The Artist's Model
by ProfessorWorm
URL: http://www.bluecatsgraphics.com/pean/fanfics/41/

“The only saving grace of the present is that it's too damned stupid to question the past very closely.”

— H.P. Lovecraft, Pickman’s Model

Chapter 1

A shadowy form swept confidently through the darkened halls of the Museum of Modern Art. It was close to midnight, and stillness of the building seemed exaggerated by the unexpected movement.

The guard nodded to him as he passed. In a movement calculated carefully to convey spontaneity, the man stopped, checked his pockets, and let out an exasperated sigh. “Left my keys upstairs,” he explained, and the guard nodded again. No questions. Nothing out of place. It was perfect.

Still, he felt a curl of fear in his stomach as he bypassed the route to his office and headed instead through the galleries. He knew exactly where he was going, knew exactly what painting he was going to stand in front of, and still it came almost as a shock to have it laid bare before him in the dim light.

He stopped and crouched at a spot he had found to be just out of reach of the room’s security camera, which was angled high and wide to show all of the paintings on the walls. Carefully, he set down his attaché case and checked his watch. There would be a two minute gap in the museum’s security system that night, as the cameras rolled tape over for the new month.

He smiled faintly as he watched the second hand tick. The museum had upgraded its security system several years earlier, but it had not faced a single serious threat of vandalism or theft in that period of time. And, true to form, security had become more relaxed and forgiving and—most importantly—unprepared for the new techniques of someone familiar with the aging system. As silently as possible, he began to remove the tools he had brought with him, checking his watch every fifteen seconds or so.

He felt strangely calm and at peace with the world, though he felt a slight twinge of remorse when he looked up at his intended target. But it can’t be helped, the little voice in the back of his head rationalized sadly. Sometimes the destruction of beautiful things is the only way to get a person’s attention.

The hands on his watch moved to the perfect moment. He waited an instant before launching himself at his target with far more grace than he ever managed in his day-to-day life.

When he had finished, he delicately kissed the shredded remains of the painting, smoothed back his hair, slipped his tools back into his bag, and strolled out of the museum with bright, shining eyes.

***


“I find it insufferably pretentious, myself.”

Pendergast turned slowly to regard the young man who stood behind him, arms crossed and weight shifted into a parody of the stance of a thoughtful art patron. He thoughtfully cocked his head to one side and pursed his lips. “Do you?”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t know much about art.”

“Bullshit.” The man tossed him an overly sweet smile, which was dampened by the fact that his lips didn’t curl up, instead merely stretching to the sides in something more akin to a grimace. “I’ve seen you before, at some of the other galleries in town.”

Pendergast shrugged. “I’ve been told I should patronize the arts.”

“Oh please. Next thing you know, you’ll be telling me that you ‘know what you like’ or something else just as irritating.” The man blew a strand of copper-colored hair out of his eyes and tapped the index and middle fingers of his right hand against his lips; it looked like a cry for a cigarette, or perhaps a pen to chew on. “And trust me, nobody in their right mind could ever like this.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a self-indulgent piece of crap that no one but the artist could love. It’s an escapist’s fairytale.”

Both men regarded the painting for a moment in silence. It was a more brightly colored and illustrative work than any of the other paintings in the gallery, and yet the scene it showed had the same touch of the macabre as the other works. Two figures in police uniforms were posed in a fashion that echoed Michelangelo’s Pietà; the reclining figure had evidently taken a shot to the torso and blood had seeped through the hands that cupped the wound. His partner held him tenderly, and the gaze between them was intimate, almost romantic. The entire picture seemed to tiptoe around the cliché of police brotherhood and sacrifice and masculine camaraderie with the addition of this odd, blood-stained layer of sexuality that writhed beneath the surface.

“What an odd fairytale,” Pendergast finally said softly.

The man chuckled. “All fairytales are about blood, sooner or later.” He drew his thick eyebrows together. “Seriously, though. Could you ever see this happening in real life?”

“I didn’t know art’s purpose was to reflect reality precisely.”

“Oh, it isn’t. Of course it isn’t.” The man laughed sharply and grinned. “But this is a sentimental fag’s wet dream, nothing more.”

“I’m sorry,” Pendergast tipped his head inquiringly, his voice suddenly distanced, “I don’t think I caught your name...?”

The man’s smile became decidedly lopsided, and he stuck out his hand to be shaken. “Avery LaMarck.”

Pendergast was momentarily taken aback; his placid expression froze for a moment, and he did not extend his own hand. “I see.” He recovered almost immediately, however, taking LaMarck’s hand and pumping it solidly up and down several times. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid you caught me somewhat unaware. My name is Aloysius Pendergast.”

“Aloysius! What a perfect name. It’s the name of the teddy bear in Brideshead Revisited, in fact.”

“Is it?” Pendergast clasped his hands together behind his back, immediately stiff and formal once again. “I’m afraid that I last had the pleasure of reading that novel when I was in school.”

“Shame, shame. Such a classic.” LaMarck leaned against the wall beside the painting and shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “But I’m sorry. Am I disrupting your viewing pleasure?”

Pendergast glanced back at the painting and over his shoulder at the rest of the small, dark SoHo gallery. “Not too terribly. Though I am curious as to why you would want to turn a patron against a piece of your own artwork.”

LaMarck let out another laugh, short and nervous. “I don’t know. Wouldn’t want to start thinking I was too good, would I?” When Pendergast didn’t respond, he continued on. “Or maybe I just thought you were looking at it a little too closely.”

“Too closely?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want you to steal away my little fantasy, would I?” He sighed looked up at the ceiling, letting his head fall back against the wall with an audible ‘thud!’ “Such as it is.” Pendergast tilted his head to one side, puzzled. LaMarck shrugged, rolled his shoulders back, and stretched his head to one side, exposing the sharp relief of his sternomastoid muscles. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he suddenly looked incredibly weary. “You were looking at it a little too closely. It’s such a piece of crap. Really, you don’t want anything to do with it. I just put it in because I was short a couple of paintings and had to have some filler.” He gestured toward the front of the gallery, sweeping his arm in a wide arc. “As you can see, it doesn’t entirely fit with the theme I was aiming for.”

“Yes.” Pendergast turned briefly to regard the other paintings that hung on the walls of the gallery; most of them were high contrast, bordering on monochromatic with only brief, violent accents of color, and portrayed figures so humanly imperfect as to seem almost alien in structure. “Actually, I find this piece interesting because I myself am in law enforcement.”

“You are?” LaMarck looked genuinely surprised. “Well, that’s sure a kick in the crotch.” He raised one eyebrow, suddenly suspicious. “You aren’t NYPD, are you?”

“FBI, in fact. But I have worked with the New York Police Department on occasion.”

“Fascinating. So have I, actually.” LaMarck’s smile twitched slightly as Pendergast again cocked his head, politely showing interest. “Yeah. Wouldn’t believe it to look at me, right?”

“Did you work in forensic art?”

“Bingo.”

“Well, I can believe that, actually.” Pendergast gave a nod to the painting before him. “Your work has a strong grounding in human anatomy that I’m sure was advantageous in that field.”

There was a slight pause. “Yeah. Uh, thanks.” LaMarck cleared his throat. “Anyway, please tell me that you aren’t here on the job.”

Pendergast smiled thinly. “No, no. In fact, your show was recommended to me by Charles DuChamp.”

“Oh, wow. You know Charlie?”

Pendergast winced slightly at the diminutive form of his friend’s given name. “He and I were friends when we were children, in fact. We still keep in touch.”

“Ah, yeah. I should have guessed from the accent,” LaMarck replied. “I don’t actually know him all that well myself, really. I’ve only ever run into him a couple of times thanks to the whole art scene.”

