here." Chris' fingers brushed across the heel of his left hand. "Justin was...very sad, but it was better, after he cleaned it up, and then they went for ice cream."

Chris let his eyes drift open, and turned, the room blurring for a moment before springing into sharp focus as he closed himself to the warm sensations in Briahna's room. He raised a hand, pushed his glasses up to the top of his head, and rubbed his eyes. His lashes felt suspiciously wet. He had long ago become accustomed to such a thing happening when he opened himself up, and felt everlastingly grateful the tears hadn't been accompanied by wrenching sobs and vomiting, as was often the case when he opened himself and the child was at ground zero during a murder or an assault.

When he pulled his glasses back down, he saw Joey still standing in the doorway, as pale as milk, his dark eyes huge and haunted, one hand over his mouth.

"Fuck me," Joey finally said, softly. "That's...."

Chris cleared his throat, back to himself once again. "Spooky. Yeah. Three hundred years ago, I'd have been burned at the stake," he replied. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, slick with sweat, and wiped it on the leg of his jeans. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a bandana and wiped his upper lip, the nape of his neck, and his throat. He could feel sweat at the small of his back, tickling a little. "But what I said is all true, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Joey wiped at his face, cleared his throat. "When you went all still, I thought...man, I thought you were shitting me, putting on this act, making me think you were really working it for the money I'd paid the agency. But that's stuff you couldn't have known."

He stuffed the bandana back into his pocket. "I'm not shitting you, man. I'm serious."

Slowly he moved amongst Briahna's things, trailing his fingers along toys, hoping to find more, something more concrete than the sense of contentment and of being loved. Something that might help him lock more securely onto her, to get a sense of where she might be now. He touched everything that she had touched, toys, furniture, all her clothing in the closet, acutely aware of the heaviness of Joey's gaze on him. People had watched him before, and he'd steeled himself to the waves of desperation, panic, and fear that came from them, because strong negative emotions interfered with the process. He'd never wanted to disappoint anyone, but for some reason, he really didn't want to disappoint Joey Fatone. Somehow, it had become very important to him not to fail this one man.

Nothing came to him, though, until he picked up the stuffed lion. It flopped in his hands, most of the stuffing gone, a ragged tawny and brown toy that had obviously been loved long and well. Chris found himself humming lightly under his breath, a song he'd not heard in ages, and when he opened his mouth to say something to Joey, the song burst out instead, his voice rising high and pure into "The Lion Sleeps Tonight."

Halfway into the first verse, a baritone joined in, twining around his own voice, and he half turned to see Joey had finally entered the room, and had joined him. Close now, Joey reached out and put a big hand over the lion's head as he sang. Chris could feel the pleasure, the joy overriding Joey's despair as he sang and lost himself in memories of obviously happier times.

When the last note faded, Joey smiled, and it was such a sweet smile that Chris' breath caught for a moment in his throat. "It was her favorite song," Joey said after a moment. "My dad and I taught her all the doo wop songs we knew, but she loved that one the best." His hand fell away from the lion. "But man, I could never get that high. Not without losing one or both of the boys."

Chris cleared his throat. "Well, I sure didn't do that." He resisted the urge to cup himself protectively, or cross his legs at the very thought of anything threatening his balls. "I'm a counter tenor," he volunteered. "Not many of us around."

"Ever think about putting that talent to use?" Joey sounded genuinely curious.

"I've had offers," Chris replied. "A couple of opera companies, and mostly for the historical or freak interest. Not much call anymore for a guy who can sing higher than most women." He shrugged. "But it's kinda hard to go haring across the country looking for a kid when you're in a production. And when it comes down to a choice between singing, and finding lost kids, there is no choice at all."

"Do you regret it?"

"Not for a minute." And that was the truth; only human, Chris had done things he'd regretted, but never once had he ever seriously regretted his gift and what he was able to do with it.

Joey made a thoughtful sound, and Chris looked up to find Joey studying him. He could almost see the thoughts moving around in his dark eyes, see the shuffling of his ideas, his beliefs, see Joey reassessing him.

"So did you find anything helpful here?"

"Other than gaining a sense of Briahna, nothing concrete." Chris laid the lion back on the bed, in exactly the same position he'd found it.

"I thought you said that it would help." Frustration crept into Joey's voice, and Chris couldn't blame him for feeling it; he felt it himself.

"It's not like I can touch something, get this epiphany, and then have everything fall neatly into place. It just doesn't work like that." Impatient with both his lack of progress, and Joey's inability to see how he worked, Chris shoved his hands into his pockets, and rocked back and forth on his heels. "You ever do jigsaw puzzles?"

"Um, yeah." Joey looked confused at the abrupt change of subject. "What does that have anything to do with it?"

"It's a lot like that, the things I see. Sometimes, they don't make sense to me. The pieces fall into my head, and I move them around, try them here, try them there, see if they fit with anything else I know. Sometimes, they fit, and the picture becomes clearer. Sometimes they don't, and actually belong to a completely different puzzle. I just have to be patient, and keep shuffling puzzle pieces until they all fit together."

"Somehow, you don't strike me as a very patient guy. I'd have figured you for someone who took a hammer to the puzzle pieces to *make* them fit." One corner of Joey's mouth curved upward, and Chris grinned in response.

"Well, yeah. For anything else, I would be that guy. But I can't make things happen with this. I don't have any control over what I see."

"Okay. So what's next? What do you need to do?"

Chris rubbed the back of his neck. "Dunno. You have picture albums, I assume. Have any videos of her?"

Joey smiled wryly. "Man, you have no idea. Briahna grew up with me taping her. I have like, too many tapes to count. Seriously."

"Would it...hurt you if I watched some of them? Just to get a feel for her in movement? Here," he gestured at the room, "I get a feel for the essence of her, but I'd like a sense of her in real life."

Joey's face clouded again. Chris waited; if Joey said no, that would be that, and he'd think of something else. He was merely fishing, looking for something that would inspire him, a piece that might fit into the puzzle.

"Yeah, it will," Joey admitted. "It'll hurt like fuck. But I can take it if it'll help."

"You don't have to watch with me. I can do it alone. I understand, man. You don't have to put on the hair shirt and suffer."

Joey drew himself up to his full height. "I said I can do it. And I will. C'mon." He turned and strode out of the room.

And that, Chris thought, was that. He cast one last look around the room, turned off the light and closed the door behind him.

They had taken Briahna when she had been four and a half years old. Chris had decided he only wanted to watch a year's worth of tapes when Joey had opened up his tape cabinet, and he'd seen the sheer volume of neatly-labeled tapes.

"You weren't fucking kidding, were you?" Chris asked with a low whistle, leaning forward to peer into the cabinet. "I should've bought stock in blank camcorder tapes."

"Yeah, well. I'm a camera freak."

He'd settled Chris down with a Coke, and they'd watched tapes. He'd been right. It did hurt like fuck. The only time he'd watched was a night a month after they'd taken her, and Justin had sat with him on this very same couch, had rocked him and held him and stroked his back while he cried. The next morning he'd put away the tapes, and he hadn't seen them since.

Briahna, lively and light on her feet, singing, using a shoe as a microphone while his dad had laughed and sung with her. Briahna, 'helping' to wash the car with Justin, and at his instigation, spraying Joey with the hose while he filmed. Briahna, standing on a chair, helping his mom roll out cookie dough, her face smudged with flour, her grin as bright as the sun. Briahna, in a little pink swimsuit with a ruffled butt, playing in the pool with Kelly, both of them laughing and splashing. Briahna, in a lacy pastel Easter dress, little white gloves, white patent shoes, and a ribboned hat, putting Easter eggs in her basket. Briahna, snuggling in his arms as he read to her, doing all the voices just the way she liked, while Justin filmed them and added in his laughing commentary.

The last had cut too closely, had hurt too much, and Joey had turned his attention from the screen to Chris, watching him as he watched the screen. Chris never seemed to sit entirely still, always moving, whether it was his feet tapping, his leg jiggling, or his fingers drumming on his thighs, or chin, or cheek. In spite of all that, he didn't seem to have any trouble focusing, face serious, dark eyes watchful, flicking back and forth behind the lenses of his glasses, searching for something only he would recognize. He had the oddest ears; the shape of them almost, but not quite, came to a point, and Joey bet the kids had teased him mercilessly for that, as well as for his small size. Joey wasn't certain how old Chris was; he was probably older than himself, but just looking at him, he couldn't tell. Chris had faint lines at the corners of his eyes, but his face was so animated, so mobile, that pinning an exact age on him seemed both impossible and unnecessary.

And then Chris' dark eyes fixed on him, and he said, "What?"

Joey blinked. "Nothing," he replied, and turned his face back to the screen. His cheeks felt hot. He hadn't cruised Chris, but he had been caught staring, which was almost as bad.

They finished that tape, and Joey popped in another. Halfway through it, Joey found he couldn't bear hearing her infectious laughter, couldn't look at her sweet, happy face. He couldn't stand seeing her and not being able to touch her. Rising to his feet so quickly he staggered, he turned and walked away, aware of Chris' gaze on his back.

He went through the kitchen, out the sliding door, and stepped out onto the well-lit deck. The heat slammed into him, wet and heavy, oppressive, but he didn't care. He stood at the railing, fingers digging into the wood so tightly that color leached from his knuckles. He couldn't seem to catch his breath; his chest seemed too hot, too tight. He squeezed his eyes shut so hard that bright sparkles flashed behind his eyelids as he tried to force everything back down inside him, where it belonged. Thunder rumbled ominously overhead, and the scent of nearby rain washed over him, but he didn't care. Let the rain pour over him. Let the lightning strike him. Nothing could possibly be worse than this feeling of desperation, of helplessness, of despair.

"Joey." Chris' light voice sounded a little deeper, troubled. Joey looked over at him, the kitchen light warm and golden on his skin, reflecting off the lenses of his glasses, his dark eyes. "Man, I am so sorry."

"You didn't do it," Joey said tightly. "You offered me an out, and I didn't take it. I just. I fucking miss her."

Chris' hand on his arm felt warm and strong, and he leaned in closer, his face earnest. "I swear to you we'll find her. I won't ever give up."

Joey half turned from the deck railing to face Chris. He could feel the assurance radiating from Chris, and he wanted so much to believe as Chris believed, wanted to soak in it, to bathe in it, to feel his confidence. He wanted something other than the dead numbness or the never-ending despair.

When Joey raised a hand, Chris went very still; Joey wasn't certain he even breathed as Joey ran a thumb gently over the bruise on Chris' face. When Chris didn't flinch away, didn't step back, Joey's hand curved around the nape of his neck, fingers brushing over his short thick hair. He could almost feel the thrum of Chris' energy in the palm of his hand, and felt envious of it. He wanted to absorb some of it into himself, to give him the strength to survive going through all this yet again when it had almost destroyed him the first time.

Joey leaned in, and Chris' eyes went wide with surprise, but he didn't make a move to stop him. Chris' mouth felt warm and surprisingly soft beneath his, and when Joey licked lightly at his full lower lip, Chris opened willingly for him.

Oh. Good, good, good, his mind whispered. The tip of his tongue found the soft inner surfaces of Chris' lips, traced over slick hard teeth, and ventured in to slip and curl along Chris' own tongue. Chris tasted sweet, like Coke, and hot, bright, as intense as summer sunshine.

Joey pulled away slightly, breathless, and Chris made a soft, high sound, his breath warm against Joey's mouth, and then he tipped his head to a slightly different angle, rose up on his toes, pressing himself closer to Joey, fitting his own mouth over Joey's. Chris had been passive at first, receptive, but as he tightened his fingers into Joey's shirt and pulled him close, as he rocked against him restlessly, Joey realized that it probably had just been surprise, because Chris kissed like a man who loved to do it, aggressive, passionate, willing to give as well as receive pleasure.

They stood locked together for a long time; how long, Joey couldn't tell, lost in the rush of freed emotions, of his body coming to life, responding as he hadn't for a long time. Long enough for Chris' hands to work into his hair, pulling and tugging in time to the toe-curling thrusts of his tongue in Joey's mouth. Long enough for Joey to have pulled up the back of Chris' tee shirt, to stroke his fingers over the soft, smooth skin just above the waistband of his jeans. Long enough for Joey's other hand to glide over Chris' hip and cup his taut ass, squeezing hard enough to hear a needy moan rise up into Chris' throat.

Long enough for the clouds to open above them and send down a torrent of warm, drenching rain.

They were soaked in seconds. Finally coming to his senses, Joey untangled Chris from him and stepped back, breathing hard again, for an entirely different reason. His mouth felt hot and swollen, and he licked his lips, tasting Chris faintly before the rain washed it away. Beneath his shorts, he was more than half-hard, and his blood hummed a song of awakened desire in his veins.

"I'm sorry," Joey said, because he thought he should say something, and that seemed like the thing to say.

Chris stood quietly, his tee shirt plastered to his body; his nipples poked insistently against the wet red material, and beneath his jeans, he looked fully hard. Joey looked up, but the rain-splattered glasses hid Chris' eyes. He saw the pink flash of tongue as Chris licked his lips, just as dark and swollen as his own felt.

"It's. It's all right," Chris said. His voice sounded tight, but he cleared his throat, and it sounded easier as he said, "I think I'm tired of being wet, though."

Lightning flashed, and almost instantly, thunder boomed, seemingly directly above them. They scrambled for the door, and stood dripping on the linoleum in the kitchen, eyeing one another with discomfort. Chris reached up and slicked off the folded bandana from his forehead. Rainwater dripped from his nose, from his chin, and he wiped at it with the back of his hand.

Even though he knew it was wrong, Joey wanted to step closer, wanted to touch Chris, to kiss him again. In those few moments, he'd felt alive again, even more than the times when Justin would seek him out, would touch him, would let Joey fuck him, just trying to reach the parts of Joey he'd once known. And as wrong as it had been to let Justin do that, it was just as wrong to try and feel real again through Chris.

"I didn't mean...it surprised me as much as it did you. I don't know what came over me."

Chris pushed his glasses up to the top of his head as he looked Joey in the eye. "It was just the moment, man. Strong emotions usually bring about strong reactions. No harm, no foul."

Joey studied Chris a moment longer, taking in the determined, prideful lift of his chin, his calm dark eyes. Finally he nodded in agreement. When Chris shivered as cool air drifted over him from the air conditioning vents, Joey snapped out of it. "C'mon. You're gonna get sick if we don't get you dried off. This way to the bathroom."

He led Chris to the guest bath, telling him where the towels were, then stepped into his own room and dug around in his dresser until he found an old pair of sweats and a tee shirt that had 'tell your kids it's not nice to point at me' emblazoned across the front. Taking them back to the bathroom, he knocked on the door and said, "I've got some dry clothes, if you want 'em," then set them on the floor and then went back into his bedroom, dumping his wet clothes in the bathtub, drying off, dressing in shorts and yet another tee shirt.

He was mopping the kitchen floor when Chris appeared in the doorway, dressed in his clothes, which were too big. The corner of Chris' mouth quirked. "Thanks, man. I appreciate it. I'm a real bitch when I get a cold."

"No problem." Joey gestured toward the table. "Sit."

"I can leave now, if you'd rather. It's been...stressful for you."

"It's still pouring. You can wait until it eases up." Joey gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Not much point in getting dry just to get all wet again, is there?"

He didn't bother to see if Chris had sat, but focused on simple tasks, such as putting the mop away, washing his hands, and going to the fridge. He wasn't particularly hungry, but his mom had raised him to feed everyone that came into his house; it was like a biological imperative. Besides, preparing food calmed him, settled his nerves, and seeing Chris sitting there, watching him, made him thrum with nervousness. So he pulled out the pasta putanesca she'd made the day before, slathered butter onto half loaves of bread, and set everything to heating.

Chris pulled a knee to his chest, setting his heel on the edge of the chair, and looping his arms around his leg. "You don't have to do this. I'm a big boy, and can find my way to McDonald's without trouble."

"Those words are never spoken in a Fatone house. If my mother were here, she'd be crossing herself and praying for your immortal soul." Joey turned from the cabinet with two wine glasses, and caught the flash of Chris' white teeth in a grin.

Seeing Chris smile made him relax a little, offer a small one of his own in return. He poured wine, and set one glass at his place, handing the other to Chris. He found himself humming under his breath as he dished out plates of pasta, and stopped for a moment; he hadn't done that in ages.

Chris ate with gusto and Joey pushed his food around his plate after a few bites. After half a glass of wine, Chris began to talk; nothing of consequence, nothing deep or important or relevant, nothing that demanded much of a response from him. Joey thought it should have made him nervous, because he hadn't willingly talked to many people lately, but he found that it relaxed him, much like Chris' smile. He let Chris' light voice wash over him, soothe away the jitteriness crawling around inside him.

When Chris had finished, Joey picked up the plates and set them into the sink, then wiped everything off, ignoring Chris' offer to help. He herded him into the living room again, with another glass of wine, then as Chris settled into a corner of the couch, folding his legs beneath him, Joey pulled out the photo albums, and set them beside Chris, before abandoning him like a coward, before curling into his favorite big chair across the room.

Chris took a sip of wine, and set the glass on the side table. "Joe. You're not a coward. I can't blame you. This is...painful for you."

"What, mind reading again?" He couldn't help the sharpness of his words, because they hit too closely to home.

"Told you. I don't mind read." He smoothed a hand over the red leather cover of the first album, then looked up. His eyes, always sharp, looked almost kind. "I just can read body language, and I'm not stupid."

While Chris leafed through the first album, Joey sat quietly, listening to the breath rushing in and out of his lungs, listening to his heart beat, listening to the crash of thunder and the pounding of the rain on the roof.

He wasn't sure what to say, what to do. He'd spent a year locking up the pain, and in a couple of days, it had surfaced again, just as sharp as it had ever been, undulled by the passage of time.

Watching Chris work had been disturbing. Enlightening. Spooky. No flashy gestures, no tarot cards, no crystal balls, no dramatic trances. He'd just--gone somewhere else, as if he'd quietly stepped into a different room. Joey had always considered himself pretty easy-going, maybe not the brightest crayon in the box, but sharp enough to do well in both his business and personal life, no one's fool or dupe.

He'd thought himself a practical sort of guy, who got things done through hard work and sheer determination. None of that had helped him find Briahna; he'd done everything humanly possible to find her, and had still come up with nothing for his efforts. And now here was Chris, who wanted him to believe in things he'd always considered stupid and unbelievable, things only the weak, those who couldn't face reality would support. He'd sunk that low before, and bile rose bitter on the back of his tongue at the thought he was willingly throwing himself back into it.

His attention slipped to Chris, absorbed in the picture albums. From what he'd seen, Chris' normal expression seemed to be sharp and observant, with just a glimmer of amusement at everything and everyone around him. Now, his eyes behind his glasses had gone hazy and soft, as they had in Briahna's room, and Joey thought that now, like then, Chris wasn't entirely in the same room with him. He touched every single picture, a light, quick graze of fingertips, as if he could feel something different than glossy processing. Joey wondered what Chris felt as he worked. He wondered what it would be like to have such a gift; it seemed to Joey it would be more a curse, than anything else.

"What's it like?" Joey blurted out, curious.

Chris looked up and blinked a couple of times, and the softness, the distance in his expression faded away. "What's what like?"

Joey made a little gesture, indicating Chris, the albums, the space around him. "This...this thing you do. Being...what you are." Great. Really articulate, he thought.

Chris closed the album, and set it with the others; he'd gone through all of them. He stretched, and the tee shirt tightened across his chest, rode up enough that Joey caught a glimpse of lightly-furred belly. Chris ran a hand through his hair, thoughtfully.

"It is as it is. I've always been like this, for as long as I can remember. It seems like it runs in our family. My gramma had it. She called it the Sight." He shrugged. "You can't ignore it, you can't control it, and you have a...responsibility to others. Your life isn't your own, with it. I started having very clear visions, for lack of a better word, when I was eight."

"Sounds more like a curse." Joey couldn't imagine a childhood filled with visions of tragedy and suffering and loss. His own childhood had been happy, loving, and he hoped that Chris' own family had loved him as well and hadn't treated him like a freak.

"Yeah, well," Chris replied. "Sometimes it is. But you either deal with it, or go crazy, and I don't think I'd look that great in a straightjacket." He flashed a quick smile, one that had very little of humor in it, then unfolded from the couch. "It's stopped raining. Guess that's my cue to leave."

Joey cocked his head, listening, and Chris appeared right; he couldn't hear the downpour anymore. He glanced at the clock; it was almost one in the morning. "Did you find anything? Going through the tapes, through the albums?"

"No," Chris replied, and he sounded frustrated. "Or at least, nothing that helps at this moment to point me in the right direction. The experience isn't wasted, though. I have a much better sense of her now, but I wanted something positive to offer you."

Chris drew in a deep breath and blew it out, then turned decisively and headed for the bathroom where his own clothes were. Joey didn't have to be a mind reader himself to see that Chris put a lot of pressure on himself to succeed, even though he'd told Joey that he had no control over his abilities.

A moment later Chris reappeared, holding his soaked clothing. He flashed a grin at Joey, and said, "It looks like you tossed me into the pool."

"It kinda does," Joey said, and heaved himself to his feet. He didn't want to think about how they'd both gotten so wet, but the memory of Chris warm and hard against him, the sweetness of his mouth, wasn't so easily dismissed. Heat curled through him, settling low in his belly, but he pushed it aside. "You want a trash bag, or something, so your car doesn't get wet?"

Chris looked up at him, a fey, sidewise glance, and Joey had the feeling that oh, shit, Chris *knew* what he was thinking, feeling. He schooled his face to show nothing; he'd gotten really good at it in the past year. Chris shrugged, and set his chain wallet on top of his wet clothes.

"Nah. It's okay. It's had pretty much had everything in the world in it, and a little water won't hurt." He turned and walked toward the door, and Joey followed.

"So, what now?"

"Now, we work at it through regular channels. Do stuff the normal way. Which, I can tell you from years of experience, is mind-numbingly boring and repetitive. Probably not the glamorous sort of thing you'd expect for a private investigator."

"I think I'm learning to adjust my expectations a little," Joey replied, and Chris grinned up at him, clearly approving. "What time do you want me there to help?"

"Man, I'm serious about the boring and repetitive part. You don't have to--" Chris raised a placating hand when Joey felt his face set stubbornly. "Fine. The office opens at nine."

"I'll be there."

"What about the restaurant? Aren't you busy with that?"

"I've decided to let Nick, the manager, handle it for awhile. He's a smart kid, and can handle Justin's diva fits when he has them. If I'm gonna do this, I'll give it my full attention. Nothing else is as important."

"No, it isn't." Chris laid a hand on his forearm and squeezed gently.

Joey looked at Chris' hand, then at Chris' dark eyes. For a second, he swayed slightly toward Chris, then realized this was exactly how their kiss had begun, and stepped back with a nod. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

Chris nodded, then opened the door and padded barefoot on the wet pavement out to his car. Joey watched until he'd pulled out of the driveway, watched until his taillights disappeared around a corner. He stepped back into the house, closed the door, and locked it, then leaned against it, thoughtful. He felt vaguely unsettled, like a cat with its fur rubbed the wrong way, and he wasn't sure just how to set things right, put them back into their normal places again.

And he wasn't sure he wanted them in their old places any more.

Chris had wrestled two large containers of Starbuck's coffee--one mocha, his favorite, and the other heavily creamed, with three sugars, a bag with Joey's clothes, now clean, and a bag of bagels out of his car when JC's jeep pulled in beside his car. Chris bumped his door closed with his hip, and dropped both the bag of clothes and the bag of bagels. He scowled at JC, deciding that his own clumsiness was somehow JC's fault, and JC beamed at him and waved.

"I swear, man, you're gay and just don't realize it yet." JC had just gotten his beloved jeep repainted, a deep, lustrous purple. Not something easily missed in any parking lot, certainly.

"I can tell you he's not."

Chris peered into the jeep's passenger seat. What the hell was her name? Tina? Tara? Yeah, Tara. That's what her name was. JC had introduced her last night as they'd closed up; she had met him there for their date. She was a law student, and working as a paralegal, if he remembered correctly.

"Oh, please," he said with a roll of his eyes. "It's too early to hear icky boy-girl stuff. I haven't had my breakfast yet."

They both laughed, and JC hopped out, circled around, and opened the door for Tara. He was polite, had good manners, and the girls loved him; his mom had raised him right. Tara emerged from the vehicle, straightening her very short black dress, the same one Chris had seen her in last night, with a little shimmy that had all of JC's attention. She had nice legs; even Chris had to admit that, though she was so slim, so tiny she looked breakable. He wasn't certain he'd want a partner he'd be afraid of hurting in his enthusiasm. His attraction to Howie, small and slim, had been based on his sweet smile and gentle nature, rather than on any physical quality, because his preference had always been guys who were big, strong, sturdy. Dark haired, dark eyed, broad-shouldered. Like Joey.

And no way was he going there this morning. He pushed that thought out of his mind. Professional. Yes. He could be professional, and would, even if it killed him in the process.

He left JC and Tara kissing beside the jeep. By the time he'd wrestled the door open to their wing of the building, JC was escorting her back to her own car. "C! Get those two bags on the way in!" JC waved absently at him, and Chris sighed in relief as he ducked into the coolness. Not even nine in the morning, and it was already broiling. Had to love Florida in August. Still, he'd take the heat of summer here in exchange for the bone-chilling coldness and deep snow of Pennsylvania in mid-winter, faced without more than tennis shoes, a light jacket and thin mittens.

With the ease of long experience, Chris shuffled that memory to the back of his brain. No need to think of things like that now; they were far in the past, where they belonged. Once in the office, he waved to Dani the best he could without spilling his coffees, again cursing Starbucks for not giving him a carrier for them.

"Lance still out?"

"He might pop in today, though. You know how he is." Dani shuffled mail with blinding speed into piles that made sense to her. Lance might be the titular head of the agency, but without Dani, the whole place would fall like a house of cards in a strong breeze, and they all knew it. Chris was certain she'd come from the womb managing everyone around her, and the thought amused him. She slanted a glance up at him. "How's the face?"

"Perfectly handsome, as always," Chris replied with a grin, and ambled down the hall to his office, her snickering fading behind him. He might be insulted at her disbelief, but had long ago come to terms with no one ever truly appreciating his special look.

Gratefully, he set the coffees down on a clear spot on his desk, and rubbed his palms against his blue-jeaned thighs. He moved files he'd already used into different stacks to give back to Dani; he had a terrible habit of hoarding things, even after he was finished with them. Well, he'd gift her with a huge stack of them, and she could stop complaining about it.

"Hey."

Chris glanced over his shoulder to see AJ lounging in the doorway. Sometime during the night he'd bleached his hair, leaving dark roots; Chris decided he liked it. He'd streaked his own dark hair with purple or red highlights at times, but didn't have the either the patience or inclination to go blond. Lance, Mr. GQ, hated shit like this, but never said anything about it, because he'd rather have them happy with themselves and so more productive. He and Jessica and Dani were the bastions of normality; the rest of them were more--free spirited.

Except for the newly-bleached hair, AJ had dressed fairly conservatively this morning, in a long-sleeved black dress shirt and neatly pressed trousers, his standard 'meeting new clients' clothing; the long sleeves hid the tattoos than ran up and down his sinewy arms. He wore silver wire-framed glasses, not the shades he usually wore, and had removed all the leather bracelets and heavy silver jewelry he favored. After seeing him like this, Chris suspected it was always a bit of a shock to his clients when they saw AJ's normal attire.

"Hey, man. Nice hair. C'mon in. Let me get this shit out of the way."

Chris staggered down the hallway to the file room, his arms full of files, and stacked them on the table. That should keep Dani busy for quite awhile. He'd buy her something chocolate later, to make up for the mess.

When he got back to his office, AJ was drinking out of his cup, and Chris rolled his eyes. None of them seemed to have any personal boundaries, which was at once oddly comforting and slightly creepy, but he'd quickly grown accustomed to it.

"So." AJ craned his neck and made a show of examining Chris' face. "Don't see any new bruises. Must've gone better last night."

Chris took his coffee out of AJ's hand and took a sip of it himself. Chocolate and coffee; the best of the best. "I told you I was fine," he replied. "That wasn't his normal behavior. He felt really bad about it."

AJ made a humming sound, then slouched in his chair, bonelessly. Chris had often wondered how in the hell AJ could be comfortable in some of the positions he fell into, but AJ always looked relaxed and comfortable, no matter where he was. It was a good act, very convincing; but Chris could always feel the energy, thrumming like a high-current wire, just beneath AJ's skin.

"Whatever," AJ said dismissively, and Chris wasn't fooled. AJ would carry a grudge against Joey for ages; he was very protective of his own. "Find anything useful to help you?"

"I wish." Chris had been amazed at AJ's easy acceptance of his gifts, but AJ was very practical, and accepted readily any tool that made the job easier. "I think it's down to basic stuff, now. Not that it got the cops or FBI anywhere, but I've gotta start somewhere."

"My appointment is in a few minutes, but if you want me to do the nasty stuff, just yell. Ain't no big thing, bro."

"I appreciate that. I'll owe you."

JC breezed in, bags in hand, looking loose and relaxed, like a man who'd been well-laid. Chris felt a pang of envy; he'd not slept with anyone since Howie had left him, and not frequently for awhile before. He'd seen too much of Howie's back in the three weeks before they called it quits, and not in the best sense of the term, either.

Chris caught the bag of bagels as JC threw them at his chest, and waited for him to lob the bag of Joey's clothes at his head, but no such luck. With a wicked glint in his blue eyes, JC drawled, "Well, well, now what do we have here?"

He pulled the sweats out of the bag and waved them around. He dropped the bag and held them up to himself, measuring. JC was as narrow as a yardstick, and the sweats would've swallowed him, but they were his length, way longer than Chris wore his.

"Hmm," JC said. "A bit big, don't you think?" He held them by the waist and danced them around, and Chris felt heat crawl up his throat. He leaned forward and snatched at them, but JC was too quick, jerking them back out of reach. "Now, just who do you think these belong to, Mr. McLean? Surely not our height-impaired friend, here."

Both of them assumed a comically studied expression, pressing index fingers to their lips, tilting their heads to one side. Chris couldn't help but laugh, because it was ridiculous as well as annoying.

"Well, now, Mr. Chasez. I deduce that these sweats, Exhibit A, belong to a tall man. Definitely not our own dear Mr. Kirkpatrick. And the fact that he has them folded neatly, and they smell sunshine fresh, as if they've been washed--well, Mr. Chasez, I do believe I must deduce that, against all expectations, our Mr. Kirkpatrick has gotten himself laid, and these are his lovah's"--AJ stretched out the word to salacious lengths--"articles of clothing, washed and dried as a sign of his devotion."

JC held his hand up to his mouth, affecting shock. "Why, Mr. Kirkpatrick. Is this true? I'm simply agog with amazement. What about you, Mr. McLean?"

"Agog," AJ replied dryly.

"I swear to God you're both insane." Chris snatched the sweats out of JC's hand as JC dissolved into peals of laughter. "You're both like gossipy fourteen year old girls. Don't you have anything better to do?"

"Probably," AJ said, as JC turned red, still hooting with laughter.

"Then go do it." Chris waved them out of his office, as if that would actually accomplish anything. "And that's the *shittiest* bit of deduction I've ever heard, you assholes."

"Ah, man, you're so harsh," JC said, wiping his eyes. He looked at Chris, folding the sweats back into some semblance of neatness, and grinned again, apparently unable to help himself.

"Cruel, hard-hearted, a real bastard, yeah, yeah." Chris grunted as he bent over the edge of his desk and caught the edge of the bag, dragging it over to him.

"Well, I had hope," JC said, straightening his clothes and running a hand through his curly hair. "But still, you need to get laid. I could set you up with a girl." He dropped a quick wink in AJ's direction.

"Wait a minute. You never set *me* up. I'm feeling no love here." AJ shifted and checked his watch. "And I actually like girls, as opposed to fruit plate over there."

"Hey!"

AJ grinned at him, then unfolded from his chair and pulled JC by the arm until they reached the door. "If you need help, let me know. My new case looks pretty simple, so I'll have time to work with you."

"Thanks man. You're a prince among men. Now get the hell outta my office. I have work to do."

JC waved merrily as AJ pulled him from the room, and they were gone, bickering half-heartedly about how JC had never offered to introduce AJ to girls, in spite of the fact that JC had known AJ a lot longer. Chris dismissed them from his attention as he popped in the disk JC had made for him of all the pertinent information related to Briahna's kidnapping. He had just cued up the computer to print out the list of sex offenders, when something brushed across the surface of his mind, a little whisper of awareness.

Raising his head, he stared at the wall, as if he could actually see through it. Strange, a quick little tug of recognition at the edges of his attention. And then his mouth quirked in a half-smile, because he knew Joey had entered the building. He'd developed that sense of knowing when Howie was close, but it had taken months of them living together before he had. And he'd never felt that about any of the short-term relationships he'd had before Howie. Interesting.

He had just collected the pages from the printer, and there were way too many of him for his comfort, when Joey knocked on his door jamb. Chris looked up and smiled, and waved him in.

"Good morning," Joey said as he came in. He had two small bags with him.

"Hey," Chris replied, and sat back in his chair, slipping his newly-printed pages into a clean folder and setting it on his desk. Warmth curled low in his belly, because this morning, Joey looked cool and casual in a white shirt and khakis. Chris' mind shied away from the saying 'good enough to eat' because man, he didn't need to go there. Fucking *broad* shoulders and long legs, and thick floppy dark hair, and dark, dark eyes, and, oh, hell, he knew what Joey's mouth tasted like, and how his big hands felt, and he waved bye bye to his professionalism as it fluttered out the door.

Chris leaned forward and nudged the cup of coffee toward Joey. "Have some coffee. I stopped on the way in, and figured you might want some also. Way better than this cheap swill Bass provides. Bagels, if you're hungry."

"Thanks. I appreciate it." Joey set the smaller bag on the desk. "My mom made cinnamon rolls this morning, and I brought you a couple."

Chris opened the bag, and oh, lord, huge, fresh cinnamon rolls, neatly wrapped, and smelling better than anything. He took a deep whiff, and grinned appreciatively. "Oh, man. I'm a whore for baked goods. Your mom now owns me."

"Are you housebroken?"

Chris looked up and found Joey grinning at him. It was such a change from the solemn look he'd always seen, enough closer to the happy Joey of the pictures and videos who had so charmed him that something turned over in Chris' chest, and he felt heat climb up his throat.

"Just barely," he replied. He pulled one of the rolls out, and the heady odor of cinnamon filled his office. "Want one?"

"No, thanks." Joey popped the top off his cup of coffee, and took a sip. He frowned, and then took another. "How did you know how I like my coffee?"

Chris pulled off a piece of roll, popped it into his mouth, and shrugged. "That's how you take it, right?" he asked, after he'd swallowed. "Two creams, three sugars?"

"Yeah, but." Joey gave him a long look, which Chris returned, unapologetic. The corner of Joey's mouth crooked, and he said, "Okay, never mind."

And that, Chris decided, was a big step for Joey to take, for Joey to accept as much of Chris' abilities as he had, after such a rocky start between the two of them. Even small steps meant progress.

"Have you found anything?" Joey asked, indicating the mess on Chris' desk. "And how could you, anyway? That's so...disorganized."

"I find order in chaos," Chris replied. "If I cleaned all this up, I'd never find anything at all. Something to do with too much neatness hindering the natural order of things."

Joey shook his head. "You realize, of course, that makes actually very little sense."

Chris shrugged and spread his hands. "I'm a riddle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a conundrum. It's just the way it works for me." The image of a teenaged, lanky Joey in the midst of his own chaotic room in his parent's home skittered across the surface of his mind, and he grinned. "Besides, I don't think you have any room to speak. At least my mom didn't have to beat my ass with a wooden spoon to get me to clean my room."

Color crept across Joey's cheeks, and he opened, then closed his mouth, evidently at a loss as to what exactly to say. Chris knew he'd hit the bull's-eye; the image of Joey, towering over his mom, a small round woman with light brown hair, laughing at her as she whacked him with the cooking spoon, felt as warm and real as the current Joey, sitting in front of his desk. Chris had the impression that in spite of that, Joey had been a child very much beloved by his parents, and no less loved as an adult.

Chris licked the stickiness from his fingers, then wiped them briskly on his jeans. "So. This is what I'm gonna do." He picked up the disk JC had made for him.

"We. What we're gonna do," Joey interrupted.

"Fine. As long as you realize that this won't be pleasant, and surely won't be easy." He looked over the tops of his glasses at Joey, who returned his look, stubborn. Chris resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "What I have here is an exhaustive amount of information that JC gathered for me. He collected everything he could think of, and believe me, JC's very thorough, one of the best investigators I've ever worked with, so he thought of a lot. I'm just beginning to sort it into manageable jobs." He set the disk down, and tapped his finger on the file in front of him. "This is the list of child molesters in the area at the time. AJ's gonna take this for us, because frankly, I don't deal well with them. I get too...angry, and so I'm not effective."

"Is that so wrong, to get angry at something like that? I can't imagine having to talk to someone like that without feeling something."

"Yeah, it's wrong, because I can't work like that. I need to be objective, and I can't be. AJ has no vested interest in it, so he's better for the job. I get angry, and lose what little control I do have, and it's like being buried in an avalanche of shit that I don't want or need to have in my head."

Chris ran a hand through his hair, drew in a deep breath, and released it slowly. Too many times that had happened, and he'd wanted to take a wire brush to his brain, to scrub away what he'd seen in his mind's eye. He wouldn't do it again unless it was absolutely necessary to a case, and since he didn't think it was now, the further away he stayed from that, the better off he'd be.

Joey shook his head, and Chris could feel a tickle of sympathy from him. "I can't say I blame you, then. It would be fucking awful."

"Well." Chris shook away the feeling of something slimy crawling over his skin. "I'm not sure that it's necessary to check out that angle, but it's best to leave nothing to chance. The thing that I--we," he amended, "are going to check out are the families who've lost girls about Briahna's age."

"Okay. I can see checking out the other angle." Chris watched a shudder move through Joey, "but why are we talking to them? The families who've lost kids, I mean."

"The grieving mind is a funny thing," Chris replied. "Sometimes, it sees what it wants to see, regardless of what common sense tells it. I really think that someone saw her, his or her mind thought that Briahna was theirs, the opportunity presented itself, and they took it, and took her."

"So you just go up to these people, and what, make them go through it all over again?"

"Pretty much so. It's shitty, but it's the only way I know to do it. I talk to people, look around, listen to them, see how they feel to me. I try and tell if Briahna's there, and I really think, after going through her things, her pictures, her tapes, that I can tell. That I can...hmm...feel her."

Chris watched the thoughts move behind Joey's dark eyes; he could almost feel him thinking, weighing his thoughts, his beliefs against Chris' words, what he'd already seen him do. "So how big is this list? How long will it take?"

Chris slipped the cd into his computer, clicked through until he found what he wanted. He wanted to sigh, but didn't; Joey didn't need discouragement. "It's large. It'll take awhile," he allowed. "And it won't be fast work. You just can't march up to someone and just demand information out of them. You have to use finesse and charm. Especially with people who've lost a child. It just doesn't work any other way." He hit print, and watched as the printer kicked in and began to spit out paper. He felt Joey's impatience shimmer along his skin, and looked over at him. "So I can't give you a time period, here."

Joey rubbed a big hand over his face. "Yeah. I know that, but I can't help but want things to hurry up, to go faster than I know they will. Now that I've started looking again, I just want it to happen like, now."

"Believe me, I wish it would happen faster, too. But until I find that 'ah-ha!' something, I'm down to basic PI work, which can be really frustratingly slow. It doesn't happen fast, like on tv or in the movies." It wasn't a task he really relished doing, going up to grieving strangers, bringing up all kinds of hard to handle emotions, all for the sake of finding one little girl. A child they might not even find. But he wasn't sure how else to go about it; the trail was long cold.

Joey studied him for a long moment, and curious, Chris met his gaze, wondering what he thought about. Finally Joey looked away, bent down, and picked up the other small bag he'd brought in. Chris had been curious about it from the beginning, but figured Joey would tell him what was in it in his own time. Evidently, it was time. Joey sat the bag, a small brown paper type, on his desk and sat back, watching him.

Chris suddenly felt as if he were back in school, facing a history exam. Whatever this bag held was just as much a test as any he'd taken with pencil and paper. He pulled the bag to him, and unrolled the top, peering in.

A stuffed dog, bright blue, with floppy long ears lay in the bag. Chris vaguely recognized it from a kid's show on public tv; he tuned in to kid's shows occasionally to have something to connect with them, a common frame of reference. It helped, sometimes.

He pulled it out by an ear. It smelled slightly musty, as if it had been in a closet, or drawer, for awhile. His gaze flicked to Joey, but Joey sat there, stone-faced, giving away nothing at all.

"I didn't see this before," Chris murmured.

