17 – You Could Have It So Much Better

Roan tried to stop crying, because it was fucking humiliating enough without bringing the whole “ex” thing, but on the bright side, he couldn’t actually humiliate himself further in front of Dee. Been there, done that, posted it on his LiveJournal.

As it was, he couldn’t actually stop crying, so Dee eventually asked if he wanted a sedative. Roan heartily agreed, and after he came back from his car and gave him the shot, he asked, “Why have you never offered me a sedative before?”

“’Cause I knew if I did, you’d expect one all the time,” Dee told him, wiping the injection site down with an alcohol soaked cotton swab. He then looked at his forearm, and frowned at it. “Is this where you were bit?”

Whatever Dee gave him, it was working already. His heart started racing in his chest, the preamble to its slowing down, to all his systems gliding into a lower gear. Roan actually had to look at his arm to remember. “Uh, yeah.”

Dee lifted his arm and looked at it up close, as if trying to see each individual pore. “The report said your arm was bleeding but you refused treatment at the scene.”

“Yeah.”

“So why aren’t there puncture wounds?”

“Magic?”

Dee gave him a light backhand slap across the chest. “Don’t smart ass me. This is, what you call it, forcing a change? You forced a change and healed it.”

“No.” Actually, now that he thought about it, he never did that. So when did it happen? “I got mad, after Dylan left.”

“And?”

“I probably did a partial change without realizing it at the time. That can happen when I get pissed off.”

He gave him a skeptical look. “So you’re the Hulk now?”

“No! I’ve never owned a pair of purple pants in my life.”

Dee’s glare was ceaseless. “I’m gonna beat the shit out of you. I swear to god I’m gonna knock you out and beat the shit out of you. I’m gonna put you in a body cast.”

“Where’s your sense of humor?” Roan belatedly realized he’d stopped crying. He wasn’t sure it was the drugs more than the distraction.

“You’ve driven away the sweetest hot guy currently on the planet, and you are making smart ass jokes. Jokes that aren’t even that funny. You should be figuring out how to get him back. “

“I shouldn’t.” At his disbelieving look, he explained. “You’re right, he is sweet, and hot, and he deserves so much better than me. I’ve brought nothing but pain into his life. He deserves to have some fun, meet another nice hot guy and have hot Buddhist sex, not be weighed down with a diseased old freak like me.”

“I agree. But he seems to like you, proving he’s crazy, and has a thing for hot old guys who are nothing but trouble.”

“You think I’m a hot old guy? Hey, is that an insult or a compliment?”

“A little of both.”

“Ah. Well, fuck you. Kinda.”

Dee put his hand on his forehead – which was a mild relief, as he thought for a moment he was going to slap him – and asked, “You all right? You’re flushed.”

He shrugged. “Happens with drugs sometimes. It’s my Irish blood.”

“I thought you were Scottish.”

“Mostly Scottish, but some Irish, and probably some alley cat as well.”

“That explains a lot.”

“That it does.”

“So, are you going to clean yourself up and go throw yourself on Dylan’s mercy?”

He actually thought cutting Dylan loose was the kinder thing. Did he miss him? Hell yes, he did. He wished he was here right now. But that was selfish of him, wasn’t it? But what was a relationship besides a compact of mutual selfishness? Or was he so incredibly wrong it wasn’t even funny? “He’s at D’Andra’s?”

“Of course he is. She’s a scary person who will rip your head off if you bother her Dylan.”

“So you’re scared of her too?”

“Yes, but I can drug her, so it’s limited.”

“Your answer is always drugs, isn’t it?”

Dee glared at such an obvious invitation, and opened his mouth to say something mean, but Roan was saved by his beeper going off. Dee checked it, and cursed. “Gonna kick your ass later,” he promised, standing up. “This isn’t over.”

“Is it ever?”

Dee didn’t answer that, just gave him a knowing, dark sort of look on his way out the door. It said “You’re an asshole” without actually saying the words. They were never really necessary.

Roan just laid on the couch for a while, trying to determine his next move, wondering why it was always so easy to just crawl in a hole and never come out. He would really love to never do anything, just sit here and rot. It was honestly what he deserved.

He had things to do. He had laundry and probably shopping, and a buttload of apologies to make. What could he possibly say to Dylan to make it better? “Sorry I want to die.” That didn’t sound like it would make it better.

He decided to call Doctor Rosenberg’s office. He thought he’d leave a message, but she picked up the phone. Didn’t that always figure? He took a deep breath, bracing himself, glad for the heavy duty medication, and told her what he knew about himself: that he could change whenever he wanted, that he could alter his own muscle density, that he could half change, make his eyes turn and his teeth come out, his jaw distend, that sometimes when he was angry or upset it could occur of its own accord, that his vocal chords could change shape and become inhuman, that triggering a change could heal minor injuries, that when his adrenaline got pumping his reflexes could go off the charts. She just listened, occasionally making a soothing noise to let him know she was still there. When he stopped, she finally said, “I know.”

He had expected a lot of potential responses. That wasn’t on the list. “What?”

“You think I’ve never seen YouTube? I’m old, I’m not dead.”

“You got all that from videos?”

“No. Some from past tests, some from general assumptions on my part. The virus is in your DNA, Roan, and not as an invader but as a cohabitant. You are one strange fellow.”

“Isn’t that an understatement?”

“A bit. But don’t take that as bad. You’re remarkable; a once in a lifetime biological event.” She paused to take a drag off her cigarette. “Wait, what’s the world population again – six billion or some such number? Okay, you’re technically a three or four in a lifetime event, but most infecteds don’t live that long.”

“Which is a bit of the problem I’m having now.”

“Hmm? You think you’re dying?”

“I’m wondering why I’m not. I should be dead. I’m almost forty.”

She clicked her tongue impatiently. “Jesus Christ, only you could find the dark streak in a silver lining. So you could die any second. So what? Who isn’t always at risk of death? You get up in the morning, you could slip in the shower and die; you could step out and get hit by a bus; you could get e. coli from your burger; you get MRSA from the gym; you could get flesh eating bacteria after getting a paper cut; some meshugginah could go postal while you’re in line to buy stamps. So fucking what? Live while you can. Don’t worry about what could be – live in the now, you stupid schmuck.”

That made him smile. “Is that what you do?”

“Of course I do. Why do you still think I’m sucking on these cancer sticks?”

“I thought it was nicotine addiction.”

“Well, that too. But it sounds better if I make it seem like a choice.”

“Do you think you can give that death speech to Dylan?”

“Man up and talk to your own damn boyfriend.”

