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"Uncle, I am so excited. I can't wait to get there." The adolescent voice was measured and calm, but the undercurrent of anticipation was clear. The voice that answered across the small waiting room was less annoyed than the words it grumbled.

"Yeah. Excited. Tracking through the jungle, knee deep in mud and muck and bugs..."

The sound of a slap interrupted the gloomy recitation. Everyone gathered turned their heads to variously gawk and grin at the only person not speaking. Their professor spread his hands in the air in front of his chest, then crossed his arms and glared at his companion, who stood several feet away from him.

"Not helping, man." The words came slowly, the voice achingly harsh. But no one flinched or looked away.

"Yeah." Misha let himself smirk. "Can't you keep a positive attitude?" He gave his mentor an affectionate grin as he teased Andrew.

Though it had been his idea, this expedition made him nervous. He had wondered if Roderaff and was up to it. And Andrew, the guy had to be almost sixty.

Now he was less anxious. Planning the trip had brought the professor out of his shell a bit more. He was more open now than Misha had ever seen him, and he'd known the man for almost twelve years. He'd heard him lecture once, and then moved heaven and earth to get into his graduate program when Roderaff finally settled into teaching full time.

This was the first time Misha had seen him speak in the presence of people he didn't know well, the graduate students coming on the expedition.

Misha's graduate students, as it happened.

"He's always been a grump." Nita Ellers patted Andrew on the back. She was almost as tall as he, and the family resemblance was plain. "Mom always said you have to give him a beer and a basketball game to make him happy."

Andrew sputtered and shot her a glare. Then he moved over behind the professor and wrapped his arms around the smaller man's shoulders, resting his chin on the flowing white hair.

They made a pretty picture. Misha thought that though the years had clearly taken their toll on the bodyguard, Roderaff still looked decades younger than Misha knew him to be. His white hair, ridiculously long now, looked more natural than it had when they first met. When he'd first seen him, he'd looked far too young to have hair like that.

Then the hair had been past the professor's waist; he'd avoided any physical contact with others completely, and made very little social contact either. It had been extreme, and sad.

Misha liked things much better the way they were now. Roderaff was still disabled; anyone who watched him for more than a few minutes could see how hard it was for him to be in this room, with all these people. They could also see, if they looked even a little bit closely, the bond between he and his bodyguard-companion of many years. Misha didn't know exactly how long the two of them had been together, or how long they had been lovers. Even in the 'new modern era' homosexuals didn't advertise themselves. The lynchings and burnings of the early 21st century had taught them a lesson.

They hadn't gone back into the closet, but into the courts, where they finally got federal protection, if not popular support.

But it was still okay to discriminate against fat people.

His muse was broken by Nita, who was leaning in and whispering in her uncle's ear. He didn't react, but Roderaff broke into a big grin. It made him look like a teenager himself. Misha couldn't help grinning in response.

Apparently he'd been around Andrew's family long enough to be comfortable with them.

"Misha!" A familiar, welcome voice called. He turned around, already walking toward the door, where his wife was entering. He jogged over to her, narrowly missing several backpacks and carry-ons.

"Damn, woman, do you always have to be late?" He smiled at her as he said it, because he knew why she was late. They were leaving their two-year-old son, Sasha, with her parents, and neither of them was very happy about the idea. But the thought of one of them going off on an expedition without the other was even worse.

They hadn't talked about what would happen if they were both killed. But he thought that would actually be the best thing; Sasha was too little to understand, and Misha wouldn't want to live without her mother. She'd been beside him since their sophomore year at high school.

Glancing over at the professor, letting Carla go so she could gather her things, mixed in with his, he wondered if Roderaff and Andrew felt that way.

Common wisdom claimed that homosexuals formed relationships of convenience, not love, but what else could have kept the big man with the professor so long? Roderaff was unique, yes, but his disability was labor-intensive. He took a lot of care. Misha had been close enough to them when he was a grad student to know just how much Andrew did for the younger man. Too much. Misha didn't think he could have stayed and worked so hard for so long.

It was like Andrew sublimated himself in Roderaff's life, to the exclusion of having one of his own.

The girl, Nita, was giggling at something Roderaff had said - she seemed able to understand him as much as anyone besides Andrew could.

Misha would have loved to do a paper on the two of them, but a couple of things had kept him from asking; he liked them and was afraid of discovering some dark, and he knew their privacy wasn't just important to them, it was *essential* to Roderaff's survival. He'd seen what happened when someone got too close, when Andrew wasn't there to protect the professor.

It had only happened a couple of times. Once, Andrew had been sick with something - some virus. He'd come to the school anyhow, but Misha had come in before the first class and found him barely awake, sitting on the sofa, hunched over. The professor had looked terrified; Misha would never forget that. The fear in the wide blue eyes that still made him look too young.

Misha had taken the professor to class that day. It had been awkward.

He'd been as careful as he could. It had been early in the semester, and a couple of new students had just joined the class. While Misha'd been distracted making changes to the roster, one of them had slipped around the podium Roderaff used and tapped him on the shoulder.

The professor - already disoriented and anxious without Andrew beside him - had made a sound Misha would never forget, a ragged moan, and fallen in a dead faint. Misha would have panicked then, but Andrew showed up seconds later, wheezing, his face slightly purple.

He'd shouted at Misha, and Misha, then only 23, had been frightened of him.

Never since. Andrew had taken Roderaff home, leaving Misha to deal with the shocked class, and called the next day to apologize. He'd sounded embarrassed, and sincere.

Misha shook his head, making his eyes focus on the small room again. He refused to let himself think about the second time he'd seen Roderaff touched by an outsider.

Andrew was beckoning him over.

"Yes?" Perhaps it was the recent jaunt down memory lane, but Misha felt suddenly - vulnerable? - in the big man's presence. He knew Andrew would never hurt him. Not as long as Misha didn't hurt the professor.

"We should be boarding in five. Is everyone ready?"

Misha looked over the room. There were still some family members hanging out, waiting to say goodbye, and a couple of people were still re-packing their bags, probably for the fifth or tenth time.

"Seem to be."

"Let's clear out the riff-raff." Andrew smiled and Misha laughed politely at the little joke.

He started moving through the room, touching, quietly suggesting that it was time to say final good-byes. Everyone seemed upbeat and excited, though he saw at least one Mom crying.

The five minutes passed like seconds, and the next thing he knew Andrew was moving Roderaff out of the room, the others falling into a loose line behind him as they trundled onto the runway where their plane waited. Misha had never asked where Andrew had found the pilot. The bodyguard had found funding for the expedition from a software company called '3 Bad Bros.', somebody Misha had never heard of. But they had funded the whole trip, a rarity in anthropological circles, and he was grateful. This expedition could decide whether he got tenure or not. Sometime in the future it might even have a bearing on his chances at the chair of the department.

He was getting ahead of himself. He climbed the portable stairs to the plane and ducked into the passenger cabin. His eyes were measuring the space even as he tucked his carryon under his seat and helped Carla with hers.

Andrew and Roderaff had taken adjoining seats at the very back, where Andrew could look over the whole space. Misha was used to seeing him do this. The other twelve students - and one slightly giddy teenager - were all settled in and strapped down, and Misha breathed a sigh of relief. It looked like they were going to get off on time. He knew how things went sometimes.

If they were late arriving in Lima, there was a pretty good chance the guide they had hired would take their supplies and run, leaving them stranded.

Andrew had assured him they'd hired a dependable guy, but he'd never done anything like this before, how would he know? He was a *bodyguard*. Sure, he might have weapons training and military experience, but that didn't make him an expert on anthropological missions. Roderaff had never been on one, and there was no reason to think Andrew would have had any other reason to go.

The plane took off. Curiously, Misha watched the professor and Andrew.

Roderaff kept his eyes shut the entire time, and his hands clenched Andrew's jacket in a white-knuckled grip. Like he was really afraid of flying. Misha smiled when they were safely airborn and Andrew petted the professor's hair until the man relaxed and opened his eyes, looking around.

He stared at Misha, who grinned, not embarrassed, and then smiled widely when Roderaff grinned back. He looked pretty normal when he did that.

The plane ride was long. It got noisy; there were several people on board with Pmp3s, the portable mp3 players that had largely replaced compact discs, much the same way the discs had replaced cassette tapes so many years ago.

There was singing; Misha was always surprised by Andrew's quiet tenor.

He didn't look like a man that sang. The professor even croaked along a little bit, when everyone was careful not to look at him.

They landed for refueling in Europe, and spent a few hours on layover.

There were so many planes now that runway time and airtime was strictly regulated, so they had to stick to the schedule or they'd lose their spot.

Misha spent the layover cuddled next to Carla in the scruffy waiting room, two seats down from Andrew and the professor. Some kids went exploring, and they took Nita with them.

By the time they got to Peru they were tired. Exhausted, really. Stumbling onto the small dirt runway, Misha held onto his wife with one hand and their bags with the other. He was grateful Andrew had insisted on a hotel stay for their first night here.

There was a man waiting for them, a black man, with a couple of trucks.

He greeted Andrew like an old friend, and ignored Roderaff in a way that made Misha want to twitch.

"Daryl." Andrew shook hands with him, then pulled him into a hug. Misha had never seen him be this affectionate with anyone but Roderaff, so he stared. The others didn't know enough to realize how odd it was, but Carla was staring, too.

The sun was hot and the air was heavy. The man Andrew called Daryl was wearing a suit. A good one. His accent was north American, and he looked more like a businessman than a guide.

Misha stepped up to them. The professor ducked around to Andrew's other side, and he stopped.

Roderaff hadn't done that around him in years.

"Andrew?" Misha held out a hand, gesturing at 'Daryl'. "This our guide?"

"Him?" Andrew laughed, but it wasn't funny. "This is an old family friend. He's working over here right now, so I thought I'd ask him to make the arrangements for us."

'Working over here.' Misha studied the man. The suit, the short cropped hair, the way he stood.

If he worked for the American government, he was probably DEA or CIA. Somebody someone like Andrew might actually know. Misha decided that having a government agent on your side was never a bad idea, so he dropped his bag and Carla's and reached out to shake the man's hand.

"Pleased to meet you."

"You, too." The man gave him a once-over that made Misha feel measured. "I'm going to borrow Andy here a minute." He nodded toward the trucks. "Why don't you get your people loaded up?"

"Okay." Misha was aware that he wasn't in this guy's league, and he wondered how Andrew was.

Carla started getting people onto the trucks, while Misha sat with the professor, who hadn't gone off with Andrew and Daryl.

Roderaff was quiet. Too quiet, Misha decided. He moved to crouch in front of the seated man, a good two feet away from him, and waved a hand, something he'd learned long ago; a safe way to ask if he could come closer.

If he could speak.

He almost never spoke to the professor when Andrew wasn't right there.

Early on, Roderaff had still been using the computer to do most of his talking for him. But now he seemed more able to have a conversation with his own voice.

He looked up too quickly, and Misha realized that he'd startled him.

"Sorry." He whispered, not wanting to add to the damage. The professor was sitting with his legs crossed, looking like a kid, his chin propped in his hands.

Once again, Misha found himself checking the differences between the man he had first met and the man he saw now.

This man looked healthier. His skin had some color, and he wasn't hiding behind heavy dark glasses all the time.

But right now, his expression was familiar to Misha, from the first days.

Roderaff was frightened, and trying to hide it. His breathing wasn't regular, but he seemed to be controlling it as best he could. His eyes were wide and he was staring at the ground as if he wanted to sink into it.

Suddenly Misha felt out of his depth.

"Want me to get Andrew?" He offered, stupidly, as quietly as he could.

A shake of the head. Roderaff didn't look up.

"Want me to get further away?" He wasn't going to leave him alone, not like this.

Another head shake, and then a hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.

Misha winced - the professor was *strong*! - but didn't pull away.

As an autistic person more sensitive than most, it was remarkable that Roderaff could touch him at all. Misha made a mental effort and steadied himself; his breathing, his nerves. If he was upset, it would make the professor more upset. The expedition would be over before it really began.

He slid his eyes over the scene to the left of them, not wanting to turn his head and disturb Roderaff further.

Carla had everyone loaded, and was sitting in the front seat of the second truck, apparently ready to go. She was looking at them, and he knew she was curious, but she didn't stare directly.

Roderaff's grip on his wrist tightened and Misha couldn't hold back the sound of pain he made as the skin was ground into the bones beneath.

Roderaff flinched, but didn't let go. His eyes were closed and he was breathing faster now.

Misha was quickly reaching the point where he would have to make a decision. Sacrifice his wrist or risk the expedition by pulling away from the professor. He didn't understand what was happening; the man had never shown any violent tendencies before. Roderaff was obviously deeply frightened, but there didn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary here.

Andrew was out of sight, but Misha was sure he hadn't gone far. Whatever it was that allowed the two of them to communicate in that almost magical way they did, wasn't it enough to ground Roderaff now?

His breath hissed between his teeth - Roderaff's hand on his wrist was a sharp, burning pain. Misha had to do *something* - ask him to let go or yank his arm away or push him -no, never touch him, never, he wouldn't do that - "Chief." Andrew's voice was calm, like still water. Even though he was not connected to these two except by their history, Misha could feel the calm, feel it rolling over them. Andrew's hand on his arm was gentle and he gasped with relief when his wrist was freed, falling back to the ground to stare at the couple.

"Um - uh, um - Ppp-" Roderaff seemed to have lost the ability to form words, even rudimentary ones. Misha looked around, a little wildly, and saw that Carla was standing beside the truck, ready to come to his rescue.

"I gotcha." Andrew crouched and gathered the smaller man into his arms.

He stood, and cuddled him. Misha thought his eyes were going to pop out of his head. He'd never seen them be so openly affectionate before.

Footsteps snuck up behind him and he turned, ready to stop whoever was coming over, knowing their presence would just make things worse, but it was Nita, Andrew's niece.

"Hey, Uncle. Everything okay? We need to get on the road if we're going to get any sleep tonight at all."

Misha saw that she wasn't even looking at Roderaff. Her gaze was resolutely focused on Andrew.

"He's just adapting." Andrew said, and it sounded convincing. "He'll be fine after some rest and time alone."

"Then let's boogey and get him someplace private." Nita flashed a grin at Misha, and he felt - upstaged. He was the one with the reddened, rapidly-bruising wrist. Who did she think she was, coming over her and taking his place? He was Roderaff's favorite student, always had been....

But she had probably known him all her life. For a brief moment Misha felt envy, and he was ashamed of it.

"I'll start the trucks." He whispered to Andrew, who nodded, not stopping the murmur of quiet talk he was feeding to the professor. He followed Misha over and it seemed that Carla knew exactly what they needed; she'd cleared out the back seat of the first truck so the two could have it to themselves.

"I'll drive the other one." She said, and Misha met her eyes. They were both worried about the wisdom of continuing the expedition in the face of this strange situation that felt like a crisis but probably wasn't one.

He gave her a quick kiss as she climbed out and past him, and relished her smile, and the wiggle of her butt.

He started the engine; they had learned how to drive the old standard-stick trucks just for something like this.

He looked in the rearview mirror. He had six students in his truck, packed pretty tightly with the back seat unavailable. Nita had gone to the second truck.

Andrew had the professor completely in his lap, cradling him close.

Roderaff looked like he was asleep.

Misha frowned. He didn't know what to do. To cancel the expedition would be a disaster. But he'd been worried about the two of them from the start. Maybe no one would be here if Andrew hadn't made the arrangements.

There was no way to tell. Maybe Roderaff *was* just 'adjusting', as Andrew said. And if he wasn't, was Misha the person that should be making decisions like that for him? He didn't think so.

Misha sighed, then saw his wife wave at him from the other truck. He gave the runway area one last glance, but their pilot and the man Daryl were nowhere to be seen.

It felt like an omen.

He grimaced and pulled out with a grind of the gears that made everyone wince and complain, until he raised his hand and shook his head and they remembered who was riding with them and how he was feeling.

It was a long, dusty, hot, *quiet* road into town.

* * * * * * *

Misha rolled over. He'd heard - a phone ring? Not in the room he was sharing with his wife and two students.

He lay still, listening.

Andrew's voice, trying to be quiet, but easily heard through the thin walls of the small hotel.

"Yes, Daryl met us. Did he come over just to tell me?"

Tell him what? Misha crawled out of the bed, not wanting to wake his wife. Carla wasn't normally a light sleeper, but she was nervous right now, too. Leaving Sasha behind and then the scene at the runway - everything had combined to make her doubt her decision to come.

He knelt by the door that connected the two bedrooms and listened more intently.

"How good is your information?"

What information? Was Andrew getting them mixed up into something dangerous? Was there more to his tough-guy pose than Misha had ever imagined?

"I'm not *doubting* you, Simon. If it came from Mike, I'm sure it's reliable. But I don't understand; why now?"

Misha held his breath, and wished fervently that he could hear the other end of the conversation.

