SquidgeWorld Archive

"You're a closet biker? Why does this not surprise me?"

"You haven't seen anything, son, until you've seen Denny Crane on a BMW bike."

"I'm having trouble envisioning it. Leather?"

"Most definitely."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. There's nothing sexier than Denny Crane in black leather."

"Beemer jacket?"

"No. Denny Crane is not a billboard for anything or anyone but Denny Crane."

"I see. So..." Alan shook his head. "I just can't do it."

"Do what?"

"Picture you dressed in black leather on a motorcycle."

"Good way to pick up hot biker women. You like motorcycles, Alan?"

"Yes, like any hot biker woman, I very much like motorcycles."

"You wanna ride this weekend?"

"With you."

"Mmhm."

"On a BMW bike."

"Yep."

"Denny, I've never been on a motorcycle before."

He shrugged. "What's to know? You grab on, hold on for dear life and let Denny Crane take you to places you've never been."

"Sounds promising. You're on."

~BL~BL~BL~BL~BL~

After a trip to Boston's most exclusive store for wealthy motorcycle aficionados, two men emerged dressed identically. Matching black leather pants. Matching black boots. Matching black tee shirts. Matching black leather jackets hanging open. And under their arms, matching full black helmets with tinted visors.

Hot biker men.

Parked on the street in front of the store was a gleaming black BMW K 1200 LT motorcycle that had cost $20,000 if it had cost a cent. The men moved as one, helmets being slid on over their heads, straps looped through the metal rings and tightened.

"You ready, biker woman?"

Alan looked at Denny, looked at the motorcycle and then thought of the cab he'd taken while Denny had driven the bike over here. The cab seemed much safer than riding bitch behind a man who had mad cow. However, the idea of speeding along without a care in the world holding tight to his best friend was titillating. Besides, if he was going to go, he knew he'd do it at full-speed, just like he lived his life. Just like Denny lived.

"Ready, biker...what's the correct term? Dude?"

"I prefer stud."

"All right, then, biker stud," Alan said as Denny swung a leg over and settled himself on the BMW. He carefully lifted his own leg and slid into place, only then realizing the slight logistical nightmare of the art of 'holding on.'

This was, after all, Denny Crane.

"Denny?"

"What?" he asked as the engine turned and the bike rumbled to life.

"Where do I hold on?"

"Wrap your arms around me."

"Say again?"

Denny reached back, grabbed Alan's hands and pulled them forward, effectively plastering Alan up against his back. "There. Now hang on."

Denny revved the engine. And in that moment Alan realized why bikers loved their bikes. He felt it shoot down to his toes, up through his torso to his head. But most of all, the vibration hit him right between the legs. "Holy shit," he breathed, just as the motorcycle began to move.

This was going to prove interesting.

~BL~BL~BL~BL~BL~

They kept to a fairly safe speed at first, at least as far as Alan could tell. It was immediately evident that speed on a motorcycle was deceptive at best. It felt like they were going eighty but a quick peek over top of Denny's shoulder had shown it to only be fifty-five.

Taking the 90 west out of Boston, though quite truly Alan's favorite place to be, also filled him with excitement. As he'd told Denny once, he liked traveling with him. It was always an interesting experience, sometimes because of Denny's overactive libido and the women that inevitably found their way to their hotel room. Sometimes because of Denny's forgetfulness and unwillingness to acknowledge anything at all could possibly be slipping.

But mostly it was just his company. As he sat here plastered against Denny's body, the chin guard of his helmet against Denny's shoulder, his arms wrapped around him, hands clinging to the jacket, he realized he'd never been quite so content as he was at this very moment. They were going on a road trip. Just the two of them, a motorcycle and the open road. They had no idea where they'd end up that night, or if they'd even stop when darkness fell.

There was no plan. No strategy. Nothing at all that defined them during the long workweek hours at Crane, Poole and Schmidt. Like clockwork they arrived. Like clockwork there was lunch. Like clockwork they met on the balcony, then more often than not went out to dinner together. Then home together. It could have been considered routine except for the fact that life with Denny was anything but routine.

