Rough Canvas

Chaining him up in his "secret dungeon" naked was sounding pretty damn appealing. Marcus took Ellen to a table for a drink while Thomas cut up the floor with Julie. Good luck doing some of those moves with a hard-on, he thought with dark satisfaction, even as Marcus pushed down the bleak truth that he could keep Thomas in a permanent state of arousal and he'd still choose to leave again.

"I've never watched men together."

He arched a brow in Ellen's direction, expecting to see her gazing with avid fascination around her. Instead, she tossed back the whiskey sour like water, her fifth of the night, and studied him, blinking, a little glassy-eyed. "Watching the two of you...it doesn't really matter. When you know the real thing, you recognize it." Desperation gripped her features. "You're so pretty. You're the prettiest man I've ever seen." Ellen reached out, touched Marcus' face. "Why don't I want to sleep with you? Why does it hurt to look at your face and feel nothing?" Marcus' brow drew down in puzzlement as he caught her clumsy fingers, but she pulled away and laid her cheek down on the table, narrowly missing the drink.

Julie had apparently registered what was happening, for she and Thomas came back from the dance floor.

"I'm sorry, Marcus." She gathered Ellen to her as she started to cry, soft, muffled sobs punctuated with hiccups. "I thought...I'm such an idiot. Ellen's husband," her voice lowered as if Ellen couldn't hear her, and maybe she couldn't, lost in her grief and the alcohol. "He died a couple years ago and it's been really hard on her. I thought if I took her out with guys who aren't really guys - "

Marcus and Thomas exchanged a look. Julie's face suffused with color. "Oh, Jesus, how awful did that sound? Of course you're guys. That's not what I meant. Guys who don't...no pressure, you know? Oh, geez, just tell me I'm a total asshole." Ellen lurched up from the table and Thomas caught her arm to steady her. "I'll take her out for some air," he said quietly, squeezing Julie's shoulder and shepherding her friend away.

Marcus rose as Julie clenched her hands together. When she reached for her purse, he waved her money away. "The tab's mine, remember? I make the money around here, after all."

"Marcus..."

"Hey." He tipped up her chin, ran his knuckles alongside her face. "I know what you meant, Julie."

"If I hurt your feelings... God, Marcus. I think I'd rather cut off a limb than make you think I don't love everything about you. Okay, yes, I've often, fervently wished you went for short brunette females instead of gorgeous guys like Thomas, but that's not what I mean. And it's not because you were one of my first major benefactors."

"Julie." Marcus let his expression relax into a slight smile and leaned in, nose to nose. "Shut up."

"Okay, shutting up."

When they emerged from the Club, they found Thomas and Ellen sitting on the curb of a landscaped natural area outside the front of the club. Ellen was cradled in Thomas' lap while she sobbed. Thomas held her close as her hands clutched his back.

Julie squatted behind her, rubbing her shoulder. "Oh, sweetie, it's okay. I'm sorry. I thought this would help."

"It does. It did." Thomas said. "Don't worry, Julie. She just drank too much. We got rid of most of it." He inclined his head toward the shrubbery. "Now we're having a cry, then we'll be better. Sshhh, baby, it's okay..." He rocked Ellen as her sobs increased, the clutch of her hands. "Give us just a few minutes, okay?" Julie wavered, uncertain, but Marcus put pressure under her elbow and took her off a few paces, turning them so with the help of the landscaping and their bodies they were partially screening Thomas and Ellen from the invasive, curious glances of those exiting the club.

"I thought this would help. She's been in such a funk, and it's been two years."

"Thomas doesn't say anything he doesn't mean," Marcus reassured her. "If he says it's helping, it is."

Julie watched Thomas with him. "You know, it's so obvious what a pure heart he has. He's the type you can take home to Mom."

"That should stand him well with the girl his mother wants him to marry," Marcus remarked acidly.

