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Wiseguy

"Green-eyed Monster"
by Suz

1991

The weight of Vinnie's six-foot-three, two hundred and thirty pound frame dropping into my arms, in combination with the realization that there're more bullets where that one came from, send me pitching forward onto the porch floor with him. Swearing, praying, I roll off Vince, catching him under the arms, and drag him inside, slamming the door on the nightmare that's just erupted outside. A second shot smashes the window that makes up the top third of the front door, and I shield Vince's face from the shattering glass, feeling it slide off the back of my leather jacket, tinkling onto the floor with a surreal musical quality. There's blood everywhere. Goddammit, goddammit, godDAMMit!

"Vince!" I hiss, staring into his open and glazing eyes. "Don't you dare die on me, you goddamned motherfucker!" Blood wells out of his mouth, and only the faint throb of a pulse along the side of his neck tells me he's still alive. A third shot echoes mutedly outside, and reflex sends me dropping to the floor alongside my lover as the wood in the center panel of the front door splinters inward. I hear the dull thud of the bullet lodging in the plaster-lath wall behind me, and I raise my head to peer around for the nearest phone. It's on the end table next to the couch in the little livingroom. and I scuttle crab-wise across the floor to seize the receiver, then dial Lifeguard's number from memory. "Vinnie's been shot," I snarl, two words into his greeting. "Get McPike and an ambulance to his house, now!" And I slam the phone back into the cradle and slide across the floor back to where he lies, chest barely moving with the shallow breaths he draws. A fourth shot, different than the other three, rings out over this middleclass Brooklyn neighborhood with a reverberation like a church bell, and I recognize it as a handgun, as opposed to the rifle shots that started the whole thing. I spare about a third of a second to wonder why the shooter... Tess... switched guns before Vinnie's condition grabs all my attention.

Medicine is most emphatically not my field, but any idiot could see this is probably a fatal wound. The blood smeared on the floor along the path I dragged him confirms that the bullet went right through his side, back to front, the exit wound under his right front ribcage big and bloody. Chunks and gobbets of things I have no desire to name clot the wound itself as well as the perimeter, and blood continues to flow slowly from it, spreading in a grizzly red tide over his chest and side, soaking into the waistband of his sweats. I look down at my hands, stained with his life's blood, and realize I'm covered in it, my own waist crimson from ribs to navel. It's not until I pull my shirt away from the skin and see the ragged tear through the fabric that I figure out some of it is mine. The bullet that hit Vince is lodged somewhere in my guts, and my own blood oozes out to mingle with his. That's when the pain starts. It amazes me, in a detached and analytical way, red-hot daggers lancing along the nerves in my belly. In the distance, I hear sirens, and the thought that flickers through my brain as I slump cross-legged to the floor next to Vinnie is 'thank god for the neighborhood watch'. I gather Vince's dark head into my lap, trying hard to keep my vision focused, to block out the accompanying realization that the kiss he was a split second from laying on me had probably been witnessed by every old biddy for two blocks. So wasn't that what you wanted, Lococco? I ask myself. Yeah, but it wasn't supposed to end like this, with both of us bleeding to death on the floor of Vinnie's little house, god-fucking-dammit! It was supposed to end in bed, with his naked body warm against mine, while I formalized my apology for being such a raging prick the night before by being a raging prick in bed.

*****

Pain thrums through me, the physical blurring into the mental and emotional agony of the fear that I am seconds from losing the one human being on the planet I can unequivocally say I love. I run my hands through Vinnie's hair, the dark silk of it sticking to my bloody fingers. Stay with me, I plead with him in a silent scream. "Vince, hold on. McPike is on the way," I reassure him, not even sure if he can hear me at this point. There's no answering flicker in his darkening eyes, and I can see he's going into shock. So am I, if the shivers that tremor my muscles are any clue, and I grit my teeth against their chattering as I wait helplessly for the cavalry to ride into range.

I can hear McPike's worry in his voice, his low tones not doing anything to disguise it, and I groan, trying to pry my eyes open against the weight of my eyelids, a nearly impossible task.

"Roger?" Frank queries, clearly not sure if I'm conscious or not. Neither am I, actually. My thinking is fuzzy to say the least. My brain feels like the synapses are immersed in syrup, every thought oozing along neural pathways like crude oil in January.

I still can't get my eyes open, so I opt for trying a grunt in response.

"Lococco, tell me what happened," he requests quietly. I know him well enough by now to hear the desperation in his voice.

I swallow, attempting to wet down the cotton fluff that coats the inside of my mouth, and try to make an articulate noise. "Tess," I manage, or hope I do.

"MacTavish was the shooter? You saw her?" he asks, confusion in his voice, now. That makes no sense to me in my current drugged state, and I struggle with it for a second, trying to make the piece of the puzzle fit what little I'm aware of. And in actuality, I don't know it. Not for sure. It's just the most likely scenario, under the circumstances.

I grunt again. "Probably," I say. Tess, excuse me, Theresa MacTavish, seduced me in a St. Croix bar and took me to bed to fuck my brains loose enough to give her a twenty on Vince, which, moron that I am, I did. And then, just to make sure the shit really hit the fan, I went racing off to New York to make sure he was okay, leading her straight to him. Tess MacTavish is - probably - a CIA assassin, more or less like I was, once upon a time. Why, exactly, she's after Vince is unclear, but there are at least three reasons I can think of, even in my current brain-dead state. Let's just say there's no love lost between the CIA and Vince Terranova, or me, either, for that matter. Both of us are probably on a termination list in that machiavellian brotherhood's computers somewhere.

"So why did the PD find a nickel-and-dime hired gun dead on the roof of the mini mart across the street from Vinnie's house?" he asks.

I'm hoping he doesn't expect an answer, because I'm not exactly up to theorizing right now. I groan as I attempt to open my eyes again, and this time I'm successful, though all things being equal, I wish I hadn't been, and I close them again against the overly bright lights of a hospital recovery room. I feel like I've been hit by a bus. In the solar plexus. It's another minute or two before I remember why I'm in a hospital in the first place, not that it offers much comfort. Frank is maundering on, and I'm only catching about one word in three, most of my limited faculties tied up in wondering whether Vince is still alive. "Vince?" I mumble, hoping I can get the word in edgewise as I open my eyes again, trying to bring Frank into focus.

"Still in surgery," Is McPike's grim answer. "They're not very optimistic about his chances." There's a pause as he decides whether to chew me out on the spot, or wait till I can defend myself. Not surprisingly, he starts in on me. "What were the two of you doing at Vince's house? I thought I told you not to set foot outside the hotel unless you cleared it with me first." I can tell from the knots in his jaw and the tension in his voice he's trying not to yell, but the acrimony comes through loud and clear.

"Argued," I give him the shorthand, not having the energy to go into detail.

"About what, goddammit?!" he glares at me. "I swear, Lococco, I don't know what the hell Vinnie sees in you!"

That makes both of us, I think hazily. But whatever it is, please, god, let him go on seeing it. Because losing him now will kill me. I take a slow breath, trying to squelch the self-recrimination that percolates through my thoughts. Logically, I know what happened was probably at least as much about Vince as it was about me, but it doesn't make it any easier, knowing that Tess-the-wonder-woman may very well have taken us both out of the picture permanently. "Lover's quarrel," I tell McPike, honestly enough, as it happens. His sour expression says he thinks I'm being my usual sarcastic self, and I don't disabuse him of the illusion. It does confirm for me that Vince hasn't gotten around to telling his former boss and closest buddy that our... friendship... is a little more than that, now. I'm not exactly sure how it happened, and I'm not exactly sure what it means, as far as sex in general is concerned, but Vince and I started sleeping together when he recovered from his stay as a guest of a cadre of Salvadoran terrorists. I was the one who dragged him back from the jungles, and I'd be willing to bet there was a certain element of obligation in it, or there was at first, but that's not what it is now. I can't say exactly what it is now, because I've never experienced anything like it before.

In case there's any question, I'm a dyed in the wool homophobe who suddenly finds himself with a male lover I can't seem to get enough of. Go figure. It makes for a shaky self-image, let me tell you. That's what we fought about, actually. I was busy having a crisis when I found out just how much I want something that's scared the bejezus out of me since my days as a Marine, and I chickened out and told Vince to get lost. Damn if he didn't do just that, and now I may lose him for real. Permanently. It's one of those things I can't bear thinking about, but I can't pry my feeble brain away from the black hole the prospect of Vinnie's death threatens to create in my soul. My thoughts orbit around that menace, trapped in its gravity well.

"Roger," Frank interrupts my brooding, and I get the impression from his tone that he's on the third or fourth repetition of my name. He goes on when he realizes he has my attention again. "We still don't have anything more on the MacTavish woman. What makes you so sure she's the Mata Hari type?"

"Instinct," I answer hoarsely. "I've played the game a long time, Frank. I know talent when I see it." Of course the fact that I didn't catch on until it was too late gives me an idea how good she is. Contrary to what you may be thinking, I'm not particularly stupid. My ability to spot trouble is generally reliable, even when I lead with my prick, the way I did with Tess. But she bluffed me completely. Maybe being in love has weakened my brain.

"That's enough, Mr. McPike," comes an authoritarian voice from somewhere outside my limited field of vision. "Mr. Lococco needs rest, not an interrogation."

