Through the frame of an airplane window, Seattle looked a lot like home, which made little sense to Zeke. It could have been a video game, that constellation of white and red and green lights — pretty against the black canvas but there was nothing about it that should have said home. Home was an apartment above a store, a comfy couch and a monster TV, a particular bed with a particular person in it. Home was not an entire city even if it was dressed up for the holidays. Seattle should have been just another place but instead it was holding itself out like some cozy, wooly sweater with a happy-face knitted on it. Zeke didn't get it.

Fuck if that was the least of the many things that he didn't get. At least he could admit that, so it must be a sign that he was maturing. What really bugged him about it, though, was the possibility that he was becoming sentimental in his old age, an appalling thought because the last thing he needed was to feel any more than he already did. His gut and head and groin were full as it was; all the way from Los Angeles they'd been tingling, churning and burbling.

Ever since Casey's call this morning, nearly twelve full hours. A person's life could change entirely in twelve hours...or it could end. There was no way to guess what Zeke would find when he got home, but in the interim he'd certainly made full use of his imagination. He'd seen Casey hurt, Casey crying, Casey struggling for air and calling his name...even Casey dead. He couldn't flinch from that possibility.

Yeah, he was such a fucking hero. So valiant of him to have run away from Casey at the Cincinnati airport, and even more valiant that this afternoon he hadn't even tried to call home again before the plane left. So brave. Very shortly he would be on the ground, though, and he would have no viable excuse, he would have to call home and give them some warning that he was on his way, supposing that anyone answered. Supposing that anyone was there to answer.

For now, by keeping his face plastered to the window, Zeke managed to fascinate himself with the scatter of light, attempting to shape from the minutae some notion of roofs, roads, even vehicles. It became a tiny toy universe under his perusal, gradually growing bigger and brighter, growing out of his compass until at last the plane touched down with a bump and a squeal of rubber. Simultaneously, his skin began to hum, his muscles to quiver. His blackened lungs reminded him that it had been several hours since his last cigarette.

It was all wasted energy at first, though, because he had been sealed in with several hundred of the slowest passengers in America, every one of them not-so-busily procuring some monstrosity of a carry-on bag. Waiting for them to sort themselves out and resolve into a moving line comprised ten of the longest minutes of his life.

At last he was able to walk off the plane at his own pace and he went directly past the smiling, joyous reunions in the Arrivals area and past the baggage claim to the first set of sliding doors he could find. Taxis, a sign said. He stepped out into the surprising misty chill of Seattle — nowhere near as brutal as Ohio had been, but a far cry from the warmth he'd woken to this morning. His jaw was clenching involuntarily as he tipped out a cigarette and lit it under the knowing stare of a nearby cabbie who was leaning up against his cab. The first drag was nothing less than a religious experience, and the second settled him enough to face reality.

A phone call was required. He couldn't just show up, and if something bad had happened, he needed to give himself some advance warning.

Propping the cigarette under his upper lip, Zeke dug out his phone and turned it on. He punched in the numbers, grabbed the cigarette back and wondered if he had time for another drag — just as Casey's voice sounded in Zeke's ear.

"Hello?"

Zeke's mouth went dry. His knees actually got weak, and he looked for a place to sit. There was nothing nearby except cement and large panes of window, so he moved in closer to the nearest wall, turning his face towards the familiar inside world of the airport, and a delusion of privacy. Snatching the cigarette away from his mouth, he said as clearly as he could, "Casey, it's — "

"Zeke?" There was an audible tremble, anxiety rising towards the end of the saying of his name and cresting in the next word. "Wh-where are you?"

"You're okay?"

Casey went quiet for a long time. "Yeah," he said at length.

And the sick truth sprung to life and took virulent possession of Zeke's mind: Yet again, he had done the stupid thing. Stupid, stupid Zeke Tyler, poor sap who had run off in a hysteria because his boyfriend called without leaving a message, and because it just happened to give him an opening to rant against his father. Just unbelievably stupid.

While he was having this epiphany of the obvious, Casey seemed to be getting increasingly frantic. "Zeke — Zeke — ?"

"Yeah, I'm here. Why didn't you answer?"

"Huh?"

"Every time I phoned there was no answer."

It sounded like Casey was wheezing a bit. "It was...I... It was t-timing...I guess."

"Yeah...really bad timing." Zeke's attempt at laughter died in a squawk. He blurted, "Did you get my message?"

"The...this aftern...today?"

"Un-huh. That one."

"Yeah."

"But you didn't try to call me then."

"You didn't call me.," Casey blurted unexpectedly.

Zeke really didn't know what that was supposed to mean but he shook off the entire, moronic train of dialogue with, "Anyway. I'm at the airport...in Seattle."

Casey's breathing transformed. Within five inhales it went from I'm-pretty- rattled here to I-think-I'm-dying, and it had a perversely calming effect on Zeke. Okay, he could do this now. He was the strong one, it was Casey who needed, Casey who had to pull himself together. "Case — " Zeke started.

But Casey gulped, "S-Sasha — " and then was taken away from him before he could make the slightest effort at solace. Zeke heard Sasha's voice softly in the background: Calm down...calm down, kitten...there you are, that's better... Zeke could only wait, and draw hard on his cigarette.

"Zeke, darling."

At last, someone was talking to him. Swallowing the slightly bitter flavour of nicotine and tar, Zeke asked, "Is he okay?"

"Yes," Sasha replied. "He just needs to catch his breath... Zeke, where are you calling from? The airport?"

"Yeah."

"So you got a flight. We weren't sure."

"Yep."

"Do you want us to come and get you?"

Even as Sasha spoke, Zeke's eye snagged on a joyful scene on the other side of the glass window. It looked like mother, father and children, everyone smiling and hugging in a disgraceful display of pure emotion. It should have been frigging embarrassing for them, and he could only assume that his own airport reunion would be much, much worse — Casey and Sasha dribbling tears, each for his own assorted reasons, and generally making a spectacle of themselves.

"No," Zeke said. "I'll take a cab, it'll be faster."

"You should have called before to let us know when you were landing."

"Except I didn't." It came out like a slap. Zeke closed his eyes, gripping the phone hard. "Anyway, I didn't have time and... I'll be home shortly."

"Okay. See you soon. Oh, and Zeke?"

"Yeah?"

"We've missed you here."

Zeke didn't know what to say to that, under the circumstances. "Yeah," he answered. "Okay, bye."

He took his time finishing his smoke, and then, moving back inside to claim his luggage, he neither hurried nor dawdled. It just so happened that there was much to mull over and little time before he had to confront the living Casey in the flesh. He took up a position near the conveyor belt along with a cluster of other passengers, tuning them out.

Experience told him that the moment he saw Casey, all of his mental processes would be compromised; the sound of that voice on the phone had just been a reminder. That voice was wired directly to his bodily functions now and he couldn't deny it as much as he hated it. Yeah, he hated it. After all, this body was supposed to be his. It should be his inner life that dictated what went on in this body, his thoughts, his petty worries and complications. He had been completely infected by Casey and the worst of it was, he had let it happen.

A beeping alerted him that his bags were on the conveyor belt already. Time was running short and he still hadn't gotten any real thinking accomplished. As he hefted the despised hockey bag for almost the last time, he decreed silently that from now on he would do better. Maybe he couldn't purge the disease, but he still had to figure it all out even if it meant he repressed himself into an inanimate state. He was — how did the song go? A rock. An island. A desert island on a planet in a distant galaxy, an ice floe... fuck. He was freakin' out of his mind.

Heading back outside, he found the first available cab. He gave the man his address and he sat back to set some new records for synchronous use of brain capacity. Lights and billboards, buildings and cars and trucks and road signs...they all flashed past. He saw them, but didn't really see anything.

Okay, for a start, Casey was alive. Casey was living at home, apparently intact and more or less able to converse despite his previous insistence that separation from Zeke would equal doom. So Zeke was now in a position to point out that he had been right once again. Score one for him. People didn't die of broken hearts — they just didn't.

On the other hand, people could get fairly irrational over the interference with what was, after all, habit. Confronted with the absence of Casey, it had taken no less than three days for Zeke to flip out and short change himself in his personal negotiations with the rest of the world...with his father, no less. Such a romantic, important statement he'd made this morning — and he still couldn't feel regret for it, even if his father had been right. He was obsessed with Casey and there had been no need for him to leave early. Except that having learned what he now knew to be his father's true opinion about Casey and himself, he was glad not to be under the man's roof.

Still — if his father made an effort, they might be able to salvage something of their relationship. Zeke would not be the one stepping forward, not in the immediate future. He was way too annoyed with his father for his little fib about Casey having called, for being that much of a — scaredy-boy, as Chloe had put it.

Oh, yeah, Chloe must have him and his father pegged. Scaredy-boys... fuck, he wished he could talk to her. There was something so right about everything she said, so eminently sane.

Well, for now he would just do his best not to be scared, and deal with the fact that he was pretty much back to where he had started on the parent front, except that his mother now had his phone number. And it was important to make himself remember that this was not Casey's fault. Of all the things he might be angry at Casey about, it was not the tragic vicissitudes of the Tyler line. Jacob was afraid of his murderous son, and the son kind of couldn't blame him. The son had shot a teacher in the head. That wasn't Casey's fault either — although if Zeke let himself think about it, it wasn't very fair that Casey had been too weak to pull that trigger, and it wasn't exactly fair that Casey got to kill something that looked like a big, scary monster while Zeke had killed something like a beautiful woman. No, it had been a beautiful woman, even if she was a first class bitch. Not that bitchiness had made her less attractive. He was fond of bitches, witness the Delilah episode...anyway, it wasn't Casey's fault, not really. That was the essential thing to bear in mind.

A quick stare out the window confirmed that he had only minutes left. He was nearly in his own neighbourhood.

It couldn't be like it had been — this was clear. Casey was a mess and they had to keep their distance from each other for the duration. Zeke had to manage that, for Casey and for himself. For Casey, because obviously Casey was incapable of having sex without turning it into something perverse, and for himself because...well, it just hurt a bit to know someone was turning you into their scourge. He was sentimental enough to admit this much: He wanted something good. He would even go so far as to say that he wouldn't mind a happy ending this one time.

He had learned things. He wasn't some emotional moron. He understood what forgiveness meant now. Yeah, thousands of miles, thousands of dollars in airplane tickets and a really heinous encounter with a heinous man later — he got it. Forgiveness was not understanding. It just meant deciding that, despite all the reasons not to, you forgave.

He forgave Casey for the mistake that was Thomas. The fact that he wanted to bellow and snarl and smash things whenever he thought about Casey and Thomas together didn't really count for anything, because he forgave. Maybe he wanted to fuck that memory out of Casey, make sure that Casey forgot how to even look at someone else as a sex object — but he was accepting that it had happened. He forgave.

Okay, since that was sorted, he still had the rather massive problem of how to sort out Casey — which, he supposed, he was supposed to leave to Casey.

Except Yves got to help, so why shouldn't Zeke be able to help too? He was the person who spent more time with Casey than anyone. He was entitled to help. Sure, he'd destroyed the record of Roy's villainy. He had given up trying to will himself to understanding and that meant he would force nothing from Casey but it didn't mean he was going to trust the shrinks and the Sashas with this. They would bully, coddle and cajole Casey into absolute dependence on them, and that was not to be tolerated. Casey would depend on Zeke. If he was fixed by anyone, it would be Zeke. Problem was, this would require stuff like patience and careful listening. Zeke just didn't know if he had it in him at this point.

One thing he did know: Casey must never discover that he'd met Roy, and that they'd talked, at length, about the things that Casey had guarded so desperately for so long. And Sasha couldn't know either. It was tempting to share, to commiserate together because if anyone would understand the insanity of dealing with Roy, it was Sasha — but too fucking bad. The last time Zeke told Sasha a secret, Sasha had blabbed to Casey. The man just didn't know how to control his mouth. Unless, of course, he was keeping a secret for Casey. From Casey was impossible... for Casey was a whole other situation, but Zeke would accept that. He would accept that when it came right down to it, Casey was Sasha's mission.

Such were the facts.

"Here we are."

Zeke blinked. "Huh?"

The cabbie pointed at the all-too-familiar front door of Wellth. "Home, man."

"Oh." With hands suddenly gone a little stiff, Zeke fumbled for his wallet. He dug out a couple of twenties and handed them over. "Keep the change."

"Thanks, man. Hey, Happy New Year."

"Huh? Oh, yeah...same to you."

His legs felt leaden as he went around to the back to collect his things, assisted by the cabbie. Moments later he was standing alone on the curb with the two pieces of luggage and a great weight of inertia, peering up at his own living room window. His sickly brain whispered to him that he really could use another smoke before he went in there.

"Zeke!" With a friendly wave and broad grin, Jerry was emerging from the side alley. "Welcome back." A strong, male handshake confirmed his sincerity. "I'll carry one of those."

"Oh...I was thinking of leaving them here on the curb, actually."

Jerry chuckled. "And just buy all new stuff?"

"Yeah." Zeke picked up his suitcase, deliberately leaving the hockey bag for Jerry, and began the last leg of his trip.

