01 The One I Want - 13. Goodbye

Ben and Rick lay sprawled on the sofa-bed watching a movie. Or, that was to say Rick listened to the movie while he read. Ben lay between his legs, head pillowed on his thigh and hip, arms around his left leg. An old, thin blanket gave a semblance of comfort without being too warm. Rick's little tuxedo cat purred against Rick's neck where he lay sprawled along the back of the sofa.

Lowering his book a moment, Rick gently and carefully, stroked fingertips over Ben's cheek. He tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear and smiled as Ben sighed softly in his sleep.

A phone started ringing from somewhere downstairs, and Rick just let it ring, but it kept ringing. He waited, counting the rings, waited for the call to go to voicemail, for the message to give the caller Rick's number, and he reached for his cell, but there was only a slight pause before Ben's phone went off again.

"Stubborn SOB," he muttered, glancing down at Ben. A slight frown marred those peaceful features a he started to stir. The house phone, located downstairs in the kitchen, started ringing a third time.

Rick stroked his fingers through Ben's hair, murmuring, "Shh, just sleep. Shh." He silently willed the obnoxious caller to suffer finger cramps.

"Nnn, whasit?" grumbled a sleepy Ben, hugging Rick's leg tighter for a second before struggling to sit up.

"Nothing. Go back to sleep." Nevertheless, Rick got his hands under Ben's arms, bracing him upright.

Ben rubbed his eyes. He unconsciously leaned into the hand Rick used to cup his face, lips brushing Rick's palm for a second before he drew away.

Rick sighed. "At least let me get it." Ben's hair stuck out in all directions, making him smile fondly.

Ben grunted, but made no objections, merely snuggling in to Rick's vacated spot on the sofa, eyes drooping closed as he pulled the blanket back up around his shoulders.

Ruffling Ben's hair again in passing, Rick clumped his way downstairs, muffling a half-hearted yawn. Who could be calling so late at night? Ben's family knew to call Rick first and while he didn't like screening Ben's calls, at least this way he could keep him from completing cutting himself off.

After answering the phone, Rick reluctantly carried the cordless back upstairs, giving Ben's shoulder a shake.

"Ben? It's for you, says it's important?"

"Yeah?" grumbled Ben, fumbling one-handedly for the phone.

"Ben?" Was that Lance's voice?

Slightly more awake, Ben replied, "Yeah. Lance? What's up?"

"Are you alone?"

Ben frowned, but looked up and around. Rick must have gone back downstairs. Damn man was probably cleaning again. He shook his head and rolled his eyes.

"Um, yeah." Ben grabbed for the remote and muted the TV.

"You're being sued, Ben."

"Yeah?" He yawned. "So, what else is new? We're always getting sued. Got to blame some --"

"No, Ben," Lance cut him off. His voice sounded strange somehow, tense, almost angry. "Not the agency. You. You're the one being sued this time."

"What? That's ridiculous. It's not like I have a magic wand. Or witch spells and love potions."

"I'm serious, Ben!"

Damn. Lance sounded really upset. Ben and Lance had first met as opponents when the agency was still fairly new. During mediation, Ben convinced Lance's client to drop the suit, and Lance had been so impressed that he'd hired himself on to re-write the agency's customer-client and non-disclosure agreements. He wrapped them in so much corporate red-tape that it was another three years before anyone else was successfully able to take them to court. Lance was now married to that lawyer, a fact Ben rarely passed up an occasion to rib him about. Generally speaking, Lance didn't bother him with petty complaints.

"I'm not laughing." Not any more. "What's going on?"

"Do you know a Beatrice Wengstrom?"

"Yeah, sure, that's Rick's mom. Met her the other day. Real piece of work." He rolled his eyes, but his grip on the phone tightened at Lance's muffled curse. "Lance?"

"Damn," muttered the lawyer. "I was really hoping it was all some strange coincidence." He took a deep breath, practically feeling Ben's sudden unease seething through the phone. "Can you come see me? Alone?"

"Right now?" He frowned a little. Normally, Lance came down to the agency, bearing gifts like subpoenas and orders for confidential records.

"I don't want to talk about this over the phone, but, no, it's late."

"Thank God."

"First thing tomorrow?"