Frank's scowl is eloquent, but he acquiesces, and reluctantly leaves the room. I close my eyes again, ignoring the rustle and bustle of the medical-type who's fiddling with the monitors and IV lines. I'm asleep again before they finish, blackness washing over me like a tide, and I sink gratefully into that oblivion.

When I wake again, the pain radiating through my gut pulses and burns like a nuclear reactor. It's been a long time since I've been shot up this bad, but it's happened often enough in the course of my career, both as a Marine in Special Forces, and then as an agent for the CIA, that I can gauge the severity of the injury by the amount of pain I'm in. Part of me embraces it as a penance of the most basic variety for letting myself get sloppy with my advancing age. But most of me wishes it would fade to a dull roar so I could at least try to go back to sleep. I lie there in the dark behind my eyelids, wondering how Vince is doing, whether he's made it through surgery, and I plan to bribe someone to make sure we end up in the same room, whatever it takes. Hell, thanks to Mel's millions, I've grown a fortune big enough for me to buy the freaking hospital if I have to in order to get my way. It's several minutes before I realize I'm not alone in my room, and I open my eyes to see Vinnie's Lifeguard slouched in an uncomfortable-looking chair, one elbow on the armrest, head propped in his hand, dozing. I stir deliberately, wondering if it'll wake him, then wish I hadn't moved when pain stabs through me with new vengeance. It's the groan that wakes him up, and he blinks at me, shifting in his chair to ease the pressure of his prostheses.

"Lococco?" He eyes me, straightening and running a hand through his mane. Dan Burroughs is another one of Vinnie's fans, one of those people who fell under the Terranova spell early on and doesn't seem to have found cause to regret it.

"Nugah," I groan, and swallow to wet my throat. "Vince?" I ask. The only subject either of us is interested in.

He looks away, a bad sign if ever there was one. "Not good," he tells me. "How 'bout you?" he asks, looking back at me, and the genuine concern in his expression startles me. I hadn't figured on inheriting Vinnie's friends along with my friendship with him, but Dan doesn't seem to have gotten the memo.

"Peachy," I snap. "What's wrong with me?"

He shrugs. "I'm not a doctor," he states the obvious, "but what they told me was that the bullet that tore Vinnie open hit you coming out, and ripped your intestines all to hell. You were in surgery for four hours while they patched you up. They think you'll be fine, but you're not going to be dining out at 'le Cirque' for a while. You'll be lucky if they give you anything besides Jell-O for the next week or two."

"Oh, joy." I go silent for a minute while I decide whether I want to know how seriously off Vince is. "How bad is it?" I ask eventually, bracing myself. He knows I've switched subjects again.

Dan sighs. "They don't know. He made it through the surgery, but he's still not conscious. The Docs told us that he took six pints of blood, and that he's lost part of his spleen, a chunk of his liver, and there's damage to one of his kidneys, not to mention that he'll be on the same diet you are if he wakes up any time soon."

Shit. "What are his odds?" I ask next.

"Crappy," Burroughs answers. "They don't figure he'll make it through the night. If he does, he still has to make it through another surgery to fix the kidney damage. They didn't want to keep him on the table any longer, 'cause he was reacting to the anesthesia, and they were afraid he wasn't strong enough for them to do it all, right then."

If I wasn't drugged to the eyeballs right now, I'd be fighting my way out of bed to try and find him. Dan can see it in my face, and he rests a hand on my shoulder, the weight enough to keep me pinned. "You're not in much better shape, right now," he chastises me, and I snarl silently at him.

"I thought you said I was fine," I demand.

He looks at me for a second. "You feel fine?" he asks sarcastically, waiting for me to get a hold of myself.

"Put me in his room," I say in the voice I developed while I worked for Mel, the one people instinctively know means 'don't mess with me, just do it'. "I don't care what it costs, or whose ass you have to kiss, but get me in with him," I reiterate.

He watches me for a second, obviously wondering how serious I am.

"I mean it, Dan. I don't care if I have to spend every dime I have to build this place a new wing, or if I have to buy the damned place outright, just get me in to him!" I glare at him. "Now!"

Naturally nothing is simple. Vince is still in recovery, but eventually, Dan finds the right palms to cross with silver, and I'm promised that when they move him to intensive care, they'll put him in with me. By this time, exhaustion is making my head swim, or maybe it's the morphine, and I'm fading in and out of consciousness while my doctor, Burroughs and a hand-wringing hospital bureaucrat carry on a hushed conference in a corner of my room.

The end result is that I am suddenly treated a lot differently than I was before the revelation of the fact that I'm obscenely wealthy. They move me into a plush private room big enough for a family of five, and assure me that Vince will be joining me when he recovers from the anesthesia. If he recovers.

I can't keep my eyes open any longer, and I drift back into the featureless darkness of unconsciousness.

The next time I wake up, sunlight is streaming in the big plate glass windows of my hospital room and some of the fire in my insides has been banked. At least as long as I stay still, I realize, when I try to sit up. Bad decision. I lie there panting and staring at the ceiling for a good ten minutes before the idea of turning my head doesn't make me nauseous. It's not until the roaring in my ears dies down that I hear the quiet beep of a monitor that doesn't match the rhythm of my heartbeat. Vince. Please god, let it be Vince, I think as I turn my head slowly on the pillow and catch sight of my friend and lover lying on a hospital be six feet from me.

I can barely see him under the oxygen mask and the tubing that festoons his bedside, hooking him up to a frightening array of equipment. But what I can see is not in any way reassuring. He looks corpse-like, lying there, his skin colorless and pasty, and his breathing rattles in his chest, what I can hear of it through the susurration of the oxygen pumps. He looks as though he's already vacated the tattered premises of his body. It may be one of the most terrifying things I've ever seen in my life. It's like stumbling into some scene from a horror movie, and I can hear the beep of my own heart monitor accelerate as adrenaline hits my bloodstream.

Everything in me wants to touch him, to hold him, and I clench my teeth and force myself into an upright position. For all the good it does me. Blood rushes out of my head and I topple sideways off my bed, tearing the IV free of my arm, and wrenching lose the Foley catheter threaded up my prick like a knitting needle as I land on the floor. Scarlet trickles down my forearm and I figure, what's a little more blood, at this point? I grip the IV puncture site with my other hand and wait till the bleeding stops, then peel off the heart monitors' sensor pads, ignoring the shrieking alarms, and stagger first to my knees, then to my feet. I'm at Vinnie's bedside by the time the nurse comes pelting in, in response to the sudden ruckus from my monitors.

"Mr. Lococco! What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demands, grabbing me by a shoulder and trying to frog march me back to bed. My grip on Vinnie's bed rail steadies me, and he's leery of using the physical force necessary to move me, since I am admittedly fragile at the moment.

"Move my bed closer to his," I demand, beyond the point of being rational, much less polite.

"Mr Lococco, there has to be room to place equipment around your beds," he protests with audible frustration.

I glare at him, and he glares back, then exits the room, presumably for reinforcements.

It takes an hour and a shouting match between Frank McPike and one of the hospital administrators, but I get my way. I'm back in my bed, now at right angles to Vinnie's, our heads a few feet from each other. The local anesthesia they used on me to reinsert the catheter up my dick has worn off, and that little misery adds itself to the general pain that pulses along my nerves with a beat like a mariachi band. The morphine drip they stuck back in my arm, the other one, this time, since I blew the vein big time, isn't making much of a dent in it. I can't say I'm sorry, either. Stupidity should hurt. Particularly when it may cost me a life a whole lot dearer to me than my own.

I roll onto my uninjured side to face Vinnie's bed, just watching him, counting every breath he takes as a small victory. I reach across the gap that separates us and stroke his hair away from his forehead, memorizing the texture of it, its thick darkness so unlike my own unruly not-quite-red waves. Vince has been trying to convince me to grow mine longer, claiming to like its coarseness. I think he just likes the fact that it tends to make me look like a kid. "Vinnie, sweet thing, I'm not going to let you leave me alone in this place," I warn him. I go on talking to him, not caring if he can hear me or not, needing to hear the sound of a voice, even my own. It's a long time before enough morphine accumulates in my system to put me to sleep.

****

I only wish it could have been permanently, when I wake up to agony screaming along every nerve. Okay, so maybe the morphine did make a difference after all, I'm forced to admit. I lie there on my back, breathing shallowly through my mouth and it finally dawns on me that Vince isn't in his bed. And panic sets in. I've got the nurses' call button in a death grip and when one finally show up, I launch into her without preamble. "Where the hell is my partner?!" I demand.

"Calm down Mr. Lococco," she croons in her most soothing monotone. "Mr. Terranova is in surgery to repair the damage to his kidney."

I don't know whether this is good or bad, and I glare at her until she elaborates.

"His blood pressure was dropping and his electrolyte balance was unstable, so the doctors decided he'd be better off if they worked on him now, instead of waiting until later," she says, knowing that this little bombshell is likely to set me off again.

I struggle successfully with my temper, and I see her relief. It sure hasn't taken me long to earn a reputation around here. "How long ago'd he go into surgery?" I ask.

"About two hours. They should be finishing up with him shortly, then he'll be in recovery until the anesthesia wears off. We'll bring him back when he's woken up again," she reassures me.