Julie glanced at him, startled, but Thomas was rising. He pulled out a pocket handkerchief, dabbed at Ellen's eyes and made her smile blearily when he had her blow her nose. Pulling her back in for another hug and kiss, he rubbed her back reassuringly.

When they began to move, she was wobbly on her dress heels. Thomas simply bent and picked her up, sending Julie a meaningful glance and head jerk to tell her to lead them to her vehicle.

"Tell Thomas I'll meet him at our car," Marcus said, turning on his heel. "I'll see you next week."

Julie stared after him, but he was already striding away.

Thomas registered Marcus moving away from them and the shift in mood it signaled, but he followed Julie to her roomy SUV. When she opened the door, Thomas put Ellen in the passenger seat, pulling the seat belt over her and buckling it. Ellen looked at him, her eyes still wet. "Thanks," she said.

He shook his head, kept hold of her hand. "You owe me another couple dances. I think we can wipe the floor with them next time, when you're not in the mood to be such a pathetic lush." When he gave her a wink, she managed a watery smile.

Closing the door, he turned, coming around to the driver's side. Before he could open it for her, Julie gave him another one of her hard, reassuring hugs. "Thanks," she murmured. "You just reminded me why I'm tempted to come kidnap you from North Carolina myself."

Drawing back, she looked at him. "Tell him, Thomas. Even if you're going to leave again, he needs to hear it. People think it makes it harder if you say it when you know you're going to go, but it doesn't. It makes it worse thinking someone's ripped your heart out of your chest and just didn't really give a crap." Thomas gave a half smile. "I hear you, Julie." His gaze shifted. Ellen had leaned over and pressed her palm to the driver's window. He reached out, placed his on the other side. She nodded, her eyes wet. Then her head disappeared as she curled up on the seat like an exhausted toddler, oblivious to her surroundings. "You're staying with her tonight, right?"

"Lord, yes. She'll be in good hands." Julie gave him a searching glance. "Fuck you, I'm not saying good-bye. I can't do it again."

Getting in, she got Ellen propped up and closed the door. When Thomas tapped on the window, Julie gazed at him, her eyes sheened with tears.

"Lock the doors," he mouthed.

She managed a smile, put one fingertip to the glass where Ellen had put her whole hand. He did the same, nodded. He could no more make promises to her than he could to Marcus, but as he watched her pull out of the parking lot, the sense of belonging he'd had at the beginning of the night deserted him.

He walked in silence to the Maserati. Marcus leaned against the passenger side, bringing Thomas up short.

"You going to get my door for me?" Thomas raised a brow. "I think you've been hanging around too many women tonight."

"How did you know what she needed?" Marcus' green eyes studied him, sharp and filled with something unreadable.

Thomas shrugged. "Women get weepy. She wanted a hug. I have a sister, Marcus."

"No. Julie was ready with the hugs. You took her away, took her outside." Marcus put his hand on the car latch when Thomas would have reached for it. "It's locked anyway. Tell me."

Thomas sighed, gave him an irritated look. "Type A's don't break. They might shed a few tears at a funeral, but they immerse themselves in the arrangements, changing names on the bills, all that shit. Then something will trigger it. Feeling a man holding them, the way they used to be held, but not... Being held by a man's different than being held by a woman. Right?" He gave Marcus an ironic look. "That's what she needed. That was the trigger."

"Like your mom."

When a muscle flexed in Thomas' jaw, his expression going impassive, Marcus knew he was treading in that area that was always the red zone for them. So he was surprised when Thomas responded.

"Yeah. It happened to her. She was trying to get something down from the second shelf. I'd come into the kitchen and she said, 'Robert, will you get that?' And that was it.

It scared the shit out of Rory and Celeste, but I just picked her up off the floor, sat down with her in my lap and rocked her, let her cry it out. She held onto me tight, buried herself..." His voice wavered slightly, then he cleared his throat, looked away. "It wasn't... she wasn't confused, you know. She knew I was her son."

