2 - After Hours

Roan smelled like bloody death all the way home.

Dylan had fallen asleep and seemed so peaceful that he hated to even risk waking him up, so he used the downstairs shower. He was under the spray until the water turned ice cold, and he wasn’t sure the smell was completely out of his skin. He hoped it was psychosomatic.

He was tired, too tired to trudge upstairs, so he flopped on the couch, naked and wet, and dragged the throw on the couch over him, settling his head against the arm rest. He’d seen the message machine’s blinking light, but he studiously ignored it.

He slept heavily, but dreamed too much. In one, he was fighting an endless swarm of biting black insects that he could only see out of the corner of his eyes, but made his skin unbearably itchy. The next dream, he was inexplicably in a cage, but in his Human form, and he couldn’t get out. Occasionally people would walk by and he’d call out to them, but they’d ignore him. He could feel the lion wanting to come out, and yet unable to. He didn’t get it.

Frustration alone woke him up, his head pounding sickly in his temples, a drumbeat that only he could hear. He peeled himself off the sofa, not surprised but disappointed that only three hours had passed. It was still pouring outside, the light grey, and he felt like he was in a submarine that was slowly sinking to the bottom of the ocean.

He went downstairs to steal some boxers from the dryer, and he stared at his cage for a while, seeing it as the small prison it was, like a prop from a horror film. His head continued to pound, like he had an angry old man banging his fist against the inside of his skull, so he went back upstairs and rooted around in a first aid kit until he found some codeine. Yes, he had promised Dylan he was off the stuff except when he was post-change, but goddamn it, he felt like his fucking headaches was included in the compromise. He washed the pills down with a pale ale snagged from the fridge. Yeah, it was way too early to drink, but when he was woken open by a headache, all bets were off.

He decided to actually listen to his messages while waiting for the pills to kick in. The first was from last night. Dee had called, to report that he and Luke had gone to see “his movie” last night (Con’s play turned movie). They had enjoyed it (kind of), but Dee found it (quote) “equally hilarious and appalling” that “his” character (the character that Con had loosely based on him) was made straight for the film.

Con’s ex-wife, Siobhan, had invited him along to the local premiere a month ago and thought he ought to come, but Roan declined, saying that he just couldn’t face it. And he couldn’t, not really, although one night curiosity got the better of him and he snuck out to a late night showing alone (he told Dylan he was on a stake out). The movie was okay, and he wasn’t really surprised by the changes made to Con’s original play: the title was now “Requiem” (which made no fucking sense in a story context, but what the hell), and the church’s protection and knowledge of the abusive priest was watered down heavily, as was the family’s initial response to the abuse (they took the priest’s side and accused Con of making it up and being “wicked”; in the film, this response was limited to simple disbelief, not accusations that he was a liar). Yes, the cop character based on him was inexplicably made straight, removing any romantic subtext from scenes with Con’s character (whose sexuality was never mentioned - great straight washing), and was also reduced to what was an extended cameo. In the play he was a major supporting character; in the film, he had maybe ten minutes’ screen time. The screenwriter had also created a pretty, shy neighbor girl, presumably a romantic interest for Connor. (Siobhan’s character in the play had been his best friend, also wearied by the constant oppression of her strict family, and while she was still in the film, her role was reduced as well). If you hadn’t seen the play it was okay; if you’d seen the play, you knew it was crap. Still, the whole time, he kept imagining how chuffed Con would have been to see his play on the big screen, even in a highly bastardized form. Oh, he’d have gotten royally pissed at the filmmakers and probably would have slung beer bottles at their heads, but for about the length of the film he’d be thrilled to see his baby up there. Then he’d start kicking heads in. Roan would have helped.

Siobhan had told him the studio didn’t want a “gay” film because they never made much money, and beyond that she felt it got “focus grouped to death”. Roan didn’t know why they didn’t just write a rip off script and film that instead; it probably would have been cheaper. But he didn’t get the entertainment industry and would never claim to.

The next message was from Holden, sounding unusually upset. “Roan, as soon as you get this, I need you to come over. I don’t care what time it is. I have a problem and only you can handle it.”

Roan was a little surprised he didn’t add, “Help me Obie-Wan, you’re my only hope,” but that was probably too geeky for him. He called Holden but only got his machine, so he hung up without leaving a message. If he wasn’t in jail - and he didn’t ask for bail money - something strange was going on. Since sleep was out of the question, he decided to go ahead and check it out.