He groaned. "Ugh, do you know what the traffic's like during morning rush-hour?"

"This is really important, Ben."

"It better be," he acknowledged with a grunt. He was being unfair, and he knew it, but although he liked Lance's office, getting there was a pain in the ass.

"Thanks, Ben."

"Yeah, whatever."

He hung up and a few minutes later could hear the dishwasher click on. Not long after, Rick's head popped into view on the stairs. "Secret conference over yet?"

"I need to go downtown in the morning," Ben replied with a nod.

Rick leaned his forearms on the railing and tried to read Ben's expression. "Want me to take you?"

"Just to the metro station, if you want." That got a frown and Ben frowned back.

"I'll drive you."

"There's nothing wrong with taking the train."

"Let me drive you."

"No."

"Ben ...."

"Rick."

He scowled. "I don't want you going up there by yourself."

"I don't give a rat's ass what you want."

Rick bit back a quick retort. "Fair enough," he conceded, mildly amused when he saw frustration color Ben's face. He should have known that Ben was trying to pick another fight. "I just worry about you, you know that."

"There's nothing to worry about," Ben harrumphed, curling into the corner of the sofa.

That he felt safe enough to put his back to Rick made him feel somewhat better. He went over and perched on the sofa's arm. Looking down, he gently ruffled straggly blonde hair. "Love you."

Ben grunted, but inside something relaxed, something he refused to look at too closely. Then the volume clicked back on again and Rick shifted to sit beside him, mindlessly petting Ben's hair.

Good. That would at least keep him busy for a little while, and Ben could fret in peace. How did Lance know Rick's mother? What did she want? Did this have anything to do with the suit? How could that be? He didn't know anyone in North Carolina! Never even been there.

He'd gone to Virginia, and Florida, and Boston. Hit up a few other major cities, like Salt Lake and Dallas and Atlanta, but didn't Rick say he was from a little town outside Raleigh? Only, he pronounced it like 'Raul' (Saul with an R), and not 'Ral' which rhymed with Sal.

Come to think of it, Rick didn't have much of a Southern accent at all, the slight, rolling drawl coming to his voice with only certain words or when he was really tired. He could almost get up enough irritation to feel vaguely cheated of something, wondering if he might be able to convince Rick to actually use his accent sometime.

What would it have been like? The few times Rick had spoken about his home brought to mind visions of cornfields (since he had no real point of reference for the cotton Rick said his family still farmed) and dusty, narrow streets, and picket fences. And cows. Did they have cows? Certainly pick-up trucks. Ben could so picture Rick in a battered old truck, cruising the pot-holed roads and wearing flannel. Heehee, yeah. Lumberjack flannel and blue jeans. Cowboy boots, too, and scruffy with a two-day-old shave. They could sneak away into the hay barn and have a good 'ol time, see if there was any room under those tight jeans for underwear ....

"Ben?"

He started from his daydream, hand quickly wiping the corner of his mouth, checking for drool. A light color stained his cheeks and Ben scowled. "What?"

"Movie's over. Let's get you to bed."

"I'm not --" He yawned.

Rick grinned.

"Oh, fuck you."

Chuckling, Rick rose and stretched, turning off the electronics. He pretended not to watch as Ben gingerly got up, dumped the blanket half-over the back of the sofa and shuffled for the stairs, yawning and scrubbing at his eyes, wincing as he rubbed too hard at the newest bruise.

Rick folded the discarded blanket and shoved the bed back into the couch, re-arranging the cushions before grabbing the last odds and ends to carry downstairs. He hung the phone in its cradle, poured a glass of water and fetched Ben's nightly meds, and flipped off the lights on his way to the bedroom.

Tyler was waiting attentively, sitting on the edge of the bed and meowing.

"Mooch," Rick said affectionately, patting the top of the cat's head as he went by. He sat on the edge of the bed by Ben's hip and handed him the water glass.

Ben made a face, but he slugged back the pills without comment and Rick felt more confident about choosing to include the sleeping pill. Evidently, Rick was not the only one worried about possible nightmares.

"Would you --" he started to say, just as Ben said, "Rick ...?" They both stopped and stared at each other a moment.

Rick reached out; Ben flinched.