I get her to go check on how he's doing, and when she comes back fifteen minutes later, she's all smiles. "He came through beautifully," she tells me and I relax for the first time since I woke up. She messes with the paraphernalia around my bed and then zaps me with another dose of morphine. I can feel it hit my bloodstream within ninety seconds and the edge finally gets blunted between me and the pain of reality. I consider the queasiness it brings with it a fair trade for the pain relief. She leaves, and I doze in my fuzzy drug cocoon, waiting for Vince.

When I wake up this time, almost half a day later, he's back beside me where he belongs, and he actually looks better than he did when I saw him last. "Hey, Buckwheat," I greet his apparently unconscious presence. "Glad you could join me here in this paean to modern medicine," I say, waving my non-IV arm around graciously as I welcome him to my current domain.

He groans slightly, and I roll over to eye him.

"Beats the alternative," he mumbles, eyes still closed. "Geezus, I feel like shit."

"I'm not surprised, sweetheart, considering all the bits and pieces they had to remove to clean you up," I tell him, trying for sarcasm.

My elation must show in my voice, because he turns his head slightly to look at me with one partially open eye. "So what're you so cheerful about?" he asks irritably.

"The love of my life may just pull through after all," I grin, only I can see he realizes I'm serious, however teasing the tone. The tiny smile that flickers over his mouth makes me grin harder.

"I bet you say that to all the girls," he says, closing his eyes again.

"Nah, just the ones that look like Elvis," I answer lightly.

He laughs, then groans again as it triggers discomfort. "Cut that out," he scolds wearily, and I reach out for him again, stroking his hair, then chuck him lightly on the cheek.

"Go back to sleep, Prince Charming," I tell him, knowing the affection comes through loud and clear. And he does.

"Hey, Rog?" comes the groggy inquiry, twelve hours later.

"Hmm?" I mumble back, barely awake.

"How 'come we're in the same room?" he wants to know.

"I twisted a few arms," I tell him, yawning. It must be the middle of the night. My time sense has been decidedly skewed, what with all the drugs I've been given. I'm sleeping and waking at random intervals, regardless of what time of day it actually is. "I wanted to keep an eye on you," I add.

"Don't trust me?" he asks, and I can hear his amusement.

"Not as far as I can throw you, Buckwheat. Some pretty little nurse gives you a sponge bath, and you're gonna be all over her. I have my interests to protect."

"I didn't know you were the jealous type," he says, and the laughter is plain in his tone.

"I didn't, either," I reply dryly.

Silence descends between us, companionable, unthreatening. I'm almost back asleep when he speaks up again.

"Roger?"

"Yeah?" I can barely manage the word, I'm so dopey.

"You okay?"

I sigh. "I'm just here to keep you company, Buckwheat," I tell him. "You took the worst of it. We weren't sure if you were going to pull through or not."

"You think it was the MacTavish woman?" he wants to know.

"Tess. Her name is Tess. You sound like Frank when you call her 'the MacTavish woman'," I complain. It sounds peevish even to me.

He's quiet for a second. "Maybe I'm the one who should be jealous," he says eventually, something strange in the inflection.

Suddenly I'm awake again, and I open my eyes to the dimness of our shared hospital room, listening to the steady beat of monitors, the glow of their displays providing the only illumination. I think about it. Tess. Tess of the red-gold hair, the sweet, sweet body, the hot, wet tightness of her as she gloved me. And I can't believe I'm lying here with who knows how many stitches in my guts getting intensely turned on by the memory of fucking a woman who just tried to kill me, and worse, Vince. "Maybe you should, at that," I confess.

Vince is quiet, and I wonder if he's going to continue the conversation.

"Tell me about her," he requests, the strange quality still in his voice.

"Vinnie, I don't know anything about her," I protest, annoyed.

"I'm not talking vital statistics, Rog. Tell me what she made you feel. Tell me what you talked about. Tell me about her," he reiterates.

"There's something about her..." I say, not sure exactly what it is he wants to know. And then it hits me. "She reminds me a little of you," I say.

"Huh? How so?" he asks, mystified.

"Same cocky tough-guy attitude... And the same careful observer underneath it all. She asked if we were sleeping together," I say.

"What'd you tell her?" he prods when I don't go on.

"I told her the truth," I snap, then sigh. "I told her yes. That it just kind of... happened." I lie in the dark, staring at the invisible ceiling, thinking about it. "I'm still not even sure why it did."

"Because you wanted it to. We both did. Because we needed to be touched. To touch each other. And I needed to know why you came after me in El Salvador. Because I owe you. Because I love you. Because you're my friend."

The odd tone of voice is still there, and I turn my head to look at him, even though he's barely visible in the gloom. "Why'd you come to my bed that night?" I ask him quietly.

It's his turn to sigh. "Because I've wondered what it'd be like to... be... with you since that first day we met. Remember those Finnish blondes?" he prompts, and I hear the fondness of the memory. "I never did get why you invited me to party with you and the girls," he goes on. "But I wondered what kind of man'd invite a Jersey hood back to his rooms for a game of hide-the-salami with a trio like that, when he coulda kept 'em all to himself."

"The kind who wanted to see how you'd handle yourself, not to mention the girls. You can tell a lot about a potential employee by watching them in the sack," I inform him bluntly, my voice ironic.

"I figured it might be an audition," he says, the grin back in his voice. "So how'd I do?"

"You got the job, didn't you?" I remind him.

This time the laughter is audible. "Maybe that's why I liked you. You remind me of Sonny."

Sonny. Sonny Steelgrave. The Atlantic City cappo who started Vinnie's OCB career off with the biggest FBI collar in years. The man he first fell in love with, then betrayed. "How so?" I ask, feeling jealousy of my own.

He thinks about it for a minute. "You'd have liked him, even if you're crazier than he was," Vince comments. "You're both... I dunno, larger than life, or something. Sonny... Sonny would've done anything for me, by the end. And I'd have done anything for him. Except let him walk. And now I don't know why I didn't just let him. I coulda let him go, coulda helped him. Coulda done something... anything." I can hear the old grief in his voice, grief he still can't let go of. "So then you came along, and when you turned out to be a white hat, well, okay, maybe a gray one, I wasn't gonna let you get sucked under by the same riptide."

"I've never understood what it was that made you come after me. Take the risk I wouldn't kill you, or McPike, when you tracked me down in Stockton."

"Because I couldn't let you go ever that edge. Not if the truth meant anything to you." He continues after a heartbeat or two. "I saw the way you looked in that hotel elevator," he says. "You know, when we were in New York with Mel to meet with don Aiuppo? And the Marine color guard walked in? Man, you looked like someone had just kicked you in the gut. I didn't really get why till later."

Oh, Vinnie, you don't know the half of it... "I was about a half a second from shoving a knife between your ribs when they walked onto the elevator," I say flatly, trying to keep the self-hatred out of my voice. "Herb had just ordered me to kill you."

That silences him.

I continue. "All I could think about, seeing them in their dress blues, was, 'I can't kill Vince. He's a cop. He's my friend. This isn't part of my oath as a Marine.' I swear, I went straight to the phone and told Herb that if he sent anyone else after you, did anything to you behind my back? I'd kill him. Slowly." I wait for him to say something.

It takes a while. "Would you have? Killed him, I mean, if he'd sent someone to... you know...?"

"In a New York minute," I state emphatically. "I'd been looking for reasons to carve him up and feed him to the lions for years, Vince. It wasn't the smoothest of working relationships. Particularly not after you wandered into the middle of things."

He thinks about this, and I wonder what's going through his mind.

"Rog, can I ask you something?"

Anything. "Yeah," I say instead.

"Why'd you decide you wanted to... wanted me?" I can tell he's watching me in the dark, trying to see my reaction.

"I didn't decide, Vince. It just fucking happened. When I was looking for you, trying to find a way to get you out of Central America, I started having these... dreams about you. It's not like I'd've done anything about it, if you hadn't walked into my bedroom a month ago, but when you did, there wasn't a chance in hell I'd be able to turn you away. Don't ask me to explain it, don't ask me to justify it, I can't. But when Frank came to me to ask me to find you, I knew I'd have to. Because I need you. In all your primordial glory," I say, quoting Mel Profitt's comments over Vince's hospital bed four years before, though he won't know it. "It scares me, needing someone, anyone, like this. Especially another guy," I add, knowing he'll hear the self-mockery. He has no idea how much it scares me. "Love like this is so far out of my realm of experience, I might as well be on the moon. And if I start thinking about it, I start freaking out. Better to just go with the feelings, because what I feel when I'm with you is that maybe the world is alright. Maybe I am. And that's a whole new thing for me, too. The idea that I might be okay. That I'm not just taking up space on the planet. That maybe my life means something to someone, beyond just using it for their own ends." I try and keep the emotion out of my voice, try to keep it level, try to downplay the desperation I feel, praying he understands what I'm telling him.

"Rog." The single word is soft, filled with the same grief I heard when he spoke Sonny's name. "Your life isn't meaningless. Not to me. Not ever. And not to any of the men whose lives you've saved."

And I'd give anything to be able to see him, hell, to hold him, right now. God help me. I reach out towards his hand, extended into the dim void between our beds, and we catch hold of each other, thumbs interlocked, fingers curled around each other's palms, the gesture one of fraternity, one of respect, of unutterable affection.