“I see.”

“I like his work and all. It’s just not really... I mean, it’s obviously nothing like what I’m interested in.” He gestured toward the paintings in the rest of the gallery. “But I can respect his technique.” Pendergast nodded in understanding. “Why did he tell you about my stuff?”

Pendergast turned slightly to follow the sweep of the man’s arm, slowly surveying the art that had been placed upon the stark white walls. “He thought I’d find the subject matter intriguing,” he said quietly. “That your subjects were rarely touched upon, but the humanity you afforded them even rarer still.”

LaMarck stared at him speculatively for several moments. “Damn,” he finally said. “Well, that’s kinder than the reviews I usually get, anyway.” He paused to run his hand nervously through his hair. “So, does it live up to the hype?”

“In many ways, yes.” With one hand, Pendergast gestured toward the painting in front of him. “This one, however... well, it was a surprise.” There was a moment of silence, and then he continued in a hushed, almost confessional tone. “It reminds me of a man I worked with several years ago.”

“Does it really?” LaMarck asked, allowing some of the harsh bravado to drop from his voice. He stepped forward, regarding Pendergast with keen, contemplative interest.

“Yes,” Pendergast said finally, his voice soft and subdued. “It really does.”

He and LaMarck stared and one another for a moment before LaMarck and cleared his throat and averted his eyes. “I have an idea. Okay, more like a little proposition.” Pendergast cocked his head attentively to one side. “Look this may sound a little weird, but I could really use a model with your, um, ‘coloring’. But unfortunately models with any degree of albinism are almost impossible to find.”

“Go on.”

LaMarck smiled almost apologetically. “I’ve been using myself, since I’m pretty pale, and doing a lot of guesswork... but it’s just not working out. Different skin tones react totally differently depending on the lighting conditions.” He paused to study Pendergast’s expression. “It wouldn’t be a formal thing, you know, I really just need someone to sit for me while I do a color study for the series I’m working on now.” Pendergast nodded thoughtfully. “But my idea is, you come and sit for me when you have time and I’ll let you have that painting. If you want it, I mean.”

“It sounds very worthwhile,” Pendergast said as he subtly checked his watch. “Unfortunately, my work tends to take up most of my time, and I often have trouble coordinating schedules. Would now be a convenient time?”

LaMarck let out a short back of laughter. “What, right now?” Pendergast nodded. “Well... okay. I mean, my apartment is just down the street, but I’d also have to set up my stuff and everything.”

“That’s not a problem.”

“If you’re sure. I’m definitely not going to be done with you until at least midnight, though. Assuming we leave now.” LaMarck still sounded doubtful.

Pendergast smiled slightly. “I have a car on call, actually, and this is one of the few times I’m going to be completely free in the next month at least. Besides, I think I’d like to see what you come up with.”

“Sure. It’s really just going to be practice for me, though.”

“Well, then.” Pendergast reached out and fingered the edge of the painting with proprietary interest. “I suppose that I’ll have to be in it for the bribe.”

“Probably a better deal for you,” LaMarck said as they began toward the gallery’s exit. “Me, I’m just ecstatic that you’ve given me an excuse to get out of here early.”

Chapter 2

“My place is just a couple of blocks from here,” LaMarck said, pointing down the street outside the gallery while simultaneously waving goodbye to someone within the gallery. Pendergast nodded and started in the direction that LaMarck had indicated; a couple of seconds later the shorter man followed, nearly skipping to keep up with his long strides. After a moment, Pendergast noticed this and slowed. “So... uh, can I call you Aloysius?”

“I would prefer to be called Pendergast, thank you.”

LaMarck grinned. “Don’t like your first name much?” He shrugged. “Ah well. Personally, I think it’s a gorgeous name, but whatever you say.” They paused awkwardly at a crosswalk and waited for the light to change. “You can call me Avery, by the way.”

“Very well.”

On their way across the street they were separated for a moment by a small group of college students who were eager to take in SoHo’s night life. Avery smiled as he watched them pass. “Looks like they’re going to have fun.”

“Would you prefer to be doing that?” Pendergast asked politely.

“Oh, no way.” His smile relaxed and became free from irony for the first time that evening. “Painting you is going to be the highlight of my week.” Pendergast raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. “So...” Avery kicked an aluminum can into the gutter as he passed. “You’re a pretty cool guy, huh?”

“Am I?”

“Well, I didn’t actually expect you to do this. I thought for sure you would blow me off, or get my number and never call.”

“I don’t normally care for modern art—”

“I thought I’d be considered more post-modern than modern?”

Pendergast made a gesture with one hand as if sweeping the distinction away. “I’m not partial to much that was created in the past century. But you and your paintings have intrigued me.”

“Again with the high praise. You’re going to spoil me if you keep it up.”

“Well, I should point out that I am as fascinated by the strangeness of your subject matter as much as I am impressed with your skill.”

Avery snorted. “You mean, why can’t I just paint nice pastoral scenes or blue on blue minimalist canvases like a normal artist?”

Pendergast flashed him a pained look. “Minimalism is a blight upon the world of fine art.”

“Then we agree on that, at least.” Avery paused. “Maybe I should do something with a pastoral theme, though. They were mostly about sex anyway.”

“Indeed.” Pendergast’s expression turned to faint amusement as he began to recite: “‘So why don't you come with me to the wholesome country / and live under humble thatch? We could hunt the stag / and drive home the goats with a flexible marsh-mallow switch, / learning in the copse together how to sing like Pan.”

Avery smiled at the incongruity between the words that issued from Pendergast’s lips and the busy, modern New York street they were traversing. “What’s that from?”

“’Ecloga II’ by the poet Virgil, translated from the Latin. It is a homoerotic fantasy in a pastoral setting.”

“Seriously?” Avery let out a bark of laughter. “See? I knew you were a cool guy.”

Pendergast only smiled faintly in return.

***


The world was moving in slow motion for him, the false darkness seeming oppressive and strange. With the sun having set hours ago, the city had quickly ignited itself from the inside out. And yet, it would still be hours before the night life retreated indoors, leaving the streets to vagrants and misfits and criminals. Then he could begin. So he waited, patiently reviewing what he hoped to accomplish that evening.

The bodies were stowed safely in the trunk of his small, unassuming car, carefully prepared and lovingly dressed. A package of colored chalk was tucked into his back pocket and, despite the late hour and the strenuous activity he’d engaged in earlier at the museum, he still felt alert and sure of himself.

He’d realized, after he had left the museum, that he what he was doing went far beyond his own need and his own desires. Yes, his life had gone in such a direction that he could no longer help himself; however, his work was so well-planned, so well-constructed, that he could no longer deny that he was pursuing a higher purpose. He was creating the new art, an art that destroyed and created at the same time. An art that interacted directly with the culture, that prolonged its message.

He felt a surge of pride as he parked his car, stepped out, and started to walk. Police were sporadic in the area, although he was entering Central Park after legal hours. He looked around carefully and cautiously. The area was largely free of tourists, and he was too focused to care about being the victim of crime. He smiled as he scouted the area, looking for the perfect spot.

After about ten minutes of careful consideration, he knelt down at an expanse of concrete sidewalk that wasn’t too far from his car, but still heavily trafficked enough during the day that his work would be easily found.

He removed the chalk from his back pocket, knelt down, and began to draw.

***


The outer door and stairwell of Avery’s apartment building was not impressive, and he knew it. “You’d better watch your head,” he called back over one shoulder as he strode confidently beneath a low-hanging pipe with at least an inch of clearance. Pendergast was forced to duck.