"The books? He thinks somebody is looking for us because of those stupid *books*?!" Andrew sounded angry, and he sounded like he was having trouble controlling it. Misha thought about making some sound, to let him know he was awake - "We've taken all the precautions. If we have to do it again, we will. It will be hard, but we can do it. But I'm not going back to what we were, Simon. I can't - *he* can't."

What they were? Precautions? What the hell was he talking about? What books? Misha's head swam with questions. He listened, but didn't hear any more conversation. There was a heavy sigh, and then the creak of an old bedframe.

Andrew must have gotten back into bed. Misha thought he should go back, too. But then what? Did he confront the bodyguard? Find out if Roderaff knew what was going on? What if Andrew was using him to get to someone, or something?

"No, caro." Andrew's voice, like Misha had never heard it. Low and rumbly, with an undercurrent he only recognized because he'd heard it in his own voice from time to time, since meeting Carla. Desire. Want and need and love. It was a particular sound. Peculiar coming from a man like Andrew.

"I don't think we should turn back. Mike's source says they've just made the connection. With the way the government moves, we'll have plenty of time to cover our tracks again after we get back."

There was a sound - a sob? Misha wondered who was crying, and why.

He felt helpless. Sitting there on the cold tile floor, wondering. It seemed like his world had been turned upside down. He'd never realized that knowing Roderaff was such a fundamental part of his past. The teacher had been important to him, but apparently the man was, too. How had he never noticed that? How had Carla never mentioned it?

When he thought about Roderaff now, right this minute, more things came to mind than he'd expected. All the little things, the odd things. And the good ones, like the way he'd felt the first time the professor had touched him - on the shoulder, during a study session. Just like a normal guy, leaning over a table beside him, and touching him.

He'd never thought that being a special person in Roderaff's life meant so much to him. Did he think that made *him* special?

Was he jealous of Andrew, and that mysterious closeness they shared?

"Caro..." it was a whisper, and he wasn't meant to hear it. For the first time in a long time, Misha felt confused, and young. He hated it. He was a capable, intelligent adult; why was he acting like this?

"Yes, Chief. I can do that for you. I can do that, and this -" The love-talk continued as Misha made his way back to the bed he shared with his wife.

But the room was so quiet, the town so small, that he could still hear it. He couldn't seem to tear his attention away.

"I'm used to talking now. I *like* to talk. We've been spoiled since we retired, all this talking we've been doing. Can you talk to me now? Tell me what you want me to do...."

The voice dropped low and Misha strained to hear. Would Roderaff answer? What would he ask for? Did Misha want to know?

"Fuck me, Panther." Such crude words, Misha could hardly imagine them coming from the professor's mouth. But there was the same love and need in them, in the cracked and harsh voice. "Fuck me. Make me forget."

"Yesss..." Andrew hissed, and Misha shivered. Carla stirred and he forced himself to be still again.

"Make me remember." Roderaff whispered, and Misha couldn't believe he'd heard it. Gritting his teeth, he pulled the pillow out from under his head and wrapped it over his face, blocking his ears.

He didn't want to hear any more.

* * * * * * *

"Andrew, I think you were exaggerating about the bugs."

"Just wait." The bodyguard answered Carla's laugh with a rare grin and a bit of a growl. Behind her, Misha started to comment, but held his tongue.

He wasn't comfortable speaking to Andrew anymore.

The professor was hiking beside Misha. They were going two by two deeper into the jungle, after finally reaching it the night before. Their first night in camp - and Misha had pitched his tent as far from Roderaff and Andrew's as he could.

He knew his mentor had noticed.

Now, with the first flush of euphoria left in the morning hours and the first complaints beginning to be heard, Roderaff looked like he was ready to say something about it.

Andrew and Carla were leading the way, behind the native guide. It didn't surprise Misha as much as it should, that Andrew spoke the native dialect.

Carla had wanted to be up front, so Misha let her, even though he'd been making an effort to avoid the professor.

"Something's wrong." Roderaff, walking easily despite his heavy pack, reached for Misha's arm but didn't actually touch it.

Misha shrugged. He would have liked to meet Roderaff's eyes, but they were covered by heavily darkened sunglasses -- Misha hadn't seen him wear those in years.

"What?" Automatically, Misha glanced toward Andrew, but nothing had disturbed him.

"You're angry." Roderaff got the words out after a short but obvious struggle.

"Why would I be angry? Misha kept his voice low, but he had no doubt Andrew would hear him. The man had the ears of... - well, something with very good hearing. He was trying to not be offensive. The memory of the night spent in the hotel room still made him uncomfortable...and the conversation he'd overheard made him suspicious.

Roderaff made a funny little noise, like a snort. He gave Misha a disbelieving glare, but his attention was distracted by a bright green lizard that darted up a tree they were passing. It dropped to Roderaff's arm and he stood stock-still with a gasp as it scampered to the back of his hand. The lizard was large enough to cover it entirely.

"A-Andrew - Look!" He held up his hand and the others came closer to see it. Misha automatically kept the distance between himself and Roderaff, shielding the professor.

"What is it, Prof?" Andrew gently took the creature from Roderaff's hand. It crawled up Andrew's forearm and rested there, cocking its head as if studying them all.

"Remember?"

"Yeah. The first time you came here and one of these went down your pants." They were exchanging smiles, but all Misha could do was wonder; when had Roderaff been here before?

"Friendly!" The professor laughed harshly.

"He liked you a lot, that lizard. You probably smelled good or something, after jumping out of that plane."

"For you." Roderaff ducked his head and moved toward Andrew. Misha realized that Carla was between them he took her hand and tugged her to his side. They watched as Roderaff took refuge under Andrew's arm.

"He probably has a family somewhere." The big man reached over Roderaff's head and laid his hand on the trunk of a tree. The lizard hesitated, then scampered off his arm and up the tree, disappearing into the foliage high above them.

Somewhere nearby a chorus of birds cried out. The students stirred.

Misha took a deep breath, suddenly feeling light-headed.

"The jungle welcomes us," The guide, whose name Misha couldn't pronounce, spoke up. He was staring directly at Roderaff. "The jungle welcomes you."

The professor paled. Misha thought he might be the only one that saw it.

They started off again. This time Carla walked beside her husband. She commented on things they passed; up and down the line there was a murmur of conversation as students identified various forms of plant and animal life they had only read about. The jungle was crawling with life. Misha answered Carla, slightly distracted. A part of him was engaged with watching Andrew and the Professor. Their bodies were touching and they moved fluidly together. Often, when more than a few feet away from Andrew, Roderaff became clumsy, his movements stiff. Anyone looking at him now wouldn't know there was something wrong with him.

How could a man so sensitive to stimulation so vulnerable to an excess of it that he couldn't even speak to anyone he didn't know well how could such a man jump out of an airplane?

Go into the jungle?

There didn't seem to be any answers to the questions in Misha's head, and he knew he could not ask them. Some part of him; the part that remembered rarely-seen fear vivid on Roderaff's face, insane rage in Andrew's eyes -- that part knew there might be answers he didn't want to hear.

* * * * * * *

"I don't think we brought enough food, Misha." Laughing, Carla sat on the ground next to her husband. The first thing they had done after choosing a campsite was clear it of potentially bug-harboring debris. After six days in the jungle they had this down to a science.

"We brought plenty." Misha scooted over to touch his hip to hers, his thigh pressed against hers. He was nibbling the last of his heat-resistant chocolate, trying to make it last. He hadn't intended to eat it all so soon, but found himself craving sweets.

"These kids are a good bunch."

He looked around. Everyone was doing their share. A couple of the guys had taken over the dish 'washing' scrubbing with sand brought for that purpose, then 'drying' with electrostatically charged cloths. Both methods meant they weren't using water, and they didn't leave any waste behind.

Andrew and the Professor had vanished into the jungle as soon as they finished eating. Misha frowned when he realized they hadn't come back yet.

The guide was still there, quietly flirting with one of the girls; he was about the same age as the students. Nita Ellers had half- climbed a low tree and was sitting with a sketch pad, her charcoal pencil flying over a page. She stopped to lick her thumb and smudge whatever it was she was drawing, and Misha smiled. Nita glanced over and down at him and smiled back.

Misha gave his wife a kiss and stood.

It was time he faced the fears he'd been carrying inside him. Roderaff had given him space, hadn't pushed, but Misha knew the professor felt something was wrong.

The man had been his idol, and then his mentor and was finally, now, his friend. He owed him more than the surly silence that had been between them for the past week.

"I'm going after Andrew and the professor," he told Carla. "Maybe we can get together a sing-along again tonight."

"Only if you promise to stay with the rest of us." She teased affectionately. At one point in his life Misha had made a choice; music or academics. He'd chosen academics, but his voice was still rich and strong and he liked to sing. Sing loudly. Especially when half the group was tone deaf and he could drown them out.

"Maybe." He gave her his best enigmatic smile and she cracked up, which made him grin. He didn't do 'enigmatic' very well.

It was almost dark. The moon hung low on the horizon just above tree level. Misha wasn't positive where the other two had gone , but he knew which way they had left, so he wandered out between the two largest trees and followed the faint trail he recognized there. It looked like it might have been made by some small animal.

It might have been foolish, walking off into the jungle after his mentor. Especially when he'd never been in a jungle before. But he knew Roderaff was out there, hopefully ahead of him, and he felt, somehow, that despite the distance that had sprung up between them on this adventure, Roderaff would not let any harm come to him.

Accepting and understanding that feeling was odd, on a basic level. It was as if he was admitting, for the first time since meeting the two, that there was something more to Roderaff and Andrew than he'd ever recognized.

As he walked, careful to avoid disturbing any more plants than he had to, he thought about some of the things that set the two apart. Things that weren't related to Roderaff's disability.

The gay thing, that was the biggest one. But there were other things, too. The way Roderaff sheltered beside Andrew; there was no other way to describe it. Misha had always thought it was about not being touched, but maybe there was something more to it?

And the bracelets - if they could be called that. The worn steel that barely gleamed in the brightest of lights. He'd never seen either of them without it.

As far as he could tell, they were plain, unadorned. Not something that could be described as jewelry, exactly. But he didn't know what he *would* call them.

A quiet sound drew Misha from his thoughts. His feet had been following the trail automatically, now he stopped. Placing one hand cautiously on a tree-trunk, he listened.

The nighttime sounds of the jungle were quieter than he'd expected. Quiet enough that he could hear the low voice that spoke casually. Probably only a few feet away.

"Professor?" He'd seen reruns of an old, stupid television show when he was younger; 'Gilligan's Island'. Now he felt like that perpetually bumbling character as he called. "Professor?"

"We're over here, Misha."

"I can't see you."

"That's because it's dark."

Misha snorted at the lack of humor in the words. He'd never met anyone as good at understatement as Andrew.

"Just follow my voice."

"I am, I am."

"He says you shouldn't be out here - it's not safe."

Misha knew 'He' was the Professor. Always the professor.

"I know. I just wanted to find you."

Misha stepped between another set of trees and stopped, stunned by what he saw.

It was a clearing, about fifty yards wide. Moonlight streamed down into it, brightly illuminating everything within.

An ancient temple stood in the center. Covered with vines, the steps crumbling, the stones etched with runes and symbols.

Roderaff and Andrew were sitting on a large stone near the front stairs, Roderaff safely tucked up between Andrew's legs.

Andrew raised a hand and waved.

"You jerk." Misha almost stumbled as he entered the clearing. It felt huge, so much bigger than the actual space. "Is this what we're showing the kids tomorrow?"

"Yes and no. We'll bring them here, but we won't really tell them what it is." Andrew spoke, but from the way Roderaff was looking at him Misha knew the words were the professor's. And what was that anyhow, telepathy?

How had they gotten away with it all these years with no one saying anything?

Well, *he'd* never said anything, and never heard anyone else. But it might have been true that almost no one else got close enough to them to notice. Didn't spend enough time with them.

"And what is it really?" He gingerly sat on another boulder, this one a few feet away from the one they sat on.

"You'll have to figure it out for yourself." Andrew grinned his wolfish grin. It made Misha vaguely nervous. He turned his attention to the temple and studied it closely. The jungle murmured around him.

Finally he spoke.

"Well, it's not any culture I recognize. But this isn't my specialty, y'know. The language seems familiar, but there are bits and pieces that remind me of others."

Roderaff nodded and Misha shook his head.

"I mean, I can't place it."

"That's okay." Andrew kissed the top of Roderaff's head. "We'll explain it all to you tomorrow -"

His head snapped up and his eyes widened suddenly. Misha stared, and Roderaff grabbed Andrew's arms, clutching them with that surprising strength.

"What-?!" Misha half-stood, turning his head to look around the clearing.

"What is it?!"

The words had barely left his mouth when he heard the gunshots.

"CARLA!" Misha was running back into the jungle before he stopped to think about it. "The kids!"

He was stopped by what felt like a wall of steel; Andrew was, somehow, in front of him, grabbing him forcing him to a stop. Misha struggled, some part of him afraid of being hurt by this man, but there was no way he could break free. In the moonlight, Andrew looked something - *less* - than human.

Andrew shook him, hard enough to make his teeth snap.

"Shut up! Be still! I don't have time for this!" He manhandled Misha around and Misha felt his heart expand in his throat; Roderaff was curled on the ground, curled into an impossibly tight fetal ball. With his arms over his head and his knees on his chest and his white hair flying everywhere, he looked ancient.

"What's happening?" Misha whispered. The gunfire spat again, and he flinched, aware that he was trembling.

"They're taking the camp," Andrew whispered back. His head was cocked to the side, in that way that made Misha think he was actually listening to something no one else could hear. "The guide is dead, and the kids are scared. Carla is telling them not to fight back."

"Yes, good, good..." Misha felt sick to his stomach. Taking the camp? Who? Why? "Is it drug dealers?" There was no civil war going on right now.

Surely he would have heard about it or been told if there were. "Andrew, I'm gonna -"

"Shut up."

"I'm going to be sick -"

"Shut. Up." Andrew punctuated the words with a hard shake.

Carla. Carla and Nita and the other students. Oh, God. Everyone.

He tried to keep quiet, gulping down the bile that rose in his throat. It made his throat burn, his stomach churn.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the professor. Still lying on the ground.

Why didn't Andrew go to him, help him? Was it because he was afraid Misha would run? Though he wanted to -- everything in him screamed a him that he *should* run, run right back into camp, run and defend his wife, protect his students -- he wasn't going to. He knew, as well as Andrew did, that being captured or killed with them wasn't going to help them.

"They aren't killing them." Andrew whispered at last. He seemed thoughtful about it.

"I'm not going anywhere. Go to - go to the professor." Misha stammered out.

Andrew looked down at him. In the silver light, his features looked - elongated. Darkened.

"You need to do what I say."

Misha swallowed, and nodded.

"No questions."

Misha just stared at him, meeting the oddly feline eyes.

"I mean it. We don't have time to for questions."

"Okay," Misha whispered. All of the times he had imagined this man as frightening were coming back to haunt him.

But Andrew was just a bodyguard, right? Big and strong, but nothing more.

"I'm going to let you go, and then we're going to follow them." Andrew gave him one last shake to emphasize the words, then released him. Misha promptly doubled over, retching. His dinner came up between gasps of acidic air.

He tried to watch what Andrew did, but his misery overcame him. When he managed to pry his eyes open again, Andrew had the professor on his back and was looking at him impatiently.

"We need to go."

Go where? Misha thought, but didn't ask aloud, as instructed. He straightened, and then staggered. Andrew just stared at him, his eyes hooded and cold.

"Okay - I'm okay." What was happening to his wife? Would they touch her? Rape her? Carla was strong, she would do whatever it took to survive but he couldn't bear the thought of her being violated that way. Love between them had always been so wonderful; pure and sweet. Passionate, but not tawdry.

"Let's go." Andrew shifted the weight of the apparently unconscious professor and started to walk into the jungle. He seemed to be waiting for Misha, who scrambled to catch up.

As soon as they trees closed around them, Andrew broke into a jog.

Misha did the same, but when Andrew started to actually run, he had to protest.

"It's not safe - we can't *run* through this - "

"Stay directly behind me -- you'll be fine." The words were snarled.

"But -"

Andrew ignored him and kept running. Desperate, Misha did as he said, and stayed right on his heels. After a few minutes he became aware that it was easier to run here than it should have been. The ground seemed oddly even, the branches didn't reach out to slap him in the face.

As he became aware of this, he noticed something else.

Roderaff was awake, and looking at him over a shoulder.

His eyes were blank, the blue hidden beneath some dark emotion. But he was awake, and watching Misha and Misha felt the weight of that stare.

He kept up.

* * * * * * *

They didn't even go back to the camp. He couldn't determine their direction well at all, but Misha realized that they should have found it hours ago. Instead, they had kept running - running and running and he didn't know how he was keeping up. He wasn't a wimp, but marathons had never been his cup of tea. Still, Andrew ran, and Roderaff's head bounced gently on his shoulder - when he wasn't staring at Misha like a bug under a microscope - and Misha kept breathing and, amazingly, kept up.