"We saw you pull up," Jerry said, allowing him to lead the way along the side of the building towards the stairs up to his door. As usual, everything was soaked; mud sullenly gave way under Zeke's feet. Unexpectedly, Jerry added, "Sasha's trying to peel Casey off the ceiling. I'm the decoy."

Zeke stopped and twisted around to look at Jerry, who still grinned. If Jerry was making jokes, it couldn't be that bad. "Oh," Zeke faltered. "Well...I could really use a smoke right now."

"Ah," Jerry said, nodding.

Zeke dropped his burden and leaned up against the building. Still smiling, Jerry shaped a parallel alongside him and folded his arms. He hummed briefly, then stopped.

"You want one?" Zeke asked, waving the cigarette pack under Jerry's nose.

"God, no. I'd like to live past forty, thank you."

"Are you and Sasha identical twins, by any chance?"

Jerry snorted. "I wish."

Rummaging for his lighter, Zeke thought about delving into that statement and changed his mind. He settled for a sideways glance, then made fire and suckled hard. "What did you do last — " He paused, blew out a long stream as smoke. It was almost as good as the last cigarette. "Oh, you probably worked last night, right?"

"Yep."

"That sucks."

"Not really. I made five hundred in tips...and the restaurant will be closing in January for a couple of weeks. It's kind of like our holiday...you know, when everyone's poor and overfed. It's usually a pretty slow time of year."

One more deep haul, and Zeke was feeling ready for reality. Staring across the alley, he asked, "So what should I expect when I go up there?"

Jerry, too, did not look at him. They avoided each other's gaze, remaining manfully in profile, and Zeke appreciated that. He found that he appreciated Jerry, in fact. "Um...I don't know, what do you want me to tell you?"

"Is Casey okay?"

"Define okay."

All right, fine. It had been a stupid question. Zeke shrugged and shivered a bit.

"He's different," Jerry added, unsolicited.

"Define different," Zeke returned. He really needed to get up there now. He let fall and stomped on his barely smoked cigarette. "Let's go up."

Jerry nodded and lifted the hockey bag.

They were forced to take the stairs with great care, as every one of them wore a light coat of rime, just enough to make it dangerous. Zeke made a note to call Tara and get her in to throw down some salt or something...and there must be some other important tasks for him if he really thought about it, all sorts of things to keep him busy and distracted but for some reason he couldn't think of any... and all too soon he was running out of stairs.

"Fuck it," he muttered, and just went in.

It was a bit of a shock to find them directly in his path — Sasha presenting himself at the door and Casey lurking behind and just to one side, not entirely visible. Zeke could only discern his arm and a part of his hair. He didn't get a chance to try to see more because Sasha had moved in immediately for a hug. Zeke dropped his suitcase and let him have it, not at all minding the sensation of long, strong arms circling him, of a chest pressed warmly against his. "Zeke," Sasha murmured. "You're back."

Over Sasha's shoulder, Zeke could at last see Casey. He could see Casey's eyes — gaping wide, glittering, not even blinking. Devoid of proper language, they yanked and clawed and begged but never came any closer while Zeke felt the distance between them and himself shrink and widen simultaneously.

Different, his mind whispered.

Sasha pulled away from Zeke, oblivious it seemed. "It feels like you've been gone for a month," Sasha said, smiling.

"I think I have," Zeke replied, his eyes creeping towards Sasha's shoulder, and then back to his face.

"I missed you, sweetheart."

Zeke wrestled a grimace into a grin. "It hasn't even been a week."

"Well, I missed you. That all right with you?"

"Okay." Zeke shrugged.

"How was the wedding?"

"Not bad."

Sasha frowned. "You know that's not going to satisfy me," he said.

Zeke just barely heard him, preoccupied with renewing his visual contact with the pallid figure that was Casey — a flat, floating spectre of Casey that seemed to be getting further and further away, ghosting back along the wall an inch at a time. Its feet didn't even seem to move.

"Jesus Christ on a cross!" Sasha exclaimed suddenly. "This is killing me. Somebody hug someone, already."

Normally, Zeke would have cursed Sasha for drawing attention to the obvious and doing it in his usual, discomfort-making fashion, but just now he was more than willing to let himself be helped. He'd been upset about Thomas but he was over it, right? He'd decided and yeah, he would get over it, touch Casey and — and — no, not fuck him, he'd promised he wouldn't. Still, his senses twitched, starved neurons readying themselves to receive all the missing input, the feel of Casey under his hands, the smell of his hair and his skin...and the taste, the fucking taste and smell of him.

Helplessly called forward, Zeke took a step — but at the prospect of being touched by him, Casey went almost as far as he could go without actually passing through the wall; he was nearly in the corner. His eyes glowed with — nothing as simple as no, it was even worse than no. It was a sort of burning horror and Zeke stilled with several feet of space between them.

Sasha's smile fell away. "Okay," he said. "Or not."

So this was how it would be, then. Casey fucked around on him and fucked him over besides, he sent out the siren vibes the minute Zeke came in the door like he wanted, demanded Zeke's attention and then when Zeke was ready to comply...well, fine. He wouldn't be touching Casey in the foreseeable future.

Belatedly, he realized that Jerry was still somewhere in behind him; he shifted and pressed forward a bit to make room and ignored Casey's violent twitch. Jerry brought Zeke's bag all the way into the hall and offered, "I'll put these in your room for you."

"Thanks," Zeke replied, watching as Jerry picked up the suitcase as well, dragging them towards the bedroom.

Casey didn't move from his place near the wall. His stare grew, swallowing all the light and the oxygen. Zeke's head started to whirl, and suddenly an image of Casey folded up under Thomas spun before his eyes. They were in his bed, his and Casey's and Casey's head was thrown back, his mouth shaping a perfect, silent "O".

"Uh...Zeke?"

Somehow, Zeke hauled in a breath and faced Sasha. "What?"

As though repeating himself, Sasha observed, "You must be tired, huh?"

"Oh. Yeah."

"Are you hungry? There's some leftover pasta."

Zeke thought about it and it sounded good. He hadn't eaten anything since the White Castle this morning, and he supposed he was still a bit hung over. Eating would give him something else to think about, if nothing else. "Yeah, I guess I am."

"Have a seat, I'll heat it up."

"You don't have to — "

"Sit!" Sasha barked.

Zeke didn't think disobedience would be well-received. He divested himself of his coat and boots and took his place at the table. Checking back, he saw that Casey was still against the wall, his eyes sutured to Zeke's face, pouring themselves into his head... All this doesn't matter, it doesn't exist. Don't listen to them, don't listen to reason...

"Kitten, do you want some tea?" Sasha called out from the kitchen.

Don't even listen to me...you know what I need. I'm yours...not his.

"Hello?" Sasha all but shouted. "Waiting for an answer to my question!"

The alien in the corner started, coming back to some semblance of humanity. "No, thank you," Casey said, like a perfectly normal person, then went back to his silent possession of Zeke's mind.

It might have been Jerry crossing in front of Zeke's visual field that saved him. Clinging to a figure that made him feel sane, Zeke tracked Jerry to the chair across from him, where he plopped down with an audible sigh. "Thanks for doing that, man."

"You've been hauling those around for how long?"

"Way too long," Zeke answered.

The microwave beeped. A moment later, Sasha whisked a plate under Zeke's nose; he caught a whiff of delicious and looked down at chicken, bacon, sun- dried tomatoes and olives, with fettucine. His stomach roared. He assaulted the food in a hurry. Sasha took a seat, leaving one chair unclaimed, and Zeke waited for Sasha to urge Casey to take it. But Sasha left Casey as he was.

"This is really good," Zeke mumbled.

"You must have had some good food...last night, right?"

"Ugh, no. It was like... they put a teaspoon of food on a place and dressed it up with some zigzag thing and some fancy bits of vegetable and that was it."

"Poor baby."

"I was starving."

"I'm sure you were. Your father should have known better."

"Huh," was all Zeke had to say.

"Speaking of fathers..." Not bothering to disguise anything, Sasha gave Casey a significant look, like he was trying to remind him to do something, but Casey said nothing, of course. With a frown, Sasha continued, "Frank's still staying with us."

That was a surprise to Zeke. "I thought..."

"He decided to stay for a few days."

"Why?"

Everyone was suddenly staring at Casey like there really was something he was supposed to say, and again he was utterly silent. It wasn't like anyone had any right to expect him to speak, act like a relatively normal person, maybe even try an apology for being a total slut...

Fuck.

Zeke concentrated on narrowing down his meal to a few scraps and told himself to see reason...no matter what the singsong madness in his head was going on about. He'd forgiven Casey, he had to remember that. And he always managed to forget how completely silent Casey could be. In high school he'd never been so silent. In high school there were always noises around him — rubber soles squeaking, other boys laughing, Casey's voice pleading and then other times, just talking. He'd had plenty to say back then, Casey did. On the other hand, Zeke wouldn't really have noticed when he was being silent either. He wouldn't have noticed all sorts of things.

"Just to...kind of be around," Sasha said.

Zeke blinked. "Huh?"

"You asked why Frank decided to stay."

"Oh...so where is he now?"

"He went to Charly's. She's having some sort of open house where they all sit around drinking beer and watching football. He'll be back later."

"Sounds fun."

"Yeah," Jerry agreed.

Sasha rolled his eyes. "Yeah. Loads of fun. So other than your father starving you, how did it go?"

"How did what go?"

"You know."

"Fine."

"Zeke...come on. I need details."

"It was a wedding."

"But where was it? Was it a big one? What did the bride wear? Was she totally tacky or — "

"Who's the woman?" Casey blurted suddenly.

All three of the other men in the room broke off what they were doing to stare at him. Under their eyes, Casey started to shudder, then to bump and rock against the wall, slowly at first but soon at very high speed. Just when it seemed that he would have to be bruising himself, he jolted into motion and was off down the hall. They all heard the slam of a door.

"Well," Zeke commented. "I'm glad to see some things don't change."

With a brief look at Jerry, Sasha reached across the table and put his hand on Zeke's. "He's had a rough bunch of days, Zeke."

"I could kinda tell," Zeke answered, and withdrew his hand. He found that he didn't really want to tolerate Sasha doing his comforting routine, not when he was being Casey's emissary... as always.

Glancing down at the space where their hands had been briefly in contact, and with a twist of hurt, Sasha said, "He missed you."

"Could've fooled me."

"Zeke," Sasha snapped. "Don't be an idiot."

"What woman was he talking about?"

"He said he called you one night and some woman answered the phone. I guess he didn't recognize her voice."

"It had to be Chloe, then. Melissa's daughter?"

"I figured it was probably something like that."

They were both being very calm and rational right now, but there was a lot more that Zeke wanted to say. Such as how dare Casey act the paranoid drama queen about a woman's voice on the phone when he, of the two of them, was the one who was actually not trustworthy. Such as Zeke was sick and fucking tired of this.

"Zeke," Sasha said. "Go and talk to him."

"I was planning to."

"And be nice," Sasha added, with an apologetic wince.

Sighing, Zeke picked up his dirty plate and brought it into the kitchen. He took his time rinsing it off, then headed off down the hall, finding his traditional position outside the door.

"Casey?" he called, barely suppressing the dozen plus emotions clamouring for recognition. Anger and frustration were the front-runners, chased by pure adrenalin. "Casey?"

Somewhat to his surprise, the answer came immediately. "Yeah."

"What are you doing?"

"I'm hav-having a slight — panic attack."

"Just a slight one?"

"Yeah."

"Well...do you have to stay in the bathroom?"

"I don't want you to s-see it."

"Why not?"

"Be-because...because you're tired of it."

Zeke rested his forehead on the door. "I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"Casey, how many times...don't tell me how I feel."

"Sorry."

"Will you just come out? I promise I'm not really angry." Zeke stepped back, and unexpectedly made note of the fact that the right side of the door jamb was mismatched with the rest of the frame, comprised of a different colour than it had been the last time he saw it. It was naked, unstained wood. He ran a finger down it; the fresh moulding was uncannily smooth under his hand, far too smooth. He frowned to himself and filed that information away for some other conversation. "Come on, Casey. I don't want to talk through — "

Just as suddenly as it had slammed, the door opened and Casey was peering uncertainly at him, chest heaving a bit. "I didn't want to do that," Casey said.

"Which part?" Zeke asked before he could think to censor it.

Casey blinked, sneaking an extra inhale, and gulped, "About the...the...woman."

Zeke couldn't think of what to say because, entirely without warning, his insides were getting warm and swollen like everything was suddenly okay — which it was not, dammit, and he was not going to smile either, he would not let himself feel tender and mushy inside just because Casey still had the ability to charm him. "Don't breathe so much," he told Casey brusquely. "You'll hyperventilate — just take it easy."

Closing his eyes, Casey did as he was told. "I didn't want to think that," he mumbled. "I tried."

"I get that, Case." Zeke almost put a hand on Casey's shoulder, and instantly reconsidered. "Look, the woman you talked to was Chloe, Melissa's daughter. Okay?"

Casey was quiet for a second, visibly fighting with the need to ask all kinds of questions. "Okay," he said at last, and opening his eyes, looked up at Zeke as though he trusted him.

