SquidgeWorld Archive

"Shall we go?"

"You go, Denny. I'll be along."

"It's raining."

"Yes."

Denny eyed Alan curiously. It had been months since they'd gone home separately. Usually they simply left the terrace and walked or rode to Denny's together. But not tonight. Denny shrugged. Maybe he'd been right. Maybe it was Alan's time of the month.

"Okay, then, see you."

"Yes."

One more look at Alan, and Denny left.

For his part, Alan breathed a sigh of relief. He needed to be alone. Denny's presence only rubbed salt in the wounds he'd received these past few days. Wounds he somehow knew were illogical to be sporting, yet wounds he was unable to simply ignore as superficial and ridiculous.

Damn the whole thing, anyway.

*"You're jealous of my son."*

"Gee, Denny, you think?" Alan said quietly as he drained his glass of Scotch. Float like a butterfly, always hovering in Denny's sphere, Denny always hovering just out of reach. Wings beating in beautiful time, an ageless dance around one another. Float like a butterfly... sting like a bee. Alan considered himself stung.

They're chairing together, like so many times before. Fundamentally, Alan disagrees with the United States of America this time, but he'll sit at Denny's side like always. Besides, he knows he's there more for support than anything. Sure, when Denny stands up in a courtroom, he is Denny Crane. The problem is that Denny Crane is faltering, and from Alan's point-of-view anyway, Denny needs him there simply to focus. He'd always considered it was Denny wanting to impress him, but now he thinks perhaps he was wrong.

Denny was all about impressing his son-turned-not-son-turned-son... whatever Donny was. And though from one standpoint Alan could see that, and it made sense, somehow it also made him feel terribly like a third wheel. The way Denny *looked* at Donny right before court,and throughout the proceeding. And his own words, unspoken yet on the edge of his tongue, had confirmed as much.

*He needed me,* Alan thought. *He needed me for the closing, but only because he didn't want to look stupid in front of Donny.* And that, for Alan, was the crux of things. Christ, he and Denny said things all the time that, to less caustic friends, would cause continual rifts and most likely the eventual breakup of the friendship altogether. But they were who they were. It was one of the reasons they fit so well together. They understood their similarities and indeed relished the fact that there was another soul to connect to who innately comprehended the who's, what's, why's and how's of what they were.

And so, Alan thought, it's jealousy. Imagine being jealous of a boy. A mere boy, young enough to be even *his* son, let alone Denny's. And yet again he reminded himself he was young enough to be Denny's son, too. 28 years younger. He could almost hear Denny say, *I was practicing law before you were even born!* And of course, Denny would be right. Being jealous of a boy.

A boy.

*"That's my boy."*

That final sentence had really just rubbed it in even further. Alan was tired of being thought of as a son...as a boy. He wanted...no, he *needed*...for Denny to see him as the equal he was. Who cared about the 28 years? It meant nothing. They were kindred spirits, alike in so many ways it was positively frightening that two of them could exist in the same universe without causing an implosion, let alone the same city...let alone the same law firm.

*"I'm your friend, not your boy."*

Had those words gotten through to the great Denny Crane? Probably not. Everything was about him. *His* need to remain undefeated. *His* reputation. *His* son. *His* case. *His* closing.

*"If I wrote it and delivered it, how did it become your closing?"*

Alan knew it was petty. And yet somehow, it wasn't petty.

*"I don't need you, Alan. I don't need anybody. Never have. Never will."*

Any other time, Alan would easily have chalked those words up to the vain Denny Crane needing to keep himself puffed up in his own mind, needing to maintain the illusion of Denny Crane. Any other time, the words would've rolled like water off a duck's back, and Alan probably wouldn't have given them a moment's thought. But this time they hurt.

Sting like a bee.

This time, they stung. He'd been pleased as punch when Denny had, for all intents and purposes, come crawling back to him asking for his help. Saying he did need him. Yeah, he needed him. Needed him to not look stupid in front of Donny. It could never be as obvious as, "I was wrong, Alan. I *do* need you." Of course not, that's not the Crane way. And truly, it wasn't really what Alan was looking for anyway. Just saying he'd needed him to do the closing would have sufficed, but no, Denny had taken it a step further by almost saying *why*. Because of his son.

Who wasn't really his son.

Damn them both.