When he saw the sky start to lighten he wanted to protest, but there wasn't enough air in his lungs to form words. He was afraid that if he stopped, stopped to question or complain, Andrew would just keep going.

Would simply leave him there, in the middle of this nightmare jungle, with no food or weapons or tools or anything.

The sun rose and it got hot, and they kept running.

The day lengthened and the shadows deepened and they kept running.

Misha was afraid.

He didn't really have the time or energy to think, but he knew he was afraid. If he'd had time, he probably couldn't have said exactly why he was afraid. For Carla and the kids, of course. But for himself as well, trapped in this twisted nightmare with these people who were supposed to be his friends.

People he'd thought he *knew*.

When they emerged from the jungle, it was very abrupt. They'd been running eighteen? Twenty? Too many hours. There was a small dirt road, and Andrew dropped to a walk, like a huge bird landing with grace. Misha stumbled as he tried to slow his feet and Andrew caught him with one hand, holding him up as Misha gasped helplessly and tried to remember what it felt like to stand still. His body had forgotten; it wanted to keep running.

"It will go away soon," Andrew told him. "You'll be okay to walk in a minute."

What would go away? A compulsion? Had they cast some spell on him?

Magic wasn't real, Misha knew that, but this felt like what he imagined a dark spell would.

Roderaff raised his head and looked at him again, still safe on Andrew's back. He'd ridden the whole way, which made it all the harder for Misha to look at him. Because Roderaff looked exhausted. More than Misha felt. And Andrew -- the bastard looked like he'd been for a stroll in the friggin' park.

Maybe holding onto Andrew while he ran was more tiring than it looked?

Misha realized he was staring, but his feet seemed to have remembered what the ground was for, and he was standing on his own. Andrew released his arm and gave him a grimace that might have been meant as a smile.

"I need you to do something." Andrew was trying to peel Roderaff off of him -- the professor's hands were clenched so tightly around his waist that the knuckles were white, and there were spots of dried blood on Andrew's grey shirt. Roderaff seemed to be resisting passively -- he didn't look like he wanted to be removed from Andrew's back. "Let go, caro," Andrew muttered. The words sounded thick. "I need to scout the area, you know that - you've got to stay here -"

"Wait a minute -" Misha spoke up, but Andrew finally managed to pry Roderaff free and tugged on him until the smaller man dropped to the ground. He just lay there, staring up at Andrew, his eyes so wide and terrified that Misha hurt for him.

"Andrew, you can't just leave him here!" As far as Misha knew, the two were never more than a few feet apart. For Andrew to abandon Roderaff to his care was ludicrous. He wouldn't know how to take care of him!

"I have to find out what's going on. The two of us are too visible together." Andrew peeled of his shirt and used it to wipe the worst of the spattered grime and caked sweat from his face and arms. "We need information and supplies."

"Why? What are you going to do? You're just a damned bodyguard!" Misha heard himself shout and couldn't understand why he wasn't afraid right now. "We need to contact the authorities, the embassy, we need to open negotiations -"

"There won't be any negotiations."

The words were whispered in a harsh, cracking voice. Misha looked down and saw that Roderaff was now staring at him.

"What are you saying?" Misha felt tears welling in his eyes. He couldn't hold them back, and they stung as they ran down his face.

"If they got to us, then the authorities are in it. Paid to look the other way, threatened, whatever." Andrew answered. "The only way to save our people is to do it ourselves."

"*US*?!" Misha choked a laugh through his tears. "Two professors and a bodyguard?"

"Look, kid -" Andrew glowered at him, but there didn't seem to be any real threat behind it. "There's more to us than that."

"Right. You used to be international terrorists." Misha thought that maybe he should sit down now, so he did. In the dirt of the road, where his tears had made little spots of mud.

"Not exactly." Andrew leaned over and kissed Roderaff, who clung to him for one agonizing moment. "You'll have to find a hiding place quickly.

Someplace high. Stay there and stay quiet, no matter what happens. If you're found it will get bad quickly."

"Why?!" Misha shouted, surging up. He felt a grip on his leg and looked down.

Roderaff had grabbed him. Made physical contact without warning.

Misha stood very still.

"Just do it, Mashuga." Roderaff had called him that once or twice before.

Misha had never minded; it made him feel proud, that his beloved professor thought of him as a son. "I won't - I won't be able to move much longer."

"You need to go." Andrew bent down and gently lifted Roderaff to his feet. "I will be back as soon as I can, but it may take a day or two."

"Days? Without water or food?" Misha felt his stomach constrict at the thought.

"You'll be fine. Just do what I say, and everyone will be fine." There was a fear lurking in Andrew's eyes, something Misha didn't understand.

The big man brushed a hand over Roderaff's tangled hair, then drew it back.

"I love you, caro. I'm sorry this has come to haunt us again."

"Worth it." Roderaff grunted. He turned and held out an arm to Misha.

He didn't look as Andrew turned and walked away down the road. Misha watched, though, and thought that Andrew looked older than he should at that moment. Even for a man his age, he looked too old.

"Misha. Shelter." Roderaff touched him. Misha covered the hand with his own slowly, shocked at how cold it was. He would have drawn Roderaff closer, into an embrace to warm him, but he knew better.

"Okay, professor." He led the way back into the jungle. He wasn't sure what they were looking for, but it seemed like they should get away from the immediate vicinity of the road.

"No -" Roderaff tugged at him and Misha stopped, just beneath the canopy, to look at him.

He looked far older than Misha had ever realized.

"Not much time." Roderaff shrugged. "Can't tell you - everything you need. Blair."

"Blair?" Confused, Misha waited for more.

"Name, my name." Roderaff was choking on the words.

"Blair is your name?" That wasn't what it said on the door of his office. "I don't understand."

"Don't need to." Roderaff - Blair? - was as white as a human could get, and his fingers dug into Misha's arm painfully. "I- I, I, I, I!" he stumbled over the words, fought them, jaw clenching, and Misha was moved with pity. So hard to communicate - "Sleep. I sleep."

"You need to sleep?"

"Hide!" Words had abandoned him - Roderaff couldn't speak now. He gave Misha a shove, and the student led his professor deeper into the jungle.

He stopped when Roderaff pulled on him, and looked when the man pointed upwards.

"We'll never make it up there."

With hand gestures Roderaff - he couldn't think of him as 'Blair', whatever the professor had meant by that - insisted. He walked unsteadily over to the huge tree and reached for the lowest branch. He was too short.

Misha tried to decide what to do ,and then gave up on thinking and decisions. He walked over and gave Roderaff a boost, then scrambled up himself.

They climbed steadily, until Misha was worried that the branches wouldn't hold them, that they would both fall to their deaths. Roderaff seemed comfortable up here; his hands gripped firmly, his movement was smooth and clean. Misha struggled behind him, but finally they reached a high fork, and he looked down.

"Oh, God." They were at least a hundred feet up. Ten stories or more. If they fell from here -

Roderaff was pulling his belt free of his jeans and looping it around a smaller branch at one side. He tugged at Misha's hand once, then went back to struggling with his belt. Apparently he wasn't going to be able to speak anymore.

"What are you doing?" Misha didn't help, he just watched as Roderaff used the belt and a bandana to tie himself to the branch by the arm. "If you fall you'll break it!" he exclaimed, alarmed.

Roderaff held out the belt and shook his head. His hair was a disaster.

Misha looked down. If he fell, he would die. If he tied himself to the tree and something saw them

If something saw them way up here, it wasn't going to be something they could get away from anyhow. He followed Roderaff's example and tethered himself to the tree, using his own belt and an extra bandana Roderaff gave him. He wasn't sure how strong the cloth was, but it was the only thing they had.

When he had finished tying himself up, he looked over at the professor.

And the man was asleep. His face smooth, once again youthful-looking.

His body tucked neatly into the fork where three big branches met.

Misha sighed. He'd run all night, and Roderaff was tired?

But maybe some rest would be good for him, too. He settled back as comfortably as he could, and closed his eyes.

Immediately visions of Carla assaulted him; his eyes snapped open and he flinched, his precarious balance lost. And he was slipping, falling, arms flailing -

    Roderaff woke, and grabbed him with both hands, stronger than he had any right to be. He hauled Misha back onto the branch before the belt went taut, and gazed at him for a long moment.

Misha could feel the fresh tears on his face, and he wiped them away, ashamed. How dare he cry. The others were suffering far worse, he was sure.

"Sleep." Roderaff ghosted his hand over Misha's face and something gave way inside him. A knot loosened. A wound closed. He could breathe again.

This time, when he sat back to rest, Roderaff *Blair* kept a hand on his arm. It was a cool weight that anchored him.

Sleep came quickly. He did not dream.

* * * * * * *

"Wake up."

A rough shake brought him back to awareness. Another large hand was holding him down, pressing him into the tree branch so that he wouldn't startle and fall. Misha opened his eyes and Andrew's face filled his vision.

A weird, twisted, David-Lynchian version of Andrew's face. His head wrapped in a black bandanna, his face smeared with camouflage paint. His eyes were very dark. Flat and hard, as cold as arctic ice.

Misha opened his mouth, but it was roughly covered, and harsh words hissed.

"Quiet. They're looking."

Who was looking? Had the kidnappers followed them? How could they have - they'd run all night!

Andrew's eyes stared into his, breaking the string of panicked thoughts, and Misha sucked a breath in through his nostrils. Then he nodded. Yes. He would be quiet.

Andrew released him, abruptly. With fumbling fingers Misha began to untie himself, while he watched the bodyguard.

He expected Roderaff to be woken up, but Andrew merely untied him and lifted him until he was cradled against the big man's chest. Using the belt and bandana Roderaff had tied himself to the three with, Andrew tried to lash the limp body to himself, but it was too awkward in the tree. He looked at Misha.

Why don't we just wake him up? Misha wanted to ask, but he was afraid to actually say anything. This Andrew he didn't recognize, this man he didn't know. And he was afraid of him. There was something fundamentally different about the affable, aloof man he had known before.

Now he was Misha sensed it in some way he couldn't identify, but he accepted that Andrew was now dangerous. Certainly the most dangerous person he had ever met.

In response to the look, he took an end of the belt and pulled it around Andrew's back. Between the two of them they soon had the professor tied at the waist to Andrew's chest, and his arms tied around Andrew's neck. He would probably slide around a bit, but he shouldn't fall.

Andrew started climbing down. After a moment, Misha followed, his eyes wide as he tried to look everywhere at once, trying to see where the threat came from. At the base of the tree Andrew picked up a heavy bag and slung it over his shoulder. Then he reached beneath a covering of dead branches and pulled out an automatic weapon. Misha gasped, and then held his breath, closing his eyes.

A gun! An illegal weapon, a big one. What the hell was he doing with that?! How had he gotten it?

Andrew shot him a look as he opened his eyes and Misha shook his head, determined to not get himself killed today. There was a smaller knapsack on the ground and Andrew nudged it with a foot. Understanding, Misha picked it up and slid it on.

Andrew started back into the jungle and it was everything he could do to not protest. He cast a longing glance at the road, barely visible through the trees, and then followed the stranger carrying his friend back into the darkness.

He trudged patiently behind Andrew for long hours. He felt so tired and wasted. Where was the strength that had gotten him through the night? Even Andrew seemed exhausted.

They didn't seem to be going anywhere except deeper into the jungle.

They weren't going to be able to help anyone this way. At least he was too tired to think about Carla. Well, mostly. He found his thoughts drifting to happy times, not imagining the horrors she was experiencing now.

When the world around them darkened, he finally stopped. This was ridiculous. Andrew went on for several yards before he noticed that Misha was no longer following him. He turned, Roderaff flopping in his grip, and glared at the younger man.

"Where the hell are we going?" Misha crossed his arms over his chest stubbornly. "Why couldn't we ask for help in that village? We have money."

"We're meeting my friend. I contacted him by SAT phone." Andrew answered gruffly.

"Who the fuck are you? One minute you're the mild-mannered bodyguard of an interesting but not really important college professor, next you're some kind of jungleman mercenary?" Misha heard himself shouting but didn't try to stop it. "This is crazy! The Professor is dying and you're dragging me through this God-forsaken hellhole and for what?!"

"So we can get our people back." Andrew looked him up and down.

"We're got to make the rendezvous by dawn."

"We can't get them back - that's the government's job."

"None of the governments involved are going to help us." Andrew turned around and started walking again. His hand pressed Roderaff's head to his chest. He ducked his own head and kissed the top of Roderaff's.

"What do you mean, governments involved???" Now Misha was confused as well as angry. "This is ridiculous!"

He was shocked when Andrew turned and practically jumped at him. The man's skin was dark. Darker than human and his eyes were black and slitted.

His hands closed on Misha's shirt and lifted him with ease.

"You don't know what you're dealing with, kid. Shut up and do as I say, or they're all dead." He emphasized his words with a harsh shake and Misha fought back, but he couldn't get free of the death-grip. He didn't know who or what this was, but he was afraid of it.

He was dropped abruptly, and hit the ground hard. Andrew turned and stalked off without a backwards glance.

Misha scrambled to his feet and hesitated, looking back the way they had come. There was no way he could find the village again, not on his own. He didn't know where Andrew was going or what was going on, but there didn't seem to be many choices open to him.

He followed the bodyguard into the gathering darkness, hugging his arms around himself.

* * * * * * *

"We're here."

The rough words shook Misha out of the trance he'd walked himself into.

They broke free of the trees into a wide clearing on the edge of a cliff. It was beautiful, but he held back, wary of going near the edge, especially with Andrew there right at the tip of it, his face turned upwards, searching the sky.

Misha sat on the ground at the treeline, sensing that now would not be a good time to speak. He rested his head in his hands, every muscle in his body aching. He felt sore and filthy and depressed and could only imagine how bad it must be for Carla and the others now. Especially Nita, she was just a kid. He hoped they wouldn't hurt her. Hoped they didn't hurt any of them.

Dawn was already there and he thought for a few minutes that maybe they had been too late. If Andrew wasn't completely off his rocker and there was no one coming.

He hadn't allowed himself to think about what he'd seen back in the forest. The way Andrew's face had changed, the way he'd looked less than - human. Not human. He'd looked like something out of an old monster movie, right before it changed and revealed its true self.

"They're on the way." Andrew turned around and looked at him. Misha felt himself shrinking from that gaze. He couldn't hear anything....

"What's wrong with the Professor?" He'd never seen anything like this.

"Is he dead?" And Misha stranded here with this maniac.

"He's sleeping." Andrew petted Roderaff's head with both hands, the long hair hopelessly tangled. "I'll wake him up when we're safe."

"Safe from what?" No one had followed them, they were lost in the largest forest on Earth. How could anyone have followed them?

Andrew walked over and stood over him. Loomed. Looked down at him with eyes that still didn't look human. Misha thought maybe his own eyes were playing tricks, but in his heart he knew better.

"Some things you just have to accept on faith," Andrew said, and it didn't make any sense to Misha. He would have protested, but then he heard it; the faint whap-whap-whap of helicopter blades.

Andrew went back to the edge of the cliff, lifting both arms in the air and waving them. Misha stood and walked a bit closer, straining his eyes to see against the sun.

Suddenly it was just there; a large dark shape, sleek and dangerous- looking, a military chopper, complete with anti-radar devices and weapons.

Misha gulped and headed back for the trees, determined to hide until he knew exactly what was going on. The chopper landed and a tall black man got out. Daryl. He was wearing a dark suit. Misha frowned, it looked so odd in this setting. He greeted Andrew with a smile and a handshake, but Misha couldn't hear anything they were saying.

Then Andrew turned and beckoned at him. Misha hung back, but the man looked directly at him and stared while he made a come-here movement with his hand.

Well, he couldn't exactly stay here alone. Carla and the others were still gone... Misha stepped out of the trees.

"Daryl's going to get us out of here." Andrew was stroking the professor's head with both hands. Misha watched Banks watch him.

"You going to revive him soon?" Banks asked Andrew.

"Not until we get where we're going. It would take too long, and I'll want some privacy."

"I made the arrangements you asked."

Their eyes met and Misha wondered what was between the two men. It didn't feel like they were friends, exactly, but there was respect there, and even affection.

"Thank you, Daryl. Is your dad going to be available?"

The agent sighed and frowned and then answered somewhat reluctantly.

"Yes, of course. Has he ever not come when you called?" There was such sarcasm in the tone that Misha almost flinched. "He's contacting the list."

"Good. We'll get going, then." Andrew turned to Misha. "I'm not going to explain anything to you right now. We need to get out of the country as quickly as possible. Trust me, and we'll get everyone back safely."

How?! The shout hovered on the tip of Misha's tongue, but he bit it back.