The look knifed through Zeke and he found himself stammering, "So I — I guess I've kinda...acquired a sister. It's pretty weird..." When Casey didn't react other than to continue to bombard Zeke with that expression of utter, distracting trust, Zeke cleared his throat loudly and coughed up the only thing he could think of to distract him. "You — you okay now?"

Blinking slowly, Casey answered, "Yeah, just...just give me a sec...be right there."

With a nod, Zeke wrenched himself away and went back to the dining room.

Something had taken place here in his absence. Sasha was sitting in his chair, looking like he had been poured out of molten steel, while Jerry was rigidly staring at the wall, two spots of red high on his cheeks.

"Um," Zeke said. "Do you think we could..."

He had been about to say watch some tube but even in his head it sounded absurd. While he hunted for something else, Casey had slipped up behind and around to stand beside him, and his nose caught a hint of something — oranges. He jerked a look at the top of Casey's head, then forced himself to look away.

Casey crept in Sasha's direction and froze when Sasha abruptly moved his head and looked at him. "Hi, kitten," he said. "You're out, huh?"

"Yeah," Casey replied, sounding uncertain. He almost but didn't quite look at Jerry. "Sorry."

"It's okay." Sasha unexpectedly pinned a glare on his boyfriend. "These things take time," he said, all too meaningfully.

With a shift of his feet, Casey communicated his distress. He was going to be back in the bathroom soon enough, Zeke thought to himself. And he might just join Casey there at this rate.

"Jerry's going home," Sasha said. "Isn't that right, baby?" He didn't make a question of it.

"Yes," Jerry agreed. "And I think — "

"But you could stay here," Casey broke in. He shifted his feet again, almost dancing. "Jerry...you could sleep over. I'll...I'll sleep on the couch."

That broke the tableau on both sides. Jerry stopped staring at the wall, shaking his head at Casey with an expression that was nothing but fond, while Sasha's stiff posture melted. He stroked Casey's arm and said, "Your father would need somewhere to sleep, kitten. Somehow I don't think he'll be bunking in with Zeke, but that's not the issue anyway."

It was on the tip of Zeke's tongue to protest: It's not like Casey and I couldn't share a bed, for fuck sake. Not that he was going to say it, not now.

"What's the issue?" Casey asked in a tiny voice.

"Nothing for you to worry about. Now, I'm just going to walk Jerry to his car. I'm going to take my time about it, all right?"

Zeke looked up with a blink, then over at Casey. His face was the very paradigm of bewildered anxiety, and Zeke could definitely empathize. "But — " he began, the food in his stomach beginning to curdle.

"You two need to talk," Sasha said, as though he needed to make his intentions any clearer.

"That's not a good idea," Zeke said. Honestly had to be a virtue right now. It had to be, because it was all he could offer.

"I'm talking about twenty minutes here," Sasha said, his eyes going hard again, and in Jerry's direction. Jerry only sighed and moved stiffly from his chair.

"But...Sasha..." Casey whispered, eyes darting.

Sasha immediately drew Casey into the circle of two long arms and spoke to him in low tones. Zeke made out a gentle "you'll be fine," before he too slid out of his chair. He gave Zeke a steady look. It was both reminder and warning.

There had been a time when he would have trusted Zeke enough to leave for the entire night — and Zeke would find a time at some later junction to remind him that he was going to have to do just that. Twenty minutes of trust was all that Zeke would be allowed now, and he would have told Sasha not even to give him that much. He didn't want to be alone with Casey. He just — didn't.

But Sasha's determination — both to get out the door and to do it without looking at Casey — was obvious. He didn't touch or speak to Casey, getting booted and coated and out the door, leaving Casey standing halfway between his wall and the door. His arms were wrapped around himself and he was rocking slightly, his eyes enormous and disbelieving.

It was Jerry who offered up the tidbit of consolation. Just before following his boyfriend he put his hand on Casey's shoulder, a slight frown on his face. "Um...he'll be back," he said. "Don't worry."

"Jerry," Casey gulped.

"What?"

"Will you — ? I mean...will you be...um...will you be back?"

Jerry smiled. "If I have anything to say about it." He performed a shrug with a half-smile, half-wince before he too was out the door. It shut with a tone of finality that was, no doubt, entirely an accident.

"Okay," Zeke said. He shuffled his feet and looked at the walls, his hands. "I wasn't expecting this."

"They're going to break up," Casey croaked.

And Zeke just felt unutterably exhausted. He rolled his eyes and moved in the direction of the nearest couch. "Just because they had a fight," he muttered, not wanting to deal with this now, or deal with anything for that matter. The living room was blazing with light, cozy and cordial like it must have been just before he had gotten here. It occurred to him that home was a fucked-up concept.

"A fight about me," Casey said.

Zeke fell into Sasha's chair with a groan. "I don't think it was about you, per se." He rubbed his forehead, then opened his eyes and gave Casey a solid stare. "Not everything is about you, you know."

From the distance of several feet, Casey seemed small, barely present, and Zeke was astonished when he insisted, "It is about me. Sasha doesn't want to leave me alone."

Suddenly there was a question hanging. Zeke tilted his head back and closed his eyes again. He didn't want to ask it, didn't want to ask what was different, why everyone seemed to have changed in his absence. He didn't want to know — or at least maybe not until tomorrow, after he'd had a full night's sleep. "My head's killing me," he said.

"There's no Tylenol."

That was not mere information, no question about it. It was a challenge to Zeke, to open his eyes and ask something. He drew in some oxygen and tackled it. He was fully aware that he didn't have much choice — the usual story, and as usual, he would deal.

"Casey. Come and sit over here, will you?"

It happened without a sound, Casey drifting into the room, not sitting at first but then making himself, awkwardly lowering himself onto their couch, perching himself on the end.

"Tell me what happened," Zeke said.

Casey blinked, evidently just this side of frantic. "Don't be mad."

"Casey, I'm really tired of — "

"I called Yves."

"And why would I be mad about — okay, when did you call?"

"Um...Friday night."

"Why?"

Casey stared at the floor.

On a hunch that he was going to need something to hold onto, Zeke put his hand on the arm of his chair. He gripped it, hard. "Why, Casey?"

Casey was mumbling, barely audible. "...had...scary...what to..."

"Huh?"

Casey bit his lip and burst out, "I knew I wasn't going to do it, Zeke, I swear! I don't even know why I thought it."

It was almost not a surprise, and yet it was still a shock, somehow. Zeke didn't really have time to reflect upon it, in any case. With a mouth that felt strangely numb, he said, "You were thinking about...about..."

"About hurting myself," Casey whispered, just as the five-year-old Casey might have confessed to turning the living room wall into a crayola mural.

Because you left me, Zeke. The message was undeniable, inescapable. It haunted the few feet of space between them, then expanded to fill the room.

"I see," Zeke replied. "And did you?"

"No."

"But you almost did."

"I don't know...I don't think I would have but I was thinking...all these terrible things."

Zeke started to speak and faltered. He cleared his throat. "Like what sort of things?"

At something in his tone perhaps, Casey's eyes flew up, the fear palpable. "Zeke..."

"I'd like to know what you were thinking about, Casey."

"It's kind of...all blurry."

"Well, why don't you try to remember?"

"I don't want to."

Zeke stared hard at Casey, but Casey kept his eyes obstinately trained on his lap and didn't speak. He was so different now...so very different and Zeke's heart actually seemed to be aching. It was a pain throughout his middle. He could understand why people would think it was the heart because it was in the core of him and through him, sending pulses and prickles to every extremity. Fuck, he hated feeling this. He hated feeling.

At length, Casey whispered, "That's why...why Sasha doesn't want to l-leave. I've been talking to Yves and... um, I have to go and see her every day now. Monday to Friday. I promised."

In some part of him that was still thinking, Zeke was truly impressed by his own calm. In his best reasonable voice he asked, "What happened to the door?"

"My dad...kicked it down."

For some reason, this started a shaking in Zeke. He folded his arms, trying and failing at the same time to disguise himself. "Are you still thinking about it?"

There was quiet, and Zeke looked up in a half-panic. He saw Casey gazing back at him with eyes that burned with fatigue and stress, and that desperate pallor, and he had never seen anything so determined. "I'm thinking about it," Casey said, "but I'm not going to do it."

Zeke clenched his jaw, afraid of the sound he would make if he opened his mouth right now. He had to breathe through it, slowly sucking air through his nostrils until the stranglehold on his throat eased. When he could trust himself, he informed Casey, "I need a smoke...and you're coming with me. Get your coat."

Just beneath Casey's lashes and not quite visible, something flickered. It might very well have been the ghost of revolt, but Zeke didn't care. He needed to keep Casey in his scopes.

They both collected their coats and went up to the roof. Zeke left his hanging open, needing the chill air on his body and in his face. He wouldn't have been surprised to see steam rising off him. The project of lighting a cigarette did not proceed smoothly; he fumbled with his lighter and nearly dropped it but recovered and, finally, smoke seared all the way to the bottom of his lungs. He could see again. He could see, for example, that Casey was shivering, peering at Zeke with eyes that were absolutely feral. Speaking to him would most likely be pointless but it was, in the end, all that Zeke had.

"Do you remember," he said, "how I told you I would kick your ass if you tried to leave me?"

"No."

"Well, I did. It was at the Jam that time."

"Oh," Casey muttered.

"Is that all you have to say?"

Casey lifted his gaze and spoke directly to Zeke. "What would you like me to say?"

Zeke's hand was still a mess; he could barely get the cigarette to his mouth. He gave up, letting it drop and smoulder between his fingers. "Why don't you tell me why you didn't phone me, for a start?"

Casey drew breath to speak, then mashed his lips together. Finally, he went ahead and spoke. "Your father's wedding was important too — "

"It was nothing," Zeke snapped. "I could have missed it and no fucking loss."

"I thought it — but you said it went okay."

"It was fine. It was a blast. I just can't believe you didn't make an effort to get in touch with me."

"I tried," Casey whispered, with no hint of apology.

"I didn't get a message until this morning."

"When I tried on Friday night it said your cell was out of service." Casey was panting, all of a sudden. "Besides, it's not like you could have done anything."

"I could have come home."

"That wouldn't have helped either of us."

"Well, listen to you," Zeke said, well aware of how bitter he sounded. "So much perspective all of a sudden. Or is that Yves talking?"

"She — she did say — "

"I knew it!" Zeke whirled away from Casey because he was in search of something to hit and retained a dim knowledge that it shouldn't be him. But there was nothing else in range so he could only compact his anger into a hard knot and nurture it, pet and soothe it and hope it continued to respond to his command. "She wanted me to stay away, keep my distance, right?"

"She thought it would be best for both of us..." Casey's voice dropped to a hiss. "...didn't think you wanted to talk to me anyway."

It was no submissive whisper. It was sullen. Defiant, really. Zeke studied Casey again, saw again the eyes burning as with a fever, sunken in a pallid face, all of it pretty wretched to be sure and yet with it was a kind of certainty. And Zeke had been absent at the moment when that look was born. He had missed Casey's transformation — again.

Swiping a wet hand across a wetter forehead, Zeke noticed that his cigarette had gone out. He tossed it on the ground. "Okay," he said. "Let's just get through this story, shall we? So what happened when you called Yves?"

"Why didn't your cell phone work?" Casey pressed.

"I didn't pay my bill. Answer my question."

"Yves told me to come see her in the morning, so I did."

"She didn't want to lock you up."

"No...she got close, though, she never..." Casey swallowed. "She never believed me about the aliens."

"You don't say."

"She thought I was dangerous — and Dr. Chakri talked to her and told her I was being abused."

Zeke got as close as he'd ever been to screaming right in the middle of a conversation. It was pure, blind luck that it didn't happen — prevented by a tentative hand laid on his arm.

"It's...Zeke, it's all okay now."

Clenching his fists, Zeke said, "What do you mean, it's okay?" Suddenly deprived of words, or at least anything that might be spoken, Zeke clawed for Casey, jerking him to within an inch of himself, leaving an entire chasm between them. "You can't leave me," he hissed. It would not be permitted. Zeke Tyler would do anything it took, including reversing the flow of space and time. "I'll go see Dr. Yves," he rasped. "I'll tell her the aliens were real and I won't leave until she believes me."

Beneath Zeke, Casey's eyes went all to liquid.

"I will," Zeke vowed. "When's your next appointment?"

"Tomorrow morning...but you don't have to, Zeke."

"Never mind that, I'm going to set her straight."

"Zeke...she already believes me."

Zeke released Casey, drifting back and not caring that Casey had staggered a bit, having to catch his footing on the unreliable surface of the roof. Zeke wiped a thin sheen of mist or sweat from his face, and his heart thundered with dread of the answer even as he asked the question: "What...? But you just said..."

"She didn't believe me — but then my dad came to a session and told her and she changed her mind."

And then Casey smiled. It was a simple but perfect expression of pleasure of a sort that Zeke didn't recall ever having seen on that face before. He couldn't take his eyes off that mouth, long after the smile had passed. Casey had smiled. All of a sudden Casey had a happy thought and it was about his father, of all people. Somehow in Zeke's absence Frank Connor had turned into his son's hero.