“I know it’s not great,” Avery said as they reached the landing and he took out his keys. “I mean, it doesn’t look great. But the set-up inside is very roomy, and space and price was really what I was looking for when I moved in.” His keys jangled as opened the door, all the while chattering away.

Pendergast thought, privately, that Avery LaMarck was the kind of person who talked and fidgeted when he was nervous. In fact, he was one of the most animated people Pendergast had ever met, and so he watched him carefully and with the most polite amount of fascination that he could allow himself.

“Okay, c’mon in.” He pushed in the door and stepped inside without waiting for Pendergast or looking to see whether he would follow. “There’s not a lot of mess for me to apologize for, I guess, but there are a bunch of ugly half-finished paintings, so I’m sorry for that.”

The main room was large with a high ceiling and, indeed, there were a number of canvases propped up against the walls as well as one or two large steel shelves that held supplies and what looked like some small sculptures. “If you could just hang out for a few minutes while I throw my stuff together...?” Avery asked somewhat timidly as he shut and locked his door, almost as if he was afraid that Pendergast was thinking of running out on him. “It shouldn’t take too long.”


“That’s fine,” Pendergast nodded, but Avery was already pulling his easel away from the place where it stood close to the far wall, moving it in front of a cheap loveseat and positioning it at an angle. He then opened a closet close to where the easel had stood, and Pendergast finally turned away to examine some of the work in progress.

A stack of canvases leaned against the side of one of the shelves; the top painting was very nearly complete and, to Pendergast’s eyes, the subject seemed disturbingly familiar. He moved toward it slowly, absorbing it from far away and, finally, from close up as he knelt in front of the painting and gently touched the thickly textured paint that had been applied to the canvas. It was highly colorful up close, an enthusiastic mix of cool blues, purples, and greens. However, all of the colors had been heavily tinted with black, and the overall result was of a setting—and of a creature—that was dark, hidden, and rotting. The only concessions to highlight were a few swipes of shaded yellow and some finishing accents of red in the subject’s eyes.

Pendergast stood and glanced over at Avery, not wanting to concede to the slight lump in his throat. The young painter was currently dragging a card table a fold-out chair into place, awkwardly cursing them both but not stopping to move only one at a time.

A slash of white caught Pendergast’s eye as he tilted his head, and he turned back to the shelf to regard what he had thought were sculptures from afar. Now, less than six inches away and at eye-level, it was clear that they were not sculptures but human bones. Pendergast picked up the closest one and felt its weight. It was light and the surface had an odd, rough texture. “Plaster,” he murmured thoughtfully.

“Huh?” Avery looked up from where he had begun to arrange his painting supplies on the card table. “Oh, that thing.” He said flatly, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. “Yeah, it’s from when I used to work for the NYPD. I mean, I did composite drawings mostly, but when that whole business with the Wrinklers went down, they were so backed up that they let me do a couple of facial reconstructions.” He watched as Pendergast picked up the rough, oddly-shaped plaster cast. “Weird, huh? That’s from one of the skulls they found.”

“I know.” Pendergast said curtly, replacing it on the shelf. “I worked on that case.”

“You did?” Avery looked up from his tubes of paint. “Wow. Talk about a near miss.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Well, I mean, we must have been working in the same building. Maybe we even passed each other in the halls.”

Pendergast flashed him a blank, unreadable look. “Actually, I did most of my work in the field.”

“Oh.” There was a short, uncomfortable pause. “Right, you being FBI and all.”

Pendergast softened slightly. “Your representation of the Wrinklers,” he indicated the painting he had been examining earlier, “is quite tremendously accurate.”

Avery stared at Pendergast for a moment. “Yeah, well, I guess that’s a good thing.” He stopped as if considering something. “Don’t tell me you’re going to ask for that painting too?”

“I—” Pendergast hesitated, giving the painting a vague look of distaste. “That was not a pleasant case for me. So I think I’ll leave it in your capable hands.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Sometimes I don’t like looking at it either.” Avery straightened up from the table next to his easel and headed toward the kitchen area, his voice becoming light-hearted in order to diffuse the dark mood. “Look, do you want something to drink? Water, Coke, juice, coffee, tea... some of that cheap wine cooler that comes in a box?”

“Some tea would not be unwelcome.” Pendergast slowly followed LaMarck into the small, slightly dingy kitchen nook, which was lit by a dim hanging lamp.

The younger man was putting an old teapot on the rickety-looking stove. He’d set two mugs out on the counter, each with a teabag already inside. He flipped on the front burner and turned to Pendergast. “Listen, I need to get changed out of this before I destroy it. I’ll be right back.” He strode past Pendergast, already tugging off his sportcoat. “Make yourself at home!” He called back over his shoulder.

The kitchen wasn’t large enough to accommodate a table or even a chair, so Pendergast wandered back into the larger, airy studio space, idly examining the space and absorbing every detail. Poverty was the most obvious and pervasive characteristic of Avery’s home; his studio was mostly furnished by his supplies in various stages of use. In addition to the easel, card table, and loveseat there was an angled graphing table and a stool set up beside the window, positioned to take advantage of the natural light. Clipped to the table’s surface was a sheaf of sketches of what appeared to be illustrations for a commercial brochure. Pendergast flipped through them, before turning his attention to the corner of the work-table where someone had placed a trio of glittery insect stickers: a butterfly, a grasshopper, and an ant. He rubbed his thumb over them, smiling slightly; the glitter had faded over the years to a dull shine.

“Sorry, sorry.” Avery reappeared through a low doorway at the far end of the studio, tugging a worn black t-shirt over his head. He’d also changed into a pair of paint-stained blue jeans and white athletic socks. “You just saw what are pretty much my only nice clothes, though, and I’d prefer to keep them that way.” He pushed his hair back from his forehead as he noticed where Pendergast was standing. “Oh. Yeah. You don’t want to look at that; it’s just boring sh-t that lets me pay rent and buy food sometimes.”

“I see.” Pendergast said, his soft voice barely audible in the large room.

The teapot whistled shrilly. “Right. The tea.” Avery started toward the kitchen and stopped. “Hey, why don’t you go ahead and get comfortable on the couch? I’ll bring out your drink.” He disappeared around the corner before Pendergast could respond.

The sofa was slightly lopsided and covered with a burgundy-colored sheet. Pendergast sat down cautiously, wincing slightly as springs creaked beneath him. After a moment, Avery emerged from the kitchen carrying the two mugs with their spoons and tea-bags; he set one down on the card table beside his easel and handed the other to Pendergast. Their fingertips brushed, and Avery pulled away hastily. “Here you go. I hope raspberry tea is okay. It’s all I have.”

“It will do,” Pendergast said, stirring the teabag gently in the water. He realized almost immediately that Avery had taken his abrupt words the wrong way. “Green tea is my favorite,” he continued, almost conversationally. “I prefer to brew it traditionally, without bags. Perhaps someday I’ll have to have you over so you can try some.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Avery replied noncommittally with a shrug of his shoulders. He sat down in front of his easel and adjusted the pad of canvas paper in front of him. “Hm.” He leaned back in the folding chair and stared at Pendergast as he sipped his tea politely. “Okay. I guess we’ll see how this goes.”

He stood again and began to fiddle with a bank of dimmer-switches on the wall, changing the overhead lighting substantially. Pendergast looked up and saw a row of lights, strategically arranged around the couch; some of them were fitted with color filters.

Avery smiled when he saw Pendergast with his head tilted far back. “I don’t want to light you too harshly right now, so I think I’ll go for something a little more diffuse.” Once he found a set-up he liked, he sat back in front of his easel. “Uh, you don’t want any music or anything on, do you?”