Fair enough. Doctor Rosenberg also gave him the name and number of a therapist she thought he might want to talk to. Yes, he was technically alone amongst infecteds, but she thought talking to someone about his unique predicament would be good for him, and besides, with doctor patient confidentiality, there was no way she could share the information about him with anyone. He didn’t like therapists and she knew it, but she reminded him he was a miserable, depressed bastard and probably needed to talk to someone. It was another fair point.

He had just about convinced himself to get off his ass and do something when there was a knock at the door. Had Dee finished already and come back to administer the ass beating? He was tempted not to answer the door, but it spurred him off the couch, so he did. He was deeply surprised to find that it was starting to sprinkle, the sun occluded by temporary clouds, and that it was Scott at his front door in a pair of jeans, a Flyers logo t-shirt, and a worn looking brown leather jacket. He looked as casually, shockingly handsome as he had in only underwear and bedhead hair. “Hey,” he said casually.

“Hey,” Roan said, only realizing he was still shirtless when Scott’s eyes glided over his tattoos again. “What are you doing here?”

“Grey thinks you’re mad at him,” he said matter of factly, and pulled a piece of paper out of his front pocket. “So he sent me over with a check.”

“What? Oh, fuck.” Grey had left about six messages that he hadn’t listened to yet. He wasn’t honestly sure if he was mad at him or not; more disappointed, really. “Um, come in.” As he waved him in and held the door open, he still took the check. Hey, who didn’t need the money? In the day of all over cameras, intrusive software, and economic freefall, people weren’t so eager to hire private detectives anymore. He needed to get the money where he could.

“Why does he think I’m mad at him?” Roan asked, wondering if Scott would honestly tell him.

He shrugged and looked around the living room, as Roan closed the door. “He wouldn’t say. But I know him, and figured he was rude without realizing it.”

“He wasn’t. I just felt he might have been disingenuous about his reasons for hiring me.” He opened the check and glanced at the sum. Yeah, that would cover his fee and expenses.

Scott gave him a curious look. Roan could now see he had a faint, ghostly scar just under his left eye. You could only see it in a certain light, and when you were close up to him. He should have figured that you couldn’t play hockey for so long without getting visibly injured. But the ghost scar just made him look hotter, the bastard. “What d’ya mean?”

He shook his head dismissively. “I’ll leave that to Grey. He can tell you or not.”

He raised an eyebrow at that. “Client confidentiality?”

“Something like that.” Roan tossed the check on his kitchenette counter, and wondered if he should ask. It didn’t matter, he should really just leave it, but he asked anyways. “Did Grey go back to bed after I left?”

Scott shrugged again, and from the brief grimace, must have found the question odd. “I got no idea. I went back to bed, remember? I slept until after noon, and when I got up he was gone.” He was so casual about it it most likely wasn’t a lie. “Oh, speaking of which, he’s talking to the coach about hiring you to teach the youngsters some fighting techniques.”

“I don’t know any techniques that could be applied to hockey fights.”

“Doesn’t really matter. He said he thought you were anticipating his moves before he made them. That’s always useful.”

Roan leaned against the kitchenette counter and sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s flattering, but I can’t teach anyone anything. If I did anticipate anything, it was due to being infected.”

That made Scott scratch his head and looked adorably befuddled. “Uh, how?”

“Cat like reflexes. As my adrenaline levels rise, my senses heighten.”

He gave him a brief smirk that quickly collapsed as he realized he wasn’t joking. “You’re not kidding.” Not a question.

“Nope.”

“Umm … huh. I didn’t think infected people reacted like that. I mean -”

“They don’t. I’m abnormal.”

“Why?”

What an excellent question. “I don’t know. I was a virus child whose DNA didn’t react badly to the virus’s incorporation.”

“That’s it?”

Roan was forced to shrug. “They don’t know why I am the way I am. Maybe I was exposed to gamma radiation or hummus in the womb, and that made all the difference. My parents aren’t around to ask.”

Scott blinked, as if he’d said this angrily. He hadn’t, but it seemed to strike him that way. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay. I don’t care. It’s hard to miss people you’ve never met.”

He nodded, but looked a bit uncomfortable. “Whoa. Grey’s right, you’re pretty hardcore.”

Because he didn’t have any feelings for his parents? If he only knew the whole story, about how a succession of shitty foster homes taught him parents were severely overrated, as was heterosexuality and marriage. (“Sacred” his rosy red ass.) “He thinks that only because I kicked his ass.”

“Well, that helps.”

“Why did that impress him so much? If it happened on the ice, he would have found a way to leave me as a puddle of blood and teeth.”

“Yeah, but that never happens – no one kicks Grey’s ass. He’s not only big, but he’s a decent boxer. I kind of wished I was there to see it.”

“The coach probably should have filmed it.”

That made him smile. “Yeah. Actually, the whole team would have loved to watch. Could’ve made a night of it.”

“Agree to buy me dinner, and I’ll reenact it live. Assuming Grey is willing.”

Scott was still smiling, in a sort of mischievous way that made him look about seventeen. He seemed like a nice, slightly milquetoast Canadian guy, a good team captain, but Roan was willing to bet that secretly this guy was hell on wheels. Or skates, as the case might be. “I’m sure he would be. He’s very competitive.”

“That makes sense, being a sports guy and all.”

Scott glanced upstairs, nodding his head in that direction before approaching him. “Boyfriend here?”

That momentarily threw him. “Um, no, not at the moment.”

“Too bad. I was gonna ask him about that tattoo.”

“Oh, right.”

“I was thinking of getting something like a phoenix, but is that too common?”

“Depends on the design.”

Scott was close enough to touch his tiger tattoo again, which he stroked softly with his thumb. “I’m not sure where to get it, though. How much does it hurt to get one on your chest?”

He shrugged, and couldn’t help but notice that Scott was way too close; he wasn’t just  invading his space, he was close enough to walk right through him. “Not that much,” Roan told him, wondering if this meant what he thought it did. “No matter where you get it, a tattoo is gonna hurt.”

“I’m a hockey player. I can take a little pain,” he admitted, then confirmed what Roan suspected: Scott kissed him. Not just a peck on the cheek, but a full on, sloppy wet kiss.

Okay – he had found the gay player on the team. He now owed Dylan an apology and twenty bucks.

16 – Airport Surroundings

It took several minutes for Seb to question him about the incident, and someone found a bar towel for him, which he used to clean the blood off his face and then tie around the bite on his arm. Roan still hurt, still felt like he was full of broken glass, and he wanted desperately to get to his car and break into his Percocet stash. He also desperately wanted to go into Panic and find Dylan. He had no idea what he was going to say to him beyond sorry, but he felt it was paramount he find him as soon as possible.

