Title: The Price Of Gratitude

Author: Emerald Starburst

E-mail: Emeraldstarburst@webtv.net

Fandom: Law & Order/ Law & Order:CI

Archive: WWOMB

Series: Love At First Sight

Sequel to: Last Night, Love at First Sight

Status: Work in Progress

Rating: NC-17.

Parts: ?

Feedback: Please! Onlist or private e-mail.

Categories: Established Relationship, Crossover-Law & Order/Law & Order:CI

Summary: Mike and Lennie get together, but of course it can't be that easy. (A small fragment of actual plot here!) Oh, and there's a surprise at the end.

Pairing: Lennie Briscoe/Mike Logan

Warnings: M/M. Violence.

Disclaimer: The Usual. I don't own them. Wish I did. Just borrowing them for awhile to play.

Authors Notes: I never intended this to become a series, but Mike and Lennie had other ideas. Kudos and gratitude to CultureVulture and Cassatt for their advice ('most' of which I took!) and encouragement.


Note: * * denotes thoughts. // // denotes flashbacks.


The Price of Gratitude
by Emerald Starburst


They were about fifteen minutes away from the scene when Ed couldn't stand it anymore. "Okay, Lennie, spill it."

In the midst of whistling, 'Oh, What a Beautiful Morning', Lennie turned to his partner and said, "Spill what?"

"Don't look all innocent at me, man. You know what. You've been grinning like a Cheshire Cat for the last month, and this morning you're whistling show tunes. What's going on? Did you win the lottery? Find the love of your life? What?"

"Maybe I'm just in a good mood."

"A good mood? You? For a whole month and counting?"

"And thank you so much for your support, partner. Maybe I'm happy to be near retirement. Five days 'and counting'."

"That just proves my point! I thought they were going to have to carry your ass out of the department in a box. You've been bitching about being near mandatory retirement since the New Year, and now you can't
wait to get out of the door."

Lennie just smiled, and Ed hit the steering wheel. "That's it! You met somebody, didn't you? You found some rich broad with a thing for your old body, and she's going to support you in your old age. That's it,
isn't it?'

"Ed," Lennie mock reproached, "a gentleman never kisses and tells." He did his best impression of a Cheshire cat.

"Damn, I knew it! I'm young and beautiful and you get more action than I do. There is no justice."

They arrived at the scene, so Ed didn't get a chance to vent any further. The crime scene was at a cafe called creatively (not) The Cafe. CSU was already there, swarming around the bodies of two men.

"Cause of death was multiple gunshot wounds," a technician informed them.

"Gee, I would never have guessed," said Lennie, peering down at the bloodied bodies. "ID?"

"Identification in the wallets says the older guy was Stanley Yarbourough. He's got business cards for a place called Bluefire Publishing."

Something about Bluefire Publishing rung a bell, but Lennie couldn't place it. "How about the other stiff?"

"Carl Stevens. His business card says he's a literary agent."

Ed was talking to one of the uniformed patrolmen at the scene. "Lennie, there are six witnesses who actually saw the shooting."

"Somebody actually saw something? Will wonders never cease."

"Don't get too excited. They didn't see much. The two guys..."

"Yarbourough and Stevens."

"Okay, Yarbourough and Stevens, were having coffee, when another guy in a black ski mask ran in, shot them, and ran out. Shot each guy twice. Boom, boom. Boom, boom."

"Let me guess, nobody saw where he ran to?"

"You got it. There is one break. A waitress says there was a third man with the two who were shot. He left about twenty minutes earlier."

"Where's the waitress?"

Overhearing the two detectives, a patrolman brought over a young woman in a waitress uniform. She was in her early twenties with badly dyed blond hair.

"Hello, Terri," said Lennie, reading her name off her employee tag. "What can you tell us about the man who left the table early?"

"A name would would be nice," Ed added sarcastically.

"Oh, I know his name," Terri announced to the dumbfounded detectives. "I heard it when he was talking to the other men. And he was nice enough to sign my book."

"Book?" Lennie repeated.

From one of her deep pockets, the waitress produced an obviously much read paperback book. The title page read-'A Tragedy on the Lower East Side' by Phillip Greeves.

Ed took the book from the waitress and read aloud, "To Terri. Sincerely, Philip Greeves. Well, that gives us a place to start...Lennie?" To Green's dismay, his partner suddenly flushed red and started to pant. "Lennie...you are not having a heart attack! Tell me you are not having a heart attack!"

Lennie flashed him a look of irritation. "I am not having a heart attack. That pastrami on rye came back to haunt me, and I'm not feeling too good. Terri, where's the...Thanks," he said when she pointed to the signs for the restrooms. Lennie fled.

Truthfully, Lennie didn't feel well. He ran the water and splashed the cold liquid on his face. "You couldn't wait, could you?" he ranted aloud at the dead men. He kicked a conveniently placed trashcan across the room and watched as it ricochetted off the far wall. It helped. A little. He knew it was irrational, but he couldn't help it. It was goddamned unfair! "You couldn't wait five days to get killed?"

He pulled some paper towels from the dispenser to dry his face and forced himself to calm down. *Okay, Lennie, getting mad at the stiffs isn't going to help. Just take a minute to think.* Lennie took a deep breath and pulled his cell phone from his pocket.

"Mike? Sit down. The fertilizer has hit the fan."

Ten minutes later, Lennie rejoined his partner in the cafe. He grabbed him by the arm and said, "We're going."

"Lennie, we need to question the witnesses."

"The uniforms have their names and addresses, we'll do it later."

"We have to get in touch with Philip Greeves and get a statement."

"That's where we're going."

Ed stopped arguing, gave the uniformed officers some last minute instructions, and followed Lennie out to the car.

"Get in and drive." Lennie gave him an address in Midtown.

"How did you get his address so fast?"

"I know him."

"You know Philip Greeves? You know he's Van Buren's favorite author, and you didn't tell her? Man, that's missing out on some major brownie points with the lieutenant."

"I didn't 'know' that I knew him until recently."

"Come again?"

Lennie sighed. "Philip Greeves isn't his real name."

"How do you know. . ."

"Look, Ed, I know him, okay? I'll explain everything when we get there."

Ed gave his partner a hard look, but he kept his silence. Something strange was going on with Lennie, but he figured he owed the man a little slack. A little.

During their drive to Mike's co-op, Lennie tried to figure out how he'd gotten into this situation. Then he remembered that day slightly over one month before.

Mike had just given him their first kiss.



Part 2

//After they broke the kiss in order to breathe, they stood there holding each other for a long time. As good as it felt, Lennie was moved to say, "Shouldn't we be doing something here?"

"I'm just fine," Mike said and gently pulled Lennie's earlobe with his teeth. "We can do this as fast or as slow as you want, Lennie. We've got all the time in the world."

"I want to do something, Mike, we've wasted too much time."