We touch in the dark, brothers, lovers, friends, all of those things new to me, and cherished beyond gold.

"You didn't tell me about Tess," he says into the comfortable silence after a while. "How'd she get past that radar of yours?"

I snort ironically. "What radar? She played me like a deck of cards, Vince. I folded. I spilled my guts to her about you, about us, about everything, like a total rookie. And here we are, on the receiving end of her expertise with wet work."

"What expertise?" he says, laughing. "We're still alive. How do you know she's the one who shot us?"

"You've gotta admit she's the most likely suspect," I say sarcastically.

"Maybe, but there're plenty of other possibilities out there. I say we let Frank do some detective work before we pin the blame on your girlfriend."

"She's not my girlfriend," I snap irritably, and Vinnie laughs.

"Maybe not yet, but she's perfect for you. You need someone who can beat you at your own game," he teases me.

"You haven't even met her and you're playing matchmaker. I thought that's what I had you for. To keep me in my place." I keep my voice light, but the subject is starting to make me antsy. "You're the one who's all gung-ho to do the wife and family thing, Buckwheat," I remind him, hoping to change the focus of the conversation.

"I hate to break it to you," he begins, thumb stroking my wrist, "but any woman who takes me on, takes you on, too. I've already started my family."

I'm stunned speechless for a heartbeat at the straightforward commitment, without a clue how to reply. I settle for irony, my standard fall-back position. "In that case, sweet thing, I suspect you're going to have an uphill battle on your hands. No woman in her right mind is going to want to set up housekeeping with me."

"Then we'll just have to find one in her wrong mind, huh?" he says, that thumb doing things to my libido that shock me, given our physical injuries.

"How the hell do you do that?" I ask, dazedly.

"Do what?" he queries, all innocence and disingenuity, his thumb stroking lightly over the bones of my wrist, over the skin just above the palm, unbelievably erotic.

"Turn me on just holding my hand, Romeo," I retort without heat. "If you don't cut that out, I'm going to have to jump you, and something tells me neither of us is in shape for those kind of calisthenics right now."

His laugh is soft, sexy. He gives me a last caress and lets me go. My hand feels cold without his fingers wrapped around it. "I'll take a rain check," he tells me.

"Damned right you will," I mutter.

Remind me to avoid bullets in the future. Healing just takes too goddamned long. It's not until the next afternoon that McPike comes in to relieve the boredom with an update on the shooting. It's been two and a half days since Vince and I were bushwhacked outside his Brooklyn house, and I'm starting to feel enough better that the enforced bed rest is beginning to grate on my nerves. Which explains my testy response to his greeting. He isn't looking particularly cheerful, himself, so he glowers at me before reciting his spiel like a school kid presenting a book report. Vince and I listen in silence, not interrupting until the end.

"The crime scene guys found a shell casing that matches the caliber of the slug they dug out of the mystery gunman on the mini mart roof," he informs us. "Since the powder burns show it was fired at close range, that means that there was someone else up there with him, which explains where the rifle went. The question is, who? And what were they doing up there? Beside a little pest control, I mean."

It's not until then that I remember the sound of that single pistol shot in the wake of the rifle fire. "It sounded like a Glock," I say, amply familiar with the report made by several types of handguns. While I prefer the Heckler & Koche automatic, personally, the Glock is a good gun, reliable and not prone to jamming. It's also the first choice of law enforcement everywhere.

"Well thanks for that, anyway," McPike says sarcastically. "That'll sure narrow it down. As it happens, Sherlock, the ballistics guys agree with you. Any other little snippets of information you'd care to volunteer?"

"Any hair or fiber?" I ask, ignoring him.

"Not yet. They're not finished processing the scene, though. I'll let you know when they are. You have any theories?" Frank inquires, backing off from the smart-mouthed digs.

"Yeah," I say tersely. "I think Tess was up there, whether she was backup for him, or the other way around, and she took her best shot at us, then put a slug in him to muddy the waters," I say bitterly. Damn Tess, anyway.

"There's another scenario," Vinnie speaks up blearily for the first time. "Maybe he was totally unassociated with her. Or maybe he forced her to take him to us," he speculates.

I turn my head to stare at him. "Why the hell are you trying to defend her?" I snap.

"Because you're in such a hurry to pin it on her," Vince answers. "Which usually means, in 'Lococco-speak' that the idea hurts, so you'd rather bite the proverbial bullet on her possible involvement right off the bat, than risk it hurting even more later, when there's actually evidence saying she was there," he informs me.

When did he get to be so blasted insightful, is what I want to know. I just stare at him, trying to work it out for myself. It bugs the hell out of me to realize he's right, at least to a certain extent. If you always assume the worst, you'll never be disappointed. Though sometimes you might be pleasantly surprised when you're proven wrong. The Roger Lococco philosophy in a nutshell. And totally contrary to the Vince Terranova school of thought. which is more or less, 'give everyone the benefit of the doubt, at least until you're sure they're assholes'. Maybe we'll meet somewhere in the middle, one of these days. Philosophically speaking, I mean.

McPike glances between us, frowning, knowing that once again the subtext is eluding him. "This isn't much help," he observes sarcastically. "Oh, and Vince, your mother is getting out of the hospital today. You can expect her to drop in on you on her way home. She wasn't very happy with us when Dan told her you were in the hospital with another bullet hole in your belly."

I bite back the groan that piece of news elicits and sigh, instead.

"Hell. She okay? How'd she take it? Her heart didn't act up on her again, did it?" Vince barrages McPike with questions.

"She and your stepfather are fine," Frank reassures him. "Rudy told Dan to tell you he'll see you when he brings your mother by on their way home this afternoon."

I can see the muscles tighten in Vinnie's jaw at this. "I don't want him anywhere around me, Frank. He and I aren't exactly on speaking terms after the whole thing with the Commission," he reminds McPike.

"Vince, the man is married to your mother. You're going to have to make peace with him eventually," Frank argues.

"Why? Huh, Frank?" Vince is pulling his patented stubborn act. I watch as Frank makes a face, recognizing that petulance.

"I don't know what it was that pissed you off about that whole bust," McPike complains, and that's when I realize he hasn't figured out where the gift horse of one of the most successful OCB prosecutions came from. "But get over it. Your mother married the man, and now both of you are going to have to live with him."

Vince turns his head away in a classic sulk, refusing to meet his former bosses' eyes. I can't help grinning at the little scene.

"And you! What are you smirking at?" Frank demands of me as he catches my expression.

"How long have you known Vince?" I ask him.

"Longer than you," he snaps, angry.

"Then you've known him long enough to know he doesn't pull the prima donna act for no reason," I prompt him, wondering what it'll take for him to figure it out.

Vince is steadfastly ignoring both of us. I go on.

"Has he ever talked to you about why he's frozen the old man out of his life?" I ask, curious. Vince hasn't really said much to me about it either, but I know him well enough to have some theories. McPike glares at me, then frowns as he thinks about it, eyeing me, waiting for me to go on. "Think about it, Frank," I urge, seeing his forehead furrow.

"Shut up, Roger," Vince snaps at me, turning his head to shoot me a look that bodes ill for any more leading questions.

"Vinnie, the man ratted out the whole Mafia ruling council, and as a result, you and Frank pulled off one of the biggest OCB coups the Bureau's ever had. There're probably a dozen gold stars in your personnel files for that one operation alone!" I respond, not interested in letting him continue this 'suffer in silence' routine of his. "You can't have it both ways, Buckwheat," I inform him flatly. "What he did probably saved your life at the time. It wouldn't have taken much for those goombas to start putting the pieces together and figure out you were pulling an inside job. Instead, Aiuppo did it for you. He rigged the game and took out all the players in one shot. He did it to protect you - and your mother, his family, and all you can do is shut him out for choosing you over the mob? Sometimes you can be the most selfish bastard, you know that?" I chastise him. "What's more important to you, anyway? His vows to your mother, to you? or his oath of silence to a bunch of criminals?"

Put like that, his pique with the old man seems outright childish, and he's furious with me for destroying his self-righteous feelings of betrayal, and I can see a good bit of embarrassment, too.

"Fuck you, Roger," he mutters and stares up at the ceiling, ignoring McPike's attitude of enlightenment.

"Any time, Buckwheat," I answer Vince's curse with cheerful seriousness. Once again, Frank fails to pick up on the undercurrent of truth in the words, all his attention on his former prize agent.

"Is that true?" he demands. "Did Aiuppo handed us the whole Commission on a silver platter?"

Vince glares at him briefly before returning his gaze to the ceiling.

Frank turns to me, frowning, his expression telling me that he's busy kicking himself for not seeing something so obvious. "Did he tell you all this?" he asks me.

I shake my head on the pillow, denying being privy to anything more than a good working knowledge of Vince and his cases. "It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out," I say, knowingly rubbing salt in his wounded pride.

"Oh, thank you very much, Lococco," he snarls at me. "Your opinion of my IQ has been duly noted. Geezus," he says irritably as he turns to look at Vince again. "I swear, I don't know how you can stand this prick," he tells Vince, referring to me. It's all I can do not to snap back with some raunchy comeback, but I keep my mouth shut. More or less. If you don't count the grin. Vince sees it though, and one of his own starts to force it's way through the determined frown, until we're both laughing quietly, with Frank staring at us as though he's thinking about putting us in a rubber room. "Would somebody mind letting me in on the joke?" he says with the same irritation, seeing the slight blush on Vinnie's face, but still clueless.