It turned out there was a man hiding in the Dumpster, a homeless guy who got scratched up pretty badly but would undoubtedly survive. He’d lost a lot of blood, but he was so drunk he didn’t seem to notice. That was probably for the best. But at one point, his glazed eyes settled on Roan, and he pointed at him and said to the EMTs, “He’s a werecat. Did’ja know that? Shouldn’t he be locked up or somethin’?” If they answered him, Roan didn’t hear it.

As soon as Seb wrapped the interview up, Roan stopped by his car, gulped the pills, and found himself confronted by staring men on his way back to Panic. “Wow,” one guy said. He had bleach blond hair and smelled of that so called “pheromone” cologne that Roan knew was complete bullshit. (He could smell pheromones, and while there were some in the mix, not enough to make any difference to anyone.) “That was … what did you do? Aren’t you hurt?”

Roan cut through the men without saying anything. Yes, he was hurt, but he didn’t care. And what had he done? He nearly turned into a lion, and he freaked Dylan out. Why had he freaked Dylan out? He’d seen him half transformed before … right? Oh fuck, he couldn’t even remember anymore. Maybe Dylan was just upset because he thought his head was going to explode from an aneurysm or something. Roan was growing convinced that the longer it didn’t happen, the less likely it was to happen. His body had probably adapted to the new reality, like it adapted to most things. Would Dylan buy that?

Once inside Panic, he found Rodrigo back behind the bar, trying to calm down customers who weren’t really freaked out, just vaguely excited that something violently odd had happened in their vicinity. But he couldn’t see Dylan. “Where is he?” He asked Rodrigo, aware that he would know the “he” he was referring to.

Rodrigo shot him a sympathetic look. “He headed home. Look, what you did out there -”

“Is what I do. There’s only room for one big cat around here.” He headed back out, and the crowd miraculously parted for him. Was this how Moses felt?

Dylan heading home without him – ahead of the end of his shift, in fact – was bad news. He drove home as fast as legally possible, an accident at another intersection holding him up for what seemed an unconscionable amount of time. It didn’t look to bad, it was mainly just broken glass and a ruined fender, so why the fucking hold up? Sometimes it seemed like the world conspired against you.

He arrived home, relieved to find Dylan’s car still in the driveway, but where did he think he would go? The pills were kicking in, and the edges of the pain had dissolved, melted like ice cream in the sun. It was really nice; he could move his fingers without feeling a lightning bolt of pain sizzle down each nerve. His head felt hollow, but the throbbing at the temples had ceased.

Once inside, he found that only the foyer light was on, and the rest of the house was dark, save for a sliver of light in the upstairs hallway. “Dylan?” He charged upstairs, and opened the door on the bedroom, the only lit room in the house. Dylan was standing at the end of the bed, zipping up a backpack. “Hon, what’re you -”

“I can’t do this anymore,” Dylan said, his voice sounding congested. He wiped his face with his hand before shouldering the bag, but his face was still wet with tears, his eyes red rimmed, beads of saline collecting in the stubble dusting his upper lip. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I’ll come back and get the rest of my stuff eventually, okay? I just can’t do this -”

“Do what?” he exclaimed, astonished. Dylan was walking out on him? “Live with a freak?”

“Fuck you!” Dylan snapped, with so much rage he reflexively took a step back. Dylan almost never got angry, so when he did, it was explosive and astonishing in its rawness. “You are not a freak to me, and you have never been a freak. Goddamn it, why don’t you treat yourself with more respect than that? Why do you hate yourself so much?”

“I’m not dumping me, so I don’t think my hate is an issue.”

“I am not -” Dylan paused and seemed to gather his thoughts. He was still crying; he had never actually stopped crying. “I love you, you stupid asshole, and I wish I didn’t. I can’t stand aside while you kill yourself a piece at a time. I can’t. I didn’t want to leave you because you could – I didn’t know what would happen, but I thought I could brazen it out, I thought you’d realize what you were doing or … god, I’m such a fucking idiot, I thought maybe you’d love me enough not to hurt me like this. But you don’t love me, and -”

“What? Of course I love you. What the hell kind of thing is that to say?”

“You like me, and maybe you’re used to me, but you don’t really love me. And please, no, don’t deny it, okay? I was good with that; I was willing to accept that, ’cause that’s how much I loved you. You’re still in love with Paris, and I get that. I know you think the very idea is bullshit, but he was your soulmate, and I accepted that. I just can’t accept that you’d rather die than be with me.”

“This is bullshit!” Maybe it was the drugs – perhaps four Percocets was one too many – but he felt like half this argument was just rushing past him. “I had to stop the fucking panther, Dyl. What would you have me do? Let it maul someone to death, let the cops kill it? I thought -”

“It’s not about that! You’re giving it power – you want it to take over!”

“What?” Now he really was missing a piece of this argument.”What the fuck? You’re not making sense! When I’m around other cats, it -”

“It is you! You are the lion, Roan! It’s a part of you, and you wouldn’t have to fight it so hard if you didn’t unconsciously want it to take over.”

He was feeling a lot of things right now – comfortably numb, upset, sad – but now pissed off was letting its presence be known. “Don’t psychoanalyze me! You have no idea how hard it is to live with this!”

“No, I don’t, and that’s why I let the drugs go! I don’t know the kind of pain you live with, and if it takes it away, fine! Drown yourself in fucking pills, Ro! But I can’t watch you kill yourself anymore!”

“Fuck you! If I wanted to kill myself, I’d shoot myself in the head! Or slice my arms open like you did!” Even as he said it, he winced. Stupid, wrong, low, mean – why did he go there?

Dylan’s jaw tightened, and there was genuine pain in his eyes. He’d hurt him with that. That was a confidence he shared with him, his suicide attempt after the death of Jason, and to use it as a weapon was beyond the pale.

“Jesus, fuck, Dyl, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean -”

“No, you did, and it’s okay. At least it’s out now.” He ran his hand beneath his nose and sniffed. “I have to go now before things get worse.”

“Please, no, Dylan, I -”

“Don’t, just don’t. If you care about me at all, let me go.”

“But -” But what? What was he going to say? He stood aside and let Dylan pass, feeling like utter shit. He was angry, both at himself and at Dylan, but the drugs made it seem oddly abstract. “I love you, goddamn it!” he roared. Not literally; he was too drugged and too tired to manage it. There was no response besides the opening and closing of the door downstairs. Damn it. “Would I put up with this shit if I didn’t?”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. If he’d set out to deliberately destroy this relationship, he couldn’t have done a better job.