"No," he corrected gently. "The time it took as to get here was the time it took us to get here." Mike rubbed his hands up and down Lennie's back. Lennie reciprocated, the friction of the fine wool on his hands sending tingles up and down his spine.

"Hmm," said Lennie. "Psychotherapy has done wonders for your patience."

"And you get to reap the benefits," said Mike, kissing him again. "Lennie, have you done anything like this before? With other guys?"

"I experimented a little in college," Lennie admitted. "Just hand jobs and few blow jobs. I definitely want more now."

"Me too, but I want it to be good for the both of us, and that means we take our time." Mike buried his nose in Lennie's hair and inhaled deeply as though to catalogue his soon-to-be-lover's essence. Mike released his grip slightly and turned to look Lennie in the eye. "So, what do you
have in the way of supplies?"

"Supplies?"

"Lennie, we're adults here. You know. Condoms. Lube."

Lennie sighed unhappily. "Well, I got condoms, but I don't think I'd trust them. It's been a while since I last brought a date home. I don't have anything you could really call lube."

"Well, that does sort of limit what we can do for now." Mike smiled as though this knowledge fit in exactly with his plans. And perhaps it did. "In the New Joy of Gay Sex." he quoted, "it says that in sex between men the final pledge of intimacy is offered not by the degree of ardor or penetration or abandon during sex but by the depth and tenderness of a kiss."

"You've read the 'New' Joy of Gay Sex?" Lennie whispered.

"That 'was' a gift from one of the two guys I dated." Mike again covered his mouth with his lips and gently probed with his tongue. Lennie's mouth resisted in surprise for a second, then he opened. Slowly, silently asking permission, Mike slid his tongue over his teeth and gums, stroked the roof of his mouth, and issued a invitation to reciprocate. It was accepted with alacrity, and Mike happily let Lennie's tongue explore his mouth. When the kiss broke, Lennie moaned with the loss, but Mike wasn't through. He gently nipped Lennie's lower lip and started blazing a trail of kisses down his chin and throat. The collar of his shirt proved to be an obstacle, but Mike deftly unbuttoned it and pulled it off, and it was quickly followed by the t-shirt beneath.

"Mike. . ."

"Shush. Master at work. Now, where was I?" Mike began a new trail, starting at the hollow of his throat, leading down Lennie's bare chest to his left nipple. Mike laved the rosette with his tongue. It immediately went erect, along with a more southernly part of Lennie's anatomy.

Mike was about to travel further down, but Lennie's strong hands took his head and brought it back up. "My turn," he said. Mike had no problem with that and allowed Lennie to pull off his sweater, shirt, and t-shirt. Lennie pressed his lips to the hollow of Mike's throat and explored the cavity with his tongue. His hands caressed Mike's shoulders, and he stopped. Dead.

"Lennie?" asked Mike.

"You said you were shot in the knee." Lennie fingered the puckered scar in the hollow of Mike's right shoulder.

"I was," he answered softly. "But I was shot there, too. No big deal. Hurt like a bitch, but it was a through and through. No permanent damage." Lennie reached behind him and felt the small dimple on his back.

"Exit wound," Lennie said, the cop part on auto-pilot. "Anywhere else?"

"One more." Mike took Lennie's hand and guided it to a long, thin scar on his left side, just above his hip. "Just a graze. Lucky for me, the bastard was a lousy shot."

"You could have died. . ."

"I didn't. I'm here and you're here. Let's celebrate." Lennie didn't need a second invitation. He got them both naked as soon as possible and walked them over to the bed. They plopped down on top of the comforter, Lennie covering Mike's body with his own. Lennie had taken over the lead, but Mike didn't protest. He looked up at Lennie with a look of such utter trust that Lennie's heart melted, permanently.//

"We're here," said Ed, barging into his thoughts. Lennie looked up and saw that Ed had parked the car in front of the building.

*Damn. Just when I was getting to the good part.*

Ed followed him up to the front entrance. To his surprise, Lennie unlocked the door with a key and gestured him inside. He lead the way up a flight of stairs and opened the door to the apartment. Before Ed could think through the implications, he heard a male voice call out, "I'm in
the kitchen."

"Okay," Lennie called back. "Come on, Ed."

Lennie led the way down a short hallway and into a sunny, yellow kitchen. At the table sat a man that answered the brief description he'd been able to gather from the witnesses before Lennie had whisked them away. White male, tall, dark hair-gray at the temples, hazel eyes, and the cane leaning on the table completed the picture. "Mr. Philip Greeves, I presume?"

"The one and only. But you can call me Mike." Lennie sat down at the table next to him and Ed joined them at Lennie's nod.

"Mike Logan, Lennie's old partner at the Two-Seven? Well, that explains how you know each other, but I don't get the song and dance. So an ex-cop, who happens to be a friend of yours, turns out to be a writer. That's an old story. I see that the case is going to have to be reassigned, you can't investigate your old partner. That would be like investigating a relative, but I don't see the problem." The two men exchanged a glance that Ed could read as 'Shall I tell him or do you?'

"Well?"

"Ed," said Logan, "have you actually read any of my books?"

"Well, I kind of skimmed the one. It's not that it wasn't good. . ."

"It wasn't your thing, I get that," Mike said, "But do you remember the main characters?"

"Well, yeah, the main character was Robert 'Bobby' Lorenzo. Described as tall, dark, and handsome, he's a detective in the NYPD who's also a closeted gay."

"Right," put in Lennie. "What do you remember about his partner?"

"Let me think. He was older than Lorenzo. Happily married. Two kids. Oh, yeah, and Lorenzo had this secret crush on the guy."

"His name?" prompted Lennie.

"Larry Bascomb." A pause. "Larry Bascomb? Lennie Briscoe!" Ed jaw dropped as Mike and Lennie joined hands.

"That's the panic, Ed," said Lennie. "Anybody who knows that Mike is Philip Greeves is going to figure out that Robert Lorenzo and Larry Bascomb are Mike Logan and Lennie Briscoe."

"Holy crap," said Ed. "What are we going to do?"

"We discussed that," said Mike.

"You discussed that? Lennie, you called him from the crime scene? I cannot even begin to list how much trouble you could be in for that."

"Ed, calm down, it was screwed up from the time we were assigned the case."

"Lennie, you and I are going to have to have a long talk about this."

"This?"

"Yeah, 'this'. How you could keep something like this from me. But first, we've got to get this mess straightened out."

"Getting back to that," said Mike. "Ed. we're going to have to trust you to help us out here. You have to sound out Van Buren."

"Van Buren? She's not a homophobe that I know of. Why would she be trouble?"

"No," Mike sighed, "she's not a homophobe, but she could still be trouble."

"Excuse me? Why?"

"There's some things you need to know," Lennie explained.



Part 3

Ed walked into the squad room, his stomach churning with anxiety. He'd learned more than he'd ever wanted to about his partner and the department, and the day wasn't over yet. As he expected, the moment he walked in the door, Van Buren was in his face.