"No, you didn't," Joey replied.

Chris leaned back in his chair. He ran his fingers over the soft, plush surface, and shivered as Joey, and his office, faded away.

A market. Not that big, but big to a small child, he thought. Chris slid deeper into the vision, leaving behind his familiar office, stepping into the world his mind saw. The world grew larger as his perspective changed, as his body shrank, became child-sized. Briahna-sized. And then he was her and yet not, experiencing yet watching. He could hear himself/herself humming, singing softly. Indoor voice, because it was polite, even though daddy sometimes sang loud in the outdoor voice.

Skipping away from Nana, while Nana looked for something not very much fun. Apples, red and shiny, and she knew that apple began with 'a' and had two 'p's in it, because daddy spelled everything for her when she asked. B for banana, she sang to herself, bananas in pajamas--

And then there was a man with jingly keys on his belt, skinny, not like daddy, and she looked up and then a woman came up to her, and the woman's hands grabbed her, pulling her close, and when she tried to scream, the woman's hand went over her mouth and then they were moving, moving fast through the doors beside the bananas, back where it was dark and cool, and then the door opened and it was bright and hot again and then they were running, running, fast, down one street and then another and she couldn't call for Nana or call for daddy or for Justin or for Kelly and then there was a car and they were inside it and it was hot hot hot, and she and the woman jumped into the seat and the woman was crying and calling her baby and sweetheart and that wasn't her name and she wanted her daddy because the man was saying bad words and the woman was crying and holding her too close and she was scared, and where was her daddy....

Chris came out of the vision with a start. He whooped for air and caught it, gasping and sweating and blinking as the real world rushed back around him. His hands cramped and he realized he held the stuffed dog in a white-knuckled grip. He forced himself to let go, to set it on the desk, and breathe, slowly and deeply, until his heart stopped hammering in his chest.

Joey's hands, with wet paper towels, appeared before him, and Chris glanced up at him before taking them and pressing the damp coolness gratefully to his face. He wiped at the back of his neck, his throat. Sweat trickled down into the small of his back, down his chest, an irritating itchy tickle that made him want to strip off his shirt and wipe off. He would have, if he'd been alone.

Across the desk from him, Joey sat quietly, watching him with serious dark eyes. Chris cleared his throat.

"She dropped it in the market," he said finally. "She had it with her that day, didn't she?"

Joey nodded. "That little detail was never in the papers or reports." He looked down at his hands, and Chris saw how white his knuckles were against his skin. Joey flexed his big hands, then put them on his knees, but Chris could still feel the tension radiating from him. "She loved it. Justin had given it to her a couple of weeks before. Before it happened."

"She wandered away from the nanny--Nana." Chris made his voice as matter-of-fact as possible; Joey didn't need to hear Briahna's feelings mixed in with his own. "Went over to the produce section. That's where they found her. The woman picked her up and ran out the back, through the doors leading to the store's receiving docks. Down the back alley, through a couple of streets. They...separated, I think, and the man went to pick up their car. He met them a few blocks away. They made a clean getaway."

Chris watched Joey's adam apple bob as he swallowed hard. "Did they. Did they hurt her?"

"No." Chris made his voice very sure, very firm. "Scared her, but they didn't hurt her. The woman called her...her baby. Something about how she'd come back to them. I couldn't make sense of most of it, but that was the gist of it." Chris leaned forward, earnest. "It's like I suspected. Someone took her to replace a daughter they lost."

Joey stood abruptly, and leaned over the desk. The anger and the anguish of his years of waiting, of mourning, washed over Chris, strong and acidic. It roiled in Joey's big body, in his broad shoulders, his clenching hands, and Chris thought, oh, hell, so fucking big, and here we go again. Part of him wanted to step away, to get out of swinging distance of Joey's long arms, but he stood there, willing Joey to believe him, to believe *in* him.

"You'd better fucking be on the level," Joey said, his voice deep, harsh with anger and grief. "You'd better be telling me the truth, because I've come across so many dead ends over the past year and a half. I can't go through this again. You might as well just rip my heart out of my chest now, if you're lying."

Joey's anger battered him, sharp and heavy, but Chris refused to give ground in the face of it. Joey needed calmness, assurance, steadiness, and Chris could give it to him. "I swear I'm telling the truth. Unlike those others, I'm serious, and I won't lie to you. I wouldn't put you through this if I didn't think I could help you find her."

Joey stared at him a moment longer, and Chris held his gaze, refusing to look away, to back down. After a moment, Joey looked away, and his shoulders slumped. He wiped a hand across his face, the anger bleeding away, and Chris saw his hand tremble from the intensity of his emotions.

"I'm sorry, man," Joey said. Embarrassment skittered across his expression. "I wouldn't hit you again."

"I know," Chris replied steadily. "I know that. You're not that kind of a guy." Chris reached out, touched his fingertips to Joey's arm; although Joey's face looked flushed, his skin felt cold. While Joey might yell, and bluster, Chris knew he wasn't a violent man by nature. "It's okay to be angry. I understand it."

"Yeah, maybe." Joey blew out a breath, and shook himself. "But the anger doesn't do anything constructive. Doesn't help you any. So. What now? What do we do?"

Chris reached over and pulled the stack of paper from the printer, the names of people who had lost a little girl. Scanning it quickly, he saw that JC had gone through hospital records and coroner's reports for the past four years. Chris couldn't fault him for lack of thoroughness, that was for sure. Some of the stuff he didn't know how JC could've obtained legally, what with all the privacy acts in place, and he knew it was best to not examine the how of things too closely. When it came to finding a lost child, he wasn't too particular about legalities like that.

"Now, we start looking. The basic beat the bushes until we find something sort of thing. You still want to be in on this? It won't be pleasant." Chris knew Joey wouldn't back down, but he felt the need to make the offer anyway.

"So it won't be pleasant. The past few months haven't exactly been a picnic. I'll do whatever it takes to find her. I can't just sit around and do nothing."

Chris nodded in approval. He'd always been one for action, for being in the middle of things, and could easily understand the need to be moving, doing.

"Okay. Let's get started, then."

Chris had been right. It wasn't pleasant or easy at all.

The list Chris had given him had thirty-seven names on it, all people who'd lost a little girl between the ages of two and four in the time frame they'd designated, and in the part of Florida they'd blocked off as having the most possibility for accessibility. Although Chris didn't say anything, Joey knew very well that the kidnappers could've come from any part of the country, could've been just passing through, but he wouldn't allow himself to think of that; it was too discouraging. He had to concentrate on what they did have to work with.

Although Chris praised JC's skills with the computer, he was no slouch himself, his fingers flying over the keyboard, his eyes quick and sharp on countless lists, finding just what he needed out of a bureaucratic mass of information. And patient. For someone who seemed to move all the time, who had energy practically bubbling under his skin, Chris had proven amazingly patient, willing to wade through whatever it took to find what he looked for.

So for eight days, they talked to people who had lost their little girls. Accidents and illnesses had taken them, and Chris had found nothing unusual in the parent's behaviors at the time or in the time since, nothing suspicious, nothing he could get a grip on. The process had been slow and agonizing for everyone involved; every time they talked to a grieving family, Joey felt both his pain and theirs, and couldn't even imagine what Chris felt, if he was truly as empathetic as Joey suspected.

Chris had surprised him. When they'd started talking to people, he'd shed his jeans and tee shirts and bandanas, lost his earrings and necklaces and bracelets, had presented himself in crisp dress shirts and ties and trousers, office casual type of attire, professional-looking but not too off-putting. He was polite, well-mannered, soft-spoken; his whole being radiated just the right blend of sympathy with professionalism, the mix tipping in whatever direction the situation demanded.

Chris changed himself easily to whatever proved necessary to get in, get his answers, and Joey thought more than once that Chris would've made a great professional con artist. While a part of him still thought that maybe Chris might be conning him, the greater part accepted, if grudgingly, the fact that Chris really was what he said he was. The stuffed toy had been the last test; none of the other "psychics" had read anything from it, but Chris had picked it up immediately.

So they'd come to day eight. Nine to ten hours each day in Chris' car, traveling in and all around the Orlando region in ever-widening circles. Talking to strangers who were sometimes sympathetic, sometimes hostile, and Joey never knew until they confronted them just which it would be; on the whole they had been generally sympathetic, but they'd come across some really hostile people, which Chris had told him to expect. It wore on him, but he kept himself going on the hope that maybe, just maybe, the next family would be the one who would provide something, anything, to help them. He let Chris do most of the talking, and they'd worked out a system that when Joey talked to them about his own loss, Chris slipped quietly into that faraway place, looking for traces of Briahna. So far, all he'd gotten from him was Chris' quietly apologetic shake of the head indicating that no, Briahna wasn't there.

As much as it wore on him, he thought maybe it wore on Chris more. Chris looked tired and haggard, and every day when they stopped for lunch, he hardly ate anything, too restless, too anxious to be on the road again, to see the next family. Joey had to admire his dedication, and after so many days of talking, searching, Joey began to believe Chris when he'd said that even if Joey hadn't hired him, he'd search for her on his own.

He watched as Chris pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes as they idled, waiting for the light to change. Joey shifted his shoulders and moved his legs, wanting to get out, to stretch, and Chris slanted a look over at him.

"How many names are on the list now?"

Joey consulted the list, though he really didn't need to by this time. The paper was worn and creased and wrinkled, smudged with ink where he'd crossed off names. "Two. Both just outside town."

Chris cracked his neck, and Joey winced. "Okay. Gimme the first one."

"We can wait until tomorrow," Joey offered, though everything within him urged him to go on, to get to the next place, just in case it was the one they needed, the one that would help them. "We've been at this nine hours today."

Chris looked at him, and the corner of his mouth curled upward, a smile without humor. "Yeah, so? Tell me you want to stop with just two names left, and I'll call you a liar."

Joey returned his look until a car horn honked impatiently behind them. Chris looked away and drove forward.

"I can't tell you that, and you know it. I want to get this done. But I." Joey stopped abruptly, something tight and hot and prickly catching in his throat, tightening in his chest. The paper rattled softly as his fingers clenched it.

"Joe." Chris' voice was soft and his hand warm on Joey's thigh. "It's okay, man."

Joey cleared his throat. "I want to get this finished, but don't, y'know? It's like, what if we don't find anything? What then? At least, while we still have names on the list, it's like we have hope of some kind, and if we get through them all, and end up with nothing, then--"

"Then we try something else," Chris said firmly. He patted Joey's thigh, then pulled back, and oddly, Joey missed the warmth of his hand, the comfort he offered. "I swore to you I wouldn't give up, and I meant it. Now give me the last two addresses, and we'll finish this tonight."

"Okay," Joey said, relieved that they were going ahead. He felt Chris' gaze on him, but didn't look up at him; he felt curiously raw within.

The couple at the next address were cooperative, but Chris shook his head; nothing there. At the last address, however, things took a different turn. The man grew angry very quickly, and nothing Chris said, no amount of pacifying or sympathy helped to ease the situation. Chris apologized for taking up the man's time--Joey was certain he couldn't do the same, given the amount of abuse the man shouted at them, because anger flared hotly up within him--and they'd turned to leave when Chris' eyes widened, and he gave Joey a hard push between the shoulder blades, knocking him from the porch.

"Run! Get to the car!"

Joey had a moment of confusion as Chris streaked by him, breaking into a run, but when Chris shouted back, "Joe, move your ass *now*!" the paralysis broke and he followed, trusting that Chris knew what he was doing.

He reached the car just as the door to the house opened behind them, and two large dogs launched themselves out, barking and snarling. He was vaguely aware of the man screaming, siccing the dogs after them, and Joey swore, and threw himself into the car just as the dogs reached him. They crashed into the side of the car, snarling and snapping, all big yellow teeth, scrabbling claws, and flying slobber, and Joey yelled, "Go, go, go!" as Chris started the car and peeled away from the curb in a squeal of tires, barely missing sideswiping a car as they did.

Chris drove, swearing under his breath, while Joey leaned back in the seat, sweating and shaking from both anger and adrenaline. After they'd put enough distance between them and the dogs, Chris pulled off into a small park, stopping beneath some sketchy shade. He shut off the car, and leaned back, rubbing at his face.

"And that's why I run every morning," he said at last. "I hate it, but like knowing I can get away pretty fast if I need to."

"That happen often?"

"Sometimes, yeah. More than I like."

"Fucking psychopath. What the hell was he thinking?"

Chris opened the door and stepped out, and Joey followed. Anger swirled within him, seeking an outlet, a focus; frustration grew along with it, and he wanted to do something, anything to work it out.

"He wasn't," Chris replied tightly. "He was just reacting."

"Well, fuck him. Maybe you should check into him, if he's that unstable--"

"She wasn't there." Chris bounced lightly on his toes, his face tight and tense. Joey could feel Chris' own frustration, and it seemed to feed into what he himself felt.

"How the hell can you be sure of that? You didn't get a chance to do--" Joey made vague gestures meant to convey some sort of hocus-pocus, and Chris' eyes snapped, then narrowed. "You didn't even get inside the house."

"I didn't *need* to get inside the house," Chris said, his light voice dropping lower, and Joey knew he was pushing too hard, but he couldn't seem to help himself.

"What, no spooky feelings? No vibes? No little voices telling you to look there?" Joey felt his mouth curl into a sneer, and the more rational part of him said to back off, but the frustration, the bone-deep tiredness, the anger, wouldn't let him.

Chris' face clouded, and his own anger practically shimmered around him. His hands clenched into fists, and his chin tucked, his whole body going into the stance of a man ready to fight. Joey was glad the hood of the car separated them at that moment, because he was half-afraid they would come to blows, their emotions strong and raw, so close to the surface.

"I said no. I meant it."

"Well, fuck you, then. Fuck this. Fuck everything." Joey didn't care if he yelled, didn't care about his wild gestures, didn't care if anyone watched them argue. He turned and stalked off into the park, needing to walk it off.

He circled the park until it grew darker, and when he finally had most of it worked out, he perched on a picnic table and sat with his face in his hands, so tired when the adrenaline wore off he could barely move. He felt someone climb up beside him, and when he raised his head, Chris gazed steadily back at him, looking calmer. Joey envied him for that; although his body was so tired, his mind, his heart, boiled with frustration.

"Okay, so. You knew going into this that it was just a long shot, right? No guarantees of finding anything. It was something I had to check out, just in case. I have to look at everything, and this just didn't pan out." One shoulder lifted in a shrug. "So on to something else."

"So when do the odds start turning in our favor? When do they start panning out for us?"

"Joey. You know I can't answer that. Listen, man. I can't blame you for being angry. This is hard, really hard. I told you it wouldn't be easy, feeling your own pain every time we stepped up to talk with someone, and feeling their pain as well. It's like your own personal version of hell. Being yelled at and then chased by Cujo's little brothers didn't help any." Chris paused, and his feet tapped softly against the bench. Joey stole a glance over at him, but the fading light glinted off the lenses of his glasses, and he couldn't read Chris' expression. "You've been better with this than anyone had a right to expect. But this isn't doing you any good. What if you drop back for awhile, and let me work alone, and I'll let you know when I have a lead that might actually get us somewhere?"

Joey rubbed the back of his neck. It was already wet with sweat, as was his back; his shirt clung uncomfortably. The air wrapped thickly and wetly around him, and it felt like a storm might be close, the green-wet smell of rain strong in his nose.

He knew he was being a dickhead, was being difficult, when Chris had offered only encouragement, and had worked hard to find something, anything, but he wasn't feeling particularly reasonable. His belly clenched, and tension spidered over his shoulders and down his back, and he felt as if the impending storm was gathering within him.

"Sometimes," Joey began, and then rubbed his hand across his mouth, "I wish you'd never come up to me in that parking lot. I wish I'd never listened to Justin. I had everything in order, everything working okay. I'd accepted that she was dead, and was moving on. And then you start in on how she's alive, how you dreamed of her, how you can help me get her back. Man, I knew it was a bunch of bullshit, but I wanted to believe. I should've known better."

Chris shifted, his elbows on his knees, his hands folded together. "You might have had everything in order, but you weren't living. You were existing, that's all."

"What the fuck do you know about it, huh?"

"I know a lot about it," Chris replied. His face was a pale blur in the growing darkness. "This is my life, dude. This is what I do, see, hear, taste, touch, every fucking day. I work with the families, but I see it from the kid's viewpoint. I've done a couple of hundred cases, and in every one of them, I've been right there with them, going through it just like they did. Most of the time, I've gotten them back. Sometimes, I've just been able to get back their remains. I know it from the inside out, so don't tell me I don't know anything about it, man."

Chris launched himself off the table and Joey heard the patter of his light footfalls as he walked quickly back toward the car. Joey ran a hand through his hair. Great. Add guilt to the stew of emotions inside him. Chris had done nothing but work hard in Briahna's behalf, and he'd treated him with wary disdain, and now, mockery and open hostility. He needed his fat ass kicked, hard.

Without warning, it began to rain. Fabulous. A perfect ending to a perfect day. Joey slid off the picnic table and walked back in the direction Chris had parked his car. He halfway expected Chris to have left him there, but the Cruiser sat there, parking lights on. When he opened the door, loud, abrasive music slammed into him, all screaming vocals and caterwauling guitars--angry music--and he winced at the sheer volume, but said nothing.

Chris left the music on during the drive to Joey's house, and didn't say a word, which Joey found really telling of just how angry or upset Chris was, because Chris talked all the time. Joey sat slumped, wet and guilty, shivering slightly from the blast of air conditioning on his wet clothes, the anger still simmering on low within his belly. Exhaustion made his arms and legs feel like they'd been hollowed out and filled with lead. A quick glance or two in Chris' direction showed him pale and tense, his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

When they pulled into his driveway, Joey reached over and turned off the music. His head throbbed from it, but he supposed it was the least he deserved.

"Listen, Chris," Joey said slowly. He could taste bitterness on the back of his tongue, and he hated the feeling that he was so in the wrong, had been cruel, because he'd never been that way; before all this had happened, he'd been sunny and cheerful, a happy, easy-going kind of guy. It seemed a long time since he'd felt that way, and he had almost forgotten what anything other than anger felt like. "I had no right to go off on you like that. I'm an asshole for doing it, and I'm sorry. Honestly."

Chris turned off the ignition, and when the windshield wipers stopped, Joey could hear the steady patter of rain on the roof, on the windows.

"We're both tired, both stressed right now," Chris said finally. "Both frustrated. Like I said before, maybe I need to dig around, see what I can find on my own. Give you a little decompression time." The lights from the dashboard flashed off his glasses as he turned to look at Joey. "I know how hard this has to be for you. Anger is one way of dealing with it. Maybe not the best way, but whatever gets you through it, right?"

"It's still no excuse for the way I acted, how I have been acting, toward you. It was wrong."

Chris shrugged. "I understand it."

Joey wanted to shake him. "I'm trying to apologize, you asshole. Take it, make me feel better, okay?"

He caught the flash of Chris' white teeth as he unexpectedly grinned. "Fine, dickhead. Apology accepted."

Joey blinked, then felt his own mouth curve in a half grin. "Was that so hard?" He felt some of the heaviness lift from his shoulders when Chris smiled.

"No, guess not." Chris chewed absently at his thumbnail, looking thoughtful, and *oh.* The sight of that made unexpected warmth trickle down Joey's body, curl deep in his belly. The desire caught him by surprise, and he must've made some sort of soft little sound, because Chris looked up at him. He pulled his thumb from between his lips, and Joey knew from his changing expression that Chris felt the current running strongly between them.

It had to be that he just felt raw, that everything had risen close to the surface, just beneath his skin, the good emotions, the bad ones, because he couldn't imagine something so...inappropriate for the moment. It had only been a short time before that they'd fought, but inappropriate or not, he felt the desire moving warmly through his veins, this heat as slow and sweet as honey, as opposed to the hot, brittle brightness of anger that he'd learned to live with. He caught the pink flash of Chris' tongue between white teeth, and he wanted to lean in, wanted to cover Chris' warm, moist mouth with his own, and just *feel* something good, something alive and vital for awhile.

Joey didn't realize he'd leaned in closely until he felt Chris' hand in the middle of his chest, warm against the cool dampness of his shirt, holding him back. He looked down at it, then up at Chris' face; he looked flushed even in the semi-darkness.

"I think that maybe things are a little too...close to the surface right now," Chris said softly. "Maybe we'd better let things settle just a little, y'know?"

Joey could feel the heat rise up into his own face. "Yeah. That's probably better." Embarrassment at what he'd almost done, what he still wanted to do, rippled through him, and he pulled back. He resisted the urge to adjust himself, to check out Chris, to see if he was hard, also, though from the flush, the quickened rise and fall of Chris' chest, he figured Chris probably was. The thought that he wasn't alone in how he'd reacted made him feel a little better.

Chris cleared his throat, clearly reaching for some sort of control, of professionalism. "I'm going to work up some leads, see what I can dig up, okay? I'll call you when I come up with something that might help us. You take the time to get things sorted out from your end, and I'll be in touch."

Joey nodded. "Okay. I'll do that." He reached for the handle of the door, and looked back to see Chris watching him, dark eyes looking as hungry as he felt. Warmth curled through him again, but he had a grip on his emotions this time, and pushed it down, away. He offered Chris a little half-smile, and then ducked out into the rain. Chris waited until he'd gotten to his door, until he'd opened it, before he backed down the driveway and drove away. Joey watched him go, shivering from both the wet and the memory of Chris' hungry, desiring gaze.

"Oh, shit!"

Chris gasped for air, blinking up into the shadows shrouding his ceiling as he let his head fall back onto his pillow. One hand slicked through the warm, sticky mess on his belly as his body, tingling and throbbing in the aftermath of orgasm, began to relax, his dick softening in his other hand. Damp with sweat, the sheets clung uncomfortably to his skin, twisted as if a tornado had ripped through his bed. In his sleep, he'd tugged down his boxers, so they'd escaped the mess on his belly, but he stripped them off anyway and mopped off before the spunk dried in his hair. He gave the boxers a toss onto the floor and lay back, savoring the last ripples of pleasure.

Oh, hell, what a dream. He could still feel the heaviness of Joey's body on his own, feel the wet slide of hot, sweaty skin, the strong clutch of big hands, the scrape of coarse beard against his own face, against his belly, on the tender insides of his thighs. He could still feel the phantom aching pleasure of Joey's thick fingers sliding inside him, so deep, filling him, making him moan and grab at Joey's hair, making him beg for more. Beneath his cupped hand, his spent dick twitched.

Too bad it was just a plain, ordinary dream, though there had been nothing *ordinary* about it, and not a glimpse into the future. Nothing more than the result of spending a lot of time in close proximity with Joey and his dark, dark eyes and soft, sensual mouth, and fuck it, those visuals weren't helping at all. Although the Sight worked for others, he'd never had any visions about himself; for him, the future remained a secret, and he muddled along into it just like anyone else.

Chris turned his head and squinted at the bedside clock. Just a little after five. He'd fallen asleep around midnight, had dreamed about Briahna and woken at two, and now had dreamed of Joey. His body felt exhausted, but his mind clicked along quickly, and he knew he'd never get back to sleep.

With a grunt, he rolled out of bed and padded over to his dresser, pulling on shorts and a tee shirt and his running shoes. Might as well get his run over with for the morning, before it became so hot he couldn't do it.

As he ran, taking a path so familiar he didn't have to pay much attention, he let his mind wander. So far, he had nothing on the case. Nothing but the dreams, and the sense that he needed to hurry, that sense stronger than before. He had the dreams every night, and each night brought them sharper into focus, like adjusting the tracking on a VCR. Sounds and smells and sensations all seemed keener now, and he could almost say they were real.

He'd thought at first the dream represented Kansas, but he wasn't so sure anymore. It could be almost any of the continental states, actually, a rural area gone to seed, a poor, poverty-stricken part of the country. It had felt definitely southern, somehow, in a way he couldn't pinpoint beyond the wet, thick heat; it just seemed further east than Kansas. Closer, but not Florida. That just left a handful of states to consider; better than all of them, he supposed. He'd learned to be grateful for even the small things.

When he reached the two mile marker on his run, he turned and headed back to his apartment. Although he tried to stretch out his mind, to get a sense of where Briahna was, he couldn't seem to disconnect himself enough from his body to allow the free flow of his consciousness that running allowed him. He felt too distracted by his thoughts to reach the mindset needed to connect with her.

The whole thing with Joey, the attraction, the desire, the urge to wrap himself around Joey and just forget about things for awhile seemed too distracting. It didn't allow him to work effectively. He found it difficult to concentrate, to make progress effectively and to deal with both his desire and Joey's answering one, along with Joey's disbelief and anger. He felt conflicted and drained, and he needed a clear head if he were to do what he needed to do. Although he couldn't fault Joey's need to be in on everything, Chris felt that maybe, it would be best if Joey stayed out of it for awhile, let him think, let him work in peace.

Chris had worked with attractive people before; hell, he worked with them now. JC was sweetly charming and had a beauty that somehow went beyond handsomeness, AJ had his undeniable feline magnetism, and Lance was smooth, cool, with those arresting pale green eyes and that deep, honeyed voice. They were all very good looking, probably aesthetically more so than Joey, but he'd never felt the interest, the strong attraction to them that he did for Joey. It wasn't right, wasn't professional, and he needed to get over it.

Maybe he just needed to get laid. It had been a long time, almost three months now, since Howie had left. Maybe he should go out and pick someone up, take them home, get it out of his system. He could be sociable, and while he couldn't compete with some guys in the looks department, he could charm them, make them laugh; that's how he'd gotten Howie, whose handsomeness, whose sweetness, whose popularity, had never let him be lonely. It had surprised him when Howie had come home with him that night, and then surprised him more when he had stayed.

So, yeah. Plan A: go out tonight, get laid, get sex out of his system, get Joey out of his head. Good plan. Right. He could do it.

Once back to his apartment, he showered, dressed in jeans and a black tee shirt and boots, put back in earrings and put on necklaces and wrist bands he'd left off during the nine days spent meeting the families, spiked his hair, and felt more like himself. Slipping on his black wire-framed glasses, he transformed himself from Captain Clairvoyant, psychic superhero, into Chris Kirkpatrick, sexyhot, fabulously intelligent private investigator. Totally excellent disguise. He grinned at his reflection in the mirror, and left for work.

He let himself into the office, went to the shared kitchen and fixed himself a peanut butter sandwich using JC's stuff, remembering to retie the bread twisty just like JC did, so he wouldn't have to hear the cheap bastard complain about someone eating his bread. He grabbed a Mountain Dew, and sat down in his office. Slipping a Bosstones cd into the player for the positive energy, he pulled a box toward him.

Yesterday, Lance had dragged two big boxes into his office and left them there. Chris had been so grateful he hadn't even hooted at the thought of Bass actually doing his own toting and carrying, because the boxes were the case files from the FBI. He knew just how lucky he was to have them, because no one got anything from the FBI, not even him, and he had a pretty good working relationship with them, given his success rate. No one, apparently, but Lance Bass, who seemed to know everyone, and who could get anything anywhere, anyhow, anytime. He had mad networking skills; it was his gift, and hell if Chris wasn't grateful for it.

As he'd suspected, AJ had turned up nothing on the molesters angle. He hadn't really expected AJ would, but still, he had to cover everything, just to be certain no one had missed anything. He knew he was probably going over things pointlessly, but still, he had to be sure, and so he was willing to wade through reams of paperwork until he was cross-eyed with tiredness.

Two and a half hours later, he looked up to find Bass standing in his doorway, two coffees in a carrier. Damn Starbucks. They'd give Bass a carrier, but not him. Still, it was coffee, and he held out his arm and made grabby motions with his hand.

"Didn't hear you come in," he said, and Lance grinned his crooked grin and came in.

"I'm not surprised. Turn off that godawful noise," Lance said, and rolling his eyes, Chris reached over and turned off the Metallica cd, halting James Hetfield in mid-bellow. "I swear, you'll be deaf before you're forty."

"What?" Chris cupped a hand behind an ear and leaned forward.

"Asshole," Lance said fondly, and sat down in the chair opposite him. He handed Chris his mocha, and Chris wanted to do the chair dance of happiness, but refrained, because he wasn't in the mood to hear Bass complain about the safety of his precious keyboards or the cleanliness of his carpet.

"You betcha. But still, you love me madly." He inhaled the scent of chocolate and coffee, and took a sip. Heaven. "What, no food?"

"You're lucky to get this. I saw your car in the lot, figured you'd probably been here for hours already, and decided to turn around and get some coffee for you." Lance took a sip of his own coffee. "What's with all the scratches on your passenger side door, anyway? What happened? Looks like shit."

"Big, mean, nasty pit bulls happened," Chris replied. "They made Cujo look like a sweet little kitty."

One of Lance's finely-arched brows rose. "Care to explain?"

Chris made a dismissive motion. "Someone took exception to questioning, and sicced his dogs on us. We barely made it back to the car."

The other brow went up. "He set dogs on you? Chris, that--"

"Yeah, yeah. Not interested in pressing charges or anything, so might as well drop it."

"Moron. You said 'we'. Was Fatone with you?"

"He moves pretty fast for a big guy," Chris replied with a grin. "Must be the long legs."

"Chris, you know what a bad idea it is to take clients with you--" Lance broke off, frowning, as Chris raised a hand and made talky motions with it. "Fine. You're on you own if he gets hurt and sues us."

"He won't. And besides, there wasn't any stopping him. He got it in his head he was going, and that was it. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wasn't buying. I did get him to back off until I call him with something positive, so you can stop worrying your pretty little head about it."

"You're as annoying as hell," Bass said, and it rolled off Chris easily, because he'd heard it so often before.

"It's all part of my very special charm," Chris replied flippantly.

"Right." Bass didn't look convinced of that, but he'd had years of exposure to him, enough to ignore nine-tenths of whatever Chris said. "Since I've missed seeing you in the past week, you can get me up to speed as to what you're working on."

Chris made a face, but Lance sat there, implacable pale green gaze fixed on him. Chris knew the world could end, and Bass would still sit there waiting. Best to bow to the inevitable. Besides, Bass was a sharp guy; he could see something that Chris, caught up in the midst of it, might miss. So he started at the beginning and told everything he knew, everything he suspected, everything they'd done. When he'd finally finished, Lance sat there, thoughtful.

"Okay, first of all, you were an *idiot* for approaching him like that. No wonder he belted you. I would have, in his place." Chris rolled his eyes, but didn't deny it. Lance gestured toward the bruise on Chris' cheek. "By the way, it's looking a lot better."

"Thanks." Chris ran a finger over it; the damn thing had almost faded away. "Yeah, I know better than to do it like that, but man, the dreams had been so strong, so persistent, and when I finally figured out who she was, who he was, it's like, I couldn't stop myself. I had to get started on stuff right then."

"Whatever. I'd like to say you've learned your lesson, but I really doubt it." Lance tapped his fingers on his knee, and Chris let the insult sail past him. "You're working a cold case, and it looks as if you're doing what you need to do. Find anything in the FBI files yet?"

Chris scowled and nudged one of the boxes with his booted foot. "Not yet. I just started in on them this morning. Good thing I'm a speed reader, huh?" He nudged it a little harder, then grinned up at Lance. "Thanks for getting them. I'd like to know just *what* someone owed you that they let you have them."

"No, you don't," Bass replied, and his grin looked remarkably predatory, shark-like. Chris had seen Lance operate ruthlessly, as cold as liquid nitrogen, and decided that no, he probably didn't want to know. The Southern charm, the impeccable manners, were just a cover for a man who had no qualms doing what he needed to do to get the job done. Even in college, he'd been driven, and Chris felt very glad he called Lance his friend and not his enemy.

"Still, I'd have paid good money to see you actually break a sweat hauling them in here," Chris said lightly. "Lance Bass doing manual labor. What a concept."

"Fuck off," Lance said, and the shark swam out of his grin, and it was just Lance again, the same guy he'd pulled spectacular pranks with as undergrads in college.

Lance looked down at his watch as they both heard JC's goofy laughter in the main reception room, along with Dani's giggle. He rose gracefully from his seat, and tossed his empty cup into Chris' waste can. "I won't ask now, while you're busy, but why don't you come over for dinner after you've wrapped this case, and see Laura and Gabriel? I'll grill out."

"Sure. Works for me." He'd been wanting to see both Laura and the baby, but had respected their privacy, their bonding time. And besides, he'd been too tired, too on edge in the past week, and didn't want to bring that into Lance's home, to disturb the domestic vibe with his restlessness and frustration.

"Great. If you need anything else, let me know, and I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks, Bass, you're the best," Chris replied, and Lance's chuckle, deep and rolling, filled his office before Lance slipped out to start work for the day.

Chris kept at the files until mid-afternoon, when hunger finally drove him out looking for food. He took his rollerblades with him, and after he'd eaten, he spent a couple of hours skating around, thinking, going over everything he could think of, trying to put himself in the heads of the people who had taken Briahna, trying to follow the tenuous thread of connection he had with her back to the source.

No luck. Headachy, sweaty, and cross, he swung by his apartment, showered and changed, and went back to the office to wade through files. The next time he surfaced for air, he discovered that most of the staff had gone for the evening. Only AJ remained, scowling and swearing as he searched through files of his own; he wasn't as adept at research as either Chris or JC or even Jessica, and lost his temper easily if he had to search for very long.

Chris gave him money for sandwiches and booted him out of the office; by the time he'd returned, he had AJ's information printing out. It was the least he could do for AJ's favor. They sat together companionably and as they ate and talked about their latest cases, Chris allowed himself to look at AJ as a possible bed partner; AJ's preferences had always been pretty flexible. Not a bad thing to think about, hooking up with AJ; he was lean and sinewy, surprisingly graceful, intense, and Chris knew AJ would be exciting in bed.

But the thought skittered away almost as quickly as he'd thought of it, because AJ was a friend, a co-worker, and didn't deserve Chris using him to get Joey out of his head. That was pretty skeevy, and while Chris knew he could have a fairly elastic morality on a lot of things, he couldn't screw over his friends.

AJ pushed his tinted glasses up to the top of his head. He leaned back in his chair, stretching, and his tank rode up on his smooth, flat belly, showing the sixty-nine tattoo encircling his navel. Chris looked away, because really, that wasn't helping matters at all.

"All you have to do is ask," AJ said in his raspy voice, and when Chris looked back, AJ smiled, slow and hot and sexy. He had very white teeth, really vivid against the darkness of his skin. Chris liked straight white teeth; his own had been so crooked as a child and as a young adult. Other guys bought new cars with their first real job out of college, but the first thing he'd had done was to have braces put on. He appreciated a beautiful smile.

Joey had a really gorgeous smile.

Chris took a sip of soda. His throat seemed suddenly dry. His leg started a nervous bouncing, and he pressed down on his thigh with his palm. "I don't think that's probably a great idea, man."

AJ shrugged. "I figured JC was probably right, and you need to get laid. It's been awhile since you and your boy broke up, and I see how you look at Fatone when he's not paying attention. Bad idea to screw around with a client. Gets you into all sorts of trouble."

"I'm not stupid," Chris said sharply, and AJ arched one brow. "I know the score."

"Whatever," AJ said, with a wave of his hand. "I'm just saying. You get tired of jerking off, I might not object if you wanted to fuck around a little."

Chris set his soda down on AJ's desk and wiped his hands down his thighs; his palms felt suddenly sweaty. He'd never been afraid to approach anyone, to make a move on someone he found attractive, and here was AJ, offering what he'd been thinking about only moments before, but it didn't seem right, somehow.

"Tell you what," AJ said, and unfolded himself from his chair. "Sample the goods. See what you think."

One step brought AJ right in front of Chris, and he leaned down, wrapping his hands around the arms of the chair, so close Chris could feel the heat radiating from him. Beautiful eyes, liquid and black, and yeah, that was nice, too. AJ offered; why the hell not try it?

Chris tipped his face up as AJ leaned down, and they met somewhere in the middle. AJ's mouth felt soft against his, and parted easily for him as Chris licked into his mouth. Oh, very good; he tasted sweet from the tea he'd been drinking, cool but quickly warming as Chris made himself at home there. AJ knew how to kiss, knew how much tongue was enough without being too much, self assured in his skill, assertive. Chris slid his hands up AJ's bare arms; wiry muscles flexed beneath his touch, and yeah, that was good, too.

Warmth coursed through Chris, and he slid his hands up into AJ's hair, crisp with bleach, but soft and warm next to his scalp. But when AJ finally pulled back, he didn't follow him, wanting more. AJ licked his lips, and that was sexy, knowing AJ could taste him, but no fireworks went off within him at the sight. None of that dropping sensation in his belly, the roller-coaster excitement that Joey's kiss had given him. AJ's kiss was nice, and if that wasn't a damn poor compliment, thinking of it as *nice*.

Chris let his hands slide down AJ's heavily tattooed arms, and sat back in his chair, breathing hard. AJ studied him a moment, his head tilted, dark eyes assessing, then he smiled.

"Should've hit on you before Fatone showed up, huh?" He looked amused, not insulted, and for that, Chris felt pretty grateful, because he truly liked AJ, and didn't want to piss him off or hurt his feelings.

"Guess so," Chris said wryly, and didn't flinch when AJ reached down and wiped the wetness off his lower lip with his thumb. "And that's a damn shame."

AJ popped his wet thumb into his mouth, then shrugged. "Sometimes things work, sometimes they don't. You don't know until you try, man. I won't tell you what to do, but just be careful if you decide to get involved with him."

"Thanks." Chris stood, and started to pat AJ on the shoulder, then turned it into a hug, which AJ returned, patting him on the back. "I appreciate it."

"Let me know if you want me to kick his ass, okay?" AJ pressed a kiss to his forehead, then started picking up the trash in his office, appreciably neater than Chris' own. Chris rescued his soda can before AJ could toss it.

"Will do. I'll keep your violent tendencies in mind."

"Good to be appreciated. Now get the hell out so I can lock up my office and get home. They're having an Iron Chef marathon, and I want to see what funky-ass thing they cook next."

Chris laughed and saluted AJ with his soda, and went back to searching through the volumes of FBI files, looking for something, anything, resolutely pushing any wayward thoughts of Joey Fatone out of his mind.

Two days had gone by since Joey had last seen Chris, and he'd spent them at work, trying not to worry, to think about things too much, to be angry. He'd been successful to a certain extent, but he could never put it out of his mind completely. After having been at an emotional flatline for so long, the strength of his feelings almost overwhelmed him; too much, too strong, too painful. But he had never been a quitter, not ever, and he would deal with it, get himself back under control.

As he'd expected, Nick had kept things running smoothly in his absence, and evidently Justin hadn't had any difficulties with the rest of the staff. After the main lunch rush, when things had settled, Joey stood in the doorway to his office, and had watched Carter talking to Justin, leaning in close, their voices masked by the normal clatter of the kitchen. They looked good together; Nick's shaggy blondness contrasted with Justin's dark, close-cropped hair, Nick big and broad, Justin muscular, but slimmer in build. Justin threw back his head and laughed at something Nick said, and Joey felt a little pang of nostalgia at the sight; it had been a long time since he'd seen Justin's summertime-warm smile.

Justin's dark blue eyes caught his, and color chased across his cheeks; he looked as if he'd been caught at something he shouldn't have been doing. Carter half-turned and looked at him, raising an eyebrow in a silent question; Justin's relationship with Joey had never been much of a secret. But they'd ended that, and Joey felt tremendous relief, because Justin was a good, decent guy and deserved to move on and find happiness.

Nick's fingers slipped quickly over Justin's brawny forearm, and with a nod to Joey, he slipped back into the main part of the restaurant. Joey smiled at Justin--it had become easier to smile, once he'd given himself permission to do so--and gave a quick thumbs up sign. Justin's blush deepened, and he looked down, then quickly back up, rubbing the back of his head, his expression pleased. Then one of the staff yelled for him, and with a little shrug, Justin went back to work.

Joey stepped back into his office, feeling a little lighter, knowing that Justin would be fine. He checked his watch, then pulled the cell from his pocket and checked messages for the fifth time that day. Two days, and still nothing from Chris. Even if Chris had found nothing, Joey still expected an update. He checked to make certain his phone worked, then slipped it into his pocket again, his lips pressed together firmly, reining in his annoyance. Maybe he ought to stop by in person, just to see.

After telling Nick his plans and braving heavy traffic that gave him a brain-ratting headache, Joey pulled into the lot of the complex that housed Bass Investigations. He didn't see Chris' red PT Cruiser anywhere, and irritation prickled down his spine. Drawing a deep breath, he got a grip on the annoyance, because for all he knew, employees parked in back. Chris probably was there, working on the case.

Within, he waved at the woman who'd helped him before with all the paperwork--Dani?--then strode past her, ignoring her protests. All the offices he passed, with the exception of Chasez's, were empty, off on cases of their own, he supposed. Chasez looked up as Joey passed, undoubtedly hearing Dani's protests, and his handsome face clouded. Joey didn't give him a second thought, intent on his mission.