Still, it was its own routine of sorts and it was freeing to know you were rid of that for a couple of days. Out here they weren't Denny Crane and Alan Shore the power attorneys from Boston. They weren't the men in thousand-dollar suits who carried briefcases and fought for those who paid them hundreds of dollars to do so.

They were just a couple of guys straddling a vibrating motorcycle that had Alan wondering just how much self-control he actually had. His arms pulled in a little more, into what he would never tell Denny was a hug. He laid the side of his helmet on Denny's back and just let the air move over him.

Life was good.

~BL~BL~BL~BL~BL~

The 90 gave way to the New York State Thruway. The Thruway melted into the 88. They finally pulled into a gas station off the highway, Denny bringing the motorcycle to a stop alongside one of the six pumps. He took his helmet off and hung it on the left handlebar. For a moment, Alan wondered why he wasn't moving after that.

"Alan."

"What?"

"I can't get off the bike until you unwrap yourself."

"I can't move," Alan mumbled.

"What? What'd you say?" Denny asked, trying to turn.

"I...can't...move."

"Stiff?"

"In more ways than one."

Denny shot him a look as he waited for Alan to loosen his grip and lean back, letting his legs fall to the ground. He removed his helmet and Denny hung it over the right handlebar. With a groan, Alan managed to slide his leg over the seat and perch precariously on his legs as Denny swung out wide and landed next to him like a cat. He toed the kickstand down and sighed.

Alan looked at him as he tried working the stiffness out of his legs and arms. And for a breathtaking moment as the sun shone directly in Denny's face, Alan was transfixed by the sight. In that one instant, he suddenly knew why Denny Crane had his reputation. His eyes were brilliant, a wide smile on his face as he surveyed the surrounding area. He had never seen Denny like this. Wild. Open. Free. Happy.

"Helluva way to travel, eh?"

Alan nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Instead, he just continued shaking his arms and legs, twisting to crack his back, rolling his neck and wiggling his fingers while Denny uncapped the gas tank and swiped a credit card in the pump.

"Something to drink? Eat?"

"Yes, I am hungry, now that you mention it."

"Good." Denny looked around. To his right he spotted exactly what he was searching for. "Right there, Alan. Good old small-town café."

"I don't know when I last dined in anything but a four-star restaurant."

"Time to get to the roots of America, son," Denny said, topping off the tank. "You want to ride over?"

"No, I...think I'll walk." Alan tried to move as smoothly as possible, but it...wasn't possible. As such, he resembled someone who had something permanently stuck somewhere that no one should ever have anything stuck as he toothpicked it across the street and into the café's parking lot. He heard the motorcycle roar to life and heard it come closer as he made it to the sidewalk surrounding the small building.

He turned to find Denny aimed straight at him. Alan stood there and smirked as Denny screeched to a halt merely two inches from the tips of his toes. "You didn't even flinch," Denny said as he removed his helmet. "I'm impressed."

"I'm unflappable. Come on."

Their meal was good. Alan had forgotten what down-home cooking was like. Actually, he hadn't really had down-home cooking since his wife had died. The food brought back memories and he ate with abandon, stuffing himself on the house special meatloaf, mashed potatoes and string beans, and finishing it off with the best hot apple pie and homemade vanilla ice cream he thought he'd ever tasted.

Needless to say, there wasn't much conversation at the table.

At last they paid the check and headed back out to the motorcycle. "Where to, Denny?"

Denny shrugged. "Far as we can get, I guess. Any preference?"

"Sexual or otherwise?"

"What is it with you?" Denny asked.

"That's a bit of pot, kettle if you ask me."

Denny grinned. "Come on, biker babe, let's get moving."

Alan nodded and donned his helmet, pulling the strap tight. He waited for Denny to get on, then slid in behind him on the slightly higher second seat. He leaned into the backrest, suddenly wondering why he hadn't noticed it was there before. His feet sat on the chrome pedals and he waited for Denny to up the kickstand and balance the bike.

"You drive this thing pretty damn well," he remarked.

"Didn't think I had it in me, did you?" Denny asked as he clicked the ignition.

"Never doubted you for a moment."

"Riiiight. Hang on!"