"Detective, my office." When they walked inside, she shut the door and got down to business. "Where's your partner?"

"For the record, he's at home with a bad case of food poisoning."

"Oh?" she said ominously. "And off the record?"

"It's complicated," Ed said truthfully.

"Saying something is 'complicated' is not a satisfactory answer, Detective, but we have other things to do right now. The higher ups have decided in their infinite wisdom that the death of a noted publisher is too high-profile for us, so it's been reassigned to the Major Case squad. You and Briscoe need to get together what you've got and get it over there, pronto."

*Yes, yes, yes!* Ed did the happy dance in his head for two seconds, and for that time considered just dropping the ball in Major Cases' lap and not telling Van Buren at all. Then sanity took over and reminded Ed that Van Buren would eventually hear everything, and he still had to work at the Two-Seven. He sighed. "Something wrong, Detective?"

"Well, yes and no, Lieu."

"Have I ever mentioned that I hate cryptic remarks? Spill it." Ed ran his hand down his goatee and then rubbed his moustache for good measure. This had seemed much easier when they had discussed it earlier.

"Lennie and I couldn't have worked the case anyway. Lennie knows one of the...material witnesses."

"Really?"

"Yeah, it turns out that a little while before the shooting the victims were talking to PhIlip Greeves."

Just as he had feared, Van Buren's eyes lit up. "Philip Greeves the author?"

"Yeah, him. It turns out Lennie and he go back a ways. And so do you." This time the Lieutenant's eyes were puzzled.

"I don't understand."

"I think this will explain it best." Ed reached into the plastic bag he had been carrying in his left hand and pulled out a hardcover book. Van Buren took it from him.

"A Murder in Times Square. This isn't supposed to be out until next month."

"Author's copy. It's signed."

She opened the cover and read aloud. "To Anita Van Buren. Respectfully, Philip Greeves. AKA Mike Logan." When she looked up again, her expression was stormy. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"Believe me, I wish it was. And it gets worse." Ed quickly ran through the steps Lennie and Mike had gone through to lead him to the truth about their relationship. For a minute, Ed thought he'd have to do CPR. She looked down at the book as if it were a snake posed to strike.

"Mike and Lennie? I. Don't. Believe it. How could they have kept it hidden all these years?"

"Look, Lieu, from what they tell me, there wasn't anything to hide until about six weeks ago. And no one would ever have had to know anything if this shooting hadn't occurred. Remember, Lennie is retiring at the end of the week."

"Well, the shooting did occur, and everyone will know." Van Buren took a deep breath. "Fine, I see where Briscoe couldn't take this case, but why didn't he come see me himself and explain? Why did he let you do his dirty work?"

"He said...he said that you'd know why. He said that he and Logan have had a long talk."

Van Buren was good. It didn't take her long to understand, and she did him the courtesy to not pretend she didn't know what he was talking about. "I see. Did he elaborate?"

"Do you really want me to say?"

She shook her head. "So the plan is for Briscoe to call in sick the next couple of days. Well, he has the time, he could have retired anytime the last few years, if that's what he wants."

Ed took a deep breath. "No, that's not what he wants. That depends on you."

She looked puzzled again. "Me? How?"

"Lennie want to finish the week. Can he trust you not to say anything about this until after he retires?"

"Detective," she said sharply, a little more like her old self, "do you expect me to hold back information on an ongoing investigation?"

"No, ma'am! Lennie just wants your word that the news of their relationship won't be spread around the station. He and Logan intend to co-operate fully with the investigation. They never had any intention of doing otherwise."

"I see." Van Buren stared down at her desk for a long moment. "Briscoe will take my word for this?"

"Lennie 'and' Mike Logan both said they always had the greatest respect for you. Your word is good enough for them."

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

Lennie was looking through the refrigerator trying to decide what they were having for dinner. "Mike," he called into the living room, "do you feel like hamburgers or chicken?"

"What?" he answered abstractedly. "I don't care. Just fix something for yourself, I'll eat later."

"Yeah, where have I heard that before?" As he looked through the pantry, trying to find inspiration, Lennie thought about their new domestic arrangements. It had been almost frighteningly easy for Mike to talk him into moving in.

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

When Lennie pointed out that they had gone from no relationship to 'roomies' in less than six weeks, MIke had protested.

"Hey, we've been in a relationship for ten years. We were just in denial about it. Plus, you're not officially living here." True enough, Lennie was still paying the rent on his apartment, but he hadn't actually slept there for over two weeks.

That two weeks of cohabitation had been an eye-opener for them.

Lennie learned that Mike was very dedicated to his writing. Every morning, Monday through Friday, Mike woke up at seven and was 'at work' by nine. Nine to eleven he sat at his desk either on his PC or making notes on numerous yellow legal pads. By one he was back at work until four.

Lennie, to his amusement and worry, was not allowed into Mike's office while he was working. "You're too much of a distraction," he explained with a kiss and a grab of his ass to lighten the rejection. Mike's cell was turned off and his phone was put on voice mail.

"You weren't this dedicated when you were a cop," Lennie grumbled. That wasn't true, though, and he knew it. Part of the reason Mike had had so much trouble was that he had been 'too' dedicated.

Mike, on the other hand, had been amazed by what he called Lennie's ultimatum.

Mike had bought the co-op as an investment, and though he liked living there well enough, he hadn't bothered to do much with it. In fact, the only rooms that had furniture were his office, the bedroom, and the kitchen.

"This isn't an apartment, it's a warehouse!" Lennie complained.

Mike shrugged. "When I'm not working or sleeping, I'm usually out. It doesn't bother me."

"Look, you asked me to live with you, right? There are six empty rooms in this place! It gives me the creeps. At least buy some furniture, will ya?"

"Lennie, if it bothers you, do something about it."

At first, all Lennie did was grumble about living in a haunted house. The last straw was the third night in a row Mike forgot to eat lunch.

"Mike, don't you ever cook? Even a hamburger?"

It turned out, Mike couldn't. He could scramble an egg or make toast, but anything more complicated was beyond him. That was when he remembered to eat. If Mike was deeply into a plot, it was not unusual for him to skip meals.

"Okay, that does it!" Lennie fumed. "I just elected myself your keeper."

"Lennie," Mike teased, "I'm not looking for a wife."

"Good, you're not getting one. I'll cook, I'll clean, hell, I'll buy furniture. But I'm not wearing a flowered apron or calling you 'my poor baby.' You don't like how I do things, tough. Deal or throw me out."

When Mike smiled and saluted, Lennie snorted and said, "Always a smartass."

Lennie came into the living room and saw Mike watching TV and taking notes on a yellow pad. "What are you doing?"

"Billionaire Boys Club is on. I'm taking notes."

"Planning on becoming a billionaire?"

Mike made a rude noise. "I'm getting ideas for my next book."

Deciding to start dinner later, Lennie joined Mike on the couch. "You can do that? From real life?"