"Don't be stupid," Marcus said. "I know."

Thomas nodded, a very controlled movement, his gaze holding Marcus' with forced steadiness. "That's how I knew. For Ellen." It made more sense to Marcus then. The meshing of the son with the memory of his father. It had added to the burden and yet deepened the bond, given Thomas the insight and strength to reinforce his stubborn resolve. Marcus might have observed it gave his mother another weapon to hold against her son, her vulnerability more powerful than the sharpest words, but he didn't.

Instead, he made a noncommittal noise, unlocked the door. "You okay?" Marcus asked, when Thomas didn't move.

"Yeah. I was actually thinking I should be asking you that." But Marcus could see the picture that Thomas' words had painted, that was playing behind his eyes now. It had been the pivotal moment. The moment when Thomas hadn't been just the surrogate. He'd become the head of the family. There was nothing, no matter how much he wanted or needed for himself, that would make him abandon that. If he did, Thomas would abandon an essential part of who he was, a part that made him the man Marcus loved so much.

He couldn't make Thomas choose between him and his family any more than he would have a year ago. He'd known it subconsciously, watching him with Ellen.

So that was that.

"I'm fine, pet. C'mon." Marcus cleared his throat. "Let's hit one of those little hole-in-the-wall diners on the drive back and get a late dinner." When he passed his knuckles alongside Thomas' jaw and squeezed the back of his nape, it was almost the gesture of a brother. But as he backed off, Thomas was sure Marcus had been about to do something more. His body had drawn taut, anticipating it.

He knew enough about Marcus' moods to know not to reach after him. He stood there, though, undecided until Marcus got to the other side. He needed to say it to someone. Maybe Marcus would turn away from it, but then again, maybe he was the only one who could understand. Because just maybe it was true, that Marcus did love him the way love was supposed to be. Even though that didn't change anything.

"Marcus?"

"Hmm?"

Thomas met his gaze across the top of the low sports car. "I really miss my dad. He didn't...you know, understand me, but he did... Love me." His throat closed up tight and suddenly there was something huge welling up in him, something he tried to stomp down, but it sprang leaks, made it hard to breathe.

Like one of his attacks, but not. Almost worse.

"Never mind," he managed.

When Marcus came around the car, Thomas shook his head, backed up. He was disoriented enough by what he was trying to control in himself to bump into the door.

He fought it back as Marcus put his arms around him without a word. Thomas gripped him, held onto the broad back, smelled the combination of smells that were Marcus, felt the soft stuff of his shirt he was crumpling, his fingers opening and closing.

"You held out a lot longer than your mother," Marcus said. "Let it out." The words were a quiet push over the edge of a cliff. But Marcus put his hands to the back of Thomas' head, leaning to sandwich him between the grounding points of his body and the car. When Thomas would have pulled back, tried to fight it down, fight it away, thinking that's what he had to do, Marcus held on, telling Thomas he wasn't getting away. Didn't need to.

Because Thomas' mother, Celeste and Rory had needed him, Marcus was sure Thomas had avoided any opportunity to be overwhelmed by the painful emotions, thinking if he kept them at bay long enough, they would simply go away.

Thomas' shoulders heaved as he choked on a sob. It came forth in a sudden, strangled burst, the rough tearing sound of a man's grief, so much more hard-won than a woman's easy tears.

"I was here, pet. I was always here. Even if you told me you needed me just for an hour, for this, I would have been there." Marcus spoke gruffly into his hair, holding him tighter. "Why is it so fucking hard for you to believe I love you?" Thomas didn't reply, but Marcus didn't expect him to do so. He held him, the parking lot, the lights, even the breeze against their bodies just vague impressions as the storm of emotion passed. He wasn't surprised that, like the violence of a summer squall, it didn't long.

As Thomas pulled back, he ducked his head away to swipe at his eyes, embarrassed. Marcus offered him a Starbuck's napkin from the car with a half smile.