Joey stopped at Chris' office, fist raised to knock on the doorjamb, and caught himself just before he did. Amidst yet another mess of haphazardly tossed files, Chris had fallen asleep, cheek on his arm, his glasses pushed up to the top of his head. Asleep, he looked softer somehow, his sharpness faded, his energy banked. He also looked exhausted, lavender smudges under his eyes. Chris had very long dark eyelashes, and Joey had the odd urge to run his thumb lightly over them to feel them ruffle beneath his touch, to trace gently over the pale, tender eyelids.

"Mr. Fatone, you simply cannot just barge in like this--"

He ignored her firm, no nonsense tone, but Chris stirred, his lashes fluttered. Joey heard a soft sigh before Chris slowly brought a hand to his face and rubbed at his eyes, his mouth before opening his eyes. He sat up slowly, stiffly, as if he'd been sleeping at his desk for too long. The sleep-softness lasted only a heartbeat or two, and Joey could see the wake-time sharpness click back into his face.

"Hey, Joey," Chris said, his voice deeper, huskier than usual from sleeping. The thought that he would like to hear that sexy tone under far different circumstances flitted through Joey's mind, and he pushed it out of his head. Not the time for that, not now. A little voice within him asked if he might consider a time later, but that wasn't a question for now, either.

"You haven't called me with anything." Joey crossed his arms over his chest. Dani melted out of his line of sight when Chris flicked his fingers at her, shooing her out. Chris had protective friends, and Joey couldn't help but respect that.

"Maybe because I haven't found anything," Chris replied. He pulled his glasses back down onto his nose, then scrubbed a hand through his thick hair.

"What's all this?" Joey had seen Chris cart a double armload of files out of his office before, but these looked different--more official, if possible.

"A headache," Chris replied. "It's the FBI files on the case." He waved a hand over the files on the desk, and over two boxes on the floor next to him, and looked rueful. "I can't fault them for not taking meticulous notes, and cataloguing every single scrap of information on the face of the earth. Those boys are anal-compulsive, I swear."

Joey blinked in astonishment. Any dealings he'd had with the FBI had been short and curt; he'd gotten little out of them except a metaphorical pat on the head and instructions to go home and wait for them to contact him. That had been one of the reasons he'd felt so annoyed at Chris' silence for the past couple of days.

"So you're telling me the FBI just gave you these files? I couldn't get anything out of them, and I'm involved."

Chris scratched the back of his head, and his glance skimmed over Joey, avoiding his eyes. "Well, maybe 'give' isn't quite the word I'm looking for."

"You *stole* them?" Alarm slithered through him, because no one dicked around with the agency without landing in prison, and becoming the bitch of someone named Bubba definitely wasn't on his agenda.

"Fuck no, man. Do I look stupid?" Chris snorted in derision. "Wait. Maybe you shouldn't answer that. I've never had much luck with that question."

Joey unfolded his arms and waved one hand. He recognized the attempt at diversion. "How did you get them, then?"

"Let's just say that someone I know networks *really* well, and leave it at that, okay? Sometimes questions shouldn't be answered directly."

And that sounded very final; clearly Chris wasn't going to give him a direct answer, and probably, he really was better off not knowing. "Okay, I get it. I can respect that." He looked over the boxes, and sighed. "So. How long will it take us to get through all this, do you think?"

"Already did," Chris replied, and pushed his glasses up to rub at his eyes. "That's what I've been doing the past couple of days. Thought I'd spare you all the excitement."

"Um, thanks." Joey looked again at the sheer volume of information, and wanted to cringe. "Really, thanks. I don't see how you have the patience to do this all the time."

One of Chris' shoulders lifted in a shrug. "If they showed the real job a PI does on tv, you'd never see any shows about it, because most of it is mind-numbingly repetitive and boring. It has its moments, but this isn't one of them."

"Well. After all this, did you turn up anything?" Joey couldn't help the note of hopefulness that crept into his voice. Surely something had to turn in their favor soon; they'd worked so hard, had been through so much.

Chris looked up at the pictures of his family, then his dark eyes settled on Joey. He looked as frustrated and annoyed as Joey felt, and Joey wanted to yell, to swear, but that wouldn't accomplish much of anything; Chris had already proven how hard he worked trying to find something, anything, to help them. But even knowing that didn't stop the acidic heat that simmered in his belly, twisting a little.

"I'm sorry," Chris said finally, and Joey could almost feel the waves of sincerity flowing from him.

But even knowing how Chris felt didn't help much with the frustration. Joey sighed, and rubbed a thumb across his eyebrow, working at controlling his impatience. "You look really tired. Did you sleep any?"

The question seemed to surprise Chris, and Joey wondered just how much of an asshole he'd been to Chris if something so simple could throw him. He resolved in that moment to give Chris a little more credit, a little more consideration, because he didn't doubt how much this affected Chris, how he might feel, caught up in visions he had little or no control over, not eating or sleeping much, and what sleep he did get plagued with dreams.

"Some," Chris allowed finally, and Joey figured the nap he'd caught Chris taking was the extent of his sleep.

"Are you still having dreams?"

"Um, yeah. Every time I fall asleep." Surprisingly, color washed over his cheeks, and Joey wondered what that could be about. Chris looked down at his hands, folded atop his desk. "Like I said before, the more I have the dreams, the more vivid they are. They're pretty real, now."

"So we're basically back to the beginning. We didn't have anything then, we don't have anything now, right?"

"Not true," Chris said firmly. "We know a lot more now. I just need to find the one thing to connect us to that farmhouse. I don't think it's as far away as I thought it was. It just feels closer, somehow." He stood, and stretched, and Joey tried not to notice how Chris' jeans tightened across his thighs, how his shirt stretched across his chest and belly. "I've gotta have some caffeine, man. Want coffee or a soda?"

"No thanks." He watched Chris step around his desk and cross the office to stand in front of him, that curious, slightly amused expression on his uptilted face.

"You can, like, actually come into the office, y'know. I have a chair, and it's even empty of stuff so you can sit down."

Joey felt the corners of his mouth curve up, and watched Chris' own smile grow larger in response. And that felt really...good...to know that something so simple could lighten the darkness in Chris' eyes.

"Yeah. Guess I could." Chris stood so closely that Joey could almost feel the crackle of his energy. Even muted with exhaustion, Chris seemed more alive, somehow, than anyone he'd ever met, and that energy, that aliveness, pulled Joey to him, like iron to a magnet. He put his hands in his trouser pockets to keep himself from touching Chris.

"Be back in a sec, man," Chris said, and patted his arm as he started to step past Joey.

But Chris didn't take the step that lead out into the hallway. Instead, he froze, and when Joey looked down at him curiously, he almost saw Chris step out of himself, into that place he went when he had his visions, or whatever they were. Freaky though it was to see Chris simply siphon himself away, he held very still beneath Chris' strong grip on his forearm, waiting to see what would happen.

He thought of the night when Chris had gone through Briahna's things, of the long, long moments when Chris hadn't been there, and wondered if Chris would be gone as long as he had then. Twenty minutes had gone by then--it had felt more like twenty hours--while Chris had stood there, absorbing whatever of Briahna he'd found in his baby's room, and he'd finally started calling to him to bring him back.

Thirty seconds, max, and Chris shuddered, fingers tightening again on Joey's arm. Joey saw the moment when Chris stepped back into himself. Chris' grip loosened, and his fingers traced down Joey's white sleeved arm, down to his wrist, where his hand disappeared into his trouser pocket. He shifted, wondering if Chris' fingers would move further, and the thought made his dick grow heavier between his legs.

"In this pocket," Chris said, slightly breathless. "Here. The ribbon." Chris blinked, and stepped back a half-step, and his hand fell away from Joey's wrist. Joey missed the warm strength of it.

Joey pulled his hand out of his pocket, and with it, Briahna's pink ribbon, the twin of the one Chris had seen in his dreams. It trailed from his fingers, prettily pink and feminine, and in the twisting flutter of it, he caught her name, the little white daisies, and his heart clenched in his chest.

"I put it in my pocket yesterday. Kinda like a good luck charm." Joey shrugged and felt heat crawl up his throat and into his cheeks, because just saying it out loud made him feel a little foolish, a lot little-girly.

Chris reached out, and his fingers curled around the ribbon, around Joey's fist, and Joey saw him shiver slightly. When Chris looked up, his eyes were huge and dark, slightly unfocused behind his glasses. "Not foolish, Joe. And the best luck in the whole world, I think."

Then Chris brushed by him, the ribbon in his hand, and Joey followed as Chris sprinted down the hall, calling for JC. Wild hope surged strongly within him, because Chris seemed suddenly focused, confident, sure.

Chris skidded to a stop in front of JC's desk, and JC didn't look very surprised; evidently, they were well-accustomed to him popping in out of nowhere.

"Atlas. Maps. I need them." Chris practically danced in place from impatience as JC kicked back in his rolling chair and scooted over to a large bookcase, pulling out a huge atlas. He rolled back, and spared a curious glance in Joey's direction before handing the atlas to Chris. Joey shrugged, and JC offered him a little half-smile.

Chris slapped the atlas to JC's desk and flipped through it rapidly, fingers skimming over the pages until he came to Florida, the ribbon clutched in his other hand. Joey watched as he started at the dot representing Orlando and began circling slowly outward, his eyes unfocused, looking at something only he could see. Sweat collected at his hairline, the nape of his neck, his forehead as he concentrated.

He rapidly abandoned southern Florida, humming under his breath, oddly high and disconnected, and it took Joey a moment to recognize scattered fragments of The Lion Sleeps Tonight. A chill chased down Joey's spine; it sounded really fucking freaky, and made him think of something out of the old Twilight Zone tv show he'd loved as a kid.

Long minutes ticked by as Chris' unfocused eyes studied the map, as his tracking fingers slowed to a bare crawl, searching. Joey almost felt afraid to move, afraid he would disturb whatever vibe Chris worked. He glanced over at JC, whose blue, blue gaze alternated between studying Chris and Joey, a bemused expression on his angular face. When Chris reached the panhandle area, JC moved slowly to his keyboard, and began typing something, his long fingers a blur of speed. Craning his neck a little, Joey could see a detailed map of that area pop up on JC's computer screen.

Chris' fingers stopped, and he drew a deep breath, and stood up abruptly, blinking. He staggered, and without thought, Joey reached out and steadied him. Chris leaned into him a moment, warm and solid, and Joey savored the feel of Chris against him.

"What is it?" Joey asked. "What did you find?"

"They didn't leave the state after they took her. They just moved north. I think. I know where they went." He straightened, and tapped the map. "Western panhandle region."

"Seven hours by car. Unless you're driving," JC said, and grinned at Chris.

"Fuck you," Chris said pleasantly, as JC began printing out the information on his computer screen.

JC laughed, a happy, goofy sound. "You only wish." He collected the printouts and handed them to Chris, who looked over them, the ribbon still fluttering from his hand. "You're not planning on starting off now, are you? It'll be pitch black when you get there. You can't look in the dark, man. Better off to start early tomorrow."

Chris slanted a look at Joey, and Joey knew that Chris, practically vibrating with excitement, wanted to go this instant. Hell, he wanted to go, now that they finally had something to work with. He ran a hand through his hair, and blew out a breath.

"What if we pack up now and leave, and spend the night there in a motel? We'd be that far ahead, and then we can start early?"

"Works for me," Chris said quickly, as if he might be afraid Joey would change his mind.

As if he would, given this was the first positive thing they had. Nothing would keep him from following this up. Hope and excitement bubbled up within him, and he felt his mouth curve up into a smile. Chris brightened perceptively.

"Let me drive, so you can concentrate on searching, once we get there, okay? What if I pick you up at your place, in say, an hour? We can take off from there."

"Excellent." Chris smiled up at him warmly, pleased. He then turned to JC, and ruffled his long, curly hair; JC slapped at him, but grinned. "You're a jewel, gorgeous. Thanks."

"You bet I am," JC replied. He stood, and offered Joey his hand, and a real smile that, while beautiful, didn't affect Joey like Chris' smiles did. "Good luck to you, man," JC said, and Joey shook his hand.

"Thanks. I appreciate it." Joey turned back to Chris, and smiled at him. Chris' eyes widened a little, and Joey felt himself go warm again. "I'll pick you up in an hour."

"I'll be ready."

JC had said the trip to Pensacola would be seven hours. With Joey driving, they made it in five and a half.

Although buoyed by excitement, by hope, exhaustion proved stronger. Chris found himself napping, waking up after two hours, sweaty from yet another dream of Briahna, and shivering from the blast of air conditioning. He blinked as Joey's hand reached across, and flipped the vents away from him; he appreciated the thought.

He glanced over and saw Joey's smile, and warmth curled in his chest. He shifted around, leaning against the door, folding his arms across his chest. Joey had been singing softly in a clear, strong baritone, an old doo-wop song--Blue Moon--his whole vibe relaxed, warm, comfortable. If Chris could've seen auras, Joey's would probably be blue, now. Nice change from the heaviness, the anger, he'd first felt emanating from him.

"Nice voice, dude," Chris said sleepily. "You're good."

"Thanks." Joey looked pleased, and Chris smiled again, glad he'd said something. "My dad used to have this little local doo-wop group, The Orions, just for fun when we lived back in Brooklyn. Janine and Steve didn't care all that much for it, but man, I loved it. I sang all the time. Ma said I sang from the time I could talk. So I guess Briahna comes by it naturally."

Chris rubbed his cheek on the car seat, and his five-o'clock shadow skritched softly against the fabric. "Sing in school?" He wanted to keep Joey talking, keep the good vibe going, because it felt so good, all smooth with Joey's lightened mood, instead of sharp and jangly.

Joey snorted, and his mouth curved upward again. "Everything. If it had music, I was there. Choir and drama, mostly, because band conflicted too much with drama. Although I did play drums in this shitty little garage band me and a few friends had going." He chuckled, and Chris soaked up the happy sound. "I was happiest singing, though. We moved to Orlando the summer before I started high school, and I waded into it there. Worked at Universal, singing in a couple of the revues there, through high school and college." He paused, smiling. "Good times, man, good times."

"Sounds like it. So why didn't you go into something more music-related than owning a restaurant?"

"Well." Joey scratched at his beard. "I knew I wanted a kid. And man, it wouldn't be fair to any kid to be dragging them across the country all the time, while trying to break into the business. Kids need stability, y'know? My mom and dad would've watched her, no problem, but why have a kid if you're not around for her? So I majored in business in college, and when I graduated, got the loans to get started. I've worked hard, and I've been really lucky. Justin came to work with me, and we're putting Il Giardino Bello on the list of Orlando's best restaurants." Joey smiled, glancing over at him, and Chris felt a little melty sensation in the pit of his stomach. "It's been a good life. I've never regretted anything."

"That's great, man. To have a clear goal, to know what you want. To tackle it, to never regret your path in life. Not everyone has that." Chris stretched as much as he could in the confines of the car, and from the corner of his eye, caught Joey's quick, assessing glance.

"What about you?" Joey asked.

Chris rubbed his eyes. Still tired; he hadn't slept much. "What?"

Joey's shoulder lifted in a shrug. "You talk a hell of a lot, but not too much about yourself. Your life this big secret, or something?"

"Nah. Just not that interesting. Grew up in Pennsylvania. Worked a few years with the police there as a civilian consultant while I went to college and got a degree in psychology. Taught school for a couple of years, then decided it wasn't for me. Went to Mississippi to pick up some classes in criminology, and met Bass there, who was an undergrad at the time. Went up to North Carolina, and got my PI license. Worked there for a while, and met Howie. Dorough," Chris added, and Joey nodded his understanding. "We lived together about three years, then he got a job offer at Valencia. Sounded good, and Bass had settled here and started up his business, so he hired me, and we moved down here." Chris looked out the window at the darkening landscape. "Me and Howie lasted a year after we moved, and then just decided we were better apart than together."

Joey made a thoughtful sound. He passed a slow-moving semi, and Chris saw the speedometer edge up to ninety again. Chris suspected that Joey had driven that speed all the time he'd been asleep. "Did your..." Joey paused, clearly searching for a word, "...gift...have anything to do with it?"

"Probably. He was good with it, though, most of the time. I'll admit I'm not the easiest person to live with. When I'm in the middle of an investigation, I'm obsessive with it. I have dreams about it. Nightmares, in the awful cases. Sometimes, I'm working on a couple of things at once. I'll pick up and haul my ass halfway across the country at the drop of a hat, if that's where I need to be. He's a great guy, but it just wore on him after awhile. He wanted less drama, I think. I can't blame him." Chris put his thumb to his mouth and chewed at his nail, uncomfortable at revealing so much. He was always the one investigating, prying into the lives of others, finding things meant to be hidden, and didn't much like the feeling of revealing anything about himself, although he had nothing to hide.

Joey reached out, wrapped his long fingers around Chris' wrist, and tugged gently until he pulled Chris' hand away from his mouth. His thumb rubbed over Chris' hand, warm, and although a part of Chris wanted to jerk his hand back, more of him liked the comfort Joey offered.

"You regret what you do?"

"Kinda pointless to regret it, because I can't change it. It just is as it is. It's what I am, what I do, what I have done for years."

Joey squeezed his wrist gently, and returned his hand to the steering wheel of his car. Relief washed over Chris, because hey, going way over the speed limit, and secondly, he didn't much like to talk about himself. Joey seemed to realize it, and after a moment or two of silence, steered the conversation over to Lance and the agency he ran, which Chris found much easier to talk about; he had dozens of war stories about working as a PI, his own and others.

Darkness had fallen when they exited into Pensacola. JC had printed out maps for them, along with the locations of motels--thrifty ones--and less-expensive restaurants. Chris appreciated it for Joey's sake, because according to the contract, he paid all expenses. Chris had never liked to rack up expenses on anyone's account, preferring to stay in cheaper places, or if the client had little money, even sleeping in his car and using his own funds for meals. Chris had saved a tidy little amount, but remembered all too well what it was like to be poor, and never let money stand in the way of an investigation. He knew Bass had wanted to thrash him several times for doing things pro bono, but hey, the kid was way more important to him than any paycheck ever would be.

They got a couple of rooms at a Motel 6, and went out to pick up something to eat. Chris had been to Pensacola before, chasing someone, but Joey knew the area much better; he and Justin had been to see the races a few times. Joey took them to a little family-owned Greek restaurant he knew well, and as he promised, the food was excellent, though Chris could only eat only a few bites of it. Restlessness bubbled up inside him, and the urge to get moving, to search, held him tightly in its grip. He knew Briahna was close, or had been close; he could practically feel it, and his nerves jangled with the need to find her. Joey had given him Briahna's ribbon to carry, and his hand frequently stole into his pocket to touch it, as if it was a talisman.

In the end, Chris drank too much wine trying to mute the restlessness, and while he wasn't exactly drunk, he'd had way more than his usual limit, and felt a lot more relaxed, looser, than he did before. He couldn't help but watch Joey, and he sat on his hands to keep from touching him. Because, not a good idea. Not a good idea at all to want to run his hands through Joey's thick, dark hair, not a good idea to want to sniff and lick the place under his ear, and definitely not a good idea to want to reenact some of the dreams he'd had about him. Chris felt himself flush hotly and get hard just thinking about them.

Joey poured him into his car, because his legs didn't seem to want to work on their own, and drove them back to the motel. Chris leaned against the wall as Joey slid the keycard through the lock, and decided he liked the aggressive jut of Joey's nose, the way his neatly-trimmed beard accentuated his wide, full mouth. Oh, yeah, he liked that a lot, and when Joey turned to look at him, when his eyes darkened, Chris figured that the expression on his face showed just how much he liked it.

When Joey turned to him, Chris swayed closer, and when Joey wrapped an arm around him, Chris let him support him. "C'mon," Joey said, close to his ear. "You really can't hold your alcohol, can you?"

"'m fine," Chris protested, but it felt good to lean into Joey, even if Joey ran him into the doorjamb getting him inside. "Don't drink much. Just a few beers sometimes."

"I can tell." Joey sounded amused.

"Seriously," Chris insisted, and whoa, the whole world tilted, as Joey, still hanging onto him, bent enough to pull back the covers on the bed. When Joey sat him down on the edge of the bed, Chris patted his broad shoulder. "It's like, um, a little alcohol--" he held his finger and thumb a small distance apart, "--makes the tuner in my head quieter. But a lot--" he held his hands far apart, almost whacking Joey in the nose he'd admired only moments before, "--makes the tuner quit working, and all the channels come in at once. Dream all night."

"It's gonna be hell sleeping, then, because you had a whole lot more than a little." Joey knelt and pulled off Chris' boots and socks, and Chris sucked in a deep breath, because oh, fuck, he'd dreamed so vividly about having Joey in just this position. Of their own accord, his thighs spread wider, and beneath his jeans, his dick, already hard and full and hot, ached.

Joey looked up, his dark eyes traveling up Chris' thighs, lingering on the bulge beneath his jeans, over his belly and chest, and finally up into his face. Chris clenched his hands into fists to keep from touching, because it would be so easy to touch Joey; he wanted to smooth his hands over him, to feel Joey against him. He knew without a doubt that Joey would respond and they'd end up in bed together, and for a moment he couldn't remember why it was a bad idea.

"Do you want me to stay?" Joey settled back on his heels, and very carefully didn't touch Chris, for which Chris silently thanked him; if Joey had touched him, had run his big hands up his thighs, had stroked and cupped his dick, he'd have said yes to anything.

His throat felt dry, even though he could still taste wine in his mouth. Alcohol screwed with his head so much, and he vowed in that moment never again to drink, although the back of his mind sneered at that promise. He licked his lips, and fuck, his dick throbbed hard as Joey watched the movement.

"I wa--" he swallowed again. "Not a good idea. Great--fucking *great* idea--but not a smart one. So I guess, no."

Joey rubbed his hand over his face, and Chris could see the bulge in Joey's jeans, and jerked his eyes away from it before he could change his mind. "So, is there some rule in the PI club that says you can't get involved with clients?"

"Pretty much. It's not smart. You lose your objectivity, divide your focus. And remember, I told you that you and me don't matter, that only Briahna does? I meant it then, and I mean it now."

"Yeah. You're right." Joey unfolded and stood up. He unashamedly adjusted himself in his jeans, and Chris closed his eyes so he couldn't see just how thick, how long Joey's dick looked. "I'm gonna get you a glass of water. You have any aspirins?"

"Thanks. Um, in my dufflebag." He heard Joey step away, run water in the bathroom. With a sigh, Chris let himself fall back onto the bed, pulled off his glasses, and put a hand over his eyes. The world spun around him, his heart beat fast and heavy in his chest, his belly felt clenched as tightly as a fist, and his dick ached so much he thought it might break off. His free hand crept down and settled over it, pressing it down against his belly.

He heard Joey rustling around, heard the crisp whirr of the duffle's zipper. He remembered the bottle of Astroglide in his bag, and thought for a moment about feeling embarrassed that Joey would see it, but fuck it, Joey was a guy and jerked off. But probably not as much as Chris had in the past few days, or would in the next few.

"Chris." Joey's voice sounded deep and husky, and a shudder worked down Chris' spine. He opened his eyes and saw Joey standing over him, eyes hot. Chris realized he lay sprawled on the bed, legs open, his hand on his dick, and heat flooded through him as he jerked his hand away and sat up, swaying as his vision blurred and the room wobbled.

"Sorry," he muttered. His face, his throat, even his ears burned, and he'd bet he'd turned candy apple red.

Joey sat the aspirin and water on the bedside table. "You'll have to get them yourself, because man, if I touch you, that's it." He took a step away from Chris, and then another, as if he didn't trust himself to be close. Chris watched him from beneath his lashes, watched the frustrated rake of Joey's hand through his hair. "I'm just gonna go, okay? If you need me, call. I'm just gonna try and go to sleep. Yeah."

Chris looked up as Joey reached the door. "Joey. Thanks, man."

After the door closed softly behind Joey, Chris moaned and leaned forward, his face in his hands. "I am so fucked up," he announced to the quiet room. "Totally fucked up." Unsurprisingly, no one disputed him.

He rose and peeled out of his jeans, cursing under his breath as he eased them down and off. He took the aspirins, drank the water, and stumbled into the bathroom. Pissing with a hard-on took concentration, but he finally got it done, and stood at the sink and drank two more glasses of water. His reflection in the mirror revealed a tired, drunk, miserably horny guy. Yep, that was him, all right.

Grabbing a towel, he flicked off the light and picked up the Astroglide on his way to bed. He shucked off tee shirt and shorts, and settled in with the towel and the lube. Slicking his hands, he jacked himself, imagining Joey beneath him, those long, long legs draped over his shoulders, moaning low and raggedly as Chris thrust balls deep into his tight, slick heat. He came too fast, too hard, curling up into himself with a low moan. When he could breathe again, he uncurled, mopped himself off, and tossed the towel off the side of the bed.

He wondered how long it would take to fall asleep, and how long he'd sleep before the dreams started. Maybe he'd get lucky, and manage an hour or two before they rolled over him, as heavy and suffocating as an ocean wave. He reached up, turned off the bedside light, and pulled up the covers, wishing that he had someone to curl up to and hold when they became overwhelming.

The next morning, Joey raised his hand to knock on Chris' door, but it opened abruptly before he could. Chris scowled at him, and shaded his eyes against the brightness of the early morning. He turned away without saying a word, and Joey entered, closing the door against the sounds of traffic and the city coming to life again.

Joey leaned against the door, not really sure of his welcome this morning, because Chris had said, in no uncertain terms they weren't going anywhere with the attraction they both felt. Ironic, really; Chris was the first man to make him feel alive in so long, and he was off limits. He watched Chris walk away from him, light and quick on his feet in spite of having a hangover. He'd thought Chris' fairly constant movement would've worn on him during the week they spent interviewing families, that his love of talk would drive him insane. But it had turned out, after he'd become accustomed to it, to be refreshing, because he'd spent the time since Briahna's kidnapping in a state of torpor, merely cruising on auto-pilot through his days, and Chris was, well, electric. Alive, vital.

Chris moved to his bed, and zipped his duffle. "Sleep okay?" His normally clear voice sounded raspy this morning, and he looked pale, the shadows under his eyes dark; he didn't look as if he'd slept at all.

"Yeah, not bad. You don't look like you had much luck, though."

Chris gave a half shrug, and sat on the bed to pull on his boots. "I don't have a lot of luck with alcohol, and don't do much better with pot. I was a real bore in college, let me tell you." He tugged hard on the laces of his boots. "It reduces what little control I have, and the results ain't pretty."

"Did you dream about Briahna?"

Chris sat up again and rubbed his forehead. "Yeah, I think so. But I can't remember it. Too much other shit. Sorry." Chris tucked his wallet into his back pocket and clipped the end of the chain to his belt loop; the long loop of chain swung against his thigh, flashing in the low light.

"You don't have to apologize, man. You're doing what you can, and I appreciate it." Joey would've reached out and patted his shoulder, but Chris felt angular and prickly, unlike his usual warmth and good spirits, and Joey figured discretion was more likely the better part of valor.

Chris' frown faded, and he shifted from one foot to the other a couple of times. "Thanks. You don't know how much it means for me to hear you say that, Joe." His mouth curved up a little, and he looked up at Joey, his expression a little sheepish. "I'll try not to be such a bitch, okay?"

"You feel up to this? I mean, we can wait a little while, and you can catch some sleep." Joey didn't really want to wait any longer, but if sleeping a little while longer would make Chris more effective, then he could wait.

Chris waved his hand. "Wouldn't do any good. I couldn't sleep anyway. I need to find her."

Joey nodded, wholly in agreement, and relieved Chris didn't want to wait. "Whatever you want to do is okay. Feel up to breakfast?"

"Um, maybe some coffee, but nothing to eat." Chris grimaced, and Joey felt a wash of sympathy. Chris really hadn't had all that much to drink, but evidently, he couldn't hold much more than a couple of glasses without suffering the effects of it.

They ended up in a drive through, because they both wanted to be on the road. Joey had no idea just how Chris intended to find whatever he looked for; it seemed like the proverbial needle in a haystack. Glancing over at Chris, he wondered if maybe Chris felt the same way, because tension collected at the corners of his eyes and mouth, and his jaw clenched so hard that Joey worried for his teeth.

"So how do you want to do this?"

Chris had exchanged his glasses for sunglasses against the brightness of the morning. Joey didn't care much for that; while Chris seemed to have good control over what he showed in his face, his dark eyes were very expressive, and Joey would miss seeing them. Chris shrugged at his question.

"Why don't you start driving north? I get the feeling that what we're looking for is more that direction. I'll tell you when to turn."

"So, what? You're like a psychic bloodhound?" Joey made his voice deliberately light, because if he hadn't, Chris, moody this morning, might see it as an insult. Joey wasn't stupid enough to further antagonize the one person who had helped him; Chris had been patient with him, riding out his anger, his disbelief, his mocking, all the while working like a dog to find Briahna. He was, Joey thought, a good, decent guy, and Joey had come to both like and respect him.

His reward was the upward quirk of Chris' mouth. "Yeah, good analogy." Chris turned his head to look out the window. "And Joe? Thanks."

Joey glanced over at Chris, but saw nothing but the back of his head. Chris' reflection in the window looked calmer, more at peace, and Joey knew that somehow, Chris had caught a glimpse of his feelings. Joey couldn't help but reach over and run his fingers across Chris' hand, a quick caress, before turning his attention back to the road.

They drove erratically northward. Chris stayed mostly silent, Briahna's ribbon in his hand, his eyes closed, as if willing them forward to her. Joey stayed quiet to let him concentrate, and turned when Chris' soft, sleepy-sounding murmur instructed him. The map JC had printed out for them lay unheeded beside them.

As they drove further from Pensacola, the area quickly became more rural. Joey could pay more attention to the countryside, because he couldn't drive as quickly, never sure when Chris would instruct him to turn.

The vegetation amazed him. Always a city boy, the very relentlessness of it surprised him. Green covered everything; kudzu seemed determined to take over, as ruthless as Sherman in its march. He could almost swear he saw it growing as they passed, and he had the oddest feeling that if he slowed too much, it would catch up and curl its tendrils around the bumper of the car. They passed ramshackle houses covered in it, and green lumps which he knew were trees overtaken by it.

Joey had never been poor; he'd lived his entire life in middle-class comfort. But as he drove away from the affluence of Pensacola and into the rural poverty of northern Florida, it struck him just how fortunate he'd always been. He saw shotgun shacks, barely standing, homes that looked as if their owners had constructed them out of whatever scrap lumber and plywood they'd found, surrounded by junk and rusted out cars. Chickens fluttered across yards, and he saw a few goats. Mangy dogs stirred in the heat and ran out to the road to bark at them. Dirty kids played half-heartedly in yards and older people sat listlessly on porches, watching them pass by.

The thought that Briahna now lived like this ate at him; his stomach twisted and burned with acid that his baby, his child, could be sick and hungry and hopeless, raised in abject poverty by those who had taken her. He blinked hard and pressed his lips together, breathing slowly and deeply until the urge to give in to despair, to tears, didn't threaten to overwhelm him.

Beside him, Chris reached over and squeezed his arm, fingers warm and strong. Joey dared a glance at him, but Chris showed absolutely nothing in his face, and Joey couldn't read his eyes behind the dark glasses. "Keep going, Joe. Keep driving." He patted Joey's arm, then his hand fell away, back onto his own thigh; Joey saw his hand fist, knuckles white against his skin.

And so he drove, and although they backtracked twice at Chris' instruction, and seemed to travel in looping circles, they were clearly angling westward. While all of it looked poor, some places seemed less so than others. He saw clearings with fields that looked well-tended; places that looked less likely to fall over at a sneeze. Small towns instead of collections of homes built out of boxes or cartons.

They stopped for gas in a little town, at a mom-and-pop shop with hand-lettered signs offering bait, catfish, chitlins, and greens. Chris didn't get out to stretch his legs, which was probably for the best; Joey didn't think his punk look, though mild compared to most Joey had seen, would go over well with the pickup truck-and-confederate-flag conservatism. Joey got them a couple of Cokes and some chips to tide them over.

When he got back into the car, he could almost feel Chris' excitement; he practically vibrated with it. He threaded Briahna's ribbon through his fingers, over and over.

"What, are we close?" Joey couldn't help the excitement, the surge of hope; the entire trip Chris had been unnaturally quiet and subdued, but now he seemed to have come alive again.

"Yeah. C'mon, c'mon. West of town here---I can almost *feel* it."

Joey didn't hesitate; Chris seemed so certain now. He managed to keep to the speed limit, but just barely, taking a winding asphalt two-lane out of town into an area of small farms and fields. Some were run down, but all looked occupied. They took a dirt road, then stopped and retraced their steps and returned to the narrow two-lane, drove along for awhile slowly, while Chris looked at the countryside, his expression intent, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his upper lip. Chris leaned forward, one hand gripping the ribbon tightly in his hand, almost like a hunting dog tracking prey. Although Joey wanted to ask if they were close, if they were there yet, he kept his mouth shut and let Chris work.

They passed a little dirt road drifting off from the highway, marked only by a mailbox knocked halfway off its post, when Chris said, "Wait---Joe, stop, that's *it*!" He practically bounced in his seat, looking back, as Joey braked suddenly. A pickup truck blasted by them, horn blaring, and Joey's heart lurched in his chest.

He drove forward until he could find a safe place to turn around and backtrack, Chris fidgeting restlessly in the seat beside him. The road, which seemed little more than a long, narrow, rock-strewn driveway, wound through pines and scrub, shaded and claustrophobic, almost; branches scraped along the sides of the car, screeching against the metal.

They broke out of the trees into a clearing of weed grass. Grass, Joey thought, high enough to brush the waist of a six-year-old child, enough of it to seem to a child like it went on forever. He'd quizzed Chris enough about the vision enough that he almost dreamed it at night himself.

The house, old, faded, with peeling white paint, stood tiredly in the middle of the field. The moment Joey saw it, he braked, his heart pounding so hard in his chest it hurt. Steel bands seemed to encircle his chest, preventing him from drawing in a deep breath. "Chris?" His voice sounded thready and uncertain to his own ears.

He could hear Chris breathing, fast and excited, and he leaned forward, hands on the dash, peering out the windshield, the ribbon flowing over his wrist. "That's it," he crowed. "That's the place, I know it."

Joey swallowed dryly. "You're sure?"

"It looks...it *feels*...deserted. Maybe they're not here. Maybe. But this is the place I've seen in my dreams. I've never been so fucking sure of anything," he said, and Joey hit the gas.

They closed the distance, and only fear of breaking an axle on the rocks that jutted up from the road kept him from driving at an unsafe speed. Hope and anticipation and fear slithered down his spine, collected heavily in his belly, tingled along his nerves. He wanted to believe that this was the right place, that in the house his baby waited for him. In his whole life, he'd never wanted so hard to believe.

The place looked deserted as they pulled in next to it, but Joey wouldn't let himself consider anything but that Briahna was here. Beside him, Chris looked at the house, face distant. "Joe," he said softly, "I'm not sure she's here...."

But Joey didn't want to hear that. The moment he shut off the engine, he bailed out of the car, hurrying up to the house, wading through grass and weeds to get there, launching himself onto the porch. "Briahna? Briahna? Are you in there? Are you here? Bri, it's daddy!"

He pounded on the door, rattling the door glass in its frame, and the whole house seemed to shake. "Bri, open the door, it's daddy!" No one answered, no one pulled back the rotting curtains to see what the noise was all about. His belly sank to his heels, and he fought down the anger, the sudden, overwhelming fear that she might not be there.

Surprisingly strong, Chris pulled him back, away from the door. He'd changed his sunglasses for his regular glasses, and he glared up at Joey, exasperated and indignant.

"Honest to God, don't you have any sense? What if they were armed? You could've had your head blown off, you moron."

Joey swallowed hard; he'd not even thought of that, so anxious to find her. He stood with his hands clenched helplessly into fists as Chris looked around with an experienced eye. Apparently deciding they weren't about to get shot, Chris stepped forward and tried the door. Locked.

Joey moved forward, to use his body weight as a battering ram, but Chris stepped in front of him and scowled. "That only works in the movies," he said. "You'll fuck up your shoulder doing that." Although they were out of plain sight of the main road, he looked around for anyone watching them. "You don't see anything, okay?"

Chris took a step back, and looked at the door, his head tilted to the side for a moment, as if studying its structural strength, then raised his leg, muscles tightening in his strong thighs, and planted his booted foot hard against the wood below the ancient doorknob. The door moved a little; a second hard kick, and the door finally gave, splintering, scraping against the floor. "Candygram," he said, and pushed it the rest of the way open.

Joey brushed past him. Inside, the air closed hot and stale around him. He blinked against the dimness after the brightness of the afternoon sun. Although he knew that no one lived here, that the house had been deserted, Joey couldn't help but call for Briahna as he searched room by room through the old house, his heart sinking with every empty room he found.

He caught up with Chris in the kitchen. Chris stood at the sink, looking out the window, but turned as Joey came in.

"She's not here," Joey said flatly. "No one's here. It looks as if no one's been here for ages."

Chris ran a finger through the light coating of dust on the counter, and rubbed his finger against his thumb, looking thoughtful. "They were here. Maybe within the past nine months, a year. I know they were here."

Joey rubbed a hand over his hot, burning eyes. Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him as the adrenaline rush began to ebb. He wanted to believe Chris, but he couldn't see anything indicating that Briahna had been here, no clothes, no toys, nothing that proved to him a little girl, *his* little girl, had ever lived in this run-down house.

A large black bug scuttled around the toe of Chris' boot, and casually, he stepped on it, the snap of its hard-shelled body too loud in the close, dim room. Joey swallowed hard and shuddered; he hated roaches and anything even vaguely like them.

"How can anyone live like this?"

"This is a fucking palace compared to some places you can grow up in," Chris replied darkly. He scraped the sole of his boot against the rotting linoleum, then turned and left the room without another word.

Joey blinked, and realized suddenly that maybe Chris spoke from personal experience. He wanted to smack himself in the forehead, but instead went after Chris.

Joey pulled the front door closed as best he could, then turned and looked for Chris. Not on the porch, not at the car, but Joey could see where he'd left a path of tromped-down grass, easy enough to follow, so he did.

As he went around the house, he saw Chris running quickly, easily across the open field, then he went up and over a falling-down rail fence. Joey realized then Chris' destination, a ramshackle barn standing out in the grass. His heart lurched; he could recognize it from Chris' description, and it was the same one from his dream. Joey followed, his long legs covering the distance quickly, and the fence proved no obstacle at all.

Chris had disappeared inside by the time Joey reached the building, and Joey paused, catching his breath, before he stepped inside. "Chris?" He blinked hard, trying to adjust his eyes to the dimness inside.

"Here." Joey swung his head around, and saw stalls, where a farmer would house livestock, and beside those, a couple of old, rotting, moldy bales of hay. Chris popped up from behind one of them, and Joey jumped, startled. "C'mere, Joe."

When Joey reached him, he could see Chris scrabbling in the dirt. "This is where she was, Joe, when she called for you. She hid back here, from the man with the keys. I know it."

If Chris had stabbed him in the heart with the old, rusty pitchfork leaning against the stalls, it couldn't have hurt any more than the thought of Briahna here, crying for him, begging for him to come and save her, to take her back home. Rage, black and heavy, swirled up from his belly, and he hated the people who took her away from her home, away from those who loved her, away from *him.* In that moment, he knew how people could kill in a fit of passion. But it did no good, served no purpose, and so he clenched his fists and caught the anger before it spewed forth, pushed it down and away.

Chris sat back on his heels, and even in the dimness, his face shone brightly in triumph. Joey knelt beside him in the dirt, looking at his grin, hope slowly, slowly welling within him. His heart beat hard against his breastbone.

"What?"

Chris held up a dirty scrap of cloth. Something narrow, something that had once been bright pink. Moving so slowly he felt as if he were trapped in hardening concrete, Joey reached for it, took it from Chris.

A pink ribbon, dirty and grubby. He turned it over in his fingers, and he could make out the once-white daisies made from puffy paint, and could see the lettering, some of them half-worn away. But the letters spelled out a name.

Briahna.

Joey's thick fingers smoothed the creases out of the ribbon, brushed away the dirt and grime, tracing almost reverently over the raised decorations. His face had gone still and it looked as if he barely breathed. When he looked up at Chris, hope filled his dark eyes, shone from his face. He took an unsteady breath, and when he said, "It's hers...it's really hers," his voice wobbled.

"Yeah, Joe, it's hers," Chris said softly, and closed his fingers around Joey's hand, which had clenched into a fist around the ribbon. Chris could feel the tremble in Joey's hand, see it course up his arm and into his body, shuddering through him.