Pendergast shook his head. “I would prefer not.”

“Oh good,” Avery sighed with relief as he began to squeeze acrylic paint onto his palette. “I don’t usually like to have music playing when I’m working, but you know... sometimes models get bored.” He ran a hand through his hair before picking up a pencil and beginning a series of rough sketches, every few seconds looking up at Pendergast.

And Pendergast looked right back, watching with unashamed interest as Avery drew. By the time he finally picked up a paintbrush, however, Pendergast realized that Avery’s fierce expression was not one of concentration, but of vague frustration. He spent nearly a half an hour painting, and Pendergast found himself watching to see how violently Avery mixed his paints or cleaned his brushes in order to judge the man’s mood, since his expression had fixed into one of annoyance early in the session.

Finally Avery jammed his brushes into his cup of water and growled. “Okay, this really isn’t working.” He wiped his hand across his forehead and shot Pendergast an apologetic look. “Sorry, I was sort of wondering whether this would be a problem. You see, it’s just that...” He flexed his hand, opening and closing his fist as if he was grappling with the air. “I mean, I’m trying to get a handle on how your skin tone reacts to this kind of lighting, and you aren’t showing me a lot of skin.”

“Ah,” Pendergast said quietly, leaning forward to set his mug on the floor. “Yes, that is a problem.”

“But I really don’t want to pressure you into anything you don’t want to do,” Avery said hurriedly. “I get some kids in here, you know, who just can’t wait to get their clothes off.” There was a brief pause. “I really didn’t think you’d be quite the same, though.”

“No. No, I’m not.” Pendergast stared intently at a point on the floor as he leaned back, crossed one leg over the other, and laced his fingers together. In his black suit, he looked like an exceptionally gentlemanly undertaker.

Avery licked his lips and then sighed. “You know, it’s getting kind of late, and you’ve at least given me something I can work with. And you’ll probably want to get home anyway.” He turned to his materials to begin packing them away, but looked up when he heard the rustle of cloth and squeal of springs inside the loveseat.

Pendergast had stood, removed his jacket and draped it over one arm, and had already begun to unbutton his cuffs. Avery gaped at him. “Oh. Great,” he said weakly.

“I’m willing to make this small sacrifice,” Pendergast replied, a slight twinkle in his eye, “for the sake of art, of course.”

“Of course,” Avery echoed as he stood. “But, geez, let me get you a bathrobe. Just wait here.” He darted into the back rooms and returned a moment later holding a plush, black bathrobe. “There. This should fit you, since my sister’s always forgetting how damn short I am.” He handed the robe to Pendergast. “You can go get changed in the bathroom while I, um, get things ready,” he finished lamely, pointing in the direction he’d just come from. “It’s the first room, you can’t miss it.”

Pendergast nodded and, with a last meaningful glance over his shoulder that Avery couldn’t begin to interpret, he disappeared into the small hallway. Avery rocked back and forth on his heels excitedly, waiting to hear the bathroom door shut. When it did, he rushed around the small space, straightening the cover over the couch and pulling out several stands with adjustable lights attached and placing them strategically around his scene. After a moment’s thought, he went back to the closet at the far wall and pulled out a small space heater, which he set up alongside the couch.

Avery looked up when Pendergast came out of this bathroom carrying his carefully folded clothes. “Here, let me,” Avery said, holding his hands out to take the small bundle.

Pendergast hesitated slightly, but surrendered his suit with little fuss once he was sure that Avery didn’t have any paint on his hands. “Ooh, fancy,” Avery muttered as he examined the labels. “I’ll just put them, um...” he glanced around, looking for a safe place. “I’ll put them in my bedroom room, just to make sure nothing happens. You can get comfortable, if you want?” He dashed off again before Pendergast could respond.

Chapter 3

Author's notes:
Lots of thank yous and petting go out to Fiend, because he's been a tremendous help with organizing and planning out the plot of this (and also in telling me when and if I'm going astray). Plus, for just generally encouraging what started out as a goofy, goofy idea. PLUS... he drew a freaking adorable sketch everyone should look at right now.



"L is for LOVE, baby
O is for ONLY you that I do
V is for loving VIRTUALLY everything that you are
E is for loving almost EVERYTHING that you do
R is for RAPE me
M is for MURDER me
A is for ANSWERING all of my prayers
N is for KNOWING your loverman's going to be the answer to all of yours"

- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, “Loverman”



When Avery returned, he found Pendergast had removed the robe, draped it over the back of the couch, and settled himself into a relaxed and flattering sitting position, with one leg resting on the seat and the other on the floor. “Gee,” Avery said, his voice sounding strained, “I’d almost say you’ve done this before.”

Pendergast turned his head lazily. “It’s been a long time, actually.”

“Your friend Charlie got you to pose for him, huh?”

He was half-teasing, but Pendergast’s response was quite serious. “He always was very persuasive.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Avery tore the paintings he’d been working on from the canvas pad and placed them on the floor next to his easel. He sat and regarded the blank sheet of canvas paper for a moment, and then turned back to Pendergast. “Okay. I guess we’ll start with this then.” He gave Pendergast a doubtful look, as if he couldn’t quite believe the man had agreed to this, before picking up his pencil and beginning a preliminary sketch.

Rather than becoming quickly frustrated as he had before, Avery worked more gently and purposefully than he had earlier; his expression, too, was less tense, and Pendergast found his actions far more pleasant to watch when they weren’t driven by frustration. Avery painted steadily, only stopping occasionally when he got up to tear off a completed sketch, change the lighting conditions, and direct Pendergast’s position on the couch.

Very late in the evening, he stopped, checked his watch, and stood with a stretch. He took a step forward, one hand around the middle support of the easel, “I’m almost done, don’t worry.” Pendergast blinked in return.

Avery bit his lower lip. “You know, you don’t have to hide your face each time, though.” Pendergast said nothing, and Avery wrinkled his nose in annoyance. “You’re pretty crafty, but I can tell you’re trying not to give me anything more than a partial profile.” He paused. “You’re thinking this’d damage your career if it got out?”

“There’s always the chance,” Pendergast said as he moved back into a comfortable sitting position and turned to face Avery. He stretched one long leg out in front of him as he rolled his shoulders back.

“Worse than this happens in the FBI every day, I’ll bet. You guys can be a wild bunch when you want to.” He cocked his head to one side. “Hell, even J. Edgar was in the closet.”

“I know several individuals who would argue that point very strongly.”

Avery’s lips quirked, but his eyes looked tired and unhappy. “Yeah, well, some people will argue with anything.” He rubbed his hands over his forehead and his temples and sighed. “Look, what I usually tell the people who pose for me is either ‘Hey, you know me, you can trust me,’ or ‘I’m paying you, so you’ll do what I say.’” With a thoughtful look on his face, he sat back in his chair and slumped down slightly. “But neither of those things seems really relevant right now.”

They stared at each other without speaking, having seemingly arrived at an impasse. Finally Avery gave in and looked away. “How about this,” he said softly. “You let me get a good shot of your face, and once I’m finished using these sketches, I’ll send them back to you.”

Pendergast’s eyelids lowered, as if he was very slowly falling asleep. After a long, drawn-out pause, he nodded slightly. “Thank would be acceptable.”

“Good, great.” Avery picked up his pencil and tapped it against his front teeth. “Can I get you lying down this time?”

Pendergast raised his eyebrows. “Lying down?”

“Yeah. like—” Avery sprung out of his seat to direct Pendergast. “—like, lie down with your head on the armrest. Wait, I’ve got a pillow back here, I think.” He fished in the crack between the couch and the wall for a moment before emerging triumphant. “Here.”