"I may not use any of it. If I do, I'll just switch things around so nobody recognizes it."

"Huh," said Lennie, "you're the writer."

They watched the movie in silence for a few minutes. Lennie soon lost track of the action. He had a real life murder to worry about.

Mike glanced over at him and took his hand. He rubbed small circles over the back and then then brought it up to his mouth to kiss the palm gently. "Penny for'em," he said.

"Wouldn't be worth it," Lennie replied. But he answered anyway. "I was thinking about that night. When you told me about how you were shot."

"Ah."

//"Mike, just tell me. Do I have to get the report? I can do that. I'm a cop."

"This feels good," said Mike, nuzzling Lennie's chest hair with his nose. "Have I told you I like hairy men?"

"Much as I like that you like my hairy body, that's not an answer."

"I need a shower." Mike pushed off the covers, sat up, and grabbed his cane.

"There's not that many places to hide in here."

"You're telling me. God, Lennie, I forgot what a shoe box your apartment was. Is there room to breath in this shower?"

"Take shallow breaths," he suggested.

Lennie sat on the bed, dressed only in the top sheet, and waited for Mike to finish his shower. He didn't have a long wait.

Mike came out bare of all but a smile.

"You put on a great floor show, Mike, but it's time to stop tap dancing and talk."

Lennie scooted over on the bed. Mike accepted the unspoken invitation, slid under the sheet, and sat next to him. Still silent, Mike put his head on Lennie's shoulder and the older man put his arms around him.

"I was on my way home," Mike started without preamble. "I saw a mugging going down right in front of me. A mean little punk was holding a knife on a seventy year old lady. He looked like he was going to cut her whether she handed over the purse or not. So, I run up, pull my piece and yell, 'Police! Drop the knife.' He dropped the knife, alright. Then he reached under his jacket and pulled out a Glock! Suddenly, it's the shoot out at the OK Corral."

"Damn," said Lennie, "who'd expect a guy with a knife to be carrying?"

"I sure as hell wasn't. Stupid rookie mistake, I had my eye on the weapon instead of the perp. I was hit before I got my thumb out and dived behind a dumpster. Knee hurt so bad I didn't even feel the other two shots til later. The vic ran screaming into the night, but he wasn't interested in her anymore. Crazy bastard was out to off a cop. I stayed behind that stinking dumpster and called for backup on my cell. I fired whenever he tried to get around the dumpster, and kept yelling at the dispatcher to get somebody, anybody, over there. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes went by. I was out of bullets before it hit me that nobody was coming. I was going to die."

"Jesus," Lennie whispered. He rubbed Mike's back and shuddered at how close they had come to not being together at all. "What happened?"

"Well, being without bullets, I couldn't stop the punk from coming for me. I thought about throwing the gun at him, but I couldn't move my arms anymore. I was bleeding pretty bad and shock was setting in. I'll never forget the big grin on that bastard's face as he raised that pistol and cocked the trigger. I was trying to remember how to pray when the miracle happened. This brick comes flying out of nowhere and beans him on the back of the head! He hits the ground with a skull fracture."

"Son of a bitch! Who?"

"The vic. When she doesn't hear any sirens, she creeps out from her hidey hole just in time to see the perp drawing a bead on me. She sees this piece of broken brick and lets fly. Turns out, she's pitcher for a senior citizens softball league.

"Later, they told me I instructed her to take my cuffs and secure the prisoner, but I don't remember that. I faded out after the perp hit the ground. I came to a couple of days later with Frankie Silvera looking down at me and telling me I was going to keep my leg. Apparently, there had been some question on that score. The rest you know."

Lennie kissed Mike's temple and hugged him closer in a way that was meant to be more comforting than sexual. "Goddam bastards left you hanging out to dry. Who were they, Mike. Tell me."

"There's nothing to tell. Leave it alone, Lennie."

"Like hell." Lennie's brow furrowed as he considered everything Mike had just told him. "I still don't get it. How did I not hear about this? There should have been a hellstorm over this kind of scandal."

"First, you weren't here."

"Say again?"

"You were on your annual visit to Julia in Florida. Where you get to see your grandsons and she gets to tell you how badly you screwed up her life?"

"Damn. What else?"

"It was part of the deal that you not be told."

"Deal? What deal?"

"Lennie, the department did not want another scandal. I knew that.They knew that I knew that." Mike smiled at Lennie's bewildered expression.

"Lennie, this is the United States of America. If you can't get justice, get paid off. I got a lawyer and threatened to sue." //



Part 5

The buzzer for the main entrance trilled and interrupted their trip down memory lane.

Lennie walked to the door and pressed the button. "Who's there?"

"Detectives Goran and Eames from Major Cases. We're here to interview Mr. Logan."

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

Whatever Mike had been expecting, Bobby Goran had not been it. Mentally, he shook his head at the detective's head tilt and hand gestures. *Hello, Lieutenant Colombo,* he thought.

They were seated in the living room, Lennie having been politely but firmly invited to leave the room. Mike could hear him in the kitchen, making far more noise than he had to cooking dinner.

"I read one of your books," said Goran, out of the blue. "It was very well written."

"You were on the New York Times Bestseller List," added Eames. "Impressive."

"Only for paperback," corrected Mike with a smile. He knew he was being buttered up, but it still nice to hear. "Thanks for the compliment."

"You're welcome," said Goran. "May I see your right leg?" He was good. Mike was half expecting some kind of ploy to put him off balance, but the change of subject still took him by surprise.

"My leg?"

"If you don't mind?" In answer, Mike hiked up his leg. Goran sat down beside him on the couch and put Mike's leg on his lap. He firmly palpated the joint with knowledgable fingers. "There was quite a bit of damage done, wasn't there?'

"Yeah, well, the bullet shattered the kneecap, and the bone fragments tore up a bunch of the tendons plus took a lovely hunk off the top of the tibia."

"You got a knee replacement?"

"No. They wouldn't do it."

"They wouldn't do it?" repeated Eames. "Why?"

"First, there was a hell of a lot of damage. The doctors weren't sure a replacement would take. Second, I'm too young."

"Yes," said Goran, "with patients under age fifty-five orthopedists are reluctant to perform knee replacement surgery. The younger the recipient the faster the replacement joint tends to wear out. So, what procedure did they perform?"

"Damn," said Mike, "you do do your homework. I had a knee fusion. The joint is pinned and glued together 'in a functional position' as they put it. Actually," Mike admitted, "it works pretty well."

"But the joint itself is fixed in place. You can't move your knee at all."

"Nope," Mike confirmed. "Not even a wiggle." Goran and Eames exchanged a knowing look. They would get it checked out, but this information put Logan out of the running as a suspect. All the witnesses stated that the shooter had sprinted from the scene. A man with a fused knee would never have been able to manage that.

"So, Mr. Logan, exactly what did you and Mr. Yarbourough talk about?"