He didn't have a lot of choices right now; so he climbed into the helicopter and strapped himself in, watching as Andrew freed Roderaff from his body and strapped the unconscious man into the seat next to Misha.

"Keep an eye on him, please."

Misha nodded.

The flight was quieter than he'd expected a helicopter to be, and longer.

Somehow he hadn't thought they had this kind of range. No one talked; Daryl flew the chopper while Andrew perched in the co-pilot's seat with his weapon laid over his lap. He looked willing to use it.

They passed over miles and miles of jungle. Then a scattering of small towns and then a large city. Misha was too tired to wrap his brain around it, so he couldn't tell which one it was. When they flew over it and then out over what looked like wasteland he wanted to ask something, but held his tongue again.

During this the professor didn't move, other than to breathe slowly. Misha was becoming more worried about him; could it be that Andrew really wasn't that interested in taking care of him? As far as Misha knew the two had been lovers for decades. It was hard to imagine one of them without the other. But someone could get tired of being another person's support 24-7. Maybe this was the way Andrew usually treated him, when there wasn't anyone to see.

The thought depressed him.

Eventually Daryl began speaking into his headset, but Misha couldn't hear anything. The chopper dropped precipitously and he grabbed onto his seat, but no one else looked worried.

They landed in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere; all Misha could see was sand and more sand and dunes.

A jeep roared around from behind one of the dunes. A older man that looked to be of Native American descent was driving it. He climbed out and jogged over to them, greeting Andrew with a slap and a one-armed hug. They spoke Misha was still in the chopper and couldn't hear them, then Andrew pointed and the man came and crawled in.

"Hi. I'm Dan, I'm his doctor. How you doing?"

"I'm okay." There didn't seem to be much of anything else to say. He watched as Dan-the-doctor checked Roderaff's pulse, looked at his eyes and checked his heartbeat. Then the blades whipped to a stop and Misha could hear again, and he heard arguing.

He looked out of the chopper. Daryl was on a phone, apparently having words with someone.

"I don't care how you have to do it, you get us clearance or we're coming in under the radar. Yes, I know how things work, but they aren't working that way today. You get us in or you can expect a call from somebody high enough up on the food chain to chew your ass into little pieces and spit them back out again!"

Misha winced and sat back in his seat. Dan was unbuckling Roderaff and Andrew appeared just in time to pick him up.

"You call Jenny?" he asked, and Dan nodded.

"She was surprised, but said she'd have everything ready the way I asked."

"Good. We can be there in ten hours if we hurry."

"You need to hurry. He's been down without you too long." Dan looked like he was angry with Andrew and Misha wondered that he dared. The doctor wasn't that big a guy, and he was clearly older. "Panther, I've told you before; if you're going to separate on this level, you need to either *stay* separated or bond as soon as you get back. This almost-there thing doesn't work. He can sense you, but you're not close enough to help him."

"There wasn't a lot of choice," Andrew answered grimly. "I couldn't take the time."

"A couple of days wouldn't have made that much difference."

"They could make all the difference." Andrew let his eyes rest on Misha.

"Come on, kid. We've got a ride to catch."

"Andrew? Where are we going?" Misha climbed out of the chopper with trepidation. Andrew was walking toward the jeep, Dan following them. Daryl put up the phone and caught up to them.

"We can land inland, at Jenny's place," he told them. "MI-5 isn't happy about it, but they've cleared us."

"Good." Andrew nodded, and then swung into the back seat of the jeep, deftly handling Roderaff's unconscious body and settling it in his lap. "You coming with us?"

"Got to take the chopper back. Then I'm going to hit the states and grab Mike. He's sure he can help."

"Help here or help there?"

Daryl scowled.

"Look, P, you're not on your own anymore. You haven't been for ten years. Just let Dad and Mike do what they're best at while you concentrate on getting him back into the game. The two of you will have to do the mop-up, you know that."

"You just point us in the right direction."

Misha stood, trying to be unnoticeable. He didn't know these names -- nicknames? Who the heck was Panther?

"Get in." Dan told him, and he did, riding shotgun. The Indian started the engine and they lurched forward, the sound of the chopped revving up filling the air behind them. Misha turned around and met Andrew's eyes. He gulped.

"How's the professor?"

"Hey, Kid." Andrew looked so different. So dangerous. "From this point on, you don't call us that anymore. I'm Panther, he's Chief. You use the wrong name and I'll kill you."

"Shit!" Dan slammed on the breaks and turned to 'Panther', angry. "Will you give him a *break*? He's a good guy, otherwise Chief wouldn't want anything to do with him. You know that far better than I could. So trust him to do the right thing and shut up so I can drive."

"Sorry." Andrew - Panther? - shrugged. Misha wasn't sure who he was apologizing to, so he turned back around and bit his lip.

Dan looked at him and chuckled.

"Think you're in the twilight zone now, Misha? It just gets weirder."

With those comforting words in his head, Misha closed his eyes and slumped onto the door of the jeep and went to sleep.

* * * * * * *

"Hey, time to get up. We're here."

Misha opened his eyes and sat up, startled, looking around. His arm caught Dan on the side of the head and the doctor grabbed at him.

"Calm down, easy there!" He was restrained until he sat still, which he did as soon as he realized he wasn't in danger.

And that it hadn't all been a bad dream.

"Where are we?" He was in another helicopter, this one with more comfortable seats. How had he gotten there?

They were landed in a brilliant green field that rolled for miles, broken by small stone walls and grazing horses and cattle.

"England," Dan said, as if that explained anything. "You were exhausted so we let you sleep while everyone else unloaded. There are some very comfortable beds in the house, though."

The sky was just beginning to darken with coming night. Misha pushed himself up and past Dan, jumping out of the chopper with less grace than enthusiasm.

There was a golf cart off to one side. They climbed in and Dan drove across the field. Misha wanted to ask where they were going, but they turned around a stand of trees it seemed to be separating the field from the next one, and he saw the house.

Castle, more like.

"Where the hell are we?"

"FoxMoor House." Dan grinned at him. "An old friend of Panther and Chief is the lady of the manor. She used to be one of them."

"One of what?" His eyes were glues to the huge stone edifice. It had the round driveway, the courtyard, everything he'd only seen in movies and pictures of the royal family.

"A merc. Mercenary."

"Mercenary? The Professor?" Misha gave him a hard look, and then laughed. "That's a joke, right? He can't even walk through a crowded room."

"He can as long as Panther is beside him." Dan didn't seem to think it was a joke. In fact, he looked kind of pissed that Misha did.

The golf cart lurched to a sudden and awkward halt, tilted sideways on a small hill.

"Hey," Misha complained mildly. He was afraid to say anything more extreme. His world had been turned upside down the last couple of days and right now he wasn't sure who he could trust, or who would trust him.

"Look, I know this isn't what you were expecting." Dan turned to face him, and the look in his eyes told Misha that this was all very, very serious. As if having his wife and students kidnaped wasn't serious enough. "This isn't a game. It doesn't matter whether you understand what's going on or not. If you want your wife back, you're going to have to do what these guys say. You're going to *have* to listen to them, and not ask too many questions. Anything that upsets Panther will upset Chief and then the two of them *won't* be able to do anything."

"What the hell kind of names are those? 'Panther'? 'Chief'? It's stupid. They *have* regular goddamned names!" Fed up with the rhetoric and bull, Misha shouted. "He's just a damned professor! Andrew is a stupid bodyguard! Why are you people acting like they can *do* something?!"

He'd half stood and was now in danger of tumbling from the tilted cart. Dan reached for him but Misha shrugged him off, and the movement tipped his balance past safety. He fell and rolled a few feet, feeling his face scrape on a rock and banging his elbow painfully.

"Shit!" He swore with feeling.

He wanted Carla. He needed to hear her laugh, see her smile, listen to her breath beside him at night. He wanted to argue about the phone bill and whether they should go out for dinner or play paper-rock-scissors to see who had to cook.

He was embarrassed but not surprised when he realized he was crying.

"Yeah, I know." Dan helped him sit up and touched his face with gentle fingers. It hurt and Misha flinched. He turned away, covering his face with an arm. "It's about time you cried. Get it out of your system and then we'll go to the house and you'll be able to eat something."

He didn't want to eat anything. He wanted his wife back.

* * * * * * *

Jenny had given them one of the guest bedrooms. It wasn't the same one they had stayed in before, during their first visit here. That one had been up one floor higher; with a sloped low ceiling and heavy beams and a bathroom down the hall. Renovated servants' quarters, Blair had said.

This was a real guestroom, decorated with heavy red velvet and cream silk draperies around the huge four-poster bed. It looked like a room a king might have slept in. That was actually possible, Panther thought as he carried his unconscious partner back in from the large bathroom. The Foxmoors had been loyal subjects for nearly a millennium. This castle was almost that old. It had been falling apart before their old friend had inherited it. He'd poured the millions of dollars he earned as a top-flight international mercenary into the place and restored it to its former glory.

Then, of course, he had married Jenny a woman of no name or lineage who wasn't even sure how old she was or where she'd been born and killed himself.

There was a knock on the door and he lay Chief on the bed, pulling the curtains shut to shield him from prying eyes.

Jenny stepped into the room and shut the door behind herself. Despite the trappings of wealth and the difference a personal dresser could make, she was still going armed. Even her expensive tailored pantsuit couldn't quite hide the line of the shoulder holster.

Other than the clothes and makeup, she looked the same to Panther.

Actually, ten years of good food and a healthy lifestyle had made her look younger than when they had worked together. Now she could pass for thirty, when he knew she was closer to forty.

He waited, standing between her and the bed, arms behind his back, one hand gripping the pistol he'd stuck into his waistband.

He had trusted Foxmoor, within the limits Chief had established. They had never known Jenny well and there had never been any reason for Chief to touch her, so she was really an unknown quantity.

"I came here because you said we would always be as welcome as we once were."

She nodded.

"I meant it." She gestured around the room. "I hope this demonstrates my sincerity."

"It's a nice room." Panther tilted his head and stared at her for a long minute. "But it's not enough."

She seemed taken aback. Her eyes narrowed and he was pleased to see her get angry. She didn't say anything. More to the point, she didn't ask what she *could* do to prove her good intentions.

"I'd like to meet your son," Panther said quietly.

"That could be arranged. He's with his Governess right now. I've had to be sure that he's raised by other women, I'm not exactly mother material."

"I'd like to meet him *now*," he stressed the last word gently.

Jenny stared at him and then smiled. It was tight and hard, an expression he remembered from her face before. Before Foxmoor married her, before she became royalty, before she had wealth and style.

When she had just been a camp-follower that learned how to use a gun and got lucky.

"Alright. It will take a few minutes. In the meantime, would you like me to have cook send up something to eat?"

He nodded.

"Just some soup or stew if they have it. I'll be asleep for a long time after this."

She had agreed to let him see the boy, so he could give something in return. A bit of information; telling her that he would be vulnerable.

"How long?" Her tone expressed curiosity, which was natural; they were here in an emergency situation.

"A day, maybe two. My man will keep the door."

"I'll have Mrs. Potts bring Nigel up to meet you." She was getting ready to leave.

"You need to be here."

The look she gave him was measuring; call the cops and risk a shoot-up, politely ask him to leave, or trust him?

"Ten minutes." She was out the door before he had a chance to say anything else.

Panther went to the bed and pulled back the curtains. He couldn't get any closer than this at the moment; the urge to reconnect was too strong, and the were things he needed to do first. Once he began, he wouldn't be able to stop until it was over.

They hadn't done this in a very long time. The run through the jungle, the deliberate separation, the days spent together-but-not. To be close to him; to touch him and hold him and carry him *without* finishing the reconnect was maddening. Dan had only pointed out what he already knew it would make the reconnection process take that much longer and hurt that much worse.

For Chief as well as Panther.

So he allowed himself a few minutes to just look at his lover.

Chief no longer looked 25. As the years had passed and they'd spent less and less time as their alter egos, he had begun to age more normally. Lines on his face were appropriate for a man of 40, though he was actually a bit older than that. His white hair no longer looked so completely out of place.

It wasn't so much that they weren't doing angry, dangerous things anymore, but that they weren't spending all of their time trading that anger back and forth, and Chief wasn't being called on to be the Great Shaman on a daily basis. He'd begun living as a man again, and it had freed his body to react as if he were normal.

For himself Panther didn't miss it too much. Some nights he still dreamed of being the panther, of running flying four-footed through the jungle.

But in those dreams he also remembered the taste of human blood and the joy of killing and so he didn't miss that as much as he might have.

Chief looked healthy. Still too thin, Panther would always think he was too thin, he suspected, but he had a faint tan and his hair slid with light. Even now he looked a hundred times better than he had ten years ago, and then he had looked a thousand times better than he had the night they knocked on Simon's door.

He looked like the man Panther loved, in any form, only better.

A knock on the door broke his reverie, and he turned, letting the curtains fall shut again.

Jenny came in, with a young boy beside her. He stood tall and his eyes were friendly, but he had picked up on the nervousness Panther could smell from his mother and was standing as close to her as he could get without reaching for comfort.

"Nigel -" Jenny's voice hardly shook and Panther was impressed. "This man is an old friend of your father's. He's come to visit us for a few days and he wanted to meet you."

Nigel glanced at he, probably wondering why there was no name given, then he held out a hand.

"Pleased to meet you, sir. I'm Lord Nigel Foxmoor."

"The image of your father. He would have been proud." Panther took the hand and shook it. There calluses on the soft skin, he was only about eleven years old, but none of them were placed for weapons use. Probably riding and sports.

Nigel watched him for a moment. Panther watched him back, and then glanced at Jenny. She was biting her lip. However unmotherly she might have professed to be, she loved her son, and Panther was glad to see that.

It made this easier. She'd seen the threat and understood. He was sorry he had to do it, but wasn't in a position to take chances.

"Did you know my father well?" Nigel asked him.

"Pretty well. We worked together sometimes." He didn't know if this boy knew everything about his father, but there were things he could tell him that wouldn't frighten him. "After I've rested we'll talk about him, would you like that?"

"Yes, sir, very much." Such a painfully polite boy. Panther hoped he acted his age on occasion as well.

"We need to let him rest, he's traveled a very long time." Jenny steered Nigel toward the door. The last look she gave Panther was a ferocious glare, but he knew that she meant nothing specific by it. She was just marking her protest at his methods.

He knew she really hadn't been expecting he would do anything else.

With the room private again, he turned to the bed. Should he start now, so they would already be joined when Dan came in? Or wait until after Dan looked them over. He might be tied up with Misha for a while, and Panther didn't want to wait any longer. Wasn't sure he could stay here in this room and not join with his mate. So there really wasn't any decision to be made after all.

Chief moaned softly, not quite unconscious. From the images playing in his mind, Panther knew he wanted to wake up, but he was stuck until Panther joined him.

And then they would both be stuck for a while.

Panther opened himself to the need, letting his clothes fall away from his body as he slid onto the bed. The curtains dropped closed.

Gathering Chief in his arms, Panther sought entry and found it more quickly than he expected. His cock slid home with scant effort and suddenly he was there, in Chief's head, and Chief was in his and everything else faded from importance.

"Panther?" Dan knocked on the door softly. Misha thought that no one inside would have heard it and reached past him, intending to knock more loudly. Dan caught his arm and held it tightly, giving him an angry glance.

"Don't."

"He's not going to hear you."

"He already has." Another cryptic comment. Misha was getting tired of them.

"Nobody could *hear* that!" he snarled, yanking his arm from Dan's grip. "You're just as bad as they are, making like he's some kind of superhero. He's a fucking *bodyguard* -- nothing important! And he's going to get my wife killed!"

Dan just stared at him when he was finished, and then knocked on the door again. Just as softly. Misha cursed under his breath.

"God damned idiots, don't know what they're playing at..."

When there was no answer to the second knock, Dan pushed the door open and went in. Unwilling to be left standing in the deserted hallway, Misha crowded in behind him. Dan had to push him out of the way to shut the door. He locked it with the deadbolt provided.

Misha looked around the room. He could see the two figures entwined on the bed, the image blurred by the bed curtains.

"This is not the time for cuddling," he hissed softly. He didn't have *his* wife to cuddle.

It was strange to think such negative thoughts about the professor; he'd admired the man for so long. Practically worshiped him once. But after watching him be carried through the jungle and the way he'd collapsed afterwards, Misha found that respect considerably diminished. It was like the professor didn't have a mind of his own. Like he was just an extension of Andrew. Not like he thought at all, earlier. He had worried Andrew had no life outside the professor. Now he thought maybe it was the other way around.

Dan ignored him and walked to the bed, pulling back the curtains on this side so Misha could see what was really going on.

"Oh, gross." Misha turned away, not ready to deal with the blatant reality of their position.

They were having sex. Full-blown, cock-up-the-ass sex, and Dan just walked over and stared at them.

These were some sick people.

"Panther?" Dan asked quietly. When there was no answer he raised his voice slightly. "Panther!"