Pendergast slipped the small cushion behind his neck. “Right, that’s good. Now, put this arm—” He tapped Pendergast’s left arm with his pencil. “—on your chest and your other arm up over your head, kind of like you’re cradling it. Yeah, exactly.”

Avery hurried back to his easel. “Now, if you’ll just look at me.” He glanced up from his canvas pad and found a pair of pale blue eyes staring back at him, unflinching. “Awesome,” he whispered, still somewhat unsettled by how comfortable and secure Pendergast seemed, even though he was in a position of relatively little control.

“And don’t worry, I’ll try to make this quick.” He began to sketch with sharp, punctuated movements of his hand and wrist. He looked up once he had drawn in a vague layout, expecting Pendergast to have looked away in the interval.

But their eyes met again; Pendergast’s interest had clearly not wavered. Avery’s hand stopped as he felt a flush crawl over his cheeks. He pressed his lips together tightly, willing his mind to refocus on the task at hand.

When his eyes flickered back to his drawing, he saw that he had inadvertently made a dark, jagged line down the middle of the page.

***


Art was really all about love, when you came right down to it. A love for visual communication, for visual stimulation. A love for the viewer, whomever they might be.

Of course, one could communicate plenty of different subjects via the visuals arts, he mused to himself as he worked. War and angst and the general shittiness of the human condition were all quite popular. But even in those works, he could see love: both the love of the artist and his own loves reflected back at him. Most people seemed to see the things they most hated or the things about themselves and the world that troubled them most.

He felt sorry for them, and sorry for the artists so consumed by grief and madness that they were incapable of feeling the love that resonated from their own works. His heart went out to the Van Goghs and the Dadds alike, the ignoble murderers and madmen and the respected suicides that peppered the world of art.

And let’s not forget poor Magritte and his dead mother. He paused, knelt, and adjusted the cloth over the woman’s face before standing and taking a step back to inspect his work critically. Viewing it at night, of course, with only the yellowish glow of the streetlamps, was nowhere near indicative of how it would look during the optimal conditions of the daytime. Still, he knew there was no use fretting over it like an overly fussy perfectionist. The effort was more than enough to get his point across. To communicate my love, he thought with wry little smile.

When he turned his back on his modest creation and strode out of the park, he left behind a near-perfect reproduction of the painting he had destroyed that evening; one rendered in chalk, fabric, blood, meat, and bone.

***


“Okay, I’m all done.”

Pendergast stood, rolling his shoulders back to work out the kinks, and pulled the bathrobe on as Avery leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head. He tied the belt loosely as he walked around to where Avery sat, stepping carefully around the paintings spread out on the floor. With an appraising eye, he looked first at the painting on the easel and then at the drawings at his feet. He stood close to Avery’s chair, with his hands laced behind his back.

It was several minutes before he spoke, which led to a great deal of nervous fidgeting on Avery’s part. “Very nice,” he finally said, nodding to the portrait Avery had just finished. “And not a bad likeness.”

“That’s good. I wasn’t even paying attention to trying to get a likeness.” Avery scrubbed his eyes wearily. “Just going for color.” And, indeed, the relatively thin, canvas-treated paper was molded with layer upon layer of acrylic paint.

“I can see that,” Pendergast said quietly, laying one hand on Avery’s shoulder. “You’re very talented.” Avery stiffened slightly beneath his touch, but said nothing. After a moment, Pendergast removed his hand and moved back to sit on the couch. “So, tell me... what’s the focus of these paintings?” He cocked his head to one side. “The ones for which you’re using me for practice, I mean.”

“Oh, yeah,” Avery said as he slowly began to clean his brushes. “It’s sort of hard to explain, I guess.” Pendergast gave him an encouraging nod. “It’s kind of an exaggerated contrast thing and kind of a racial thing. About what it means to be too light or too dark these days.” He shook his head several times, very quickly, as if trying to clear his mind. “Or something like that.”

Pendergast nodded again, thoughtfully, and continued to watch as Avery cleaned his supplies. He made no move to ask about the suit Avery had taken from him and didn’t express any particularly urgent need to get dressed. Avery watched him out of the corner of one eye as he scraped the excess paint from his palette. “Comfy?” he asked as he returned from rinsing out the cup he’d used for water and throwing away his paper towels.

“Quite content, thank you,” Pendergast said as he leaned back and closed his eyes.

“Warm enough?” Avery asked as he moved his finished paintings to one side and began to shift his easel back against the wall. “It tends to get kind of cold in here.”

“Yes, in fact. Thank you for the heater.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not going to be on much longer.” Giving the easel a final nudge with his foot, Avery began moving his tools back onto the shelves and folding up his table and chair. “I don’t like keeping it on, really.”

“Why not?”

“It makes me nervous.” He tugged the table over and set it against the wall next to the easel, not bothering to trying to move it back into the closet; he had to shift several large canvases to make room. “My mother’s kind of psycho, see, and when I was a little kid she’d tell me that if you left something like a heater on for too long, it’d catch fire.” Avery smiled ruefully as he propped his folded chair up against the table. “And then she would describe exactly what would happen if the house went up in flames.” He paused in front of the couch and shoved his hands in his pockets. “It’s the little things about childhood that really stick with you, you know?”

A long moment of silence stretched between them. “Yes.” Pendergast’s reply was soft and sympathetic. “Unfortunately, that’s very true.”

“Oh well.” Avery shrugged and sighed. “Can’t do anything about it.” Then, apparently without thinking, Avery leaned perilously over both Pendergast and the arm of the couch, stretching to grasp the cord of the space heater to unplug it. Startled, Pendergast drew in a sharp breath and instinctively placed his hand on Avery’s lower back to steady him.

Avery froze, his fist curled around the cord. After a slight pause, the ‘pop’ of the plug pulling from the socket broke the stillness. Avery relaxed his hand and straightened up, and Pendergast allowed his own hand to slip from the man’s back. “I guess...” Avery’s voice intruded quietly into the uncomfortable silence. “I guess that you’ll probably want to, you know, get dressed and get out of here.” His manner had changed abruptly; his voice had dropped and lost all but the slightest inflection, he’d crossed his arms stiffly, and his eyes refused to meet Pendergast’s, instead concentrating on a point somewhere above and to the left.

“Is something wrong?” Pendergast asked gently, leaning forward and feeling the cheap terrycloth robe slip awkwardly across one shoulder.

Avery shrugged and took a step back. “No, hey, everything’s fine,” he said flatly. “You were a great sport, thanks so much, but I’m just betting that you’re all set to haul ass and get back to your life.” He reached down and grabbed Pendergast’s mug from the floor in a quick, jerky movement, before turning and heading back toward the kitchen, snatching his own mug off the table as he went. Pendergast heard the harsh clanging of ceramic on the metal basin of the sink. After a moment, Avery emerged again. He hovered near the doorway, uncertain. “Well? Are you leaving or what?”

Pendergast hesitated slightly before he stood and bowed his head. “I’m sorry. I see that I was incorrect in thinking that we had established a rapport.”

“Look,” Avery sighed. “You barely know me.” His mouth twisted into a sardonic little smile. “And I barely know you. But from what I do know, you aren’t really the kind of guy who would... hah, ‘stay here overnight.’” He paused, as if struck by an unpleasant thought. “Not that most guys actually bother to stay the whole night.”

“I think that’s a shame.”

“You barely know me!” Avery threw up his hands in disgust. “Besides, I promised myself I’d quit picking up strange guys just to fuck them.”

Pendergast’s cheeks colored at Avery’s insinuation; he pursed his lips, lowered his eyelids, and dipped his head in thought. “I’m afraid that, perhaps, there has been a misunderstanding.”