"My contract. I'd originally signed a four book contract with Bluefire Publishing. I completed the fourth book five months ago."

"So, you were going to renew your contract with Bluefire Publishing?"

"No reason not to."

"But," Eames interjected, "you're a much more successful writer now. Bluefire isn't a fly by night operation, but they're not a big publishing house, either. I can't believe one of the big boys haven't made an offer for much more money."

"Not that much more, but a couple did."

"And?" Goran prompted.

"Bluefire Publishing, well, Stan Yarbourough, gave me a contract when I was an unknown. I figured I owed them one."

"One being?"

"Another four book contract. Harry was not happy with me, but I couldn't not sign with Stan. Maybe next time I'll feel differently..."

"Excuse me," Eames interrupted, "Harry?"

"Sorry. Harry Ziegler, my agent."

"Was he at the meeting, too?"

"No, though he is handling the details of the contract."

"So, what was the purpose of the meeting at the cafe?"

"You know, I've been thinking about that all day. I'm damned if I know. Stan called me yesterday, and he asked me to meet him. I get to the cafe, and he introduces me to Stevens. He is..was...a fan of my books, and I think Stan was trying to impress him." *Or seduce him,* Mike didn't say. *Stan did like to switch hit.* "He asked me if I was happy at Bluefire. I said yes. He asked if I was okay with the way the contract was coming. I said I was. Stan asked to stay for lunch. I said maybe some other time. I left."

"Why didn't you stay?"

"Stan always asked. I always said no. Truthfully, Stan and I didn't like each other. It was nothing specific, I think we just rubbed each other the wrong way." Saying that, Mike felt uncomfortable, so he corrected himself. "Well, he did make a pass at me once. I turned him down. Pretty gently, I thought, but it was awkward between us after that. So, we just avoided each other when we weren't discussing business."

"I see." The detectives asked a few more questions, and then they took their leave.

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

In the car, Eames asked her partner, "Well, where do we go from here?"

"First thing in the morning, we pay a visit to Bluefire Publishing."

"So, you think Logan was involved in the shooting?"

"My gut says he wasn't a participant." Goran looked thoughtful. "However, he may be the

motive."

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

That night found Lennie and Mike relaxing in their king-size bed. Mike was reading 'The Forensic Casebook/The Science of Crime Scene Investigation' and Lennie was looking at paint samples. Eventually, Mike's curiosity got the better of him. "Okay, Lennie, I'll bite."

"That a promise?"

"Wiseass. What are you planning on painting?"

"As soon as I am officially retired, I plan on painting the kitchen. Those yellow walls make me want to puke."

"Lennie, do you love me?"

Lennie lowered his reading glasses and stared at his bedmate. "What kind of question is that?"

"Just answer. Please."

"Course I love you. Do I need to make a declaration every night? Jeeze, Mike, we're guys, I'd hoped we wouldn't have to do the mushy stuff."

"This isn't mushy stuff, it's survival. If you love me, hire a painter."

"Fuck off."

"Maybe later. I mean it. Hire. A. Painter."

"I don't need to hire somebody to paint a damn kitchen."

"Uh huh. Last week, you decided to make pancakes from scratch."

"That wasn't my fault! That skillet was defective."

"Right. Then, you decided the coffee table needed refinishing?"

"Cheap wood," Lennie muttered.

"Let us not forget the sun tea..."

"Is there a point you're trying to make here? I'm doing the best I can!"

"I know that. Just...don't try so hard to be domestic, okay? I told you before, I don't need a wife. You don't have to justify your presence in my life, Lennie. I love you. Maybe I should say that more often..."

Lennie rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly. "No, Mike, it's...sometimes I wonder why you want me around. I'm old and used up. Why should you keep a wreck like me around when you could have somebody younger and better looking."

"A wreck? Lennie, you're talking like I'm God's Gift. I'm not exactly a spring chicken, either."

"You're a little older, Mike, but what you've got left is more than most of us started with."

As a reply, Mike put down his book, and he took Lennie's face in his hands. "Lennie, listen to me. I have a knee put together with pins and glue. This last year I stared taking Celebrex for arthritis. My optician says I'm going to need glasses soon. And I wear support socks for varicose veins. At the rate 'I'm' wearing out, we'll probably fall to pieces and die at the same time."

Lennie couldn't help himself, he smiled. "Is this a contest? Who's getting old faster?"

"You said it yourself. We're guys."

Laughing at themselves, they folded themselves into a loving embrace and kissed. One thing might have led to another, but the phone rang.

Mike picked it up, growling. "Hello."

"Hi, it's Ed. Lennie isn't answering his phone, so I assume he's with you."

"Hold on. Ed," he said, handing the phone to Lennie.

"What's up?"

"Van Buren wants to see you in the morning. Early."

"Okay. What's the verdict?"

"I think it's going to work out, but Van Buren wouldn't give me anything definite. She wants to talk to you first."

"Great. I'll see you in the morning."

Mike took the phone and hung up. "So?"

"The Lieutenant wants to talk to me privately."

"That's good, right?"

"Yeah. Maybe."

Mike held Lennie tightly in his arms. "Whatever happens, we're okay. Just remember that."

"I'm counting on it." They kissed again, and soon Lennie and Mike were thinking of much more interesting things than Anita Van Buren. Soon after that, they weren't thinking at all.



Part 6

Six am found detectives Goran and Eames in the offices of Bluefire Publishing. Roberta Grier, Yarbourough's executive assistant, took them to Stanley Yarbourough's office. "Sit down, please. Would you like some coffee? I'm dying for some."

"I'd love a cup," said Eames.

"Ditto," confirmed Goran.

Soon, they were settled in with their respective cups, delivered by a young secretary. Ms. Grier, a handsome forty-something red head, took a reverent sip of the hot brew.

"Oh, that's good," she sighed. "Now maybe I can make some headway with this chaos Stan left me with."

"I take it you don't usually start your day this early." Goran inquired.

"Hell, no! But I have to get a jump on things before news of Stan's death makes the owners jumpy. I know that sounds callous, detectives, but when owners, especially new owners, get nervous the first thing they think is 'sell'. A few early mornings isn't too much to pay to save the jobs of nearly two thousand people, mine included."

Goran and Eames took turns asking some background questions about herself, Logan, Stevens and Yarbourough. Finally, Bobby started asking his real questions.

"Something Mr. Logan said has been bothering me. He said that his agent, Henry Ziegler, wasn't happy he was renewing his contract with Bluefire. Why would he be unhappy? Wasn't Bluefire the one who helped 'Philip Greeves' achieve success?"

Ms. Grier thoughtfully sipped her coffee. "You have to understand something about Harry," she started to explain. "I like Harry. Most people do, it's sort of his stock in trade. But what Harry is about is making money."

"That's good, isn't it?" asked Eames. "The more money his client makes, the more money the agent makes. Both win."

"Ordinarily, yes. However, with writing and writers, you have to have to bend that concept on occasion. It's a question of integrity."