He was weary and decided it was time to head home. He had to give a little snicker as he thought about what home was. Home was Denny's place. Home was Denny's food, Denny's shower, Denny's bed. For the first time in more months than he could remember, though, Alan suddenly felt himself wishing he wasn't living with Denny Crane. And yet the idea of returning to his hotel room which, of course, was not being bombarded with sounds of renovations, made him cold. In spite of being stung, he still wanted to be near him. In spite of the wounds, he still wanted the man who'd put them there.

*It's official. I'm a masochist.*

He sighed and headed for his office to grab his overcoat. "You're sick, Alan," he mumbled as he put it on. "Sick."

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

When he opened the front door, he was surprised to find it completely dark inside. There wasn't a single light on, not even a tiny table lamp. Cocking his head in curiosity, Alan moved to flip on the light switch nearest the door. A low rumbling "Don't." stopped the movement of his hand. Without asking questions, he shrugged his coat off and placed it on the coat rack before closing and locking the door behind him.

He unbuttoned his suit jacket and proceeded to remove his tie, tossing it on the long table behind the couch upon which Denny sat. Outside the thunder clapped loudly, his only glimpses of the living room came when lightning flashed. Denny was just sitting there. No drink. No cigar. He was in a pair of silk pajamas, simply staring off into space. Alan moved around the couch to stand in front of it, studying Denny's face whenever the lightning allowed.

Outside the storm raged. Reflecting, somehow, the storm raging *in*side as well.

He didn't want to talk to Denny. Not right now. All he wanted to do was fall into bed and curse himself for about an hour for letting himself be this affected by someone after he vowed he never would again. It didn't pay to get involved with someone like himself, and Denny was far too much like himself in so many ways. Yet beneath it all, Alan *did* love. And in spite of his professions, Alan had to wonder if Denny was capable. If he was, he sure had a damn funny way of showing it. He turned to head for the bedroom.

"Alan."

He stopped, but didn't turn around. "Denny."

"I wasn't sure you were coming home tonight." At this, Alan turned back to face him. There were several moments of silence, lightning illuminating the room four times. "I'm glad you did."

Alan nodded and turned away again.

"What's eating you?"

*Oh, shit,* Alan thought. *He just had to bring it up.*

"Whatever do you mean, Denny?" Alan asked, his face carefully neutral as he took a few steps back toward Denny.

"It really *is* your time of month, isn't it? You're...moody."

"I'm moody."

"Yes. It's like having a wife."

Sting like a bee.

"A wife. Really." Alan stared at him. "Are you sure it isn't more like having a son?"

Denny looked up at him. Flashing, flashing, lightning flashing in his hazel eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"You used to call me son, Denny. And then tonight, you called me boy."

Denny shrugged. "You're younger than I am. It's a habit."

Alan didn't want to continue the conversation because he knew he sounded like a goddamn idiot. It was a habit because he was younger. That was it. End of story. And yet for all his reasoning to the contrary, he couldn't just let it drop. He *couldn't*. It stung too damn much. "And is it a habit to use me when you need me, all the while telling me you don't need me, all the while ignoring the fact that if I disappeared from your life you would fail?" Alan mentally kicked himself. *You sound like a wife.*

Denny's eyes widened in anger as he rose to his feet. He took two steps nearer to Alan. "*Fail?*" he spat. "Denny Crane *never* fails."

"Cut the bullshit, Denny. Your case was going badly. *Very* badly. You came back to me, hat in hand, after telling me you didn't need me or anyone else. Why, Denny?"

"Hot fudge sundaeâ€""

"Bullshit."

Denny moved toward him until they were standing so close they could feel each other's heat. "Let me tell you something, Alan Shore. Denny Crane has never needed anything or anyone."

"Yet for some reason, you *do* now. Maybe because of age, maybe because of your mental health. But you need me to anchor you."

"I don't."

"Admit it."

"No."

"You do. And quite frankly, I was always willing to be that anchor, Denny, without question." Alan's face softened as the flashes of light continued around them. "But I'm your *equal*. Goddammit, Denny. Your equal." He didn't want things like this. He didn't even understand why he hurt so much, not really. It was just a feeling, an unfamiliar, cold, goddamn uncomfortable and annoying feeling. He paused, wondering, not wanting to say the next words that were on the tip of his tongue but, as always, unable to keep them from tumbling out. "I can't do this anymore."