Avery snorted. “Yeah? Well, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Please.” Pendergast held up a hand. “This is going to be far more difficult than it already is if you continue to adopt that attitude.” Avery said nothing, but avoided Pendergast’s intense gaze. “You and I both know that I didn’t come here with the intentions you implied.”

“So why did you come here?” Avery asked, his voice underscored with a confrontational growl. “I mean, my god, I’m a complete stranger, and here I am asking you to come pose for me?”

“I was impressed by your artwork,” Pendergast said simply. “And I found you intriguing.” He hesitated. “I meet a great many people in my work, and while many of them provide me with distractions or interesting cases, very few can truly hold my interest.”

Avery’s expression was skeptical. “You’re saying that I do?”

“You do.”

“That is the biggest load of shit I’ve heard in a long time.”

Pendergast smoothed the front of the bathrobe in an offhanded, anxious gesture. “I’m sorry, I’m not accustomed to expressing... ah...”

Avery’s lips stretched into a smile that wasn’t entirely friendly. “No, please keep going. It’s not like I get to hear anything like this too often in my life.”

Pendergast sighed. “If I could, I would much prefer to state my intentions in a more formal setting.” Avery didn’t respond. “This would feel far more appropriate after a period of courtship, however,” he gestured to himself, with the slightest hint of self-deprecation, “you’ve already seen all of my shortcomings.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. Shortcomings?” Avery rolled his eyes. “Please. You should have seen the last guy I brought home.”

“In any case,” Pendergast continued with a slight cough of embarrassment, “Yes, I find you exceptionally... fascinating, I suppose.”

“Listen, I can’t tell whether you want to have sex or psychoanalyze me.” With an exasperated sigh, Avery pushed his hair back from his forehead with both hands and then began to rub his temples. “Can’t this just be easy? Can’t you just find me repellant like most people do?”

“I’m afraid I’m not like most people.”

“That’s for damn sure.”

“I’m also afraid that this is causing you a great deal of stress, and yet I have no idea why.”

“You really want to know? Fine.” Avery began to tick off the reasons with his right hand. “First: like you said, I didn’t ask you to come here so that we could end up in bed. Because I don’t do that anymore. Second: you barely know me, and despite what you might say now, there’s no way in hell that you could actually like me already. You’d dick around and then leave and, god, what a waste of time that would be. And that leads right into number three,” Avery paused to take a breath and then continued nastily, “which is that I’ll bet you’re a straight guy who’s starting to think about branching out a little. Am I right?”

“Not exactly,” Pendergast said quietly.

“So, what? You’re bi?”

“My sexual activity has been somewhat limited in the past few years, since the death of my wife. Before I was married, I was predominately celibate, though I had several notable relationships with both sexes as an adolescent and young adult.” Pendergast shrugged slightly. “I suppose that ‘bisexual’ is as accurate a way as any to describe myself.”

Some of the tension seemed to drain from Avery at this explanation; he sagged against the wall and stared blankly at Pendergast. “Look,” he finally said, his voice taking a softer and more even cadence. “It’s just that... I’m not here to be a release or a novelty or whatever for you. All right?” Pendergast nodded. “You’d better be really goddamn serious.”

Slowly, Pendergast stepped forward to where Avery stood. He cupped the younger man’s chin in one hand, delicately rubbing his thumb against the line of Avery’s jaw. “I am rarely anything if not serious about the things that are important to me.”

“Jesus Christ.” Avery whispered hoarsely. “Aren’t you a sweet talker?”

“I try my best.” There was a momentary pause between them and then, gently, Pendergast leaned forward and carefully touched his lips to Avery’s.

The kiss was very short and chaste, and yet when Pendergast pulled away, Avery’s breathing had become heavier and his cheeks had become flushed. He blinked several times in quick succession and sighed. “I’m sorry about your wife.”

Startled, Pendergast jerked back slightly and then seemed to catch himself; his sharp features settled into a neutral expression. “I’m sorry too,” he said quietly as he moved his hand up to tuck a lock of hair behind Avery’s ear. “I’m also sorry that you’ve had previous experiences that lead you to distrust me.”

“Oh no, please.” Avery ducked his head. “That’s totally my own fault, okay? My own malfunction.”

“You don’t think that you deserve to be treated with respect?”

“See? If you really knew me, you wouldn’t be asking that question.” Avery tilted his head back against the wall and stared up at Pendergast, subtly defiant. “I can give as good as I get, believe me.”

“I do believe you.” Pendergast moved forward and pressed another quick kiss to Avery’s lips. “But have I done anything to earn your enmity?” Languidly, he reached up and cradled Avery’s head in his hands, preventing him from averting his gaze.

Avery let out a shaky sigh. “No, you haven’t.” He paused, opened his mouth as if he was going to say something more, and then abruptly surged forward for a kiss. Pendergast ducked his head and they bumped noses awkwardly. Avery gave a short, nervous laugh and then, more carefully, tried again. He looped one arm around Pendergast’s neck, pulling him down closer for several quick, buffeting kisses. “But you won’t like me afterward,” he hissed. “I’m a horrible person.”

“I make my living trying to identify the horrible people in this world and stop them from hurting others.” Pendergast paused to slip one hand around Avery’s waist to the small of his back. “You’re not one of those people.”

“How do you know? Avery cocked his head to one side as he began to idly massage Pendergast’s shoulders. “Maybe I’m trying to get you into the back room so I can disembowel you, just like I do all my victims. Did you think of that?”

“Hmm. And yet, I think I’ll be able to defend myself.” Pendergast smiled faintly as Avery made a face.

“Don’t serial killers and psycho people get really strong when they’re provoked?”

“Occasionally. I wouldn’t say that it’s a common experience.”

“Damn. There go my all hopes for someday becoming strong like the Hulk.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint.”

Avery shrugged. “It’s okay.” He paused and chewed his lower lip. “But... we are going back to the bedroom, right? I didn’t read this completely wrong, did I?”

“I think we’re reading each other fairly well, actually.” Pendergast pulled back, hesitancy flickering across his face. “Of course, it’s been a... well, a very long time for me, and if you’d rather wait—”

“Are you kidding me? If I say we wait, I’ll never see you again.”

“Now that’s not true at all. You’d still have to deliver my painting.”

Chapter 4

Rating: NC-17

“I knew that I had come face to face with some one whose mere personality was
so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature,
my whole soul, my very art itself.”

Oscar Wilde, “The Picture of Dorian Gray”



“So... condom?” Avery pulled out the drawer on his nightstand. “I actually just got tested a couple weeks ago, and I’m clean. Haven’t been with anyone since. Been too busy with work.” He pulled out a line of condoms and wiggled it back and forth. “And, if I’m lying, you know where I live and could come kick my ass if I gave you the clap.”

Pendergast didn’t smile, but stared solemnly at Avery. “I trust you,” he said simply.

Avery twirled the foil package in his hands, staring at the frenetic reflections of light from the bedside lamp across its metallic surface as if he was transfixed. “Yeah, okay,” he finally replied, allowing the condoms to drop back into the drawer. He pulled out a small bottle of lubricant and set it on the nightstand. Then, hesitantly, he moved to stand in front of Pendergast.

“All right?” Pendergast reached up and took Avery’s hands in his own.

Avery nodded. And then, abruptly, he threw his head back and laughed. “Oh man, but you know I’m not going to measure up to you, right?”

“Measure up?”

“Mm-hmm.” Avery bent forward at the waist, tugging his hands away from Pendergast and moving them appreciatively to his shoulders. “All this.” He squeezed Pendergast’s biceps. The man was quite slender, not obviously bulky or overly muscular, but athletic and streamlined; he was obviously in good shape and quite strong. “I mean, look at me.”