Alan nodded and leaned forward, once again drawing his hands around Denny's body, only this time slightly higher on his ribcage.

"Stop trying to fondle my breasts!"

"But they make such good handholds!"

Denny laughed as he put the motorcycle into gear and rolled out to the road, then back to the onramp and onto the highway. Alan could still feel him laughing and began to chuckle as well. More than a few passers-by looked strangely at the two leather-clad men on the sleek black 1200 speeding along and laughing like the wind would always be at their backs.

~BL~BL~BL~BL~BL~

Barely an hour passed before Alan noticed they were finally heading off the beaten path. "Where are we going?" he yelled forward.

"No idea!" Denny yelled back, shrugging.

The 17 turned into the 15. Cross the border from New York to Pennsylvania. Roosevelt Highway, Grand Army of the Republic Highway. They hit Highway 144, crossing back and forth across Kettle Creek as they wound their way through the middle of nowhere. Alan watched as the sun slowly began to sink toward the horizon and found himself irrationally saddened that the day was winding down.

As dusk became night, the motorcycle finally pulled into the Kettle Creek Lodge. Alan got off the bike and wandered over to the sign that told about the Susquehannock Forest, which they were right in the middle of. Alan noted the strong smell of pine and the brilliant green of the leaves and grass surrounding the lodge. He turned as Denny's feet crunched across the dirt and gravel drive toward him. He had a big smile on his face.

"They have horses here!" he exclaimed. "Hiking, fishing, ATV riding - this could be fun!"

"Do you know this place?"

"No, never been here before in my life. Just..." Denny shrugged and gave a small smile. "Just went where my gut took me."

"It's definitely...country-like."

"We got the only cabin they had left...called Kettle Vista."

"Cabin?"

"Yeah. Come on, hop on and we'll head over."

"Denny, don't you remember what happened the last time we were in a cabin in the middle of the woods? Do you really want that happening again?"

A gleam in his eye, Denny winked at him. "I'm counting on it."

Alan's eyes widened. For a moment he wondered if he'd heard right as Denny walked back over to the motorcycle. "You coming?" he called back. Alan could only nod and walk wordlessly to him. Denny chuckled as they rode the short distance to the Kettle Vista cabin. It was fairly quiet. All Alan could hear were the sounds of nature. But for a change it didn't bother him.

He helped Denny pull their one change of clothes and bags of toiletries out of the two hardcover saddlebags and take everything into the quaint, well-maintained cabin. It had a patio, a full kitchen, a living room and two bedrooms. He absentmindedly deposited his things into the one with two double beds and removed his jacket, hanging it in the closet. He also removed his boots, then headed back out into the living room, where he was surprised to find Denny at the fireplace.

"You never struck me as the woodsy type, really. Not even at Nimmo. You couldn't even catch a fish."

"Hey, rich boys go camping all the time. It's how our parents get rid of us," Denny said as the flames began to rise from the crumpled paper, twigs and larger logs. He rose to his feet, wiping his palms together to rid them of dirt, real or imaginary.

The room was completely dark save for the flickering of the growing fire. It cast strange shadows, dancing over the sofa and table, creating shapes on the walls...but most of all, casting Denny himself in an almost ethereal light.

Oh, shit, Alan. Shit, shit, you've got it bad.

"I told you I looked good in leather."

The voice surprised him but he didn't let on. "Yes, you did."

"You don't look half bad yourself," Denny said, moving toward the kitchen. "Scotch?"

"Certainly. I'll get the cigars." Alan moved back into the room he'd claimed as his own and pulled two cigars from the box he'd brought in with his clothes. He returned to the living room to find Denny had seated himself on the couch, one drink in each hand. When Alan sat down next to him, Denny held out a drink. Alan took it and offered the cigar.

And so tonight they sat not outside in the congested evening air of Boston, Massachusetts, but inside a quiet, quaint cabin in Cross Fork, Pennsylvania. Alan burned with questions for his friend, but it had been his experience that to pry into certain types of matters didn't always get the best results from Denny Crane.

"What's on your mind?"

Alan looked over at him. "How do you always know?"