Eames looked amused. "With murder mysteries? We're not talking William Shakespeare."

"Miss Eames," she replied in a decidedly frosty tone, "you might want to remember that Shakespeare was considered a hack writer in his time. Our books may never be required reading in a Classical Literature class, but our writers take their work seriously."

"Ms. Grier, I didn't mean..." Eames started, embarrassed.

"It's alright. I don't expect someone not in the business to understand. That was Harry's problem, he should have known better.

"One of the major film studios came to Bluefire to negotiate the rights to Philip Greeves' first book. After the first meeting, Stan turned them down cold. Harry was furious."

"Somebody wanted to make a film based on a detective story with a gay leading character?" Eames was dubious. "I didn't think that kind of book would be that popular."

"It's a sign of the times. On television you had Ellen and now Will and Grace. And Philip Greeves wasn't the first author in mystery fiction to use a gay leading character. Just off the top of my head, there's Fred Hunter with his Government Gay series. Ellen Hart with Jane Lawless. Richard Stevenson's Donald Strachey. Michael Croft's Mark Manning. And my personal favorite, Mark Richard Zubro."

Goran was nodding. "He writes two series, doesn't he? A high school teacher and a Chicago police detective." Eames was looking at her partner. Hard. "He writes good stories."

"What makes the Philip Greeves books different," Ms. Grier said, with a slight smile, "is that unlike the characters in those other series, Greeves' Bobby Lorenzo is firmly in the closet. It makes him
delightfully un-PC for the reading audience."

"So, you've been receiving protests from the gay rights groups?"

"Scads!" Ms. Grier replied delightedly. "Nothing like a little scandal to sell books."

The detectives duly took this information down. Goran didn't think it related to the homicides, but it would provide a lead later if his original hypothesis didn't work out.

"Why did Yarborough turn down the deal?" Eames asked.

"That's where the integrity comes in. It seems that the studio in question liked having a Philip Greeves story on film, but they didn't like the unrequited passion angle. They were going to make Lorenzo's partner a woman."

"Which would have changed the entire flavor of the stories," Goran finished.

"Exactly. Mr. Logan refused and Stan backed him up. You see, when one studio makes an offer, it means the others will make an offer eventually. Usually a better one. But all Harry could see were lost dollar signs."

"Money is all to Mr. Ziegler?" commented Goran thoughtfully.

Ms. Grier smiled, but not with humor. "Harry likes what money gets for him. Mainly, his trophy wife, his expensive condo, and his fancy cars."

"He likes to live on the edge," said Goran.

"That he does. I often wonder how he does it."

"So, said Eames when they were reviewing their notes later, "we pay a visit to Mr. Ziegler?"

Goran was thoughtful. "No, I don't think so. Not until we get more ammunition."

======================

It was seven-thirty am, and Lennie was standing in front of Lt. Van Buren's office.

*Well, Lennie, this is where you find out if you get to go out with a bang or with a whimper.* He reminded himself that either way, he had Mike. That made whatever happened bearable. He took a deep breath and knocked at the door.

"Come in." Lennie walked in and, at Van Buren's gesture, sat down. "I had a very long speech all planned out, in the event you ever discovered what happened to MIke." She folded her hands and rested her chin on her fingertips. "I had no idea. And now I don't know what to say."

"You should have told me. He was my partner and my friend."

"I wonder. Why didn't you come to me first? Have I given you reason not to trust me?"

"You weren't exactly supportive of Mike at the time, Lieutenant. He was in pain and he was angry. He needed a friend and all you gave him was a hard time."

Van Buren was shaking her head. "Mike was so adamant. He actually threatened people, Lennie, and it cost him a great deal of the settlement money. He could have gotten a million for pain and suffering, and instead he barely got a quarter of that."

"Damn it." Lennie was furious, but he was trying hard not to explode. How many years had Mike worked at the Two-Seven? For the first time, Lennie realized what lay behind the peace he saw in his lover's eyes. He was out of it. Out of a place that never appreciated him or understood him, and people who would never try. Lennie took a deep breath.

"Mike never wanted the money. He only asked because his lawyer insisted."

"I don't understand."

*You ain't kiddin', sister.* "The way she explained it, lawyers don't get it when people don't ask for money. It confuses them. Mike would have been content with two cents if they'd met his demands."

"Yes, those demands, One, that you be kept uninformed. Which would have been impossible if you hadn't been out of town. Two, that the responsible party would be removed from the job." Van Buren regarded Lennie carefully. "It didn't make sense that Mike would be so worried about a friend's reaction. What did he say? 'I don't want Lennie to ruin what's left of his career over me.' You don't say something like that for a friend. But a lover?" Van Buren sighed. "I've been off the streets too long. Signs were all there, but it didn't click." Van Buren tapped her fingers on the desk. "It was just one person, Lennie. One idiot dispatcher who happened to be an old friend of Profaci's. He'll never work for the NYPD again."

"Yeah, but I bet he 'walked' away. Mike will hobble along with a cane for the rest of his life."

"He was right, you know. You wouldn't have let it go." She smiled faintly. "He really loves you, doesn't he?"

For the first time since he entered the office, Lennie relaxed. *Okay, she doesn't get it completely, but she gets enough.* "Yeah, he does."

"Get back to work, Detective."

And just like that, everything was fine.



Part 7

It was nine o'clock Friday morning, and Mike had just wished Lennie luck on his last day of work. He was just about to turn on the voicemail when the phone rang. Hoping it was something quick, he answered it. "Hello?"

"Hello, Mr. Logan, it's Detective Goran. Would you mind doing me a favor this afternoon?"

==========================================

Mr. Henry Ziegler was not a happy man. He smoothed back his salt and pepper locks, brushed imaginary lint off his impeccably tailored suit, and concentrated on projecting his displeasure. He was Harry Ziegler, damn it, and he was used to getting respect! He had been 'asked' to come to the police station by an extremely annoying policeman, and his pretty, but equally annoying partner. To his dismay, he was also asked to bring his attorney.

Harry was seated at a table beside his attorney. Detective Eames sat facing his attorney, while Detective Goran paced. Also present were ADA Carver and Captain Deakins.

"Mr. Ziegler," said Detective Goran, pausing in mid-pace, " to get started, let me say again how much we appreciate your cooperation in our investigation."

"It's not like I had much choice," Harry retorted. A kick from his attorney stifled any further comments he might have made. He turned on his megawatt smile. "But I'm always available for the police. I hope you've made some progress in solving this terrible crime. Stan was a good friend of mine."

"Yes, he was," agreed Goran. "And we've actually made a great deal of progress." There was a knock at the door. "Good, he's here." Eames opened the door, and Harry received another surprise when Mike Logan walked in.

"Mike? What are you doing here?"

"I'm not sure," he answered, looking at the detectives for some clue, which he didn't receive. He was quickly seated across from Harry.