Pendergast examined Avery, imitating his movements and squeezing his thin, smaller shoulders, moving his hands first down to his forearms and then back up again all the way to his delicate neck. “I like the way you look.”

“Yeah, but in my experience guys who like the way I look really just want to make me their ‘little woman.’” He smiled when Pendergast raised his eyebrows. “I’m not a big guy, right? The men I meet who are built more like you are always seem to think that means I’ll submit to everything without putting up a fight.”

Pendergast shook his head. “That hadn’t occurred to me. In fact, what first struck me was the color of your hair.” He hesitated slightly. “My brother had hair that was a very similar color.”

“Huh. That’s kind of a creepy thing to say.” Avery slid onto the bed next to Pendergast and began to tug off his socks. “I remind you of your brother?”

“No, in fact.” Avery gave him a questioning look, and Pendergast let his head fall forward as if he was ashamed. “My brother was a very... unusual person.” He glanced back at Avery, reached up, and traced the line of a red curl that had fallen across his forehead. “Aside from your hair color, you have nothing in common with him.” Avery looked doubtful. “I mean that in a very positive way,” Pendergast reassured him. “I would never have come here and posed for you if I thought you were anything like my brother.”

Avery leaned against Pendergast’s side, resting his head on his shoulder. “This sounds like a touchy subject,” he murmured.

“Indeed it is.”

“You don’t seem like you’re real close to your family.”

“For the most part, no, I’m not.”

“Yeah, me neither.” There was a pause as Avery lifted his head. “You don’t really want to be here, do you?”

Pendergast stared down at the floor. “I’m not sure.” When Avery opened his mouth to speak again, Pendergast pressed his index finger to the man’s lips to silence him. “I’m not particularly good at giving voice to my emotions, as I’m sure you can tell.” He stared at Avery and, after a moment, his expression softened. “I’m here now, and I’m glad I am. I certainly didn’t expect to meet you or to come home with you or to find you... attractive. But—” His voice dropped. “But here we are.”

“Here we are,” Avery repeated, his words vibrating past his lips to Pendergast’s finger. He laid his hand over Pendergast’s as he opened his mouth slightly and nipped the flesh at the tip of his finger. Pendergast drew an audible breath as Avery soothed the reddened skin he’d caught between his teeth with slow, gentle laves of his tongue.

Pendergast sighed and smoothed his fingertip over Avery’s bottom lip before allowing his hand to drop from Avery’s grasp. There was a pause between them, and the look they exchanged had lost much of the earlier awkwardness or embarrassment. Avery’s eyelids slowly dropped as Pendergast leaned forward and touched their lips together very gently; he hovered there, stealing Avery’s breath and teasing him with contact, until Avery placed his hands at the back of Pendergast’s neck and forced him to close the distance.

As they kissed, Avery’s hand went impatiently to the belt of the bathrobe, untying it and pushing the material aside. He moved one hand over Pendergast’s thigh, while the other worked almost frantically to pull the bathrobe off his shoulders. Pendergast aided him, moving much more slowly as he removed the robe; Avery took it from him, turned, and tossed it irreverently over the back of a small wooden chair in the far corner of the small room. The chair and the desk it stood in front of already hosted several other articles of clothing.

Avery turned back to him hungrily, and Pendergast placed one hand on his chest and the other around his shoulders. “Du calme, du calme.” he whispered soothingly as he felt Avery’s heartbeat hammering through his chest against his palm. “Slow down.”

Avery embraced him tensely with rigid muscles, and his breath came in short, shallow pants against Pendergast’s neck. It was disconcerting for Pendergast to realize how emotionally and physically agitated Avery already was. He’d shown little sign of arousal earlier, but Pendergast understood that he must have been holding back his reactions, channeling his feelings into his painting or into a low-level state of nervousness and irritation. He held Avery uncertainly, waiting for the younger man to become calmer. Avery’s ways of expressing emotion—quickly, intensely, clumsily, and unpredictably—were all reminiscent of an attack, something that Pendergast’s instincts initially told him to resist.

“I’m sorry,” Avery muttered against his shoulder.

“Don’t be.” Pendergast drew a deep breath as he felt Avery’s pulse become more even. He glanced down at Avery’s face and was again aware of the dark circles beneath his eyes and peculiar sheen of his eyes below partially lowered lids. “You’re very tired,” he observed. It was an understatement; Pendergast was certain that Avery had entered that peculiar state of exhaustion in which a sleep-deprived individual suddenly acquires a burst of odd, neurotic energy.

“Yeah, well, I haven’t really slept in the last couple of days,” Avery said sullenly. “Too busy setting up the show and working.” He sighed. “And I hate to say it, but that’s not really unusual for me.” With a small noise of contentment, Avery pushed his nose into the crook of Pendergast’s shoulder and began to stroke his fingertips lightly over the other man’s collarbone. “What about you, FBI-man?”

“I’m sorry?” Pendergast blinked and looked down again.

“We could have a contest. See who’s had the most sleepless nights.” Pendergast felt Avery’s lips hovering just over his pulse point, the warm puffs of his breath hitting his skin so lightly that he had to concentrate to feel them. “Except that when you stay up all night, I guess it’s because you’re working on catching a serial killer or a drug dealer.” Avery began to kiss his neck, moving in a gentle line up to his earlobe, where he paused. “And when I stay up all night, it’s because I’m trying to meet a deadline or having trouble hanging some stupid picture.”

Pendergast trailed his hand absently up and down Avery’s back. “Don’t you enjoy your work?”

Avery raised his head and looked him skeptically in the eye. “Yeah, I guess, but it’s not exactly making a difference in the world these days.”

“Perhaps you set your standards too high,” Pendergast replied. “I could never paint the way you do or make a living using those skills.” Avery bit his lower lip and shrugged sulkily. “And after all, we often come to define a culture by the art it produces.”

“Well, whatever. It’s not really a big deal,” Avery said, slightly too casually. “Can we keep going now?” He slipped his hand down Pendergast’s chest, pausing slightly to tease the layer of fine, pale hairs with his fingertips.

“We can,” Pendergast said after a moment of consideration. “Though I don’t think we’re very evenly matched.” He gave the hem of Avery’s shirt a small tug. “Why don’t you stand up?”

Avery gave him a lopsided smile. “Okay, sure.” He stood, positioning himself between Pendergast’s legs, and hesitated momentarily before pulling off his t-shirt and throwing it carelessly in the direction of his over-flowing hamper. As he turned back to Pendergast, he hunched his shoulders, suddenly shy. “Better?”

“A bit, yes.” Pendergast placed his hands on Avery’s hips, drawing him closer. There was a prominent pink scar several inches long visible just above his right hip; he ran a thumb over it tenderly. “An appendectomy?”

“Yeah, like three years ago.” Avery laughed shortly. “I know, I get such ugly scars.”

“It is called a hypertrophic scar,” Pendergast said. “The result of an overproduction of collagen at the scar site. Some people simply get them more frequently than others.” He leaned forward, touched his lips to the smooth, raised flesh, and then traced its lines with the tip of his tongue. When he looked up, he heard Avery’s breath hitch and felt the hair being gingerly brushed back from his forehead.

“You’re so nice,” Avery whispered, letting his hand fall to the back of Pendergast’s neck.

“Well, I’m afraid I’ve been host to quite a number of scars myself.” Pendergast allowed himself a small smile. “Such is the nature of my work.”

“That... isn’t exactly what I meant.” There was a moment of distance, of disconnect between the two before Pendergast could catch Avery’s eye again. “But that’s okay,” he said as he removed Pendergast’s hands from his hips and knelt down in front of him.