"'m here..." A rough whisper, closer to a growl. "Too long."

"It took you too long to rejoin, I know. I called Uncle, he said this might set you back."

"...how?" a whisper of air. Unable to resist, Misha turned his head and listened.

"You probably won't be able to separate at all for a while." Dan answered, and Misha caught his shrug out of the corner of his eye. The weirdness level was escalating again and he turned around, determined to confront it head-on this time.

But the sight made his tongue thick in his mouth and the words stick in his throat.

Andrew should he call him 'Panther' like he wanted? - was curled behind 'Chief', his body nearly obscuring the smaller one from view. Only a twist of the hips made the point of connection visible, and that had to be deliberate. Were they some kind of exhibitionists? Some mental disorder that their friends knew about and accepted?

Misha wasn't sure he could be their friend any more.

"Too...bad..."

"Yeah," Dan agreed with remarkable cheerfulness. "Let me just check you out and then we'll leave you to it."

Misha could hardly stand to watch. The doctor checked their pulses, their blood pressure, and then went over both men's bodies with his hands, kneading and probing. He patted Panther's flank and the man twisted away from the hand, and Misha caught a glimpse of something dark down his thigh.

"Got some fur there, P. You going to be able to hold shape?" Dan held the leg still and studied it intently. Panther answered with something like a snarl.

"Yes, dammit. You know I wouldn't do that to him."

"He's not exactly fighting back."

"I don't need him to, not anymore."

This conversation was almost more than Misha could stand. Taking a deep breath, he approached the bed, going around to the end so that he could see Panther's face.

The deep lines in it and the slitted blue eyes that stared back at him helped a few things crystallize in his brain.

"It's not autism." He looked at the two of them, struggling to accept this understanding. Things were not always what they seemed...sometimes the easiest explanation was wrong? "That's not what's wrong with him."

"No," Dan agreed.

"Good cover." Panther grunted. Chief was still and silent in his arms, his body slack and unresponsive.

"It's a very good cover," Dan said. "Explains almost everything."

"Almost." Misha stared at them. Then he looked at the floor and walked away, to stand at the door and wait for Dan.

He didn't know how he felt at this minute. It wasn't important really.

Eventually he would make sense of this all and then he could comprehend.

For now, only rest seemed important.

There was a conversation in the bed behind him, but he didn't listen to it.

* * * * * * *

He didn't listen to much of anything for two days. He was assigned a room. Servants appeared at his door with meals. There was a modern bathroom attached, but no phone and no television and no computer. He thought about leaving the room, and going to look for those things, but figured it wouldn't help if he found them. Who was he going to tell? How was he going to explain?

The evening of the third day Dan came to his door. He knocked, Misha opened it, Dan came in and Misha closed it.

Then he went and sat on his bed and stared at the floor some more. It was how he'd spent most of his time, when he wasn't sleeping.

"How's your arm?" Dan asked after the silence grew uncomfortable.

"It hurts." He flexed it, where it was bandaged from the fall, when he'd jumped out of the golf cart.

"I could give you something for that." Dan didn't come any closer.

"She could be hurting a lot worse right now."

"Your wife?" Misha didn't know why Dan had asked. Who else could he have been talking about. "Actually, she's probably okay. She's not who they were after."

Misha snapped his head up and glared at him.

"Explain that."

Dan shrugged.

"They wanted Nita. She's the only one they could have been interested in."

"That doesn't make any sense." She was just a kid, a smart kid and related to Panther, but "Because of them?"

"Yes," Dan granted him a small smile now that he saw Misha was following his reasoning.

"They think she could be whatever it is he is." But who were they?

"Let me tell you a story." Dan pulled the straight-back chair from the desk and set it in front of Misha, then sat in it. He leaned forward and Misha could see generations of American Indian storytellers in his eyes. "Once upon a time, there was a graduate student named Blair. You don't need to know more than that. He was doing his thesis on something he called 'Sentinels'..."

This time Misha listened. He learned more than he wanted to, but it was important enough for him to forget his own misery, if only for a little while.

* * * * * * *

Lost in the sea of images that overran his brain, Panther wasn't truly aware of his surroundings. He didn't know how long they had been here, or how long they had been joined. With awareness returning to him in scattered bits and pieces, he laboriously tugged his hand into view. The heavy steel bracelet was warmed by their bodies and felt almost alive. He remembered it had felt that way, when it was first put on, the steel heated by the welding torch and too hot for his skin, but Chief crooning in his head had made it somehow bearable...

He could see Chief's matching band, only a few inches away, on Chief's wrist, on his belly. They were snugged together as tightly as two people possibly could be.

This was where they had been when they got the bracelets. He remembered that. How long they had been here or when they would leave wasn't important. But the night they got the bracelets...

They had met Foxmoor through a source. Still new to the mercenary game, but making a name for themselves, they were invited to join his crew for a quick heist; Israeli intelligence data for the UN. With Foxmoor's social status, he was often hired by people who had a lot to lose if what they were doing became public. Foxmoor fancied himself a patriot and so worked for them eagerly when asked.

The heist had gone smoothly, Panther playing a key role. Chief's presence had been remarked upon and Foxmoor had, surprisingly, defended it himself. Afterwards he had invited them to join his next job, just the three of them. They had stayed two days in this house while they waited for arrangements to be completed.

Foxmoor had spent as much time in the same room with Chief as he could during that time.

The night before they left, Chief had been worn down. He spent that last day just lying in Panther's lap. Not sleeping, not even resting, just existing.

Things had taken a turn at dinner....

    "We need something," Panther had told Foxmoor in a clipped, reserved tone. He didn't trust this man. He knew too well how he felt, what it was like to want something you couldn't define.

Chief said he was okay. Sort of. Mostly the feeling Panther got from Chief about Foxmoor was that he wasn't dangerous to them and that they could use his obsession with Chief to their advantage.

And that Chief felt sorry for him. He'd sent Panther the image of a closet so dark and so deep that Foxmoor was never going to find his way out of it.

"All that I have is yours," Foxmoor replied with the kind of graciousness that only came from a hundred generations of nobility.

"He wants..." Panther paused. It was still hard, sometimes, to translate the pictures in his partner's head into words in his own. He was very good at it now, so much so that most of the people who knew them though Chief actually spoke at some level, or at least thought in something resembling sentences. In fact, it was nothing like that. Just images; often distorted, layered, jumbled or confused.

Right now all he was getting from Chief was the urgent need for a tangible symbol. A touchstone, a talisman... something to show the rest of the world that they were two parts of a whole.

Nothing more than that. It wasn't much to go on, but before they left on this insane mission of mercy, in just a few hours, Chief needed to have that something.

"You can ask me for anything," Foxmoor seemed perplexed by his hesitancy. "If I can make it, steal it, or buy it, it's yours." It was a hugely generous offer, considering the man's personal wealth and place in his society.

Panther couldn't think what to ask *for*. Rings were traditional, but could be taken off or lost. Necklaces, chains, other jewelry could be broken or used against them in a hand-to-hand fight.

"Something permanent," he said at last. Foxmoor just glanced up from his poached duck, looking curious and still mildly confused.

Under the table, wedged between Panther's leg with his head in the bigger man's lap, Chief whimpered. The sound was loud in the large, empty room.

Foxmoor flinched. His fight to restrain himself was plain on his face.

Panther knew he wanted to look under the table, to say something to Chief, but he resisted the urge. Panther was glad. It would only have upset his partner further.

"You want a tattoo?" Foxmoor asked, and it seemed that he was only half joking.

It wasn't a bad idea, except for Panther's oversensitive skin and susceptibility to drugs, things the titled mercenary didn't know about it. So not a tattoo, but maybe something else Panther had seen. A goth or punk symbol from the past.

When Panther and Chief, both of them, had just been people. Not warped, twisted versions of a tribal legend.

Blair Sandburg, deceased, had spent a lot of time in clubs and at parties.

Through him Jim Ellison, also deceased, had seen a few things he'd never thought of before.

Things like branding. And ritual scarification. Collars and chains and torques welded around necks, forearms, wrists and ankles, never to be removed.

Foxmoor House was a huge estate. They might have what he needed.

"Do you have a blacksmith?" he asked abruptly, one hand easing under the table to press Chief's face to his leg and muffle the sounds that distracted Foxmoor.

They'd been on too many missions recently, too close together. After the first year of this business, he'd thought they'd be able to stop. The rage continued to grow and so they kept working, flying from crisis to battlefield, each on the heels of another.

Chief had just been exposed to too many people. He needed a break.

They were committed to this mission, as crazy as it was. Going into South Africa to rescue employees of a DeBeers diamond mine that were essentially being held in slavery -- compared to the righteousness of freeing those people, stealing a small fortune in diamonds in the process seemed almost incidental.

After that they would take a break. Take time to decide if this was how they were going to spend the rest of their lives. Explore their options.

"We have a mechanic that does toolmaking and repairs things. He has a small forge and tools." Foxmoor still looked only curious. "He's probably gone home by now. Three little kids, pretty wife."

"Get him back." Panther made it an order. He picked up his fork and tried a mouthful of duck. It was delicious. Especially with the smooth white wine Foxmoor had pulled from his cellar. He watched his host signal the servant that waiting patiently by the door, who came to him promptly. They spoke in low whispers and Panther didn't bother listening.

Eating was important. There was little chance he would get Chief to eat, but he had to try to get something into him. It had been two full days since his partner had eaten. He was able to tap into Panther's strength, but that wouldn't sustain him indefinitely, and he was burning resources he just didn't have.

While Foxmoor spoke to the servant, Panther studied the table.

Something that could be hand-fed. Bread soaked in milk? There wasn't any milk on the table, but he was sure he would get some if he asked for it....

His soup, a creamed asparagus, was sitting untouched to one side of his plate. It would be easier to feed him if he could coax his lover out from underneath the table, but realistically he knew that wasn't going to happen.

The way Chief was plastered to his legs and clinging to him, he'd be lucky if he ever managed to get out of this chair.

With the servant dispatched, Foxmoor returned to his meal. Blatantly, making no effort to disguise what he was doing, Panther dipped his fingers up to the first knuckle in the still-warm soup, his thumb hooked over gold-edged rim of the bowl. He soaked them for a few seconds, then lifted them and let the excess drip off before he stuck his hand under the table.

He had a moment to worry if green asparagus soup could be cleaned out of antique Chinese wool, then a cool flick of tongue over his index finger told him he was understood.

Chief licked and suckled on panther's fingers until they were more than clean. He had to tug on them a little to get them away so he could dip them again. By now Foxmoor looked as if he couldn't choose between being appalled at the table manners or turned on by what they were doing.

Panther ate his own meal while he continued to feed Chief, adept at doing all manner of things one-handed because the other hand was taking care of his partner.

By the fourth dip it was clear from his scent and respiration that he'd chosen to be turned on. Panther couldn't blame him; Chief was making small purring sounds as he sucked much harder than was required to get the soup off. His hands were rubbing at Panther's thigh, almost kneading the flesh there. Like Panther's own namesake was for the moment living in his partner's body. Panther had to shift to ease the pressure on his erection.

Chief shoulder pressed into his groin.

He smothered a groan with a hastily-grabbed linen napkin. Feeding Chief was important, but this was becoming much more than that.

Fingers dipped in soup didn't sound very filling, but he noticed a bit later, as the desert course was being served, that the bowl was almost half empty now.

Chief was meandering through images of bloated bellies, satisfied purrs and long naps, so he'd probably gotten enough. Panther grinned around a bite of creme brulee, he would have to try this method again.

He left his hand under the table and let Chief suck on the index and middle fingers. Chief lay his head in Panther's lap and dozed. It was clear in his mind that he was thinking of sucking something else, of falling asleep with an entirely different part of Panther's anatomy in his warm, soft mouth.

Panther could barely keep his breathing even while he and Foxmoor discussed the evolution of automatic weapons and the future of 'smart guns'; weapons programmed to the fingerprint and chemical signature of an individual owner. They wouldn't fire for anyone else. Considering the baby girl at Stephen's and the real possibility his brother and Wanda would want more children, a weapon he could keep in the house that was safe for kids would be necessary. They would visit it, they didn't actually live there, and he was never going to be unarmed again. Not in this lifetime.

Desert was followed by coffee and brandy. The servant returned, spoke to Foxmoor, and resumed his position at the door.

Panther wondered if the man liked his job.

"Wellsfry is in the smithy. It will take thirty minutes or so to get the fire hot. We can go down there whenever you're ready." Folding his napkin, Foxmoor laid it on the table.

Chief murmured and nuzzled into Panther's groin, waking. Panther hesitated.

"If you don't mind," he said it so that Foxmoor would know that it didn't really matter if he minded or not, Panther was just being polite, "I'd like to sit here for a bit and enjoy the room."

It was certainly a room worthy of attention, with gold-leafed walls and ceiling beams blackened by centuries. Fox moor accepted this, though Panther thought he had an idea what was really going on.

"Of course. I'll just have a word with the staff, then, since we're leaving so bloody early tomorrow." Foxmoor stood, and stared at Panther just long enough to irritate him. He had to swallow a snarl. "I'll post a man at the door to be sure you're not disturbed, shall I?"

"Please," Panther snapped. He could feel Chief's clever fingers dancing over his straining cock, playing with his zipper, and it felt like Foxmoor was laughing at him. Not here, soung-qa, he thought with a hint of despair, but knew that he would never deny him. Pride, modesty, dignity.... none of that mattered when Chief wanted him. Needed him.

The double doors closed with perhaps more force than required, but he scarcely noticed. The zipper came down and his cock was freed by warm, greedy hands.

"God, Chief..." He gritted his teeth and grabbed the edge of the table, crumpling the Irish lace cloth. "You're going to kill me."

A rumble of happy-sound around the head of his cock as it was sucked in. Panther grunted, and tried to rise. But Chief was wrapped his arms around Panther's lower legs and kept him from moving far. He settled for lifting his butt and kicking the chair backwards. It tipped over and landed with a clatter. Panther grunted and held his breath, but the door did not open.

"He's out there, listening," he tried to tell his lover. Chief sucked harder and moaned. Cool air rushed over Panther's cock when his mouth opened and Panther shuddered, control stretched too thin. "We do have a room, caro-"

Blunt-trimmed nails dug into the backs of his knees and Panther thrust forward. Chief sucked harder, tilting his head to let him go deeper, and that was really what made the decision if there had ever been one to make.

"Fuck it," Panther grunted, and began doing exactly that to Chief's willing mouth.

It was so warm, so wet, and it sucked him in with this glorious pressure.

He was cramped, arched over the table and half-crouched to make the height difference workable, but he didn't feel any of that.

He could just see the shadow of Chef's face beneath the scalloped edge of the tablecloth. One hand left his leg and he took a half-step back with it to balance himself better, and knew that Chief was working himself while Panther used his mouth.

His head was flooded with images of suckling; babies, kittens, lion cubs, women's breasts, cocks, candy anything that could be sucked on, and under it all Chief's conviction that this *was* the best thing to have in his mouth. He was filled with love and lust and bone-deep satisfaction.

Chief began moaning with every thrust. He would open his mouth and moan, then suck harder, then moan again. The cycle of cool and hot was too much for Panther to take. Within a few minutes he was coming, and coming hard.

Chief swallowed and swallowed, making Panther's over sensitized cock tingle and his balls ache. Then he smelled Chief's come and heard the long, drawn-out sigh his partner issued before he slumped to the floor, exhausted.

With a weak chuckle, Panther tidied himself up. He lifted the edge of the tablecloth and rolled his eyes at the sight of his partner, lying on the floor in a heap, one hand still loosely clasping Panther's leg.

With his trousers unfastened and around his knees, his hair escaping from its braid in mad little tufts, come on his pants and his spent cock peeking out, Chief looked positively debauched. And about sixteen years old.

That occasionally made Panther feel uncomfortable, that Chief's age seemed so malleable, but as long as he knew how old his partner really was it wasn't a problem. It seemed to change from day to day, or even moment to moment, depending on how Chief was feeling. Like his features adapted to his perception of himself instead of his actual age.

His version of the shape-change, maybe.

Most of the time he looked the way Panther *wanted* him to look, and Panther didn't know how much of that was deliberate, if any.

He used a burgundy linen napkin, still neatly creased from being pressed, to clean up the spatters of come on the probably unimaginably valuable Chinese carpet. Chief had gulped down every drop Panther had, none of it had been wasted.

With things as clean as he could get them, he tucked his partner up and lifted him. He intended to cradle him, but Chief turned to cling, wrapping his legs around Panther's waist and his arms around his shoulders, mashing his face into his neck. He wasn't nearly as heavy as Panther would have liked him to be, but he was in much better shape than he had been two years ago.

He could hear Foxmoor outside the door as he approached. With one arm under Chief's ass to support him, he opened the left door and gazed at the other man.