"Take it, you stubborn ass," he ordered, caressing his cheek. "Do you want me to hold it to your nose and tell you to blow, like Ellen?"

"Bite me."

Marcus obliged, leaning in, his nose brushing Thomas' cheek, breath barely brushing the hair over his ear. He cupped the opposite side of Thomas' head in his palm and set his teeth to his jugular, staying that way, motionless, letting Thomas feel the restraint of it, the certain possession and reassurance he intended to convey in the one gesture.

At length, he felt Thomas' hand lift, grip his waist. Otherwise, Thomas was just as still, submitting to the hold with a mere quiver running through his muscles, as powerful a reaction in this moment as a climax. Marcus spoke, his voice rough.

"You think I wouldn't want to wipe your nose, your ass or any other part for you when you need it, Thomas? Now, or fifty years from now?" Thomas had closed his eyes, for his lashes brushed Marcus' cheek. "Don't," he said, low. "Just don't."

Marcus stepped back, but he could tell he flustered Thomas when he opened the door and guided him in, hand lingering over his elbow, his hip. "Come on. I want to get you back home and into my bed as soon as possible."

"You promised me food. Real cooking, where they use grease."

""Whine, whine, whine. God, worse than a two-year-old." When he got into his side of the car, he met Thomas' eyes, flashed teeth. Ran a hand along the side of his head, ruffled his hair and was rewarded with a tired but genuine smile. As much as he'd like to take his lover over and over again, he was pleased Thomas was hungry.

For the short time they had, Marcus realized he didn't care where he was or what they were doing, as long as Thomas was part of it. The sands of time would run out whether or not they watched the clock. For now, he'd just enjoy watching Thomas eat a cheeseburger.

* * * * *

They found one of the diners that met Thomas' specifications about halfway back to the cottage. A local hangout just off the highway where people tended to look up when you entered but then went back to their business. They were certainly used to Connecticut tourists on the way to the hills. The waitress told them to pick any table and before long she slid a cheeseburger, fries and tall Coke in front of Thomas. Marcus ordered a Chef's salad and a bottle of import.

"I'll probably pay for this later." Thomas fished the roll of antacids out of his pocket and flicked out two, added them in with his next bite. "Maybe that will help." Marcus suppressed a comment with effort, tried to eye Thomas with light amusement as he wolfed down the cheeseburger. "Keep that up and your ass will get as wide as that cow of yours."

"First I'm too skinny, now I'm getting too fat. Shallow bastard."

"You know it." Marcus grinned, took the beer to his lips. "Seems like fucking your brains out at least once every twelve hours does good things for you. This is the first time since you've been here I've seen you eat with an appetite."

"Jesus, Marcus." Thomas glanced around. "Keep it down." Marcus' lips tightened. "What, you think any one with sense would look at us and not realize we're together? We're in New England, not on the moon." Thomas shook his head. "Not that. Language. There are mothers here. Older people."

When Marcus' gaze shifted, he saw that in addition to a cadre of men their age at the counter there were several groups of senior citizens and one family with a little girl, the latter obviously travelers who'd stopped for pie and a rest break. He turned his regard back to Thomas. "You're a piece of work, you know it? You live in New York City for what, over two years? And absolutely none of it rubs off on you."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Thomas teased. "Besides, that's not true. You did."

Marcus eyed the senior citizens. "Why is it older people deserve respect just because they're old? Pedophiles and sleazy politicians have been known to live to ripe old ages, right along with Mahatma Gandhi."

Thomas glanced at him, sat back. "Want a French fry?"

"What does that mean?"

Thomas crossed his arms on the table, rolled out two more antacids and took them down with a swig of Coke. "Are you ever going to tell me about you? Who you were before you became what you are now?"

"So I make a remark about old people, and automatically it's got to be some chip on my shoulder about my parents?"

"No. Not automatically. But it does connect, doesn't it?" Thomas cocked his head.