Angrily, he slammed the closet door shut, but that wasn’t satisfying. So he went downstairs and headed for his office, where he landed three or four punches on the heavy bag before snapping the chain and sending it thudding into the wall and collapsing onto the floor. Now he had something to fix. Great. That would keep him occupied for about ten or twenty minutes. “Fuck!” he shouted, feeling his heart beat in his ears. He was an idiot; he was a world class moron.

Why did both Dylan and Murphy think he wanted to die? Why did they think he was suicidal? He wasn’t! His last overdose wasn’t his fault – some asshole tried to kill him with animal tranquilizers. Didn’t they remember that? That wasn’t his fucking fault.

And that lion shit – Dylan had no fucking clue what he was talking about. The lion  was … well, it wasn’t a thing really, it was an impulse, an urge, an irresistible urge. He fought it, and it wasn’t as easy as he seemed to imply – he couldn’t make it roll over and play dead. How stupid was he? For a man who had taken years of college, he could seem totally clueless.

He was exhausted, his adrenaline was almost gone, and the drugs were really weighing him down. His stomach was growling, twisting itself in knots, so he had a piece of toast and wondered where Dylan had gone. To D’Andra’s? Probably. She was perfect, mainly because, as far as Roan could tell, she had never liked him. Maybe she was a rather militant lesbian, but she seemed oddly proprietary of Dylan. Possibly because they were both artists, although D’Andra’s art wasn’t painting, but sculpture and performance pieces. Dylan at least had talent – he was more than half convinced D’Andra was being awful on purpose as a sort of “fuck you” to the art world. And really he respected her for that.

He laid down on the couch and turned on the TV, making himself stare at it, but for some reason nothing was getting through. He saw images, but couldn’t connect them; they might as well have been flashing lights. Sound and fury, signifying nothing. He remembered he had phone calls to return, and as if on cue his cell hummed, but as soon as he saw it was Murphy calling, he turned it off. She’d probably just heard about the panther thing, or finally had a piece of evidence that pointed towards Michael’s death being murder, and he was just not in the mood right now. He couldn’t deal with it.

Roan had no idea when he fell asleep. The drugs were so heavy in his system, weighing him down like his blood was liquid iron, that there seemed to be no segue between consciousness and sleep. It was actually kind of nice, at least until he found himself sitting on the back porch, on a deck that didn’t actually exist in real life, watching the sun filter through the interlaced web of the trees. Sitting beside him was Paris, of course, drinking a beer and waiting for things to happen.

“I’ve really fucked this up, haven’t I?” he asked, although he knew he was just talking to himself.

“It is a minor talent of yours,” Par admitted, giving him a smart ass grin.

Well, that was certainly true. Roan had a beer bottle in his hand, but it seemed to be empty. What a bastard. “Maybe this is for the best. I was no good for Dylan anyways. He could do better.”

“Of course he could. But he wanted you, you stupid fuck.” Paris cuffed him on the back of the head, a small slap that could have been more forceful, but was just firm enough to get its point across.

“Hey!”

“And he’s right, you know. He and Murphy don’t agree on a lot, so the fact that they agree on you being a reckless and stupid asshole seems to indicate that you are being a reckless and stupid bastard.”

Roan gave him a dirty look. “Aren’t you suppose to be my soulmate?”

Par gave him a look that he knew all too well, one that made him feel a twinge in his gut even in this dream world. It was the look of a kindly old mentor, about to kick your ass and honestly sorry he has to do it. “You’re so depressed you’ve come out the other side of it, Ro. You know you could die at any second, so you push it. All your life, that’s what you’ve done. Someone says you can’t do something, you go out and do it, and go spin doughnuts on their lawn, giving them the middle finger and insulting their mothers. That’s the beauty and the terrible pain of you: you’re a contrary bastard.”

“Yeah, well …” He didn’t know what to say. There was nothing he could argue with here.

“You say you don’t want to end up a sideshow attraction, a freak show, but you go out of your way to use these abilities where they will get a lot of attention. Subtlety has never been your strong suit.”

“It’s who I am; it’s what I am. Ask me to not be gay while your at it, or a redhead. I’m a freak. World might as well get used to it.”

“I agree. But are you ready for what will happen? The media attention, the medical attention?”

Par actually seemed to be expecting an answer. “Well, no …”

“Are you ready to die half transformed?”

“No, but that’s not gonna happen.”

“Oh really? Why not?”

He shrugged, and suddenly realized he wanted badly to wake up. “I’ve adapted. It can’t kill me. It won’t.”

“Really? Then go all the way. If you won’t get any more aneurysm, go for a full change. What’s holding you back?”

“Stop it.”

“You’re not a coward, Ro. Hell, you go out and pick fights, that’s how not a coward you are. So why don’t -”

“Just shut up, all right?” he snapped angrily. He would have felt terrible if this was really Paris, but it wasn’t. He knew he was talking to himself, that the mean bastard taunting him could never be Par, but it could be him. Yes, he was contrary, but he could also be fucking vindictive.

“You want Dylan back? You tell him the truth, and you get help.”

“There’s no help for me.”

“You’ve never tried, so you don’t know. Try before you give up. Or are you actually a coward, Ro? Is that your dirty little secret?”

The ringing of the phone woke him up, shattered his reverie, and he was honestly grateful. His subconscious was a bitch.

He didn’t answer the phone, he just let it go to machine, and it was Murphy, like he suspected (it was either her or Dee – there was no way Dylan would be calling him so soon). He listened to her talk, and felt water on his face. Was he crying? Yes, he was, but he hadn’t been aware of it. The drugs still had a velvet stranglehold on him, but he wasn’t sure he could totally blame them.

Apparently the Brand case was being shut. They’d found nothing that indicated foul play, and since he’d killed himself with his service revolver and left a note on his computer, it looked pretty legit. She still didn’t trust it – she said it looked like there might have been another person in the house – but there was no way to make a timeline for that. He wondered idly if she’d found the bottle of booze he took out of the back cupboard. It was unlikely Michael had cleaned up. She wasn’t happy – was she ever? – but it was done, unless he wanted to tell her something. He didn’t, so the case was closed.

Maybe Grey was telling the truth – maybe he had gone back to bed, and never paid Brand a visit. Would he ever know for sure? Truth be told, he was fine not knowing. Michael had been dead in every way save physically. Poor bastard. That was where Hamlet syndrome killed you – you couldn’t live with things as they were, but you couldn’t make yourself change them either. Indecision as mental illness and self-destruction.