"Sorry," they both said.

Rick took the glass and set it on the bedside table, pushing back the echo he felt for Ben's pain. He knew better, but it was still hard to let go of the responsibility. Ben's reactions had little to do with him, even though it didn't feel that way. Watching alertly all the while, he slipped his hand between Ben's fist and the sheet, and then raised it to kiss Ben's knuckles.

"I'll be right here 'til you fall asleep," he promised.

Ben snatched his hand back with a scowl and rolled over onto his side. "See if I care," he muttered while pulling a pillow over his head.

Smiling fondly, Rick got up to turn off the overhead light. Then he climbed onto the bed at Ben's side, using some pillows to make himself comfortable propped against the headboard. He nodded off within minutes, waking sometime after midnight spooned tightly around the man he loved. Ben was a comfortable weight in his arms. Closing his eyes, Rick relaxed, letting himself drift back to sleep.

They didn't sleep as long as Rick thought they should; despite everything, Rick woke early, cuddling a wide awake and trembling Ben long before the sun rose. When the panic ebbed, Ben lashed out verbally, shoving himself out of bed with a force that jarred his whole side and made him cuss even louder.

Nothing else seemed to go right, either. Ben scorched the pancakes he cooked, couldn't keep his breakfast down, and then slipped in the shower. Fearing the worst, Rick had barged in, instigating a full-blown panic attack.

But Ben would hear nothing of staying home. To Rick's way of thinking, Ben was psyching himself out, nervous about whatever he was doing downtown, but too bloody stubborn to admit it.

"Ben," he said slowly, sitting on the bed to keep from crowding Ben against the closet.

His frown was less than menacing, hands shaking as he pulled slacks off a hanger and dressed. "I'm okay."

"No, you're not!" blurted Rick, thumping a fist on his thigh.

"Fuck you!" snarled Ben, cussing again as his zipper caught. "I don't need you worrying about me! I'm fine!"

"You are not 'fine'!" snapped Rick, too riled up to stay seated. He got to his feet, crossing his arms over his chest for a second before stabbing an accusing finger in Ben's direction. "Admit it! You're a mess! You're hurt and angry and, you know what? That's okay!"

"It's not!" Ben screamed, spinning back around to face him. "It's not fucking 'okay!' Don't you get it? The world's fucking screwed up, and me right along with it!" His face turned up as he scowled upwards at the ceiling. "If you're gonna fucking kill me, just do it, and quit messing it up! Fuck!"

Rick's face paled and he stepped forward. "Ben!"

The too-slim shoulder jerked away from the gesture, sending Ben half into the closet. "Get away from me!" he shouted, ducking as his hands came up, as if to protect his head and face from being hit. Rick's stomach turned over.

Much as it killed him to, Rick retreated, hands out in a hopefully non-threatening gesture. He watched as Ben grabbed for something else in the closet, a shirt perhaps, missed, and went down hard. Rick was at his side even before Ben could draw in a breath to curse.

"Oh, Ben," he sighed as the older man curled protectively around his middle, gasping out sobs, his head in Rick's lap. "Why must you always argue everything I say?"

"You're ... not the ... boss ... of me!" Ben forced out, breath hot and hard against Rick's thigh.

Rick rubbed Ben's back soothingly and shook his head in exasperation. "Of course not, but be reasonable --"

"Fuck you!" Ben hissed back around painful-sounding wheezes. "'M not a prisoner."

"I'm just trying to help!" Rick snapped, and then groaned, rubbing his suddenly pounding head.

Ben flung himself away, lurching unsteadily to his feet. "Don't need your help!" he retorted. He brought down a handful of others as he snatched the shirt he wanted off the hangar.

Rick shielded his head and when he looked up, Rick was halfway to the bathroom. Upon finding no door to slam, he swore and kicked the wall. Rick bit his tongue, getting up to rehang the garments in the closet.

The drive to the metro station on the corner of Nash and Mariposa was tense and strained, and mercifully short. Ben hopped out too quickly, slamming the car door behind him.

Only once he reached the ticket machine did Ben allow himself to look back, relieved to see that traffic had not allowed Rick to stick around.