Emotion poured over him; Joey's despair and hope and anger and love for his missing child, that love so strong, so pure that it almost made Chris' breath hitch with the power of it. Joey's dark head bowed, and Chris wanted to run the fingers of his free hand over the long nape of his neck, exposed and vulnerable. Warm wetness splashed over his fingers, and Joey's shoulders heaved as he cried silently.

"Oh, Joe," Chris said softly. "Joe, Joe." Chris moved closer and wrapped his arm around Joey's shoulders, pulled him closer. At first Joey resisted, trying to curl into himself, but Chris kept pulling insistently, and Joey unfolded enough to let Chris wrap his arms around him and hold him close to his chest. Joey buried his face into the side of Chris' neck and cried, months and months of pent-up emotion boiling to the surface, finally released.

The force of Joey's feelings battered at him, but Chris was strong enough to take them, to weather them, and so he held firm, stroking Joey's broad back, murmuring softly to him. Joey's emotions seeped into him, and the natural empathy Chris usually kept blocked to everyone opened up, allowing him to feel as deeply as Joey did. Chris' arms tightened even more and he closed his eyes against the heated stinging of tears he felt in them.

Eventually the rush of emotions slowed, and Joey subsided, quieting against him. Chris pressed his cheek against Joey's hair, and listened to the wet sound of Joey breathing against him. They swayed together slowly, and it took Chris a moment to realize he rocked Joey like a child, and he stopped. When Joey pulled away, Chris let him go.

Joey sat back on his heels, wiping at his wet red face with his hand, not looking at Chris. Chris reached into his pocket and fished out a handkerchief, and Joey took it. He wiped at his eyes, then blew his nose loudly. Even though it was hotter than hell in the shed, Chris missed the heat of Joey's big body, the closeness he'd felt as he'd absorbed Joey's emotions, as he'd held him and comforted him.

"Thanks, man. I'm sorry I just went all to pieces there." Joey's voice sounded hoarse from the wrenching sobs, and he wouldn't look up at Chris.

"Joe," Chris said, and reached to squeeze Joey's shoulder, "It's good. Don't be ashamed of it. You've been needing to do it. It's honest, real emotion. Don't deny it."

"Yeah, I guess." Joey stuffed Chris' handkerchief into his pocket, and smoothed the ribbon between his fingers again. His dark eyes looked up at Chris and Chris thought, *oh*, and his belly seemed to drop to the ground, a dizzying moment of free fall. Joy and hope shone from Joey's eyes, with a fierce determination growing in their depths. Though he was sweaty and red and splotchy from crying, Chris didn't think he'd ever seen anyone more handsome, and the realization made a shiver crawl down his spine, curl low in his belly as he thought, oh, fuck, I've gone and done it now.

"C'mon," Chris said, proud his voice didn't crack, that it sounded almost normal. "Let's get outta here, okay?"

Joey cleared his throat. "Is there anything else here? Anything that would help you?"

"Nah, don't think so." Chris rocked easily to his feet, and held out a hand for Joey, who took it. They levered Joey to his feet, and when Chris tugged, Joey didn't let go his hand.

"I just want to say thank you. I just. I didn't believe you. I hoped, I really hoped, but in spite of seeing the things you've done so far, I still didn't believe." Joey held up the ribbon, rubbing his thumb gently across it, as if he could somehow, like Chris, feel Briahna in the dirty loops of material and paint. "But this--it's proof, man. It's solid proof you're on the level. I'm sorry I didn't believe you, but I'd seen so much shit from people who said they were like you, and weren't, not at all. You're the real thing, and now I know it. Thank you."

Joey's quiet sincerity touched Chris, and he felt warmth rise up his throat, into his cheeks. He shifted from one foot to the other, then smiled up at Joey, embarrassed. Joey's wide mouth stretched into a grin, then blossomed into a full, bright smile, a smile like Chris had seen in pictures and in videos, a smile that made Chris feel warm and somehow, very special.

"It's okay. Wait and thank me when we find her."

Joey tilted his head, considering him, really looking at him as if seeing him for the first time, and Chris managed to avoid squirming. "You never give up, do you?"

"Never. I don't give up, no matter what. We'll find her, I promise."

"I believe it," Joey said, his voice soft and warm; Chris shifted as the sound flowed over him, curled around his heart and squeezed. He hadn't realized just how much Joey's approval, his acceptance meant, until he had it wholeheartedly. He looked down and away, afraid that it might show in his eyes, his expression; he didn't need to be like a teenaged girl about it. Joey gently closed his other hand around their clasped hands, enclosing Chris' own, and pressed gently for a moment before letting go.

Joey fell into step with him when Chris walked out of the shed and into the heat of the late afternoon. The heat from the sun slammed into Chris, and he wiped at his forehead. He'd raced across the fields, buoyed by excitement, uncaring of the distance, but returning, it seemed very far to the tired old house and Joey's car.

"So what do we do now? There's no trace of anything here, nothing to give us any idea of where we can go." Joey didn't sound down or defeated, just curious, and for that, Chris felt grateful.

Chris scrambled over the fence, and waited for Joey to do the same. "The next step is to find out who owns the house. I don't know for sure if they were the kidnappers, but I'd be willing to bet they know something about it. That'll give us some direction." He glanced at his watch, and frowned. "But probably that won't happen today. It's just after five, and most government offices close at four or five in the afternoon. Too late, now. Have to be tomorrow, I guess."

Joey ran a hand through his hair, and sighed. "I don't mean to be impatient, but hell, I am, now that we have some direction."

"Believe me, I understand. But now that we know where we're going, we can head back to the hotel, get some sleep, and leave out early tomorrow. A little cleaner," Chris said, scowling at his hands and knees, dirty where he'd scrambled around, digging in the dirt, looking for the ribbon. "Don't think we'd make such a good impression like this."

"Probably not," Joey agreed as they came up to the car and got in. As Chris settled, and grabbed his soda, now lukewarm and began chugging it down anyway, Joey reached under his seat and brought out a small box. "There. I knew I still had 'em." When Chris looked at him curiously, Joey gave a half-grin. "Baby wipes. Kids are always messy, y'know?"

Chris laughed, and pulled out a couple as Joey started the car, and cranked up the air conditioning. "I'm gonna smell like a baby's butt," he said with a grin.

"Better than the product of a baby's butt," Joey replied, holding up a wipe to the air conditioning vent to cool it off before wiping at his face and the back of his neck. "Bri and I went through these things like they were going out of style, man. You'd think a little girl would be like, dainty and clean, but hell, she's a Fatone, through and through. She's got the messy gene in spades."

Chris made a rude noise. "Dainty? Hell they are," he said. "I've raised four sisters. They're messy little monsters, all of them."

Joey buckled in, then swung the car back onto the rough drive, easing over the rocks. "Those are your sisters, your mom on your office wall, right?"

"Yeah." Chris smiled, pleased; warmth rose up in his chest as he thought of his family; they were the most important people in the entire world, as far as he was concerned. "My immediate family, along with Molly's kids, and Kate's husband. Emily is a teacher in Boston--teaches special needs kids. I finally got to move mom and Taylor, my youngest sister, down to Orlando this spring. No more cold Pennsylvania winters for them."

Chris resolutely shuttled away memories of his own childhood; they had no place in the present. Once he'd gotten old enough to work, the major portion of every paycheck had gone to his mother for her and his sisters, and as the jobs had gotten better, he'd made certain that they were never cold or hungry again.

"I know all about the cold up north. I'm from New York. Brooklyn." Pride touched his voice, and Chris didn't need to be a psychic to know Joey was very proud of his roots. As he talked about growing up there, of his childhood, his friends, Chris heard the flat Brooklyn accent creep into his words; Joey had been in Florida most of his life, and had lost much of it, sounding more like a native than a transplant.

Chris knew about him from the files he'd read, but he enjoyed hearing Joey talk about his boyhood, his family, his friends, and encouraged him to continue by questions that required more than simple answers, a skill he'd learned and honed to perfection in his career. What he learned of the other man from what Joey told him could never be found in any file; Joey had heart and courage and loyalty, had strength of will, intelligence, and a sense of humor that was both crude and sly, and made Chris laugh. Chris leaned back in the seat, soaking up the good vibes, letting them flow over him, soothe him, give him a sense of peace he'd not felt for a very long time.

They made the trip back to Pensacola by a more direct route, and before Chris knew it, they were exiting into the city. Joey took him to a different restaurant for supper, this one as small and mom-and-pop as the one the night before, which served authentic Italian food. The owners greeted Joey like a long lost son, and if they compared him unfavorably with Justin, they were kind enough not to let it slip. Chris was careful not to drink anything, not caring for a repeat of last night's endless nightmares.

A large portion of Joey's tension had leached away with the discovery that they were on the right track, and as they ate, Joey talked more freely about his later life, his life with Briahna and Kelly and Justin, a life which seemed to have combined elements from disparate sources so well it was almost as if Joey had lived a charmed life. Flashes of that Joey, the happy, laughing Joey that Justin had wistfully described and Chris had seen for himself on videotape and in pictures kept popping up, and Chris found himself charmed all over again, found himself wanting what he couldn't have.

Back at the motel, buoyed by the good vibes he'd experienced all evening, Chris drifted to his door, keycard in hand. He started to swipe the card, to let himself in, but Joey's hand, huge and warm, settled on his shoulder. Chris closed his eyes a second, then half-turned to see what Joey wanted.

Joey stood close, and Chris could smell spices and wine and male musk on him, a potent combination. Joey's thumb rubbed slowly across his collarbone, a little scritch of sound that Chris barely heard over the thumping of his own heart and the deepening of his breath.

Joey's eyes were dark and serious, and his voice, when he finally spoke, deeper than normal.

"Chris, I just." His long dark lashes fluttered as he looked down at his feet, then back up. His other hand went to his jeans pocket, where Chris knew he had the ribbon; Chris had seen him do that over the course of the evening as they talked, almost as if reassuring himself of its reality. "Man, thank you."

And Chris found himself enveloped by Joey, encircled by his long, strong arms, nose pressed into Joey's chest. He stood stiffly for a heartbeat, two, then relaxed into the hug. Joey was so warm, so big, and Chris unwound his arms and slid them around Joey's waist, hands spreading out, rubbing Joey's broad back through the thin material of the tee shirt. Joey squeezed him hard, his cheek against the top of his head, murmuring so softly that all Chris could hear was his name occasionally. Emotions flowed over him: happiness and gratitude the strongest part of the wave; the rest broke over him, and he let them slip away.

Joey squeezed him one last time, and released him, putting a hands-breadth of space between them, and Chris instantly missed the warmth, the sweet heat of connection, the feeling of being cared for as a human, a man, an individual. He had a second where he wanted to cling, to not be alone for just a little longer, but moved back obediently when Joey gently separated them.

"I hate that fucking rule of yours," Joey said softly, and raised his hand to cup Chris' cheek, his thumb smoothing gently over the fading bruise. "Just so you know. I hate it, man."

"Yeah," Chris breathed. All he had to do was to close the distance between them once more. He'd felt Joey hard against his belly as Joey hugged him, knew Joey wanted him as much as he wanted Joey. He raised a hand, wrapped his fingers around Joey's wrist, and squeezed before moving back one more step, until his back hit the door. "So do I." Regret tasted sour on the back of his tongue, but he knew that it was for the best. It would be so easy to become attached to Joey, and he couldn't afford that.

Joey let his hand fall back to his side. "Okay. Tomorrow then, we'll go and find out what we can about the owner of the house and go from there, right?"

"Right. Get some sleep, and I'll see you in the morning." Chris shifted restlessly from one foot to the other, turning the keycard in his fingers, trying to tamp down the heat curling low in his belly, trying not to adjust himself in his jeans, though his dick pressed tightly against his zipper.

With a sigh, Joey ran his hand through his hair, and offered a small smile before turning away and striding toward his own room, three doors down. Chris watched him for a moment before letting himself into his own room. Once in, he leaned against the door and banged the back of his head against it.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," he said to the empty room. "And when did you become such a fucking teenager, asshole?" He rubbed his head, which throbbed with stress and exhaustion, then slid his hand down his belly to cup his dick, which throbbed with want. "Stupid thing," he said to it, and with a sigh, pushed away from the door in the direction of the shower.

It didn't surprise Joey quite so much when, the next morning, Chris opened the door before he knocked. Chris beckoned him in, cell to one ear, a pained expression on his face. He rolled his dark eyes so hard Joey wondered how he kept from spraining a muscle.

"Yes, yes, Bass, I hear," he said, turning away after Joey entered. "For fuck's sake, you're worse than my mom ever was. And don't you *dare* say anything snarky about her, because I'll kick the shit out of you. You know I'll do it. I know you know the rule, man. Moms are always off limits."

Chris paced around the room as he talked, gesturing with one hand. He paused, evidently listening to whatever his boss--Joey assumed that it was the same Bass of Bass Investigations--said. "No. No dogs. There *were* these guys straight out of Deliverance, though, who thought we were both pretty bo-da-cious." Chris delivered the last word in an appalling southern drawl that made Joey wince, "I think they were like, your cousins, or something." Chris looked up at Joey and dropped a quick wink, and Joey found it both charming and weirdly comforting, to be included in on Chris' teasing.

Chris laughed at whatever Bass said in reply, and the sound, high and merry and wicked, slid over Joey like the caress of a hand. Joey shifted from one foot to the other, and shuttled his thoughts resolutely away from that line of thinking.

"Okay, fine, yes. I'll let you know what we find out later. I might need to borrow JC and his brain. I brought my laptop, but JC's the one with the mad skills." Chris listened a moment longer, then rolled his eyes again and then made a little talky motion with his free hand. Joey grinned at him. "Kiss Laura and Gabriel for me, okay? Later."

Chris cut the connection and clipped the phone onto his belt. He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand even more wildly on end. "Sorry. I was supposed to call him last night to update him, but I didn't, and he was all mother-henning me."

"He do that with all the other investigators?"

"Pretty much. Lance is all responsible and shit like that. He worries when we're out in the field, though he'd die before admitting it. He just calls it 'protecting his interests.'" Chris flashed him a smile that told Joey he saw through that easily enough. "I think he worries about AJ the most, though."

AJ. Joey remembered him, a small, tough-looking guy who looked as if no one really needed to worry about him. "He looked pretty capable of taking care of himself."

Chris zipped up his duffle and stored it, and his backpack, in the closet. "AJ is. But he goes out on the hard cases, the ones with the most potential for getting himself hurt or even killed. So Lance worries."

"Does he ever go out into the field himself?"

"Sure. Not as often though, and he tends to work with celebrities or the stinking rich, because he's so smooth. A lot more than the rest of us slobs. We call him Mr. Hollywood. Pisses him off." Chris' expression betrayed just how much he enjoyed annoying him. "He's really good, and discreet, but he's more effective networking, and knows it. I swear he knows everyone. If I ever had to go to China, he'd probably have contacts there."

"You planning on going to China in the near future?" Joey couldn't resist the tease.

"Fuck, no. That would require flying, and this boy don't leave the ground." Chris shuddered visibly. "I don't fly unless I've got enough tranquilizers in me to drop an elephant, and you've seen the results when I take stuff. So, no. No flying."

Chris straightened his shirt, a bright orange short-sleeved button-down that he hadn't tucked into his jeans. He looked cool and casual, but not tee-shirt sloppy. He'd shed his many leather bracelets and the ball-chain necklace, and had a visor on, his thick hair spiked up crazily behind it. Joey supposed it was an effort at blending in, as much as a guy could blend in wearing orange. In Orlando, he'd have not made anyone look twice, because Orlando was a city given to bright colors, but Joey wasn't sure about the little hole in the wall town that was their destination.

"So, you ready to go and find out what we need to know?" Chris tilted his head and looked up at him, inquisitive.

He looked so bright and alert and sharp this morning, as compared to yesterday, that Joey felt a little whoosh of electric interest curl through his body. Joey cleared his throat, and took a little step backward, toward the door, putting a little more space between them. It would be interesting having Chris in such close quarters, especially given the fact that he'd jerked off to thoughts of him last night. That had been surprising; he hadn't bothered to jerk off in awhile, and even then it had only been perfunctory, just to relieve stress. Definitely not a deliberate thing with anyone particular in mind. He'd always been a guy with an earthy, voracious appetite in regard to sex; in spite of Justin's best efforts, he'd felt like a eunuch for a long time, and to actively want someone...it felt like something new, and he was pretty sure he liked it.

But regardless of how he liked it, now wasn't the time to think about it, not when they were ready to go on the hunt again for his daughter. He felt vaguely ashamed that he could feel like that when other things were so much more important and worthy of his attention. He gave himself a hard mental shake, and focused on what *was* important, more important than anything else in the entire world---Briahna.

"You bet. So where are we going? You mentioned something about government offices? I'm assuming we're looking for a title or deed to the property?"

"Exactly." Chris opened the door and held it for Joey to precede him out into the bright morning sunshine. "I studied some maps this morning, and connected to the internet for some research, and I think we'll have no problem finding out the owner, now that I have some basic info."

Eight in the morning, and it was already hot as hell. As much as he loved Florida, Joey was ready for a break in the heat. They stopped at a drive through and picked up some breakfast, then hit the road, driving north toward the little town where they'd found Briahna's ribbon.

The offices were in an old brick building off the small square, a tired-looking place that looked as if it hadn't been renovated since the thirties. Joey pulled into a parking place between a battered pickup with a full gun rack in the back window, and a dusty black Camaro with a confederate flag sticker on the back bumper. Even though he had dressed conservatively in a white golf shirt and khakis, he still felt out of place, and imagined Chris felt even more so. But if Chris did feel like a fish out of water, Joey couldn't tell it from his light, quick steps, his confident manner.

Within, it was hot and sticky, even with all the windows up and fans going everywhere. The office they looked for was in the basement, which made it marginally cooler, but not by much; Joey could feel sweat gather on the back of his neck, the middle of his chest, the small of his back. He wiped at his upper lip as he followed Chris into a small corner office.

The woman at the desk, in her early twenties, had dark brown hair pulled up into a high ponytail that left her neck bare to the fan that blew directly on her. As they entered, she looked up, her cheeks already flushed with heat. Her dark eyes skipped across Joey, barely pausing, but brightened when she saw Chris.

And Chris smiled right back at her, friendly and sexy and charming, and Joey thought, oh, man. For a moment he felt a pang of something---he wasn't willing to call it jealousy: envy, maybe, that the girl received that look, and not him.

Chris had excellent people skills, without a doubt. He flirted lightly, easily, flattered just enough without it being terribly obvious, and when he wanted something from them, gave people his undivided attention. Joey had noticed that generally, Chris tended to be easily distracted, to veer off on tangents, to think four steps ahead of himself, but when he gathered all his scattered points of attention and focused it on one person, on one objective, the result was intense; he knew that from personal experience. Joey had no doubts that they'd come away with the information they needed.

And forty-five minutes later, they had their information.

"Anna Mae Burns," Joey said, reading over the copy of the transfer of deed that the girl, Meghan, as Chris had found out after ten seconds of conversation with her, had copied for them.

"No forwarding address," Chris murmured, reading around his arm. In the wet heat, Chris' body felt too warm next to Joey's, but he didn't move away, liking the hum of energy that radiated from Chris. "Looks like the county bought it from her...what? Three months ago?"

Joey pushed the paper toward Chris and rubbed at his forehead, where a dull ache gathered and throbbed in time to the tightness that ran down his neck and across his shoulders. Three fucking months, he wanted to say, but bit his tongue; neither Chris nor the girl should have to hear his bitterness, his simmering anger. In three months, they could've gone anywhere. And the fact that she'd been so close, only seven hours away, ate at him.

But anger and guilt and despair wouldn't help him find her. He needed to be calm, to think with a clear head, reason things out. He blew out a breath, and stood tall, squaring his shoulders. They'd gotten so very far; they could go the distance, could find her. Chris' hand squeezed his arm, a quick, reassuring grip. Chris looked up at him, his expression calm and sharp and reassuring.

"And now what do we do? Find a way to track down Anna Mae Burns?"

"You bet. We can probably find out a forwarding address from the county department that actually bought the property--"

"Or you could ask me," Meghan said, shamelessly eavesdropping, and Joey looked up to see the quick flash of her grin as she leaned against the counter, her chin in her fist.

"You know her?" Joey asked, leaning forward, hope curling in his chest. It couldn't be that easy, could it? They'd had to fight for everything so far, and to just have it handed to them seemed too much to hope for.

"Man, this is a little town. Everyone knows everything about everyone. Gossip is like, an Olympic Event around here. Along with spitting tobacco juice and tipping cows." Meghan rolled her dark eyes just as well as Chris could, her disdain for her fellow townsfolk quite evident. Joey couldn't help but grin at her deadpan delivery.

"So where would we find her?" Chris practically bounced on his toes, and Joey had the urge to fold a hand over his shoulder and ease him back down, but didn't, because he couldn't fault Chris' excitement; his own bubbled up within him, sweet and heady.

"You'd probably find her at the Shady Oaks Home for Ladies." Meghan looked at her watch. "If they're still keeping the schedule they did when I worked there, I think they're playing bingo right about now."

Chris folded his copy of the deed and slipped it into his back jeans pocket. Joey watched her watch Chris, her interest in him barely disguised. "You're a jewel," Chris said happily. From his wallet, he fished out a card with his name on it, and slid it over the counter. "You ever get to Orlando, look me up, and I'll treat you to the best Italian dinner you've ever had." He turned his head and dropped a quick wink at Joey that made a hot little shiver curl down his body, before turning back to the girl. "Deal?"

"Deal," Meghan said, pocketing the card, looking very pleased. She gave them directions, and sketched a little map while Chris watched attentively. Joey noticed she put her name and number at the bottom of the sketch, and when she looked up, Joey wasn't certain if it was the heat, or embarrassment that made her cheeks so pink.

Only by the greatest effort of will did Joey keep from settling his hand on the small of Chris' back as they turned to leave. At the door, Chris stopped suddenly, and Joey ran into him. Chris glanced up at him, and grinned before turning back to Meghan. "So. Is cow tipping everything they say it is?"

"Dude. You have *no* idea," she replied, utterly deadpan.

Chris laughed, and with a wave, they were off to locate Anna Mae Burns and discover just what had happened in the months before she'd lost her home to the city, the time that Briahna had spent with her.

They missed bingo. Chris apologized for giving the wrong directions, but he was sure that the tension he felt coming off Joey in waves wasn't entirely due to the wrong turn; he'd felt it, lapping at the edges of his consciousness, since Joey had shown up at his hotel room, back in Pensacola. He couldn't pinpoint what it was, though, and Joey wasn't telling him, so he let it go as they pulled into the tiny parking lot of the Shady Oaks Home for Ladies. If Joey wanted to talk, he would; he'd opened up so much in the past week.

At the main desk, an aide pointed them in the direction of a small, shady courtyard, and as Chris stepped out into it, Joey looming closely and comfortingly behind, he heard the silvery tinkle of wind chimes and felt a tickle of breeze on the back of his neck. It was still hot, but not nearly as bad in the shade.

Anna Mae Burns sat on a park bench, not beneath an oak tree, as the name of the home suggested, but under the shade of a huge magnolia, looking out over a small pond with a bubbling fountain that graced the courtyard. As they walked around the perimeter of the pond, the large leaves of hostas and the feathery fronds of ferns brushing against his pants legs, Chris caught the flash of goldfish out of the corner of his eye; it was a nice and peaceful touch.

Mrs. Burns was a woman who looked as if in her youth she'd been tall, and fairly sturdy, the very picture of a woman who'd once worked on a farm like the one she'd owned. She still looked fairly strong, though she was thin, her hands gnarled with arthritis and her back bowed with age.

"Mrs. Burns?" Chris stopped a few feet in front of her, his tone respectful; his own grandma would've tanned his hide, and had, on several occasions, if he hadn't been deferential to his elders.

Mrs. Burns tilted her head and peered at him. She had once been a handsome woman, Chris thought, more striking than beautiful. Although her blue eyes were dull and cloudy, her expression remained sharp and alert.

"Maybe. Maybe not." She blinked, tilting her head a little, her expression strained, and that was when Chris realized that her vision was very poor. He moved a little closer, trying to determine how well she could see. He found her range when she suddenly said, "Damn, boy, that's a bright shirt. Even I can see it."

Chris couldn't help but laugh, and behind him, Joey snorted in amusement. Chris smoothed his hand over his chest, grinning. "I surely wouldn't be mistaken for a deer during hunting season, now would I, ma'am?"

She looked him up and down, and Chris stood still under her inspection, squashing his desire to shift from foot to foot. "Reckon not. Don't know you, do I? You don't look familiar." She craned her head to look around Chris, and then motioned imperiously to Joey. "You can come out too."

When Joey stepped closer, she smiled, looking suddenly more interested than she had before. "You're a good-looking man. Solid. You make me think of my own Ed. Bet you're a hard worker, too, huh?"

"Yes, ma'am," Joey said, and Chris stepped on his foot, deliberately, teasing. Joey manfully ignored it. "I do try."

"Ain't no trying, only doing," Mrs. Burns said, and nodded at the wisdom of her own words. Chris bit the inside of his cheek; her pronouncement made him think of Yoda, and he wasn't sure he wanted to try and explain a tiny Jedi Master to her if he let his amusement show, so he kept the amusement off his face. "You boys ain't selling nuthin', are you?"

"No, ma'am," Chris said promptly. "Though we did come on serious business. May we sit down and talk with you?"

Mrs. Burns waved her hand around the area. "Ain't got nuthin' better to do 'cept sit around since I came here. Gettin' better at it. It's awhile 'til lunch, so talk."

Relieved that she appeared willing to talk with them, Chris sat down on the bench next to her, and Joey sat down on a concrete bench at the edge of the pool, his elbows resting on his knees, hands dangling between his long legs. He looked almost relaxed, but Chris could feel the tension radiating off him.

Chris cleared his throat. "My name is Chris Kirkpatrick," he began.

She squinted suspiciously at him, obviously displeased. "Any relation to the Kirkpatricks outta Georgia?"

"No, ma'am. I'm originally from Pennsylvania. The reason I'm here--"

"Huh. Well, good. They're no good folks, them Kirkpatricks. Liars and cheats, every last one of them."

"Yes, ma'am. The reason I'm here--"

Mrs. Burns' attention wandered from Chris to Joey, and she gestured imperiously. "What's this one's name?"

"Joseph Fatone," Joey replied, and Chris caught a glimpse of amusement in Joey's dark eyes. Chris ducked his head and rubbed at the back of his neck, impatience simmering at the edges of his mind, but he knew better than to rush things, no matter how much he might prefer to get his information, and get back on the road. When he looked back up, Joey dropped a quick wink, and Chris thought, oh, yeah, before tuning back into the conversation.

"You ain't no foreigner, are you? That name sounds foreign."

"No, ma'am. I'm originally from New York. But I've lived here in Florida almost my entire life."

Mrs. Burns made a thoughtful hum. "Guess that's all right, then. Though I've never put much stock in northerners. No respect for hard work." She poked at Chris' arm, hard enough to bruise, and Chris, mindful of his machismo, didn't flinch or rub at the spot, though he wanted to do both. He suspected that if he did, Joey would tease him mercilessly. "What kind of work you do?"

"I'm a private investigator. I'm--"

"Is that like the police? You got a gun?"

"No, ma'am. I'm not the police, and I don't have a license to carry a gun. I work with the police a lot, though, helping to find lost children. That's actually why we're here." When Mrs. Burns looked as if she might say something, Chris soldiered on. "Awhile back, Joe's daughter was kidnapped, and we have reason to believe she was held on your farm."

Mrs. Burns snorted derisively. "That's the most damnfool thing I've ever heard. Ain't been no kidnapped little girl on my place. Nobody but my grandson and his family. We all lived there until the county repossessed it." Her mouth set in a stubborn line. "Greedy sons of bitches. Me and Ed farmed there since we was married, right after the War, then they have the nerve to take it away. Said I owed back taxes. I might could've kept it up if I could still see good to work, and if Mark hadn't always been working at that garage all the time so's he could help me. Got no help from his lazy-ass wife, neither."

Interesting. Chris' mind clicked along as she talked, beginning to piece things together. "Did your grandson always live with you, Mrs. Burns? Him and his family?"

"Not always, no. Moved in maybe two years ago. Maybe not so long. Around there, though. Said he came to visit, seeing as how he never got to see me anymore, and he brung his wife and kid. Then they stayed. Burrowed in like ticks. Found out they didn't have no place to stay, so I felt sorry for 'em, said they could settle with me for awhile, 'til he got up enough money to start up someplace else."

"You said that your grandson had a family," Joey said, glancing at Chris. "Wife and a child or two, I'm guessing?"

"Just the one kid, Emily. If it hadn't been for her, I'd've taken a shotgun to the both of them. Useless and lazy. Don't hold with bein' lazy, when there's lots of work to be done."

"Mrs. Burns, can you tell us what Emily looked like?" Chris leaned in a little closer, excitement curling in his gut. They were on to something; he could feel it, an electric potential growing stronger around them.

"Huh. Little. Four or five, maybe. Curly dark hair, dark eyes. Didn't especially look much like Mark, don't think. But I didn't say nuthin', didn't want to make any trouble, y'know? Ain't none of my business if his woman whores around on him."

Joey pulled his wallet out and extricated the picture of Briahna in her pink dress, smiling. He passed it to Chris, who handed it to Mrs. Burns. "Could you look at this and tell me if this is the little girl?"

Mrs. Burns held the photograph close enough to her rheumy eyes that her nose brushed the paper. Chris' leg began to thump in impatience as one minute turned into two, then three, and folded his hand over his leg to still the movement.

"Looks like her. Right when they first come." Mrs. Burns handed the photo back to Chris. "Never saw no fancy dress like that, though. Wouldn't surprise me none if they stole it."

Yet another piece clicked into place; Chris had been working on a profile of these people, and this fit in neatly. "So this little girl was with Mark and his wife when they first started staying with you?"

"Why wouldn't she be? She's their kid. And why do you have a picture of Emily, anyways?" She glared at him, suspicious.

Chris drew a deep breath. It was time for the truth, and he hoped he didn't lose her with it. "Mrs. Burns, I believe that the little girl you call Emily isn't really Emily at all, but a girl named Briahna Fatone. I think that she's really Joe's daughter, and that your grandson and his wife kidnapped her from Joe here, almost two years ago."

"That's the craziest thing I ever heard. I remember when my daughter Mary wrote to me about Emily bein' born, thinkin' that maybe this would help Mark settle down and be more responsible, instead of movin' around all over the place like a gypsy, always up to no good. Never did happen, though. Too much like his no-good Cajun daddy, that boy." Mrs. Burns scowled, and Chris didn't have to be psychic to see that there was little love lost in this family, that the dynamics were far from picture perfect. Her scowl softened into something like sadness as she continued. "My girl died about four years back, right after the baby was borned, so she never knew he didn't turn out any better than he did, even with a family to raise. Prob'ly a blessing, in a way. Mark always caused her grief."

"I know this seems like a crazy story, Mrs. Burns, but I swear to you every word is true. I--we--have no reason to lie to you, to make up something like this. I've been investigating this case for awhile, and all the clues lead directly to your farm, and your grandson." Chris paused, and let his voice go softer, gentler, appealing to her sense of right. "I'm asking for your help, because we have no one else to turn to."

"Do you have any idea where Mark and his family are living now? My daughter, Briahna, has been gone for so long, and I'm. I'm desperate to find her." Chris glanced over at Joey, and although he suspected Mrs. Burns couldn't see the bone-deep sadness, the loss, in Joey's expression, she could surely hear it in his voice; he could certainly hear it, and it made something tighten in his chest.

Mrs. Burns thought for a moment. "Wait a minnit. Lemme think. What did you call her?" She peered at Joey, who leaned forward, eager and hopeful; Chris could feel it shimmer all over him.

"Briahna. Briahna Joely Fatone. She'd be almost six now. Dark curly hair. Dark eyes. Please, Mrs. Burns, think carefully about this. It's so important."

"Briahna, you say? I've heard that name. Emily called herself that sometimes, I think. I always thought it was some play-like name kids make up. Pretend friends. Mary had a pretend friend named Susan. So I remembered the name, 'cos I thought it was strange."

"It's the name her mother picked out for her. Briahna." Joey moved from his bench, going to one knee beside her, one big hand touching her forearm for a moment. He almost vibrated with hope. "She called herself that, really?"

"Not around Mark or Carrie, 'cos they'd spank her if she did. But playin' by herself, yeah. I remember that." She looked down at him, and Chris saw a troubled expression flit across her seamed face. He could feel her indecision, the dawning realization that maybe, they just might be right, and he stifled a cheer; it was too soon, and she might change her mind, try to protect her grandson out of family loyalty, no matter that she didn't think well of him. "You think maybe it's true, then?"

"I really think so, yes," Chris replied gently, infusing his voice with as much sincerity as he could muster. "I really believe it. Joe here has been looking almost two years for his little girl. If there's any way you could help us, we'd appreciate it."

Mrs. Burns folded her hands over the crook of her cane, and looked unseeing out into the distance, thinking things over. Although he knew it would do no good, Chris willed her to believe them, to help them. After a moment, she sighed, and then came to a decision. "I got an address where they were gonna be staying, but never heard nuthin' from them since I came to live here. Dunno if they really live there or not."

Yes, yes, yes; Chris bit his tongue to keep from crowing in triumph. "Could you let us have it?"

"Yeah, I reckon I could. Gotta go to my room and find it."

Chris bounced to his feet and helped her to rise; out of the corner of his eye he saw Joey gain his feet, and the happiness shining from his face was as warm as the sun. When she'd risen to her feet, she smacked at his hand until he released her arm, and then turned to Joey. "You help me, okay?"

Joey held out his arm gallantly, and she curled her hand around it, leaning into him. Chris trailed behind them, his mind working through possible future plans to track down their suspect. They made their way slowly to her room, a bright, sun-lit, cheerful place, and stood looking around as she sat down at her desk and went through a box that looked filled with letters.

Above the narrow bed covered with a white chenille bedspread with a garishly-bright peacock--his grandmother had once had a spread just like that, and Chris had loved how the little tufts made a picture--were two ornately-framed photographs, obviously of Mrs. Burns and her beloved Ed, taken back in the Forties, judging from the style of clothing and hair. Chris glanced from the picture to Joey, and back again. Strangely enough, Ed, in a Marines dress uniform, clean-shaven, all large nose and long chin and dark eyes, bore a spooky resemblance to Joey. Chris wondered if Joey noticed, but then decided he probably hadn't; Joey's attention focused on Mrs. Burns' search for the address.

"Here," she said after a long moment of searching, and handed Chris a scrap of paper with spidery writing on it. "That's where he said they'd be. Maybe they are, maybe they ain't, but at least it's a start, I guess."

Chris pulled out his ever-present notepad and a pen, and scribbled the address down, then handed the address back to Mrs. Burns. It was a town in Mississippi, and the address sounded like the name of a motel. The man's name was Mark Fremont, and from Mrs. Burns' disparaging remark about her son-in-law, Chris suspected the pronunciation was more French than English.

"Thank you, Mrs. Burns. You have no idea just how helpful you've been. We appreciate this more than you can realize."

She closed her box of letters, and ran a hand lovingly over the lid. Chris figured the letters were probably from her long-gone Ed. "Well, if it's true that Emily really ain't Emily, then she needs to get back to her ma and pa. Family's real important."

"Yes, it is," Joey replied softly. "It's everything." Joey put his hand over Mrs. Burns' gnarled one and leaned in, pressing a chaste kiss to her wrinkled cheek. "Thank you so much."

Surprisingly, pink chased across her cheekbones. "I hope you find your little girl. And I hope you put that no-good grandson of mine in jail where he belongs if he really did do it."

"We'll find her," Chris promised, and meeting Joey's dark, hopeful eyes, meant it.

Joey strode across the parking lot, his long legs moving so quickly that Chris had to trot to keep up, his mind clicking as quickly as his steps. At long last, a solid lead, something to work with. Excitement bubbled up within him, mixing with hope and so many other emotions that he could hardly distinguish one from the other. It made him almost dizzy and lightheaded.

Hot air boiled out of the car as he opened the door, and reached in to hit the automatic lock for Chris to get in. Across the hood of the car, Chris' eyes, dark and intense and concerned beneath the brim of his visor, watched him.

"Joe?"

"Fine," Joey said, waving aside his concerns and sliding into the car, slipping the key into the ignition and turning it, to get the air started. The air gusted warm against his skin, but in spite of that, he shivered a little.

Chris slid into the seat next to him, closed the door behind him. For a moment they sat in silence, the only sound the whirr of the air conditioning working to cool down the car. Joey could hear his own heart beating loudly in his ears, could hear the rasp of his breath. Although excitement bubbled within him, anxiety curled around it, like a vine climbing a tree, strangling and smothering it. His eyes felt hot, and stung, and he rubbed impatiently at them, surprised that when he pulled his fingers back, they were wet.

Chris' hand on his thigh felt warm, his fingers strong as he lightly squeezed Joey's leg in a gesture of comfort.

"It's okay, Joe," Chris said softly.

"It's stupid," Joey said impatiently. He wanted to knock Chris' hand away, but at the same time, appreciated Chris' support, and the appreciation felt stronger than the resentment, so he left it there, and blinked until his blurry vision cleared. "It was good news, man. Something that we can follow. But she."

Joey drew a deep breath, and focused his attention on the dashboard, until he felt a little steadier. "She was so close, and I never even knew. I'd given her up for dead, and she was still alive." He couldn't look at Chris, but could feel the weight of his attention on him. "I'm a miserable excuse for a father, if I could give up like that." His voice wavered and broke, and he turned his head away from Chris, feeling as though someone or something had encircled his chest with steel bands, squeezing, preventing him from drawing a deep breath. Sorrow and self-loathing rose up within him, threatening to overwhelm him.

"Joe, cut it out." Chris' voice cut through the fog of misery, sharp and no-nonsense enough to catch at the edges of his attention. "I won't let you think that shit, because it's not true. I've seen the police reports. I've seen the FBI reports. I've seen how many times you contacted them, how much you were on their asses about this. What did you expect to do, search every single house in Orlando, looking for her? Every single motel, trailer park, every single car or truck or van? You can't do that. The authorities can't do that. It wouldn't have done any good, anyway, because they probably ran to the farm right away, looking to hide out there. You did everything you could do, Joe. The cops, the FBI, did everything they could. You couldn't have done more, man."

Joey wiped at his eyes, at his nose. His throat felt tight and dry, and his chest hurt from the tightness of those invisible bands. "I don't know. I don't know if they did, or not. You. You found stuff. You got us here, got us this far." He dared to look over at Chris, who wore a mixture of sympathy and impatience on his face.

"I didn't do it, Joe. Briahna did. I'm just like...a radio receiver for her signal."

"The fuck you are. You're not *just* anything." Joey's own vehemence surprised him, and Chris, also, if the widening of his eyes behind his glasses was any indication. "If you hadn't come to me, if you hadn't *kept* after me, hadn't tried so fucking hard to make me believe, when I didn't--this wouldn't be happening now. I'd still be at home, grieving myself to death. And Briahna would be further and further away, until she really was lost forever." Joey swallowed, hard, and his throat clicked dryly, painfully. "All that makes you way more than *just* a receiver."

Chris shrugged, and Joey thought he saw a dark pink flush chase across his features, but if he did, it disappeared quickly. "It's what I do. That's part of my job, being as annoying as hell, to get people and things moving and shaking. Luckily enough for that, it's a basic part of my personality, so I don't have to work too hard at it."

The corner of Chris' mouth quirked upward, and Joey couldn't resist mirroring it, if only a little. The tight bands eased a little around his chest, and he drew a deep breath. He cleared his throat.

"So, now. Now we go to this address, see if they're there? What then?"

"Well, actually, we go back to Pensacola, and pick up our stuff. I call Lance, because Lance is from that part of Mississippi, and I swear, knows everyone and their dog there. He'll know someone from the police department, have some connection with them, and can put out the word about the case. If Mark and Carrie Fremont are there, and have Briahna, we can have them there fast. We can't do this without the cops, Joe. We can't take a risk on getting Briahna hurt, if there's violence."

Alarm feathered across his shoulders, down his spine as he thought of Briahna. "Do you think there might be?"

Chris gave a one-shoulder shrug. "It's hard to say. But it's best to be prepared for anything."

Joey nodded, and buckled in. His hands ached as he clenched the steering wheel, but there was nothing he could do about that. As they pulled out, heading back to Pensacola, he wished that Chris' gifts were a little more selective, a little more easily controlled; they might have avoided this trip, which seemed like a step backward, when their path lay clearly northwest, in Mississippi. But Chris had always insisted that he had no control over what he saw or didn't, and this was proof enough of that.

As they drove, Chris pulled out his cell and talked to someone about contacting the police in Warrensburg, to give them a head's up. From what he could hear, Chris spoke to Lance; his whole body language changed, softened, relaxed, as did the taut expression on his face. Clearly old friends, and if he couldn't tell from that, he certainly could from the casual insults sprinkled throughout the conversation.