Roan must have fallen back to sleep, or just slipped into some drug infused fugue state, as the next time he found himself staring at the curtains that were closed over  the glass patio door, there was weak sunlight behind them, making them faintly glow. He still felt tired and empty, but now that the drugs had mostly warn off, his joints ached ever so slightly, like he was getting over the flu. His stomach rumbled to let him know toast was nowhere near enough last night.

He went upstairs and took a long bath, letting the warm water relax his muscles and take out the residual aches. His face was itchy, and he noticed he’d gotten a two days’ growth of beard overnight. He was too tired to shave, so he didn’t. He almost didn’t bother to get dressed, except he was cold, so he put on sweatpants before going downstairs. He threw a frozen dinner in the microwave and nuked it, not looking at what it was and not caring. After it was done, he still wasn’t sure what it was, and again, didn’t care. Eating it didn’t provide further illumination.

So he was supposed to tell Dylan the truth? The truth about what? He knew he was a freak; they had covered that part. So what was there to say?

There was a knock on the door, and he wasn’t going to answer the door, but Dee shouted, “I know you’re in there!”
So, fuck, word was getting around.

He got up and let Dee in, not surprised he was in his paramedic gear. “So Dylan called me and told me he might need me to pick up some stuff for him. So he’s left you? What did you do?”

He glared at him, but stalked back to the sofa, not even in the mood to argue with him. “Didn’t you hear what went on last night?”

“The cat outside Panic? Yeah, I heard. That’s it? Gotta be more than that.”

“He seems to think I hate myself and I want to die. Or I want the lion to take over full time, or some shit like that.”

“And you’re saying that’s not true?”

He gave him a scathing look that he knew would do no good, as it never did any good with Dee. “No, it’s not. Just get his stuff and go. What stuff does he want?”

Dee came and stood in front of him in the living room, hands on his hips. “No, you’re fucking not.”

“Not what?”

“You are not giving up.”

“I can if I want.” What was he doing? He didn’t even know. It was all reflex.

Dee glared down at him, imperious and angry. “He’s right, isn’t he? You want to die. Dylan leaving is the final excuse you need.”

“Fuck you.” He couldn’t even work up enough energy to make it sound angry. It was anemic, and could have been anything. It didn’t even sound like an insult.

Dee gave him a curious look, one only an ex could possibly give you, and sat down on the sofa beside him. He put his hand on his leg in a comforting, friendly manner, and asked in his most consoling EMT voice, “What’s wrong?”

A good question. He didn’t know. But he found himself admitting, “I’m so tired,” and for reasons unknown to him, he burst into tears. Stupid fucking asshole – why was he crying?

Dee pulled him into a hug and let him cry into his shoulder, and in that moment, Roan really did want to die.

15 – My Mistakes Were Made For You

Roan listened as Dropkick mostly berated him, but kind of told him a bit about Michael Brand’s death. Apparently it looked like a suicide, but those were the operative words: looked like. She didn’t trust it, which was why the investigation was continuing.

After the call, Roan laid on the bench and looked up at the ceiling, wondering how best to ask what he wanted to ask, and what he would do about it. Luckily Grey had gone off to take a quick shower, so he had a couple minutes to think.

As soon as the water stopped, Roan asked, “What happened after I left this morning?”

“Huh?”

“Did you go out or something?”

“No man, I went back to bed. I probably would have slept all day except the neighbor started his leaf blower. Then I figured I had some energy to burn and decided to come here, which is when I called you. That’s about it. Why?”

“I suppose Scott is your alibi.” The ever loyal team captain, looking out for his men. Roan could count on him to say Grey was home sleeping, whether he was or not.

“Yeah. Why?”

He stopped staring at the ceiling and sat up with a sigh. It was incredibly hard to judge veracity by smell in a gym. The smell of sweat was far too prevalent, and the fact that Grey just had a quick shower just added another layer of complications. He was going to have to go on other things. He glanced at Grey, who was at his locker getting dressed. He flashed him his hard ass without any kind of humility – again, long time athlete, locker room nudity was nothing to him – and while Roan noted clinically you could probably bounce a quarter off the thing and it was nice, he still felt no attraction to Grey. Maybe his mind just wasn’t in that space right now; he felt an invisible cloak of doom settling on his shoulders. “Michael Brand’s dead.”

Grey finished stepping into his underwear – sporty black boxer briefs – and looked back at him, not surprised, but still a little confused. “Oh yeah? What happened?”

“They’re not sure. It looks like a suicide, but homicide’s investigating. Did you kill him, Grey?”

The funny thing was, the question didn’t faze him in any way. He was either extremely innocent or terminally guilty. “If I did, I’d be bragging about it, the spineless little fuck. Somebody killed my girlfriend, I’d fucking kill them, not sit down and shut up.”

“Yes, I suppose. But I note there wasn’t an actual denial in that statement.”

Now a look of annoyance flashed across his face. “No, I didn’t kill the fuck. How could I? I don’t even know where he lives.”

In the days of ubiquitous GPS units and Google Earth, did he trust that? He knew his name – he could find out the information easily. He didn’t seem like he was lying, but then again, he could just be very good at it. Why would he feel any guilt? He’d just said he’d kill anyone who touched his girlfriend. He’d kill anyone who hurt his friend’s little brother.

Huh. Why did that just put a weird thought into his head?

Roan asked, “Jamie was just a friend, right? No more?”

He’d stepped into his jeans, and was in the process of putting on his t-shirt when he paused and looked at him again, shrugging his head through the shirt’s collar. “What d’ya mean?”

“I think you know what I mean.”

He scoffed, but mostly in a humorous way. “I ain’t gay, dude.”

“You don’t have to be. I could sleep with a woman once and it wouldn’t make me straight.”

There was something in his eyes, a sparkle, maybe mischievous, maybe humorous. He was amused by this. “Have you ever slept with a woman?”

“No. Have you ever slept with a man?”

His grin became wolfish. “Nope.”

“Let me rephrase that. Have you ever slept with a transsexual?”

“I think you’ve got the wrong angle on this. Jamie was like my little brother, you know? That’s all.”

Did he believe him? “Those letters Jamie sent to you … I thought perhaps he had an unrequited crush on you. Maybe it wasn’t so unrequited.”

“You don’t believe me.” Not a question, as he slipped on a windbreaker with the Falcons logo on the back.

“I don’t know. I think you’re very loyal to your teammates, Grey, to anyone you see as family. I think anyone hurts one of them, you will find them and make them pay, off the ice as well as on. I totally respect that, and I’m probably the same way. I think you have a bright future in the NHL, and I think Sean Brand is best left to the legal system, don’t you?”

He shrugged, not quite committing to it. “Guess it depends on what the legal system does to him.”