He’d been hoping there was more news from the crime scene, but obviously not. When he left, they’d tentatively identified the homeowner as Curtis Bowles, but that didn’t mean he was the victim or one of the missing roommates; he could have been subletting. And considering the condition of the corpse, it could be days or even weeks before a proper identification could be made. Poor bastard.

He dressed hurriedly and ventured back out into the underwater world. He wished he’d stop having nightmares, especially about stupid shit. He probably needed to break down and see Doctor Rosenberg again. He could trust her not to turn him over to the first traveling freak show that came along.

He called Fiona from the car, as he had ample time to do it sitting at stoplights. He told her he’d be coming into the office today, but a bit later than usual. He left the message on her voice mail, as he was routed straight there. It wasn’t personal; Fiona hated answering her own phone. According to her, “It’s not like it’s ever anything good.” He couldn’t argue with that logic.

The codeine and beer combo had really kicked in now, beating his headache back to a dull and ignorable roar, but he know felt a little hollow eyed and light-headed, his hands and feet oddly warm. There was no way to win. He checked his eyes in the mirror, and wondered if Holden would notice he was on pills again. Oh, fuck it, he called him - he was just going to have to live with getting in him in whatever shape he was when he answered.

He had to knock twice. Well, the first time was a knock; after waiting a minute and getting no answer, he changed to pounding on the door. That got a response. “Hold your horses,” Holden snapped, his voice muffled by the door. He still sounded tired and cranky.

When he finally opened the door, Roan told him, “You called. Don’t get pissy at me.”

Holden stared at him with sleep blurry eyes, his mussed sable hair sticking up in all directions. “Yeah, I did, but give me a minute. I was up ’til five thirty.” He turned away, dry washing his face, leaving the door open, a tacit invitation inside. Roan took it, although not without some reservations.

He felt awkward, and not only because he always felt awkward around Holden since he’d seen him almost completely transform. This time he also felt awkward because Holden was dressed only in red boxer briefs, riding so low on his hips you could see a fringe of dark pubic hair in the front and a good dose of ass crack in the back. Holden had no sense of modesty so he wouldn’t actually care - you didn’t become a whore if you were actually shy about your body - but Roan found it too early in the day to face anyone half naked. Maybe he was getting prudish in his old age. What a horrible thought. Luckily, Holden padded into his small kitchen, and his counters hid him. “Want some coffee?”

“No thanks. What’s going on?”

Holden ran a hand through his hair, making it only slightly less messy, and nodded his head in the direction of his coffee table. “It’s right there.”

Roan looked as Holden continued to futz with the espresso machine, and he finally deduced that he must have been referring to the folded up newspaper. He sat down on his sofa and had a look.

On the front page was a large PR photo of a smiling man in his fifties, with a full head of hair almost as white as his supernaturally blinding Chiclet teeth, highlighted by a tan just a few degrees shy of George Hamilton orange. Roan recognized him as Joel Newberry, of the Newberry clan, a locally famous family. They owned channel four and a classical station, sponsored a boat race every year, and had a controlling interest in the advertising firm Armstrong Anderson (if there was a conflict of interest in this, no one mentioned it). Scanning the article, it said that Joel, 54, had died suddenly of a heart attack last night.

Roan scanned the rest of the front page, in case he was missing something else, but the only other articles were on rising gas prices, local soldiers killed in Afghanistan, and a dust up at the city council over an offensive email. He couldn’t imagine Holden being interested in any of this. “Is this about the dead rich guy?” he finally asked, giving up.

Holden snorted. “Not just a dead rich guy. There’s no fucking way he died of a heart attack. I want to hire you to find out how he really died.”

Roan scratched his head. Had the drugs kicked in extra hard, or had he actually heard that? “Umm, you knew Joel Newberry?”

“He was Trevor,” he said, pouring himself a cup of espresso. “One of my regulars.”

Okay, it was official: he was glad he was on drugs. “This guy? Trophy wife Newberry?”

“He wasn’t gay. I’d say he was bi, although he himself never used the term. He would tell me he thought the Greeks had the right idea, that a man could have another man to fool around with and not be considered gay. After all, our sex drives are more compatible than it is between a male and a female.”

“Sounds like justification from a weasel.”

He shot him a harsh look as he came out into his living room and collapsed on his loveseat, somehow not spilling a drop of coffee. “Be that as it may, he told me himself the last time we met up that he thought someone was trying to kill him.”

“And this wasn’t role playing?”

Holden gave him a surprisingly nasty look. “Are you going to let me tell my story, or would you rather be a wise ass?”