Dance around the issue. Float like a butterfly. See the look of hurt in Denny's eyes. Sting like a bee.

Alan went into the bedroom, gathered some of his things and stuffed them into the duffel bag that had laid on the floor of Denny's closet for longer than Alan could remember. The sound of the zipper closing seemed to cut through him from head to toe like a knife.

"What do you want from me?"

The whispered words startled him. He froze in mid-motion, not turning around. "Nothing you can give."

"I already let you in." Alan felt, more than heard, Denny coming closer until his body heat overtook his senses. "I've let you in as far as I could."

"Look, this is ridiculous," Alan said, turning to face him. They were practically nose-to-nose. "It's just dumb. I'm not having night terrors anymore. There's no reason for me to be here." He watched as Denny looked down at his left hand and fiddled with the ring there. "*Is* there?" When the older man said nothing, Alan hefted the duffel bag onto his shoulder. "I'll see you at work tomorrow."

"Do you know why I wear this ring?" Denny asked as Alan moved past him.

Alan sighed. "To get women."

"Maybe a little," Denny half-smiled. "But not really."

"Then why?" Alan asked, intrigued.

"Come on, so..." Denny stopped, took a deep breath and held his left hand up between them. "In spite of my many marriages, this," he twisted the ring on his fourth finger with his index, "is a symbol I take very seriously."

Alan looked at him, frowning just a bit. "I don't understand."

"I can't *say* what you want me to *say*. I can't *do* what you want me to *do*. I don't know how to be anyone but who I am."

"And who is that? Who *are* you? And don't say Denny Crane."

"But I *am*, Alan, I've spent a *lifetime* building up the man called Denny Crane," he responded, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I've spent a lifetime fostering the image, winning the cases, being the best goddamn lawyer there is." Alan waited. Denny wouldn't meet his eyes. "Once or twice I thought, maybe...this time I've found the someone to share it all with. Maybe this time...I've found the one. But of course it never turns out that way."

Alan let the heavy duffel fall to the floor.

"I think, hey, I've got a son. Sure, he's not my son, not really, but for all intents and purposes, he is. I knew him long before I knew you, Alan. I like the kid. I have deep affection for him. That's never going to change."

"Nor should it."

"Right." Denny finally stopped looking at the ring and met Alan's gaze. "You want the truth?"

"That would nice, for a change, yes."

"The truth is I liked you from the moment we met. I hired you summarily, something we senior partners aren't supposed to do. I had you chairing cases with me when others, like Brad, were higher on the totem pole."

"That's because I'm good."

"Yes. *We're* good, Alan. Good *together*."

"We are," Alan smiled. This was the most Denny had said to him in seriousness in a long while, and he liked the direction it was heading. It maddened him that he couldn't seem to stay hurt, to stay angry. He had no willpower when it came to Denny Crane. How debasing. How utterly emasculating.

How *wonderful*.

He wondered how much longer the butterfly would float before it landed on the flower.

"How many men do you think I've ever let live with me? Sleep in my bed?"

"Hard to tell with Denny Crane."

"None. You hear that, Alan? *None*."

"Until me."

"Until you." Denny rose to his feet. He picked up Alan's duffel bag and carried it over to the closet. He deposited it on the floor, closing the closet door behind him. "I hurt you. With what I said."

"I admit it. You did."

His back still to him, his hand still on the doorknob, Denny said in a quiet voice, "I'm sorry."

Alan smiled. He knew that hadn't been easy for Denny, and it warmed him incalculably. Saccharine wasn't his style, but Denny Crane was and his smile widened.

"You've always been honest with me, even before you knew me well. Even when I don't want to hear it, you tell me the truth." Denny turned. "So I'll return the favor by being honest with you, and I'll only say it this one time, Alan, so don't you ever ask me for it again." He looked into Alan's eyes for a brief moment before looking away. "I do need you. And...I want you to stay."

Alan noted that he was no longer hearing thunder, no longer seeing lightning. In fact, he could barely see Denny at all in the darkness of the bedroom. He took a deep breath. He was satisfied. All the earlier wounds seemed to have miraculously disappeared here in the quiet solitude of their...*their*...home. All the earlier thoughts of jealousy...well, no, he couldn't admit to that. That still existed. The point, he mused as he heard the thunder roll away in the distance, was that the stinger had been removed.

"Thank you, Denny."

And the butterfly landed.