Denny stared into the flames. "Well, when you...don't have a mind of your own, it's...fairly easy to read those of others."

Alan chuckled. "Yes, I suppose it is."

"Well?"

"I really liked the motorcycle."

"I could tell. Both at the gas station and again here."

Alan half-smiled. "You could have warned me." He felt emboldened by Denny's pursed lips. "Unless you didn't want to warn me."

"Now, why would I do a thing like that."

"I don't know, Denny, but something about this seems...staged somehow."

"Nonsense."

Nearly twenty minutes passed. Twenty minutes in which Alan had begun to yawn in spite of himself. The fresh air was, apparently, taxing to a city boy.

"Tired already? You're getting old, Alan."

"I'm afraid so. Seems like the big five-oh is going to hit me hard."

"When's that, again? Your birthday?"

"February."

"Oh, that's right. Huh. You do realize when you say that, you're saying it to a man twenty-eight years your senior."

"I do. How do you do it, Denny?"

"How do I do what?"

"Fuel that...boundless supply of energy? I've never seen anyone your age run as fast as you do."

Denny slugged back the remainder of his third Scotch for the evening. "The race is not always to the swift, my friend, but to those who keep on going."

Alan understood the mood. He could feel it change...feel Denny change. "You keep running," he paraphrased, "even if you slow down, simply so you won't have to stop."

"That's the long and the short of it."

"Why? Why are you..." Alan took a deep breath. "Why are you afraid to slow down?"

"I watched my father deteriorate. Seems Alzheimer's is genetic. Who knows, nobody really knows, but...I watched him slow down. Grow old before his time. I am the way I am because of those I've lost, Alan." Alan watched him in the flickering light, a frown creasing his brow. "Whenever people slow down, they grow old. And then they die." He looked over at Alan. "I figure as long as I'm going...I won't die."

"Not exactly the pragmatic approach."

"No, but it works."

Alan leaned slowly toward him, but not because he was tired. He merely needed to feel close to him for reasons he didn't care to examine beyond the small shift in position.

"I don't suppose I can imagine you slowing down any more than you can, Denny." Alan turned his head. Denny's was only inches away when he turned, his eyes meeting Alan's full-on.

"What if I told you I wanted to slow down?" Alan's eyes widened in barely concealed concern. "Oh, not totally, don't get me wrong, Alan. But..." Denny held his hand up and see-sawed it back and forth. "Just a little."

"Would you care to expound upon that?"

"You look worried."

"I am. Expound."

Denny sighed. "I'm seventy-two years old. I figure with this mad cow up here," he swirled a finger next to his temple, "I've got maybe...what, ten years left? You know, riding a motorcycle four hundred and sixty miles without being able to hold a decent conversation gives you a lot of time to think. Passing the natural beauty of this great country of ours gives you a lot of food for thought. Of course, you were too busy getting your rocks off behind me to do much thinking."

Alan laughed. But the sound died in his throat when Denny faced him again, this time so close he could feel his every breath.

"I only want to slow down long enough to be able to stop and smell the flowers once in a while," Denny said. "On the go all the time...I've been doing it for..." He shook his head. "Way too long."

Alan knew it was his classic reaction to moments such as this. When anything he wanted inched close enough to possibly be within his reach, he tended to strap on a parachute and bail. Or sometimes bail without the chute. In this case, he refused to believe what it sounded like Denny might be getting at, and so he used his humor to diffuse. To give Denny an out. To give himself an out.

"Is this the part where I get to find out whether or not I'm a flower?"

"I don't think you're a flower," Denny said gruffly. "But I do think you're..."

Alan had the fleeting thought that the tension could be cut with a knife. "You think I'm...?"

Denny fought a smile that seemed insistent upon breaking free. "A good reason to slow down." He paused to let the words hang between them. "A little."

Clearing his throat, Alan fought to maintain his composure. Shirley Schmidt. Shirley Schmidt. Shirley Schmidt. That did it.

"Denny, you need to explain that."

"All right," Denny said, rising off the couch and moving closer to the fireplace as thunder rumbled in the distance. "We have...a relationship."

"Yes."

"I suspect there's more to it than mere...friendship."