It made him feel lonely; once he'd had such relationships, had once had friends, but he didn't think he had them now. He'd withdrawn from everything, from everyone; only his immediate family, and Justin, and Kelly, had been stubborn enough to hang in there, weathering his rages, his bone-deep sorrow. He could remember being so happy, being cheerful and friendly and gregarious, but it seemed like it had been something from another lifetime ago. He wondered if he'd ever find it again, when he found Briahna.

'When,' not 'if.' Somehow the realization that he truly did expect to get her back, to hold her and hug her and hear her sweet voice again, made him think that maybe, just maybe, he might be able to find his way back to that life, that happier time. He'd certainly not expected to ever think such thoughts again. That he could, and really believe them, was entirely due to the frequently exasperating, stubbornly optimistic, hard-working man sitting in the passenger's seat beside him. He had a lot to thank him for; he owed Chris for even getting them this far.

Chris caught him looking, and dropped a fast little wink that made Joey's stomach do a quick somersault. And attractive, yeah. Joey felt heat flush down his body, and that too was welcome; he'd begun to wonder if he was losing his interest in sex. Sex with Justin had grown more and more infrequent, and consisted almost entirely of him blowing Justin; most of the time, he'd not even gotten hard. His lack of interest had bothered him, because he was still in his early thirties, way too young to be impotent, and sex had always been important to him, a vital part of his life. Chris made him interested again, and wasn't it his fucking luck that Chris, while obviously attracted to him, had declared them off limits. While his brain could understand that, other parts of his anatomy had a decidedly more difficult time.

Chris clicked his phone shut and clipped it to his belt. He looked pleased. "Bass will get on it. He'll see that we have police cooperation." His leg started bouncing, and he pressed his palm down on his thigh to try and stop it. "I give him shit, but he's like, the best. I've never regretted working for him, ever."

Joey listened as Chris launched into a series of stories that helped the miles back to Pensacola pass quickly. He couldn't help but laugh at some of them, and the heaviness lifted from him a little more.

Once back to the hotel they packed quickly and stowed everything in the trunk. They stopped at the little Greek restaurant and ate, but didn't stay for conversation with the owners, though they were clearly disappointed. Chris wanted to hit the road; he'd gotten his hands on maps, and had outlined their journey with a purple marker, during lunch, and his excitement leaked into Joey, making him even more restless. He thought they could make Warrensburg long before dark if they drove steadily and weren't stopped by cops for speeding. If they could, they would have time to stop at the motel and check if Mark Fremont and family still lived there.

Joey couldn't think anything different. He wouldn't allow himself to do so. They *had* to be there.

Three fourths of the way to Warrensburg, Chris' conversation slowed, and eventually faltered to a stop. Joey had become accustomed to Chris' chatter, and glanced over, curious. Chris had fallen asleep, the map lying in his lap, his hands curled laxly on the seat next to his thighs, his face shaded by the brim of the visor. Joey wondered how much sleep Chris had gotten the night before; hopefully more than the night before that one.

Asleep, Chris looked younger, more vulnerable; while awake, he hid his vulnerability beneath a sharp, snarky exterior. Joey raised a hand and almost ran a knuckle over the curve of Chris' cheek, but it felt too intimate somehow, and pulled back his hand, returning his attention to the road. But he couldn't help but steal glances over at him from time to time.

Chris woke up as Joey took the exit ramp to Warrensburg. He looked surprised that he'd slept, and looked around at the countryside, at the signs, and then at his watch. Blinking at Joey, the fuzziness faded from his expression.

"Shit, man, I'm sorry. Didn't expect to do that."

"You needed it, and it's fine. Don't worry about it. I doubt you get much sleep normally, so it doesn't hurt if you nap."

"Well, thanks," Chris said grudgingly. He folded the map in his lap, then stretched as much as he could in the confines of the car. "So. This says our boy lives at The Parakeet Inn. Wanna stop to get directions, or waste our time driving around on our own?"

Joey snorted, but pulled into the first little gas station they found. While he pumped gas, Chris went in, paid for it, and came out with two sodas and the instructions. With his belly rolling with nerves, and sending up a quick prayer that Fremont was there, Joey pulled out of the gas station and back onto the road.

The Parakeet Inn looked as if it had been built in the Thirties, actually a collection of tiny rock cabins, rather than a conventional motel. The whole place looked shabby and run down, with unmown scraggly grass growing everywhere, and trash lying around. It looked, Joey decided, like shit. He pulled into the parking space in front of the cabin marked 'manager,' then glanced over to Chris, who sat frowning, tapping his fingers rhythmically on his thigh as he thought.

"I don't like it much," Chris said, and Joey grunted his agreement. "They have back exits as well as front. Easy escape, if they're really here. What I want you to do is to circle around the back and take up a place beside the back door. I'd do it, but there's always the off chance they might recognize you if you go up to the front. I'll knock on the front door, scope out the place, and if they're here, we can back off and call the cops to pull them out for us. Okay?"

Joey nodded. They were actually here; it was actually happening. Fear and dread and anticipation curled tightly within him, and his heart kicked into triple digits as his breath came shorter. They were about to get her back. He was about to get Briahna back.

Chris leaned in and wrapped his hand around Joey's forearm, squeezing with surprising strength. He shook Joey's arm, and Joey's attention skittered over to him. Chris' eyes were intense and more serious than Joey had ever seen. "Breathe. You pass out, and I'll fucking leave you here in this car, you understand?"

Joey drew a deep breath, and then another, and only then realized that his whole world had narrowed and thinned out, and he'd come close to fainting. He rubbed his face, and realized his hands shook. "Sorry. I'm okay now."

"Okay. Joe. Joe, listen." Chris shook his arm again, and Joey focused on him. "Get this. She might not be here. There's a chance she won't be. If she's not, then we'll deal with it. Got it?" When Joey blinked at him, Chris leaned closer. He smelled of sweat and soda. "You got it?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I got it." Irritated and embarrassed at himself, Joey shook off Chris and got out of the car. His knees shook a little, but he drew another deep breath of heavy, humid air, and everything tilted into steadiness. He was good, was fine now.

Cabin number five stood at one corner of the parking lot. Joey slipped around cabin three, avoiding trash, trying not to make any noise as he moved from the back of cabin three, then four. He could see Chris in his bright orange shirt, ambling along the sidewalk, hands in his pockets of his jeans, looking casual and unconcerned. He caught a quick flash of dark eyes, then Chris turned his attention to cabin number five.

Joey crept up to the back door, silent in spite of the size of his feet and the swish of grass. The windows were down and the dingy curtains drawn. He remembered Chris' admonition about not standing in front of the door, and so flattened himself against the rock wall of the cabin. Its heat seared his back through his shirt, but he ignored it. He strained to hear anything, but all he could hear was the whirr of grasshoppers, the barking of distant dogs, and the whoosh of traffic from the road behind them.

He heard Chris at the front, knocking on the door, and tensed. He willed them to be there, willed them to answer, but when Chris stopped knocking, when he heard Chris' light, high voice swearing as he walked around the side of the cabin, he knew they weren't. He sagged in weariness and defeat, the adrenaline draining out of him, leaving him weak.

Chris stood at the corner of the cabin, his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on the heels and toes of his boots, his face set in a scowl, mouth hard. He pulled a hand out of his pocket, and rubbed the sweat off the back of his neck, before looking up at Joey.

"I'm sorry, man. Not there. I don't feel her." He reached out a hand, and spread it on the rock wall, and closed his eyes. Joey blinked as he watched Chris step out of himself, going wherever he went when he did this. After only a moment, Chris blinked, and pulled back. "She was here," he said, wiping off sweat from his upper lip with the back of his hand. "But not now."

"I feel like a fucking yo yo. Up, then down, then up, and down again." Weary beyond belief, Joey ran a hand through his hair. His hands then clenched, and he had the irrational urge to drive his fist into the wall, but that would get them nothing but his hand fractured, and they didn't need that.

"We're closer, man. A lot closer." Chris tilted his head and looked up at Joey. "I know we are. Hang on, Joe." He reached out his hand and touched Joey's fist, squeezing lightly before turning away. "C'mon. Let's talk to the manager, okay?"

The manager was a man in his late forties, wearing a dirty wifebeater and tan shorts, sporting one of the most impressive, greasy mullets Joey had ever had the misfortune to see.

"The fuckers ran out on me a week ago, owing me back rent," he said with a scowl when Chris asked him about the Fremonts. "You friends of theirs, or something?"

"Fuck, no," Chris answered, with a snarl. "I'm looking for him to beat the shit outta him. And Joe here has a debt to settle with him."

Joey shot Chris a quick, surprised look, and Chris nudged his foot with the toe of his boot. He got it, and tried to look hulking and murderous. After the events of the day, it wasn't much of a stretch, really. "Yeah, man," he said, dropping his voice into its lowest register.

The man hooted gleefully. "Well, you catch up with him, kick him a few times for me, huh? He was a real asshole, and deserves it."

"Glad to. Got any idea where he went?" Chris looked mean and more than a little crazy, like a guy who wouldn't mind at all going after someone with a baseball bat. In spite of knowing better, Joey found himself impressed and a little on edge.

The manager snorted, leaning against the doorjamb, scratching at his belly. "Like he'd tell me where he was going, skipping out on money."

"Well, fuck," Chris said. "You know where he worked? I might be able to track him from that."

"Yeah, man, hang on. I think I still got the paperwork. Should have where the bastard worked on it." He disappeared for a moment, and when Joey looked over to Chris, Chris winked at him.

When he returned, the manager had a place of employment and an address written down for them in a loose, messy scrawl on the back of an envelope. "Here. Smack him one for me, okay?"

"Believe me, it'll be our pleasure." Chris tucked the paper into his pocket, grinned fiercely, and flew down the steps to wait beside the car.

When Joey started the car, Chris let out a little whoop of triumph, then sobered quickly. "Okay. This is good, but you realize he probably won't be there either, right?"

"Yeah," Joey sighed, pulling back out onto the main road. "If he skipped out here, he's probably gone from there, too."

"Mmm. Probably. But there might be something there to tell us where he took off to. Someone he talked with. We just find that person, and then take it from there. Never give up, Joe. There's always some little loose thread somewhere. You just have to be pig-headed enough to look around until you find it."

Fremont had worked at a transmission shop, and it had begun to close down for the night when they pulled up. Once Chris explained they were looking for Fremont, the owner was more than glad to stop and give his opinion, and none of it was good. While the man spouted off about Fremont, Joey noticed a man leaning against the wall, dressed in greasy overalls, blatantly eavesdropping. While Chris listened to the owner, Joey ambled over to the man, who was smoking and watching them with idle interest.

"By any chance do you know where Fremont went?"

The mechanic looked him over carefully, from the cut of his clothes to the shoes on his feet, taking in the quality of his clothing. "Maybe. Make it worth my while, and I might remember."

Joey pulled out his wallet, and out of that, two twenties. He held them up, just out of the man's reach, and raised an eyebrow. "How's the memory?"

"Not bad. Mark said he was heading up to Hattiesburg. Friend of his was working at a garage, said he could get him a good job fixing up rich folk's cars." He looked over his shoulder at Joey's sleek black car, and grinned, snatching the twenties from Joey's hand.

"Fremont ever say who the friend was, or what the name of the garage is?" The man blew out a cloud of smoke, and ignored Joey until he produced another two twenties.

"Yeah. Guy's name is Steve Frobisher. Assissi Foreign Auto Repair. Or something like that." He grinned again as Joey handed him the money.

"Thanks," Joey said shortly, and turned back to Chris still harangued by the owner, who'd not yet run out of things to say about Fremont, and the poor quality of help generally available these days.

"Pleasure doing business. Anytime," the mechanic called.

"Right," Joey answered. He strode toward his car, tapping Chris on the shoulder as he passed. He heard Chris thank the man for his time, and then Chris sprinted past him, clearly eager to be free of the owner and his ranting.

"Hattiesburg," Joey said, as he started the car and pulled out. He bumped over the curb, and swore. Tiredness crept up on him; they'd had a long, rough day, and it had begun to tell on him. "That's where they went. That's where we're going."

"Not tonight, man. You're wiped. I'm wiped. Let's just get a couple of rooms and start out fresh in the morning, okay?"

For a moment, Joey wanted to argue. But it was a long drive, and weariness pulled at him, made his eyes burn. Maybe it would be better if they got some rest. He could certainly use a long hot shower to unknot all the kinks in his neck and shoulders, and then some dreamless sleep in fresh clean sheets. He nodded, giving in, tired and elated and more hopeful than he had been in a long time.

"Hattiesburg? Hmm."

Lance's voice rumbled low and comfortingly in his ear; he always hummed as he thought. Even though he was hundreds of miles from him, Chris could almost see him leaning back in his big leather office chair in his den at home, eyes closed as he thought. The thought grounded him, comforted him somehow; Lance was one of the steadiest people Chris had ever met.

"Yeah. That's where the trail leads." Chris shifted a little on the bed, and put his bare feet up on the wall above the headboard, beneath an ugly ass picture of a field with cows. He hated cows; big, nasty, smelly things; he'd spent too many years as a kid mucking out stalls at a nearby dairy farm, working as hard as an adult for any bit of cash he could get. In his opinion, the only good cow was between two slices of bun. Well, that wasn't entirely true. Ben and Jerry's also redeemed them somewhat. And Doc Martens. He nudged the bottom of the frame with his toe, and it didn't move. Must be bolted to the wall. At least it wasn't a picture of clowns. He hated clowns more than he hated cows.

"He went there to meet his friend Steve Frobisher, and to work for Assissi Foreign Auto Repair. I looked it up on the web. Fancy place. Beemers and Jags and such. From what I've picked up, his job performance is shitty and his fingers a little too light around the till. He won't last long there, either." Chris bent his leg and picked at his toenail, frowning.

"What a fucking horrible way to raise a child. Always on the run," Lance said, his tone disgusted. "If they were going to take her, you'd at least hope they'd provide stability and a good home for her. And yeah, I know, impulse crime and all that. Unfortunately, I know how it works. Stability is the last thing she'll have. Poor kid." Lance paused, and Chris didn't have to be psychic to know that Lance thought of his son Gabriel, and probably in the next moment, of increasing his own life insurance policy, because Lance was all responsible and shit like that. "You're close, though. Just a week behind."

Chris swung his legs down and bounced on the side of the bed. He felt restless, as if his joints were filled with springs. Tension seemed to sparkle around him, in the air, settling on his skin, sinking in to the bones. He paced around the room, back and forth, from bathroom to the front door. "Yeah. We'll be there tomorrow, for sure. You have a tag number for Fremont?"

"Yeah. Hang on a sec." Chris could hear papers rustling, and Lance humming softly; it sounded like a Tim McGraw song. Country-music loving freak, he thought affectionately, and grabbed a pad and a pen. "Okay. Mark Edward Fremont"--Lance gave the name the proper pronunciation--"drives a 1977 Olds Cutlass. Florida plates. And apparently, has multiple unpaid tickets for illegal parking and for speeding. No insurance, from what I can tell. What a surprise," Lance said, his voice flat and anything but surprised. Chris snorted in agreement, and wrote down the plate numbers as Lance rattled them off.

"Okay. Who do I have in Hattiesburg?"

"Friend of a family friend," Lance replied, and waited patiently until Chris stopped laughing. Chris always loved to tease him about his 'friends' or 'friends of friends;' he swore Lance either was related to most of Mississippi, knew them, or they owed him favors. "Detective. Name's Brian Littrell. L-i-t-t-r-e-l-l. Decent guy, from all accounts. Don't piss him off, okay?"

"I'll be my normally charming self," Chris said, putting the pad and paper back into his backpack and zipping it up.

"Like I said, don't piss him off. I might need him at some later time."

Chris heard Laura's voice faintly in the background, and Lance's happy rumble, and the soft wet sound of a kiss. Then Lance came back on, saying, "Chris, say hi to your godson," and Chris heard little breathy baby sounds. Chris rolled his eyes. He couldn't believe that Lance held the phone to the baby's ear. Lance, as a mushball. What a concept, and fodder for endless teasing.

He grinned and said, his voice lilting, "Hey, Gabe. Don't worry, honey, your godfather Chris is saving back money to get you a nose job so you won't have a huge honker like your daddy."

"Hey," Lance said, amusement in his voice. "I heard that, you fucker."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about." Chris laughed.

"You remember you promised you'd be at the christening, so don't try and get out of it. And you said you'd wear a suit and tie and *dress* shoes. You can't get away with sneakers and a suit. My momma would have a fit."

"God forbid I should upset Momma Bass," Chris replied dryly, but it was more truth than he wanted to admit; although she was soft-spoken and well-mannered, the very picture of a genteel Southern lady, no one ever messed with her, and Chris knew where Lance had gotten his steel spine. He bounced on the side of the bed. The springs didn't squeal at all, which sucked out a lot of the fun of it.

"Well, yeah." Chris could hear Lance shifting around, evidently getting comfortable. "So how's Fatone holding up under all this?"

"As well as can be expected. Ups and downs, but holding up. He's pretty tough." Chris closed his eyes and let his mind stretch out, and yeah, he could feel Joey as a whisper on the edges of his consciousness, close, probably in his room. Hell, it was midnight; where else would he be? Longing swirled up from within him, but he opened his eyes and squashed it ruthlessly, then bounced to his feet once more to pace, restless.

"Hmm," Lance said, and although his tone sounded casual, Chris had known Lance enough years to know it wasn't, and suspicion prickled unpleasantly down his spine.

"What?"

"How are you holding up?"

Chris frowned at the phone. "I'm *fine.*"

"Good," Lance said smoothly. "I'm sure you're not planning on doing anything that would complicate matters."

"I'm sure I'm not," Chris replied sharply. Heat rose up into his cheeks. "Why the hell would you think that?"

"AJ and I had a little chat. But I know you'll do the right thing."

Anger flared deep in his belly. They all knew about the cases the others worked on, but this had nothing to do with that, as far as Chris was concerned. "Fucking AJ and his fucking big mouth. What a narc, man. I should kick his ass."

"I want to see you try. Ought to be good for a chuckle or two." Lance hummed something soothing, something that sounded like a lullaby. "But seriously, Chris. Think about it before you do anything, okay? I don't want to see you get all tied up over someone like him. He has too many issues to deal with to get involved, and will only have more, after you get his daughter back to him."

Chris scrubbed a hand through his hair, still damp from his shower, and frowned. "Just what makes you think I'm gonna do something stupid like that?"

"If only AJ had mentioned it, I might blow it off. But JC mentioned it as well. And even Dani had something to say about it. Face it, Chris. I went to college with you. I saw what you went after, and from all accounts, Fatone is just what you like."

Chris drew in a deep breath, held it for a count of ten, and blew it out. "I seriously hate the bunch of you. My personal life is none of your business."

"Probably not," Lance replied agreeably, unflappable. "But I love you like the brother I never had, so I get to butt in. Fuck him if you have to, but don't fall for him. That's all I have to say about the matter."

Too late, Chris thought, rubbing at his forehead, and he took another lap around his room before he felt calm enough to answer. "I sincerely doubt that. You have a million opinions on every little thing, you asshole."

Lance chuckled, soft and low in his ear. "And yeah, I lie all the time, too." Chris heard the creak of Lance's desk chair. "Okay. Laura's gone back to bed, and Gabriel's asleep. I'm gonna get some sleep, and you try yourself, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Chris grumbled, but he knew the affection, the concern, in Lance's deep voice was genuine. Lance was a pain in the ass most of the time, but Chris knew he did consider him family, and loved him. "Later, Bass," he said, and hung up.

He tossed the phone onto his backpack and flopped back onto the bed, on his belly. Restlessness shivered over his skin, down his spine, curled low in his belly. His dick twitched, and experimentally, he rolled his hips against the sheets, his loose boxers bunching and catching in the best way. Beneath his cheek, the sheet still felt crisp, in spite of his rolling around in the bed earlier, trying to sleep.

Closing his eyes, he slid a hand down under his belly, curling his fingers around his dick, now half-hard. He squeezed, gently, once, twice, and that was good, yeah. His eyes drifted open. Good, but not what he wanted. Pulling his hand out of his boxers, he rolled to sit at the side of his bed, running his hands through his wild hair. He huffed out a sigh, took off his glasses, and set them on the bedside table, rubbing his eyes.

He wasn't sure why he was so edgy, but it hummed around on the surface of his awareness, skittering away when he tried to pull it closer and examine it. It felt almost as if something were going to happen. An anticipatory nervousness, maybe. But of what? It didn't feel like the anticipation of the hunt, of closing in on quarry. He'd felt that so many times before, and this, while similar, wasn't really the same.

Joey. Joe. Chris tipped his head slightly to one side, listening, and rolled to his feet easily, smoothly. He couldn't hear him through the walls, through the soft murmuring noise of the tv, but somehow, he knew Joe stood outside his door.

Six steps to the door, and he pulled it open. Joey stood there, filling the doorway, one hand raised to knock. He looked surprised, then the expression faded into a little embarrassed smile, and he shifted from one big foot to the other, diverting his raised hand to run through his hair; it stood crazily on end. His clothes, old cargo shorts and a white tee shirt with green sleeves that had 'Brooklyn' written across his chest in green cursive script, were rumpled, and he'd just stuck his feet into his sneakers, without socks. He looked tired and a little sheepish, and inexplicably, unbelievably hot.

Like a struck tuning fork, Chris almost vibrated in resonance. The restlessness crawling down his spine resolved into something he understood: want and desire. He was tired of fighting it; he'd already lost, anyway. Fuck Lance, fuck AJ, fuck his own rule. It was time.

His mouth curved into a smile, and he gave himself to the desire that shuddered through him.

Joey raised his fist to knock on the door, only to have it open before he could. Chris stood there in an old wrinkled green tee shirt and plaid boxers, his mouth curved into an odd little smile, and Joey could practically feel the energy vibrating off him. He wondered if he were really still and quiet, if he might not actually hear it, snapping and popping like a fire crackling in a fireplace.

Joey ran his hand through his hair, and offered a little smile of his own, with a shrug to go with it. Idly, he kicked at the threshold, then realized he probably looked stupid doing that, like a little kid, and made himself be still. "I couldn't sleep. Guess you couldn't, either, huh?"

"Not really," Chris replied with a quirk of his mouth that could be either amused, or annoyed, or maybe both, and stepped back to let Joey enter. Chris' room felt a little cooler than his own; he'd noticed Chris preferred it fairly cool, and that Chris himself, when he'd touched him, had seemed warmer than most people.

Of course the room was identical to his own; hotels believed in uniformity. Warm golden lamplight spilled across the rumpled bed; it looked as wrecked as his own, as if, like him, Chris had tossed and turned in it, looking for sleep and not finding it. He could hear the murmur of the tv, on, of all things, the weather channel. Joey wasn't surprised; there was something weirdly comforting in having the weather channel on, the knowledge that somewhere, someone watched the skies all the time, looking out for everyone's safety. God knew he frequently had it on just so the house wouldn't be so quiet. Beside the bed, Chris' duffle and backpack were unzipped, and on the beside table, his portable cd player, a spill of CDs, and a couple of dog-eared paperbacks. Chris' chaos theory at work again, he supposed, amused.

"So." Restlessly, Chris shifted from one bare foot to the other, and Joey noticed how small his feet were. His hands were small also; not girlish by any stretch of the imagination, just smaller than his own, his wrists and ankles narrow.

"Want to go out and get something to eat? It's late, but we could probably find a Denny's or something." Joey felt compelled to make the offer, even though he suddenly didn't want to go out; warmth curled slowly through him, and staying in seemed like a lot better idea. He glanced at the tv, but found his gaze drawn back to Chris, unable and unwilling to look away.

Chris' legs were short, and more than a little bowed, but strong-looking, well-muscled from the running he made himself do, and from the rollerblading he did for fun, a dark tattoo of some sort--a dragon?--curling up his left calf. He had narrow hips, and the looseness of his boxers only partially hid the swell of his dick.

Softness at his belly and waist; not ripped, like Justin, whose perfect abs could cut glass. Although he'd thought Justin absolutely sexy and gorgeous--even depressed, he wasn't blind or stupid--Joey thought maybe he liked this even better; it made Chris more real and less intimidating, more accessible, someone more like him. He wondered how that soft flesh would feel beneath his hand, beneath his mouth, his tongue. Heat flushed down his body, curled low in his belly, and he liked that idea, of touching Chris, of feeling him arch beneath his hand. He liked it a lot.

Chris had firm pecs and good arms, though not as thick and strong as his own, and broad shoulders. He had a boyish, roundish face, not one that would likely make anyone do a double-take, a face more interesting and quirky than handsome. He had a surprisingly soft-looking mouth, and the flash of pink tongue over his full lower lip made Joey want to lean in, to taste for himself and see if it was as sweet as he remembered. Chris wasn't gorgeous, wasn't perfect, shouldn't have been sexy, but somehow, he was. Very sexy, yeah. Heat poured over Joey, through him, and his blood seemed to sizzle and pop in his veins, like lava, heavy and hot. His heart thudded in his chest, the rhythm one of want, want, want.

"Joe." Chris' voice dropped lower, huskier. Sexier. Joey bit the inside of his cheek to keep the low sound of longing from seeping out of him.

Without his glasses, Chris' eyes looked huge and dark and deep, and in that moment, Joey felt Chris' restlessness shift into something stronger, purposeful, something that slid over his skin and crackled along his nerves. He recognized it, because it was just as strong as what he felt. Lust. Desire. Want. He wanted Chris, and Chris wanted him back, just as much.

"Chris, I." Words didn't seem enough to express what he felt, what had been steadily building within him for awhile now, held back only by Chris' will.

"Yeah. It's time."

Joey didn't want to play coy; he knew exactly what Chris meant, and yeah, Chris was right. His heart beat hard in his chest, his blood pulsing heavily through his veins, down into his dick, which grew and stiffened in his loose shorts, pressing against his zipper, stretching toward his waistband. The strength of his desire both surprised and relieved him, and he hesitated, wanting to touch, but almost afraid he would be too rough in his need, his hands too strong, too greedy.

One corner of Chris' mouth curved upward and his eyes glittered. He reached out, fisted his hand in Joey's tee shirt, and tugged Joey to him, his grip strong and sure. "Won't break," he said, his voice low and breathy, making the hair at the back of Joey's neck rise, sending a shiver down his spine. "It's good, Joe."

Good didn't even begin to describe it, too sweet and innocent a word for the hunger that pulsed through him, that made a growl rumble deep within his chest. Chris' arms slid around his neck, and he pressed himself against Joey, his body strong and solid and warm. His fingers twined into Joey's hair, pulling him down, and he offered his mouth for a kiss. Chris' green tee shirt said, Kiss Me, I'm Irish, and so Joey obliged, wrapping his arms around Chris, pulling him close, covering Chris' mouth with his own.

Chris smelled like Irish Spring and tasted like mint toothpaste when he opened willingly, slicking his tongue along Joey's own. His mouth was hot and wet and so hungry; Joey could almost taste Chris' need, strong and pure. A little growl rose from deep in Chris' throat, a sound of pleasure and desire that made Joey pull him even closer, running a hand over his hip and squeezing firmly, burrowing beneath his tee shirt to smooth over the sweet curve of his lower back.

When Joey slid his other hand beneath Chris' boxers, splaying his fingers over a firm asscheek and kneading in the same rhythm his tongue stroked against Chris', Chris pulled away slightly. His breath felt warm and wet against Joey's lips and they shared breaths as they panted for air.

Joey squeezed his handful of ass, and Chris shifted against him, rubbing against his thigh, dick hard and hot even through the layers of his boxers and Joey's shorts. Chris licked hungrily at the corner of his mouth, at his chin, at the soft flesh under his chin, tongue rasping over beard and stubble, humming a little under his breath. His fingers flexed in Joey's shirt, pulling at it.

"You really? You wanna?" Joey thought of the times Chris had said no, had stepped back, had stopped him with a hand to his chest, even though he'd very clearly wanted it as much as Joey, and he couldn't believe Chris had changed his mind. And then thinking didn't seem so very important as Chris bit his neck, then sucked lightly.

"Just for tonight," Chris said breathlessly, his hips rocking against Joey's, hot and needy. "No harm, no foul, okay Joe?" Chris bit again, a sharp little sting followed by the soothing warm swipe of tongue. Joey shuddered in helpless pleasure; it felt so damn good to respond so eagerly, so willingly to Chris' touch.

"Yeah. Oh, fuck, do that *again.*" Joey clutched at Chris and rocked against him as Chris sucked hungrily on his throat. Damn. Something skittered at the edges of his mind, and he caught at the tail of it as it almost slipped through his fingers. "Wait. What. The rule?"

Chris pulled fretfully at his tee shirt, eager and clumsy as he panted against Joey's throat. "Fuck the rule," he replied, and Joey had to let him go, to pull his hands from beneath Chris' clothes as Chris impatiently tugged the shirt over Joey's head, then flung it carelessly aside. His hands went immediately to Joey's chest, fingers running through the mat of crisp hair, thumbs rubbing lightly over his nipples, which caused him to grunt and push harder against Chris' hips.

Joey toed out of his shoes and staggered a little as Chris hooked fingers in the waistband of his shorts and pulled him toward the bed, smiling up at him, eyes heavy-lidded, dark and promising. "Or better yet, fuck me," Chris said. "I like that idea a lot more, yeah."

Heat seared through him at the thought of Chris pinned beneath him, strong legs wrapped around his hips, mouth red from kisses, open and panting as Joey fucked him long and hard and deep. His dick throbbed at the idea, and his hand dropped to palm himself, to press his dick against his belly, squeezing lightly.

Chris let him go, then peeled out of his own tee shirt and dropped it to the floor, his face flushed, hair wild, dark eyes sparkling. "You have no idea how much I thought about that."

"Probably as much as I have lately," Joey replied. Chris felt warm and solid beneath his hands, and he was furry, a lot more than Joey himself. Joey stroked over the tops of his shoulders, curved his fingers and raked through the dark hair on his chest. Chris' mouth parted though no sound escaped him but a little hitching gasp as Joey's fingers rubbed lightly over tight dark little nipples, smiling as they beaded up hard beneath his fingertips. Sensitive, then. Good to know. Joey pinched the left one sharply, pleased at Chris' soft, "fuck yeah, like that," then slid his fingers down further, tugging gently at the trail of hair that disappeared beneath the elastic of his boxers.

Chris swayed into him, and Joey wrapped his other arm around his shoulders to hold him close, to support him, fingers kneading Chris' arm. Joey looked down into Chris' upturned face, gone soft with pleasure and anticipation. When Joey lingered, his hand stilling in its downward movement, his attention on Chris' face, Chris opened his eyes, wrapped his fingers around Joey's wrist, and slid Joey's hand pre-emptorily beneath his boxers. Nothing like a guy who knew exactly what he wanted, Joey thought, a grin curling his mouth. Joey's fingers brushed through thick, damp, crinkly hair, then automatically wrapped around Chris' dick, and stroked from base to tip.

Chris rewarded him with a surprised little "oh" and soft sigh, and rocked into Joey's grip. That one breathy little word made Joey flush with heat. From the feel, the smooth flow of skin beneath his stroking hand, Chris felt uncircumcised, and pulling his gaze from Chris' hazy eyes, Joey looked down his body, pushing aside the boxers, and yeah, uncut. Shorter than his own dick, but thick, a good handful, and he watched as the fat reddened head popped in and out of his grip as he jerked Chris slowly, leisurely, enjoying the sight of it, the feel of Chris' body warm and pliant against him, hearing his soft little sounds of pleasure, the hitches of his breath, the way Chris' free hand stole around his waist to touch his bare back, fingers digging in as he rocked harder into Joey's grip.

"Mmmmyeah," Chris murmured, and Joey brought his attention back up to Chris' face. He loved how Chris wanted this, wanted him. Desired him. It made him feel real, feel alive, feel like a man again. Slicking his thumb lightly over the head of Chris' dick, he smiled as Chris shuddered hard against him, clutching at him, loved how his head tipped back and his voice rose in a high, shivery sigh.

He bent his head and fitted his mouth over Chris', unable to resist tasting him. And that was good, really good, hot and intimate and sexy, slick tongues and slick fingers and slick dick, Chris's fingers tight on his own, showing him just how he liked to be jacked. Joey had almost forgotten the thrill of learning what a new lover liked, the excitement of discovery, the joy of making someone else feel desired and treasured and sexual.

No surprise that he wanted Chris to feel desired, sexual; he was only a little surprised that he treasured Chris, as well. Warmth curled in his chest, different than the heat of need and sex, richer and more powerful, and he accepted it, savored it.

With a gasp, Chris pulled away from his mouth, and his fingers dug into Joey's skin as he thrust twice, hard, and came, sticky hot wetness in and over Joey's hand. The scent of sweat and musk and come surrounded him, soaked into him, strong and potent and masculine. Chris sagged against him, head tipped into Joey's shoulder, gasping for air, a little tremor shaking him.

Joey pulled his hand out of Chris' boxers, rubbed his fingers together, then brought them up to his mouth to lick them, to taste him. But Chris' hand shot up, fingers curling around his wrist before he could do it. Chris' eyes were deep and dark and never left Joey's as he licked Joey's palm with long swipes of his tongue, then slipped his fingers, one by one, into his mouth and sucked them clean.

"Oh," Joey said, shakily. "Oh, *fuck* *me.*" Behind his shorts, he felt his own dick throb hard.

Lust rolled over him, as heavy and strong as an ocean wave. Regaining his confidence felt better than almost anything; he'd begun to wonder if he'd ever feel that way again. He'd always loved sex, had always been good at it, good at giving pleasure, and when his interest in it had almost vanished, he'd been more scared than he cared to admit. To want like this, to feel like this, was worth his weight in gold.

Chris drew in a deep breath and stood on his own. Joey missed his heat, his weight leaning against him, almost instantly. Quickly, with little wasted movement, Chris stripped off his boxers and swiped them over his damp groin, then gave them a toss. He looked up at Joey through his long lashes, and his mouth, pink and swollen from kisses, curved into a sly little smile. "I like anything," Chris replied. "Everything." His hands stroked over Joey's bare waist, and Joey leaned toward him, wanting them on him, between his legs, on his dick. He rested his hands on Chris' shoulders, and resisted, just barely, the urge to push Chris down, onto his knees.

"Jesus, Joe, you're so sexy," Chris breathed, fingers working at the button, the zipper of his shorts. He leaned in and licked over a nipple as his hands slid the zipper down, and while Joey wasn't particularly sensitive there, the wet slide of tongue, the intimacy of it, made him jerk and grunt in pleasure. "So fucking hot," Chris said, and pushed the shorts off his hips. Joey hadn't bothered to pull on his boxerbriefs before getting dressed, and Chris looking at him, white teeth biting into his full lower lip, made him really glad he'd forgotten them.

Chris looked up at him as he wrapped one hand around Joey's dick, and cupped his balls with the other. Joey bit his lip and his hips nudged forward, up, seeking someplace warm and tight. He opened his eyes as Chris' grip tightened and looked down to see Chris grin up at him, a sparkle in his dark eyes. "Impressive, Joe," Chris said, bubbles of laughter on the edges of his voice. "And I don't say that often."

Whatever Joey had in mind to say skittered away as Chris' hands moved firmly, surely, confidently on him in just exactly the way he liked. He curled into the sensation, and Chris' mouth moved over his shoulder, his neck, nipping and licking as Joey panted for air, pleasure swirling through him, making his arms and legs heavy, making his knees shake.

It would be so easy to give into it, to come right then; his body ached with it. But he wanted more, wanted to draw it out, to make the hot honeyed feelings last. Almost as soon as that thought skittered over the surface of his mind, Chris's hands slowed, and stilled, moving from between his legs, to curve around his hips, thumbs rubbing over his hipbones. Chris nudged at him until he caught Joey's mouth, and yeah, that was hot, all lewd tongue twisting around his own, hungry lips and the careless bump of teeth.

A moment of free fall, then they were on the bed, Chris beneath him, grunting a little as Joey's weight came down on him. Joey had enough presence of mind to try and lever himself off Chris, to give him room to breathe, but Chris wrapped his legs around Joey's hips and hung on, and they felt just as strong, just as good there, as he'd imagined. His dick pressed hard into Chris' belly, and he couldn't help the instinctive jerks of his hips against the soft warmth.

He'd been with Justin for two years, and they'd been so closely matched in height that he'd forgotten what it was like with someone smaller. He was taller, broader than Chris, who fit neatly beneath him, and it made Joey feel strong and powerful; he liked it.

Not that he thought of Chris as even vaguely feminine; the grin that Chris flashed up at him was wholly male, smug. Chris ran his hands up Joey's arms and over his shoulders, and pulled him down for a kiss that was slick, confident, aggressive, hungry. Deep. Joey balanced his weight on one arm as the other slid down Chris' side, over the jut of his hipbone, to curl possessively around an asscheek, holding him close as he thrust against him. Desire and lust raced through him, almost blinding in its intensity, shocking him with its strength. Dimly, Joey became aware of Chris' hands moving over his back, his shoulders, his arms, tracing the heaviness of muscle beneath his skin. The deep, needy sounds Chris made in the back of his throat traveled a direct path from his ears to his groin, made him ache and throb, and thrust harder against him.

Chris broke away for air. Joey felt him gasping, the heated movement of his breath against his cheek, his jaw, his throat. He could still taste Chris, warm and sweet on his tongue. Addicting.

With a wriggletwistshove, Chris flipped them, and Joey found himself on his back, Chris on top of him. Not a bad situation; Chris' groin pressed intimately to his own, his legs on the outside of Joey's, flexing strongly as he rocked against him. Chris loomed over him, holding himself up on his arms, face flushed, grinning, eyes sparkling. His body was heavy and hard and sweaty against his own. No, Joey didn't mind at all.

Joey willingly tipped his head to the side when Chris leaned in and angled his face to Joey's neck. Joey's hips flexed and rolled when Chris bit down on his shoulder, and he clutched at Chris, trying to hold on to him, to keep him in place as Chris began working his way down, nipping and sucking. Then his cloudy mind realized that hey, yeah, Chris was heading south, down his body, and maybe Chris intended to suck him off, and no way would he stop that. Chris slid between his legs, and with unashamed eagerness Joey spread them, offering himself.

Chris looked up at him, eyes bright and teasing, his tongue dipping into Joey's navel, his hands curled around Joey's hips. His goatee scraped against the tender flesh below Joey's navel, and Joey shuddered as the sensation spidered down between his legs. The head of his dick butted into the soft flesh beneath Chris' chin, left a wet smear. The sharp prickle of Chris' heavy five 'o clock shadow somehow made the pleasure more immediate, more acute. "Jesus, Chris...I. Oh, shit, c'mon, please...." Normally he liked to talk in bed, to tease, to laugh, but he was too tightly wound, too hard, too consumed by need.

"Easy, Joe," Chris crooned, and sat back, his hands smoothing over Joey's hips, his thighs, his belly, touching everywhere but where Joey needed. Leaving one hand on Joey's thigh, Chris leaned down off the side of the bed, pulling his dufflebag closer, digging around in it. Joey raised his head, curious, and had an excellent view of Chris' ass; and a very fine one it was, too. He resolved to lick and bite it at the first opportunity. Some rimming wouldn't be out of order, either, and the thought made his dick throb painfully. When Chris righted himself, he held up the bottle of Astroglide with a triumphant grin.

"What I wouldn't give for some rubbers," Chris said, almost wistfully, and Joey's heart thumped hard at the thought of being inside Chris, or of Chris being inside him; he wasn't too particular about who got to do what, as long as they got to do it. "I didn't...didn't expect this. But there's lots of other things to do, so no worries, right?"

Humming, Chris settled on his knees between Joey's legs. Finally, finally, Joey thought, desperately. He wondered if he shouldn't have been more straightforward, like Chris, and just put Chris' hand where he wanted it, or guided his head down between his legs. It had certainly worked for Chris.

Chris glanced up at Joey, and the look was wicked, amused, one brow arched, the corner of his mouth lifted in a little smirk. Joey wanted to roll them both off onto the floor and fuck him until they both melted into exhausted puddles of sweat, and grasped at the sheets with both hands to keep from doing just that. Chris opened the bottle and held it up high in the air, then squeezed; Joey saw the stream of glistening lube pour like a little waterfall from the bottle, landing in Chris' waiting palm. Chris squeezed his fingers against his palm, and the lube squelched wetly in his hand. Unable to prevent it, Joey's hips rolled in response and he bit his lower lip, wanting the lube on him, in him, anything, anyhow, wanting to fuck, to come.

Hitching himself just a little closer, Chris gave the closed lube a toss, and turned his slick hand sideways, letting the lube dribble out the side of his hand over Joey's red, swollen, aching dick. Warm from the heat of Chris' hand, slick and liquidy, the drizzle of lube felt like one of the best caresses he'd ever had.