“I get a choice?” Before Holden could throw his coffee on him, he said, “Okay, I’m listening.”

“Right. He told me last time we met - Thursday - that he thought someone was trying to kill him, and he thought it was someone in his family. There was some kind of business deal and he was holding out, mainly ’cause he didn’t like it. He was getting nervous, though; he said the family was freezing him out, and then something happened, although he didn’t specify what, he just said it was something that made him think he might be in real danger. He told me who he was, Roan, he gave me his real name - not that I hadn’t already figured it out, but hey, part of the hooker gig is playing dumb - and the number to his private line. He told me if I hadn’t heard from him in a week, to call the number. Three days later, he’s dead. Coincidence?”

Oh, he could talk now? “Possibly. Guys, especially in their fifties, drop dead of heart attacks all the time. If he was paranoid, tension could have predisposed him to a cardiac incident.”

“Don’t give me the party line. He was as healthy as an ox; he said he got his insurance mandated physical a month ago and he was as healthy as I am. They said he had the heart of a twenty five year old.”

“Occasionally they get heart attacks too.”

Holden glared at him.

Roan threw up his hands. “Okay, fine, I’m just saying that he could have actually died of a heart attack, and it might be unconnected to what he told you. Isn’t it possible that he was indeed paranoid?”

“No. I’ve known him for almost two years, Roan, and I knew what he was like. He wasn’t paranoid. Irresponsible, egotistical? Sure. Not paranoid and jumping at shadows. C’mon, Roan, how desperate does a guy have to be to trust his rent boy? Even you have to admit that’s an extreme level of desperation.”

It was, but he wasn‘t ready to acknowledge the point. “Two years? And his wife never caught on?”

“Which one?”

“Oh, right.” Joel seemed to swap trophy wives like they were last year’s Jaguars. “What number was he on?”

“Of wives? Five. He only married Cherry four and a half months ago.”

“Cherry,” he repeated, rolling his eyes. Now it wasn’t anyone’s fault what their parents named them - look at him, he was Roan, a reddish brown hue mainly associated with horses - but people who named their kids after fruit were just asking for a punch in the mouth. Add to that her name was now Cherry Newberry, and she sounded like she was a character in a children‘s cartoon - or a porno. Funny how that worked. “How old is she?”

“According to the paper, twenty four.”

“Jesus.” Joel was old enough to have been her dad. That was just fucking creepy. He didn’t care if it was a straight relationship or a gay one: if you dated someone young enough to have been your child, you gave him a serious case of the heebie jeebies. “You don’t think balancing a hot young wife and a studly male prostitute wasn’t too much for his ticker?”

“Are you going to stop being an asshole?”

“I don’t see that there’s much of a case here, Holden. I’d be lucky to get any access anywhere, and it seems rather pointless. A heart attack seems reasonable to his age and lifestyle. Doctors miss things; they’re human. Just because he was paranoid only meant he sensed there was something wrong. He just wasn’t looking in the right place.”

He took a sip of his espresso and sighed heavily. “Would you please look into it for me?”

“Is this gonna be a guilt thing?”

“You bet your sweet ass it’s gonna be.”

“Fuck. Fine. But if I get nowhere in five working days you’ll have to find another chump.”

“Oh come on. If I can get your lion sense tingling, you won’t let this go.”

“If I hear one more superhero reference, I’m going to go on a shooting spree.”

Holden levered himself up from the sofa, and this time he hitched up his shorts as he walked back to the kitchen. “The cops are still calling you Batman?”

“All the fucking time. If someone else asks me how Robin is, I’m going to break their jaw.”

Holden went to his fridge and rooted around in it for a minute. “Oh, come now. You can have fun with it. Besides, at least they’re not calling you Batgirl.”

“I’ve gotten that too, thank you very much. But not to my face.”

“Of course not to your face; you’re Batman.” When he turned around, he gave him his patented shit eating grin. Roan gave him the finger in response.

He returned to the loveseat, but before plopping down, he tossed Roan a small stack of money held together by a rubber band. It was rather cold. “You keep cash in your fridge?” He looked at the stack, rifled the edge, did a bit of math. A thousand dollars? Goddamn, he really should become a whore.

“In a South Beach Diet sandwich box,” he acknowledged. “Have you ever had one of those damn things? They’re clearly made of recycled cardboard. Nobody is idiotic enough to want one, so I figured it was as theft proof as a safe.”

“You’re on the South Beach Diet? Isn’t that very three years ago?”