There weren't too many people at the light rail station and Ben was able to get a seat in a corner away from everyone else. He knew it wouldn't last, nervously tapping his foot as more and more people got on, and cursing the weakness in his body that made riding his motorcycle impossible.

Switching to the blue line northbound into downtown had Ben wishing for one of his anti-anxiety pills. The morning commuters were aggressive when it came to getting on the train, leaving Ben drenched in sweat and wanting to scream. The crowds got even worse the closer they got to downtown. Ben hugged a spot next to the conductor's door, letting a man with a bicycle block him off from the rest of the passengers. He sweated and shivered and kept his eyes focused on the scenery, delightful as it wasn't, passing by the window as they continued on into the heart of downtown Los Angeles.

After visiting other big cities, Ben was always slightly disappointed in L.A. There weren't all that many tall buildings, just the old library and a few, newer skyscrapers, and the Staples Center, but nothing like what real cities had. The convention center wasn't even downtown. Pretty much all there was, was Dodger's stadium, and the intersections of about a half-dozen different freeways. Chaos by car, a nightmare at any time other than a brief period between two and four a.m. on holiday mornings.

The Los Angeles always pictured in the movies was less a tiny section of Hollywood and more a sprawling, low-lying metropolis that encompassed all of Los Angeles County, and not just the few zip codes that were actually in the city itself.

Lance Mathews worked as an attorney in his father's firm, in one of those skyscrapers. Dark, real-wood desks and shelves, comfy, leather chairs, and original artwork filled the entire building, or as much of it as Ben had seen. They replaced the carpets and secretaries regularly, and there was yet another fresh face at the security desk as Ben thankfully ducked in off the street.

Lance was in his main conference room, papers spilled from one end of the table to the other, a forgotten tray of coffee and pastries in the center. The lawyer himself stood in front of the windows, looking down ten stories on the city below. When he turned to give Ben a weary smile, it was clear that he'd pulled one of his famous all-nighters.

"You work too hard," Ben greeted him, clapping his arm warmly.

"You should talk," said Lance with a snort. "Eve and the kids say hi. Sorry we missed your party."

Ben shrugged. "S'okay. Skipped out early anyway."

The genuine pleasure at seeing Ben faltered. Lance gestured to the table. "Please, have a seat."

Ben accepted the coffee he had no intention of drinking, knowing that Lance occupied his hands to give himself time to order things in his mind. The lawyer pulled a piece of paper out of a carefully-arranged stack and slid it over to Ben.

Ben stared at the paper, his brain taking an extraordinarily long amount of time to arrange the lines and paragraphs into any logical sense. He had to take deep breaths to still the panic beating at his breast. He'd feared, when Lance had called, feared God only knew what, but that it had something to do with Rick's mother, not the man himself. Oh God!

Oh God, I'm going to hurl! Ben forced himself to release the formal letter, closing his eyes momentarily before looking back up at Lance.

The lawyer tapped his pen on the edge of the table. "Ben, are you sure, absolutely positive that Rick never mentioned any of this to you?"

Ben nodded. "Lance," he said slowly, begging him to say that this wasn't as awful as he feared. "Tell me what's going on." Oh, please, God! Please ...!

"Well, what's going on is this: your boyfriend is suing the court for an injunction against you and compensation from the company for his harassment."

Ben's mouth tightened into a near-invisible line. His hands clenched around the armrests, making the leather squeak. "No," he whispered then, just that word, and Lance's heart broke for his friend.

All the blood leached from Ben's face and he stared, transfixed, at the fancy letterhead, mouth parting in silent pants. Then he flushed beet-red, leaping from his seat to stride across the room. "Fuck, no!" he declared, pounding a fist on the window and spinning around. "First of all, he's not my boyfriend, and, secondly, he's the one that won't leave me alone!" He scuffed fingers through his hair, shaking his head in disbelief. "No way. No fucking way!"

His eyes met Lance's, pleading with him.

Lance winced. "It's either him or they have a fucking good private detective," he said. "And you know those guys cost money."

"Yeah, no, wait. Rick doesn't have that kind of money."

"Actually, he does. But, it doesn't matter," Lance replied. "Not if the P.I. agrees to wait until after litigation to get his payment. They'll ruin Two Pair if they win this."