"So you don't have to if you don't want to," Casey continued, as though the smile had never happened. Zeke wondered if it might not be completely blatant how he was having homicidal thoughts about the absent Frank Connor, because Casey was anxious again, nearly babbling. "But Dr. Yves would really like to hear what happened...from both of us." Having failed in his attempt to make Zeke believe that he still had a purpose, Casey resorted to misdirection. He peered up at Zeke, shivered and rubbed his hands. "Can we go downstairs? I'm cold."

Zeke nodded. He thought he might have been cold too, or maybe he was just numb. He couldn't sort out how he'd gotten here, when he was pretty sure he'd been the master of this scene only minutes ago.

When they were both standing in the kitchen, Casey shrugged off his coat. He proceeded to hang it up in the closet, proving to Zeke that he was just not the same person he had been. He could complain, he could argue and he could look after himself. He no longer needed Zeke Tyler for anything.

"Zeke."

"Huh," Zeke grunted, leaning back against a counter.

"Are you going to take your jacket off?"

"Not at the moment, no."

"It — It really would help if...if you talked to her."

"Help me, you mean?"

"Well...I guess." A pause, then Casey added, "Will you come with me tomorrow?"

"But this isn't about helping me, Casey, it's about helping you."

"That's the same thing."

"No, it's not."

"Then...help me by talking to her."

"Oh... but that's not very necessary now, is it?"

Silence. Zeke met Casey's gaze for the first time since coming downstairs and saw that Casey was looking at him hard and strange. It was sort of knowing, it was kind of accusatory and disappointed, and Casey said softly, "You still won't talk about them..."

"There's lots of other stuff to talk about," Zeke returned, not sure why he was persisting with that same old tune he'd been spinning for the past few months. It was stale now, devoid of meaning, and pretty fucking useless altogether.

Casey's chin lifted slightly and his eyelashes moved, and Zeke finally recognized what he was seeing. It was anger, smouldering hot. "You mean like what Roy and Janice did to me?"

Zeke felt his head beginning to separate from his shoulders. There seemed to be nothing that Casey wouldn't say, nothing he would refuse to talk about, apart from some stuff about which Zeke knew absolutely nothing. "Yes," he replied, plunging on despite feeling like he had no grasp on anything, "and no. I'm more thinking about...how you act with me because of it."

"I told her."

"Told her what?"

"I told her all that stuff...that stuff about Roy and Janice. Just like you wanted."

The words were almost funny now: What Zeke wanted him to talk about, as if Zeke actually cared about it anymore. He'd heard all he ever wanted to on that whole business, and with Casey before him the whole idea of making Casey read the confession and then turning it over to Yves...that would have been a madness, a cruelty bordering on criminal and it was now painfully evident that he'd taken off to chase a bunch of lies. Casey had executed his own, complete, self-contained rescue — while Zeke, through his own actions, had ensured that he could have no part in it.

"Really," he choked.

Casey's lashes fluttered a bit more. "I told her on Sunday," Casey said, ever so demure and hesitant and still enraged. "You can ask Sasha if you don't believe me. He was there. He really pushed me to do it, actually...he..."

The voice descended into a low, incoherent mumble in Zeke's ears. Blood filled his head, pulsing so hard he wondered absently if he might be about to stroke out. A trickle of sweat dripped and rolled down his neck, between his shoulder blades and all the way down.

"...and you were right..."

"What's that?" Zeke interrupted, his voice far too loud.

Casey blinked like he was trying to focus. He no longer looked angry, Zeke thought, just tired and determined, like before. "You were right about the way Dr. Yves would think about everything. The aliens and...and what I did to Winona."

Zeke stared.

"She got really close to putting me away," Casey continued. "I think the only reason she didn't was...what my dad told her."

Zeke said nothing, but the pain was actually burning him now. That, and the suspicion that he resented Casey for having a Frank Connor rather than a Jacob Tyler. A fucking Frank Connor.

"So you were right," Casey reiterated.

Laughter exploded from Zeke.

"What?" Casey begged. His eyes were searching Zeke, looking for explanations for this odd turnabout. Hysteria was supposedly Casey Connor's province and now someone else was taking up residence. "Zeke, what's wrong?"

"I wasn't right," Zeke said, still laughing. "It all worked out, didn't it? Now you can talk to her about all the anxiety and everyone is set."

"Zeke."

"Everything is just hunky-dory."

"Zeke...I'm sorry."

"Don't you dare be sorry," Zeke snarled. "It's not your fault that I came hurrying back here because I thought you were in trouble."

"But I was, Zeke," Casey said. "I was in trouble, I am..."

"But you managed pretty fucking well on your own, didn't you?"

Casey gaped at him.

"Never mind me," Zeke said, scrubbing at his face. "Just don't listen...I need to have my own little crisis off on the side somewhere. Don't let that distract you."

"Zeke," Casey whispered, almost whimpered.

"Oh, don't even...let's stick to the main topic here. So what did Yves have to say at the end of it all?"

"Zeke," Casey persisted. "I...I did...need..."

"Shut up," Zeke growled. "I don't want to hear it."

He had an apprehension that he was less than rational right now — but so what was new? And to think that he'd been prepared to feel pride in his various accomplishments. To think that only a day ago he'd been congratulating himself on how he would spare Casey the full brunt of his understanding.

The phone ringing jarred Zeke but he clamped down on it. Meanwhile, Casey jumped rather violently.

"Are you going to get that?" Zeke said to him. Not waiting for an answer, Zeke began searching for the handset. From the volume, it couldn't be far. He found it on the dining room table under the latest issue of Out and About and clipped off an answer: "Hello."

"Zeke...hi!"

With some people you could tell immediately, just from the sound of their voice, if they were drunk. Frank Connor was definitely one of those people.

"Hi, Frank," Zeke said, pinning Casey in place with his eyes, watching to see how he responded. There was a certain brightness, a sudden wish: Daddy, come and rescue me...

"How are you, Zeke?"

Yep. Definitely wasted, and a friendly drunk from the sound of it.

"I'm good, I guess."

"That's great! I'm a little tipsy."

"No way."

"Yeah. I'm just going to crash here tonight...'s all right?"

"I'm sure it's fine."

"Okay! Tell Sasha and Casey for me."

Throughout this exchange, Zeke watched as Casey crept tentatively towards him, until he was only a few feet away, and his hand moved, as though wanting to reach for the phone.

"You bet," Zeke said. "See you tomorrow."

Frank began "Is Casey — ?"

Hanging up on him, Zeke announced, "Your father's spending the night at Charly's."

Casey had gone still, his hand falling to his side. "Oh," he said.

"That's not a problem for you, is it?" Zeke snarled. "Not having Daddy around to break down another door if you need it?" Hearing himself, he shook his head in the start of an apology but then gave up on that along with everything else. He knew he was being a coward as he gulped, "I should unpack now."

"But," Casey protested as Zeke moved towards the hallway, and him.

Fuck if he hadn't fucking miscalculated, and badly, for he was now standing very close to Casey, almost bumping into him. Casey took a quick step back, but not before Zeke caught a whiff of his hair. Oranges. And there was a breathtaking, vertical profile, a heave of emotion in his breathing — which Zeke pursued as though intentions, promises, every product of a thinking mind, were nothing. He closed the distance with the inexorable demand of a fucking zombie, knowing the whole time what he was and what he was doing and still helpless to stop it. He put a hand against Casey's neck and Casey went still, his eyes fixed somewhere on Zeke's chest. Take him, Zeke's body howled. Not Roy not Frank not Sasha not Thomas ...you, yours...show him, take him...

"Z-Zeke."

"Yeah."

"Where's..." Casey stopped with a gulp as Zeke took hold of him by the join between neck and shoulder.

"Hmm?" Zeke said, doing his best to purr. With his thumb, he massaged a tiny patch of skin on the neck, and then, unable to stop himself, he drew a silky line along the jaw, towards the chin. And back again.

There was a hitch in Casey's breath. He stuttered, "Where's...um..."

"Where's um...?" Zeke echoed pleasantly. The bit of Casey he was touching screamed dontstop and more.

"...Sasha."

The name was a dash of cold water. Zeke achieved full stop, wrenching his hand and himself away as he snarled, "We don't need Sasha."

Casey began to tremble, first gently and then completely, soon arriving at a full shudder. His eyes had soon filled up and overflowed, painting an icon of bewildered melodrama. Under the circumstances, Zeke could only appreciate that he was being an utter asshole.

"I..." he started. I'm sorry. Simple words and he'd said them plenty of times before but he couldn't this time. Asshole or not, prick or not, he was just not sorry enough. He just couldn't manage it. "I've been travelling all day. I'm going to get settled and have a quick shower."

The problem with this was, he still had Casey between him and his destination. Rather than try to slip past, Casey backed up as Zeke advanced on him. It was a slapstick scramble between the two of them to get out of each other's way, and Zeke nearly began to laugh again. He was able to restrain it, solely on the grounds that there had to be some dignity for someone amidst all this bullshit.

His nonchalance failed him all over again when he got to his room. His two pieces of luggage were in the middle of it but it was all wrong in here for some reason. After a few seconds of staring, it came to him: Casey had removed all his personal things. They hadn't been a great many, but they had made an undeniable splash in the room. The afghan was gone, there was no clothing strewn about on the floor, no paperbacks and journals to one side of the bed. The CDs and the Discman that would often litter the free space on the computer desk or the dresser were nowhere to be seen. The computer was still there, probably because there was nowhere else to put it.

As Zeke stood there, Casey's voice said, from behind him, "I moved my stuff."

Right then, Zeke heard the noises of Sasha coming in, opening and closing the door to the apartment, making other indefinable sounds to announce his presence. "Guys?" he called.

"Here," Casey said.

"Okay."

There was nothing to do but go into the bedroom. Zeke executed that imperative, then turned to see Casey hanging in the doorway. "So you're sleeping with Sasha full-time, I guess."

Casey shuffled his feet, his skin changing colour. "I can sleep on the couch too."

"That doesn't seem fair."

Casey frowned.

"I'm just saying." Zeke shrugged. His eyes cast about for some distraction, fell on the computer. "What about this?" he said, gesturing.

"The — the computer?"

"Yeah."

"Just thought I'd leave it here," Casey replied.

"Are you sure it's okay for me to use it?" Zeke asked, and there was no way Casey could have missed his bitterness, or the fact that he was turning into a raving lunatic.

"Of course," Casey whispered. "You need it more than me."

There was no point trying to be nasty to the passive-aggressive; Zeke gave up on it. He kicked his bag across the floor and threw his suitcase on the bed, then looked back. He found Casey looking at him, just steadily looking. It was a gaze that was nearly impossible to meet — so perfectly understanding and sad while not really condoning anything. Zeke wondered when Frank had encountered that for the first time and had turned away, unable to confront it. Or Roy, for that matter. Roy must have seen that look and set about systematically destroying Casey so he would never have to face it again.

"What?" Zeke said.

The gaze went on and on.

"What?" Zeke demanded, desperate to get it off him.

Casey said, "You said you would never hate me."

Something was quivering inside Zeke, but he denied it any recognition. "I don't hate you," Zeke shot back.

"You left me."

"I had somewhere to go, remember? We can't be joined at the hip every minute of every day." Using his sleeve, he wiped the sweat from his face. "I did leave but I didn't leave you...and anyway, I'm back, so that should tell you something."

"But you left."

"Yeah, and you know what?" Zeke's throat was so constricted, he had to croak his words. "You lied to me and you hurt me. No one would blame me for leaving."

Just as he finished saying this, Sasha made his appearance in the hallway, clearly determined to enter the fray. It would have been funny if it hadn't been so serious. "Zeke — " he tried.

"I don't want to hear from you," Zeke growled.

"Zeke, just let me — "

"Mind your own fucking business."

"You are my business," Sasha hissed. "Both of you!"

"You have a funny way of showing it. Look, you should be happy. Casey and I were apart for a few days just like you wanted, and we both survived it. And Casey's on the road to recovery and I'd really like to be alone in my room. Is that all right with you?"

"I almost didn't," Casey muttered.

Zeke felt his eyes bulge. "What did you say?"

Just as quickly as those words had slipped out, Casey tried to deny them. He shook his head. "Nothing."

"Un-huh...no. Too fucking late, you said something, what did you mean by it?"

"I said — nothing."

Zeke slammed his fist into the nearest space of wall, sending a spiral of ache all the way down his forearm. "What the fuck did you mean?"

"Guys," Sasha pleaded. "Don't do this."

"Are you trying to say I was responsible?"

"No, Zeke, no, I..." Casey was babbling again, reverting to the version of himself that Zeke knew. "I was wrong to say that. I was trying to hurt you but I...I'm responsible."

"You're fucking right you are. Now get out of my room."

"I'm responsible, Zeke."

"Get out."

Casey backed up, his eyes filling all over again, and ran off down the hallway towards the kitchen. True to form, Sasha followed him, calling his name, and Zeke took advantage of being ignored to scuttle into the bathroom. It felt like a flight, but he didn't much care. It was either that or break down and that would have been too much like an admission of guilt.