Joey opened his mouth to beg, and then grunted as Chris' hands settled on him and began to move. His grip was warm, strong, knowing, and absolutely perfect. Joey's eyes rolled back and he closed them, the better to concentrate on the heat, the pressure, the sensation of what felt like would be one of the best handjobs he'd ever had in his life. He wasn't sure why Chris had decided to do this instead of blowing him, but since his dick was very, very happy with the attention of Chris' hands, he wasn't about to argue.

His hands clenched and unclenched in the sheets and his hips rolled as Chris worked him, and fuck, it was good. He could hear Chris humming lightly, some little tune he didn't recognize at first, and when he realized it was the "I'm Too Sexy" song, Joey's eyes popped open, and unable to help himself, he laughed. Chris grinned down at him and dropped a sly little wink. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Joey's belly, and Joey dropped a hand to run caressingly through his dark hair before Chris pulled back and set back to work.

It had been a long time since he'd slept with Justin or had any other hand on him besides his own, and he'd been hard a long time, so given Chris' skill and enthusiasm--and the fucking *great* little twist of his hands on the head at the end of each stroke--Joey wasn't surprised at the steadily growing thrumming tension gathering low in his belly. It felt so good he didn't want to give in, wanted to savor it more, but then there it was, the urge, the need to come, and he couldn't resist. He bucked beneath Chris, twisting, and fire spread through his lower body, from his spine to his belly to his balls and dick, and he came, hard, with a roar.

He moaned as Chris gave his dick one last stripping stroke, then lay there, panting, his heart thudding hard in his chest and thrumming in his ears, as Chris' slick hands spread lube and come all over his belly. It felt weird but good, and exhausted, he opened his eyes and looked up at Chris, his hands and wrists slick and shiny with stuff. It was messy, like finger painting, but Chris seemed to like doing it, his face a study in uncomplicated pleasure.

"Freak," Joey panted, and Chris laughed merrily at him before snagging wet-wipes and wiping off his hands.

"Absolutely, Joe," he said agreeably, Joey hissed as Chris wiped him down with the chilly wipes. After he had cleaned Joey, he leaned forward and licked Joey's belly from navel to breastbone, sliding up his body until Joey could wrap an arm around Chris' shoulders and pull him down to lie close beside him. When Joey had caught his breath enough, and when he could once again feel his fingers and toes, he leaned in and kissed Chris, sliding his hand around the nape of his neck and holding him there, until Chris pushed him back, whooping for air.

Chris hummed happily, and threw a leg over Joey's waist, pulling him close. Joey lay still, content, drifting through the last waves of pleasure. Chris shifted enough to press a kiss to his nose, then a light, sweet kiss to his mouth. "You're the best, Joe," he said softly, his breath warm and moist over Joey's lips. "The best."

Joey opened his eyes, and Chris' were dark and sparkling, pleased and happy. He looked more at peace than Joey had ever seen him, and Joey raised a hand and slid it over Chris' cheek, a gentle caress. Joey couldn't help but smile, and something warm curled in his chest when Chris returned it. "You're pretty special, yourself," he murmured, then slid an arm around Chris, locking them together. "Can I stay?" It was a moot question anyway, given how closely they lay.

"I wish you would," Chris said softly, then ducked his head and made settling in sounds and motions, and Joey's last thought as he drifted off, was, yeah, so do I.

Chris kicked free of the covers and the heavy arm and leg over him and sat up with a gasping whoop, his heart rabbiting in his chest. He swallowed, his throat so dry it clicked painfully, and ducked his head, pressing his hand to his breastbone just in case his heart tried to do the Alien thing and burst messily from his chest.

The covers rustled, and he heard a low "mmm?" rumble; a moment later, a big hand curved around his ankle, thumb rubbing his anklebone. Chris opened his eyes. Big hand, hairy forearm thick with muscle. He had a moment of disorientation; definitely not Howie, the last man he'd been in bed with. He blinked hard, trying to will away the vision of blood and pain, but it hung on tenaciously, hooking claws in his brain, refusing to be dislodged.

Thank God it wasn't Briahna.

But it was bad, anyway. His stomach rolled, and he swallowed hard, again.

"Chris?" Low voice, thick and heavy with sleep. "You okay?"

It took a moment to work up enough moisture to croak, "Yeah."

More rustling, and Chris glanced over. Curled up warm and pleased and sated against Joey last night, he'd forgotten to turn off the bedside lamp, and so he could see a large blanket-swaddled form, topped by a mop of thick, crazy dark hair. The lump heaved, and Joey's entire head popped out from beneath the covers. He blinked sleepily, then came awake with startling quickness. "Hey," he said, then cleared his throat. "Hey," he said, his voice stronger. "What's wrong?"

"I'm *fine,*" Chris said, and rubbed at his burning eyes. His hand came away wet. Fuck.

"Like hell," Joey said. The bed rolled and dipped, which did nothing to help the queasiness spinning in his stomach, and then he walked around Chris, heading to the bathroom. Chris had a glimpse of long legs before Joey disappeared into the bathroom, and then Chris heard water running. Chris pulled up his knees to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, closed his eyes, and worked on settling himself, smoothing out his knotted mind.

After a moment, he felt Joey's hand settle on the nape of his neck, thumb stroking gently along the bumps of his spine. Joey's hand was big and warm, comforting, and Chris let it stay there instead of shimmying out from beneath it. He could feel Joey's concern seeping into his skin, Joey's innate kindness, his *niceness* and he wasn't so caught up in machismo conceits that he couldn't accept something so uncomplicated and generous.

"Drink this," Joey murmured after a moment, and slid his hand down to rest on Chris' shoulder. He held out a glass of water, and Chris glanced up at him, standing there naked and unselfconscious of it, flesh dimpling a little in the chill, dark eyes and wide mouth serious and concerned.

Chris tipped back the glass and drank, the water sliding blessedly cool down his parched throat. When he handed the empty glass back to Joey, it didn't feel as if it would rip open at every swallow. Joey took the glass, started to set it on the nightstand, but Chris had his stuff scattered everywhere, so Joey just shrugged and set the glass on the floor beside the table.

Joey climbed back into the bed, and if Chris hadn't been so focused on the shit in his head, he might have appreciated more the long smooth line of Joey's back, the curving rise of his ass; Joey was big all over. Settling in beside him, Joey kicked the blankets around until they untangled and covered him.

"C'mon, Chris," he said softly, and held up a corner of the blanket. "You keep this place like a fucking freezer. Your skin is like ice."

Chris wiped at his face with a hand, glad it had stopped shaking so much, then unfolded and slid beneath the covers. Joey slid an arm around him, pulling him closer, and Chris went. Joey's skin felt cold, but began warming quickly; he was like a furnace. Chris settled his head on Joey's shoulder, and listened to Joey hum softly as he ran his hand down Chris' back in slow, comforting strokes.

It had been a long time since he'd been able to lie so closely next to someone, and he missed it; he'd become accustomed to sleeping with someone after so long with Howie. He savored the sensation, pressed up against Joey's broad chest. He could feel Joey's heartbeat against his breastbone, and it lulled his own to a slower, more regular beat. Joey's breath flowed in and out, deep and unhurried, and Chris found his own breathing falling into the same leisurely rhythm. Tension trickled slowly from him, and the tightness of his muscles eased.

"Was it bad?" Joey's voice rumbled in his chest.

Chris pressed his forehead to Joey's throat. "Yes." Awful beyond words, beyond what he would say.

"Was it...?" Joey's arm tightened around him, hand stilling on his back, and Chris could feel his big body tensing, preparing for the worst.

"No," Chris replied, and Joey sagged against him, relieved.

"Part of me is so damned relieved, and part of me feels ashamed that I could wish it off on someone else," Joey said after a moment, guilt sliding heavy and thick into his voice.

"You didn't wish it off on them. It happened. And I don't think anyone, especially me, would fault you for feeling relieved it wasn't her." Chris slid his leg along Joey's thigh, then slung it over, fitting them even more closely together.

"Yeah, well." Chris wanted to relax into his warmth, to soak in his closeness and try to drift back asleep, but Joey seemed to be working his way into saying something. "I. I don't regret what we did, because fuck, it was good, but I feel. Guilty, I guess. For enjoying myself when I should've been thinking about getting her back. Focused on her, y'know?"

"Joe. You don't have anything to be guilty about. We've worked hard every single day we've been on the case, it was after midnight, and we simply couldn't do any more. It didn't hurt to take a moment to find a little pleasure, a little stress relief." Chris pressed his face into Joey's throat, and inhaled his scent, musky, sweaty, spicy, a scent wholly Joey. He made his voice light and easy; no blame anywhere, no pressure at all, no sirree. "It was just a one-off, just for tonight. Don't sweat it, okay? No harm, no foul."

Lance had always been the acknowledged master of the cool, smooth lie, telling the most amazing falsehoods without a single twitch or tell, but Chris had come a close second when it had been necessary. Really, Chris thought, it was a pity Lance wasn't here to witness this one, because it was a fucking whopper.

Joey lay still a moment, and Chris had a moment where he wondered if he'd actually said the right thing, the thing Joey needed to hear to ease the guilt. Then Joey cleared his throat. "Okay. That's...okay. I guess you're right." His fingers traced around the edge of Chris' ear, down the nape of his neck, and Chris shivered against him. "You tired?"

Chris hummed and nodded slightly. God, yes, his whole body screamed for more sleep; he ached in bone and muscle for it.

"Think you can sleep okay now? Or will the dreams come back?"

"Should be okay. Usually just wake me up once a night. Unless something is ready to break." Chris managed a little shrug. He'd learned a long, long time ago to catch his sleep in shifts, to nap when he could.

"Hmm," Joey rumbled. He slipped his hand beneath Chris's chin and levered Chris' face from its hiding place. Chris blinked at him; Joey looked at him a long time, eyes dark and serious, until Chris wanted to squirm away from his too-close regard. When he raised his hands to push away, Joey lowered his head and kissed him, mouth soft and sweet. It was a kiss meant to offer comfort, not to seduce, gentle, not aggressive.

Chris let Joey nudge him over onto his back, let Joey slot a heavy thigh between his own, let Joey rest his big hand in the center of his chest. He let Joey kiss him until he grew pliant and drowsy, warm and feeling as if someone really cared for him. He absorbed the feelings, letting them spread through him. Peace and well-being, the acceptance of comfort freely offered; those were not things he often found, and he found himself more than willing to take them now, because he wouldn't have them after tonight, not from Joey.

The kisses became lighter, slower as they both grew more drowsy, and eventually Joey made a contented sound and curled against Chris, sliding into sleep. Held close, feeling safe, Chris followed.

Chris woke a few hours later, in that not quite light, not quite dark time just before dawn. He allowed himself to drift a moment, warm, tucked against Joey's chest, encircled and held tightly by a long heavy arm, Joey's thighs close behind his own. With his ass snugged into Joey's crotch, he could feel Joey's dick, warm and firm, nestling between his asscheeks.

He savored the heat of Joey's body, the sound of him breathing slowly and steadily. It had been a long time since he'd woken curled up with someone in bed; before his relationship with Howie, he'd seldom spent an entire night with anyone. It had just seemed easier to fuck in cars or in dark places behind clubs, or in someone's apartment where he could get up afterward and leave--he'd felt too vulnerable allowing anyone to sleep with him, knowing that he almost always came awake from dreams disoriented and sweaty and half the time, afraid. Giving away that much of himself had always made him feel more naked, more vulnerable, than actually being naked with someone.

Chris moved, a little roll of his hips, pressing back against Joey's hard-on, and Joey murmured something in his sleep, and his hips nudged forward, dick slicking through the cleft of Chris' ass. Heat streaked down his body, settled into his own dick, as hard as Joey's. A fucking shame they didn't have rubbers; he'd love to roll over, slip one on Joey and suck until he came fully awake, then slide over him, down onto him as Joey pushed upward, into him. The thought of that made his blood pulse, made him shudder in need and want.

But he didn't have condoms, and it was the next day, anyway. They'd had their time out, their period of guilt free pleasure, and now it was time to focus again on why they were even together: Briahna.

Moving slowly, carefully, Chris edged away from Joey and out of the bed they'd shared. Joey murmured in his sleep, and curled into the warm spot Chris had left. Flushed with sleep, the lines of worry eased, erased, Joey looked younger than his years, more vulnerable. Handsome. Chris smoothed a hand over his own dick, squeezing gently, sending it a promise he'd jerk off in the shower.

He closed the door quietly behind him, took a piss, which required a fair amount of concentration with a hard-on, then started the shower. The rings holding the curtain squealed loudly as he pushed it back, and he winced, but nothing else to be done about it, so he stepped into the tub. Hopefully, he could get showered and dressed and have regained his professional armor before Joey woke up.

The water beat down on the back of his bowed neck, his shoulders, working out kinks, and he hummed softly under his breath, relaxing. After a moment, he slicked his hair back, and reached for shampoo and scrubbed vigorously, before rinsing and applying conditioner. He'd just rinsed that out and was reaching for his soap when he felt the change in air pressure, the slight draft of cold air as the door opened and Joey came in.

He could see the shadow of Joey moving, pausing to take a piss, and only when Joey pulled back the curtain and stepped into the tub, did he realize he'd been holding his breath. The sudden inhalation of hot, moist air made him dizzy, and he was certain it was that, and not seeing Joey, big and broad and hard, that made his head spin.

"Joe?"

Joey reached out and slid his hand around the nape of Chris' neck, thumb rubbing at his bristly jaw, a gentle scritch-scritch sound over the hiss and splatter of the shower. A step closer, and Joey's body pushed him against the shower wall; Chris arched forward, away from the chill of the tiles, but Joey leaned into him, pressing him back. Chris' dick slid against Joey's wet hip, even as Joey's dick pressed into his belly. Oh fuck, he thought, and any intention to take a moral high road skittered away, kicked to the curb by the heat that roared through him.

"It's not tomorrow," Joey rumbled. "Not yet." His hand slid down Chris' side, curved around his hip, pulling him closer.

Chris worked to draw in a deep breath, but with the humidity of the air, Joey's heat, his closeness, his own excitement, he wasn't sure he could. He couldn't resist touching; his hands uncurled from their fists, and one slid over Joey's slick hip, the other curving around his ass, kneading firm flesh.

Joey's eyes looked black and bottomless, and tiny water droplets beaded on the ends of his long lashes, in his eyebrows. "Your mouth is all fucked up from kissing," he said softly, and ran his thumb over Chris' mouth. His lips felt hot, tingly, swollen, and they parted as Joey pressed his thumb to the middle of his lower lip. The edge of his blunt nail scraped lightly across Chris' lower teeth, and Chris let go of Joey's hip and wrapped his fingers around Joey's wrist, before flicking his tongue over the edge of his thumb. Joey's own lips parted as Chris looked up at him as he sucked his thumb in as far as he could take it, rubbing his tongue against it as if it was Joey's dick.

"Oh, fuck," Joey said, and his voice echoed low and husky off the tiles. Chris grinned and winked at him around his mouthful, then ducked his head and began to work, giving Joey a glimpse of his skill. He loved blowing guys, was good at it, took pride in his abilities to bring a man quickly to screaming orgasm. Joey's hips rocked against his, slick, intent, and with a groan, Joey pulled his thumb from Chris' mouth with a loud, sucking pop.

"You fucking little cocktease," he gritted, and Chris had a moment to think, you bet, before Joey's mouth came down on his own.

And as sweet as their last kisses had been, the ones Joey offered-no, took-were aggressive, deep, blatantly, unabashedly sexual. A moment, two, and Chris found himself so turned on he could scarcely think. Desperate, he clutched at Joey, humping and rubbing at his wet skin, wanting to climb him, wanting to fuck him, wanting anything, wanting more. Joey's weight pressed him against the wall, heavy dick digging into his belly, and when Joey finally pulled away, they both gasped, their breathing loud and harsh above the patter of water.

Chris blinked water out of his eyes, and Joey reached up with one hand and turned the showerhead down, so the spray splashed against their hips and legs. Then he leaned in, and Chris gasped again as he felt teeth on his neck, on his shoulder, sharp nips followed by hot suction, and he squirmed against Joey, his skin skittering across the tiles as he wriggled. His voice rose high and wavering as he closed his eyes, because biting-oh, fuck, yeah.

He had a second to wonder about marks Joey's mouth left on his neck, before Joey went to one knee, the rasp of his beard harsh against Chris' skin as he dragged his mouth downward. Joey's hands circled his hips, holding him still, pressed into place, thumbs dug into the hollows beneath his hipbones as he licked the water trickling down his chest, down his belly. A nip at the soft flesh followed by the broad swipe of tongue had Chris gasping and writhing, his fingers clutching at Joey's broad shoulders.

Then Joey ducked his head, and Chris felt the scrape of beard against his thighs, the press of Joey's nose in his groin. When Joey's tongue licked a swipe from his balls to the head of his dick, hot and swollen enough to emerge from its foreskin, Chris' eyes popped open and went wide.

"Joe. I. Wait, I." Chris wasn't sure if anything he said made any sense; his mouth seemed disconnected from his brain, babbling incoherently. "Stop, I don't. *Wait.*"

And when Joey looked up at him, eyes fierce and hungry and black beneath tangled strands of wet hair, licking at his lips with a pink flash of tongue-he can taste *me*-skittered through Chris' mind, and his dick throbbed hard against Joey's open mouth.

"I don't. Not without." Not enough fucking oxygen in the moisture-heavy air, not enough to fuel the thickened thoughts that slid through his brain. Important thoughts, he knew, if he could just fucking get them together,

"Don't what?" Joey's voice was a low growl.

"Not without rubbers," Chris managed. "Nothing without rubbers." There. Enough words to finally make sense, and he tipped his head back against the tiles, trying to catch his breath, trying to slow his body's demands for more, and now, now, now.

"I want you. Want to do this." Joey slid his big hand upward, splayed it on Chris' chest, thumb rubbing across a nipple; Chris moaned as sensation streaked hotly down his belly. "You clean?"

"Yeah." And he was; he'd always tested clean. But no matter how many guys he'd laid-and before Howie, there had been so many-he'd never been careless, not even once. He couldn't risk his life; he had too much to do with it. His life, his skills, his gifts, belonged to others.

"'s okay, then." Joey ducked his head again, and Chris shuddered as his tongue slid over sensitive flesh once more.

It would be so easy to give in; his body screamed at him, his hips nudging forward, seeking that wet heat, that sweet suction. Chris managed to move a hand from Joey's shoulder to fist in his thick mop of hair, and pulled, hard.

"Not okay," Chris rasped. "I'm serious."

Joey yelped and then looked up at him, blinking away water. Some of the fierce need slipped out of his expression, and Chris' grip loosened, and he rubbed gently at Joey's scalp. His body thrummed with desire, with want, but he was back in control.

With a grunt, Joey levered himself to his feet. He ran his fingers over Chris' jaw. "Sorry," he said, and tipped his head for a kiss. Chris could taste himself saltbitter on Joey's lips, on his tongue, and a moan worked up from his chest.

When Joey pulled back, a grin curved his mouth upward. "You're the only guy I know of who actually had a mouth on his dick and turned down a blowjob. You're a real piece of work, man."

Chris laughed, though it sounded shaky. "I'm a riddle, like I told you." He sighed when Joey licked his cheek, tongue rasping against his beard, before tonguing his ear. "There's other...oh, hell, yeah...." Chris shuddered as Joey's teeth scraped against the tender flesh below and behind his ear. "Other things...we can do."

"So I'm guessing rimming is out of the question?" Chris gasped and his hand slipped down between them and squeezed his own dick, hard, to keep from coming just from the visual of himself in bed on his belly, his ass canted upward, while Joey held him open and tongued him. Joey's laugh was low and smutty in his ear.

"Now who's the fucking cocktease?" Chris asked when he could catch a breath.

"Me," Joey replied, and licked at his throat. "Me, me, me." He sounded amused and totally unrepentant.

Joey pulled back long enough to reach for Chris' bottle of conditioner, flip up the top, and squirt a generous dollop into his palm. Chris watched him spread it on the heavy length of his dick, then reach for Chris. He jerked hard as Joey slicked him with the cold thick liquid, and Joey laughed.

"Payback for the wet wipes last night," he said, and leaned close to lick into Chris' mouth. Chris moaned and opened for him, his hand reaching for Joey's dick even as Joey wrapped his fingers around his.

Jerking off solo was always good, but having another hand on your dick was so much better, Chris thought, slicking his tongue alongside Joey's. The sense of never quite knowing what to expect, the giving over of pleasure to someone else gave it a sharper sweetness. Heat slithered all along his nerves, his bones, his muscles, coiling low in his belly, curling into his dick, pumped firmly by Joey's tight fist. So fucking good. He broke away from Joey's mouth to pant for air, pressing his forehead against Joey's shoulder. He opened his eyes and blinked away water, focusing on watching himself jerking Joey as Joey jerked him, because hey, it was hot, miles better than any porn he'd ever seen.

Joey had a big dick, thick and heavily veined, weighty in his hand with a sweet upward curve and slight crook to the right. Fucking great dick, Chris thought fuzzily, and his mouth would've watered, if it wasn't so dry from panting. Joey's hips moved fluidly, and he panted harshly in Chris' ear.

And then he couldn't think at all as Joey's grip on him changed, became hard and demanding and fast, and Chris felt the coil of heat in his belly tighten, felt his skin tighten, as if he were growing too big for it, as if it would burst, and then he could hear himself gasping, "fuck, fuck, fuck," as orgasm swept up from the backs of his thighs, swirled in his pelvis and balls, and with a sharp cry, he came hard in Joey's hand, against his hip, rocking up against him.

Joey grunted, and Chris immediately released his dick; he'd squeezed too hard as he came. The pleasure poured over him, liquefying his bones, and for a moment, all he could do was lean against Joey, wrap an arm around his waist, and try not to fall. Beneath his ear, he could hear Joey's heart beating hard, and as he caught his breath, and as his knees promised to support his weight, he dragged his open mouth over Joey's chest, the thick dark hair abrading his lips, and he latched onto a dark pink nipple, lapping at it before scraping lightly at it with his teeth. Joey grunted again and thrust against him, his hips moving urgently. His hand slid over slick hot wet skin, and he grabbed a handful of Joey's ass and squeezed.

The water pattered over him as Joey pulled back, eyes dark and serious and intent, and Chris thought, oh, fuck, as Joey wrapped hand around his arm, turned him quickly and none too gently, his feet skittering in the water, and pushed him face first against the wall. He managed to turn his head to prevent smashing his nose into the wall, and pressed his cheek to the tiles, closing his eyes, his whole body shaking with want. The chill tiles made his nipples tighten and ache.

Joey's left hand slapped against the tile beside his head, arm supporting his weight, and Chris opened his eyes as Joey's other arm circled his waist and pulled his hips back, upward, and then stepped in close behind him, thighs and hips brushing against his.

"Want to fuck you so much," Joey gritted into his ear, then pressed himself so closely that Chris could almost claim him as a second skin. Joey's dick slipped between his asscheeks, then slid up, to the curve of his lower back, slick and hot, as Joey rocked against him, experimentally. Chris worked his arms up, and braced his forearms against the wall, spreading his legs a little for balance.

And when they fit, Joey began moving against him, slowly at first, then harder, faster, rocking Chris up onto his toes with the power of his thrusts. Chris could feel his breath, hot against the back of his neck, feel Joey's hand spread across his lower belly, and the beginnings of arousal flittered down his spine.

Joey's hard, driving rhythm stuttered, and then with a harsh gasp he came hard against Chris, pulling him in tightly, forehead pressing to his shoulder. Heat spread across his lower back, and Chris braced when Joey's weight sagged against him. He could hold them; he was strong.

With a groan, Joey raised his head, and when he licked across the top of Chris' shoulder, Chris shuddered. Joey pulled back and away, and their bodies parted with a wet sticky sound. One last caress to his belly, and Joey slid his hand around Chris' hip, and into the small of Chris' back, slicking through his come. His fingers, wet and sticky, slid over Chris' asscheeks and then lower, spreading his come between Chris' legs, before cupping his balls, his touch gentle.

Chris felt as if he'd been marked, somehow.

Joey withdrew his hand, kissed the top of Chris' ear, and murmured something that Chris couldn't quite catch over the thudding of his heart. Then Joey angled the showerhead back upward, and hot water sluiced down over them, rinsing away the scents of sweat and man and come and the apple-y scent of hair conditioner. Chris blinked as the drops of water splashed in his face, and slowly turned as Joey ducked his head under the spray and washed his hair. He watched as Joey soaped up and rinsed off, watched as the water slid down his body, and licked his lips to keep from licking Joey. His mouth felt hot and swollen, and tingled.

When Joey stepped out from beneath the spray and slicked back his hair. He wiped a hand over his eyes, his eyelashes spiky from the water. "You okay, man?"

Chris cleared his throat. "Yeah. Sure. Just waiting my turn."

Joey smiled at him, a flash of big white teeth. "Sorry, sorry."

Chris ignored the little flutter of his heart, and his own smile was more a curl of one corner of his mouth than a broad smile like Joey's. He made his voice light. "Riiiiight. Move your ass, boy."

With a laugh, Joey brushed a quick kiss over his mouth and then stepped out of the shower. As Chris stepped into the stream of water, he could see Joey's shadow, drying off. For a moment, he didn't want to wash off, but then rolled his eyes at the thought, and picked up his soap, scrubbing vigorously.

When he stepped out, Joey had already left the bathroom. Chris picked up the last towel, and as he dried off, he could hear Joey's voice, clear and pure, rising into some old R & B song. Chris closed the door softly, and turned to the sink. He wiped off the mirror, and his reflection looked back, watery, his hair a wild black smudge. Joey had been right; his mouth looked used, bruised.

"You are a stupid fuckhead, Kirkpatrick," he said to his reflection, and bent to brush his teeth.

Afterward, he wrapped a towel around his hips. He'd shave later, or maybe not; it might help disguise the beard burn. With a shrug, he left the bathroom.

Joey hadn't gone; he knew that. He'd have felt it if Joey left. Joey had dressed again, though his big feet were still bare. He sat on the edge of the bed, the remote in his hand, the newscaster delivering drama and disaster in serious tones. When Chris moved to his duffle and pulled out a pair of boxerbriefs, he felt Joey's gaze on him.

He dropped the towel; he had no modesty, and besides, Joey had seen it all, anyway. Chris pulled up the boxerbriefs, and adjusted himself; his stupid dick insisted on staying half-hard around Joey. Good thing he never wore his jeans tight, or he'd be walking around in misery all day. He pulled on his jeans and as he hitched them up over his hips, he glanced over his shoulder and found Joey watching him.

"Now, I know you've seen guys dress before, Joe," Chris said, his voice neutral. "I can't be that interesting."

Warm color crept up Joey's neck, into his cheeks. He raised a hand and rubbed the back of his neck. "Once or twice, maybe," he said, reaching for a little humor. "But I'm thinking you're underestimating the appeal of watching you."

Chris remembered Joey's last partner, Justin, tall, handsome, built like the proverbial brick shithouse; there was little comparison between them, and he wanted to snort. But Joey felt sincere, and hey, he'd take any compliment he could get, because he got few enough of them. "Well," he said, and then pulled a black tee shirt over his head to keep from answering further.

He tucked in, zipped and belted up, and tucked the wallet into his back pocket, clipping the chain to a belt loop. Scooping up a pair of socks, he sat down next to Joey and pulled them on. Beside him, Joey shifted the remote from one hand to another, cleared his throat, looked from the Chris to the tv, and back again.

Chris could've watched the show a bit longer; Joey obviously wanted to say something, and had to work up the nerve to do it. If Chris tuned in more closely to him, he could feel Joey's apprehension scrabbling along his skin, sharp-clawed. He felt pretty sure he didn't want to hear what Joey had to say; he didn't want Joey to say it had been a mistake, that they shouldn't have done it. He knew that already, but didn't want to hear it voiced aloud. But he didn't want Joey to feel distressed, either, so he heaved a mental sigh, and braced himself to hear shit he didn't want. "What, Joe?"

He pulled on his Docs and laced them up as Joey clicked off the tv and tossed the remote onto the bed behind him. "I need to ask something, and don't know." He rubbed at his chin, fingers scritching through his close-cropped beard. "I've always been pretty straight-forward, so I'll just." He pressed his lips together, and Chris turned toward him, snapping on his leather bracelets. "So you were really serious about using rubbers all the time? It's not like just me, like maybe...you think...you felt like maybe I have something?" The words came out in a rushed tumble, and it took Chris a moment to sort out his meaning.

"Oh, Joe," Chris said, and leaned forward, his hand curving around Joey's forearm. "You think I said that because I 'saw' you had something?" He wasn't quite sure whether to be insulted, or hurt, or relieved, but Joey was so sincere, so worried, that he couldn't really be angry. Joey nodded, and Chris sighed.

"I'm not like a medical diagnostic tool, man. I can't tell those things. It's not that selective." Chris pulled back his hand, and scrubbed his fingers through his damp hair. "But I will tell you it doesn't have anything to do with that. Man, how to explain this without sounding weird? Probably no fucking way, so here it is."

Chris leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands together. "My life doesn't really belong to me. I have too much to do with it, so many people to find, that I can't do anything that might risk it. It sounds kinda stupid to say it out loud, but that's pretty much it. So no unprotected sex, ever." He glanced over to Joey, who sat watching him intensely. "My gramma had the Sight, too. She knew how I'd be. Knew that I'd like guys, I mean. So she made me *swear* that I'd always be careful." Chris grinned ruefully. "And believe me, I'd rather have poked out my eardrums than hear my *gramma* talk about me using rubbers. I was twelve at the time, and had a crush on Tim O'Hara."

Chris could almost feel the tension slide from Joey. A smile crooked one corner of his mouth. "Well, yeah, that had to be pretty traumatic." Joey shuffled his feet, and Chris watched his toes curl into the carpet. "So you always have, huh?"

"Always. I don't break my promises. So that's why. It's not you, personally." Chris looked down at the floor, then back up, into Joey's face. "Believe me, with you? I've never wanted to break that promise so much in my whole life, man."

Color chased across Joey's cheeks, and he looked both embarrassed, and pleased. "Hey. Well, okay, yeah. Thanks." He unfolded from the bed, and stretched. Chris ignored how Joey's tee shirt rode up on his belly, the warm slice of skin he'd tasted only a short while ago.

Chris stood, and moved past Joey to open the door for him, but Joey reached out and snagged his wrist, stopping him. He tugged, and Chris let himself be pulled closer, let Joey enfold him in a huge, warm hug. Chris closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around Joey's waist, and burrowed his face into Joey's neck. He inhaled deeply the scent of musk and spice that meant Joey to him, committing it to memory. Joey wasn't meant to be forever, not even meant to be a temporary thing. He was a pleasure to be savored, then released, and Chris knew it.

After a moment, Joey's arms loosened, and Chris stepped back. Joey shifted from one foot to the other, and only a grim determination to remain still kept Chris from jittering in place.

"So," Joey said. "I guess I'll go back to my room and get dressed, get packed, get us checked out. How long....?"

"Fifteen. I'll meet you at the car in fifteen, okay? I'm used to living out of a bag. Won't take me probably even that long." He patted Joey's shoulder, a we're-okay-we-won't-be-awkward sort of pat, and Joey nodded.

Chris led him to the door, unlocked it, and opened it. Bright early morning sunshine poured in, and heat curled around him. Joey brushed past him, sneakers in hand, and then he was gone, striding toward his own room. Chris tore his attention away from him and looked up into the cloudless blue sky.

"Tomorrow" had come too soon, and "no harm, no foul" was a fucking joke.

Joey had found an oldies station to listen to as they drove, and hummed along to it as the landscape streamed by them. Chris had put on his sunglasses and retreated into his own thoughts, uncharacteristically quiet. In the time he'd spent working with Chris, Joey had learned that while he could be quiet, Chris liked action, talking, noise, stimulation, and if he didn't find it in his environment, he made it himself.

Even now, Chris' fingers tapped on his thigh, and he'd been doing it long enough that Joey had figured out the rhythm, and oddly enough, it made him think of marching bands. He wondered idly if Chris had ever done that; for all Chris' chatter, he didn't have much to say about himself. Always in the middle of things, friendly and curious, Chris was still a very private person, and Joey wondered if anyone other than his immediate family ever knew the real Chris.

He thought about Howie, and wondered about that relationship. Chris seemed to bear him no ill will, and from what he'd picked up, the guy seemed nice, funny, smart. He wasn't sure exactly what had caused them to break up; maybe it was just like him and Justin, a relationship that had simply run out of gas. Surely it wasn't a problem in bed; Chris was creative, flexible, and he'd been right about the intense part. Get him focused on one thing, on one person, and it was like standing in a bright, bright spotlight. And fuck, could he kiss; even now, his mouth felt hot and tingly.

Joey shifted slightly, and just barely kept from reaching down between his legs to adjust himself. Fucking amazing to feel the rush of desire so easily for Chris; he'd felt shut off from that part of himself for a while. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the rhythm of Chris' fingers falter, and then go still. Joey wondered if Chris picked up stuff like that easily, if he was that sensitive to everyone, or just to him.

Chris cleared his throat, then reached down and pulled his cell from his belt. He clicked it on, then punched in a number on a piece of paper he pulled from another pocket. "Detective Littrell? This is Chris Kirkpatrick. I work for Lance Bass of Bass Investigations. Bass told me you were expecting my call."

Joey divided his attention between the road and listening to Chris. He'd not asked what the next step was beyond getting to Hattiesburg; Chris had said that they'd have to involve the cops, and obviously, that was what Chris was doing.

"Yeah, yeah. We're on the way up to Hattiesburg now. About an hour out, I think." Pause. "Sure. I have Fatone-the girl's father-with me." Chris scrunched up his face, but his voice remained smooth. "Yeah, I know. But he's good. Smart-not gonna do anything stupid." Pause. "So what I need to do is meet up with you, make plans."

Chris pulled out a pen and uncapped it with his teeth, turning the bit of paper to scribble directions. He was, Joey decided, a little like a magician, or a comic book hero, able to seemingly pull things out of thin air. The thought of Chris as The Mighty Thor, summoning his hammer to hand out of hammer space, made the corner of his mouth crook, and he snorted a little in amusement. He remembered something Chris had said about going after someone with a baseball bat if they fucked with his family, and after seeing Chris play the owner of the motel to get information, the idea suddenly didn't seem so ridiculous.

"Okay, got it. Hour and a half, just to be on the safe side. I'll give you everything I have, and we can work out things from there. Thanks, Littrell, I appreciate it. Later."

Chris clicked his phone closed and clipped it back on his belt. He drew in a deep breath, puffing out his cheeks, and held it a moment before letting it out slowly.

"Okay, so, here's how it goes. We meet this Littrell guy for an exchange of information. He's off duty today, so this is all informal. Bass said he's a good guy, decent, and since God himself would be wrong before Lance Bass, I've got no reason to believe otherwise."

Joey nodded. "Okay. I can see the reason for meeting him. But you didn't set up any kind of meeting with the police before, when we were in Warrensburg. Just wondering what the difference is now."

"I had a name, a guy to contact, but since the trail was old, I didn't want to drag anyone else into it unnecessarily. So that's why we looked first. If she'd been there, *then* I'd have called my contact. I called Littrell now, because this trail is new. I think that this is it. It feels close." Chris' face, so mobile, settled into determined lines, and Joey felt a surge of hope, so strong, so deep, it sank right in to his bones.

Joey shifted to one hip and dug in his jeans pocket, until he found the dirty, tattered bit of Briahna's ribbon, the one she'd kept safe for so long. It was warm from his body when he brought it up to his lips and pressed a kiss to it; he could still remember how soft Briahna's hair had been, how it curled around his fingers, clinging like silk. He could remember the soft lavender smell of her from her bath, the slight weight of her in his arms, against his chest as he read to her, the soft sound of her breathing as she slipped into sleep. He could remember waking in the middle of the night and going to her room, just to be sure she was covered up, tucked in. Every sacrifice he'd made had been worth just one of her bright, sunny smiles.

He wanted her back. He *would* have her back.

"Here," he said, and felt heat rise in his cheeks as Chris watched him. He held out the ribbon. "Take this. Maybe it might help." He gave a little one-shouldered shrug. "I know you said it just comes and goes, but maybe, since it feels close, it might help."

Chris' fingers brushed his as he took the ribbon. Joey didn't like the dark sunglasses; he couldn't read the expression in Chris' eyes, and often, Chris' face said one thing, his eyes another. Chris' mouth quirked into a rueful smile.

"Thanks. Sometimes I can just pick stuff up easily, like reading a book. My gramma had better control of it, but even she couldn't perform on command. I get flashes of things, sometimes totally unrelated to what I'm working on. A lot of dreams. That's primarily how I get started on things-the dreams." He rubbed his thumb lightly over the ribbon for a moment. "Thanks, man, for being there for me like that," Chris said softly. "Sometimes the things I dream about are really. Horrible. Doesn't make it easy for anyone with me."

Joey glanced away from the road a moment. He reached out and put his hand on Chris' thigh, squeezing lightly. Most of the morning Chris had been putting out 'don't touch me' vibes, but Joey had always been a touchy-feely kind of guy, and hell, his whole family was that way, so he gave in to the urge to touch, offer a little comfort. If Chris really didn't want him to touch, Joey had no doubts he'd slap his hand away.

But Chris allowed his touch, and Joey felt the tight muscles relax a little under his hand. It encouraged him. "So you've said you have four sisters. Does your mom or any of your sisters have this...gift?" Joey wasn't certain whether to call what Chris had a gift, or not; it seemed as much curse as gift, from what he'd seen.

"Nah. None of them got it, and really? I'm glad they didn't. We thought Taylor, my youngest sister, might have it, but she didn't. It usually shows up around age eight or nine, from what I can tell, skipping a generation between each manifestation. She's twelve, and so far, nothing. I'll be the last one to have it, because it goes down the bloodline directly, and hey, I'm not a breeder." Joey glanced over at Chris, and the crook of his mouth wasn't entirely humorous or pleasant. He pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head, and rubbed at his forehead, pinched the bridge of his nose. "So it ends with me, and I have this. This need to do as much with it as I can because the ones of us who are real are rare, and there's so much to be done." He laughed, a little humorless sound. "Sounds nuts, I know."

"No, it doesn't," Joey said slowly. He had to take his hand from Chris' thigh to negotiate a curve, and though he wanted to put it back, he didn't. "You have drive and dedication and the desire to help others. It sounds like you're a pretty decent guy. Not many would be willing to give up a 'normal' life to do what you do."

A glance over showed Chris looking at him with dark, dark eyes, and he wasn't sure if it was gratitude, or annoyance or embarrassment he saw, or a mix of all three and more he saw in his gaze. Chris flushed, and looked away.

"It's just what I do," he said quietly. "But thanks, Joe. I appreciate it."

They fell into a silence that felt more comfortable, more natural than the prickly one of before. After five radio songs, Joey glanced over again, and saw Chris looking out the window with that peculiar not-there expression that meant he saw something that only he could; he rubbed this thumb against the ribbon, as if that small movement could somehow connect him with Briahna.

Two more songs and what felt like a thousand commercials, and he heard Chris gasp and out of the corner of his eye he saw Chris shudder and rub his face with a shaky hand. He looked flushed and sweaty. A contortion later, he'd produced a dark blue bandana and wiped at his face and throat and nape of his neck, his black hair spiky with sweat.

"You okay?"

"I saw her, Joe." Chris' voice sounded tired and hoarse, but triumphant. Joey's head snapped over to see his face, bright with relief, and he wanted to pull over, but there was no place to do so. Instead, his hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles went white.

"What did you see?"

"I saw a house. Small, run-down. Greyish, old. Peeling white paint. Mostly dead brown grass, red clay. Brownish curtains. Sagging porch. Old broken picket fence around it." Chris' small hands sketched pictures in the air to match the vision in his head..

"Did you. Did you see Briahna?" His voice sounded curiously thick to his own ears, and his throat seemed clogged with something large and prickly, hard to swallow around, hard to breathe around. He concentrated on driving, his eyes burning; he widened them to keep the tears in.

"Yeah," Chris said, and his voice softened enough that Joey dared to glance over at him. Joey thought Chris' expressive eyes looked troubled, but the look passed so quickly he couldn't be certain he'd actually seen it. "I saw her looking out the window. She looked. She looked sad. She'd been crying."

Joey swallowed hard, trying to get the huge prickly lump to go away, swallowed so hard he knew Chris had to hear it. He blinked rapidly, and the scenery, the road, the interior of the car, looked liquid, flowing. Fuck, he thought. Fuck, fuck, fuck, my baby, my baby crying, and I can't do a fucking thing about it. Rage at his inability to help her, coursed hotly through him, prickly, electric, and settled into a smouldering red fire in his belly. His fingers clenched on the steering wheel hard enough that he heard the plastic creak beneath his hands.