Foxmoor sniffed delicately and Panther grinned, baring his teeth in what could only be interpreted as a threat.

"Ready when you are," the man said. "Do you know what you need now?"

It was vivid in Panther's mind; steel, wide bands of it, welded forever around two right wrists, one large, one smaller.

Strength and durability, without the shine of fashion.

Permanent.

"Yes," Panther answered.

"It's a short walk to the smithy do you need, um, anything else?"

Foxmoor glanced at Chief, but then at Panther's face, and he turned his eyes away, looking forward.

"No, we're good." As good as the two of them ever got, considering.

Panther had carried Chief all the way down the hill.

Now, as awareness came to him in the big bedroom, in the privacy of the bed curtains, Panther propped himself up on an elbow and stretched just a little bit. Chief's body followed the movement, and when Panther settled back down he did as well. The connection sometimes overrode autonomy, and Chief did things like this; his body mimicked Panther's. It could be disconcerting, mostly because Panther knew that when it happened Chief wasn't exactly present.

He had an urgent need to go to the bathroom, and he rather desperately needed a shower. Running his hand over Chief's stomach, he found evidence of spent passion, though he didn't remember any of it clearly.

He pulled away, Chief whimpering and reaching for him. Taking a step off the bed, he watched as his partner twisted and his whimpers became moans. Their extended joining should have relieved the pressure, but the separation must have still been affecting him. With a rare sigh, Panther scooped Chief up and carried him into the bathroom with him. Fortunately there was a low wall dividing the toilet space from the rest of the facilities, so he was able to set Chief on it and keep an arm around him while he took care of the most urgent need. He was crusted with semen and some old blood and a little shit and that was okay, because it would all wash off. After some soaking, he wasn't in the mood for scrubbing at tender areas right now.

He started a tub, thinking that he could call for a servant but not wanting anyone else in the room with them. Simon or Dan or Stephen or maybe Mike, they would be okay. But not a stranger.

The tub was big enough for him to sit in it with Chief between his legs, and deep enough to get the water up to their necks. A whirlpool would have been nice he thought with brief longing of the one at the Four Seasons Rio de Janeiro but this would do, for now. When this was over they could retreat to the cabin again, and soak in the hot tub there, on the deck that overlooked the lake. It didn't matter how cold it was outside. He didn't feel cold the way other people did, and as long as he was warm, Chief would be, too.

He scented Dan approaching before he heard the footsteps, then the knock that he didn't need, that Dan knew he didn't need.

"Everything okay in there?" Neutral question, calm voice. Dan wasn't sure what he was going to find, which was why he hadn't just opened the door.

"We're okay," he rumbled in reply, feeling the changes in his throat that meant he hadn't spent the past few days completely human. However long it had been, it felt like it had taken a lot longer than usual.

They were running out of time. There were people to save, a daughter to rescue. This transformation was as much hindrance as help sometimes.

"I'm coming in." The door opened and Dan did just that. He took a seat on the small sofa against the wall opposite the tub and looked them over.

Panther used both hands to tip Chief's head to where Dan could look at him, too. Chief mumbled something indistinct, the mental words less than clear, and nuzzled back into Panther's chest.

"He's not awake yet?"

"He's just sleeping now." Not the coma of separation, just deep healing sleep. "I'm not sure when he'll wake up, but I don't want to separate again anytime soon."

"Probably a good idea." Dan nodded. "Simon got here last night, and Mike arrived this morning. Everyone's ready to come up with a plan."

"Do we have any idea where they're being held?"

"Somewhere south of Iraq."

"How did they get them so far with no one noticing?"

"Mike says the operation was well funded. He thinks the US had something to do with it."

"Of course," Panther replied, and then he snarled. "We'll never be free of them."

Chief whimpered again and clutched at him, his face going pale against Panther's tanned chest.

"Relax," Dan came to the tub and leaned over it, reaching to take Panther's wrist between his fingers. "You're just going to upset him, and he needs to rest now."

"I'm *trying*." Panther held his breath, tried to bite back another snarl, but it came from deep inside him. Chief made a low sound of pain.

"*Panther* -" Dan spoke harshly, more worried about his patient than his own safety. Everyone around them knew, had always known, that the only thing standing between them and bloody, painful death, was Chief. His control over Panther's rage. It had gotten remarkably better since they dealt with Greggory, but this was the first time they'd had that balance interrupted since then.

He was only able to growl, baring his teeth and grabbing at Chief, holding him too tightly.

"You're hurting him -" Dan pulled at his arm, ineffectively. "Let him go, P - !" His voice rose, colored by anger and frustration.

Panther growled and felt his face begin to shift. He couldn't help it; after the extended reconnect, he was too raw to control anything.

"Dan? You need a hand?"

Mike's voice, and then Simon's deep baritone as the two men entered the bathroom. They must have been waiting in the bedroom, he hadn't heard them or smelled them, his senses preoccupied with the man in his arms.

"Dammit, Jim!" Simon straddled the tub, one foot in it, between his hip and the porcelain side. He bent over and applied pressure to Panther's wrist, hitting the nerve that would make it go numb, make it useless. Chief was limp against him, Panther was vaguely aware that the water was too deep for the way he was holding the smaller man.

Mike grabbed Panther's other wrist from Dan and applied the same grip.

Trained officers, they knew what to do to make him let go. He wanted to lash out, to hit them *bite* them rip their throats out and drag the bloody pieces back to his den and feed them to his mate

Together the two of them yanked Chief out from under the water, out of his arms, and Dan supervised the lifting, not objecting when Panther crawled out of the tub after them, keeping a numbed hand on his partner the whole way, until they were tucked back up in the bed and Chief was once again wrapped protectively in his embrace.

"Shit!" Simon swore, and Mike busied himself smoothing the covers with hands that showed his age. Simon turned to Dan and demanded: "What the hell was that?!"

"Reaction." Dan ran his hands over Chief's body, looking for broken bones. Panther knew he would find the bruises Panther had inflicted, but nothing was broken. He would have felt it.

"He's never done this before. Not without the, um..." Simon still found it hard to talk about sex and the two of them in the same sentence. He could see it, could understand it, could even be happy about it at the right times; but he wasn't going to talk about it.

"They came apart without warning and stayed apart too long after Panther got back to him. It's upset the balance." Dan let Mike cover the two of them back up. "Panther, do you want to sleep some more?" he asked in a clear, clipped voice.

The door to the room where the two men were staying was open. Misha approached with trepidation. He didn't know if he'd be welcome, or if they would still be doing what they'd been doing the last time he saw them... he'd stayed away for two days. Two more days of his wife missing, his students taken. Two more days of worrying about them all. Two more days of wondering why they didn't *do* something."

He heard the Indian's voice and went into the room quickly to answer.

"They can't sleep anymore!" Four sets of eyes turned to stare at him, startled. "We've got to do something! They can't just lie here in bed while Carla is hurt, while Nita is raped, while everyone is tortured!"

Panther looked up from the bed, where he was cuddling Chief. He spoke more kindly than Misha expected him to.

"I realize that you're worried, but I promise you, we'll get everyone home safely."

"How can you say that? You're not who you say you are, you've got some kind of hero-complex, why should I trust anything you say?" Misha knew he was shouting, but didn't care, leaning over the bed and glaring furiously.

"Because he trusted you." Panther smoothed the wet hair back from Chief's peaceful face. "From the first day you met, he trusted you."

Misha felt like he'd been punched in the gut. It was true, he'd always known it was true, he *was* special to Chief. He'd always known that, believed it since the beginning. Now he was being told he'd been right, and he didn't know how to react to that.

"But - " he searched for words that didn't come.

Dan put a hand on his shoulder.

"They just need a little more time to rest. You can help with the preparations." He steered Misha toward the door, and Misha let him. His mind was too full of new questions to stop and argue.

The professor trusted him. He'd known that, he had, but to have this man, this man 'Panther' say it so bluntly. To use it that way, to make Misha see the importance of it.

"I'm just worried," he mumbled. The rest of it didn't seem important right now.

"We all are. But these guys know what they're doing. Why don't you join the rest of us in the war room; we're trying to find the most likely place they're holding the hostages."

"If they were hostages there would have been demands," Misha said quietly. He was beginning to understand. After all that Dan had told him, he thought he did. "Have there been any demands?"

"No," Dan answered just as quietly as the question had been asked. So Misha knew, and understood, that it wasn't about taking the students, that it wasn't terrorism or making a point. It was about the two men in the bed upstairs.

"I don't know how much help I can be." he followed Dan through another long hallway, drafty but richly decorated.

"You're a smart guy, Blair has always said so. I know we can find something you can do."

And it will help him feel better about waiting. Misha knew what Dan was trying to do and he appreciated it. At least if he helped he wouldn't feel so helpless himself.

* * * * * * *

"Misha -" Dan's hand on his arm, turning him away from the laptop screen he'd been staring at for half an hour. "We're going to have a sit-down and you're included."

"What for?" he shut down the system; it wasn't like he'd found anything helpful anyhow.

"Strategy. Daryl, Simon and I have some specific requests for P and C. We don't think they'll go for it, so we're going to argue."

"And you need me there for this?" It sounded like it would be less than fun, were they just trying to torture him?

"I think you'll agree with our point of view. But it's about the hostages - for lack of a better word - and you have the right to be in on the decision-making."

"If you put it that way." Misha stood, and stretched. He'd never felt old or sore before, but now it seemed like his muscles creaked with age and his bones ached.

He had called home last night, and checked on Sasha, safe at Carla's Mom's house. It had been hard, to not tell her that her daughter wasn't safe with him, that she'd been taken, but that would have only made things worse.

Listening to his baby coo at him over the phone lines had lifted his spirits considerably. No matter what else happened, Sasha was safe.

"It's going to be in the den, there's a satellite link hooked up so we can talk to Stephen and Wanda. You'll have to be careful with Chief he's going to be more sensitive than usual."

"*More* sensitive? What does that mean, he'll break if you touch him?" Misha was trying to make a joke, feeble though he knew it was, but Dan seemed to take him seriously.

"He might not break, but your bones will. The old rules don't apply right now. Just keep your distance and don't speak directly to him."

"It's worse than radical autism, isn't it?"

Dan just nodded at him. They shut the door to the study and went to find the others.

It was far worse than Dan had said it would be.

"No! We aren't going to expose ourselves! The attention would kill him!"

Panther shouted, his voice loud, angry, and growly. It was in contrast to his physical position; sitting sedately on a sofa, one arm wrapped around Chief, who seemed to be trying to meld with the sofa behind them, burrowed into Panther's side in a way that had to hurt.

On the video monitor, Panther's brother, Nita's father, was speaking. The picture quality was good, but it was a small screen, and Misha could only see one arm of the wheelchair the man used. His wife, still pretty after four children, hovered close to his side.

Panther subsided, the arm around Chief tightening. It looked like it was going to hurt the smaller man. Seated in an armchair just beside them, Misha wanted to reach over and loosen it, but he was reminded of Dan's warning by the look in Panther's eyes.

It was getting easier to think of them this way, as Panther and Chief rather than the professor and his bodyguard. Roderaff and Andrew were nowhere to be found in these men. It was as if they had never existed.

And maybe they hadn't, which brought his whole relationship with them into questions, and by extension his whole career; had any of it been real?

Right now, that wasn't the most important question he could be asking.

Dan reached over from behind the sofa and did what Misha had wanted to; he used both hands to pry Panther's arm from Chief's shoulders, enough to give him some room to breathe. Panther snarled there was no other way to describe the sound he made and swatted at Dan, who ducked with what looked like the ease of practice.

If the blow had landed, how much would it have hurt?

Dan gave him a half-grin and stepped around the couch to lean close and whisper "Counting coup."

It made Misha laugh out loud. He hadn't been expecting it!

The two Banks men just stared at him and he covered his mouth with one hand, waving at them with the other.

"Sorry," Dan said, but he looked less than repentive.

"If you're finished goofing off?" Simon said icily.

Misha nodded, his amusement fading fast.

"As I was saying, before being so rudely interrupted we've talked about this before, Jim."

Who the hell was 'Jim'? Misha realized that Simon was talking to Panther, but he'd never heard that name for him. How many names did these guys have?

"The only way to protect you and the kids is to make sure the public knows what happened." Stephen spoke from the screen, and Wanda added her piece.

"You already have a sympathetic community from the books, people are ready to protect you, as soon as they know you actually exist."

Books? What books?

He had to ask.

"Okay what books are you talking about? I've read everything the Professor's ever published hell, I proofread the last two - and there was nothing in *any* of them that explained this!"

For some reason, that made the others laugh. Simon guffawed and Dan roared.

Wanda blushed while her husband explained.

"Years ago, my brilliant wife decided that the story of 'Panther and Chief' was essentially a fairy tale, and that it would make a great book. So she wrote one. It sold well, so she wrote another. It became a best seller, so..."

"There are books?" Misha said with disbelief.

"A highly fictionalized version of their story, yes." Wanda looked at them all, glowering.

"I told you only women read them."

Misha had to think about it...

"Hey! My mother reads those! The ones about the mercenaries?!"

Steven nodded, and chuckled. Misha sat, stunned.

"So there is an audience ready to embrace them," Wanda said. "An active group that will do everything they can to protect them. They'll be so fascinated by the idea that they are real..."

"I won't have him made a public spectacle!" Panther roared. It felt like the very room shook with his anger. "Make him more isolated than he already is! Weirdos and opportunists will be crawling out of the woodwork."

"We can protect him. We can protect both of you. It will be the same as it is now, only you'll have your names back," Simon said firmly.

"You can have your *lives* back." Wanda added.

"You mean, like it never happened?"" Panther's voice dropped dangerously low. "We'll be the way we were before?"

"Of course not -" Dan started to disagree with him, but Panther stood, and he fell silent.

Panther swung Chief up into his arms. Chief whimpered and turned his body into Panther's chest, seeking to hide from their view. His hair trailed over them both, a cloud of soft white pain.

"He'll never be what he was before. Because of me. He'll never be who he was *supposed* to be because of ME!"

"No, no, no, no...." Chief was twisting in his grasp, frantically. Misha was afraid he would fall. Being the closest, he stood and made a grab for him, forgetting Dan's warning.

"Pro -" he caught an arm, and his friend opened his eyes, looked at him for a few precious seconds, and Misha saw the pain and the fear and his professor in those eyes. The man he knew, the man he respected and admired, he was in there. Trapped in this mess, but aware.

Then Misha felt himself lifted, and thought for a minute that he'd learned to fly, before he hit the wall doing what felt like fifty miles an hour.

His teeth clicked shut on his tongue and his eyes seemed to explode from their sockets. Everyone was staring at him with horror, and then everything was black.

"He's coming around." Dan's voice. When had he become so familiar with it that he could recognize it over the jackhammer that was running just outside the window?

Misha opened his eyes, and looked around.

He was laid out on the sofa P and C had been on while they were talking.

There were no windows in the big stone room with the oak paneling.

That meant there was no jackhammer running outside of one.

That meant that ungodly racket was here in his head.

"Oh, shit." he moaned and covered his ears with both hands, as if that would help.

"Just lie still. You probably have a mild concussion, but it will pass." Dan patted him and Misha looked up at him and saw no anger in his eyes, only sadness.

It took a few seconds, but he managed to look around the room without actually moving his head.

The video was turned off. Daryl and Simon were still in their chairs, or maybe gone back to them. There was another man, someone Misha hadn't met, sitting near them, an open laptop on his knees. He looked .... bland. Not a noticeable face; regular, average features, boring brown suit, mostly grey brown hair cut the way so many men wore it.... Panther was standing on the other side of the room, near a bookshelf, with Chief wrapped tightly around his body, arms around shoulders, legs around waist. There wasn't room for a molecule between them.

There was a stillness in them, a tension he hadn't seen before, but recognized.

When you'd done everything you could and the end was out of your hands... that's what people looked like then. Before the tragedy actually happened, but when they knew it was coming.

"What'd I miss?" he asked, trying to sound light and failing.

"All the warnings I gave you, obviously, " Dan half snarled, but wouldn't let him sit up right away. "Let me make sure you're okay."

That seemed like a good idea, considering the jackhammer. Dan checked his eyes and pulse and blood pressure, while Misha watched Simon approach Panther and Chief. He didn't speak to them, just walked over and stood by them for a minute or two. Eventually he raised a hand and let it hover in the air above Panther's shoulder. Misha frowned. He should have remembered. The care Simon was using made him feel guilty for forgetting.

"Did I hurt him?" he asked Dan, who was digging in his bag. Misha hoped he was looking for painkillers.

Dan glanced at the men in the corner and shook his head.

"Not really. He knows you. But you got off lucky with a bump on the head. You know that, right?"

"Yeah." Misha watched. Panther leaned back until Simon's hand was touching him, then turned so Chief was between he and Simon. Simon patted and rubbed both men. The tension level eased visibly.

Daryl shut his laptop and came to sit on a couch.