For a lack of anything else to do in there, he peeled off his clothing and set the water temperature in the shower to the coldest that he could stand. It shocked his body, startled a few gulps of emotion out of him, but it got him back to thinking. Turning the hot water up a bit, just to the edge of his comfort zone, he began scrubbing himself.

He was not to blame. He knew that, he fucking knew it, and therefore he would not allow himself to feel guilty. He had done the right thing by leaving when he had and he had been entitled to leave. Casey had fucked him over, not once but twice. It wasn't that he couldn't get over that, but he just couldn't believe that the two other people in this apartment didn't appreciate how much he had given and how much they had taken. There was definitely an imbalance going on here and everyone was putting pressure on him to let Casey be the most miserable, the most in need of help...as per usual. Well, not this time. Not this fucking time.

When he opened the door to the hallway there was no sign of anyone except for the strip of light under Sasha's bedroom door. Otherwise the hallway was dark, illuminated only by a spill of light from the kitchen. He thought he heard muffled sounds but couldn't be sure.

Zeke waited a count of four, then went quietly into his room. Rather than unpack as he had declared he would, he laid back on the bed and closed his eyes, acknowledging his exhaustion, the same exhaustion he had been feeling since November, come to think of it. It seemed like he had forgotten how to be any other way.

He allowed himself to drift for a bit and woke with a start. Finding that it was past eleven at night and there was no sound in the apartment, he turned out the light and tried for a full eight hours of blissful unconsciousness but as often happened these days, he was thwarted. It seemed like he lay awake most of the night before finally blinking out. He woke to daylight, from a dream in which Roy was whispering in his ear, telling him things he could no longer remember while the entire time he just really needed to piss and couldn't seem to get a word in to tell Roy to fuck off. He woke up with that same need.

He got up, went into the bathroom and did his business. When he came out, he encountered Casey silent and still, haunting the hallway.

"Fuck!" he gasped, rearing back.

"Sorry," Casey whispered.

"Can't you make a bit of noise or something?"

"Sorry."

It was a sibilant whisper, and Casey drifted closer, sending a waft of oranges Zeke's way. "What are you doing, Casey?" he said, forcing himself not to retreat.

"Nothing."

"Good, because I...I'd like to go back to bed."

From his room, Sasha shouted, "For Christ's sake! Tell him, kitten!"

Zeke rolled his eyes. "Tell me what?"

Casey gathered himself and spoke. "Wanted to say I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"What I said before...last night, I mean. It was really wrong."

"I know it was."

Unexpectedly Sasha was in the hallway and Zeke braced himself for intervention but the man walked right by, straight into the bathroom while muttering something. "...gonna be late...fuck...fuck..."

"I guess we woke him up," Zeke said, attempting a neutral topic.

"No, he's meeting Jerry for breakfast." Casey looked at the floor. "He's getting sick of me."

Zeke sighed. "I highly doubt that, Casey. Okay, I'm going to try to get a few more zees..."

"But — "

"But — ?"

"You were going to come with me to therapy."

"Oh...yeah. When is it?"

"At ten."

"And what time is it?"

"Um... almost nine."

Well, fuck. So much for sleep.

"Okay," Zeke said. "Let me just get ready — "

"Zeke."

He saw eyes gone soft, pleading, importuning...begging. He had never seen anything so beautiful and it filled him with rage because he knew it was all a lie. "What, already?"

"Zeke...I want to tell you..."

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry."

"You already said that.

"I mean... about what I did with Thomas."

Zeke tasted bitterness, a hard chunk of something. "I'm sure you are," he replied, and meant it. After all, he wasn't angry anymore. It was a question of integrity. He would not be a person who came back to their lover out of loneliness or fear and just continued to be angry in secret. That would make him like — like Casey. "I'm going to get dressed."

"Kay," he heard behind him.

It was a bit of a challenge to find a clean pair of jeans but it gave him something to do while he thought about Yves, what he would say to her. He could talk about the fucking aliens if they wanted — it wasn't such a big issue. His boyfriend lying to him, his friend lying to him, his father lying to him, now those were real issues. Maybe they should talk about that. Maybe he should mention how Casey would beg him for reassurance and never, ever believe him, never trust him, think the worst of him and then turn around and show that he was the last person to accuse anyone of being untrustworthy. Maybe they should talk about that.

He yanked on the jeans, buttoning the fly with short, jerky motions, and snorted to himself. Yeah, that was it. He would explain how he'd forgiven Casey but this was still really bothering him and they could only thank him for being honest.

He heard noise outside his room — Sasha, having rushed through his shower, was proving that he had the ability to get ready in ten minutes or less, something that Zeke would not have previously attributed to him. There was brief conversation with Casey, a shuffling, more noise in the hallway, and then Sasha knocked on Zeke's door a lot harder than he needed to.

"Yeah."

Sasha stuck his head in. "I'm going out with Jerry for a while."

"Un-huh," Zeke said, throwing open his suitcase so he could hunt for a clean shirt.

"Are you going with Casey to therapy?"

"Yes."

"Good." Sasha paused, then stepped into the room and all but closed the door. "Listen, you should know something before you go."

Zeke straightened up, trying to imagine what other fuck-piss-shit-awful piece of information had not been shared with him as yet, trying to be ready for it.

"At Casey's last session with Yves, I kinda..." Sasha coughed. "I kinda blackmailed him into talking about that business with Roy and Janice."

Oh, that. Zeke allowed himself to breathe. "Yeah, he said you forced him."

"He told you?" Sasha dropped into the lowest decibel he could make that was still audible. "I know you're probably upset about that but it really had to happen, Zeke. That stuff is the reason why he's been in such rough shape, I'm sure of it. He had to talk about it and I thought...for once you shouldn't have to be the bad guy."

Zeke stared at Sasha, absolutely bereft of a reply.

"I wanted you to know...just in case you thought you had to do that today." It looked for an instant as though Sasha might say something else, then concluded in a normal volume, "I'm sorry Zeke but I really have to go, I'm late... I'll see you later. I'm not working tonight."

"Yeah," Zeke managed. "Sure."

"We'll talk, okay?"

Zeke grabbed a red t-shirt and pulled it over his head. "Whatever," he said, his voice muffled. When he could look, he saw that Sasha was gone.

After a trip to the bathroom to brush his teeth, he went to the kitchen, where he found Casey dressed, leaning against the sink and eating a bowl of cereal. He looked much better than he had last night, Zeke noticed now. A bit thin and pale still, but almost healthy in some indefinable way. Zeke poured a bowl of cereal for himself and was on his way to get milk for it when suddenly he had turned to face Casey and a question burst out of him before he could stop it or even know that he was gong to ask.

"Where did it happen?"

Casey looked up from his cereal bowl. "What?"

"Where did you and...Thomas...where did it happen?"

"In his car," Casey answered, with lowered eyes. He twisted around to put his empty bowl in the sink, running some water in it. His entire demeanour claimed innocence and Zeke wanted to grab him, tear off his clothes, make him moan and lose that coy little blush. Just like Thomas must have done, crushing Casey under his weight in a back seat.

"When?"

Casey turned slowly. "Wha...?"

"Am I asking complicated questions? When did it happen?"

"At — Th — Thanksgiving," Casey stuttered.

"You mean that time when you ran out...figuring I was having that inevitable fuck fest with Winona."

Casey suddenly raised his eyes and locked them on Zeke, just as he had done the night before.

"What now?" Zeke growled. "Why are you looking at me?"

Casey answered slowly. "I ran out on Thanksgiving because I thought you and Winona were together and next you'd want me to join you. Stupid, huh?"

Zeke lost the will to continue the contest; he looked down, away while his mind filled with ugly, remembered words: Roy said, 'touch him, touch him'...his lips were almost blue and Roy was all over he had his hands all over him...inside him...and I just...she touched him too, she had her hands on him and it turned her on...I just watched...she touched him too... I just watched...I got her to leave and then I fucked him so good, so sweet I fucked him with his face in the pillow... he wanted it...never said no...

Zeke whispered, "I can't believe that you would think I could do that to you."

"Yeah, I'm crazy," Casey returned dryly. "I get it."

"No...that's not what I meant."

"I think it was. I think... The whole point was to punish me, wasn't it? To remind me I'm nuts and fucked up and no good?"

"Well, you'd be wrong."

"I'm leaving."

Zeke's stomach fell through the floor. "What?"

"Yves," Casey explained, his eyes as hard as those particular orbs could ever get. "Have to go to therapy."

"I'm coming..."

"No, you're not."

"I'm supposed to go with you."

"I don't care."

Zeke knew Casey was well within his rights at this moment, but it didn't matter. "But...are you..."

"I'm fine. I can go by myself."

Zeke watched as Casey got ready to go, and his brain scrabbled for some argument as to why he should be going along too. He couldn't think of one, not if Casey said he wasn't welcome. If he were Sasha he would just go anyway, but then, Sasha had done that so he didn't have to. There was really nothing for him to do, nothing to add or contribute. He wasn't needed.

Not waiting until Casey had gone, Zeke went into his bedroom, where he still had a lot of unpacking to do. The apartment door slammed. His gut quivered, just for a moment.

He flipped open his hockey bag and started removing things, none too gently. All the gifts from Christmas came out, one after another until he got to the CD Casey had made, the one he still hadn't heard. Staring down at the black cover, he had to deal with the urge to hurl the thing across the room. He should really make up his mind to listen to this thing or not. A person had gone to the trouble of making it for him, after all. A person had things to say...a person wanted to be understood even if they were impossible and maddening and fascinating and he shouldn't want to hurt them, he shouldn't be so angry, he shouldn't if he had forgiven if he had forgiven —

He collapsed face-down on the bed and stared at the expanse of pillowcase immediately under his eye. Time passed, and he thought of nothing. He simply had no thoughts.

The phone rang. Zeke groaned, lifting his head so his eye caught the clock. It was 10:30. For another ring he assumed that he was going to let the machine get it — then he knew he wasn't and bolted up to find it, spurred by an intuitive knowledge. Snatching up the handset, he gasped into it, "Casey?"

"No, this is Dr. Helen Yves. Is this Zeke?"

"Yes."

"I was wondering if Casey was going to show up for his appointment."

Something slammed Zeke, hurtling him way beyond panic. "He isn't there?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Oh, shit...fuck..."

"Should I be concerned?"

"We had an argument just before he left. Fuck."

"Do you have any idea where he might be?"

"Not really. I need to go out and look, he might be somewhere in the neighbourhood."

"All right. And Zeke...?"

"Yes?"

"Casey has signed a no-harm agreement with me. If he is all right, and I hope he is, this means he's violated it."

"And what does that mean?"

"The agreement was an alternative to the hospital, Zeke."

"But he's...he's....fuck, I can't think. I need to go."

"All right. Please let me know when you find him."

As Zeke hung up, he realized how grateful he was that she hadn't said if.

Only yesterday, Casey had been close to happy. Sasha and Jerry had returned from their drive mid-afternoon to receive the news that Zeke was coming home and of course, Sasha's reaction had been an immediate orgy of hugging and expressions of relief. He had suggested that Casey might want to "smooth the transition" by moving his things from the room he and Zeke had been sharing, and it had seemed like a good idea at the time. It hadn't even taken half an hour...but then there had been hours and hours in which to think and to gradually go insane. Sasha had endured Casey's occasional fits of hyperventilation for a while, and then he got impatient. He had sighed, "For Christ's sake, kitten. It's going to be fine."

And then he'd browbeaten Casey into helping him decide what they should have for supper and going out to the market with him. Casey had hoped-thought-hoped it would be closed, seeing as it was New Year's Day, but Sasha had insisted it would be open and Sasha had been right. Then Casey had been required to help with "prepping", which meant he did a lot of measuring and chopping while Chef Sasha consulted with himself and stood importantly over a pan. Casey had been sure that he couldn't eat any of their collaborative product and keep it down. Again, Sasha said otherwise, and again, Sasha was right. And when, near nine o'clock, Zeke had phoned from the airport and Casey was certain that his brain was going to explode, it had been Sasha who calmed him, who convinced him that he could present himself at the door even if he had to hide behind him. And just before Zeke walked in, Sasha had told him again, "It'll be all right, kitten. It'll be fine."

But Sasha couldn't have been more wrong, because it was not all right, it was not fucking fine — not last night, not even after Sasha exerting all his talents at forcing it to be all right. It was still a huge fucking mess, he and Zeke couldn't talk to each other without it all going wrong and Sasha could hold and cuddle and calm him all night, talk him into an apology but it still didn't work so it was not all right — not right this morning either, and so fuck Zeke, fuck him and fuck Roy and fuck Sasha for leaving him and fuck his father too while he was at it but especially fuck Zeke. If Zeke wanted to fuck him, fine, if he wanted to hate him, fine, he should just do something, pick one not keep makingthepointoverandoverlikeCaseydidn'tknowhewascrazylikehedidn'tknow hewasafuckingwhore —

Casey put his foot down and yanked it back onto the curb when someone's car horn sounded hard and long. He put his hands into his jacket pockets and buried his chin in his scarf, shivering. There was something about the damp in this city that made him feel more miserable than he would have in the freezing temperatures back in Ohio. Or maybe he was just miserable and that was that.