Alan, too, stood. He moved closer, but still kept his guard up as best he could. "Denny, we've played games with each other since the day we met." He moved in front of him to catch his eye, voice wavering. "Don't play games about this."

"I'm not playing a game, Alan," Denny said, his face relaxing into a lazy smile. He half-chuckled. "Maybe for the first time in my life...I'm not playing a game."

"So this was all planned."

"And the jury finds the defendant...guilty."

Alan held his eyes for a few moments longer. His mind was whirling. He didn't want to believe Denny. He couldn't. Here was the moment he'd been hoping for somewhere in his mind...sometimes in the back, sometimes at the very forefront...and yet even with Denny's confession having been put out there into the ether, he didn't believe it possible that someone like Denny...hell, that anyone, for that matter...would have put something like this together for him. For him.

"What's the matter?" The soft question told him Denny hadn't moved. Mere feet separated them but in Alan's mind it may as well have been the Mariana Trench. "Has my ability to...read people...to read you...left me now, too?"

Alan shook his head. Did Denny know what he was doing? What he was implying? Could he possibly understand how impossible it was for Alan to believe himself worthy of being loved? Was that even what Denny was talking about here? How could he know? He couldn't make his voice work, he couldn't say the words, ask the question. And right now, with his back to the object of his turmoil, he couldn't search the hazel eyes for truth. He was frozen in the moment. Couldn't more forward. Couldn't move backward. Couldn't sidestep. Just...couldn't move.

"You know..." Denny had begun to walk around the room. "I've always sort of thought I...didn't deserve the love of a good woman."

Alan found himself turning his face toward the window as rain began splashing against it.

"I've always figured that's why my marriages, my affairs...my flings...didn't last."

His head turned to where Denny circled around the back of the living room, a wide arc that Alan knew would inevitably lead to him.

"But then it occurred to me, and maybe it was before and I just didn't...realize it...but it occurred to me on the road today that..." Denny shrugged his shoulders, the lopsided smile reappearing. "Well, it occurred to me that I had found someone who thought me worthy of...friendship. Loyalty. Concern." Denny continued walking until indeed he had come full-circle to stand in front of Alan. "Worthy of love."

When Denny looked up, a small gasp escaped his lips. He reached out, thumb brushing against the wetness on Alan's cheek. "Why are you crying?" he breathed.

"No games?" Alan managed to choke out.

"No games. I'm too old for games."

Alan found himself looking up through the mire of his own insides as the rain pelted even harder against the windows. He saw a glimmer of hope as Denny's hand didn't move, but instead continued to wipe the tears that Alan couldn't keep from flowing. He closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.

And when he opened his eyes, Denny was right there. Right in front of him. Alan reached out...literally and figuratively...his left hand landing on Denny's shoulder. He moved those last few inches until their torsos were touching.

"Denny?"

His friend smiled and nodded. "Alan."

As if by unspoken prearranged agreement, they ducked into each other, mouths meeting long enough to send a jolt of electricity through them that rivaled the first flash of lightning outside; short enough that they both still had time to back out.

But there would be no backing out.

Alan finally came alive, wrapping his arms around him like he had for so many hours on the bike; grabbing handfuls of the black tee shirt like he had of the jacket Denny had at some point shed; reveling in the feel of this very alive, very charged man so close to him. He opened his mouth and found Denny's lips open and waiting.

Three years of wanting...waiting...love...lust...verbal sparring...innuendo...laughter...three years of Denny Crane and Alan Shore finally erupted in a kiss so fierce it took their breath away before a minute had even passed. They parted and Alan relaxed enough to slip back into the skin he was more comfortable with...his own.

"I assume this means I'm not going to be staying in the two-bed room tonight."

"You assume correctly, counselor."

"And then?"

"Don't rush me. I've still got ten good years left."

"Denny..."

"Don't worry, Alan," Denny said, putting his arm around him as they headed for the bedroom, "I'm not going to retract my statement."

As they crossed the threshold into the bedroom, Alan said, "You realize I'm going to expect you to make an honest man of me."

"Alan, I may be Denny Crane, but even I can't do that."