“I don’t diet. I unfortunately had one at a friend’s place. But if you were a thief, would you grab it?”

“God no. Your secret’s safe with me.” He held up the stack of money, and asked, “Are you sure you want to waste your money this way?”

“It’s not a waste. Something’s rotten in Denmark, Horatio. I need you to find out what.”

“I don’t want to be Horatio. He died.”

Holden rolled his eyes. “It was Hamlet. Everybody died.”

He had a point. Roan wondered who else was going to die before the intermission break.

Because I put a teaser for Scorched Earth Policy in the last run, I thought I’d put a teaser for the next in the Infected series here. Why not?

****

1 - Signify

Everyone had at least some dirty little secrets that you hid from your boyfriend or girlfriend; that was to be expected. But some were just honestly unbelievable.

“You really think I’m letting you off the hook for this?” Roan asked, slipping under the sheets. Dylan turned over on his back to face him, scowling sourly.

“You are such a dick sometimes.”

(more…)

18 - The Bones of You

“I don’t suppose it was suicide?” Roan asked, collapsing on his sofa.

“It’s a little strange to shoot yourself in the back of the head, so I’m gonna say no,” Murphy said.

Roan made a noise of strangled disappointment, pressing his hand hard into his forehead. It didn’t change a thing. “Fuck.”

“If it makes you feel better, we have a suspect.”

“Who?”

“A minor player of a thug named Marco Lewis. He’s a small time drug dealer, but it seems Mr. Faraday owed him money. And Mrs. Faraday’s murder has some of the hallmarks of a robbery gone bad, so what we think happened here was genius - a/k/a Marco - tried to extort money the hubby owed him from the missus, and something went wrong. Mr. Faraday was probably then killed, for more than one reason.”

“So she was right to be concerned about his debts, she just wasn’t concerned enough in time.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“Shit,” he sighed wearily. He felt terrible for Holly. If he’d been faster, better, would she still alive? No, he couldn’t think about that, mainly because it wouldn’t change anything. His client was dead, and while if he’d gotten the case a few days earlier he might have been able to do something to prevent it, it was all a moot point now.

Murphy promised to call him as soon as she heard anything about the Chesney house, and he went upstairs and took a quick shower that failed to make him feel any better. After getting dressed, he got together some books for Dylan as well as his MP3 player and went back to the hospital to drop them off. There he encountered Dylan’s sister Sheba and her husband.

That was always awkward. Roan got the feeling that Sheba was humoring him most of the time, and was not so secretly freaked out by his infected status (although he couldn’t blame her there - she was probably afraid he might accidentally infect her brother), and it didn’t help that her well meaning husband usually gave off that odd straight guy vibe that said, ‘I want to be cool around gay guys, but damn, they creep me out‘. Everything was civil and fine, but Roan still got the impression that Sheba would have been happier if he had absolutely nothing more to do with her brother.

Dylan was happy to see him, though, and gave him a kiss even before he gave him the books and his MP3 player. He was as bored as hell and wanted to go, but he’d just gotten some “damn scan or something” and they weren’t letting him go just yet. Only later did Roan find out that Dylan had gotten a head CT, and figured Dylan dismissed it so he didn’t freak out about it. Dee would later tell him that it was fine, they were just checking something. What he didn’t say.

Dylan scooted over and patted the mattress beside him, so Roan ended up sitting on his bed with him as they talked, Dylan leaning his head against his shoulder as Roan idly caressed his thigh, and they talked about very mundane things. But it was strangely nice; Roan felt oddly settled and didn’t notice his drug cravings in this moment of chaste intimacy. Dylan just had a calming influence on him; he made him feel Human, although not in a bad way. He enjoyed his warmth and his comforting scent, although it was diluted with the awful medical scent of the hospital.

He admitted that he hadn’t taken a pill all day, and save for tiredness and minor cravings, he really didn’t miss them. What he didn’t tell him was he feared he had acquired his own internal numbness, which was better than any narcotic. And he was going to have to learn to use it, because if he didn’t get his lion episodes under control, he was going to be in real trouble.

A nurse came in and chased him off, which seemed par for the course, but she gave him and Dylan specially dirty looks and even though they were just sitting talking, she warned them stridently that there wasn’t “any of that kind of thing” allowed in the hospital. That kind of thing? What? Buttfucking? Did she think they were on the verge of having wild and perverted gay sex before she heroically burst through the door? He and Dylan exchanged a look - they seemed to be thinking the same thing - and before he left they shared a long, overly passionate kiss that they played up a bit, just to disgust and annoy her. Which it did. But she deserved it - they weren’t shy, acquiescent gays, and if she was going to indulge in jackassery, so were they. Although, to be totally honest, that was one hot kiss. Goddamn, they needed to kiss like that more often.