"Will they?"

Lance frowned. "I don't know the lawyer, but he's good, all this only proves it." He gestured at the table. "Certainly's got the company scared shitless."

"You don't know him?" asked Ben. "I thought you knew everybody out here."

"He's some East Coast guy, no doubt --"

"Wait," Ben interrupted, holding up his hand. Hope flared up in him. That was it, this just had to be some horrible mistake! He came back across the room. "Did you say East Coast?"

"Yes, why?"

"Rick's mom's from there."

"Yeah, she's listed as his permanent home of record. It's why I called. The names just --"

"Has Rick actually signed anything?"

"Uh," Lance paused. "Come to think of it, no, I don't believe so. That's odd." He rose to start shuffling through his paperwork. "His name's on everything."

"Fuck! I don't believe this!" Grabbing hold, Ben yanked viciously at his hair. He paced down the length of the room.

"Look, Ben," said Lance, leaning on the table. "Shay wants us to settle, out of court."

"What? No way!"

Lance shook his head. "It's the company that'll have to pay. Their insurance can handle the hit, if I do this right, but it'll mean we have no legal recourse to fight the injunction."

"What will that mean?" asked Ben, wiping sweaty palms on his jeans.

"It'll be hard as hell not to appear guilty, to all the shit they're claiming as reasons for the injunction. It'll get signed, I'm positive, it's just that -- Ben?"

An ice-cube the size of Alaska had settled in Ben's chest. He shook his head. "No," he just barely breathed. "Oh, God. This isn't happening." I haven't been duped twice. No! But his brain continued with, No wonder he was always trying to get me alone, pushing this 'relationship' so hard, and I .... He'd come to depend upon him, for so much, for his sanity, his friendship, even the fact that he'd seemed -- he'd said he loved him.

"I'm afraid it is." The lawyer in Lance threw no punches, sticking firmly to the bottom line. "Ben, is any of the stuff they're saying true?"

"Huh?" He dragged his eyes from nowhere to focus on the lawyer, tense and unhappy a few chairs away.

There was more personal history laid out over that table than Lance had ever gotten out of his normally taciturn friend in almost ten years' worth of friendship. The restraining injunction claimed that Ben had knowingly gone out and seduced Rick, with the intent of causing harm. The list of previous boyfriends was as long as Lance's leg. Each relationship was summarized in a five-page document, and they made Ben out to be some kind of sexual predator. If Lance wasn't really, really careful, he would be talking his client into an arrest and criminal record. Certainly with that psycho bitch Robin's testimony from that previous case, this wasn't looking good. Two Pair wanted to wash their hands of Ben completely, they were that scared. If word of this got out, they'd be beyond ruined.

"How do we fight this?" asked Ben, his voice small. "We are going to fight this, right?"

"I assumed you'd want to," said Lance with a sigh. He leaned forward to peer into Ben's wide, blue eyes. "But this is going to be very difficult, and that's just the legal mumbo-jumbo. Each and every thing here has to be gone over again by my office, each witness re-interviewed, every scrap of alleged evidence re-evaluated. This could get drawn out in court for months."

Ben was having a difficult time catching his breath. "But what do we do?"

"First of all, you're officially on vacation." That was by order of Shay Ballantine, President and founder of Two Pair. Ben was on leave until this mess was settled, one way or another.

"What?"

"You're currently on medical leave for another month, and you've got almost three months' worth of vacation saved up, so that's four months' worth right there. You can get an additional six months unpaid leave --"

"Unpaid? I --"

Lance set his palms down on the table, deciding to be frank. "You need to start thinking about what you'll do if you can't work for Two Pair anymore."

Ben's already pale face turned a deathly shade of white. "You don't think we'll win this, do you?" He barely got the words out. The agency was his life! What was he to do?

"Headquarters doesn't want to fight it. They just want this all to go quietly away."

"Me, too." Oh, God, me, too!

Lance nodded. He'd been up most of the night formulating a battle plan, now he just had to get Ben to cooperate. "Well, no amount of wishing is going to do that, we're on our own for this, me and you. Ben, I need you to be absolutely honest with me. There's things," he gestured at the table, "things that, I --" He suddenly found his rehearsed words faltering. He'd thought he knew Ben well, but there were things written there that made him doubt, and doubt in court was damning.