"There's like this hellmouth inside of you. Every once in awhile, I knock on the door and get a blast of heat from it, but you won't let me inside."

"If I wanted to be psychoanalyzed every time I made a nasty comment, I'd go straight and find myself a girl."

"Then stop acting like a shrewish bitch and don't curse in front of the old people, who we'll assume deserve manners until they prove otherwise. Society does have to have some basic standards of moral behavior to have a civilized structure." Marcus shut his mouth with a snap. Thomas' eyes danced and Marcus could tell he was waiting to see if he'd act pissed or try to steal his fries. He went for the latter.

Thomas intercepted with a block.

"Am I going to have to separate you boys?" The waitress, an older woman with dangling rhinestone earrings that were a sparkling contrast to her clean jeans and embellished diner shirt, came to pour Thomas some more Coke.

"He started it," Marcus pointed out, making her chuckle.

Even as he watched Thomas banter with the waitress, Marcus knew his lover probably deserved an answer.

I told him I loved him. What the hell more is there?

Proving it. Being willing to be vulnerable. To let go of some control.

Fuck off.

"Marcus?" Thomas had spoken, apparently a couple times. "You okay?" Other than arguing with voices in my head? Just fine. "Fine."

"You know," those dark eyes were studying him intently, "you don't have to be perfect, Marcus. Sometimes it would be a hell of a lot less intimidating for the rest of us if you showed you weren't invincible."

"Get over it."

Thomas wasn't asking questions that Julie or Josh or even Lauren hadn't tried to get at in the past, questions he'd deflected without a passing thought. But when those eyes were on him as they were now, it was like Thomas had the ability to forcibly get him to say things better left buried and unsaid.

Why was it a man who'd grown up in the middle of a nowhere Southern town, who had not an ounce of sophistication, no polish, had the ability to twist his insides like this? Make things raise their heads that Marcus had long ago exorcised with extreme prejudice? It was a surge of toxic waste he had no intention of dumping on anyone, let alone Thomas.

"Marcus." Thomas spoke more sharply this time, concern edging his tone. Marcus snapped out of it, shoving the memories away and slamming the door. Jesus, his hand was shaking under Thomas' grip. "Your phone's ringing." Thank God. He jerked away harder than necessary, fumbling for it.

Thomas had no polish because there was no veneer on Thomas, nothing but a hundred percent who he was. With Thomas, it wasn't that his whole family didn't know who or what the fuck he was. It was that they wouldn't accept it, and he was trying to live up to their expectations. He didn't want to disappoint them because he loved them. And they loved him.

Whereas Marcus had six inches of lacquer he'd worked his ass off to refine until it went bone deep. It was him, through and through, damn it. Just like the alchemists who'd sought to turn non-precious metals to gold, he'd turned veneer and polish into solid oak. That was the end of it.

He glanced at the phone display. Blinked. "Hell, it's Lawrence, probably trying to get another week on the show displays. He thinks if he calls me at night, he'll get my voicemail, the spineless prick."

At Thomas' pointed look, Marcus grimaced. "The spineless very bad man." Thomas' smile should have loosened the tight band around Marcus' chest, but it didn't. Because the call wasn't Lawrence. "I'm going to have to yell. I'll go outside to take this." Marcus said it casually and rose, avoiding Thomas' gaze and moving around the table to stride for the door.

Just fucking ironic, perfect timing.

Thomas watched him go, speculating. He took another swig of his Coke.

Suppressing a sigh, he turned his attention to finishing his dinner rather than why he always hit a brick wall when he tried to push into any part of Marcus where Marcus didn't want him to go. Had he ever surrendered, let someone just walk into a room of his soul, trusting them to treat what they found there gently? What could be there that was so awful?