“He’s a dead man walking. Everybody on the streets know he hurt Holden, and Holden surely has friends in prison. The end result won’t be pleasant.”

“Good. He doesn’t deserve pleasant.”

“No, he doesn’t. But I am telling you, for the sake of your future, walk away. Let this be done now. Jamie wouldn’t want you throwing everything away on this.”

Grey gave him a measured look, one of intensity that confirmed Roan’s gut suspicion: Grey was a lot smarter than he let on. “You’re not gonna believe I’m innocent, huh?”

“Would you believe I was?”

He smiled again, but this time it was an almost charming, far more gentle and less calculated. “Guess not. If we’re giving out advice, can I give you some?”

“If you’re gonna tell me to fuck off, you can skip it.”

He was still all good natured smiles. “No way. You’re a good guy, Roan, and you’re really good at your job. That’s awesome. But why don’t you stop holding back?”

He honestly wasn’t sure what he meant by that. “Huh?”

“I’m at peak fitness, you know? I’ve trained hard to be, and I got what, about twenty pounds of muscle on you? But you kicked my ass out there. You kicked the ass of those skinheads while everybody just stood back and gawped, and you weren’t afraid of their redneck buddies who jumped us over at Grind. Switzer and Brand never had a chance, did they? You shouldn’t hide it.”

“Hide what? I’m a freak, Grey. I thought that’s why you hired me.”

“It’s a gift.” Roan scoffed at that, but he seemed oddly sincere. “It’s a talent. If the world ain’t ready for it, fuck ‘em. They need you, they just don’t know it. Show ‘em.”

Roan shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Course I do. The world needs its enforcers too. Someone has to keep the jackholes from preying on the weak. Sometimes you need a predator to take out the other predators.” He donned his iPod but only stuck one earbud in, letting the other dangle around his neck. When he turned it on, Roan recognized the song.

“You listen to These Arms Are Snakes?”

“Well, I wondered about that shirt you were wearing, so I Googled the name. They rock, man. I was gonna see if I could play ‘em at our next warm up skate. They’d get us pumped. Oh, and the offer still stands, you know – whatever team I’m on, you and the boyfriend get free tickets. You’ll always be on the list.”

Grey headed for the exit, and Roan’s head was just reeling. He’d thrown so much at him in so little time. It was feasible that Michael, ruin of a man he was, finally couldn’t take it anymore and killed himself; it was equally likely Grey killed him. He was a big man, and he honestly could have forced Michael to hold a gun to his head and pull the trigger. Michael was so broken, and Grey was so forceful, he could have easily made him do anything. He could have even berated him into suicide, shoved pictures of Jamie into his face until he snapped from the guilt. Absolutely anything was possible. And the worst part? Roan didn’t want to know the truth. He was content to leave it here, as long as nothing happened to Sean before sentencing. “Walk away, Grey,” he said.

He glanced at him over his shoulder. “That’s exactly what I’m doin’,” he replied, still smiling, and winked as he tucked in his loose earbud and walked out the door.

Well, whatever team ended up with Grey, they were going to get a guardian off the ice as well as on. He honestly hoped that they were ready for it.

****

For a time afterwards, Roan sat in his car, trying to figure out what to do. Not about the case; the case was closed. He was wondering what to do with himself. Once the Vicodin kicked in, he kind of didn’t care.

It was funny, the dichotomy of his day. Dropkick telling him to hide his lion tendencies, and now Grey telling him to show them off. One was a friend of his for quite a few years, the other a client who just may have calmly killed someone before showing up to spar with him. It was obvious who he should listen to, but did he want to?

He shoved it aside and went to Holden’s place to pick up his iPod and get him some clothes. He looked in his bedroom closet for a bag, finding a backpack, but at the same time he saw his closet had an obvious division in it: the left half had some clothes it, pretty much average every day clothes. The more crowded right side had what must have been his hooker gear. Leather, tight t-shirts, spandex shirts even, designer jeans, camouflage clothing, a couple of random whips. (He already knew about it, but it was always a little surprising to see it. Although he was used to Fiona carrying a riding crop in her purse, because in her hands it was a weapon of self-defense.) But how weird was it that Holden kept the closet sides separated like that? There was a huge empty space in the middle, so none of his regular clothes touched his hooker gear. There was Holden’s dichotomy in an obvious, visible form; he kept his Fox identity so different from his Holden identity that he wouldn’t even allow their clothes to touch. How did he keep from going insane or using crack?

Roan then swung by a used bookshop on the way and picked up a couple of paperbacks, mostly for Holden, good stuff he thought he should read, and then went to Dick’s Drive In and got a couple of monstrously greasy and unhealthful – but oh so good – burgers, one for himself. He ate it in a QFC parking lot before running into the store to pick up a can of papaya nectar imported from Mexico. Hey, Holden wanted papaya juice, and he was going to get it.

Sadly, they all knew him at the hospital. Busy nurses waved him past, at least one doctor (and possibly an intern) said hello to him in the corridor, and no one looked at him twice as he walked into Holden’s room.

Holden must have been doing okay, because even though he was hooked up to at least one IV, he was sitting up, flipping through a magazine he must have gotten from a waiting room. “Can you believe there are people in the world who actually give a shit about Miley Cyrus?” he asked, tossing the magazine onto the floor.

“It’s a fucked up world.” Roan admitted, slipping off the backpack and gently plopping it on Holden’s lap.

“You got my food, right?”

“Look in there, greedy.”

He unzipped the backpack and found the grease stained brown bag first, eagerly tearing into it as Roan made sure the curtain separating Holden from his roommate blocked the view of the illegal food. Whoever they were, they must have been on decent drugs, as they were very faintly snoring. “Thank you,” he said around a mouth full of burger, cracking open the can of papaya nectar. “I’d marry you if I believed in monogamy.”

Roan found a chair and brought it over, and just sat there as Holden inhaled his cholesterol bomb in a few big bites. After he was done, wiping the grease off his face and hands with the paper napkins, he gave him a funny look. “What?”

“You okay, Roan? You seem … gone.”

He looked down at himself to make sure he hadn’t suddenly become a hologram. “I believe I’m here.”

“You know what I mean. Has something gone wrong with the case?”

He shook his head. “Case is closed. Sean and Switzer killed Jasmine. Switzer will get blamed for it, and Sean will go to jail for assaulting you. It’s done. How are you feeling?”

Holden stared at him for a long moment, as if studying him. Finally he said, “Okay. I’m a little achy, but I’m on heavy duty painkillers, so it’s all good. What about you?”

He shrugged. “I’m okay.”