"Wh-what are they saying? Lance!" Ben snapped, as the other man looked away. "What are they say-ing?"

"They're saying you intended for all this to happen. There's even doubts being cast over your, ah, over the attack. That -- shit!" He rubbed his forehead. "It's not actually said, but --"

"They're saying I planned this," Ben stated. That damn ice-cube was sinking down into his guts, and he was almost afraid to know, but he had to ask. "Why?"

"Why does anyone go after a rich man?"

"Rick's not rich," Ben protested, shaking his head dumbly. "He wouldn't live in that crappy apartment if he was."

"His family owns one of those big farming conglomerates. The Wengstrom family is actually worth several million dollars."

"Then why would he need to sue for money? This doesn't make any sense! What kind of motive is that?"

"It doesn't matter, Ben." Money in court was just another screw to tighten, a way of proving they meant business, that they were serious. Money meant nothing.

"I've got money!" Ben continued, voice cracking like the teenager he sometimes resembled. "I've worked hard for it! What the fuck do I need somebody else's for?"

"You know better than anybody else I know, Ben, that it's not what actually is that matters, it's how things appear to be."

"Well, I'm not going to just lay back and let them take my life from me!" cried Ben, slamming his hand on the table. He'd put everything he was into building his business, it was all he had, all he'd ever wanted. "Tell me how to fight this, Lance! I can't let them drag my name through the mud and get away with it!" Not again, not ever again! "What's it going to take? You tell me, and I'll do it."

This was the Ben Lance was familiar with, full of vigor and righteous fury. Lance's spirits rallied, but he still felt his way forward cautiously. "Even if it means facing Robin again?"

"That skank," spat Ben, lifting his chin. "That case was thrown out, it'll be worthless. Yes. I'll fucking tell that bitch to her face that she's a fucking liar. And if Mark shows up, I'll tell him, too."

"What about Will?"

"Will?"

"Yes, Will. We need to find him. You need to file charges against him."

"No."

"Ben."

"No!"

"Ben, I was your lawyer even before I was your friend, and I'm not saying this as a friend now. Your history with Will can break this case, end it before it goes to court. If we can prove, if he confesses to attacking you, to -- well, at least that, then no judge in his right mind would grant this injunction. Your relationship with Will stands out. It's the longest, by over a year, and the only one in which you broke up with him and not the other way around. You've also not been with anybody else since, except for Rick. If we can prove that you haven't had any contact with him since you broke up, then there's no basis for the pre-meditated scheme they're basing this whole case on! Now, you going to work with me on this, or not?"

They stared at each other across the conference table, equally red-faced and stubborn. They made a good team, and Ben trusted Lance's skills in the courtroom. When Robin had accused him of assault, Lance had unerringly steered them on a course that had indubitably exposed the woman's duplicity.

Slowly, Ben dropped his gaze, staring at his partial reflection on the polished table. "Okay," he said quietly. He looked back up. "Okay. What else?"

"You have to stop seeing Rick. Get him out of your life."

A myriad of thoughts swept through Ben's thoughts and across his face.

Lance held up a hand to stop the immediate protest, his own stomach clenching at the sucker-punched expression staring back at him. Much as Lance had believed, like everyone else, that Rick was just the steadying presence that Ben needed, as much as he hurt for and was angry on behalf of his friend, the paperwork spoke all too clearly to the lawyer. He believed they'd all been played for fools, and he wanted the man to pay.

"Make no mistake about it, Ben. You are going to be grilled on every aspect of your relationships, past and present. They've already dug up a shitload of dirt on you. They are trying to ruin your credibility. It's not just an attack on your character, but your ethics, too. Your morals, Ben. Do you understand?"

Ben set his hands against the table's edge and leaning there heavily, staring down. When Robin had accosted him, Ben had been able to fight his way clear before his character had been pulled through the cheese grater of mud-slinging. Somehow, he didn't think it would be that easy this this time, and his whole body trembled. As a fifteen-year-old boy, he'd been called every name under the sun, accused of 'using his wiles' on unsuspecting, God-fearing young boys; he'd fought then, too, and lost.