"Mr. Logan has been extremely helpful," said Goran, "as has Bluefire Publishing. I think between the information they gave us and our little talk today, we'll have all we need to close this case."

"Why exactly are we here, Detective?" said Harry's lawyer. He knew something of Bobby Goran's reputation, and he was starting to get a really bad feeling.

Goran continued to pace. "Peter Falk," he said. Everyone, including his partner, just looked at him.

"Excuse me?" said the attorney.

"Peter Falk, the actor. I loved his Lieutenant Colombo movies. They were part of my inspiration for becoming a cop." The lawyer addressed Carver, "If this is all we were brought here for, Carver...?"

Carver put up a calming hand. "I'm sure the detective is trying to make a point here, councillor." Sotto voce, he said to Goran, "You are, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am. Colombo was the epitome of the thinking detective. Oh, his police procedure could be laughable at times, but he solved crimes by using his mind. He knew people and how they would react in a given situation.

"My favorite was a movie called 'Ransom for a Dead Man'. I forget whether it was the second or the third. Anyway, at the end, he confronted the killer and gave what I thought was a truly wonderful speech. He said, 'You have no conscience. And that's your weakness. Did it ever occur to you that there are very few people that would take money to forget about a murder? It didn't, did it? I knew it wouldn't! No conscience. Limits your imagination. You can't conceive of anybody being any different than what you are. And you're greedy.'" Abruptly, he was nose to nose with Harry. Goran's face was flushed and Harry could smell the coffee he's had a few minutes earlier. "You have no conscience, Mr. Ziegler. Stan Yarbourough was your friend. Mike Logan 'is' your friend. But it never occurred to you that either of them would be motivated by anything other than money. It didn't, did it? You can't conceive of anybody being any different that what you are. And you're greedy." Goran backed off. Before Harry or his lawyer could say anything, he grabbed a thick file folder from the corner of the table and plopped it in front of them. "Gentlemen, the report from our forensic accountants."

The lawyer quickly grabbed the papers and looked through them hurriedly. "You can't use any of this. There was no warrant."

"We didn't need a warrant to examine Mr. Logan's financial records. He gave us his permission."

Harry looked at Mike incredulously. "Mike, you just let them look at your records? Why?"

"Why not, Harry? I don't have anything to hide." Mike was starting to feel sick to his stomach. When Goran had asked for the records, he had thought they were still looking at him at a suspect. It had never occurred to him they were looking at someone else. "What are 'you' hiding?"

"Mike, please." The other man was shaking. "It's not what it looks like."

"Oh, but it is, Mr. Ziegler," said Goran. "When we compared the books from Bluefire Publishing to Mr. Logan's, it was obvious that you've been embezzling from Mr. Logan's royalties." Goran paused. "But he already knew that. Hey, Eames, what did our accountant say?"

"It was a waste of his talents. A sixth grader with a pocket calculator could have found the discrepancies."

"In other words, the only way he wouldn't have known, is if he were stupid. And we both know Mr. Logan isn't stupid, don't we?"

"I don't understand. Mike?"

"Why, Harry?" Mike's expression wa stone. He couldn't bear to look at the man, but he couldn't make himself look away. "Why didn't you just come to me? We could have worked something out."

"It didn't occur to him," answered Goran. He shook his head, sadly. "Greedy, and no conscience. Bluefire recently acquired some new owners. There was an audit. Is that how Yarbourough found out? Although you certainly didn't endear yourself to him with that business with the movie studio, he was still your friend. So, he gave you a choice. Give up your contract with Logan voluntarily, or he'd go to the police.

"That's why he had you meet Carl Stevens," Goran said to Mike. "He wasn't trying to impress Stevens with you. He was trying to impress you with Stevens. He knew you'd need another agent."

"This is absurd!" said Harry's lawyer. "All you have is supposition. You have no proof my client is guilty of anything."

"Maybe not the murder," said Deakins, "but we have concrete evident of embezzlement. That'll do for a start. And now that we know where to look, we'll find the evidence." Deakins looked at Ziegler with disgust. "You're a rank amateur, Ziegler. I'll bet you even kept the gun. If you did, the forensics team will find it. They're at your house now."

"You're really a very stupid criminal, Mr. Ziegler," said Goran. "And the worst part of this is, you didn't have to kill anyone. Mr. Logan had no intention of pressing charges for the embezzlement. All you had to do was ask, and he would have forgotten all about it. Hell, he already had. He wouldn't even demand his money back! You gave him his start, you moron. And men like Logan don't forget things like that."

"And talking about the embezzlement," added Eames, "your contract with Mr. Logan will be null and void. Hell, all your clients will probably nullify their contracts. No more money."

Harry Ziegler, a small man in stature, seemed to shrink away to almost nothing. "You...you can't do that! My ex-wives will suck me dry. I have three children to support!"

"You should have thought of that before you killed two people," said Deakins without sympathy. "And don't try to use them as an excuse for your crimes. We know about the gambling. And the women. And the fancy cars."

"I'll have nothing," Harry almost shrieked. He looked at his attorney, and he saw the calculation in the man's eyes. Harry knew he was wondering how soon he could decently dump his soon-to-be-destitute client.

"You have one chance." Everyone looked at Mike Logan. "One chance, Harry." Logan's face was still stone. "I'll honor my contract with you, under one condition." Carver, Eames, and Deakins started to protest. Mike waved for silence. Goran, strangely, said nothing. "You confess to everything. The murders. The embezzlement. Everything."

"Mike, I..."

"You've got one minute, Harry. Think fast and don't be stupid." Harry sat unmoving iii his chair. He mind was racing, trying to find some way out of the pit he'd dug for himself. There was nothing. A glance at his attorney confirmed it.

"I have your word, Mike? The next four books? The reprint rights for the first four, too?"

Mike was suddenly very, very tired. "Yes, Harry. You have my word. It won't be much, not after your other clients bail on you, but it'll be something."

I'll deal," he told the ADA.

"And Harry, be careful with it. I'm not that grateful. There won't be any more."



PART 8

Mike sat at the table, rolling his cane back and forth in his hands. The others had left the room. Everyone but Goran. He took a seat beside Mike.

"You didn't have to do that, you know. Honor your contract with Ziegler."

"You knew I would. That's why you wanted me here. Harry's biggest fear has always been to be left with nothing. He would do anything to avoid that, even admit to murder. And you knew I'd stand by the contract I'd signed."

"True."

"So you used me to get him." Mike sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Well, I'd have done the same thing. You closed the case. Congratulations, Detective."

"It's not your fault, Mike."

Mike smiled without humor. "Still trying to get me off balance, Goran? Well, if I had confronted Harry with his crime when I first discovered it, Stan Yarbourough and Carl Stevens would still be alive. They paid the price for my gratitude, and I have to live with that mistake."

"Why didn't you turn him in? You were a cop. You swore an oath to uphold the law. Why did you let a criminal get away with breaking it?"