* * * * *

As Marcus listened to his brother, he stared into the dark mural of silhouettes formed by the scrub trees and underbrush behind the restaurant. There was a pretty retention pond area complete with cattails. It was lit dimly by the bug-encrusted light mounted by the back kitchen entrance. Lily pads moved like ghosts across the water's surface. He'd walked away from the bright front lights where Thomas could still see him. He needed to pace, to feel like he wasn't trapped.

"Yeah, I heard you. A couple months. Does she - " He closed his eyes. "What do you need? Okay, I'll send it. In fact, I'll just set up a separate account. You can pull from it as you need it. You're going to have a lot of unexpected expenses. No. Okay. Bye." He clicked off. Too late, the scuff of a boot on gravel alerted him and he turned.

There were three of them. He'd noticed them in the diner at the counter, knew enough about their kind that he should have kept his guard up, shouldn't have been so stupid as to wander away from the front of the restaurant.

"What's this we got in the dark, all alone? A pretty, pretty girl, all by herself.

Wearing fancy shoes and an expensive watch."

Only one of them believed in chitchat. The other two were moving in. They could have tried to get him to hand over his watch and wallet, but they weren't thieves. That wasn't what had made them get up and come out here, and they all knew it, including him.

"You need to stay in your city and keep your queer ass out of our hangouts. Don't even like to eat near you."

"I suppose it is uncomfortable, being around someone who actually knows how to chew with his mouth closed."

That gave them pause. Marcus could have tried to bolt, call out. Someone in the kitchen probably would have heard. But he didn't. When they charged forward, Marcus snarled and flung himself at them, outnumbered and taken by surprise, but in the perfect mood for a fight.

* * * * *

Thomas pushed aside his plate and looked up in time to see the manager glance at the second waitress, a younger, worried-looking woman. At his meaningful look, she rolled her eyes and made a "boys will be boys" expression toward the three empty spots at the lunch counter. Three men gone, their plates not empty, beers left unfinished.

He met the manager's eyes and knew. Son of a bitch. Thomas exploded up from the table and headed for the door, even as he heard the man call out, "We don't want any trouble. Son, you need to - "

He shoved out the door, so violently it hit the wall. The choice was obvious when he didn't see them out front. Pivoting on his foot, he ran around the corner toward the back and saw two figures on the ground. One was off to the side not moving. The other was being kicked by two men still on their feet.

"Get up on your knees," one of the men snarled. "That's something a cocksucker should know all about. I'm going to piss on your faggoty ass like I did your fancy car, and then I might let you live."

Thomas' fist took him in the kidney. The man stumbled, trying to turn, but Thomas followed it with an uppercut that knocked his head back and took him clean off his feet, slamming him down on his back. Roaring his fury, Thomas yanked him back to his feet and drove him into the restaurant wall, knocking the metal trashcans out of his path.

They crashed into the outdoor light mounted by the kitchen door, breaking the bulb and casing, eliminating all but the cloud-covered moonlight. The other man stumbled after them. Thomas drove his knee hard into his opponent's groin to ensure he'd be out of commission a moment longer and spun. Grabbing up a trash can lid, he met the other man with it, thrusting upward to knock his teeth together onto his tongue, resulting in a spurt of blood. Another punch pushed the man back.

Thomas whirled, ducked under the strike of the man who'd scrambled back to his feet behind him. Grabbing him by the shirtfront, he slung him to the ground, bowling him into the legs of the other man trying to charge forward again. The man stumbled over his fallen comrade, but managed to lunge over him.

Thomas landed a kick in the prone man's midsection to keep him on the ground and hammered at the other one's face with a fast series of jabs, hearing the satisfying break of cartilage from his nose and a cry of pain. He fell back, holding his face.

When the man on the ground grabbed his jeans' cuff, Thomas stomped on his chest, put his foot to his throat.

"Stop it. Stop. Please, stop." It was the young waitress, who'd come at a run. "Stop, that's my brother."

Fists clenched, Thomas glanced over at her. Even in the semidarkness, the fury in his snapping dark eyes apparently warned her to stay back. He kept his attention on his opponents, but they were done. The third man seemed mostly unconscious still, though groaning a bit. Marcus' work.