“No, I was asking if you were on heavy duty painkillers too.” Roan gave him an evil look, but Holden was already going through the backpack. “Ah, thanks for the clothes. I can’t wait to get out of here. What’re the books?”

“Ken Bruen and Joseph Hansen. Classics that will probably never make it in any literature class.”

Holden looked at the cover and the backs of the books, frowning in thought. “Mysteries?”

“Yes, but not Agatha Christie. Also, gay people apparently exist, and not just as villains or sissy hairdressers.”

He gasped in mock horror. “No! Those filthy perverts?”

“It takes all kinds.”

“Apparently.” He put the books aside, and stared at him in an eerily intense way. “What’s wrong?”

“What makes you think something is wrong?”

“Your thousand yard stare, for one. I mean, it could be pills, but you usually function amazingly well on pills.”

“Fuck you.”

“Take it as a compliment. Now what’s wrong?”

He wasn’t going to tell him, but was he really going to be mad at him for accusing him of being on pills? He was on pills! He supposed he should get points for being observant. “I think my life is slipping out of control.” Why on Earth did he say that?

Holden gave him a look suggesting he was thinking much the same thing. Then he sighed, and scratched his head, making his IV line wiggle. “Wow, I expect that from clients, not from you. Three things sprung to mind. One: “You’ve finally noticed?” Two: “You didn’t use the past tense, suggesting some further illumination is necessary.” Three: “Do you want a hit from my IV?””

“Are you done?”

“I think so. No, wait … yeah, I’m done.”

“Good, ’cause I think I have to go to the office. I have things to do.”

“Like what? Slip further out of control?”

“See if I ever tell you anything again.” He got up, but was too tired to feign anger. He was a little annoyed, but not angry. Maybe because all Holden’s hits were painfully on target.

“You’ll have to. I’m your assistant investigator.”

“Then you’d best learn pig Latin.”

Holden shook his head and gave him a strangely weary, affectionate look he was more accustomed to seeing from Dylan. “Thanks for the stuff. And maybe you need to take a break, step back, and decide what you want in life.”

“What I want? That’s easy. To pay my bills on time.”

A nurse showed up them, and Holden hid the burger wrappers as Roan kept her momentarily distracted by asking what the time was. He was shooed out, but Holden had successfully stowed away the wrappers.

Even though he’d told Fiona to take the day off, he went back to the office and cleaned up some paperwork, as well as run a background check he’d put off, along with a skip trace. All painfully boring, which might have been why he fell asleep at some point. Presumably the Vicodin and the adrenaline crash didn’t help either.

He woke up to find it had become night on him. Already? That was quick. He’d also drooled a bit on his desk, but on papers that didn’t matter. He had several messages waiting for him on his cell, but he didn’t bother to check them just yet. He wasn’t ready to face anyone just yet.

Still, he closed up the office and stopped in the first fast food place along the way (a Jack In The Box) and scarfed down a breakfast burrito and a shake, as he was utterly famished. He didn’t partially transform during the sparring match – at least not to his knowledge – but his body was behaving like it had. Which was fine, it always kind of did its own thing anyways. He looked out the windows at the traffic driving by, eating in his car so he didn’t have to listen to that fucking pop music everybody pumped everywhere nowadays (he missed the days when stores were quiet – good lord, how old was he?), and wondered what he wanted from life beyond paying bills. He wasn’t sure anymore. Probably not a good thing.

He checked his phone. A couple of messages were from Murphy, and he wasn’t sure he could take her just yet; one was from Grey, and again, not ready; the last one was from Dylan, and he listened to it. “Where are you?” he asked, sounding equally worried and annoyed. “I hope you’re okay. I was expecting you back by now. Murphy’s called, she says you’re not answering your cell … she doesn’t sound happy. So if you’re ducking her I understand, but … oh shit. I’ll see you after work, I hope.”

Dylan was worrying about him again. He hated that. He also hated that Murphy calling in high dudgeon probably made it worse. He called him, but got his message, and checking the time, Roan knew that was because he was at work and away from his phone. So he decided to pay him a visit instead.

Since it was midweek he found a place close to Panic to park, and was mildly surprised to see a few people waiting to get in. Mighty Mouse – the huge bouncer with the tiny voice – saw him and waved him in, bypassing the line, which made the crowd complain. “He’s security,” Mighty Mouse told them, quieting them down.

That was actually an in joke. Since he periodically stopped by Panic to see Dylan, he was now referred to as security by the staff. He wasn’t – certainly no one paid him – but apparently management liked having him around. It suddenly occurred to Roan, as Matteo waved him on inside, letting him skip the cover, that maybe this was what Grey meant by calling him an enforcer. That’s how the people at Panic saw him, as a tough guy who could take care of any problems for them. If things got ugly, they had their own ugly guy to take care of it.

Roan was strangely numb to the electronic music that washed over him, and while neon hued colors predominantly lit up the club, he could see a couple of queens staring at him and talking to each other. He could lip read if he wanted to, but he didn’t. They were either saying “That’s the infected freak” or “That’s the infected freak who let that other infected freak get away” (Grant Kim). Either way, he didn’t need to know.

He found an open space at the bar and leaned in, and he was spotted instantly by Rodrigo. He was as, as de rigeur for Panic’s bartenders, shirtless, but he was also wearing a leather vest, suggesting he was cold. “Toby!” he shouted. “The cops want to see you!”

Rodrigo was teasing, but since Murphy probably chewed his ear off earlier, it wouldn’t be appreciated. Dylan looked down the bar, alarmed, but visibly relaxed when he saw it was just him. “Thank god,” he said, coming down to his end of the bar. “I thought something had happened to you.” He leaned over the bar and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

“No, I was just catching up on paperwork, and I turned off my phone so I wouldn’t have an excuse not to do it. I desperately wanted an excuse not to do it.”

“I know sweetie. You’re okay, right?”

“Hey, if I give you a big tip, can I get a kiss?” A drunk guy a couple of feet away asked.

Roan was about to tell him what he could do with that suggestion when Rodrigo came over and said, “He is not for sale. But I’m negotiable.”

As Rodrigo flirted with drunk boy, Dylan leaned in, and said, “Murphy sounded really pissed at you.”

“Yeah, well, they found Michael Brand dead this afternoon. It looks like suicide, but they think it might be homicide. She thinks I did it.”

“Did you?” he asked, and then looked horrified. “Oh shit, no. Ro, I didn’t mean -”

“Yeah, you did, and it’s okay. I killed Switzer, so why wouldn’t I kill Brand? Make it a two-fer.”

“You killed somebody?” the guy standing next to him asked. He was a soft looking man – ten to one he worked on a computer all day, or at the very least behind a desk – and he was giving him a look of wide eyed horror.