"Don't worry about it Frank. We're just agreeing with you," I tell him taking a certain amount of pity on the man. After all, I'm the one sharing Vinnie's life at the moment, even if I wish to hell we weren't doing it in a hospital room, with tubes and lines shoved into places they have no business being. All things being equal, I'd much rather we were just about anywhere else. Especially somewhere with a bed and some privacy. And without the bullet holes. Geeze, you'd think I'd gotten enough in the last month not to be hovering at the edge of an erection, what with the Foley catheter shoved up my dick.

Frank looks at us both, shaking his head. "Alright, you jerks, just be that way. I'm going to see if I can get one of the DOJ computers to cough up any more dirt on Lococco's girlfriend. You two try and get some sleep. The sooner you're out of here and somewhere safe, the happier I'll be," he says as he heads for the door of our room and lets himself out.

When the door has shut after him, Vince opens his mouth. "He's right. You are a prick, Rog," he tells me.

"That's what you love about me," I reply, closing my eyes and settling in for a nap.

****

When I wake up next, it's to the sound of voices, heavily accented despite most of a lifetime in this country. Vinnie's harridan mother and her husband the Godfather. Just the thing to cheer a soul up, I think to myself, careful to keep my eyes closed and my body still. They're here to visit my partner, not me, so conforming to the social niceties is unnecessary, from my perspective, anyway. Instead, I settle for eavesdropping.

"Filio mio," mamma Terranova moans, maternal distress unmistakable in the tone. "Vincenzo, what have they done to you?"

"Aw, mom, I'm all right, I swear," comes Vinnie's penitent response. He sounds like a little kid, and I guess to her, he always will be.

"You are lying here, machines hooked up to you, and you tell me you're all right?" mamma T protests, not buying it for a second, and she shouldn't. Her baby boy is barely four days past almost dying on the floor of his home. He's nowhere near all right. Not yet, anyway. And unless I can convince him to leave New York permanently and slip into a life that's a little more anonymous than the one he's been leading for the last eight years, he may never be all right again.

"Ma, I'm gonna be fine. Just ask the doctors," he tries for the reassurance of an authority figure's word in corroboration of his own.

"Vincenzo, even when you have healed, even when you have been released from the hospital, there are still men - evil men - who will seek you out to kill you. Perhaps they did not succeed this time, but one day they will. You have still not left the work behind, have you?" she asks, a note of accusation appearing in her voice. I'm impressed at her insight. McPike may have pushed through Vinnie's official resignation from the OCB, but Vince has yet to really deal with the end of a career that fed his adrenaline addiction for so long. Psychologically, he's about as far from having quit as it's possible to be, with no paycheck coming in.

"Mom, Frank put through my 'retirement' before I was out of the hospital in Miami," he tries to excuse himself. "As far as the OCB is concerned, I'm outta there. On my own. They'll probably cough up some psych-discharge pension, eventually, but I'm not officially an employee of the US government anymore," he adds, a little defensively. The only reason he's out of the FBI is because I told McPike I'd be coming after him, next, if he didn't cut Vince loose.

I'll say this for the little bastard, he knows enough to take me at my word. That, and the fact that he'd rather know Vinnie was alive and safe somewhere, then spend another sleepless night worrying about the jerk. Frank's an okay guy, for the competition, I have to admit. Maybe some of the feeling of smugness comes from knowing Vince will be spending the rest of his life as my problem, not Frank's, if I have my way. It allows me the luxury of reluctant admiration for the little Irishman and his doggedness in finding a way to retrieve his lost agent. Even though it meant turning to me, his nemesis and rival for Vinnie's affections. At least in my jealous little world. I wasn't lying when I told Vinnie that I hadn't known I was the jealous type. No one was more surprised to figure that out than me. Except for Preet, I guess I've never really let anyone close enough that it much mattered to me what they did, or who they did it with. Until now.

"Vincenzo," comes the deeper, slightly quavering voice of the old don, jolting me out of my self-absorption. "Your mother is worried about you, about how you will stay alive, without the protection of the FBI," Aiuppo offers, speaking his two cents' worth. "Surely you can ask them to create a new identity for you, help you start over elsewhere," he suggests, accompanied by my silent cheers of encouragement. Damned right he could, if he weren't dead set on maintaining the umbilical cord he has to his mother.

"I didn't ask for your opinion," Vince says, his voice surly, and I mentally brace myself for one of his petulant little snits. "If I asked, Frank'd put me through witness protection. But I'm not asking him. Not as long as my family is still in jeopardy." I hear the rustle of sheets as he turns his head on the pillow, presumably to look at his mother. "I'm not leaving you unprotected, Ma. Don't you get it? Too many people know that the fastest way to get to me is through you. You're all the blood family I have left," he adds, and I'm wondering what the distinction he just made means, a warm fuzzy feeling sneaking up on me out of nowhere as I recall our midnight chat a couple of nights before.

"Vincenzo, I am old. My life is almost over-"

"Don't even think like that, Mom," Vince interrupts sharply. "You're not going to die, not as long as I can stop it." Geeze, what an egomaniac, I shake my head mentally, stunned at the hubris.

"You cannot stop time, Vinnie," his mother contradicts him. "And when it is my time, not even my son will be able to prevent it," she says, audibly upset. "What do you think it would be like, Vinnie, for me to survive beyond all usefulness? Beyond my first husband, the father of my sons, beyond my first born? Beyond you? You have no wife, no family to carry your name, Vincenzo!" she brings out the big guns, the whole procreate-or-die thing that seems to go hand in hand with Catholicism.

"Mom," he tries to get a word in edgewise, "I can't raise a family, not when all they'd be is hostages to fate," he argues shortly.

There's a pause that practically shakes the walls, it's so fraught with meaning. "Exactly, Vincenzo," mamma T agrees with him. "That is why you must leave. Make your way in a place far from here. Far from the people who could use you, use your children this way."

"I am not leaving you unprotected, Ma," Vince responds, launching into the second lap of an argument he hasn't figured out is circular, yet.

"It is no longer your place to protect her, Vincenzo," the old don interjects. "You are her son. But I am her husband. It is my responsibility to keep her safe, not yours."

"She's my mother," Vince snaps petulantly.

"And she is my wife."

The argument goes on for a few more rounds, no one giving ground, but it has me thinking that I have a pair of allies in the old folks, if I can just come up with some kind rationale that'll convince them, as well as their son, the mule-headed bastard.

I give it a few minutes after their departure before I stir deliberately and open my eyes to see Vinnie lying here, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling, looking like he's a million miles away. "Hey, Buckwheat," I mumble, yawning conspicuously. "What's up with the gloomy expression?" I ask, wondering if he'll talk about it with me.

He sighs softly. "Don't play coy, Rog. You'd have to have been dead to miss the little knock-down-drag-out I just had with my mother and Rudy." He turns his head to eye me. "So don't start with the 'I told you so', okay?"

I debate whether a plea of innocence will get me anywhere then decide to come clean. Lying to my intended mate is not a precedent I want to start setting. Not this time. I shrug a little. "I wasn't planning on it, sweetheart. This is your Gordian knot to unravel, not mine. You want to talk, I'm listening. But you already know what I think. And now you know what McPike and your folks think, too. So what you have to decide, Buckwheat, is what difference what we think makes to you. If any. And whether you care enough about your own life to decide to live it. Preferably with me, but-" I shrug self-deprecatingly, "live it somewhere, with someone. Someone who loves you."

I watch the glare in his eyes soften, and he reaches out a hand across the gap that separates us, and I reach back to grip it tightly, feeling the big bones of his fingers interlock with my own. "Rog, you know I love you. God, please tell me you know that by now. But she's my mother. I can't just walk away from that."

I know better than to argue the point with him right now. Until I can feel out his folks, get a line on how serious they are that he make his own way in the world, exercise a little enlightened self interest and show some evidence of basic survival instinct, it's pretty much pointless. I'm going to have to enlist the aid of every one of the people Vince sees as reasons to put his own life second, or third, or fourth, and get them to help me to force him to see that it goes both ways. That the fate of the universe, or even of his loved ones, doesn't have to rest solely on those broad shoulders. There is such a thing as self-determination. For all of us. "I'm not asking you to," I tell him evenly. "I know better then to ask you to let go of that martyr complex of yours. If you had a red fucking 'S' on your chest, you'd be superman. Man of steel. Leaper of tall buildings in a single bound." I pause for a heartbeat, then shoot him a sarcastic little smirk. "I guess that makes me Lois Lane, huh?"

He snorts with amusement, then groans. "It hurts when I laugh, you bastard," he complains, and I grin back at him.

"Serves you right," I tease him.

"Yeah, well, if I'm some kinda superhero, that'd make you my sidekick, right?" he jabs back at me.

"Roger Lococco is no ones sidekick, sweet thing," I respond smugly. "I come at this as an even partner, or we ain't got no deal. 'Sides. I'd rather be the love interest, anyway."

He laughs again, biting off the groan it triggers. "Remind me what I see in you," he gripes.

"You love me for my wit and charming disposition," I remind him cynically.