The other man was on his knees, cupping his gushing nose. The brother she was defending was curled up like a shrimp and staring up at him through a swollen eye.

His lip was bloody, his breath labored from Thomas' pressure on his throat.

"No. It's a piece of shit that calls itself your brother." Removing his foot, Thomas gave the man a disgusted shove with it that rolled him over on his back, his arms flopping out.

The broken shards of brown glass gleaming dully in the fitful moonlight and the jagged-edged bottle lying near them told Thomas why Marcus had likely focused on disarming the unconscious man first. Which in turn had put him at the mercy of the two men fighting with just their fists.

Thomas gave them one last glance and turned his attention to Marcus. He'd made it to one knee, but wavered there, his long fingers tented on the ground on one side to balance him, the other hand holding his ribs, his head down.

"Here, hold on..." Thomas got to him, knelt to take the bracing hand and guide Marcus' arm up over his shoulders, reaching out to touch Marcus' jaw. "C'mon, look at me. Let's see. Oh, holy Christ."

They'd cut him with a bottle. Marcus' beautiful face. His perfect, beautiful face, laid open from the high point of his cheekbone and across his nose to his jaw. The lower half of his face was wet with blood. Bits of gravel were in the gash. His clothes were torn and dirty.

Then Thomas noticed the blood soaking his shirt and waistband. "Jesus." He had his hands there and was pulling it away to see before Marcus could stop him. The bottle jab had cut him just below the hip bone and made it to the pubic area, cutting through the slacks and underwear beneath. Fortunately, it appeared to be a shallow strike.

"He was trying to cut my dick off," Marcus coughed. "Said I didn't need it. Lucky for you I'm quick."

The murderous rage that had settled into an uneasy simmer flared, a fuel for hellfire. Thomas was up and ready to go another round, but Marcus caught his shirtfront, held on. "No," he said, spitting a mouthful of blood. "Enough." He wouldn't accept Thomas' help to rise, making it to his feet on his own, but Thomas could feel the pain vibrating off his stubborn, prideful silhouette.

"Where the hell did you come from, man? You don't fight like no queer." The brother spoke. He was sitting up now, helped to an upright position by his sister who was crouched by him, her mouth tight. The man with the broken nose was staying far back, almost lost in the darkness, but Thomas kept a watchful eye on him.

"North Carolina." As Thomas stepped forward, he was satisfied to see them all shrink back as if he were much closer. "Where I learned exactly how to field dress a deer, so cutting you into chunks and feeding them into the pond back here is sounding pretty good. What the hell is wrong with you? What makes you so fucking special? You could have killed him."

"Pet." Marcus spoke, stiffly lurching up next to him. "Come on. He's not worth it, and I need stitches."

"Should I...can I call an ambulance?" The manager had come out and obviously was wavering between support of his regulars and the possibility of involvement in a lawsuit. He had a flashlight, and swept the ground with it, briefly hitting their faces. He lingered on Marcus' with a gasp and muttered curse before Marcus turned away.

Thomas shifted in front of him, compelling the manager to lower the beam.

"No," Marcus said emphatically before Thomas could respond. "We'll stop somewhere and get them to stitch this up." He started to move forward at a careful hobble.

The waitress' brother was getting up. She, like Thomas, tried to help her sibling and was shaken off.

Marcus stopped when he was even with the man and looked in his direction, six feet between them. It seemed to Thomas he was detachedly studying his battered features. "It's the shy, quiet ones you have to watch," Marcus advised, briefly looking toward Thomas, then back at his opponent. "Was it worth it to you?" The man spat blood on the ground.

"Look at me." Marcus snarled.

The man's gaze shot to him in reaction. In that moment, Marcus lunged forward.