If he and Zeke could have just fucked. If they could have fucked, everything would have been okay. Zeke wouldn't be so angry and he wouldn't have said those things or looked at Casey in that way that Casey didn't really want to think about, like he hated him. Maybe Zeke said no more fucking but Zeke still needed what he needed, just like Casey. Casey understood lots of things about Zeke, like he understood there was a part of Zeke that didn't want to justify itself, that needed to just possess and own a person...because it made him feel good and he would like to just leave it at that, thank you. Zeke just didn't like anyone touching his stuff but Casey couldn't fix it because they couldn't fuck, because Casey knew he would die if anyone laid an intimate finger on him, even Zeke. Especially Zeke. He didn't want that glide of hands or the aroma of cigarettes, the ashtray taste that was really quite disgusting if you thought about it and he knew it was crazy to wish they could have fucked because he didn't want to except he did and of course Zeke was right, of course he was crazy —

— and it was crazy to be lurching along the sidewalk, wet mist on his face and he wasn't even looking where he was going, he had no vision and no real idea of where he was headed other than to talk to Yves, he really wanted to be in her office now although he wasn't sure exactly what it was he wanted to say.

Just like it was crazy to run headlong into someone, to be totally at fault for nearly knocking them over and still rear back and scream at them, but that was what he did. "Don't you fucking touch me!"

The middle-aged woman he'd run into leapt back like he was some dangerous freak... just another item on a mounting list of incidents that totalled up to Casey Needs to Go Somewhere He Can't Hurt Anyone Else.

"Oh," he whispered. "I... didn't..."

The woman felt her lip. "It's okay," she replied, her eyes wary.

He'd hurt her but she didn't want to say and he was a fucking maniac. "S- sorry," he choked, holding out an apologetic hand and dropping it when she hurried on.

So now he was standing absolutely still in the middle of the sidewalk with nothing, just the anger and the shell of himself that was left standing here halfway between home and Dr. Yves, about to be late. Somewhere off in the distance there was a beeping noise and the flow of traffic, conversations, footsteps, all swirling around him. There was a rawness to the cool air that he was pulling into his lungs, his jacket was open and he was shivering. It was like suddenly and for the first time he was standing in an urban wilderness, completely exposed. It was terrifying.

"Mr. Casey!"

He jumped and turned around, squinting at the figure that was speaking to him. "Thomas?"

"I've been trying, trying to get your attention for five whole minutes you know, I've been beeping and honking at you but you wouldn't listen, you're just standing there like a stone so I had to jump out!"

Even from ten feet away Thomas looked incredibly tired, like he had forgotten what sleep was but he was still talking, his mouth moving too fast and far from making complete sense. Casey stared, feeling unqualified to interject or even to take in the presence of his friend. Thomas was wearing clothing that Casey recognized, but it was appallingly rumpled, and torn. His entire appearance was appalling, in fact.

" — so do you want to get in?"

"Um...what?"

"I'm blocking traffic, Mr. Casey!"

Thomas gestured as though to direct Casey towards something and added a bunch of frantic arm motions but never got close enough to touch him or even intimated that he might want to. It made it possible for Casey to take few steps in his direction. Thomas might look like a derelict, but he had never hurt Casey. Unless you counted the part where he advised him to talk about the aliens...but so had Sasha, and whatever fallout had occurred had more to do with Casey being fucked up than the advice itself —

"Thomas," Casey said, feeling his eyes burn.

"What, Treasure, what?" Thomas looked over his shoulder, not at Casey but at the street.

"You understand... " me "...don't you?"

"Oh, yes, yes...Treasure, come now, we must go."

"Go where?" Casey asked, obligingly taking a few steps, and then a few more when Thomas kept widening the distance between the two of them.

"To my car, obviously!" Thomas snapped, suddenly adopting a more aggressive tone. "Didn't you hear me a minute ago?"

"I'm sorry," Casey mumbled.

"No, never mind." Still far from patient, Thomas insisted, "Just come with me."

"Come...where?"

"In my car!"

"But Thomas..." Casey didn't quite know how to say that a person who looked as derelict as Thomas and whom reportedly had been homeless — that this person couldn't have a car. "You don't...I mean..."

"It's right here, Treasure!" Thomas ran around to the driver's side of a red sedan that Casey had been standing next to and hadn't even looked at. It was sitting to the far right of four lanes, on a main artery, in a no parking zone with traffic backed up behind it. Thomas opened the driver's side door in complete disregard of passing cars and shouted across the hood, "Right here!" He bent as though he would get in and then popped up to address Casey where he was still standing on the sidewalk. "Well? Aren't you getting in?"

"Thomas, this isn't your car."

"But of course it is!" Thomas smacked his hand down on the roof, while his eyes nearly glowed with frantic sincerity. "You don't believe me, is that what you're saying? You want to hurt my feelings? Just get in the car and I'll explain."

"I have an appointment..."

"Mr. Casey..." Thomas shook his head, visibly restraining himself. "You are making me very sad. Get in, I'll give you a ride."

"But it's not very far," Casey said. As always, he was torn between fear and trust in Thomas' presence. He had never really felt endangered even though Thomas was very unusual for a human being, even a sick one. Even for a sick alien. And...he did want to talk to Thomas. He had been wanting to talk to him for a long time, it seemed.

"Are you afraid your Tower Man will find out?" Thomas shouted. Strangers stopped and looked, and Casey half-cringed and yet almost wanted to grin at this man- alien's obstinate...Thomas-ness. Maybe he liked the way that Thomas didn't seem to give a shit about the rest of the world. Maybe Casey just couldn't help liking him. That was it — he liked Thomas and Zeke could go to hell too. Thomas might be down and out but he was Casey's friend.

"Maybe...just for a minute."

"Hop in, hop in! The meter is running the clock is ticking as it were...ticking as it were."

Casey opened the passenger side door and got in. The interior of the car was pure devastation, strewn with papers and crushed food wrappers, matted with dirt and dust. Before Casey could wonder out loud about the state of things, Thomas took off like a Indianapolis hopeful.

"Wait — " Casey protested.

The car was weaving dangerously, Thomas just barely evading everything in his path while he beat a staccato rhythm on the steering wheel with both hands. The practical business of avoiding collision seemed irrelevant to him.

"Thomas!" Casey said, and again without daring to take his eyes off the road, because someone had to be looking at it. "Thomas!"

"What!" Thomas did not pause in his drumming. He did feel sufficiently unoccupied to turn his head and stare directly at Casey. "Are you afraid, Treasure? Don't worry, we're invinc — "

"Watch — !" Casey cried. It might not be rush hour but there were still plenty of people out and about, more than enough to run into. "Watch the road!"

"Oh, there's no one in my way, Treasure. You are a very tense boy, you know."

"I have reason!"

"I'm sure you have lots."

"Someone has to — shit!" Casey hunched and squeezed his eyes shut as Thomas made a left turn right in front of an oncoming SUV. The driver of the SUV was forced to squeal to a stop and lay on the horn and for several white-hot flashes of time Casey could only think of how it would devastate Sasha to be forced to identify his mangled body. But then, somehow, he was still alive. Opening his eyes, he barked, "Pull over."

"What's that, Mr. Cas — "

"Pull over, pull over!"

"But why?"

"I didn't survive an alien invasion to be killed by this. Pull over."

"We can talk and drive, Treasure, but the thing is gotta keep moving, people to see, places to be and all that — "

"Thomas, please."

"Okay, Treasure. For you." Thomas flashed an utterly devastating grin.

Casey did not remove his clutch from the door handle until they had come to a complete stop in the right lane. He just breathed, while Thomas sat beside him — sat but was neither quiet nor still. He seemed unable to stop moving.

"Better now?" he asked, dancing in his seat.

"Yeah."

"Am I an alien, Mr. Casey?"

Casey's head turned involuntarily while his limbs made suggestions of flailing, and running.

"You said you survived aliens that must be what you're afraid of, huh...you said am I one of ‘them'. You are always a bit afraid of me, is it because I am black?"

"No," Casey gulped. "No."

"But you think I am strange and unusual."

"Aren't you?"

Thomas appeared to think it over. "Maybe," he concluded. "Why did you get in my car?"

"I needed to talk to you." A thought of Yves fluttered in the back of Casey's brain. She would be waiting for him. "I don't have a lot of time here," he said, attempting a business-like tone.

"Un-huh."

"I wanted to say good-bye and...and..."

"Yes, Mr. Casey."

"... let me stammer, okay? I like you and I'm glad you're my friend even if I'm not sure what you are...but I've wrecked things with Zeke...and I don't know why you talked to him but you didn't have to do that!"

Thomas said nothing.

"I'd say don't do it again but it doesn't matter now...oh, fuck it. Don't do that again."

"Don't do what?"

"Don't — you know what. You know."

"Yes. Don't get excited, Treasure, I was teasing. I know what I did."

"And you're sorry."

"Yes."

"And you're not going to do it again."

"Absolutely not."

It occurred to Casey that he was being mocked right now, or at least not taken very seriously, but he didn't have time to take issue with it. "Okay, fine. I've gotta go."

A hand fell on his arm suddenly. "Don't be rushing, Treasure."

"But I have an appointment, I told you...I"m already late and she's going to call the cops on me."

"Why ever would she do that?"

"Because I'm sick and I belong in a hospital."

Thomas snorted. His eyes went a little bit mean as he regarded Casey. "You don't belong in a hospital, Treasure, most certainly, and you know, I think it's time you stopped playing at being crazy."

"Playing," Casey echoed. His gut burned with hurt and alarm and anger, all at once.

"You have all sorts of help and advantages — " Thomas began, and broke off so he could override Casey's instinctive protest. "Yes, you do! You will think me cruel now and maybe I am, but I tire of this! You are not mad, Mr. Casey, you have no idea what real sickness is!"

"I almost tried to kill myself," Casey argued, feeling close to tears unexpectedly. Thomas was the last person he would have expected to not believe him —

"Oh, haven't we all. Go back to mama if you can't handle it out here in the world, little rich boy."

"I'm not rich and I'm getting out — "

As Casey reached for the door handle, the car lurched into motion and the power lock on Casey door was activated. This was not happening, Thomas was not his enemy — he scrabbled for the button on his side and was successful in unlocking the door. But it was already too late. They were moving at a relatively high velocity, enough that he was afraid to jump out.

"Thomas," he said. It came like some sort of squeak instead of the manly protest he'd been aiming for.

"I have an appointment in Portland, remember how I always wanted you to come with me?"

"Told you... I couldn't."

"Don't be silly, of course you can."

"No, I can't!" Casey shouted.

"You will simply explain to your doctor that you were kidnapped."

"I have been kidnapped..."

"No, no, no. Not really, and anyway, you know I would never hurt you, Mr. Casey."

"You're hurting me now."

"By making you late? You really must be less tense, Treasure. I hear yoga is very effective...but this way we will have more time to talk and you can have the pleasure of revenge against Zeke."

"What makes you think I want to..." Thinking of Zeke was a mistake. Casey slunk and cringed into his seat and gulped, "Don't want revenge."

"I saw you being angry before, Treasure." The car rocketed past the street they should have turned on to get to Yves' office building. Casey almost tried to say something — and gave up. "Oh, yes, I can tell when you're angry, you're very cute about it — no, I shouldn't say cute, not cute. You're ferocious with your claws and teeth out like you have no idea anyone is bigger than you and you must not be afraid of anger. Anger is a natural product of the human psyche, anger and aggression, from day one we are guaranteed to feel them because of ambivalence, you know that term, don't you? Of course, so ambivalence because you can't always feel good and then you have emotions that some call dark or bad but they're not, they're just natural. You understand?"

"Not really, no," Casey muttered.

He was fucked. He was going to be strapped down in some loony bin by the end of the day.

"You know, I can get very tired of this attitude very quickly. You whine and you mope and you're always shaking but what do you really have to be afraid of? Huh?"

"Strange men kidnapping me, for one," Casey shot back.

"I'm not strange."

"Yes, you are."

"Okay, I'm strange, but so are you. You never need to be afraid of strangers, Treasure, because you're the strangest. You have nothing to fear from the rest of us."

Casey was silent, leaning his head against the window. He didn't really know were he was — he didn't know much except that they were negotiating the streets of Seattle, getting close to an exit now which meant that soon they would be on the highway, headed towards a whole other city. After all this time and so much struggle, to have it end this way...it was stupid, perhaps even poetically tragic since he'd been so sure all along where he'd end up, just dead wrong about how he got there. There had to be some lesson about this, and he'd have plenty of time to dwell on it, unless they took his mind too. Which they probably would and there would be nothing left of him so She would have her way in the end.

"...'m ready..." he muttered. He was so tired of fighting her, he should have known she would win anyway. "...ready this time...for sure."

"What's that?" Thomas said.

"Nothing."

"You said something.'"

"Didn't."

"Oh, Treasure. You can tell me, can't you?"

Casey sighed. Since he was on this road now and there was no way to stop, there was nothing much to lose. He said, "The aliens had a queen."

"Naturally," Thomas replied, not missing a beat. "And?"