Just before he left Dylan’s floor he remembered Ponyboy, and went up a couple of floors. He hadn’t checked in on the kid forever, and no, he didn’t know him, but it was a decent thing just to check up on him. When he stepped out of the elevator, he saw Holden slumped in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs that lined segments of the hallway, his tall frame almost folded in half. The posture looked more sad than painful. “Holden, everything okay?” he asked, belatedly realizing that he forgot to call him Fox. Oh well, hopefully no one noticed, and those that did didn’t care.

He sat back and looked up at him, a strange blankness in his eyes. “You here to see Ponyboy? You’re too late.”

“Oh shit.” He sat on the chair beside him. “What happened?”

“They think it was blood clot in his brain.” Holden shrugged and looked away, tears making his eyes look glassy. “Christ, what am I supposed to do now? Track down the parents he ran away from in the first place and say, ‘Hey, your little faggot is dead. Do you want his body or should I just throw him in the trash like you did?’ “ He sniffed and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “Fuck.”

“I’ll do it.”

“What?”

“I’m a detective; I’ll track the parents down. And when I was a cop, I used to hafta do the dead calls, contact relatives and next of kin to come down and identify a body.” He sighed at the memory. “People’s responses always surprised you. You expected the ones that reacted in horror or burst into sobs, but the ones who had no reaction, or the ones who said “I don’t care” or had some profane or pedestrian response to it were always the most startling. There were people who said they were watching something and they’d be over as soon as it was done; others who said simply, “Let ‘em rot” and hung up. You don’t know how people really feel about you until you die … and then you’re dead, so why would you give a fuck?”

Holden looked at him askance. “That was a philosophical abortion.”

“Hey, at least I tried.”

They just sat in silence for a moment, staring at the white wall before them, the noises of the hospital floor sounding like the background of a television show, minus the ubiquitous syrupy power ballad. “I don’t even know why I’m crying,” Holden finally admitted. “I didn’t know him at all. He was just a friend of a friend.”

“He was a kid, whose crime was essentially being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It could have been any of us.”

He nodded and sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “Well, it couldn’t have been you. You’d have ripped them to pieces and beaten them to death with their own limbs.”

Roan opened his mouth to object to that classification, but of course Holden had just been kind to him. He had seen him in a more transformed state than anyone had since Paris; he could have said “eaten them” and left it at that. It would be true. So he decided to simply say, “I think you’d have fucked them up pretty well too.”

Holden scoffed. “They wouldn’t have fucked with me either. I may sound like a twink, but I’m built like a jock. Those fucking scumbags only pick on easy targets.”

“True.” They sat together for a moment, staring at the wall. Sometimes there was just nothing that could be said or done. Sometimes all you could do was sit in the silence, and wait to see if the world ever noticed. Even though Roan knew from experience that it never did.

Poor Ponyboy. He wondered if his parents would care, and then feared the answer.

****

By the time Roan got home, there was a message waiting for him on his answering machine, one he had both longed for and feared. A body had been unearthed at the Chesney place. As had a piece of another one.

The next couple of days, it would be splattered all over the local news. In total, three bodies were found, all women, only one identified (by dental records - a woman named Jamie Lynn Anderton, Chesney’s youngest victim at age nineteen), although a concerted effort was under way to identify the other two. The disappointing thing was clearly none of these victims were Keith Turner, but it did prove that Roland Chesney was a more disturbed and violent man than many had believed. Murphy told him it sounded like the DA was going to try and cut a deal with him, get him to confess to other victims and point out other dumping places in exchange for slightly lesser charges. (A joke, as he was going to be in jail for the rest of his life no matter how this played out.) He must have known that, because Chesney was denying that he murdered the women. Although the dry desert conditions had basically jerked the bodies, some evidence was found that proved Chesney was lying his ass off. He’d probably have no choice but to deal.

Roan had Chris Spencer meet him at his office before the full week was up, and admitted to him that Chesney had been his best lead, and while Keith’s body hadn’t turned up, it was his opinion that Chesney was most likely to have grabbed Keith from the park that day. If it wasn’t Chesney, he honestly didn’t know who could have done the crime. It was a pathetic answer, one hardly worth voicing, but Chris cried a bit, both in relief and disappointment, and thanked him. He accepted that as all the answers he was probably going to get about Keith, and thanked him for it, even though Roan felt that Chris should probably be cursing him out. He found the killer of others, not necessarily his son, although Roan understood that even a pathetic scrap of a potential answer probably looked good to someone who had gone without even a hint all these many years. He just wished he could have given him a more concrete and satisfying answer.