But he hadn't had Lance back then. He'd been young and scared and ... and he was older now. Still scared, but wiser at least. He pressed his lips together, looked up and met Lance's eyes. He nodded.

"Good," said Lance with a sigh of relief. He knew that the shock of first hearing all this would be as nothing once they really got started. Ben was going to have to come completely clean, never an easy thing for him when his personal credo made him everyone's favorite confidante. "Because they've already filed for a temporary restraining order. They get that and it's fifteen days with no contact -- at all, or even more shit starts flying. Now, sit down, and let's start going through all this stuff. You tell me your side of the story and I'll make notes, and then I can work on our strategy." And hope we get a good judge. In an injunction hearing, there was no jury, and no room for appeal, it all came down to the decision of one judge, one person, and more things would be taken into account than in a standard court case.

He fished a business card out of the holder in his pocket.

"Here, Ben."

He stared at the card a moment, squinting. His head was reeling too much and he still thought he might get sick. "A psychiatrist?"

"Yes. I've set up an appointment for you on Monday. Nine o'clock. Don't argue with me. We'll need her testimony to support our case. You'll go, right?"

"Lance, I --" Monday's was Rick's defense. He'd get awarded his doctorate or not depending on that meeting.

"No mumbo-jumbo shit, Ben," he warned, frowning. "Be honest with her, she can help us." And Jean would be just the person to keep Ben's head on straight through this ordeal.

Ben grimaced, but nodded. He'd actually been looking forward to going to USC with Rick and meeting all the other stuffy, professor-types. Now he was just numb inside, a numbness he actually appreciated, because it blocked the pain of betrayal.

"All right, then, let's get to work."

The case was going to be a complicated one, with all sorts of aspersions being cast on Ben's character, and on his mental status. The whole thing made Lance feel ill. He'd been involved in some nasty divorce cases, and some political and corporate slander, but this was something else. This was a friend.

He picked up the first summary off the stack and set his steno pad beside him. Grabbing his pen, he wrote down the date, time, and subject. "Okay, Ben, tell me about Will ...."

They worked the day through, Lance drinking through two whole pots of nasty, black coffee. Ben's ears were still ringing with legal jargon when he stepped off the bus onto Main Street, two blocks from his housing complex. He stood there a moment in the early twilight before turning to make his way tiredly home. The closer he got, the slower he walked.

The lights were all on; Rick was definitely there. Gritting his teeth and willing his hand not to shake, Ben grasped the handle and went inside.

Rick jumped to his feet as soon as he heard the door. Not one to admit he'd been scared to death that something had happened, he'd been fretting, worrying, most of the afternoon. Rick hadn't wanted to go home, because that would let the gulf opened between them that morning widen again, and he couldn't bear that. So he'd sat and tried to read, using the radio to distract himself, but every sense straining for that light step on the walk, the jangle of keys, and he'd missed everything but the thud of the door.

He didn't rush to pull Ben immediately into his arms. Ben looked exhausted enough he might let him, but there was something brittle around the edges, that warned Rick off and set his panic alarms ringing. Even Tyler sensed something amiss, scratching at Rick's leg and meowing.

"Give me my key."

Ben had his hand out, and at first Rick didn't know what he meant, but he fished out his key ring eventually. He chewed the inside of his lip nervously.

"I need the gate control, too," said Ben, closing his hand over the extra door key he'd given to Genny when he'd first moved in.

"It's at home," said Rick hesitantly. "In Candy."

Candy? Oh, right, the bug. Ben started to shake his head, then stopped. He already had a splitting headache. "Fine," he said instead. "Mail it to me, then. You have to leave."

"Leave? I don't understand." Ben was too cold, too distant for this to be a joke. He wanted to beg Ben to explain, to not mean what Rick thought he meant, but those blue eyes stayed riveted on a spot just over Rick's left shoulder.

"Yes, leave. What's to understand? There's the door." He pointed. "Get out."

"Ben!"

Rage burned away distance and Rick flinched away from the hot, angry stare that turned on him, that froze the breath in his lungs and made his knees want to knock together. This wasn't the hopeless, directionless anger of the day before. This one had purpose and, if looks could kill, Rick rather thought his head had just exploded.