"I think we've found them," he said simply.

Everyone but Chief looked at him.

"Sit down, don't loom," he seemed to be talking to Panther and Simon, who Misha now knew was Daryl's father. "We just have to make arrangements for you to go in."

Simon urged P and C to a large armchair, where Panther sat with Chief still attached to him like a baby baboon. The others were paying attention, so Misha sat up. Dan helped him, then offered him a glass of water and some pills. Misha took them without inquiry.

Once everyone was settled, Daryl began again.

"This is the way I would like to see it done; I'll go with P-and-C to free the hostages. Dan should come with us, in case there are any injuries."

Misha winced. Dan patted his shoulder.

"Dad, you and Mike should do the interviews. Mike is too well established to be vulnerable to retaliation, and Dad will be protected by the information the same way P-and-C are."

"Are we going to tell everything?" Simon wanted to know. He took a worn cigar case out of a pocket, but didn't open it, holding it as if it comforted him.

"No names," Panther rumbled, his face at Chief's neck. "Anybody's."

"Just call them Panther and Chief," Dan said.

"We have the videotape and other documentation," Mike agreed.

"The interviews need to happen about the same time as the rescue," Daryl said. "I got a friend of mine in the anti-terrorist unit to check recent activity. He sent me a group of satellite fly-bys that were taken yesterday and this morning. His people didn't know what was going on, but the activity was suspicious enough that they marked it."

He opened the laptop again, fingers flying over the keys.

"Somebody get the monitor?" He nodded at the big screen, currently black and quiet.

Dan went over to P and C, so Misha turned it on. The push of a button and suddenly there was a picture.

Blue, blue ocean, glassy and smooth. And a boat, getting larger as the picture changed. A digital slide show.

"There's no name or registry on the ship." Daryl paused in his typing.

"It's a yacht, which tells us that either the expedition was well-funded and has influential people behind it -"

"Or they stole it," Misha finished for him. "How do we know it's them?

The boat was almost clear on the screen now, close enough that they could make out figures on the deck.

"Hang on." Daryl motioned at the screen, and they waited.

The figures became people, sitting on the deck. It looked like the right number of them....

And there she was. Dark hair pulled up into a rough knot, the way she wore it when she cleaned house or took a long bath.

"Carla," Misha sighed.

Something made him turn his head, and he found Chief staring at him with wise blue eyes.

"And there's Nita, beside her," Simon pointed out.

The teenager was lying down, her head in Carla's lap. There were three guards with guns, and the ship was moving, but not too quickly.

"We got lucky," Daryl said. "Normally these waters aren't routinely shot by satellites, but they were hunting for some Chinese smugglers -- the kind that smuggle people -- because there's been some hints that anti-American factions are getting into the US that way. Instead they found this. The kidnappers probably knew this route was seldom photo'd and that's why they chose it."

Daryl looked very pleased with himself. Mike applauded softly.

"So what do we do?" Misha asked, looking at them all.

"You're going home to wait," Daryl told him.

Misha decided that, for whatever reason, Special Agent Daryl Banks didn't like him. He didn't understand why, and he didn't much care. As long as he got his wife back safe and sound.

"No," he said simply. "You'll take me with you. It's my right."

Daryl looked as if he could become very angry, very fast.

"It's his place," Panther spoke up, not looking at them. Misha glanced over at them and was relieved to see that Chief was gradually puling himself away from the bigger man. "He kept up in the jungle. He's earned it."

"He's not trained."

"Neither was he, that first year." Panther ran a hand through Chief's tangled hair.

"What are we going to say, in the interview?" Simon interrupted.

"Who is it going to be with?"

"I can get us on a couple of shows," Mike answered. Daryl continued to glare at Misha, who lay his head on the back of the sofa and closed his eyes.

"Mostly, it depends on the time of the attack. 60 minutes is on Sunday, that's who I'd like to go with, but I don't know if we can get it together that fast."

"All we need is the chopper." Panther was still petting Chief, who was more-or-less on the arm of the chair beside him now. "And a pilot we can trust."

"I'll provide that." Cullen spoke up, but it was clear Daryl had meant to answer that one. "It will use up all the favors I've got coming, but I can do it. Any objection to using Marine equipment?"

"None." Panther sounded calmer now, and prepared. Misha just listened.

Sunday was only hours away. He could have Carla back in less than a day.

Despite the pills that Dan had given him, his head was still pounding. With his eyes closed and the others discussing the various options for landing, the attack, etc, it was easy to tune them out and let himself drift.

* * * * * * *

Panther sat in the chopper, stiff and still. He was cold in the sea air, the wind of their passage roaring by, but warm where Chief's body covered his.

This was an unnerving trip for both of them. For Chief, the flying was bad. He hated it as much today as he had when he was Blair.

For Panther, who actually liked flying despite having suffered through the horrific crash that started it all, being suspended over so much open water, with no land or even manmade structures in sight, was a little bit like going crazy. Normal-person crazy, anyhow.

Daryl sat up front with the pilot, a Marine captain who had been given no briefing on the mission. They were under the radar in more ways than one.

Daryl was coordinating things with Mike, and Mike was in contact with his son, a Marine captain on the carrier they had borrowed the chopper-and-pilot combo from. Beside him, Misha was fidgeting under the weight of the Kevlar they'd insisted he wear. He held the modified Glock-52 a recent model of

automatic machine pistol awkwardly in his lap. Panther knew the kid -- lately anyone under 30 seemed like a kid -- felt guilty about the incident during the briefing. Chief had told him so, and Panther could smell it.

Misha had been part of their lives for a long time. A big part of the most normal part of their lives. Panther realized that he'd probably started taking Misha's presence for granted. Having that one particular student; the one that respected, admired and emulated him, was a professor's dream. Misha had been that student for Chief, and a friend as well.

Surrounding himself with smart, young people helped him stay young and smart, Chief told him silently, without a hint of movement. Panther knew he was terrified.

You'll always be the smartest and most beautiful of them all, he thought, with an edge of tease, because he knew his lover did not think of himself as beautiful. Forever too thin now, his eyes too big in his face. With his security-blanket hair everywhere, blowing around and tangling when not braided, as it was now.

Panther grabbed the braid and held on, just because it made him feel better.

It was much better now, between them. After Chief's amazing sleep, words had returned to him. When he was threatened or upset he lost them again, but most of the time now they could have actual conversations.

Panther liked it much better than the hit-or-miss hieroglyphic translation that was required of him before.

I think I've figured out the water thing. It's the cat, Chief added a picture of the enormous body of water they were currently crossing. Then he dropped a large, wet, angry panther into it and Panther chuckled out loud. He agreed that Chief could be right. Even before the panther surfaced as a part of him, he'd hated open water, and feared it.

He'd never really thought why; it was just one of those things. A phobia. No explanation required. But he suspected that in this, as in so many things, his mate was correct. It would explain a lot, of he'd been living with the panther's responses even before they were taken.

Beside him Misha shifted again. He was as far away from Panther as he could get in the cramped space. The seat opposite them was taken up with gear; the raft, supplies, and Dan, who was dozing wedged in the corner, covered with a heavy blanket.

"You warm enough?" He tried to sound pleasant. Even friendly. But the young man still cringed slightly, as if expecting to be hit again.

There had been a time when Panther liked Misha. When he'd understood how important he was to Chief. Since the kidnaping, things had been different. To Panther, it was like he'd shed the concealing skin he wore so often; the one that allowed him to exist as 'Andrew'. As long as he was beside Chief and protection him, it didn't matter what he was called or what he did. It certainly didn't matter what other people thought of him, though with his ears he couldn't miss the comments made by staff and students.

All that mattered was that he was essential to Chief's survival in that setting, and that being a professor was about the only thing that made him even remotely happy.

The only thing that let him be the way he used to be. Misha was a part of that. So Panther had always been nice to him. Even admired him; his intelligence, his determination, his kindness to others.

Now he wasn't so sure. Everything was so wrapped up in Chief...

The big man was staring at him. Like he was trying to figure out if he'd be good to eat or better to play with. Misha shifted, uncomfortable under that unrelenting gaze.

He understood now, a little bit, the things he hadn't before. There really wasn't any explanation that would make sense, but he did understand, as far as that went.

When the gaze became too heavy, he unbuckled himself and squeezed up between the seats to talk to Daryl. At least the FBI agent seemed sane.

This whole thing was crazy. Waiting for Daryl to notice him not wanting to distract him from the maps he was reading Misha thought about all the things he could be angry about. That the professor had lied to him. Lied to everyone. It wasn't that his lies had garnered sympathy he wasn't entitled to; if anything, the cover story of severe autism didn't begin to describe the hell he'd been through. It was just that those lies had put other people in danger.

Had put his wife in danger.

To be fair, there really hadn't been any way they could predict that. From what Dan had told him, they had thought they were out of danger. Under the radar.

Daryl put down the map and glanced back, his face twisting in a grimace.

"I don't see why they have to sit like that."

Misha glanced back.

Chief was wrapped around Panther as tightly as a human could be. Like they were only temporarily separated into two bodies. Panther was stroking his loose hair and nuzzling his neck. The scary blue eyes were closed.

Misha felt something pull at his heart. It hurt, to see the professor like this. So different from his normal self. He was always trying to communicate, and now there was only him, and Panther, and Misha couldn't be a part of that.

"I thought they were always like this."

Daryl frowned.

"I remember when they were normal. It's like I remember it more because I didn't see much of them afterwards. My dad went into hiding with them. He left me behind with my mom, and I only saw him a few times after that.

Secret meetings, carefully arranged. He didn't come to my high school graduation, or college. He wasn't at my wedding. I never lied to my wife about him. We just didn't talk about it." he glanced back at them again and the looked at Misha, meeting his eyes. "What happened to them became the defining factor in my life, too. It's like everything in our lives tracks back to the moment they were taken, and it just keeps happening."

The pilot was keeping his eyes on the water below them. Misha wondered if he was blocking out what they were saying, or if it would become gossip on the carrier later that day. What kind of secrets would a man like this keep?

Daryl had gone back to reading the maps.

"Maybe this will be the end of it." Misha offered hopefully. "Maybe this will be the last time they have to be those people."

"Maybe." Daryl didn't sound convinced. "They should have never had children. It was too big a risk to take."

"I thought she was his niece!" Startled, Misha spoke more loudly then he'd intended, and Panther fixed him with a glare.

"Nothing's ever that simple," Daryl told him, returning the fierce look.

"Not where these guys are concerned."

Misha stared at Panther, once again confused. He'd *thought* he understood, but where did a daughter fit into all of this...?

"We're going to be at the ship soon." Daryl bumped him with a knee.

"You better get back there and get ready to jump."

"Jump?" Misha blinked, and Daryl gave him a slow, challenging smile.

"You thought we were going to land on the ship?"

Deciding he was only going to be mocked, Misha decided to change the subject.

"Why are they keeping the hostages where they can be seen? These should be experienced bad guys, right?" It was easier to think of them as generic 'bad guys' than as evil men who were possibly raping and torturing his wife. "They would know about things like GPS and stuff."

"They should, but they're way out of the way. Either they think no one's looking on the sea, or they don't care."

"Or they have something they don't want the hostages to know about. If they just bought passage on a random ship, it could be transporting anything."

"If they don't want them to know about something, that could only be if they were planning to let them go." It was a ray of hope. "Right?"

"They would let them go eventually, we're sure of it. Except Nita."

Panther spoke grimly.

"And possibly someone they could use to control her." Daryl added. Then he looked away from Panther, as if he regretted saying it.

"Someone like Carla?" His wife didn't know her that well, but she had babysat for them the past summer, when she'd apparently lived with Roderaff and Andrew. The women had shopped together... Misha made a soft sound of pain as he understood.

"We're lucky." Daryl stated. "They didn't kill everyone else just to cover their tracks. It's a good sign, that they weren't willing to do that."

Panther grunted.

"So how are we going to get on the boat?" Misha asked.

The plan was simple, maybe too much so. The chopper would fly low, several miles away from the ship. They would be dropped, along with a rubber boat and gear. The gear would include a handheld GPS unit programmed with the boat's last coordinates and extrapolated course.

The wetsuit was too tight. Misha felt like he couldn't breath. He watched, shuddering, as Panther and Daryl painfully stuffed Chief into one of them, the professor scarcely moving, definitely not cooperating.

"Eta drop point twelve minutes," the pilot said. It was the first thing he'd said since they started, as far as Misha could remember.

He watched, fascinated, as Panther sat by the open bay door of the chopped, with Chief in his lap, the smaller man's head resting on his shoulder, his eyes closed.

He listened as Panther spoke, not hiding his curiosity.

"Chief... Chief. You gotta wake up now. I need you. I can't get in that water without you. I need you in my head. I need to be able to talk to you. If you don't wake up they're going to die. Your students, Nita, Carla. All of them will die if you don't wake up and help me. I need you, Chief. I always need you. Wake up now and help me. Chief, listen to me..."

It went on for a few minutes, and then started to trail off. Misha couldn't tell if Roderaff had woken up or not. But then Panther leaned down and kissed him, holding Chief's head in both hands. It was the sweetest kiss Misha had ever seen. Right out of a movie. He suddenly felt tears come to his eyes and he knuckled them away briskly.

Daryl gave him a sympathetic smile.

"You should have known him then," he said quietly. Misha wondered if there were tears in his eyes, too. Dan had told him the story, but he hadn't really thought about it in human terms. What had been done to them was horrible. But it hadn't just been done to them. It had hurt a lot of people; their families, their friends. All the people that cared for them. Daryl had given up his father. Simon had given up his son. Chief had lost his mother.

Panther had lost his essential self.

Crying about it was nothing to be ashamed of. There wasn't time now, but someday he would learn more about the person his professor used to be.

He figured they would have liked each other a lot, if the way things were now was any scale to measure by. To mourn something he'd never really had a chance to know might seem irrational, but there wasn't a lot about this that made sense.

"Drop point in two minutes." The pilot gave warning. The chopped had slowed. There was a burst of activity. Daryl showed Misha how to adjust his snorkel and strap on his fins.

"Just hang onto those and fall into the boat. You go right after me and do it the way I do."

"How many bad guys are there?" Misha asked, his fear coming back to the fore.

"It doesn't matter." Daryl held his shoulder for minute and met his eyes. "Just think about what you have to do next. It's all little steps. First we get into the boat. Then we paddle the boat. Then we swim..."

"Then we sneak onto the other boat and get ourselves shot, get everyone there killed."

"*No*." Daryl shook him. "*we* save the hostages. Get them off the boat and into the water. Don't worry about the bad guys. Panther -" he spit the name out, "-will take care of the rest. No matter what you see, no matter what you hear, you keep focused on your part of the mission."

Mission. He had a mission. To get his wife and his students back alive.

"At least we know they can all swim." It had been a requirement for the trip. Fortunately anthropology majors in general were an adventurous bunch.

"Yeah. At least we know that." Daryl gave his shoulder a final pat.

The chopper dropped low. A light came on under it, illuminating the choppy black water. Misha looked out the window and sucked in a breath.

This was insane.

Daryl was at the big door, with a heavy square of rubber. He dangled it out of the chopped and did something to it it gave an evil hiss and started to expand. He dropped it with a satisfied smile.

It occurred to Misha that he liked doing this sort of thing.

He waved at Misha, who moved carefully across the ribbed metal floor, which was getting wet.

"Do what I do!" Daryl shouted at him. The sound of the chopped blades seemed to be magnified a hundred times by the water so near.

Misha nodded vigorously, and then crouched beside the door.

Daryl turned his back to it, and curled over, with one hand covering the top of his snorkel. He looked to Panther, on the other side of the door, and gave him a thumbs up.

Panther returned it, and Daryl fell backwards out of the chopper.

Misha felt his stomach drop.

He looked down and didn't see Daryl.

He looked over and saw Panther staring at him.

He moved to the middle of the door and copied Daryl's position.

It was startling cold. The wind and the water were whipped up by the blades. He felt spray on his face and remembered to pull his mask on. That helped.

"I can't hold her here forever!" the pilot shouted back at him.

Misha took a deep breath, and leaned backwards. As soon as he felt himself start to fall he panicked, and started to grab for the chopped, but it was too late; he went straight down into the black water, arms and legs flailing, not at all gracefully.

He couldn't tell up from down and trashed in the grip of the water, but then something was grabbing him he grabbed back, and saw Daryl's face, twisted and bizarre in the yellow light.

Daryl motioned and he went that way, and broke the surface, gasping for air. The boat was only a few inches away and he latched onto the side like a monkey child afraid of falling.

He barely had time to look, and then Panther was tumbling out, Chief held securely against him.

Misha held his breath until they surfaced, and he could see that Chief was swimming on his own. All that stuff Panther had said seemed to have worked. Panther helped him into the boat first, Misha and Daryl holding it still, then he put a hand on Misha's bottom and heaved him in. He fell on top of Chief, who laughed roughly and shoved him off.