"Ah, that's right, I remember now," he agrees with equal sarcasm, and we lie there in the friendly quiet of our room, basking in the comfort of each other's presence. "I thought I loved you for your body," he adds several minutes later, and it's my turn to laugh till I hurt.

****

It's a little over a week later that I finally get my walking papers. Vince is more than a little annoyed that I'm back in the land of the living while he's still stuck in the hospital for another several days, until he can eat solid food again. He's made McPike promise to keep an eye on me, which entails having a round-the-clock guard on my ass. Which would ordinarily cramp my style, but since I have no intention of trying to slip this particular leash until my lover is free to join me, I just ignore the numb-skulled muscle that follows me around like a St. Bernard.

The second night out of the hospital, I arrange for a heart-to-heart with Frank, hoping to find out exactly where he stands on the whole 'get the hell outta Dodge' thing.

"If you can find a way to pry him loose, I'll owe you big time," he answers that question with mingled resignation and amusement, with maybe the littlest bit of hope mixed in.

"Tell me about it," I sigh. "What is it that makes him think he can save us all just by sheer force of will?" I ask, not expecting an answer.

It's over a minute before he responds, and he's gone all serious on me all of a sudden. "That's the problem, Lococco. He doesn't think he can, he only hopes he can. That's why he's dead set on trying. He keeps hoping he can make it turn out differently. Better. That he can save the people he really cares about."

I eye Frank, startled by the sudden gravity.

"Do you have any idea what this job has cost him?" McPike asks at last.

My laugh lacks humor. "Some," I reply sarcastically. "About what it's cost me, at a guess," I remind him.

He blinks at me owlishly through the lenses of his professorial glasses for a second, thinking about it, then nods, once, an odd expression on his face. "Can I ask you something?" he says eventually.

I shrug. "Depends," I respond.

"Did Vince... ever talk to you about what happened with the Steelgrave bust? I mean really talk to you about it?"

"All I know is that he fell for the guy he was supposed to bring down. Fell hard. And has spent every day since Sonny fried himself beating himself up over the way it ended," I say. Most of that is speculation, some of it is fact, and all of it is surmise on my part, because Vince really hasn't spoken much about it to me beyond the obvious fact of his feelings for Steelgrave.

McPike broods on that for a minute or two. When he speaks next, he about floors me. "Pretty much the way he fell for you," he tells me, bravely meeting my eyes.

"What?" is the best I can manage, going suddenly numb.

"I don't know how far it went, the thing between him and Steelgrave, but I'd have to be blind not to see what's going on between the two of you," he says. "You're like characters out of some Greek epic," he goes on, and my amazement grows. "And you're too much alike for comfort, even if you do a better job hiding it than he does."

"Hiding what?" I ask dazedly, the conversation having just completely escaped my grasp.

"That the two of you have been through seven shades of hell I can't even think about without wanting to throw up," he says, then gropes for a politically correct euphemism that I can barely hear over the roaring in my ears. "That the two of you... are... intimate? Don't hurt him Roger. He's been hurt enough."

I stare at the little OCB agent, trying to get my brain to thaw, shock having frozen my entire cerebral cortex. "Hurt him? Jesus Christ, McPike, my life depends on him. On having him alive and well and being his usual pig-headed, stubborn goddamned beautiful self," and I can hear the break in my voice that betrays exactly what I feel.

Frank hears it too, because some of the dread in his expression fades, a strange sort of relief taking its place. "You love him." It's a statement.

I just stare back at him, my vision blurring, my heart pounding, sweat and chills hitting my skin at the same instant, my breathing growing shallow and labored. I've never had one this intense before, but this is a panic attack, adrenaline surging through my bloodstream uncontrolled, unchecked, unreasoning, my past, my self image falling away, metamorphosing into an unknown future. And right there, I take my stand. Stake my claim, say the words to Vinnie's best friend, words I can barely say to Vince, seriously, none of the easy smart-ass sarcasm left in me. And the panic falls away, the strangest feeling of peace, of rightness taking its place. "Yeah. I love him."

Frank looks back at me for several seconds before he nods, and I can see him reevaluating everything he knew, or thought he knew, about Vince. About me. "Then let's find a way to get him out of this place. Away from the east coast. Into some life the two of you can live without me having to spend every waking moment worrying about either of you." His expression is more focused, more forceful, then it's been in months. He's made his decision, let Vince go, and now it's up to me to step in and take over the care and feeding of one Vincent Michael Terranova. It's strange to feel the passionate, unquestioning friendship Frank has felt for Vince the whole time I've known them suddenly lap outward to include me. To watch him step aside as guardian, to willingly relinquish that role to me. Vince's lover. It's a feeling both powerful and terrifying. "You may be the only man on the planet who can keep him alive, Lococco. The only one he'll stay with. The only one I'd trust with the job." And coming from Frank McPike, that's one hellov an admission.

****

So the campaign begins to get everyone Vince thinks he has to save to convince him instead to save himself. Last but most important on the list is Vince's folks, and mamma Terranova, now Aiuppo, has finally, reluctantly, agreed to talk to me, after McPike managed to convince her I was on the same side. It's a grueling experience, a self-inflicted torture, talking to the judgmental old woman. Frankly, I prefer her husband's pragmatic realism over her moralistic attitude, and I have a pretty clear idea he knows exactly how much his stepson means to me by the time I leave. We've pretty much agreed on a course of action that involves something along the lines of an intervention, in twelve-step parlance. The idea is for those of us who care to gang up on Vince as he's being discharged from the hospital. The hope is, that if we present a unified front, he won't be able to dismiss us as hysterics or justify not hearing what we're trying to tell him.

It's just about as ugly as I imagined it would be, his fury with Frank, and even more with me, like a furnace blast as the two of us enter his hospital room on the heels of the Lifeguard, his parents and his cousin Angie, who somehow got wind of what was up. The more the merrier, I figure as I watch him bristle like a porcupine. I'm all for anything that reduces the likelihood that I'll be his primary target.

"So what's all this?" Vince asks, voice dripping with sarcasm as he finishes shoving a foot into his scuffed cowboy boot, then sitting up straighter, trying to hide the wince. "A lynch mob?"

"More like a hostage rescue operation," Dan responds dryly, knowing Vince is going to miss the point. He ignores the bitchy look Vinnie throws his way and goes on. "We're here to say a few things to you, son. And you may not wanna hear them, but you're gonna sit there and listen anyway. What happens after that is up to you."

Vince snorts and levers himself stiffly off the edge of the bed he's been sitting on. "Sorry, I've heard this speech from all of you before, at various times, and I don't need to hear it again. Now if you don't mind, I've been handed my walking papers and I am getting the hell outta this damned hospital." Stubbornly, slowly, he shrugs into his leather motorcycle jacket.

"This time, maybe," McPike snaps.

"Vincenzo." The single sharp word is enough to reduce him to obedient if sniveling childhood. I knew there was a reason the old bitch had to be here.

"Vincenzo..." It's softer this time. More despairing. "When you were a little boy, I held your hand. Cleaned up after you. Bathed you. Cared for you as a mother must care for her child. When did you become the parent? When did I become the child? When did it become the responsibility of the child to protect his mother? How have I managed to fail you so terribly?"

Ah, guilt. The weapon of choice in a situation like this. Go, Carlotta, I think to myself as Vinnie's dismay settles like pain in his brilliant eyes.

"Mom, it isn't like that! You haven't failed at anything, I have. I couldn't keep Pete safe, most of my best friends have been hurt because of me, because of what I do - did - for a living. How is that your fault?" His indignation is heavily tinged with frustration and remorse.

"It is my fault for raising you to think your life means nothing. That your life is not as important as the lives and expectations of everyone around you. Vincenzo, have you thought about what it would do to me if you were killed? There would be nothing left. No one. Everything I tried to pass on to you will be lost if you are killed," she goes on, and I start fidgeting quietly in my corner in the presence of this much maternal angst. I wonder what it is that's making me squirm so uncomfortably, and it eventually dawns on me that it's the whole idea that I'm witnessing something I never had, a reality totally foreign to my own: parents who care. Anyone who cared. Until now. Until Vince. Vince has been parent to my damaged and feral child-self, taming me, civilizing me in ways I hadn't even realized. It's an almost surreal feeling as I stand there, listening to his family, his closest friends, argue that his existence and presence on the planet is essential to us. And I wonder if there's some way to make it clear to him that I need him. I need him to finish what he started; I need him to teach me what it's like to be loved.

The points that are made, that Vince is not the sole bearer of responsibility for our welfare, that his own safety requires that he exercise enlightened self-interest, is emotionally draining for all of us, reducing the two women to tears, for which I am profoundly grateful. There is something about a woman in tears that makes a man like him cave. And it happens as expected, Vince relenting at last when Aiuppo has managed to assuage the last of his fears that his mother will be vulnerable without the mighty Terranova's constant vigilance.

By the time we file out of the room, looking and feeling like we've been in a war, Vince has agreed to disappear from the world he has spent his life in. He has agreed to accept witness protection, to be given new documents and papers, to be relocated. I don't know exactly what that means for the future of our relationship, because it's hardly the thing to go into in front of his conservative mother and her mobster husband. While the bulk of the battle has been won, I am facing a personal defeat of a magnitude that leaves my belly roiling with fear.