"Joe," Chris said, and his voice sounded low and heartbreakingly sympathetic. "Joe. Keep it together." Chris' hand, warm and gentle, smoothed over his biceps, rock-hard with tension. "We've almost got her now. Breathe. *Think*. Think with the head, and not the gut, man. Let it go, because it'll eat you alive."

A deep breath, another, and another, along with Chris' comforting hand, his soft, coaxing voice, and Joey felt the rage begin to leach away. It left him weak and trembling, light-headed, and he had to pull off to the side of the highway before he got them killed. For a long moment all he could hear was the labored sound of his breathing as he got himself back under control, and the *plinkplink* of the emergency flashers.

When he could breathe without it juddering painfully in his chest, when the pounding in his head had slowed, when he could see without a wet red film of rage over his vision, he ran a hand over his face and looked over at Chris, ashamed, embarrassed, regretful.

"It's okay," Chris said, and his eyes were so kind that something hitched again in Joey's chest.. Heat flushed over his face, in his eyes, and Chris lifted a hand to his face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, the corner of an eye. "Coming alive again hurts like fuck," Chris said. "And you're entitled to what you feel. It doesn't make you less a man, Joe. It makes you more."

Joey nodded mutely, and didn't resist when Chris' hand slid around the back of his neck and tugged gently. His mouth was soft and warm and offered comfort, not sex, offered friendship and sympathy and understanding. Joey reached out and wrapped his arm around Chris, pulling him closer; their bodies twisted awkwardly, confined by seatbelts and the steering wheel and the center console of the car, but Chris hugged him back for a long moment before releasing him.

"I swear to you, Joe, we're going to find her. I know it. I feel it like the sun shining, like the earth spinning. We're going to get her back."

And looking into Chris' eyes, feeling the sincerity smooth over his skin like a caress, Joey believed him.

Brian Littrell was a small, slim man in faded jeans, a maroon jersey that had Miss State on the front, and a black ball cap. He had a sharply defined jaw and cheekbones, and the bluest eyes Chris had ever seen, sharp and alert. Although he sprawled in his chair at the table in the back corner of the restaurant, Chris wasn't fooled; Littrell made him think of AJ, all thrumming energy below a placid surface.

Littrell smiled broadly and stood, offering his hand to shake. "Hey. Y'all must be Kirkpatrick and Fatone. Bass told me to expect you," he said, and his accent spoke more of Kentucky than Mississippi, in spite of the football jersey he wore.

"That would be us," Chris replied, and shook his hand; his grip was strong and sure. Chris could usually tell a lot from a handshake, to get a quick reading off someone, and something tight within him relaxed a little because Littrell seemed on the up and up. He doubted Lance would've referred Littrell if he hadn't been a pretty good guy, though Chris knew Lance had connections to some fairly greyish characters. "I'm Kirkpatrick. Chris, actually. This is Joe Fatone. He's Briahna's father."

"Thanks for meeting us," Joey said. He looked tired, purplish smudges under his eyes, and the bright fluorescent lights gave his skin an unflattering greenish cast. He looked, Chris thought, like a man who'd been dragged naked over broken glass, and was willing to be dragged even further, if it meant getting what he wanted, getting his child back. It never ceased to amaze Chris how much strength people had, how much resiliency, even if they themselves didn't realize it.

"Not a problem," Littrell said, and sat back down. "Seriously. When Bass called, I didn't have a problem clearing out a couple of days for this. I have a son of my own, and I can't even imagine what you've been going through." He pulled off his ballcap, and ruffled his fingers through his short blondish hair. "And besides, Lance has helped us out a time or two, so it's good to be able to give a hand in return."

They took a moment to get settled, and the waitress came over and took their orders. Chris wasn't particularly hungry; he felt on edge, and his nerves fairly thrummed with the need to hurry, to find Briahna. But he knew he had to eat; he didn't need to have his blood sugar crash at a critical time.

"So. What do you have?" Brian asked, stirring a prodigious amount of sugar into his tea.

"The case is almost two years old, but I've just recently come into it. We've poked around, looked around, and finally tracked down something useful." Chris stirred his straw through his Coke, watching the ice sparkle and flash. He wasn't going to volunteer how he'd tracked it down; the police were, generally, a suspicious lot, not given to believing in the supernatural, and he didn't want to alienate him. "I think the kidnapper is a man called Mark Fremont. I've been working on a profile of them, and I think that he and his wife, Carrie, lost their little girl, and when they saw Joe's daughter Briahna, they took the opportunity, and snatched her. They've been on the move since then, never staying in any one place, never settling long enough for anyone to notice anything out of place about them. It's been hard tracking them."

Joey reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, removing the picture of Briahna and sliding it across the table. Littrell picked it up, and his face softened a little when he saw her. "That's my daughter, Briahna," Joey said. He sounded a little hoarse. "She was four and a half when that picture was taken. She'd be six now."

"She's a beauty," Littrell said, and his voice was sincere. He slid the picture back to Joey, who looked at it a moment before putting it back in his wallet. "I'll do whatever I can to help get her back to you. Do you have a car and tag number for him, by any chance?"

"Sure," Chris replied. He reached into his pocket for his little notebook, and copied the information onto a clean piece of paper, tearing it out for the other man. "Bass already ran it. Multiple unpaid tickets, no insurance. Nothing serious that we could find. Just petty sh- um, stuff."

"Except for this," Littrell said. He studied the information a moment, then folded the paper very precisely and slipped it into his pocket. "This is a bit more than just petty thievery or parking tickets. Kidnapping, transferring a minor across multiple state lines? He and his wife will land in the federal pen for this."

"Good," Joey said, and Chris felt Joey's emotions prickle across his skin like goose bumps. "And I hope they rot there."

"You and me both, Mr. Fatone," Littrell said. "Physical punishment is up to the state, and ultimate punishment and judgment up to the Lord, but I don't think a little righteous wrath on our parts is unjustified. I have no mercy for them myself, though I obey the law to the letter."

Their food arrived, and Chris forced himself to take a bite or two. "I know you'll want to go in and nab him once we find him, but I'm not wanting to necessarily do it that way. We've been tracking them for a while now, and I'd like to check out the situation before running in. Make sure the girl is okay, do this with minimum trauma to her, if possible. What I'm looking for is more of a scope-out-then-ease-in sort of thing, not a charge of the Light Brigade, y'know? Her father and I want to check it out first, Detective Littrell, before any of your boys in blue get involved."

"Brian," he said automatically. He took a bite of his burger and chewed, looking at them thoughtfully. "I can't say that's a good idea, really. You, maybe. If you work for Bass, I'd pretty much trust his judgement in your skills, but a civilian? I'm not sure. It could prove pretty risky." His bright eyes flicked to Joey, who sat pushing his food around, but looked up as he felt Brian's attention on him.

"I'm good," Joey said, and though his voice sounded soft, Chris could hear steel in his tone. "I won't do anything stupid. And I won't be left out of it. Two years. I've looked for her for almost two years, and now that we're so close, you can't keep me away."

"All I'm asking," Chris said, sliding in smoothly as Brian's eyes narrowed, "is just a little bit of time. We're aware of the possible danger, and we're not discounting your caution. It's a valid concern. But. I don't want to stir up trouble just in case this turns out to be a false lead." He felt Joey stiffen, and beneath the table, deliberately stepped on his foot to cut off anything else Joey might say. "Not that I think it is. I'm sure we're on the right track here."

Brian considered it for a long moment. Chris sat still, though his leg ached to jump, and willed Brian to accept what he wanted, and for Joey to keep his mouth shut, because in his experience, you didn't push cops, even those who were sympathetic, because they automatically pushed back. Chris supposed it was a quirk of anyone in authority; they didn't like to have it challenged.

"Okay, fine. I understand. But if there's any hint of danger...."

"We back off and hand it to you. Got it," Chris said. "Not a problem there. I'm fully aware of my limits." He saw Brian's nod, and relaxed. "We've tracked him to a job site. Assissi Foreign Auto Repair. I'd like to go and check it out, see if he's actually there, and tail him once he leaves. Find out where he's living. Minimal contact with anyone until we're sure."

Chris' cell trilled, and he snatched it up, flipped it open. The number ID'd as JC's personal line at work. "Yeah, C?"

"Hey, man," came JC's easy drawl. "How goes it?"

Chris wanted to say, a lot better if you'd keep your huge fucking nose out of my personal business, but didn't think he needed to say that in front of either Joey or Brian; he'd nail him later. Maybe. He could never stay mad at JC for long; probably a good thing.

"Going fine. Better than expected. Meeting with Detective Littrell at the moment. Whatcha got?"

"Probably not anything you want to hear, but something you should. Been digging around, looking for stuff on your charming Mark Edward Fremont."

"Yeah? What?" Both Brian and Joey looked interested, but Chris wasn't sure what JC would tell him, so he said, "Wait, C," then rose from his seat. "Need to take this. I'll be back in a minute."

Chris threaded his way outside, and the heat slammed into him before he found a shady spot halfway around the building to escape into. "Okay. Spill."

JC had been humming something that sounded jazzy as he waited for Chris, but stopped. "Not a sterling character," he said. "But I think we both expected that."

"Pretty much," Chris said, leaning against the window. The glass felt marginally cooler than the outside air. He could see Joey and Brian within, talking, and hoped Joey didn't say anything about him and his gifts, because at the moment, they had Brian firmly on their side, willing to go with his plan, and he didn't want anything to fuck it up.

"Fremont had a little girl of his own, like you thought," JC said, and Chris could hear the light, fast clicking of JC's keyboard. From the speed of the typing, he probably had his phone headset on; he tended to wear it more than the rest of them. Chris never used his; he moved around too much, got tangled in it too much to make it practical. "Died about a year before he snatched Briahna." JC hummed. "Pulled up a picture of her. Sad-looking little thing. Dark hair, dark eyes, like Briahna, but she looked sorta wispy, or something. Not like a little girl should look, y'know?"

Chris flashed onto the vision he'd seen of Briahna that morning, looking pale and pinched and sad, and contrasted it with the photo Joey carried; in that, she'd been pink and robust, laughing. What a difference. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, I know," he replied.

"So. No one was ever able to get a really straight story about what happened to her. At the time of her death, they were living in some little town at the ass end of nowhere. Fremont's report to the cops says he found her dead in her bed that morning. Said she'd taken a fall from the porch the afternoon before."

"Yeah, right," Chris said with a snort. He looked at Joey again. Joey looked tired and pale; the whole thing wore on him more than he was willing to admit, but Chris had to admire his stubbornness and the core of strength he possessed. Although he didn't want to share any of this with Joey, to give him anything else to worry about, he knew he had to do it; he deserved the whole story, deserved to know all the facts, and what might possibly happen. "Any coroner reports?"

"I wish," JC said. "Maybe then they'd have nailed him. But Fremont had her buried so fast no one had a chance. Looks like the cops made a token attempt to investigate, but Fremont and his wife took off, and they'd had the girl cremated, so no evidence." Chris could almost see JC's mouth twisting in a mix of unhappiness and scorn. "Fucking *sloppy* coroner's work, if you ask me. They're supposed to investigate thoroughly the death of any child, and this one slipped right through the process." He sighed. "Small town, hick coroner stretched too thin over too large an area, sloppy work, paid off-who knows? But for whatever reason, they fucked this one up royally." He sounded pissed off, and Chris knew, given how thorough JC was, how perfectionist he was about his own job, that he found shoddy work in others nothing less than a personal affront.

"Yeah." Chris ran a hand through his hair. He wasn't particularly surprised at the revelation, and he didn't like it. If Fremont had killed his own child, or even had a hand in it by neglecting an injury, how would he be treating Briahna? He tried to think back, and while he'd not gotten any vibes of the terror of sexual abuse from his limited contact with her via his dreams and visions, it didn't really mean that she hadn't been mistreated otherwise.

He'd been pretty certain of that one, but wasn't sure about other types of mistreatment. Briahna had been strong-willed; he'd certainly gotten that impression, and handling her would've been difficult unless they'd resorted to physical violence. Or starving. He remembered how thin she'd looked, and it made him think of his own self, his own sisters, thin not through malice, but through poverty. Certainly Fremont didn't make a decent living, moving around so much.

He'd hoped that the Fremonts had been desperate to replace their child with Briahna, and that as a consequence, they'd treat her well and love her. But if Fremont had killed his daughter, or had a hand in it through neglect, then Briahna could be in a similar type of danger. A cold chill licked down his spine.

"What was her name?" He kicked his heel against the brick exterior wall, and the rhythmic thump thump thump helped to ground him. "The little girl, I mean."

"Hmm. Emily. Emily Anne Fremont."

Chris kept himself from whooping, but it was a close thing, because Fremont's grandmother, Mrs. Burns, had mentioned the girl's name had been Emily. "That's it, man. That's the definite link I needed to pull it together. You have fucking made my day, Chasez."

JC laughed. "Ooh, poetry! I'm impressed."

"When I get back, I'm gonna lay a good one on you," Chris said, his mouth stretching into a grin. "With tongue, even."

"Euw," JC said, and Chris could imagine his squinched-up face. "Thanks, but no. I get plenty of play on my own, man."

"I'm crushed that you reject the fine Kirkpatrick loving," Chris said. "But, your loss, you big spazz."

"And here I was hoping that you'd get some of that out of your system while you were gone," JC said, and Chris heard the clicking of keys in the background again. Chris wasn't sure if it was related to his case, or another; JC's mind ran in lightning quick tangents that even he couldn't follow easily. JC didn't think in linear, logical methods, and it was what made him so valuable; because his brain leapt from one idea to another without any reasonable connection, he frequently had brilliant epiphanies of thought.

"Speaking of which, I'm gonna whup your skinny ass all over the office for saying anything to Bass. Not your place, C, not your place."

"Shut up," JC said, and he didn't sound the least bit intimidated, or regretful. "Just looking out for you. You're a good friend, and I watch out for my friends." He hummed as something caught his attention for a second. "Besides, you never stay mad at me for very long. I figure I'm pretty safe from your vengeance."

"True enough." Chris couldn't deny that; something about JC made it impossible for anyone to stay angry at him for very long. "Anything else for me?"

"I was just looking to see if I could hack into personnel records for Assissi Auto, but they don't appear to have entered his home address into their system yet."

Chris closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his forehead. "C. C, man, if you're doing illegal stuff, don't tell me. Especially on an open line."

JC made a dismissive sound. "I thought I might be able to give you a hand, but unfortunately, they appear to be slackers about updating their information in a timely manner. And hey, I figure the end justifies the means, in this instance. And their security *sucks* like...well, something that really sucks a lot."

Chris couldn't help the snort of amusement. "Okay, fine. Is Bass around? He's always bitching that I don't keep him updated enough."

"Nah. He headed off to meet with a client. Didn't say who, but I figure he's like, filthy rich, because Lance was wearing Armani, and he only does that with clients who are richer thanGod. Looked damn fine, too."

"Why, JC, I thought you were saving yourself for me," Chris teased. He could picture JC's warm blush and smile; he loved to play with C, who loved it just as much. "Bass can only offer you money, while I can offer you wuv, twu wuv." Chris paused, grinning. "And unbelievably hot sex."

JC laughed. "Hey, how could I possibly turn down such an offer? But I'm thinking you need to save that for your boy there."

"Riiight." And that was a topic he wasn't willing to touch. He glanced back in, watching Joey, who just happened to look up at the same time. Dark eyes he could drown in, if he'd let himself go, if he didn't cling to what he knew was the right thing to do. He had to look away, and ignored the warmth in his chest and belly, the quickened patter of his heart. "Anything else?" His voice sounded crisp and surprisingly steady to his own ears, with a very clear message that the subject of his love life was firmly closed. JC was no idiot, and didn't press the issue, though Chris knew JC practically had to bite his tongue to keep from saying anything else. He loved to help and had a strong paternal streak for someone so free-spirited; Chris preferred to view it as meddling and gossiping.

"Not right now. If I find anything else, I'll give you a call. Ciao, baby," JC said, and hung up.

Chris folded his phone closed and hung it back on his belt, thoughtful. Maybe this was why he felt so restless, in such a need to hurry and find her. Maybe he had picked up some sort of vibe from his dreams of Briahna, a sense that maybe she was in some sort of danger, like poor little Emily Anne. He couldn't pin anything down, and frustration and a need to act, to do something, made him feel brittle, edgy.

Of more immediate importance was Joey, and how to break to him the news JC had given him. Chris squared his shoulders. The only way was to give it to him straight-up, unvarnished. Brian needed to know this development also; it might determine a course of action for them.

Chris walked back into the restaurant, and Joey's eyes fastened on him, dark, intense. He felt his stomach do a slow drop to somewhere around the toes of his boots, because, fuck, Joe could do intense when he wanted. Desire swirled lazily in his blood, but he pushed it aside, because not here, not now, and really, not ever again.

He sat down and told them what JC had said.

Joey could tell that Assissi Foreign Auto Repair was a high-end place simply because the front was pristine white, and it had actual landscaping, tastefully done. It didn't look much like an auto repair shop. Most auto shops, in his experience, were dirty, nasty places, manned by guys in filthy, grease-covered overalls. It made for good porn, but no one he'd ever seen in a real garage looked even remotely like the hunks in the films, all muscular and sweaty and artfully smeared with grease.

They sat in his car, half a block down the street, and watched as a truck, with Assissi on the side, brought in a scarlet-red Jag. Beside him, Chris fairly vibrated with suppressed energy; he was like a hunting dog on point, knowing his prey was close at hand. His fingers tapped restlessly on his thigh, and Joey would've covered them with his own hand to slow their tap-tap-tapping, but Brian leaned in from the back, and Joey kept his hands to himself. He'd learned pretty quickly that Brian was a religious sort, and while he didn't seem at all rigid about it, there was no sense in testing his level of tolerance.

Ever since Chris had told them about Fremont's history, the suspicious death of his own child, Joey had been on edge, fearful, anxious. Worried that she'd been beaten. Worried that she'd been allowed to go hungry. Worried that the same horrible thing might happen to Briahna, now that they were so very close, but maybe not quick enough to stop it from happening. He'd wondered what Chris had seen that very morning in his vision; "sad" and "crying" took on a more ominous tone. He'd thought Chris hadn't said something at the time, and with Brian along with them, he'd not been able to ask.

He wasn't sure Chris would tell him, anyway.

Restlessness crawled all over his body, and it actually *hurt* to make himself be still. He wanted to run in, grab Fremont, and shake him until he told them where Briahna was. Now, now, now, his instincts screamed at him, and he forced everything down, forced himself to be patient, to defer to Chris' and Brian's greater experience in these matters.

But fuck, it was the hardest thing he'd ever done.

"Nice place," Brian said. "Nothing I could afford on my salary, I'll tell you that. It might be interesting, though, to see how they'd react to having a Ford F150 pull up, huh?" His ready grin flashed brightly. "So, do you have any idea what this Fremont guy looks like?"

Chris shook his head. "Not a clue. But I know what he drives, and we can follow him. I think, maybe, if I circle around the back, and walk past the employee parking, I might be able to spot it, see if he's here today at work."

Brian rubbed at his nose. "Sure. I could go in, talk to the manager, see if I can get anything."

Chris shook his head, and Joey heard the little clink of his earrings. "Nah. His friend, the one who got him the job in the first place, might be the manager, and then where would we be? He'd run, and our cover would be blown. I don't mind waiting. I'm used to it, and I'd feel better, safer, if we did."

Brian shrugged. "Your choice, at least for the moment. I don't have any objections. You care if I take a little stroll around the back, just scope out the place? I won't go in or attract attention. I'd just like to see if he's there, know that we're not sitting here making our butts numb for nothing." He pulled out a piece of gum, tucked it into his mouth, then grinned at them.

"Have at it," Chris said with a dismissive wave.

"Cool," Brian replied. He readjusted his black ball cap, and climbed out of the back seat. He leaned back in through the open door. "You go haring off while I'm gone, I'll kick your butt all the way back to Florida, you got that? I won't be gone that long."

"Yeah, yeah. No running off. Got it."

Brian laughed and closed the door. Joey watched him amble down the street, heading for the repair shop. Brian didn't look like any cop he'd ever seen before; with his casual clothes, his loose-limbed stroll, his easy, friendly smile, he looked like a good old boy, harmless. Joey doubted he was.

A casual observer might think the same thing of Chris; on first glance Chris looked like any of a countless number of punk/skater boys Joey had seen on the streets of Orlando, unremarkable, easily dismissed, easily forgotten. Unless you looked closer, and saw the intelligence, the intensity, the energy that vibrated in him. Chris was as far from ordinary as the earth was from the sun.

As soon as Brian turned the corner to circle back around behind the shop, Joey couldn't hold it in anymore, and he pounced. "So what did you see this morning? What did you *really* see? And don't try to bullshit me."

Chris rubbed at the back of his neck, and sighed. "What I told you, Joe. She's alive. She's thin, but doesn't look starved. She's unhappy; I could feel that. Beyond that, I can't tell anything. I would, if I could. You know that. I've not held anything back."

Joey ran his hand over his mouth, over his chin. "I'm. I just. Sorry. I'm sorry, but I just need to be doing something. We're so close, and this waiting is just driving me crazy. Can't Brian just arrest him?"

"For what, Joe? There's nothing really to haul him in on. What we have is circumstantial. It wouldn't hold up. And if he ran, we might not be able to catch him. Something might happen-Briahna might somehow get hurt. It's hard to wait, but really, it's safest for her this way."

"Yeah. Really, I know that, but still. You know what the house looks like, so wouldn't it be safer to find her while he's here at work? To go get her while only his wife is around?"

"Sure, but we'd have to look at every single street in town, with no guarantee I'd find it before he got off his shift. I know it worked when we were looking for the Burns house, but it's not working for me now, so." Chris pushed up his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. He looked tired, and almost as frustrated as Joey felt. "What we'll do is tail him home, check it out, and then when he leaves for work tomorrow, we'll take Brian and hit the house while Brian's cop pals deal with Fremont at work. I don't have any real legal power, and what I do have varies from state to state, and depends a lot on the whims of the local authorities. We need to handle this so that nothing goes wrong, and these fucks land in jail. Technically, we should notify the Feds, but man, I don't want to wait for them to get all involved now and possibly screw up what we want to do."

Joey shifted, and looked out the window, rolling the information over in his mind. It made sense, really. His brain could grasp what Chris said, and understand it, but everything else within him screamed for action, to do something now, since they were so very close. For a split-second, he thought he could almost hate Chris for holding them back, for not doing something-anything-more, but then he gritted his teeth and pushed that thought, that feeling, firmly away. Chris had done more to help him than anyone, the cops, the FBI, anyone. Chris had worked so hard, had sacrificed sleep, his very peace of mind, so much to find her, and it wasn't fair of him to think such things, even fleetingly. And Chris had years of experience doing what he did; he had to accept that Chris knew the best way to do it. But even realizing that didn't help ease the burn of frustration.

"Sorry." Joey glanced over to Chris. Chris' mouth quirked, and he gave a little shrug.

"It's almost over, Joe. We'll have her back soon. Just hold on a little while longer, man. This is the hardest part, the waiting. It's the part I hate the most, but we have to be patient."

Joey ran a hand through his hair, drew in a breath, and let it out slowly. He'd always been a patient, easy-going sort, hard to ruffle, to make angry; stuff just slid off him and away. But for the past year and a half, he'd lived daily with frustration and anger and impatience, and it was hard to see past those things, to remember how patient he'd once been.

"Okay. Patience. I can do it." He slid a hand over and laid it on Chris' forearm, firm and strong beneath his fingers. Touching Chris seemed to ground him, to help him get past the bad shit that threatened to overwhelm him at times. Chris smiled back at him, not a broad smile, but a little crook of his mouth that was almost as intimate as a kiss, a smile Joey somehow knew he didn't give many people. Trust and affection and warmth filled his chest, and he found himself returning the private smile with one of his own, the most he could do in a public place in the thick humid light of late afternoon.

Joey pulled back, because if he didn't, he was afraid that daylight or not, he'd be tempted to lean in, to kiss him. Chris' dark eyes glinted with a mixture of amusement and awareness; either he could pick up Joey's feelings, or he simply felt them on his own. Joey cleared his throat, and pushed the feelings aside; they didn't belong here, now.

"I'd think it would be really hard for you to sit still for a long time, if you were alone on a stakeout," Joey said, looking for a distraction. "I mean, given how restless you usually are."

"Music," Chris replied. "And recorded books. I can't read, if I have to watch, but I can listen. I've listened to a lot of books. We all do. Just pass them back and forth, like a library. I like adventure stuff. Jessica likes self-help books, psychology shit. AJ likes Shakespeare, and all the eighteenth century poets, the classics. JC likes smut, but that's impossible to find, so he listens to erotica. Lady Chatterley's Lover, that sort of thing."

"I saw your CDs. It all sounds like angry music," Joey said, shifting in his seat. He could see Brian ambling back their way, slowly, casually.

"You're not the only one with anger issues, Joe," Chris said, and as Joey turned to look at him, Chris slipped his sunglasses back on, hiding his too-expressive eyes. His mouth thinned into a humorless smile.

Brian opened the door and slid in. The scent of the outdoors, of spearmint gum, clung to him. He reached up and turned his cap around so the bill lay against the nape of his neck, and scratched his nose. Joey saw a trickle of sweat snake down his cheek.

"So. How about a 1977 Olds Cutlass, tan over brown, with Florida plates?" He grinned at them sunnily. "Your boy is there, all right."

Joey let out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding. "Oh, thank God," he murmured, and his hand automatically moved to cross himself, something he'd not done for more than six months. His mother had been the one in church praying; he'd not stepped inside one since he'd given Briahna up for dead, and had turned aside Father Mike's attempts at comfort. Another regret, another way he'd cut himself off from something that had once been important in his life.

A warm hand settled on his shoulder, and Brian's eyes were bright, bright blue. "Thank God," Brian replied. His mouth curved, a gentle little smile. "We're on the right track," he said. "Hang in there just a little while longer, and we'll have your daughter back to you. I promise."

Joey nodded. He slumped in his seat, exhausted from the emotions stampeding through him. He couldn't seem to grab onto one long enough to tell whether he felt joy, anger, frustration, rage; they all seemed to batter him.

"They close in three hours," Brian said. "Then we'll find out where he lives."

"This is a really nice car," Chris said, shifting a little. "Way too nice to go into the neighborhood where Fremont lives, without raising suspicion." When Brian looked at him curiously, Chris shrugged. "Stop and think about it, man. Always on the run, driving a junker that old-where else would he live but strictly a low-rent, no-questions-asked kinda place? A Beemer is gonna stick out, right?"

"Mmm. Yeah," Brian replied. "I've got my truck, but it's a pretty late model one, and would stick out almost as much. Leighanne, my wife, drives an SUV, so that's not much help." He slid back onto the back seat, and pulled out his cell. "Got an idea."

He punched in a number. "Yo. Yeah, it's me. Yeah, it's my day off. Listen, Brit, got a question. Your boyfriend still have that old Chevy he's been working on? Yeah, the black one. It running okay? It is? Cool. I need to borrow it. It's for a tail job where the truck would stick out too much."

When he stayed silent a long moment, Joey glanced back. Brian winked at him and made gabby motions with his free hand. "Okay," Brian said. "Okay. Sure. Two hours. I need it here in two hours. No longer than that." He rattled off an address, then hung up.

"Will she be here in two hours?" Chris asked, half-turning in his seat.

"Yeah," Brian replied. "She'll make it."

Joey leaned back against the headrest. Tiredness made his eyes heavy, but nervousness made his muscles tight. Anticipation and fear spidered down his spine, and he tried to relax, tried the deep breathing thing one of the therapists he'd seen once had recommended. It was better than sitting there, jittering himself into pieces; he needed to be calm for them, and not give either of them any reason to try and leave him behind. He remembered Chris' threat the day they were at the motel in Warrensburg, and had no doubt that he meant it. And Joey had come too far to be left behind now.

Pieces of the conversation Chris and Brian shared-both of them seemed perfectly capable of talking about any subject without problem-drifted through his awareness. His tight muscles slowly softened, and he might have drifted off a little, but Brian's voice saying, "Here she is, *finally,*"made him snap awake. He glanced at the clock in the dashboard. One hour, fifty-nine minutes had passed.

He rubbed his eyes and glanced in the rearview. A very curvy woman came striding down the sidewalk, dressed in jeans, a plain white tee shirt, and a baseball cap, a large canvas bag slung over her narrow shoulder. He could see a blonde ponytail bouncing behind the cap; she must've pulled it through the opening in the back. Most of the girls he'd ever known had done that, and the little bit of familiarity helped to ground him.

Brian opened the door and she slid in. She smelled of some citrusy perfume, fresh and crisp, but not enough to hide the smell of cigarette smoke. Joey twisted in his seat to look at her, and she smiled at him. Mid-twenties, maybe, a pretty enough woman who wore a bit too much eye makeup, but who wore it well, confidently.

"It's about time," Brian said, and he sounded more than a little exasperated. "I said two hours, Brit."

"Hush up now," she replied. "It is two hours, right on the dot. I made it, so quit bitching, Brian." Her voice was smooth and honeyed, a slow southern drawl, and her smile could've lit half the city. "Hey," she said, and held out her hand to Joey; it disappeared in his grasp. "I'm Britney. Spears. I work with monkeyboy here."

Joey could almost hear the eye-roll Brian did. "Hi. I'm Joey Fatone, and this is Chris Kirkpatrick," Joey said, nodding toward Chris, who held out his hand. "Thanks for coming. We appreciate it."

"Keys, keys, keys," Brian said, snapping his fingers. "And don't call me monkeyboy."

"*Fine,*" Brit said. "Impatient, much?" She handed over the keys. "So is this the off-the-clock kidnapping case you told me about?"

"Yeah," Brian replied. "Joey's the dad, and Chris is a PI. Both from Florida. They've tailed them this far, and I'm here to nail the perps."

"Gotcha," Brit replied. She heaved a sigh as Brian looked at the number of keys on the keychain, then snatched them out of his hand, extracted the right key, and gave it to him. "Here," she said impatiently. "So what's the plan?"

"I'll tail the suspect back to his home, and y'all can follow me at a discreet distance. I'll tell you when to drop back. When it gets dark, you can come forward, and take a look yourselves. Tomorrow, when the suspect is at work, we'll swing by and pick up the suspect's wife and Joey's little girl, while the uniforms pick up the suspect. If they're divided, there's less chance of harm to the little girl."

"Feds?" Britney examined her pale pink nails. "Don't think I heard any mention of our fine, upstanding fellows in their boring suits."

"Nope," Chris replied. "And you probably won't, either. You know how they are. They won't listen, won't do it our way. I'll handle it later when they come calling."

"And they will," Brian said. "You have your cell, Brit?"

"Of course I do," she replied. "I'm blonde, not stupid."

"You're not even really blonde, either," Brian said, and grunted when she punched him in the biceps, hard enough to make Joey wince. Brian rubbed his arm absently; he looked accustomed to it. "Okay. I'm gonna take the car and head around more toward the back, so I can see him leaving the employees lot. I'll let you know when he pulls out, okay?"

"Okay. Don't crash the car. David would have a screaming fit."

"Yeah, yeah," Brian said. He leaned forward and patted Joey's shoulder. "Hang in there." His voice was soft, and kind, and Joey nodded at him. Brian slipped out of the car and ambled back half a block. In a few moments, a black Chevy that had seen better days eased past them.

"Monkeyboy?" Chris asked, his voice way too light and innocent. Joey cut a glance his way, and sure enough, one corner of his mouth had quirked upward.

"Oh, c'mon," Brit said, her voice lilting. "Don't say you haven't thought it. Great guy, smart cop, but really, the poor guy. I started calling him that when he came down from Kentucky, all bright-eyed and earnest. It all works out, because he calls me the Whore of Babylon, in this twangy Southern Baptist preacher's voice. Like Jimmy Swaggart. I started liking him when he did that, y'know? Meant he'd settled in, become one of us."

Joey relaxed a little more as Brit chatted with them. She was sharp, with a wicked sense of humor and the most vulgar vocabulary Joey had ever heard; it seemed completely out of place coming from such a pretty mouth. But she made Chris laugh, which made Joey feel...better, somehow.

If only, Joey thought. If only I'd met Chris before this all happened. We could've been good together, he thought. Chris was funny as hell, energetic, really smart. He liked a lot of the same things Joey did, even if his taste in music was shitty, as far as Joey was concerned. And he was sexy in his quirky way, and hot in bed. Joey felt heat crawl up his throat at the memory, and flipped the air conditioning vent his way for a moment. The low hum of awareness between them was something he'd not had, not even with Justin.

There were a lot of 'if onlys.' As much as he liked Chris, was attracted to him, now was not the time. When he got Bri back, he'd have time only for her; she would be even more the center of his world. All this would undoubtedly require counseling for both of them; he wasn't stupid enough to assume that they could pick up where they left off, as if nothing had happened. It would take months of hard work for the both of them, and that was all that mattered.

But he couldn't help but wish for more.

Brit's phone trilled. "Yeah? Okay. Gotcha," she said.

Leaning forward, she said to Joey, "Pull out slowly, take the first left. We're gonna stay at least a block, probably three or four, behind them."

Joey did as she said. Beside him, Chris' leg bounced, as it had all afternoon. He reached over and folded his hand over Chris' thigh to still it, and gave it a little squeeze. He wished he could see Chris' eyes, but his sunglasses were too dark. Chris' hand brushed over his, a warm little moment of contact, and Joey returned his hand to the steering wheel. Excitement bubbled up from low in his belly and perked through his veins; they were really doing this. Really going to find Briahna. After all this time, soon he would have his baby back home.

Chris would rather have been driving; he was an old hand at tailing someone without being caught; even driving a bright red Cruiser, his perp seldom caught onto him. But he realized Joey needed to be doing something, anything, and this would help him. So Chris' leg jiggled, and he kept his mouth shut. He was getting better at it, even if Lance claimed otherwise.

"Next right," Brit said. She leaned up between them, her voice low and soft, and it made him think of Lance in the slow drawl of vowels. "Too fast. Drop back."

Chris watched Joey's hands, huge and strong, tighten on the wheel, his knuckles whitening. Outwardly he looked calm, composed, but Chris could see the tension in the line of his wide mouth, in his broad shoulders. He could feel it leaking from him, like a slow air leak from a balloon. It didn't help him; he tried to shuttle it aside, let it roll off him, leave him unaffected.

He'd tried the same technique of attempting to locate her through her ribbon, using that tenuous connection, sending his mind out searching for her, but in spite of her closeness, it hadn't worked. Although he knew well his own limits, had known it was a long shot, it had still frustrated him, pissed him off. He didn't like to fail, and even though he'd gotten them this far, it still felt like a failure not to be able to get them further. He could almost feel her, like a ghost, or like something glimpsed out of the edge of his eye. But he couldn't focus on her, and the harder he tried, the further she slipped from his grasp. He tried to relax, to let things flow through and around them as they would. Tension only pushed things further from him.

"Stop. Pull over for a few minutes," Brit said, tapping Joey on the shoulder. "Brian says he's stopped at a liquor store."

So they pulled over into the first place they saw, and sat idling in the parking lot. Brit didn't take her hand from Joey's shoulder, and for some reason, seeing her slim, tanned hand resting there so easily, so familiarly, pissed off Chris. It was irrational, and he knew it. He knew Joey wasn't into girls, knew he had no right to even be pissy; Joey wasn't his.

But still it bothered him, and he bit his tongue hard to keep from saying something stupid. He really wished he'd never slept with Joey, wished he didn't know how Joey tasted, how he sounded, how he looked, lost in passion. He'd probably been just as jealous if he hadn't, but somehow, knowing those things had bound Joey even more firmly to him, made him feel it more acutely. He turned his face to the window and counted slowly to himself until he heard Brit pat Joey's shoulder and say, "Okay. Out of the lot, to the right."

As they drove, slowly, following Brit's directions, the tension grew until Chris could feel it thudding in the back of his head, tightening his muscles, his spine, until he thought they would snap and break from the pressure. He tried to push aside Joey and Brit's emotions, and he could with Brit-Teflon, he kept thinking to himself, I am Teflon and it all slides away. But Joey was close, was inside his head and heart, a part of him, like bone and breath, and he couldn't so easily shuttle him aside.

His grandma had taught him to build a wall, like glass, between himself and others; a wall he could see out of, like watching the rain on the other side of a window. Pretend that everyone else is like the rain sliding down the glass-the storm rages outside, cold and wet, but you're inside, safe and warm. He'd been eleven when she'd told him that, and it had worked, until now. Not even Howie, as much as he'd cared for him, had ever gotten inside that window.

No one other than his family had gotten inside, until Joey.

Chris blinked, realized he'd been looking intently at Joey's strong, aggressive profile, and let his eyes flick to Brit, sitting on the edge of the backseat, hanging between the seats, cell to her ear. He wondered how long he'd been staring, wondered if his sunglasses were dark enough to hide from her how he'd been looking at Joey.

Brit might have looked soft, maybe a little flighty, but she was not. Her brown eyes were sharp and direct; she returned his gaze boldly; no doubt at all she'd seen him, and put the pieces together just that quickly. So much for discretion, he thought, and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from reacting. Chris had never hidden how he was, but neither had he made it obvious, either. His look, tough and punkish, had always kept questions far away, and he'd always been proper and professional with his clients. He could only remember one or two in his career who'd pinged on his radar, who'd caught his interest, but he'd done nothing about it; he'd kept his personal and professional life strictly separate, as it should be.

Until Joey. Joey broke a lot of his rules, on a lot of levels.

She murmured something into the cell, but her eyes never left his, and then she nodded and smiled gently at him. Her hand left Joey's shoulder, and something tight in Chris loosened. He wanted to curse at himself, but the feelings were there, strong and vivid, no matter how he wanted to squash them, and pretty pointless to deny. Brit raised an eyebrow, and Chris could almost read the question in her eyes: are you a couple? and he shook his head, a quick, spastic little jerk. In his experience, women tended to accept things like that a lot easier than men did, and even though Brit was a cop, she seemed to take it in stride. For a moment Chris wondered if Joey had noticed how deeply he felt for him, but decided probably not; Joey had far too many things on his mind to see something Chris had tried to keep hidden.

And would continue to keep hidden.

Outside the car, the neighborhood slowly became worse as they traveled across town, moving into less desirable areas. Chris had grown up in areas similar to the ones he found himself traveling through; worse, even, and the sense of deja vu crawled into his head and opened the tightly-locked box of memories. The sensation wouldn't leave, no matter how hard he pushed to get the memories of hunger and poverty, of discrimination and taunting, back into the box. It wasn't the time, and normally he wouldn't have had any problems locking the thoughts away, but the closeness, the empathy, he felt to Joey, to Briahna, seemed to make it more difficult.

"Okay, he's got him," Brit said. "Let's pull back. He's three blocks west of us. Twenty-two thirty-seven Hutton Street."

Chris felt a wash of strong emotion from Joey, but he couldn't sort anything out; everything felt too jumbled. He looked over and saw the broad shoulders tighten, saw his wide mouth set into a grim, determined shape.

"Hey, Joey, turn back," Brit said. "Don't drive by now. This car is too conspicuous."

Joey swung the car into a turn at the next corner, heading west. "I need." His voice sounded soft, hoarse, the edges cutting at Chris, painfully. "I need to see. Gotta see. So close...."

"Joey," Brit straightened, and her own mouth set into a firm line. "I'm telling you, turn back." Her soft voice steeled, and Chris could hear the cop in her coming out, authoritative.

Chris half-turned. "Let him," he said quietly, catching Brit's brown eyes with his own. "It's been almost two years. He deserves it."

When Brit finally nodded, Chris leaned closer to Joey, rested his hand on Joey's arm. The biceps felt like a boulder beneath his fingers. "Just a drive-by, Joe," he said softly. "No more, you understand? That's all."

Joey gave a jerky little nod, and Chris could hear Brit saying into her cell, "Dammit, we're driving by."

Another street, then another, and they turned onto Hutton. Reaching into his pocket, Chris pulled out the old, dirty pink ribbon, winding it through his fingers, letting the sense of her fill his mind, remembering the essence of her from her room, from the pictures and videos he'd seen at Joey's house. Sometimes it worked, linking vision and touch and the senses he'd worked all his life to try and control; sometimes it didn't, and he never knew how it would turn out until he tried it.

Chris straightened abruptly in his seat, his heart pounding in his chest, in his ears, because he could *feel* her, feel her presence tingling along his skin, tickling along his nerve pathways. He reached forward, his hand landing on the dashboard, fingers curling into the dash, pink ribbon trailing down from his fingers. He wanted to move, to act, to do something other than just sit there. But he was a professional, and he made himself sit still, though he could feel himself quiver.