"It was just money." It was as though he was trying to explain something to himself rather than to Goran. "It's nice to have, but I don't define myself by it. I figured I owed him. I knew Harry was greedy, but I never thought he was capable of killing for money. My God, did he really think he'd get away with it?"

Goran mouth twitched in an almost smile. "Like I said, he's a stupid criminal.

"You're not guilty of any crime, Mike. Harry Ziegler decided that the lives of two human beings were worth less than the few thousand dollars he stole from you. That is 'his' tragedy." He held out his hand. "Let me take you home. It's over."

==============================================

Lennie was there when Mike got home. He walked over to Mike and hugged him. Hard.

"Oh God, I needed that. What are you doing home so soon?"

"It's almost six, Mike. I've been off duty for an hour, and I am officially retired. Only thing left is the farewell bash on Sunday."

"Are you sorry?"

"Nah. I'll need the extra time to take care of you. Speaking of which..." He laid a long, lingering kiss on his lover.

Mike sighed into the kiss, moaning softly when it ended. "I 'really' needed that." He held Lennie tightly. "Lennie..."

"Shush, it's alright. Goran called me and gave me the whole story."

"My fault, Lennie."

"No, it wasn't. You were trying to give a friend a break. You didn't tell him to kill people to cover up a crime." Lennie held him a long time. "You didn't tell Profaci to get mobbed up."

"Christ. How did you know I was thinking that? 'I' barely knew I was thinking that."

"Like you said, partner, we've been in a relationship for ten years. Denial or no, that's a long time."

"Partner. I like that. Is that what we are?"

"Well, you're sure as hell not a wife. And I never was much of a husband, so I guess partner is as good a name as any for what we are."

"Life partner, huh? I tell you what, this life partner could use a good screw. Up for it?"

"Ya gotta ask?"

=======================================

Eames was waiting for her partner when he came back. He got a cup of coffee and sat down at his desk. Goran started doing his paperwork, noticed she was still staring, and put down his coffee. "What?"

"Colombo? You were inspired by 'Colombo'?" Goran smiled. "What?"

"Remember Harry Rowan?"

"The hitman? Sure, what about him?"

"How did we get him?"

"We got him because you convinced him to tear apart his house looking for a non-existent porcelain dental cap, why?"

"Colombo, 1971, 'Death Lends a Hand.'

Lt. Colombo trapped the killer by tricking him into looking for a missing contact lens that 'wasn't' missing." Eames mouth dropped open. Goran shrugged. "Hey, whatever works."

=====================================

The two men rolled back and forth in the bed, slick with sweat and panting with arousal. "Oh God, Lennie, I love you!"

"Back atcha, Mikey. You're so fucking beautiful!" He ran his hands up and down Mike's hips and thighs, wondering as he looked down into his partner's hazel eyes how he ever got so lucky. "I'm going to get you ready now." Mike nodded and turned over onto his right side. With Mike's leg the way it was, this turned out to be the only position that was comfortable for both of them.

Lennie reached over and grabbed the bottle of lube and a condom from the bedside table. He laid the items on the bed beside them, and then started kneading Mike's shoulders with firm, sure hands.

"Oh, that feels good," Mike said, stretching his neck, which popped faintly.

"You are stiff, partner, and not in a good way."

"So? Work your magic, Lennie. Make me loose, and in a 'good' way!"

"I accept that challenge." Lennie kissed the back of Mike's neck and then ran his tongue up the side until he met the left ear, which he gently nipped.

"God, Lennie, get on with it!"

"Patience, grasshopper."

Lennie grinned wickedly and popped open the cap on the bottle of lube. "Okay, raise your leg." Mike fulled up his left leg. Lennie squirted some lube onto his fingers and applied it to Mike's hole. Lennie gently inserted one finger.

"Oh God," Mike moaned, pushing back on the finger. "Come on, come on!"

"Damn, you're a bossy bottom."

It didn't take long to get Mike ready. Lennie opened the package and slipped the condom over his aching erection. The sound of the crinkling wrapper had an interesting effect on Mike's cock. "Talk about your Pavlovian responses," Lennie teased.

"Are you going to fuck me, or just talk about it?"

"Temper, Mikey." The smile faded and Lennie was all seriousness. This was when he was the most concerned about Mike's reactions. "Are you
ready?"

"Ya gotta ask?" Mike intentionally mocked his lover. He found it interesting that Lennie was the one who always needed reassurance at this point. "I know you're not going to hurt me, Lennie. I trust you. I love you."

"Okay." Three breaths, and he was inside Mike's body. He felt for the nub and...

"Lennie!" Mike cried out. "Move, please!"

"My pleasure."

They moved back and forth in a dance that transcended time. Moaning, thrusting, hearing muffled shrieks, but neither man knowing who was uttering what. At length, they fell off the edge into the abyss, and they caught each other.

==============================================

Lennie was standing in front of the stove flipping pancakes when Mike wandered into the kitchen the next morning. He wrapped his arms around Lennie's chest and hugged it to his own. He kissed the back of his head and whispered, "Should I be afraid?"

Lennie snorted. "Wiseass."

"I think that may become our term of endearment."

"As long as you don't call me 'honey'." He indicated an open box on the counter. "Relax. I used a mix, and I followed the directions. To the letter."

"You followed the directions? I guess we really are gay." Lennie started to mouth off again, but Mike swallowed it with a kiss. "Thanks," he said, when they broke the kiss.

"You're welcome. What for?"

"Listening. You've stopped trying to be the Super Househusband."

"Yeah, well, I decided that I can use a few shortcuts and still be useful around the place."

"Good decision."

"I made another decision. I invited Ed and his new partner to dinner next Thursday."

"Why are you grinning?"

"Ed's new partner is female, blonde, hard as nails, and said she's still gonna get you for that lapdance at The Catwalk."

"Frankie? She's working at the Two-Seven? Alright!"

Lennie finally turned his attention to the state of Mike's dress. Noting the dress slacks, oxford shirt and sports coat, he said, "Aren't you a little formally dressed for Saturday?"

"I feel a little restless this morning. I thought I'd take a walk and get the paper." "Don't go too far. These babies will be ready in fifteen."

"This batch, or the one you don't burn?" Belatedly, a scorched, arid scent reached Lennie's nostrils. This was closely followed by the annoying squeal of the smoke alarm. Mike smiled and left Lennie to his swearing.

=====================================

Mike was exiting his building when he found his way blocked by a young woman. She was in her mid-twenties, with long black hair, pale skin, and
the loveliest hazel eyes he'd ever seen. She looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't think from where.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes." She hesitated. Then she handed him a photocopied picture. To his surprise, Mike found himself looking at his senior high yearbook picture. "Is that you? I mean, are you Michael Francis Logan?"

"Yeah? What's going on?"

The woman looked like she wanted to either run or vomit. Suddenly, she took a deep breath and blurted out in one long breath, "Ithinkyou'remyfather."


finis