Roan stared at him, dead eyed. “I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die.” He paused briefly. “It was kind of disappointing. Boring, actually.”

Still openly terrified, the man grabbed his beer and retreated deeper into the club, out of sight. “Did he actually believe me?” Roan asked Dylan, slightly mystified.

“It looked like it, didn’t it?”

“It’s Johnny Cash! I don’t even listen to Johnny Cash, and I know it’s Johnny Cash!”

“Hon, sometimes you’re too hip for the room.”

“You think I don’t know when I’m being pat -”

“Holy shit,” a guy shouted, stumbling in the entryway. “There’s a fucking leopard out there!”

“What?!” Someone shouted.

“I think it’s attacking someone across the street.”

“Roan -” Dylan exclaimed, as Roan was already running for the door.

The guy who reported the cat said, “Dude, don’t -” but Roan ignored him to as he burst out the door. Mighty Mouse was still out front, but the boys had scattered. “What the fuck do I do?” Mouse asked him.

“Get inside,” he said, scanning the street, scenting the wind. There it was, across the street, growling and attempting to burrow under the lid of a closed Dumpster. Was someone hiding in there?

The guy was also wrong. It wasn’t a leopard, it was a panther, but with a dark muddy brown color that looked faintly reddish in the dim glow of the streetlight. A fellow redhead?

He whistled sharply, stepping out into the street. “Pick on someone your own size.”

“Man, what are you doing?” Mighty Mouse squeaked.

“Get inside!” He shouted, as the panther charged towards him, snarling.

Roan roared in response, feeling the hair on the back of his neck rise, and the panther did an almost comical stumble mid way across the street, not scared but perplexed. It lifted its head, sniffing the air, still snarling, but Roan was growling too as he approached it. Luckily they were working on the neighboring road (a huge sinkhole had opened up during the last torrential downpour), and traffic was sporadic at best.

The panther got over its shock and started to lunge again, but Roan sensed it coming and roared once more with the force akin to a scream, feeling his throat grow raw and bloody as a result. It was loud and angry enough that the cat’s ears swiveled back, its lips skinned over its snaggled ivory teeth. When he could talk, he growled, “I’m the alpha here. Get down.”

The cat continued growling at him, and stalked forward cautiously. “I said get down,” Roan snarled, his fingers wanting desperately to curl into claws, his muscles starting to twitch in his arms and back. His shoulders slumped, his head dropped, and he felt a sharp pain bracketing his jaw as he started tasting blood in his mouth. Roan was dimly aware that there were people watching from Panic, idiots who wanted to gawk at the loose big cat.

He knew the stupid thing was going to jump before it actually did, so he got his arm up and let it sink its teeth into his forearm, and Roan, feeling rather out of control of himself, reflexively bit the panther on its shoulder. He stopped as soon as he tasted blood, and as the cat loosened its bite to squall in pain, he snapped his arm and sent the panther flying. It slammed into the facade of the closed antique store across the street, and hit it hard enough you could hear the dense meaty thud over the hiss of tires on asphalt farther down the way.

“Stay down!” Roan roared, the words almost lost in the noise. He could feel the slick warmth of blood running down his arm, but bizarrely it didn’t hurt, not at the moment. Maybe later, after the adrenaline wore off. He turned his head and spit out blood that was half his, and half the panther’s.

The cat wasn’t dead; they were amazingly resilient to damage, a bit more than their Human forms. But it was clearly dazed as it got on its feet, wavering slightly, shaking its head like it had a bee in its ear. It was growling, but it was an automatic response – there was no force behind it at all.

He approached it slowly, still growling, and when he was nearly close enough to reach out and smack it, he snarled, “I’m the alpha. Submit.”

The cat looked up at him with glazed amber eyes, growling weakly, but it seemed to understand that there was no winning this battle. It settled on the sidewalk, resting its head on its paws, its growl dying in its throat. Roan stood over it, still growling, jaw still hurting, the urge to rip out its throat not quite dying. He clenched his hands at his sides and felt the muscles shifting in his fingers. He struggled to keep the change from going any further, and repressing it was almost painful. It nearly hurt worse than his jaw.

The thing fucking bit him. He should rip it in half.

He heard the noise of an engine and tires, and headlights blindsided his peripheral vision as it came up, slowly enough to let him know it would stop before it ran him over. He looked away, blinking afterimages from his eyes, and heard a car door open. It was funny, but from the scent of the exhaust he knew that it was a cop car. How weird was that? Exhaust really didn’t vary all that much.

“Roan, you got it under control?” a familiar voice asked. It was Seb, which was definitely a good thing for him.

Roan realized he was still growling deep in his throat, and he actually had to remember how to speak. He was sliding down. “Yeah.”

He heard the pneumatic hiss of a drug gun, and assumed the panther had been drugged. Would they shoot him next? He wondered.

“What the fuck’s this guy?” A male voice he didn’t recognize asked. It had the hard authority of a cop.

“Stand down. He works for the department,”Seb replied, in an equally firm manner. So he had a replacement partner while Gordo was on leave. Guy sounded like a prick. “Roan, you okay?”

Seb had not gotten any closer, and his voice had a soothing quality, like he was trying to keep him from spooking, and he kept using his name, like the cop handbook said in dealing with volatile people. Use their name a lot, try and forge a connection, make them think they know you and can trust you. A brief surge of anger – he could rip Seb in half too; him and that dick partner of his, who was exuding testosterone like a cheap cologne – gave way to a sudden cascade of despair. Oh fuck, what was going on? Why did he even think that?

“’m fine,” he grumbled, turning completely away, dry washing his face with his hands so no one could see any lingering signs of transformation. But he felt the blood on his chin, and his fingers ached as if they’d all been broken. His arms burned and so inexplicably did his back, his heart beating out a staccato rhythm in his chest that seemed to vibrate through his entire body. Only now did he realize he came closer to a full change than he realized.

He heard a smash – something mostly plastic impacting the asphalt with force – followed closely by, “Hey man, what the fuck -”

“No pictures!” A voice exclaimed angrily, and it took him a second to realize the man who said that was Dylan.

Roan turned to look at the crowd, a hand on his face covering his mouth (and most of the blood, although he could feel a slick of it on his neck, growing cold in the chill night), and he caught Dylan’s eyes. He looked anguished, as if he had seen what Roan had only just realized, his chocolate brown eyes shiny with unshed tears. Dylan turned away and quickly disappeared back inside Panic, followed by Rodrigo, who must have picked up on his despair if not precisely the reason for it.

Roan wanted to call after him, but didn’t. He didn’t feel he had the right to do so anymore.