*****

The practical realities of making a man the size of Vince Terranova disappear occupies the next week as McPike and his superior, a stuffed shirt by the name of Beckstead, handle the nitty-gritty of the arrangement. And it's really not until the moment that McPike asks him where he's planning on going that I have any idea what my future holds.

"So where do you want to go?" Frank asks over soup and bread, the diet of the intestinally challenged that we've been confined to since we got out of the hospital.

"Whadda ya mean, where do I wanna go?" Vince asks around a mouthful of crust, indignant. "Where do you think?" he finishes, swallowing. "With Roger."

I close my eyes, feeling light-headed with relief, and I can almost feel his gaze on me, the confusion at my reaction, the concern.

"As long as his offer still stands," he adds, looking at me, suddenly hesitant.

And I do something I never thought I'd have the nerve to do; slipping the fingers of both hands into his hair, I yank him down into a full-on, open-mouthed kiss, right there in front of McPike, who sits there gaping at us from across his desk. "Yes, the offer still stands, you jerk," I snarl at him. "I've spent the past week sweating bullets, waiting for you to make up your mind, Buckwheat."

Vince just stares at me, stunned, mortified, and judging by the way his pupils have dilated, turned on as hell. "Geeze, warn a guy will ya, Rog?" he manages at last, glancing at McPike from under dark lashes. "Hellova way to come out to my former boss," he adds, a trace of his usual sarcasm in his voice.

"Sorry, Vince, Lococco beat you to that punch last week," Frank announces with a matching note of sarcasm. "So where are you two lovebirds planning on building your nest?" he asks, arching an eyebrow at us speculatively. Both of us look back at him for a second before glancing at each other.

"Guess that depends," I say, careful to keep my voice neutral. If I have to walk away from the life I built for myself in order to keep Vince, I will, no question. But if I don't have to, so much the better.

"Wherever Rog wants to go is fine by me," Vince shrugs at last, and I relax infinitesimally.

And easy as that, the decision gets made. A week later, his good-byes said, conduits for communicating with his family in place, the two of us head west with the sun on my corporate jet, leaving his past and mine behind us like unwanted baggage.

****

It's raining, December in California still technically considered winter, even if it comes without the nasty weather prevalent in most of the rest of the country. Still, it's a good day for indoor activities, and we haven't set foot out of my Nob Hill flat since we got back from our run this morning along the Embarcadero. Vince made me buy him a Christmas tree, and despite all my bitching and moaning about the mess and the nuisance value, there's something comfortingly domestic about the slowly desiccating evergreen in the big bay window. Something that says home. That says family. Neither of which I've felt since I was six and stayed with my grandmother for Christmas.

It's been over two months since we left New York behind, and with the help of the OCB, Vince still manages almost weekly phone conversations with his mom, annoying for their satellite-scrambled time delay as much as for the distraction from the serious business of fucking each other's brains out. Both of us are finally more or less recovered from the bullet wounds that put us in the hospital last summer, and I lay on the floor, watching Vince work through his weight routine, the clank of steel plates as he dumps the barbell back into its cradle my signal that the games are about to begin.

His gray t-shirt is sweat-plastered to his massive chest, darkened in a narrowing 'V' down the center of his abdomen. His sweat pants are dark with sweat at waist, groin and knees, and hell if I know why it's such a turn-on, but it is. The kid is just hot. In every sense of the word. He's eyeing me, this look on his face, and I grin up at him, getting to my feet in one smooth move and striping off my own damp workout duds to display myself for his pleasure. His eyes go almost black with that look I love, the one that's total lust, and a lot of love, and no-bones-about-it horniness. I pause to extract the tube of lube from the cabinet that holds the free weights and then stand in front of him, my cock at his eye level, straddling his lap and the weight bench, my hands on his shoulders.

It's taken some time, and a lot of experimenting, but I think this is just about my favorite way to get fucked, face to face, sitting across his lap, impaled on his prick like a chicken on a spit. God, to be able to kiss him while he comes is my idea of heaven, on earth or anywhere else. The look in his eyes breaks my heart every goddamned time. Fucking adoration, absolute goddamned trust.

"What?" he asks, peering up at me from under the stringy mop of dark hair that's always falling into his eyes. He doesn't break eye contact as he takes me into his mouth, gently, teasing me with his tongue and fingers on the shaft and balls. He's nibbling me like an ear of corn, and the combination of sharpness and warm softness about drives me out of my mind. Today, I think I'm gonna let him take the edge off before he fucks me, because if he doesn't, I wouldn't last more than sixty seconds anyway. And I want more than that from him. A nice slow fuck that'll waste us both. Then an hour in the rooftop hot tub in the rain, maybe with some of the wine that just arrived from my Santa Barbara vineyards today. Then the rest of the afternoon in bed, doing what we do so well. "Pay attention, Roger," Vince says indistinctly around his mouthful, and I grin down at him, then groan as he swallows me whole, his breathing timed to the helpless rhythm of my thrusts into his mouth, down his throat as deep as I can go. Damn, but he's talented. It's the slick fingers working between my ass cheeks that really gets me going as he works a finger into me, letting my own tempo drive things. When he applies the second, then the third, I throw back my head and moan, a guttural howl of primal pleasure as I come violently into his mouth, the pleasure only amplified by the contraction and release of muscles in his throat as he swallows me down. It's like feeling a woman come around me, only more so, stronger, and it never fails to wring me dry. I'm panting when he glances up at me again, lust-dark eyes glittering with amusement. He licks me dry, his fingers still inside me, keeping the fire fanned, then lets my cock go, and kisses me on the belly gently as he massages my prostate. "You still up for this?" he asks, knowing exactly what my response is going to be. I'd have to be three months dead before I'd turn down the opportunity to fuck or be fucked by him.

"Stupid question, Buckwheat," I grin down at him breathlessly and crouch over him to help him wriggle the sweat pants down past his balls. I yank the sweaty t-shirt up over his head and lower myself onto him as he holds his erection steady. The burn of his entry fades slowly as I settle onto his lap, my balls warm against his pubic hair, his warm against my ass, the muscles of his thighs taut and solid along the inside of my own. His hands start smoothing their way up and down along my sides, then his arms loop back around me as I lower my mouth onto his, feeling his cock twitch inside me. I content myself with making love to his mouth, leaving his lips wet and pink-tinged, swollen, giving him a debauched look that does more for me than anything else I've ever experienced. He's as into the delaying tactics as he is the no-holds-barred down and dirty fuck, so we enjoy ourselves like that for a good thirty minutes while my own cock slowly recovers from its previous go-round. Vinnie feels it stir against his belly and locks eyes with me, the sparkle in them warning me this is starting to try his patience. I grin as he slides a hand between us and starts fondling me with exquisite gentleness. Ready, now, I rise onto the balls of my feet, easing my way back up the massive prick inside me, then dropping down onto his lap again. And again.

His arms tighten around me and it's his turn to groan, the sound wrenched out of him and captured in my own mouth as I kiss him deeply, tasting the sweetness of fresh water, maybe a little toothpaste, myself, him. He rocks back a little in counterpoint to my rise and fall along him, the contrasting rhythms and pressures bringing us both to the edge faster than I'd expected to get there, and when he grabs the nape of my neck in one big hand, keeping our mouths locked together and groping between our bodies again for my cock, I know it's all over but the shouting. Anything considered or deliberate is out of the question as we fall back into primal instinct, and when he comes, I'm right behind him, the aching clenching of my prostate and balls sending absolute pleasure rocketing through me.

Limp and wrung out, we lean heavily against each other, chest to chest, panting. I rest my forehead on his shoulder, relishing the warm hands that roam my back and sides slowly. I'm a control freak, I admit it, so I guess the fact that this particular arrangement of bodies means nothing happens that I don't control is the reason it's my favorite position. For the moment, anyway. I'm slowly beginning to like even the relentless seduction and dominance thing Vince will occasionally slip into, to. But that usually requires a fight to set it off, one where we start getting physical with each other. We have yet to actually hurt each other, but it's resulted in some majorly mind-blowing sex. Kinda gives new meaning to the phrase 'kiss and make up'. For us, I guess it's 'fuck and make up'.

We're slowly finding our way into a routine, one that stays fluid enough to cope with the intermittent demands on my time by the real world, but still allows us the opportunity to spend a lot of our time just finding out the little details about each other. The things no one's seen about me since Preet, the things no one has seen about him since he went undercover. For instance, the fact that he has a weakness for animals. The fact that he likes banana splits with extra whipped cream and cherries. The fact that he jerks off to some of the finer works of Van Halen and bad porn movies. That he likes cruising for girls and then frustrating the hell out of them when he ends up with me. If he treated me that way, I'd call him a prick tease. That he loves massages, cheap beer, pool games, and the Three Stooges. And interestingly, the works of Nitzche, Descartes, and Steven Hawkings. For all that he comes across as a hunk of brainless muscle, there's astonishing depth in him, a breadth of interests I share, and like to indulge. I mean, the kid did graduate college, after all, and Fordham is no community college-level campus. He's got a lot more in the way of book smarts than I do, and that sometimes makes me envious. Until he reminds me that I can always go back. I guess so, but I'd rather do it the way I have been, finding a subject that interests me and researching it.