The manager's light flashed up at the waitress' startled scream. Thomas saw in an instant that Marcus had refused help and his movements had been so careful and stiff because he'd been holding the broken bottle close against his side.

He struck the man across the face, splitting open his skin as precisely as a surgeon, and then followed up with the other hand which was holding - Jesus Christ - a brick.

The man's jaw broke with a crunch that Thomas could hear, though it was lost in another shriek from the waitress. She tried to launch herself at him, but the manager had already grabbed her as Thomas hauled Marcus back.

The man was back on the ground, holding his face, moaning.

Marcus managed to land a kick in his ribs before Thomas caught him about the chest, trying not to hurt him further, but Marcus was as oblivious as a pit bull who'd strangle himself if necessary to finish the job.

"Marcus," Thomas hissed. "Come on. We're going. Stop. Please stop." Marcus throttled back his forward motion, but apparently he wasn't done yet. Even when angry or sarcastic, Marcus' voice was velvet and rich. But the voice that came out as dark and deadly as the night itself was almost guttural, someone Thomas didn't know. "The bottle is so we're even, you son of a bitch. The jaw is because I know what you did to me, you would have done to him." He jerked his head, indicating Thomas.

"And that's how a New York street kid fights. Even a queer one." With that, Marcus gave in to Thomas' urging and moved away from the rear of the restaurant, allowing Thomas to keep an arm around his back to support his steps. As Marcus gave him more of his weight after they turned the corner, Thomas hoped he hadn't made a mistake in refusing the manager's offer of an ambulance.

When they got to the car, Thomas saw they'd smeared something on the windshield. It looked like leavings from the garbage. From the smell, one of them had in fact urinated against the tire. Thomas was thankful they hadn't left the windows open or had the headlights smashed out, but he assumed with the car being in the front, that would have attracted too much attention.

Leaning Marcus against the car, he fished his keys out of the torn slacks without asking, his fingers brushing the bloody gash. Thomas felt tears sting his eyes. "Ah, Jesus."

"Forget that. It's the ribs that feel like shit. Goddamn. I haven't had anyone sneak up on me in a fight in twenty years, and I get laid out by some redneck piece of shit in the middle of nowhere." Marcus' arm wrapped around his midsection. "Can't draw a breath without it hurting."

"We're getting you to a hospital."

"No, you're taking me back to the house. I'll be fine."

"Horseshit." Thomas shook his head. "There was a hospital about five miles from here. We passed it on the way down and you know it. We're going."

"No, we're not. I don't want to go there. They have a terrible reputation. They kill people who come in with nosebleeds."

"You're lying."

There was a stubborn set to Marcus' face, but Thomas didn't give a rat's ass. He stepped forward, bumped Marcus' toes.

"You're going. And you're not in a position to say no." At the flash of fire in Marcus' eyes, Thomas changed tack. "You could have broken bones, a punctured organ. If not for you, do it for me."

Marcus blew out a breath, winced as if even that caused him pain. Thomas suspected it did. "That was a low shot."

"Whatever it takes," Thomas responded.

Marcus nodded, a resigned look coming to his eyes, shadows of things that Thomas didn't understand. "Fine. Let's go."

Thomas helped him in the car, seeking something to change the suddenly tense atmosphere. "New York street kid? Was that the truth?" Marcus grunted. "Pretty, wasn't it? Just drive, Thomas. You do know how to drive something other than farm equipment and junk cars? It works about the same way."

"The Maserati is like a small combine," Thomas retorted, but before he closed Marcus' door, he fished out some wet towelettes from the glove compartment. He pressed one to Marcus' jaw, his own flexing. "I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner."

"There are no sorrys to be said on this one, pet. They're the only sorry ones. The world sucks sometimes. But a lot of times it doesn't." Marcus managed a grin that looked gruesome and feral with the blood on his teeth. "Jesus, you kicked their asses sideways. I'm so impressed I'd be hard as a rock if I didn't feel like shit. Let's get the hell out of here."