"And...I killed her, and sometimes I'm sure that she wants revenge, that she's back...and sometimes I think she just wants me to...take her place." It was insane but true, even hurtling down the highway as they were now, at seventy miles an hour or so: Casey could tell Thomas the things he would never tell anyone else. He stared out at the chaos of cars with their running lights just punctuating the fog and he whispered, "She's inside me."

"How?"

"With her...things...and I think she's still there sometimes. I think...I'm all that's left of her."

Thomas didn't speak for several seconds. Casey wondered if, after all, there actually were limits to what he could comprehend. "You asked," Casey said, shrugging and keeping his gaze on his window.

"Mr. Casey."

"What?"

"You must not feel so much guilt about what you did to her."

Casey turned to look over at Thomas, and at the same time he shrunk into himself, made himself small. "I don't know what you mean."

"It is time for you to be all right. It's all right to be all right, you know. You deserve it."

"I don't deserve anything," Casey said, hardly knowing what he meant by it.

"There you go again being all melodramatic. I'm going to have to ask you stop that."

"Or what?"

"Or nothing!" Thomas laughed briefly, and then an exaggerated frown flickered across his handsome features. "Or nothing! I'll have you home well before supper. Just sit back and relax and enjoy the ride, Treasure."

Casey couldn't relax but he was practiced enough at ignoring an unpleasant reality. Rather than think about what his friends, his lover, his doctor would be thinking about him soon, if not already, he surveyed the expanse of the front seat. It was, in his mother's terminology, a sty. It didn't seem like Thomas at all, even if Thomas had been less than organized of late. "Thomas...where did you get this car?"

"I told you, it's mine."

"It's not the one you had before."

"Well, duh, as they say. Since we are both admitting things, I will admit this to you, Treasure, but only you. I've been having a little trouble financially so they took my car but I called my father, you remember my father the Anglican minister, I called him and after I explained how I'm working on this new business idea, he sent me the money immediately so I could get something to get around in. Get around in, that's a funny bit of words, don't you think? Get around in...get around in...and it's a good thing to get around in because there's this guy to see... you're coming with me right?"

Casey stared at Thomas, who seemed to have forgotten that only minutes ago he'd refused to let Casey out of the car. "No," he said, wanting to see what would happen.

Thomas just laughed. "You're so funny, Treasure. Funny, funny."

"Yeah," Casey sighed. "I'm a riot."

"Are you fretting about your doctor, Treasure? Don't fret, I'm sure you could have her eating out of the palm of your hand if you wanted."

Casey gave him a look. "Were you really a doctor, Thomas?"

"A psychoanalyst, not a doctor, Treasure..." Thomas was quiet for a moment. "What did you say?"

"I asked if you were a doctor."

"Oh, right. Why, was there something you wanted to ask me?"

"Is that why you seem to understand me?"

"I don't know that I do understand you, but we have a connection, I think — hey, what do you say to a little you and me in the back seat?"

"Wh-what?" Casey stammered.

"You were attracted to me before, were you not? I'm thinking now I was stupid to turn you down because I'll tell you something, Mr. Casey, you have some serious sex magic about you. I don't know what it is, but it's hot and beautiful and I'd love to get it on with you, as they say — "

"Stop," Casey strangled. "Stop, please."

Thomas was again staring at Casey, in utter disdain for the road before them. "You can't be thinking that I would do something to hurt you — or anyone else, for that matter — matter that you didn't want."

"Yes," Casey said quickly. "I know that."

In a flash, the sparkling charmer was back. "So what do you say?"

"To what?"

"A bit of a fuck."

It was out of the question, of course, but Casey couldn't believe the power emanating from this man when he wanted, power that had to be quite a lot more effective than anything he possessed. And suppose that they did fuck? It wasn't like Zeke could think any worse of him. If Zeke wasn't repulsed and hating him he would never have looked at Casey like he hated him and said those horrible, hateful things — god, not even an hour ago. It would serve him right if he and Thomas did what Zeke had in his mind —

"You are thinking about Zeke," Thomas claimed.

"What makes you think that?"

"Because if you are thinking it's about Zeke, about how to get him back...or maybe how to get back at him, yes?"

Tears grew thick in Casey's eyes, obscuring sight. "I don't know."

"I do, and I should not want to be a part of such a thing." Thomas threw his head back and laughed. "But I do. I will help you with revenge if you wish, my Treasure." Even as he spoke, Thomas made a sudden lane change, moving to the right and almost causing a collision. Someone laid on their horn and nearly went off the road. Thomas only laughed louder and hollered, "Eat my dirt, dick-face!

Casey's heart raced in a way that he hadn't felt for a long time — with the fear of actual, physical harm rather than dread of the possibility of harm. There was something cleansing about it. "Thomas!" he gasped.

"What, what — what?"

"Let me drive."

"You can drive?"

"I can drive a lot better than you."

"Why, Treasure, I believe I'm insulted." Without warning, Thomas was rocking and pitter-pattering again, and now he started singing. "God save the glor-r-r- ious queen, long live our noh-ble queen..."

"Thomas."

"...send her victoh-ree-ous..."

"Thomas."

"Hap-pee and....what, Treasure, what?"

"I want to drive."

"And I want to go to Portland — "

"Fuck!" Casey screamed as they slipped between two vehicles into a space that seemed barely able to fit a compact, let alone a sedan. "I'll drive to fucking Portland, just pull over!"

Thomas stopped jittering long enough to shrug.

They were on the shoulder much too quickly, and probably illegally, but Casey didn't care. Thomas turned off the engine and dangled the keys in front of Casey's eyes — two, identical car keys only, nothing else, attached to a paper tag. "Just to be sure you don't take off without me." He got out and walked around the front of the car while Casey slid over into the left seat. The passenger-side door shut, and Thomas held up the keys. With shaking hands, Casey reached for them.

Thomas snatched them away. "Gotcha!"

Something detached itself from Casey and he thought he screamed "Give me the fucking keys!" All he was really sure of was that when it cleared, he was holding them and Thomas had settled back on the passenger side of the car, looking sardonic.

Casey started the engine, working very hard not to think about the fact that this was only the third time he'd driven anything, and he wasn't, strictly speaking, a legal driver. But he had a task here, which was to stay alive. Easing into the right lane, he took the car up to a velocity he felt he could handle and decided not to be concerned about the slight fog or the slick covering of moisture on the road. He would just watch where he was going and not go too fast.

"It's a good good good thing there's no minimum speed here," Thomas remarked whilst resuming his bebopping next to Casey.

"Shut up."

"Yessir." Thomas saluted Casey with a warm, friendly grin, and Casey felt terrible about screaming at him. Or maybe he just felt terrible, period. His shoulders and neck were already far too cramped for comfort. Cars kept climbing up on his back bumper until they had an opportunity to pass and then would whizz by the sedan, generally giving Casey the impression that he was offending them.

"Just take it easy, take it easy," Thomas sang. He was far from taking his own advice, however. Casey did not miss the increased agitation, nor the occasional sideways looks he was receiving. They were suspicious, just short of hostile.

"God save the queen...the queen...and the right noble queen...queen queen queen queen..."

Casey's eye fell upon the gas meter. The needle was virtually on empty, and he had hope, unexpectedly. They had not yet left the city limits — perhaps the journey would end here. He didn't think that Thomas would actually resort to physical tactics to keep him from just walking away from their little excursion. "Thomas — " he blurted.

"Save...save...save...the queeeen..."

"Thomas."

"Yessir."

"You're almost out of gas."

"Liarliarpantsonfire."

"I am not — see for yourself."

Thomas leaned over, very unnecessarily and cruelly seizing Casey's hair as he did. It was a deliberate act of force, with no other purpose but to remind Casey that he was bigger and stronger. "Stop — stop it!" Casey yelled, nearly hitting himself in the head in his effort to drive Thomas off, barely remembering to keep one hand on the wheel. The contact ended abruptly, and only then did Casey notice that he was halfway into the other lane. Cold terror sweat prickled all over his body at the realization that they could have died just now.

He so wanted to go home.

"Well, that was quite a display, wasn't it?" Thomas observed, sounding odd Casey thought — until he understood that Thomas merely sounded like his original self, the person who had been calm and wise and seemed to understand everything. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Casey. It's always been very important to me that I not hurt you, but I see that I have."

He fell silent and still, so still that Casey wondered if he was holding his breath. Glancing over, he saw that Thomas' shoulders were slumped.

"Can I stop for gas?"

"Yes. By all means, yes."

It was all Thomas had to say. Casey glanced over at him several times and it suddenly struck him that Thomas' lack of animation was all too familiar. It was a replica of himself. It could have been him just yesterday, in fact, and it had been a whole fuck of a lot of his life for months now, if he was honest about it.

A terrible feeling possessed him. Reflecting upon it, he decided that it was shame, and shame of a sort that was new or at least underused. It was the comprehension of just how painful and miserable it must have been for Zeke and Sasha to deal with him when he was deadened and barely speaking to anyone — like Thomas was right now — trailing around letting everyone serve him and still resenting them for it.

He had seen all sorts of signs and advertisements for gas along the way, so it wasn't more than a few minutes before he found an exit for a place called, strangely enough, Casey's General Store. He maneuvered the car into a position next to a pump, whereupon Thomas bestirred himself and said in a monotone, "The tank's on your side."

This was just one of the many things Casey had never bothered to wonder about. He had to turn the sedan around in the somewhat limited space of the parking lot, and it was embarrassing. There were quite a few people and cars around, all of them certainly thinking he was an idiot who didn't know how to drive — but finally settled in next to a pump, Casey put the car in park and turned the engine off. He was trembling slightly as he turned to his companion and said, "Thomas."

There was no answer.

"Thomas," he said again.

The man blinked and looked at him. "Yes, Mr. Casey," he said clearly.

"Thomas...I think you're beautiful..."

"But I am not, Treasure."

"...and I think you know a lot more than I do about a lot of things. Like being sick. You know a lot about it — like what it's called and why it makes you act the way you do. You know what to do about it, don't you? Please tell me you do, Thomas, because you're right about me. I don't really know sickness. I don't know what to do."

Thomas studied him at some length, without much expression. Casey waited and finally was rewarded with speech.

"Mr. Casey, I apologize with all my heart for the way that I grabbed you."

"It's okay — you didn't really hurt me. Just startled me."

"But I have hurt you. And I apologize for it. I must beg you to accept my apology and not protest. Just say you accept."

"I — it's okay, Thomas."

Thomas raised a brow while producing a wistful smile.

"Ah — apology accepted," Casey faltered.

"Thank you."

"But what about...?"

"What about my being sick? I do appreciate your concern, Mr. Casey. I am very appreciative."

"But Thomas — "

"Please, Mr. Casey. You were not wrong to speak as you did. You did it out of concern for me, but you should not be concerned for me. I may not seem quite right, I may seem sick but I don't like that word and I know that this has a purpose. I feel it come all over my body sometimes, like I'm staring right at the divine. It makes all the nerves stand up and I feel like I could do absolutely anything, it's such a wonderful feeling...I really miss it right now but I know it will come back. Do you understand?"

"No," Casey whispered.

Thomas gazed straight out the windshield and mumbled something.

"What?"

"Nothing, Mr. Casey." Thomas looked at him and smiled again, with a far- too- knowing quality. "You will not leave me, will you?"

"H-huh?"

"When we get out of this car. Will you stay with me?"

Well, he'd gone this far. Things couldn't get a whole heck of a lot worse if he stuck it out — and besides, Thomas was his friend, whatever Zeke might think. Thomas had listened to him and understood him like no one else had, and Thomas, of all people, had given him the compelling logic with which to defy Zeke about the aliens. He owed Thomas, alien or no. Perhaps if he stayed with him, he could figure out a way to help him.

"Yes," he said. "I'll go with you Portland."

Thomas smiled again, but again it was sad. "Mr. Casey, you are a true friend. Why don't you fill up the tank and I'll go in and pay?"

"Um..." He had never put gas in a car, but then again, how hard could it be? It would probably make Thomas feel a little safer this way, not to mention that he had no money. He hadn't even brought his wallet, he'd been so worked up when he left the apartment. "Okay."

He began to twist to get out of the car but a hand clapped down on his shoulder stopped him. It was a warm, meaty grip, communicating nothing but friendship and this time Casey endured it.

"I want you to know this, Mr. Casey," Thomas said, very solemn. "You are a very powerful creature."

"Um..."

"I mean it. You are powerful and you are all right. Don't forget it. You have nothing to fear from the likes of us."

"I don't feel all right," Casey said.

Thomas nodded. "I know. I must think of a way to show you." He finally removed his hand, opening his door. "Would you like anything from the store?"

Casey noticed how dry his throat was. "A soda, please...something without caffeine."

"One soda," Thomas said agreeably. "No caffeine."

While Thomas made his long-legged way across the lot, Casey addressed himself to the problem of putting gas in the car. It turned out that the management had very kindly left full instructions. He selected "pay inside", then lifted the nozzle for the regular gas and flicked up the latch. At that point he had to struggle with the gas cap for a bit, having not removed it before he started. He made a mental note of that for next time. Finally, it was with some disbelief that he saw the numbers on the pump begin to climb, after having placed the nozzle in the pipe and depressed the button. It actually worked.