They passed the black Chevy Brian had driven, parked on the street at a discreet distance, but still in a position to see their quarry without difficulty. Brian sat slouched in the driver's seat, and Chris caught his expression out of the corner of his eye: pissed. It didn't matter though; Chris let it slide away, unimportant.

And then, three-fourths of the way up the block, sat the house, just as Chris had seen it in his vision. It looked like any of the others, nothing to distinguish it, an old, tired, ready-to-fall-down house. Beside it sat the tan over brown Olds, Florida plates. It almost looked as if no one lived there, certainly not as if a little girl lived there, or played out in the dirt yard. But Chris knew she was there; he knew it as if he could see her standing outside, watching them.

"Chris?" Joey's voice sounded soft.

"Yeah," he replied, never taking his eyes from the house as they passed it, twisting in his seat to keep it within sight as they turned the corner. "She's there. I can feel her." Her unhappiness washed over him, sharp, like the scrape of ragged fingernails against his skin, and Chris closed his eyes, letting it settle into him, binding them more closely together. "She's okay. Unhappy, but okay. Not in any immediate danger."

"ThankGod," Joey replied, and turned the corner. Some of the tension leached out of him; Chris could feel it slipping away, like rain sliding down a window. When Chris opened his eyes and turned to look at Joey, he saw Joey's eyes very wide, but it was no use; a single tear traced over his cheek, slipped down into his beard. Chris couldn't help it; he had to touch Joey, whether Brit saw it or not. He squeezed Joey's arm and shook it, gently.

"I told you, Joe, we'd find her. I swore we would," he said softly. "And I never break my promises, not ever. She's so close. We've almost got her." Chris wanted to lean close, to press himself against Joey's warmth, to lick the tear from his cheek, to taste Joey's soft mouth. He wanted to let some of his strength seep through his skin and into Joey; he needed it to get through the next few hours. He wished he could do all those things, but could not, and so tried pouring a measure of his confidence into Joey in the one place they did connect, his hand on Joey's bare arm.

"Yeah," Joey said softly. He sniffed, and then shook his head a little. His long dark eyelashes were spiked with moisture. Chris ached for him; he could feel his own eyes burn, and was glad for his dark glasses.

He gave Joey's arm one last squeeze and pulled back. Without Joey's warmth, he felt cold, and shook the feeling away impatiently; he didn't have time for it, for such self-indulgence. He had to be strong enough for both of them. And he would be.

"So," Brit said, her voice shocking in the silence that had fallen between them, "You wanna tell me what the *hell* is going on? And the truth, okay?"

Joey glanced in his rearview mirror, then cleared his throat. He glanced over at Chris, who knew he wouldn't say anything, not without Chris' permission. Chris rubbed his mouth, and scrubbed his hand through his hair before half-turning in his seat to look at her. She looked serious, but had her hand over the phone to keep Brian from hearing. That was a small comfort, because Chris wasn't certain Brian would take it as well as Brit might.

"What do you want to know? I am a PI. I have been tracking Joe's daughter Brit. We did come from Orlando. Brian does know Lance, and is doing him a favor by being involved in this. That's the truth."

Britney tipped her head a little, and her long tail of blonde hair curved over her shoulder. Her eyes were intent, focused. "Sure. I believe that. I want the other truth. The one I can see, but that I wanna hear you tell me. That truth, Kirkpatrick."

Chris could hear Brian's voice, tiny and tinny from the cell. Brit scowled, brought it up to her face and said, "Shut up, Brian. I'm arguing with Kirkpatrick," and then clicked the phone off. She leaned against the back of Joey's seat, and gave every intention of not moving until she heard what she wanted. Chris weighed it in his mind, the pros and cons of her knowing, then decided to tell her what she wanted.

"I'm a PI, but I'm also psychic. I've been trailing Briahna by the connection I've built to her by her things. This is one of them." He held out the dirty pink ribbon, and Brit took it from him, looking it over.

After a moment, she turned her attention to Joey. "And you believed him?"

"Not at first," Joey admitted. "Not at all, then. I'd been taken by false psychics before. I wouldn't let myself believe. But then...he knew too many things. Things he couldn't have known. Things that were right. And when I saw how hard he worked, saw him actually connect to her through her things, well, I still didn't believe. I didn't believe until he tracked her to a place where we found that ribbon. Proof that she'd been there. Then. Then I believed. No one had gotten so far with the case. Not the cops, not the FBI. And he's brought us here, right to her. He's the stubbornest man I've ever met. He never stopped, never lost faith."

"Hmm." Brit trailed the ribbon through her fingers, tracing over the remaining letters of Briahna's name. "I've heard of forces using psychics, but I've never seen it, so I didn't know what to think. It seemed sorta hokey to me. You work with cops before?"

"Mostly in the northeast, along the coast. Now I work for Bass Investigations. I find kids. That's what I do."

"You good at it?" She handed the ribbon back to Chris, and their fingers brushed. He could feel her cynicism, but also her respect.

"I'm very good," Chris replied, without false modesty. He draped the ribbon over his thigh. "I didn't mention it because I wasn't sure you would be very...accepting of what I am. Not many are. There's too many charlatans out there."

Brit made a non-committal sound. "Turn left," she said after a moment. "Five streets over, there's a McDonald's. Pull in there for awhile." She waited until Joey did as she directed. "So," she said, turning her attention to Chris. "You know that while I might believe you, there's no indication that anyone else will, like Brian, who *definitely* doesn't believe in it. It's not Christian, it's the work of the devil, or some shit like that. But more importantly, there's no indication that a judge will believe you. We need more proof than the word of a psychic for this, Chris. Something like actually seeing the child. We can't just break into the house on your...assumptions."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Chris replied. He ran his silver ball necklace through his fingers as he thought. "Thing is, I'm not sure we'll actually *see* her outside. I have the feeling she's not allowed outside because they think she'll run away from them. I think she would. So they keep her inside all the time. Probably don't send her to school, and I have serious doubts they try to teach her at home. Except to accept her new name, which I don't think she's doing very well."

"No," Joey said, pulling into a parking space. "Fremont's mother, when we went to see her at the nursing home, told us she didn't answer to the name Emily. The wife-Carrie?-always said that Briahna was the name of an imaginary playmate. And Fremont's grandmother accepted that."

"Didn't his grandmother notice the difference in the child?"

"Don't think she'd seen her for years by the time they came to live with her," Joey said slowly. "And her eyesight is really bad. I don't think she noticed, honestly. Fremont's daughter had dark hair and eyes, like Briahna."

"Every step we've taken has been logical, based on information that came before. I'm not making this up. What I've...felt...has been confirmed by concrete PI work. I assume nothing, based on what I know, because my abilities aren't under my complete control," Chris said. He felt a crawl of heat up his throat, although he knew it was pointless to be embarrassed at not having complete control of his gifts; he didn't like admitting it to strangers.

Brit tapped a pink nail over her mouth for a moment, thinking. "I'm hungry," she announced. "Why don't you go get us something to eat, Chris? Brian caught me before I had a chance to eat anything at home." Although her mouth curved into a smile, Chris recognized it as more than a request for food; it was a clear, 'get lost for awhile so I can talk to Joey in private' tactic.

Chris looked over at Joey, who wasn't so upset that he didn't recognize Brit's request for what it was. If he didn't want to be left alone to talk with her, Chris wouldn't budge. But Joey nodded, slowly. "Yeah, it's okay, Chris," he said. "Probably should eat something."

He looked between the two of them, his gaze shifting from Joey to Brit; he looked out over the tops of his sunglasses at her, making his eyes hard, telling her silently not to fuck with him. Brit's pleasant expression didn't change, though she clearly got the message. Chris pushed up his sunglasses and stepped out into the searing heat of early evening.

Taking his time, he strolled across the parking lot; he could feel their combined glances in the middle of his shoulder blades, and it was a conscious effort not to roll his shoulders, to give any indication he knew they watched him. He felt as if he had a target in the middle of his back, and Brit had a handful of very sharp darts.

Inside the restaurant, he chose the longest line, and when he finally got to the front, took his time ordering. While he stood at the counter, he could see the black BMW idling in the lot, could see their heads, bright and dark together, see Brit's hands gesturing as she spoke. His eyes narrowed as he wondered what she said to Joey. He liked her, but he'd kick her shapely little ass all over Mississippi if she said anything to upset Joe. The force of his feelings surprised him a little, but only a little. His feelings of protectiveness toward Joe, and toward Briahna, by extension, were almost as strong as those toward his own mother and sisters. They were inside him, safe from the storm behind the glass that separated him from everyone else.

He tried reaching out toward Joey, to see if he could trace his emotions, to read him, but he couldn't sense any problems, and that helped to calm the scratchiness inside his head. As he crossed the parking lot again, this time with his hands full of bags, he felt calmer. Joey reached across and opened the door for him, and Chris sighed at the blast of cool air that greeted him, and Joey's calm face. Whatever Brit had said in his absence had not driven any barriers between them.

Chris could feel Brit's gaze on him, speculative, as he passed around burgers and fries. "So," Chris said brightly, "I hope you're finished grilling him about me, because the food's gonna get cold."

"I'm finished," Brit said. "There wasn't as much grilling as you thought."

Chris shrugged. "I'm legit. No apologies for what I am here."

"Don't expect any," Brit replied. She unwrapped a burger, looked under the bun, scowled at it, and thrust it imperiously at Chris, who traded with her. "So, here's how I'd like for it to go. We need to get in to see if she's actually there. I can get us in."

"True enough," Chris conceded. He glanced over at Joey, who sat picking at his food, uninterested in it. "How do you plan on it?"

"I'm just gonna go up to the door and knock. I'll get in." Brit sounded completely confident.

Chris snorted. "You will, huh?"

Brit gestured at herself, at the generous curve of her breasts beneath the white tee shirt, her long slim legs. "What, you wouldn't let *this* in?"

Unexpectedly, Joey snorted, choked on a drink of soda, and after Chris pounded him on the back, Joey wheezed, and laughed. Chris couldn't help but grin with him, because it had been a long time since he'd seen Joey laugh, or even smile. He liked the ripple of good feelings beneath his fingertips, and allowed himself to soak it in for a long moment before moving his hand away.

"Good point," Joey said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "You'll get in. What then? How will we know?"

Brit tugged at the big canvas bag she'd brought with her, her mouth curving into a smile. "Just 'cos we're a little town doesn't mean we don't have electronics," she replied. "Wire me up, send me in, and we'll find out what we need to know, without a problem."

"Um, don't you have to have paperwork for that sort of thing? Isn't this like, a day off for you, or something?" Joey asked. "How did you get that?"

"I've got charm. And light fingers. And don't forget, charm," Brit said with a smile. "Don't ask. Just eat. And remind me to get Monkeyboy a burger for when we go back. He gets really cranky when he's hungry."

"It's just that easy?" A frown formed between Joey's brows, and he half-twisted to look at her. Brit shrugged in response.

"All I'm doing is *looking.* You need to realize that. It's like the drive-by we did, only on a closer level." Brit paused to lick salt from her fingers. "Looking is the easy part."

"We need to stick to the plan, Joe," Chris said gently. "Look tonight, to confirm what we already know. Scope out the place from the inside. Then *tomorrow,* when Fremont is away from the house, when it's safer for Briahna, we go in. No deviations from the plan. It's the safest for her. And that's what we want, right? To get her with the least amount of trauma. She's been through enough, man."

Joey nodded, and Chris felt some of his tension seep away, tension he'd not realized he carried in his shoulders, in his neck. He rolled his shoulders a little to ease them. Something niggled at him, some half-formed thought or emotion, but the more he tried to capture it, to reel it in, to examine it, the more elusive it became, and with a mental sigh, he gave up chasing it. It would come to him when it would.

"I promised we'd find her," Chris said, and put his hand on Joey's, uncaring of what Brit might think. "Trust me just a little longer, okay? You'll have her back tomorrow, I swear, and all this waiting will be worth it."

Joey's hand slid from beneath his, wrapped around his, strong and warm; he had a big hand, broad, and it covered his own. Chris looked up to see Joey's eyes, dark and deep, focused on him, as if he were the only thing in the world worth looking at in that moment. He saw warmth and heat, friendship and passion, but the one that made his heart flip over in his chest and plummet to his knees, that made him lean ever-so-slightly toward Joey before he realized he'd even moved-that one thing that he treasured above all else, was trust.

"I trust you," Joey said, and Chris thought that was maybe the finest thing anyone had ever said to him.

Beside him, Chris rocked slowly from toes to heels and then back again, a smooth, gentle motion not unlike a swimmer bobbing in ocean waves. Other than that small movement, he was still, his hands stuck in his jeans pockets, humming light and high under his breath, dark eyes fixed on the door to the gas station's bathroom. From his slouch against the door of his car, Joey reached out and folded his hand over Chris' shoulder, pressing him down lightly onto the flats of his feet. He almost jerked back his hand; the snap of energy from Chris was like a static electric shock, thrumming along his nerves. But he kept his hand steady, feeling the steely tension of muscle, the almost feverish heat of his body.

"Sorry," Chris murmured, and his dark eyes slipped from the door to Joey. "I'm a little tense."

"A little, yeah," Joey replied. He squeezed Chris' shoulder gently, and Chris shifted and rolled his neck slightly. "Anything wrong?"

Chris pressed his lips together, and Joey could see him slide into a quick internal search, touching and examining whatever swirled within his head. It wasn't quite the emptying out of self he did whenever he was doing his psychic stuff, but it was close enough to be just a little unnerving. But Joey didn't let his hand fall away, kept it where it was, a little show of faith in Chris.

"Fighting," Chris said slowly. "The Fremonts are fighting. I don't know about what, and it probably doesn't matter worth a fuck, probably isn't the first time by a long shot. But I can feel what it does to Briahna. She's nervous."

Probably not the first time. Fuckers. Joey clamped down on the anger that smouldered in his belly; Chris didn't need that added to the mix of emotions swirling into him, through him. "Is she in any immediate danger?"

Chris' head turned toward the east, where the house sat in the darkness beyond the bright lights of the gas station. He pulled one hand from his pocket, and Joey saw the dirty ribbon twined around his fingers, so tightly that it leached color from them, turned his fingertips purplish. Chris brought up his fist holding the ribbon, rubbed it lightly against the base of his throat, then once over his lips, almost like an absent-minded kiss. His eyes, behind his glasses, were huge and black, pupils blown wide, his expression distant.

Joey counted to ten, then again. He'd gotten to five on the third count when he felt Chris shudder beneath his hand. "I. I'm not sure," Chris said, blinking slowly. "I don't like it, though." He blinked again, and Joey felt him straighten beneath his hand. He looked back to the bathroom door. "If they don't fucking hurry up, I'm gonna-"

The bathroom door opened, and Brian came out, his cap on backwards, the bill laying against the nape of his neck. He looked a little sheepish and a lot embarrassed, color high on his cheeks. Half a second later, Brit came out, tugging her tee shirt into place, smoothing it down over her curves. She looked amused and annoyed at the same time.

"For God's sake," Brit said, her tone exasperated. "You'd think you'd never seen tits. It's not like I'm not wearing a bra, or anything."

Brian waved his hand at her, then opened the back door to Joey's car. "That's enough. And don't take the Lord's name."

"Did you get wired up?" Joey asked, and Brit grinned brightly and raised up her shirt, flashing them a flat, tanned stomach crossed by wires and surgical silk tape, and a very lacy bra that left little to the imagination. He heard Brian make an annoyed sound and get into the car.

Joey thought of Kelly and her lush curves, and what they'd done during the week they'd tried to get pregnant. He'd been good to her, done right by her, made sure she'd gotten pleasure once she showed him exactly what she liked. He could remember her squeals of laughter after he'd stood up on her bed and turned her upside down after the third night they'd slept together, shaking her gently to make sure his come ended up in the right place. Sex with her had been different, nice, but not nice enough he'd cared to repeat the experience again with any other woman; he still preferred two dicks in the whole sex equation. But looking at Brit, he could see why Brian was flustered; Brit was a beautiful woman, and Joey could understand the cause for Brian's embarrassment.

"Yep, totally wired." Brit had taken her hair down from the ponytail, had taken off her cap; it rippled down her back in a bright golden-brown wave. She'd also put on additional makeup: bright red lipstick, some blush, and the effect wasn't quite trashy blonde, but close. She smoothed down her tee shirt, hiding the wires. Before she lowered her shirt, he saw, behind her back, tucked into the waistband of her jeans, the grip of a holstered pistol, and the sight of the weapon reminded him that Brit wasn't just a pretty woman, but a tough professional. "I'm ready. Let's do this."

Joey squeezed Chris' shoulder before releasing it and getting into the car. Chris stood there a moment, looking off toward the house where Briahna stayed, and it bothered Joey enough that he opened his mouth to say something. But then Chris shook himself like a wet dog and got into the car.

Within, Brian and Brit sat in the backseat, their heads bent over electronic equipment. Joey didn't even try to decipher what most of it was, and actually, didn't care, as long as it got the job done. They squabbled lightly, good-naturedly, like old friends, like Chris spoke with Bass.

His eyes flicked to Chris, and the quiet, the stillness of the other man, so out of character for him, made something within Joey quiver nervously. It was almost like Chris was listening to something that only he could hear, his attention divided between the here and now, and whatever it was only he could tune into the receiver in his head. Joey studied the curve of his cheek, the set of his mouth, the way his throat moved as he swallowed, the twist of his hands around the ribbon he held, the tense bunch of his thighs.

"Joey," Brian said, and Joey blinked and turned his head. Although Brian smiled, his bright blue eyes were deadly serious, and Joey's heart pattered within his chest. "We're ready. Drive."

They drove to Hutton Street in a silence that seemed to thicken and crawl up his body, tightening around him, threatening to suffocate him. Joey breathed deeply, slowly, remembering how everything had thinned out for him, remembering the sensation of almost fainting, and wanting to stay as far from that at he could. His blood pulsed in his ears, in his head, and his hands on the steering wheel felt cold, stiff. It was really happening-he was really going to get Briahna back. After so long, he'd be able to hold her, to feel her soft hair against his cheek, to hear her sweet voice, to have her little arms around his neck again. It didn't feel quite real. Or maybe it was him that didn't feel real.

Back at the gas station, he'd called his parents and updated them, listened to his mother cry and heard the tears in his father's voice, and the lump rose high in his own throat at the memory. His family had always been demonstrative, laughter and tears close to the surface, easily expressed, without shame or recrimination. By the time he'd said goodbye to his dad, his mom had already started packing to come to Hattiesburg.

On the edges of his awareness, he could hear Chris, singing softly, high and breathy, and he glanced over. Chris sat very, very still, eyes closed. In spite of being buckled in, he'd managed to curl himself into a surprisingly small ball, arms wrapped protectively around himself. The hairs on Joey's nape prickled, and a shiver spidered down his spine. Chris wasn't there; Joey knew in that moment he was with Briahna, linked so closely with her that what he saw in that moment was Briahna, hiding, afraid.

He stepped on the gas, flooring it, and the car shot forward. Brian said, "Hey, hey!" but Joey ignored him, tearing through stop signs, tires squealing as he rounded corners way too fast. All that mattered was that he get to the house on Hutton Street, as quickly as possible.

Two streets away, he heard Chris take a sharp breath as Joey's last too-fast turn thumped him into the door. He uncurled suddenly, and reached out to grip Joey's arm, his hand strong. "It's okay, Joe," Chris said, his voice thin and high. "Slow the fuck down before you kill us. It's okay."

He braked back down to normal speed, his heart thumping painfully against his ribs. Beside him, Chris whooped for air, coughed, and wiped at his face with his hand. "It's okay," Chris repeated. "She's not hurt. Just scared."

"You scared the shit outta me," Joey said, and he could hear the tremor in his own voice. "I thought-"

"Yeah, I know what you thought. I'm sorry. I was just in too deep, too connected to her for a minute. Feeling what she feels. I'm. I'm sorry." Chris' hand squeezed his arm again, reassuringly.

"Um, guys?" Britney's voice came from the back seat, and Joey almost cursed aloud as he realized they'd heard everything, and Brian was far from stupid; he'd be sure to have questions that Joey wasn't sure Chris would want to answer right now.

"Later, Brit," Brian said abruptly. "We can talk about it later. And there *will* be a later, believe me. But right now, let's focus on the job at hand, okay?"

"Yeah," Chris replied. "That's the most important thing right now. The only important thing."

Everyone grew quiet as they pulled onto Hutton Street, and parked a couple of houses down. They could see the house easily, dirty windows lit by dim lights. Joey shut off the engine and gripped the steering wheel tightly. They were here, and it was happening, now.

"Okay. Get in, look around, verify, get out. No more. Got it?" Joey turned in his seat. In the darkness, Brian's face was a pale blur. "That's *all* we're doing tonight. Tomorrow is the day, understand?"

When Joey didn't answer, Brian leaned forward, intent. "Understand?"

He nodded, jerkily, and Brian seemed satisfied. "Got it, Kirkpatrick?" All his easy camaraderie of earlier had vanished, and even Joey could feel his cold disapproval. Joey knew that if he could feel it so easily, it had to hit Chris like a club.

Chris bared his teeth in a not-smile. "I know the plan. I'm not gonna do anything stupid, man."

For a moment, Brian stared at Chris, who returned it steadily, without blinking. Joey could feel the tension rising, clawing at the back of his neck; he'd not realized how fortunate they'd been to have Brian's cooperation until he'd pulled back from them after Chris' demonstration of his gifts. Brit had said that Brian wouldn't like it, and she'd been spot on about that. Another handful of heartbeats passed as they continued to stare down one another, then Brian settled back. Joey's hands itched to smack both their heads together.

"Thank God that little pissing contest is over. I thought y'all were gonna whip out the tape measure for a second or two there," Brit said with a snort. She opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. "Brian, get over yourself before I kick your ass. We're all the good guys here."

She closed the door quietly, though Joey had the feeling she wanted to slam it. He watched as she straightened her clothes, checking for her gun so quickly he would've missed the motion unless he'd been looking for it. She waved at him, then strode down the street, her hips swaying. From the speakers of Brian's equipment, they could hear her muttering about the stupidity of men, and how she was so very glad she didn't have a dick to mess up her thinking.

Chris snorted in amusement, and the tension eased down a little. Brian fiddled with knobs, and cleared his throat. "I'm sorry," he said, as Joey watched Brit walk up the steps of the house. "I shouldn't have judged you like that. Bass says you're okay, and that should be enough. But y'all should've said something, instead of just springing it on me."

"Probably should've," Chris agreed. "But I'm not always met with an open mind, so I'm a little closed-mouthed with it."

"I didn't go far to disprove your theory, did I?"

"She's at the door," Joey said. They could talk about it later, could iron out their differences then; right now, all he cared about was whether Brit could get in, could see Briahna. Chris' concentration on her, the way he'd focused in on her, had connected with her, worried him. He could almost feel Chris' concern; he knew that Chris wasn't telling them everything. He wanted Brit inside *now,* so she could see Briahna, reassure them that his baby was all right.

"Showtime," Brit said over the wire, and they heard the sound of a knock. She knocked four more times before they heard the door creak open, and a man ask in a surly voice, "Yeah, what?"

"Hey," Brit said, and her voice slid into a low, sexy register that would've made Joey instantly hard, if he swung that way. "I'm so, so sorry to bother y'all, but I'm kinda having a little bit of trouble. Some car trouble, and I was hoping you might have a phone I could use to call for help."

Joey couldn't see the man; he could barely see Brit, but blinked as she shifted, a sinuous move that undoubtedly highlighted the curve of her breasts and hips.

There was moment of silence. "You ain't got one of those cell phones, like everyone else?"

Brit laughed, throaty and deep. "Oh, goodness, no. I wouldn't know how one of those things worked. Way too complicated for me." Joey watched as she tossed her head, sending her blonde hair fluttering. "I've always depended on the kindness of strangers."

Chris snorted loudly. "And let's hope he doesn't know Tennessee Williams."

"You do, huh? What made you pick this place?"

"No particular reason," Brit replied. "If you're too busy, I can try next door?"

"Nah. C'mon in, honey. You can use the phone if ya wanna."

They disappeared behind the door, out of sight. Joey could hear the murmur of a tv, a canned laugh track.

"Oh, you're just sweet to help me. I *really* appreciate it." Joey wanted to cringe at her tone, vulnerable, fluffy, innocently sexual.

"Do you now? Well." Joey could hear the leer in Fremont's voice, could almost picture it on his face. It made his skin crawl.

"I'll just be a minute. I surely don't want to take up too much of your time. Where's your phone?"

"It's in the kitchen. But hey, missy, you don't need to be in such a hurry, do you? Would you like to sit down, have a beer? Maybe-talk-a bit?"

"Oh, you flirt, you," Britney said with a laugh, and in a second, Joey heard Fremont's laughter join hers. He had the sense of a slug crawling over the petals of a rose, and made his hands unclench from the steering wheel of the car.

"C'mon, Brit," Brian said softly, mostly to himself. "Don't play too close to him."

"Mark? Who's there?" The voice was a woman's; it sounded far enough away, perhaps from another room. "Who're you talking to?" That sounded closer, maybe in the same room now.

"None of your business." The oiliness faded from his voice, which hardened into a snarl. "Go back to getting my supper on the table."

"Well, hey now, what do we have here?" Brit said brightly. "Aren't you the prettiest little thing, ever? Look at all that curly brown hair, and oh, those big brown eyes! I'll bet you're just as sweet as sugar."

Joey gasped for air as he realized that Brit was feeding them a description of the child she saw. His child. His Briahna. Heavy bands settled around his chest and squeezed, and something big, hot, and prickly seemed to lodge in his throat. Briahna. It had to be her.

"What's your name, sugar?" Britney's voice coaxed, as slow and sweet as honey. "I'll bet it's a pretty name to match a pretty girl."

"Her name's Emily Anne," the woman said quickly, just as a small, high little girl's voice piped up, "I'm *not.* I'm Briahna. Briahna Joely-"

But they never heard the "Fatone" come out of her mouth; instead they heard a sharp slap, a quick intake of breath, and a whimper that dissolved into tears.

"Hey, now," Brit said, and her voice instantly lost the fluffy, vacuous tone, took on a dangerous edge. "That's not necessary-"

And that was the last thing Joey heard. Through a scarlet haze of fury, he saw himself moving, almost as if he were in a dream of himself. He wasn't really aware of throwing himself out of the car, of slipping and falling in the street, of tearing across yards, of Chris, and then Brian, yelling at him, of tearing up the rickety porch, his feet pounding in time to the racing of his heart.

The door gave way as he threw himself against it. He barely heard Brit and Fremont yelling at one another, barely heard the shriek of Fremont's wife. All his attention was on the little girl in the middle of the room, hugging herself and crying.

Briahna.

His baby.

Time stopped.

She was scarcely taller than when they took her, and so thin she looked almost invisible. His Briahna had been big for her age, pink-cheeked, well-fed, and this little girl was ghostly pale, no color at all, a wisp of a child. Briahna always had a smile on her face, had always laughed, and this little girl looked as if she never had, never would.

And then she looked up, looked at him. The heart-shaped face, the little button nose-those things she'd gotten from Kelly. But the dark curly hair, the dark eyes, the curve of her mouth-those things were his, the features he'd given her that marked her as his daughter.

She was his. She was Briahna.

He saw the recognition bloom on her face, saw her mouth fall open in shock. Then time stuttered, started up again with a sickening jerk, as if something were trying to pull his spine through his navel. He managed to say her name, but wasn't sure she heard him through the chaos around them. Brit yelled, "Police! Get down now!" and out of the corner of his eye he saw that she had her weapon out, and stood between him and Fremont, braced for action.

Carrie shrieked, and before he could move, grabbed Briahna by the arm, jerked her almost off her feet, and ran toward the back of the house, probably toward the kitchen. He heard Briahna yelling, "No no no no," and his paralysis broke.

Joey reached the kitchen as Carrie jerked open the back door, and his heart plummeted to his knees. No. No, she wouldn't run away into the dark, she wouldn't get away again, not when he was so close.

Chris surged through the back door, flushed, eyes dark and serious, and Carrie shrieked again. She clutched a struggling Briahna to her, yelling, "No, no, you're not taking my baby! I'm not losing her again!"

"Let her go," Chris said, his voice soft, calm. He eased closer, angling for a better position, and the woman backed up more, trapped against the sink. "She was never yours."

Briahna's eyes were huge, terrified as the woman clutched at her. She wriggled and twisted, and cried out, "Daddy! Daddy!" before she sank her teeth into the woman's arm. Carrie howled in surprise and her grip eased enough that Briahna tore loose. She grabbed for Briahna again, but once Briahna was free, Chris pounced.

Joey went to his knees, and Briahna flew into his arms, sobbing, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing herself as close to him as possible. She was so small, so thin; he could feel her shaking against him. He wrapped her in his arms, and his voice broke as he whispered, "Daddy's got you now, and I'll never, never let you go. Not ever, not ever."

He had thought his heart had broken when she'd been taken, but it had only been frozen by grief and rage. Now, it felt as if it shattered into a million little pieces, and he held her and cried with her, for her, for all their suffering and for everything they'd lost, all the precious time together they'd missed. He let go some of the pain and anger, let gratitude and joy and hope fill some of the spaces left behind, and he knew that he could pick up all the scattered pieces of his heart and put them back together again, because he had her. He finally had her.

Briahna was safe again, with him, and nothing, nothing would ever separate them again.

When their sobs had died down, when all he could do was to clutch her closely and breathe in her scent, rocking them both gently, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up, blinking back tears, and Chris swam into his vision, blurry.

"It's over," Chris said softly, and Joey blinked again and looked around; when had uniformed police officers arrived? He'd not even been aware of them entering, hadn't even registered them dragging away Fremont and his wife. "It's done, Joe. Let's take her to the hospital and have her checked out, okay?" Chris' voice was very gentle.

Joey shifted Briahna to his hip and struggled to his feet. His head swam a moment, and Chris reached out to steady him. Briahna looped an arm around his neck, tucked her face into his neck, still snuffling. She patted his face with her other hand, almost as if she couldn't believe he was really there. He knew how she felt. It almost didn't seem real.

"C'mon," Chris coaxed. "You're both in shock, and need to see someone, okay? Just for a little while, and then we'll go home, I promise. You know you can believe me, right, Joe? I never break my promises."

Joey looked down at Chris. He looked as washed out, as exhausted as he himself felt, and he had a long scratch on one cheek, and down his neck, probably from restraining the hysterical woman until the police could take over.

"I. I can never say how grateful I am," Joey said. "There aren't any words big enough, Chris." He looped his free arm around Chris, drew him close. His emotions broke through him like a wave, and he pressed his cheek to Chris' for a moment. "Thank you for giving me back my daughter. Giving me back my life."

Chris stood stiffly against him in his embrace, but melted into him, returning his hug fiercely. He heard Chris' breath break against his ear, a soft sound almost like a sob, and when Chris stepped back, his eyes were shining, his eyelashes spiky with moisture, but no tears slipped down his cheek. He smiled up at Joey. "That's all I ever wanted, Joe," he said softly. "C'mon, now. The ambulance is here to take you both in."

Joey let himself and Briahna be handed over to the EMT people, but as they left the kitchen, he looked back once more, and saw Chris standing there talking to a policeman. He had one last glimpse of dark eyes, and then they plunged into the crowd of people and into the hands of people ready to help them.

The hospital hallways were dim and quiet in the pre-dawn night. It was a nice children's wing, as far as Chris could tell; the walls had been decorated with an aquarium theme, calm and cheerful at the same time. He walked silently, backpack and duffle slung over his shoulders, unwilling to disturb the quiet. Chris had learned a long time ago to walk quietly; his boot heels on the tiled floor were as quiet as the staff who passed by in bright scrubs and soft rubber soles.

Briahna's room was down at the far end of the hallway, next to a visitors' lounge with a closed door. She had a large, smiling dolphin painted on her door, and Chris felt the corner of his mouth twitch up in response to the cheerfulness. He raised a hand and put it on the door. Within, he could feel the whisper of them in his mind, a constant, low-level awareness. It was both blessing and curse; they were firmly within him, like his own family, and he'd probably always have some sense of them going about their daily lives, which would've been fucking great if they really were his family.

But they weren't, and wouldn't be. So, blessing that he would always know if they were all right. Curse that he would always be aware of them because it made it so much harder to give them up, to let them move on with their lives, to move on with his. But he would, and they would; his job was finished.

Chris pushed open the door and slipped inside. He set his things down just inside the room, out of the way. Within, a floor lamp in the corner shed a pool of comforting golden light, and he could see them easily. Briahna lay beneath a bright yellow blanket, small and slight, an IV threaded into her arm. Her curls were dark against the yellow pillowcase, and she'd obviously had a bath; her hair shone cleanly. Her soft pink mouth, shaped so much like Joey's, parted on a sigh as he stood there watching them sleep. She had a slight bruise on her right cheek, where the woman had slapped her; it wasn't the only one, either. In all his years of searching for lost children, he'd never been able to understand how people could do what they did to children. He thought fleetingly of his own sisters, and he determined that when he got back home to call all of them and see how they were doing.

Joey had pulled up a chair next to her bed and half sat in it, half draped himself onto the bed, his head pillowed on one arm, his other hand resting on Briahna's hand. It looked uncomfortable, and Joey would probably be stiff and sore when he woke up, but his face looked peaceful. Chris took a step closer, and held out his hand, almost but not quite touching the long smooth line of Joey's nape; he could almost feel the warmth radiating from him, feel the energy of him beneath the surface of his sleeping mind.

He pulled back, curling his fingers into a fist, and took another step back. No sense in being stupid, no sense in torturing himself. His job was finished now; he had no further claim on them. He'd done what he'd set out to do, and now they had their lives to piece back together. It wouldn't be easy for them; a lot of time had passed, they'd missed so much, and had both changed so much. It would take a lot of work, a lot of therapy, to get them back to the place where they were before she'd been taken, if indeed they could get back. But they were Fatones-they had stubbornness and determination in spades, the both of them, and he knew, even without the Sight, that they'd eventually get there.

Chris pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes. They felt full of grit. Weariness washed over him, and his arms and legs felt so heavy. He'd spent most of his night at the police station with Brian at his side, filling out reports, talking to people until his throat felt raw. Brit had come back to the hospital to do the necessary talking to Joey, to the hospital. Later, he'd talk to the FBI, hopefully after he'd gotten some sleep.

He'd called Lance after it had all gone down; the nosy, controlling bastard always had to know how things were progressing. Lance had sounded thoughtful, and asked if he needed a ride back, as he'd gone in Joey's car; he knew the Fatone family was on the way, that they needed their time with Joey and Briahna, and that they'd probably spend a couple of days in Hattiesburg getting reacquainted before heading back to Orlando. Chris wasn't a part of it anymore, so he could leave at any time. Chris had told him he'd take a bus back, Lance had called him a stupid fuckhead, and so Lance was on his way to pick him up. Lance frequently annoyed him, but he was a good friend, was always there for him. He could sleep on the way back, and start putting Joey and Briahna behind him.

It sure as fuck wouldn't be easy. Without trying, without even knowing, Joey had worked his way into Chris' heart, and wouldn't easily be dislodged. Chris reached up and rubbed absently at his chest.

Don't even go there, he thought. He has his own life to put back in order. He doesn't need you there. Get real, Kirkpatrick.

And he must be even more tired than he thought. Chris rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. Glancing around, he saw another chair. He picked it up, brought it to the foot of Briahna's bed, and settled into it with a sigh. Just a little nap, enough to take the edge off his tiredness. He propped his head on his hand, looked at them both again, and then allowed himself to drift off.

It seemed he'd just closed his eyes when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and a soft, "Chris. Chris. Wake up."

Chris shifted and blinked into wakefulness. Joey's face swam before him, his mouth curved into a smile. He still looked tired, with circles beneath his dark eyes, but he looked happy. He looked younger, more like the man Chris had seen in so many pictures and videos, and Chris' heart did a slow roll in his chest before he got a grip on himself.

"'M awake," Chris said. "What's up?"

"Company," Joey replied. "My parents and probably five hundred other friends and relatives are outside. The nurses shuttled them all into the visitors lounge, but we can't hold them off any longer. I didn't want them to just bust in here and wake up the both of you."

Chris glanced over to Briahna, who moved beneath the covers, waking up. She had a teddy bear clutched to her chest, and looked as sweet as honey. "Thanks," Chris said softly. He stretched, and then stood, his back protesting from sleeping in a slumped position. But it wasn't anything he hadn't felt before, and ignored it.

"No," Joey said softly. He'd stepped away while Chris had stood, but moved closer again. His big hand settled on Chris' arm, moved up to his shoulder, and squeezed gently. "Thank you. I can't ever thank you enough, Chris. I. I owe you my life. Her life. Everything. If you hadn't come to me." Joey trailed off, blinking hard, his voice liquid. "If you hadn't come to me, *made* me listen, worked like a dog when I didn't believe you, when I treated you like shit-we'd both be dead, in heart and soul if not literally. There's no way I can ever repay you for what you've done."

Chris opened his mouth to say something, but Joey pulled him into an enveloping hug, wrapping his long arms around Chris. And oh, it felt so good. Chris let himself relax into it, melt into his embrace. Joey was so warm, and he could hear the steady thump of Joey's heart, hear the whoosh of air in his chest. Joey smelled musky and sweaty, but beneath that, he smelled...safe. Familiar. Comfortable, in a way that even Howie had never felt. Chris wrapped his arms around Joey's waist and pressed himself as closely as he could, running his hands over Joey's broad back, storing as much into his memory of Joey as he could.

He tipped his head back, and Joey's mouth settled over his, hot and wet and so achingly good that Chris couldn't help the sound of longing from rising into the back of his throat. He wanted, wanted. He wanted Joey more than anything else he'd ever wanted before for himself. This was the last time he'd ever kiss Joey, and so he poured everything into it, giving Joey all his feelings of tenderness and fierceness, passion and friendship. Joey's arms tightened around him, squeezing until his ribs creaked, but Chris couldn't care; desire tore through him like a sun flare, and he offered everything within him, rocking up onto his toes, wrapping his arms around Joey's shoulders, one hand smoothing over the nape of his neck, the other stroking over his bearded cheek.

When they swayed together, finally breaking apart when the need for air became too great to ignore, Joey looked down at him, stunned. And in that moment, Chris realized that Joey knew how he felt. Joey knew Chris loved him. Joey blinked, and licked his wet lips. "Chris? Chris I-"

"Doesn't matter," Chris said softly. He angled up and pressed a kiss to Joey's throat, and felt his adam's apple bob beneath his lips as Joey swallowed. "It's okay. Doesn't matter," he whispered.

But oh, it did.

He caught Joey's mouth for one last, swift kiss, and when he pulled back, Joey looked stunned, looked absolutely poleaxed. "Chris, I.. Chris, I feel. Oh, God, I-"

Chris pressed his face against Joey's throat, his hand over Joey's mouth to stop the words. He could feel them, feel what Joey felt in return, and that was enough.

"Remember? Remember what I said, at the very beginning?" Something hot and prickly rose in his throat, making it tight, making it hard to say the words he had to say. "I said that you and me, we don't matter a bit? That it was Briahna who mattered? That's still true. No matter what else has happened, she's still the most important thing. I believe that. I really believe that."

Joey wrapped his fingers around Chris' wrist and tugged gently until he'd freed his mouth. He pressed a kiss to Chris' palm. "I didn't expect this," he said softly. "I didn't, I swear."

"I didn't either," Chris murmured. "I didn't see it coming. But that doesn't change anything. It can't. She's gonna need you, a lot more than I will. And that's what matters, more than anything." He ran his fingers into the back of Joey's shaggy hair and tugged gently before letting go, before stepping out of Joey's brawny arms. Out of his embrace. Away from him.

It was one of the hardest things he'd ever done.

"It's the right thing, and you know it," Chris said. He curled his hands into fists to hold in the memory of Joey's warmth, of his skin, his hair.

Joey blinked, his eyes huge and dark. He licked his lips, and Chris tried not to watch avidly. "It's the right thing," he agreed. "But I can't have two right things?"

"It doesn't always work out that way. I-"

"Daddy?" Briahna's little voice made them both look away, toward her. She sat up in the bed, rumpled and sleepy-looking, her curls springing crazily over her head, clutching the teddy bear the nurses had given her. When Joey looked at her, she burst into tears.

Joey slanted a look back at Chris, then went and picked her up, mindful of the IV line, and she curled into him, clutching at his shirt. "I thought I dreamed you, Daddy," she sobbed. "I thought you were a dream."

Chris blinked and swallowed hard; her emotions washed over him like a flood.

"Oh, baby, no," Joey murmured, stroking her back gently. "I'm real. We're both real, and everything's gonna be all right, I promise. Gonna be all right, gonna be good. Gonna be a family again, just like before, I promise. Never gonna be apart again."

Chris walked silently over to the door and picked up his duffle, slung his backpack over his shoulder. The door cracked open, and an older woman with wavy brown hair peeked in. Chris recognized her