"No." His plea was unknowingly reminiscent of Ben's earlier words.

He flinched, closing his eyes briefly, and then channeled the anger again. He had to do this.

"Get. Out!" he spat, inwardly crying, 'How could you do this to me?'

Ben's voice ripped like high tension cable and Rick jumped. He was halfway to the door before his mind caught up. He stopped, ashamed to be caught crawling away like a dog with its tail between its legs.

Distracted, he picked up Tyler, hugging the little cat to his chest. "Wait, Ben, please, tell me what's wrong. What happened today? Did I do something? Are you angry with me?"

Angry? No! Betrayed? Confused? Hurt? Hell, yes! And perhaps a little frightened, too. What was he going to do without Rick? He was a steady voice of reason and the only comfort he had. What was he going to do? How could he do this?

"How could you?" Ben asked quietly first, turning around. He faced Rick squarely. "How could you?" he demanded. "I trusted you! I believed in you! And all, all this ...!" Words, words on paper, he'd read them, most of them, the suppressed emotions making his head hurt, all the day long. Even now, with all the thoughts, what he'd said and hadn't said to Lance's astute questioning swirled about behind his eyes, closing his throat to all but strangled pants for breath, Ben couldn't put two thoughts together into any sense of order. All he could do was stand there, shaking, fists at his sides, piercing glare on Rick.

"Get out. Get the fuck out of my house!"

There were no tears to crack that steel visage. Rick could see them, but Ben shunted them away, looping the tears back into a new cycle of passive self-loathing that made Rick want to weep in his stead. He tried one last time.

"Ben ...."

Ice. Rick could almost see the words forming icicles in the air, as the temperature seemed to plummet ten degrees.

"Get out." The words were quiet, too quiet, nail-biting, acid-spitting, heart-rending for the rage funneled into gentle, icy-cold, hard words. "I never want to see you again. Never."

Rick spun around, on the doorstep, but he was too late. The door closed in his face with a final sound. He knocked and shouted and banged harder, but there was no reply except for the night guard quietly walking up beside him and asking him to leave.

"I'm sorry, sir," said the attendant, closing the gate behind them. "I must ask you to not come back again, or I shall be forced to call the police." He wanted to ask, but he didn't dare.

Nodding numbly, Rick turned and began to make his way home. He sat on the couch and didn't move for what felt like days but was really only a few minutes. Then he grabbed his cell. Shelly didn't pick up, nor Hunter, so with sweaty palms, Rick dialed Doug's cell phone.

"You have a fucking lot of nerve, calling here," growled Doug.

"Doug, I --" He wasn't interested in a pissing contest, damn it! Just some answers!

"Don't you ever fucking call me again, do you understand me? So fucking help me, God, I'll kill you I ever see you near any of my family again."

The phone hung up with a click, but Rick winced as if the virtual receiver had just slammed into an old-fashioned cradle. What had happened? What in God's name had happened?

He had one last person to try.

Genny answered on the second ring. "I can't talk to you, Rick, I'm sorry."

"W-wait, Genny!" cried Rick. "Please," he begged. "I don't understand. What's going on? Tell me, please!"

"I ... I can't. Goodbye, Rick."

Dropping the cell, Rick curled up with his face in his hands. "No, oh, God, no, please, no. No!" Lashing out, foot connected with table, sending books, papers, and laptop flying. Cats leaped for cover.

Then the phone rang.

"Hello?" He was eager, too eager, he hadn't checked the caller ID first.

"Rick, baby! So glad I ...."

Hauling the cell back in front of his face, Rick stared at the little display screen, listening to the electronic sound of his mother's voice, but not really hearing what she was saying. As his grandfather had been fond of saying, Rick could almost feel the cogs in his brain start to turn, and he wasn't liking what they were churning out. The phone could just as well have been a viper in his hand.

Lance Mathews. The man Rick had spoken to so briefly the night before had sounded polished, poised, businesslike. Rick knew that type. Didn't he have a half-dozen relatives that were lawyers?

A lawyer, had to be ... And now his mother was calling.

Surely not ...!

"Rick? Rick, are you there?"

Heart thudding in his chest, Rick put the phone back to his ear. "Yes, Mom, I'm listening."