His next, overriding worry was that the gas would overflow, so he watched it carefully. To his relief, it tried to shut itself off, presumably a warning the tank was full. He tapped the nozzle on the edge of the pipe's throat to catch any drips, pulled the latch into the off position and resettled the nozzle in its little home. The final step was replacing the gas cap and closing the cover.

Casey mopped his brow with a feeling of accomplishment. He supposed it had been obvious to anyone who was watching that it had been his first time. He looked around to see if anyone had been watching and was gratified to see no pointed fingers or smirks.

The display on the pump said he owed forty-eight dollars. Casey had had no idea that gas was so expensive. He'd heard his father and mother commiserating about it over the years, and had paid no attention. As for Zeke, he never seemed to notice the cost of anything.

Thomas came through the door from the store, holding what appeared to be a burrito or wrap of some sort, and two sodas in plastic bottles. As he eye travelled past Thomas, Casey saw the payphone affixed to the exterior of the building and wondered what Thomas would think about him calling home and if he might not loan Casey some quarters, seeing that he'd agreed to go to Portland with him. He dreaded talking to Zeke but perhaps his dad would be home by now, and his dad could call Yves and let her know that he was okay.

"Thomas," he said when his friend was in range. "That was my first time pumping gas."

"Really." Thomas didn't sound much interested. He glanced over his shoulder. "Let's get going."

"But I was thinking that maybe I should — "

"Hey!"

The shout came from the building, and Casey reflexively looked over. There was a tall, pear-shaped man in a clerk's apron. "You didn't pay for that!" he shouted. "Stop!"

It didn't immediately occur to Casey that the man was talking to them, not until Thomas opened the passenger side door and threw the food and drinks inside, ordering, "Get in the car!"

"Wh-what — " Casey stammered. The clerk was approaching at rapid speed.

Thomas growled, "Get in the car now!"

Casey stared at him and said the only words that came to him. "You didn't have any money?"

"Get in the damned car!"

"No," Casey refused, without giving it a moment's thought. In his world, you didn't disobey the authorities, even if they wore an apron and had only a citizen's powers of arrest. This guy was well within his rights to insist on payment.

With a feral snarl, Thomas came barreling around the hood of the car. Casey started to back up but he didn't move fast enough. Thomas shoved him hard and he tripped on the cement curb and fell back into the gas pump, banging his head on the hard plastic and grinding his hip into the hard surface at the same time. Moments later, the sedan tore out of the lot, leaving Casey behind.

The clerk bore down upon him in the next instant, now with significant crowd support. Hands were laid upon him and that was the last thing he could consciously interpret. He knew he was fighting, screaming, and eventually sobbing with hard, wet asphalt against his cheek, and his whole body immobilized, pinned against hardness on all sides. There was a blur of conversation, argument perhaps. There were voices, both male and female and he was lost again. He was trapped and so far beyond the ability to do anything for himself, there was no yes or no, there was nothing to protest for or on behalf of it.

At some point, he opened his eyes. He was in a room filled with boxes of merchandise — Hershey's and Lay's and Coca Cola and other, similar names, were everywhere. There was a small, cheap desk covered in paper, a single chair, and he was lying on the cement floor next to the desk with something — someone's coat over him. He sat up slowly, his body aching and stiff, and saw the pear-shaped clerk standing above him.

"The police are here," the clerk said, sounding anything but friendly. In fact, he was gloating.

Casey tried to get on his feet and gave up when everything spun and twisted about, including his stomach. Putting his back to the wall, he held onto it with both hands and closed his eyes. The last thing he needed was to start crying or to throw up — doomed or not.

"...and the other guy took off but I can tell you it was a red Oldsmobile and I grabbed the licence plate! I told the lady on the switchboard, you got it right?" the clerk finished triumphantly, leading two uniformed figures into the stock room. Pointing at Casey, the clerk declared, "And this here's the accomplice!"

The two cops gave Casey their professional assessment while he blinked back, continuing to fight tears. One of the cops was a younger woman, petite and definitely not the stereotype of law enforcement. The other was an older man who appeared to have eaten a lot of doughnuts.

"He filled the tank while buddy was inside, getting lunch," accused the clerk.

"I didn't know..." Casey croaked.

"Why is he on the floor?" asked the female officer.

"He resisted arrest," the clerk answered. "I was just gonna bring him inside but he freaked out and it took five of us to control him. He's nuts if you ask me, after we pinned him he was all shivering and moaning so we put him in here. I thought we better cover him, you know? I don't want to get sued. I heard a story about a thief who breaks into someone's house and hurts himself and then he sues!" The clerk appealed to the police officers with a wide, appalled grin, and when he failed to receive vindication, he became more subdued. "Anyway. He resisted arrest."

The older cop said, "He hasn't been arrested yet, Mr...?"

"Berringer. Sam Berringer."

The cop nodded, making a note of it. "And if you could perhaps go with my partner, she'll take your statement."

"Did you get that licence plate number? I told the lady on the phone..."

"Yes, Mr. Berringer, we got it and we are looking for the car. Now, I'm going to talk to this accomplice you caught."

The male cop and his partner exchanged a look and a nod, and the woman led the clerk out of the storage area while the other police officer approached Casey "I'm Officer Williams," he said. Removing his identification from his pocket, he squatted and displayed it to Casey. "Would you like to get up off the floor?"

Casey did want to, mostly because complying was what you did when cops asked you a question, but his stomach was still churning dangerously. He slid his way up a little bit, keeping his back to the wall to brace himself, and gave up when his gut lurched. He sank back down with a shake of his head.

"Would you like to sit then?"

There was one chair only, and Casey didn't want it. Or he did, but he was afraid to move and didn't have the words to explain himself.

"All right, then." Officer Williams settled on top of the desk, grunting with discomfort. He flipped open his notebook and said, "How about telling me your name?"

Casey wasn't sure about that but he was certain of about twenty other things all at once and barely able to put any of them into a coherent form but somewhere amongst all the junk were the words jail and hospital, and he was sure that the man would somehow identify him as that Casey Connor, Wanted for Lunacy and All-Around Slutty Behaviour.

"I'm not arresting you just yet," Officer William told him. "In case you were wondering."

He had to be smarter here. He had to think, function...he had to be like Zeke. BelikeZeke. No matter how much stress he was under, if he felt weak and cold and his nerves were prickling all over his body, Zeke would always perform. BelikeZeke.

"I...I'd like to s-sit," Casey stuttered. He really didn't like the floor, especially when he was so vulnerable to everyone else here. "In th-the...chair."

"All right."

The officer deployed a hand. Casey looked it over and then grasped it, using it to get upright — whereupon he lost to the nausea. He threw up, not quite missing the cop's feet.

"Oops!" the cop exclaimed, and added after a moment, "Ugh! Dang it all!" He grabbed some industrial brown napkins from a shelf and swiped at his shoes.

Meanwhile, the clerk and the other cop had shown up. "Oh, hell, no!" the clerk lamented. "I'm not cleaning that!"

"Oh, no?" asked the female cop. "It's not part of my duties, I know that."

"What about him — ?" The clerk glared at Casey for a second then kicked the door. "Damn."

Cursing, he went to fetch the nearest mop, while Officer William eased Casey into the plastic chair; he grabbed another napkin and offered it to Casey. Casey wiped his mouth and tried to stop his hand from shaking.

"He might have a concussion," the female cop suggested matter-of-factly.

"Did you hit your head?" Williams asked Casey.

There had been that painful contact with the gas pump, but Casey didn't think it had done any real damage. He shook his head. "I just...when I get nervous," he said.

Well within earshot, the clerk snorted and did his business with the mop.

"Can I have a drink?" Casey asked.

"I'll bet you'd like a free meal while you're at it," the clerk grumbled.

"Mr. Berringer, if you'll fetch a soda for him, please," Williams said, eyes neutral on Casey. "I'll pay for it."

Muttering, Berringer went to retrieve a soda. He brought back a Coke and slapped it into Casey's hand much harder than necessary. Casey thought it best that he not mention how he wasn't supposed to have things with caffeine. He cracked it open and took a drink, washing away the bitter-vomit taste.

When finally the clerk and the female cop had left the stock room, Williams requested, "Now would you like to tell me your name?"

"Casey Connor."

"And where do you live?"

"Two-fifty-two...Colorado S-street."

"Have you been doing some drugs today, Mr. Connor?"

"No!"

"Hmm. How about alcohol?"

"No...I, um...I take medications...not supposed to drink. And I don't really want to anyway."

"Okay. What medications do you take?"

"Paxil and Klonopin."

"I see." Casey watched for some judgment and saw none, no reaction at all. "So, Mr. Connor. Would you like to tell me what happened?"

Casey hugged his chest, the better to hold himself together, and said, "Aren't you supposed to read me my rights first or something?"

"If I was arresting you, yeah. This is off the record right now."

"Oh." Taking a deep breath, Casey made himself speak. There was no Zeke here now, no Sasha. Only he could get himself out of this shit pile. "I don't know where to start."

"Well, how about we start with who's the other man."

"Thomas...Kirton. That's what he said at least."

"You don't know?"

"He's just this guy I would run into around my neighbourhood. We would talk and stuff...I think he's..." Casey bit his lip.

"He's what?"

"Officer...Williams... he's a real nice guy, I swear. He was always nice to me, he's just sick and down on his luck. I thought...well, lately he's looked so rough, we — I thought he was homeless."

"How did you end up with him in a stolen car?"

"S-stolen?"

"You didn't know."

"No."

"A guy is homeless and then he's suddenly driving around in an Olds but you didn't think anything of it?"

"I did ask him. He said his dad sent him some money."

"Hmm. Well, as it turns out the car was stolen from a repo lot last Thursday."

Oh, shit, oh god. Casey supposed it wasn't a good idea to begin his tenure as a convicted felon by crying, but there didn't seem to be much else he could do. He was fucked. So very fucked. "Am I going to jail?" he whispered.

"Did you help him steal it?"

"No...definitely...no. I didn't know it was stolen, I was only in it for twenty minutes, I swear..."

"Okay, Mr. Connor. So what happened here then?"

Casey envisioned himself happily filling up the gas tank, congratulating himself on his success, and for some moments he harboured the thought of lying because he really had done it. He was a thief of forty-eight dollars worth of gas. He hadn't known that he was doing it but suppose this cop didn't believe him or the law said he was an accomplice no matter if he knew or not —

"Mr. Connor?" the cop prompted.

It was time to use his biggest weapons, cheap theatrics as Thomas had said and sneered but it was time no matter how ignoble it was. Casey opened his eyes up as wide as he could get them and turned on the angst lamp. "I didn't know," he said, not in a large voice but careful to be audible all the same. If he overplayed it the cop would just get frustrated.

Officer Williams held his gaze for a few seconds longer than the norm before saying, apparently unaffected, "You didn't know what?"

Casey thought about trying to touch the man's hand, decided against it. Instinct said this was a decent man, not to mention straight. Williams wouldn't want a suggestion of bribery no matter how subtle. Casey merely replied, "That he didn't have any money. He said he would go in and pay while I filled up the tank." It was no challenge to manufacture a few tears though, given that his triumph at the gas tank had all been a sham and all his friends were mad at him, or soon would be. They would hate him.

Officer Williams looked at him solemnly, tapping his pen on his notepad. "Casey."

"Yes, officer?"

"You can tell me the truth."

"I am!" he protested and a few more tears squeezed out quite involuntarily. "I've never done anything illegal, never..." If you don't count destruction of school property and xenocide "When I realized...I couldn't believe it, I know I sound stupid."

"You don't sound stupid." Williams put down his gear for a moment. "You do seem to be trying to sell me something, though."

"Just the truth."

"Then tell me. Talk to me."

Panic was rising. Casey had already been talking and he didn't know what else to do, and if there was nothing else to do, nothing to fall back on, then he was fucked, or maybe this guy had already recognized him or learned on his radio about him just like he'd discovered the car was stolen, Casey Connor had to be in those computers, he had to be, that weird, spaced out kid from Ohio who had been questioned in connection with three disappearances of three women... Oh, fuck he could see it now, hear it now coming over the radio from headquarters...

"I didn't know," he babbled. "I didn't know, I didn't know, I thought...I...I..."

"There's no need to get upset, Mr. Connor."

"He said get in the car and I said no, I didn't want to..."

Williams leaned in closer. "What's that? Tell me again...slowly."

"He c-came out with a soda — two sodas, one for me because I asked him — "

"Slowly."

Casey sucked air. "He had the two sodas and a burrito or something. I think...sir, he's not a bad person, please. I think he's sick and he's been on the street. He was probably hungry."

"Mm hmm."

"That guy — Sam — he came out and said, ‘you didn't pay for that' and then Thomas panicked. He told me to get in and I said no. I — I never really wanted to go with him in the first place."

"How's that?"

"I just wanted to talk to him for a minute but he drove away and wouldn't stop to let me out."

"Are you saying he was holding you against your will?"

"Not exactly."

"Not exactly?"

"I...I knew