Dylan was still bruised up by the time his gallery show came around, although Roan managed to convince him it looked butch and dangerous. Since Dylan was hoping to “integrate” more into his life, Holden and Fiona were invited to the show and came together, as Fiona wasn’t dating anyone, and Holden - as far as Roan could tell - never dated anyone who didn’t pay for his time. They seemed to like pretending they were a couple, as Fiona liked having “arm candy”, and Holden loved role playing. Holden turned on the charm and schmoozed everyone, including the art snobs whom Roan heard talking to Dylan and referring to him as his “blue collar boyfriend” (what?) which was supposedly “very trendy”. Roan felt the urge to go and punch them, but Dylan told him they were assholes and he should ignore them, while Holden went over and got them caught up in his charm, identifying himself as an “entertainment facilitator”, so they could all have a quiet laugh over these people in their Prada and Versace fawning over and kissing up to a gay prostitute. But Holden was far more honest than they were: he was a whore and gladly admitted it. These people were whores too, but pretended they weren’t. So Holden won that contest.

Dylan was pretty surprised to see his lion painting on the wall. Some people did a double take upon seeing Roan, and when they recognized him they moved away quickly. He considered growling just to see if he could make them piss themselves, but decided that was taking things a step too far.

Ultimately, the show was a good thing. Dylan sold a couple of paintings, and some of the art snobs seemed impressed with him. It got his name out there, and positive exposure was always a good thing.

Roan was doing okay without the pills for the most part, but he knew he had to work on his temper to keep the lion from coming out. How he was going to do that he had no idea, although he was considering a variety of methods. And while the Church of the Divine Transformation was quiet, before he and Dylan left on vacation, he found an anonymous note in his mailbox that said, “We haven’t forgotten”. He knew it was from them, but since it didn’t constitute harassment, he didn’t report it. But he hadn’t forgotten either.

They were away on a brief weekend vacation in Vancouver (which had started to feel like home away from home) when Roan had another dream about Paris.

He figured it was because he was in Canada, which he always associated with Paris. He and Paris were on a pier in the Bay, looking out at water as blue and still as glass. It was dusk, so the sky was very nearly the same color, leaving lights on the water and in the city skyline to define the horizon, where the water began and where the city ended. Roan was laying on the dock, his back on the sun warmed boards, his head on Paris’s thigh. Paris was sitting on the edge, legs dangling over the side of the pier, stroking his hair as he looked out on a Vancouver Island ferry in the distance. Roan was pretty sure this was only a slightly dream altered memory. “How am I doing?” he asked.

Paris looked down at him, playing with his bangs as he smirked. “That’s a question for you, not me.”

God, he was too handsome. It still hurt his heart to look at him. “Do you think I can hold it together?”

Paris clicked his tongue and shook his head. “ What is that? Do you think so little of yourself? Everyone’s a little crazy. You’re not so bad. I’ve met guys who argued with their shoes. And I’m talking knock down drag outs, back and forth cussing. Well, forth. The shoes never did talk on their own.”

Roan reached up and tweaked his chin, making Paris look down at him and smile. “Will you be serious? I’d like you to tell me something. And don’t say “something”, got it?”

He sighed. “Fine. On a scale of one ten, you’re fourteen.”

Roan pondered that. “Wait - is that a sanity scale in ascending order or descending order?”

“Yes.”

It was Roan’s turn to roll his eyes and look off towards the peaceful bay. “How can you be a smart ass in my own head?”

“Hey, you’re the person having a conversation with a dead man. Judge your sanity accordingly.”

But that was why he asked him, because he didn’t want to think about it too much. How was he going to deal with the lion in him when he knew very well that he was basically an angry type of guy? Could he even get mad without the lion coming out? And did he just assume that Dylan knew he was still in love with Paris and would always have to split his affections with him?

His sleeping brain had brought him here for a reason, and Roan suspected he knew what it was. He stopped worrying about it and just relaxed, letting the wind and Paris’s ghostly fingers stroke his hair as the sky slowly darkened, and night fell softly enough to be comforting.

He refused to worry about the real world until he was back in it again.

____________

The End (For now)