Misha sat up and gave an arm to Daryl, who in turn helped Panther aboard. The chopper had left them and he hadn't even noted, but he could hear Panther's breathing in the wet night; fast and deep.

He was frightened.

That shook Misha. He couldn't imagine what would scare that man so badly.

"It's the water," Daryl sat beside him and picked up an oar. "We need to get going. They'll take care of each other."

Following his example, Misha picked up the another oar and they began to paddle. Though the water had looked rough and dangerous when the chopper was above it, now it was calm and smooth. Like an unending sheet of rippled black glass.

Behind them he heard soft wet sounds, but didn't turn to look. Daryl seemed to know which way they were going, but Misha could hardly see a thing. He'd had to leave his glasses behind. There was a little light at the front of the boat, but it didn't go far.

"How do we know we're going the right way?"

"We've got that GPS thing, if Panther can pull himself together enough to use it. And it's only a few miles he should be able to hear them pretty soon."

"That's fantastic," Misha said, and he didn't mean it in a good way. A comic-book-super-hero way, maybe.

"It's the way things are." The deep voice startled him. Panther took the seat behind Daryl. Chief took the one behind Misha. They both picked up oars. Misha thought again of how frail Roderaff had always looked, and how surprising his strength was. Maybe it was something else he got from Panther...

Once again Misha realized that he was going to have to re-evaluate everything he knew about his friend. Once he factored Panther into the equation, everything they did together became something else again.

Daryl and Panther exchanged places. They all paddled, everyone concentrating on keeping their pace steady and being quiet. The darkness was intimidating, the distance eating their thoughts before they were fully formed.

"Stop," Panther said suddenly. Everyone pulled their oars up. Misha strained to look in the direction Panther was looking, but all he saw was black water and black sky.

"What," he whispered, daring to touch Panther's arm. The boat wasn't very big.

"Over there," he whispered back, pointing.

Misha stared, and thought he saw the water ripple.

"I don't see anything."

"Wait," Panther said. His voice vibrated with a sense of awe Misha heard but didn't understand.

Chief leaned forward and reached across the boat to put his hand flat on Panther's back. In the dim, flickering light, Misha thought that his eyes were closed.

His hair was bound tightly, his skin tight to his bones.

He looked ethereal. Otherworldly. Misha had never seen him quite like this.

For a moment, he could see why Panther called him beautiful.

"Here he comes."

Snapping his attention back to the water, Misha's eyes widened and he felt his heart stutter.

Breaking the surface, only a few feet to the right, was the glistening back of an enormous whale.

"Oh my God..." he whispered the words, and they wouldn't stop coming. "Oh my God, oh my God.."

"God of the sea..." Chief rasped out. He hadn't moved. He hadn't looked. "Don't be afraid."

Misha couldn't tell who he was talking to, and didn't care. He couldn't tear his eyes away as the massive bulk slipped through the water. It was only visible for a few seconds, then it vanished again, as cleanly as if the ocean had swallowed it.

Everything was still, and silent. He noticed, for the first time, that there was no sound of birds or insects. Of course, there wouldn't be, but he had never realized how much a part of the background they always were, even in cities.

"What -" he had to wet his lips, his mouth was so dry. "-what was it?"

"Gray." Chief said. The word was faint even in the silence.

"What did it want?"

"To welcome Panther and Chief." the big man said, the awe still in his voice. "Chief, I don't think I'm going to be afraid of the deep any more."

Misha's friend gave a short, choked laugh.

"We've got a schedule to keep." Daryl broke the moment. His words seemed almost callous. Misha put his oar back into motion as the others did, Chief taking his hand from Panther's back.

The disturbing feeling he had about Daryl, that the man didn't like Panther, was reinforced by those words. But he didn't begrudge him the feeling, because Panther and Chief had taken his father from him, and kept him away. It wasn't exactly their fault, but the boy he had been needed someone to blame. It seemed that the two understood that, so there was no point Misha getting upset on their behalf.

They paddled on. It seemed like hours. It was easy to lose track of time in the unending darkness.

Finally Misha saw a glimmer on the horizon. Panther stopped paddling, and the others pulled their oars in.

"Drop it here," he said. Daryl pulled something from the bottom of the boat. Misha watched, and saw that it was a block-shaped thing.

"What is it?"

"Anchor."

"It doesn't weigh enough -" he made himself shut up and watch. Daryl did something to it, and then attached some sort of can to the side. He pushed a button on the can and threw the whole mess overboard.

"If I started the sequence in the boat it wold have sunk us."

"What was in the can?" he was aware of Panther and Chief cuddled together at the other end of the boat.

"A chemical compound that hardens at two hundred times the original weight."

"How will we get away from it?"

"We'll cast off the line. It's 100 % biodegradable."

It was really more information than Misha needed, but talking about it was distracting him from the reawakening fear.

"You'll be fine. Just follow my lead." Daryl told him. "Let Panther do what he does best."

"I used to think I knew what that was."

"It is," Panther spoke up. They were all keeping their voices low. "I protect the Tribe. Sometimes the tribe is bigger than others."

The statement made no sense, but Misha wasn't going to argue.

"Just remember we're in it too," he tried for a weak joke, and watched it fall flat. "Are we going?"

"Get in the water, kid. Feet first, we don't want any splashing."

Wanting to whine like a five-year-old ; why do I have to go first?! - Misha did as he was told, slipping into the water and holding onto the boat.

The others followed, Panther with Chief clinging to his back like a seal. Or an otter cub. Misha decided he was going to need some new allegories to describe them when this was over.

They left two cases of what he supposed were supplies in the bottom of the boat.

It was almost anti-climatic. The guards on deck were half-asleep.

When Daryl and Misha climbed up the side and crept into the crowd of shivering college students, they reacted just the way they should have; pretended they didn't see them. Carla put her hand over her mouth and closed her eyes, holding Nita hard. Misha took the time to touch her cheek before gesturing that she should go over the side with the others, to climb down the ropes they had attached. Four or five had gone when the guards looked up, warned by some instinct. Misha blocked the view with his body.

They shouted something in a language he didn't understand, and stood, guns swinging around. There was a shriek and a roar behind them, and they turned to face the new threat. Occupied with getting suddenly screaming, terrified students off the boat, Misha didn't get to see what happened next. There were screams and horrible crunching sounds and a spattering of automatic gunfire.

The last student was over; a young man, Stefan, that had stayed behind to help the others. Misha encouraged him over as he took the other rope himself. They climbed down together to where Daryl was waiting.

The kids were treading water. It was obvious they were very cold.

Misha was worried that they wouldn't be able to make the short swim to the boat. In fact, he was suddenly worried that there wasn't enough *room* in the boat.

"Heads up!" a shout from above made them all look. Chief came hurtling over the side, hitting the water with a great splash. Immediately Misha and Daryl and Stefan were closing on him. Daryl reached him first and got his arm, but passed him over to Misha as soon as he got there.

"He likes you," he said shortly, the tone harsh. Confused, Misha took the burden. Stefan, who knew the rules about touching him, helped him shift the professor to his back, where Misha could carry him and swim at the same time.

"What's going on, professor?" he asked Misha as they treaded water, rapidly tiring. "Where are the soldiers? Why are you here?"

"I can't explain," he said. "It's just too weird. Trust me, though. You're safe now."

"I'm cold is what I am."

"The boat isn't far."

Daryl waved at them and everyone swam closer to him. He told them to follow him. Misha wanted to ask what had happened to Panther, but kept his mouth shut. Swimming with someone on his back wasn't as easy as Panther made it look.

After a few feet Chief began to move. Misha let him go, and he began to swim on his own.

"Professor, where's Andrew?" Misha asked, aware of Stefan swimming beside him, and Nita on the other side.

"He'll catch up." the words sounded almost normal, for him. Misha was strangely comforted.

They reached the boat. The kids, after all they'd been through, were finally beginning to complain. About being cold, being tired, being scared.

How long it had taken to rescue them. Why the Navy wasn't there.

When they saw the boat the words got stronger. Daryl ignored them.

He hoisted himself into the boat and pulled out a familiar shape, then another.

Within minutes there were two more boats inflated and tethered to the first one. People started to climb in and collapse.

They only had the four oars. Misha wondered how they were going to paddle back. And where 'back' was.

Because he waited to help everyone else he wound up in the third boat, with just the professor, Carla, Nita and Stefan. Up in the first one Daryl was passing out flat silver thermal blankets, candy bars and water. It worked its way back.

With his heart pounding in his chest, Misha sat on the bottom of the boat and held his wife. While she ate and drank he wrapped her in a blanket, and whispered to her. He told her how much he loved her and how he had worried and missed her. He told her he'd talked to Sasha and that their parents didn't know anything and that everything was fine at home.

He told her that he didn't think he could have lived without her. He told her that she was beautiful and brave.

He glanced over and saw that Stefan was holding Nita and they were whispering too.

Chief was scrunched in the end of the boat, with his arms wrapped around himself and his eyes squeezed shut.

Remembering what he'd seen when they separated too long before, Misha gathered his strength, and left Carla for a moment to go to him.

"I have to check on him," he told her, and saw that she understood.

So, instead of holding his wife and celebrating her survival, Misha found himself with his arms around his professor, holding him with the affection and care, hoping that he could feel some it. That it was getting through.

"We need to go!" Daryl shouted. Students in the first boat began to paddle. The others rode along, the boats strung out like a row of cells, floating along peacefully.

They hadn't gone very fay when Daryl made them stop.

"Don't look right at it," he said, checking his watch.

Misha didn't think anyone else understood any better than he did.

Then a blast of yellow and red light burst across the horizon. everyone but Daryl shouted and ducked.

"That was it. They're gone." he sat back down and picked up his paddle. "*Andrew* should catch up to us soon."

Stefan and Carla turned to stare at Misha. He shrugged and gave a small smile.

"Just accept it," he told them. Nita grinned at him.

Everyone seemed unharmed. They hadn't been fed properly or given the chance to bathe, but the cold seawater had helped with the body odor.

The blankets were warming them up, and sugar was waking them up.

They began to talk. About what they'd been through. Where they were going. There were several vows to 'never leave home again!'.

Misha noticed Nita looking back over the black water. He shifted Chief in his lap and leaned over to her.

"Do you really think he can catch up to us?"

"Oh, yeah. This is nothing."

"I heard that he was your -" Misha saw her eyes widen and cut himself off. "He's your favorite uncle, right?"

"After him." She pointed at the man in his arms. "I can take him, if you want. I know Carla needs you right now."

"I'll take him," a bass rumble came out of the darkness. "He's mine."

"Stop the boats!" Misha shouted, startled. Panther swam up effortlessly, as if he hadn't somehow followed them several miles in complete darkness on the open sea. "It's P-um, Andrew!"

"All stop!" Daryl shouted, like a real captain.

They only stopped long enough to get Panther in. He'd barely fallen to the bottom of the boat when Chief suddenly came alive, scrambling across the slick rubber to land in his lap.

"Ooof!" Panther grunted, catching him in his arms. "I missed you too, caro. Lord, I never want to do that again! I don't care how nice that damned whale was, I am never leaving solid land again."

He was silent for a minute, then laughed loudly. Everyone was talking, so only the ones in their boat noticed it. Misha, once again wrapped around his wife, just shook his head when she looked at him for an answer.

"Watch them," he whispered to her. "Just watch them."

Panther laughed again.

"No, the lake is *on* solid land, I can touch the bottom of it, so it doesn't count. But I'm not going on any more anthropological adventures, I can tell you that."

It seemed Chief had more to say, because Panther caught his face in both hands and began kissing him, murmuring too low for Misha to hear.

He thought it set a great example, though. So he kissed his wife until a great big ship arrived, and they were really and truly rescued.

* * * * * * *

"What are you doing?"

Misha looked up from the laptop, provided by the hotel. They were being put up there courtesy of the American government, who were more than interested in what had happened to them and how they had escaped.

They had spent a day on the Navy ship before helicopters had come for them. During that day, after everyone was clean and fed and dry, in clean clothes provided by the sailors, there had been some intense conversations.

The Professor and that's who he was again, as soon as he was in front of a class and speaking had explained that the kidnapping was an attempt to force him to work for the government though he had refused many times. No one asked why they wanted him. Details hadn't seemed important. He'd asked for their help and given them a cover story, promising that the truth would be known to everyone soon.

So far, no one had broken the agreement, and the government goons were getting frustrated.

"Looking up whales," Misha told Carla. She slipped her arms around him and kissed his ear.

"Oookay." she seemed puzzled by this. "Come back to bed. The show's going to start soon, but we might get in one more practice session."

He grinned at her and let himself be distracted. They were practicing alright; practicing for another baby. Though Sasha's conception had been entirely accidental, they'd decided the night they returned that they were ready for more. At least one, maybe two. So he wouldn't have to grown up alone if the worst ever did happen.

Carla fell on the bed, pulling him down on top of her. As he unbuttoned her nightgown, he reminded himself that he couldn't miss the show. The Professor had told him it was important.

In the next room, Panther suddenly laughed.

"What?" Chief asked quietly. He was tracing runic patterns idly on his mate's smooth skin.

"It sounds like Misha and Carla are celebrating in the same style we are."

"I doubt I'm going to become pregnant anytime soon."

Panther snorted.

"Like I would want you to."

He curled around Chief and cuddled him, blowing a raspberry on his neck.

"You seem a lot calmer since we got back."

"I feel a lot better."

"I can tell." Panther's sensitive fingers walked down his belly as he laughed and wriggled. "Any idea why?"

He shrugged.

"Does it matter?"

Panther kissed the top of his head.

"I guess not. I just wonder, though. You sound almost like -"

"I sound like Blair Sandburg."

"Except for your voice...yeah."

They lay silent for a few minutes.

"I thought " Panther tried to say it aloud. "I thought this would happen after we took care of Greggory."

"It didn't."

Panther tipped his head to give him a *look*.

"Why now?"

"I don't know." Chief took a piece of his hair and chewed on it until Panther took it out of his mouth and replaced it with a Panther-finger. Chief sucked on it until he was ready to speak further, but he resorted to mental talk.

It might have been the whale. It might have been the explosion. It might have been saving Nita.

It might have been the alignment of the planets.

Maybe you were ready to be healed, Panther suggested. Chief turned in his arms and straddled him. His knee hit the remote control and the television popped on at the foot of the bed. Neither of them looked at it.

Does it matter?

Chief leaned over and kissed him. He caught Panther's hands with his own and stretched them into the air as he leaned in.

It was deep and wet and fulfilling. Panther wondered how he could have ever been afraid of the depths.

The depths of this passion would sustain him for the rest of his life.

"I want you," Chief said. His voice was still damaged. It was hard to listen to. But the light in his eyes was bright and loving.

"Do you think this will last?" Panther asked, watching him. Chief rose up on his knees and angled the entry. He was already loose and wet from the last time. Panther slid right in. They both sighed.

It doesn't matter, Chief smiled at him, and then moaned. He began to move, rising and falling slowly on the cock inside him.

"I've wanted to tell you I love you. I love doing this."

"I think I knew that," Panther grunted. "Oh, Lord, faster, babe."

"Yeah..."

Behind Chief, the television screen showed people they knew. Mike Cullen, Wanda and Steven Ellison ne' Ellers.

They told the story of Jim and Blair in simple, graphic descriptions.

They showed a portion of the videotape Mike had seen the first night he heard of them. Wanda talked about the books she had written. Mike discussed the probability that they had finally been traced through the books and Steven's hospital stay after they escaped the lab.

The correspondent appeared frankly shocked. Horrified, as most people would be.

Panther and Chief didn't even notice it was on. As the end neared Panther tightened his hands on Chief's and pushed his hips up, thrusting into him again and again, harder and harder. Chief opened to him, welcomed him, clung to him. His hair flew around them like a cloud as he tossed his head.

"Jim..." he whispered the name with his wounded voice. "My Jim, Jim that loves me."

Shocked to hear the name he's given up, Panther groaned and bit his lip as the words drew his climax from him.

"Blair..." he shuddered and shook. The wave of emotion he received from his mate was pure and clean, untainted by anything that wasn't them.

It was as beautiful as his lover in the throes of passion.

Afterwards they lay quiet, Blair on Jim's chest. Jim played with the long hair and knew that it was just beginning. The hair would stay, and with it the memories. New challenges faced them. Publicity and some return of the lives they'd been meant to have. For however long they had left. At sixty-something he found that he didn't feel old.

He felt renewed.

"Better than I have since -"

"I know," Blair silenced him with a kiss. "I know."

It seemed to Jim, lying there in the quiet and listening to Blair breath, that maybe just maybe Panther and Chief were gone. Without the fight he'd always expected.

Maybe it had just been time.

Now, finally, maybe it was *their* time.

He would make it their time.

Or die trying.

~~~the end~~~

                       saraid@wf.net