And Vinnie has slowly been working his way under my guard, learning things about me I sometimes didn't even know about myself. And he's learned how to give one hellova massage, while he's at it. The first time he gave me one, he almost brought me to tears, and it took some amateur analysis on his part to figure out why. It wasn't until he made the connection with Preet that I realized what I feel when he touches me is what I felt with her, a sense of acceptance, of compassion, of gentleness, of forgiveness. Love. He's heard my confessions, knows my sins, holds me when I wake screaming in the night. The way I hold him, when his demons come to haunt him.

The road to 'happily ever after' has it's bumps and potholes, but we keep working at it, keep moving forward, and there are days now that I actually forget what it's like to not feel this good. Not that I take it for granted, but I sure as hell enjoy it.

"Rog, whatcha thinking about?" he asks against my cheek, kissing me softly.

"Not much," I answer, turning my head so I'm glancing at him out of the corner of my eye. "Just that I don't know how the hell I ever lived without you," I grin at him, perfectly serious.

He laughs slightly. "Good thing you don't have that problem any more, huh?"

I laugh back and ease my way off his lap, feeling his softening cock slip free. Giving him a quick kiss, I stand and step over him, heading for the bathroom off the room we've turned into a weight room. "I'm gonna rinse off and go soak in the tub," I tell him without looking back at him, knowing he'll follow when he's ready. He's not as big a fan of hot tubs as I am, but he knows it's a passion of mine and has been since I spent time in Japan on one of my early CIA missions. The communal baths there became an addiction, one I indulged when I could.

I'm chin-deep in the steaming tub, watching the circular ripple rings the falling rain makes in the hot water when he wanders out, bringing along a couple of glasses and a pitcher of ice water. He's more prone to overheating than I am, so the water keeps things balanced. I pour him a glass of the Primativo that my winemaker just shipped up, and he steps into the water opposite me.

Even in the rain, the view from my penthouse flat is spectacular, a panorama sweeping from views of the Golden Gate Bridge and Coit tower in the northwest to the Bay Bridge in the southeast. The east bay hills are hidden in the gray mist of weather and distance, and the downtown skyline of San Francisco is blurred and indistinct, only the glow of office lights pinpointing the boundaries of each separate building. The contrast between the heat of the water and the chill of the rain is one that stimulates the senses, reinforcing the relaxation that an intense fucking generates. Vince says the hot tub has grown on him as he's recognized that it opens me up in ways that nothing else does, both physically and emotionally. It's where we've had some of our most intense conversations, and some of the most revealing.

We linger outside until the slowly dimming blueness of the light tells me the afternoon is waning, and the buzz induced by the wine and the heat have me thinking about taking this inside to my bed for another leisurely round of lovemaking. My glance at Vince tells me he's reaching the well-done stage, so I hoist myself out of the water and offer him a hand, then, dripping, we make our way back inside.

We dry each other off and I light a fire in the fireplace in my bedroom, the one that's become 'our' bedroom sort of by default, since this is where we spend most of our time. The amber-orange of the glow is all the light we need and the contrast between it and the blue of twilight renders the curves and ridges of Vince's muscular physique into a living work of art, one that leaves me breathless and struck yet again by the simple beauty of his body. This time it's my turn to touch, to pet, to explore a body I know as well as my own, and in some ways, better. Vince is as much a hedonist as I am, and he loves these lingering passionate touches. Loves the heat of my body against his, the wetness of my mouth, my leaking cock, and he's begging for me to release him from the exquisite prison of arousal that I get off on penning him into. I push against the center of his chest, toppling him backwards onto the mattress and kneel between his legs, dropping down to cover him, braced over him on my arms as I look down into his face, seeing the flush there even in the fading light. Our cocks are head to head, and the urge to thrust is overwhelming for both of us.

His knees come up alongside my hips to cradle me and I suddenly realize he's in the same position as a woman would be and that my assumption that a face to face version of the horizontal dance we've been doing is impossible for the two of us is wrong. It's as easy as it would be with a partner of the opposite sex, with a little careful maneuvering. I smirk down into his eyes, and the wolfish look tips him off that I've got something on my mind, but I restrain him lightly when he starts getting impatient and tries to roll me over into my accustomed position alongside him at his back.

"Rog, geezus, please!" he complains, and I can feel the steady seep of his pre-cum wet against my own cock, mingling with mine.

"Do you wanna get fucked or don't you?" I ask him with an evil grin, determined that this time is going to be different, that this time I'll get to enjoy the show in all it's glory.

"Yeah, goddammit," he whines, doing his petulant act for me. Once upon a time it would've gotten him smacked upside the head, but I know when he's teasing me, now.

I reach across to the nightstand beside the bed and grope blindly for the lube without taking my eyes off Vince, handing it to him while I grab for the pillows at the head of the bed and shove them under the hips I get him to raise, just by willing it. There's a glitter in his eyes that tells me he's on the same page and I lower my mouth onto his, as hungry for him as though I'd been imprisoned without food or water or light for the whole of my life before he entered it. If I could take him into my bloodstream, fuse his mind with my own, mesh his DNA with mine, I would do it without hesitation. I realize, as our tongues writhe and twist around each others' that I have just entered the realms of obsession. Of a dependence on the presence of someone other than myself totally at odds with a life spent in determined independence of exactly this kind of bond. And it is as exhilarating as it is terrifying. All that I hope to be is reflected back at me in the gleam of his blue eyes, eyes that mirror my soul back to me.

He squeezes a generous dollop of lube into my right hand as he laces his fingers through those of my left, and I obey the silent command and begin to work it into him, his moans disappearing down my throat. I relinquish his mouth in favor of tasting the broad expanse of his chest, the savor of his nipples different than the rest of his skin, inexplicably pungent.

Finished readying him, I shift my slick grip to his cock, then my own, transferring the last of the lube to my prick in preparation for my entry into him, as close as I will be allowed to get to my personal idea of heaven, of completion. Maybe we can read each others' minds, I think as he lifts his hips upward, thighs parting for me as eagerly as any woman's, and I enter him in one long slow stroke that has his head thrown back, moans of eager pleasure encouraging me in to the limit of my reach. Raising myself up off his chest and bracing myself once more on my arms, hands planted alongside his ribs, I look down into the flushed face and achingly open gaze that meets mine. "Vinnie," I sigh as I begin to move.

It takes several slow thrusts, my angle changing infinitesimally until I find what I search for; the sweet spot, the bulge of his prostate that feels so different against the top of my cock. He bucks under me, tightening around me even more than he had been, and I begin to move with deliberation, sensation washing over me along with the uncanny tenderness that fills me as I lock eyes with him, our breathing ragged, panting, a strange keening noise coming from low in his throat, my name on his lips, silent, but heard in every nerve-ending I possess.

I can feel the slipperiness of his prick against my belly, feel it twitch and jerk against my flesh, the feeling almost as erotic as the ones in my own cock are, and I know this won't last much longer. Nothing of this intensity could, however much the idea of forever appeals to me right now. As control slips for both of us, he wraps long legs around me, ankles crossed high over my back, the curve of his body allowing me deeper still. We move, bodies and gazes locked unbreakably, intertwined, inextricable, until we launch ourselves off the precipice of orgasm into the soaring freefall that goes with it. Vince clenches around me, the guttural cry and the heat of his own ejaculation wet against my belly as he milks mine from me.

I drop against his chest, drained, contented, happier than I can ever remember being. Forget what I said about the weight bench being about my favorite place for sex. I think my vote's gonna have to go for that old reliable, the mattress. I bury my face against the angle of Vinnie's neck and shoulder, kissing him gently, tasting the sweat and satisfaction on his skin as his fingers run through my hair while he strokes my calves with the top of his foot. I can feel the warmth of his breath against my ear and cheek as he sighs my name with the same satiation I feel. We stay that way until I slip free of him, then I ease off him to lie against his side, my head pillowed on his chest, his arm around me, my leg tossed over his.

The room is warm, the fire crackling away with all the conviction that natural gas can provide, and we drift slowly into sleep as rain lashes against the bedroom windows with a comforting violence. I'm in love. Completely, helplessly, totally in love. And it doesn't even scare me anymore. It's a freedom unlooked for and I fuzzily try to make a mental note to tell Vince when we wake up next time, because of all the people on the planet, he'll know exactly what that means to me...

****

I wake slowly, Vince's fingers in my hair, stroking gently, lingering in my curls as though he were soothing an animal. The scent of sex is heavy in the warm air and the fire still flickers away in the stormy darkness of the room as the brunt of the storm dashes itself against the concrete and glass of the city. I lie there, my eyes more or less closed, just relaxing into the warmth of my lover's body, mindless pleasure at his smallest touch overwhelming me so easily. I can tell he knows I'm awake, but he doesn't say anything, and I finally lift my head to look at him with sleepy curiosity. "Vince?" I yawn.

He turns his head slightly to look at me, and the expression in his face is profoundly sad, love blazing away in his eyes like a neutron star's gamma pulse.

"What?" I ask, my pulse ratcheting up instantly to anxiety levels. "What is it?"

"Hello, Roger," comes a quiet voice from the dimness at the foot of the bed, and my head whips around to take in the unmistakable, if unbelievable, sight of Tess McTavish standing in my bedroom at the foot of my bed, the gleam of firelight streaking across the Glock in her hand.

*** end ***

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