Pendergast leaned back and let his head fall forward as Avery moved his hands over his inner thighs to the limp curve of his cock. Avery’s hands were warm and dry as he began to knead the soft flesh slowly and deliberately. After a moment he paused, brought one hand up to his mouth, licked his fingers, and then resumed, making sure to pay special attention to the head as he continued. His saliva-slicked palm moved in an odd twisting motion, and Pendergast found himself watching the changes in the bones and tendons in the back of Avery’s hand and wrist as he worked.

He felt the characteristic heaviness and rush of blood between his legs as he became around and Avery’s touch encouraged his erection to grow. He let his eyelids fall part way and observed the scene through the blurred curtain of his pale eyelashes. Pleasure began to overcome the intensely ingrained reactions of anxiety and discomfort at intimate contact. He exhaled slowly and deeply, and Avery cocked his head to one side as his hands continued to move steadily up and down.

“Feel good, Aloysius?” Avery’s voice hissed over the ‘s’ sound at the end of his name. “I can call you Aloysius now, right?”

“Of course,” Pendergast murmured, bracing his hands on the mattress and lifting his hips slightly. “And, yes, it feels very good.”

Avery ran his fingertips very lightly up either side of Pendergast’s fully stiff erection. “I’m glad,” he said, and then lowered his lips to kiss and lick the underside of the glans enthusiastically. Pendergast shivered faintly at the feeling, prompting Avery to give him a small smile before he opened his mouth and closed the ring of his lips over the tip of his cock. As he began to bob his head gently up and down, he kept one hand at the base of the shaft and used the other to massage the loose flesh of the scrotum.

Pendergast closed his eyes and clenched his fingers in the tangle of sheets and blankets on the bed as Avery continued, keeping the pressure and rhythm steady and consistent. His breathing quickened and the muscles in his thighs tensed. He found himself imagining, quite vividly, how it would feel and look to climax with Avery’s mouth over him, hot and wet closed tight around him as he swallowed reflexively. The image was arousing enough to cause him to buck his hips reflexively; the movement caught Avery off-guard, and he choked slightly before he was able to pull back.

With a toss of his head, Avery snorted and wiped away a thin line of drool that had escaped from the corner of his mouth. Pendergast clenched his teeth to keep from making any noise of distress or passion. Avery’s hand still rested at the base of his erection, and they both took a moment to watch as it leapt visibly with each beat of Pendergast’s heart.

Avery smiled up at him almost beatifically. “We have a choice, now,” he said. “We can keep doing this...” He tightened his grip momentarily, and Pendergast’s breath caught in his throat. “Or...” he hesitated. “Or I can come up there with you.”

Pendergast’s eyes were clear and unusually bright as he leaned forward and urged Avery to stand. His hands went to the zipper of Avery’s blue jeans, and he helped Avery to slip them off. His underwear quickly followed, and Avery unceremoniously kicked both garments back in the general direction of the hamper. Pendergast pulled Avery close, almost into his lap, as he brushed his hands over the prominent ridges of the other man’s pelvis. Avery was smaller than him and his body was softer and pleasantly boyish. Like most men with his body-type, Avery’s hips tended to dominate his flat torso; the effect was neither classically masculine nor feminine, and Pendergast was mildly surprised at how exciting he found the androgyny to be.

The room was cool, and Pendergast noticed that goosebumps had risen on Avery’s forearms. He tugged Avery onto the bed beside him, and Avery let out an uncomfortable little laugh. With a small, secretive little smile, Pendergast began to ghost his fingertips gently up and down Avery’s sides, drawing him closer. Avery squirmed and sighed at the touch before leaning forward and kissing Pendergast aggressively. Their tongues met and clashed; Pendergast found the rough feeling of tastebuds rasping over tastebuds pleasantly odd enough to be a distraction from the lingering salty, bitter taste in Avery’s mouth.

He leaned back against the headboard of Avery’s small bed, the cushioning pile of pillows supporting his shoulder blades and lower back. Avery followed, straddling his thighs and moving his hips carefully forward so that their erections brushed. Pendergast let out a small sigh, and Avery responded with a hum of satisfaction as he put his hands on Pendergast’s shoulders. “So,” Avery said quietly, his voice low and husky, “How far did you want to go?”

“I’m sorry?” Pendergast blinked, somewhat startled by the question. “’How far?’”

“Some guys aren’t really into the whole anal thing, is all. It’s safer to ask.”

“Ah.” Pendergast averted his eyes, feeling slightly out of his depth. “Whatever you’d like, I think, will be fine.”

“Okay.” Avery leaned out to the side to the bedside table, where he’d left the small bottle of lubricant. As he eased himself back into Pendergast’s lap, he caught the other man’s expression and gave him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, it isn’t like you have to do any work.” He tipped him a salacious wink and then stifled a laugh. “You are so prep school gay. It’s almost adorable.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard the term before,” Pendergast replied weakly.

“Rich boys who do a little ‘experimenting’ in high school and college, even though they know they’re going to have to find a girl and get married once they’re out because of whatever social standards the elite still cling to,” Avery explained, a touch of bitterness creeping into his voice as he flipped up the top of the bottle and squeezed out a small portion of viscous liquid. “What the hell do I know, right? My family always had both feet firmly planted in the middle class.” He snapped the bottle shut and leaned forward again to replace it on the nightstand. “But I ran into a surprising number of them at Columbia. They can be so refreshingly naïve.”

Pendergast watched as Avery tipped his hand and allowed some of the thick liquid to drip down onto his erection before using both hands to ensure that the lubricant was evenly distributed. “You went to Columbia?”

“On a scholarship,” Avery answered defensively. “Now, shh, you’re ruining the mood.” He allowed himself a small smile to show that all was forgiven and gave Pendergast a friendly squeeze. “Ready?”

“If you are.” He placed his hands on Avery’s hips to steady him as he straightened up.

Avery sighed as he lowered himself slowly onto Pendergast’s erection and placed his hands on the other man’s chest. They were still greasy from the lubricant and he took advantage of that, slipping his hands up and down and massaging the flesh of the pectoral muscles with the heels of his palms. Pendergast moved his own hands over Avery’s thighs, struck by the sensations of tightness and heat that enveloped him nearly to the point of pain. He breathed deeply as Avery’s weight shifted minutely forward and back, forward and back, in an agonizing seesaw.

With a quiet grunt of approval, Avery slipped forward a little further and kissed him quickly before moving back again. Pendergast watched lazily as Avery bit his lower lip and tossed his head, a reaction to the feeling of some startling and sudden inner pleasure. He watched Avery’s movements carefully, trying to determine the precise timing, and after several moments of watching began to lift his own hips gently up and down, offsetting Avery’s own movements.

The first several strokes were nothing special; Avery looked first surprised, then pleased at Pendergast’s involvement. By the fourth stroke, he found the angle he’d been hoping for, and Avery gasped loudly as the tip of Pendergast’s cock brushed his prostate.

And then Avery stretched forward, placing one hand behind Pendergast’s neck and allowing the other to fall between his own legs as they both began to move more quickly. Pendergast listened to the subtle, rhythmic squeaking of the bedsprings and observed, in an almost detached way, that the extended physical contact had eroded many of the fears and reservations he’d had concerning intimacy with anyone since the death of his wife. He had expected that this would be the case, of course, but the reality of it stunned him; it was the emotional equivalent of jumping into a pool of cold water. Even as their pace quickened and became more frantic, his mind whirred and ticked beyond his control, rationalizing and compartmentalizing the good feelings and the bad.

Avery’s hold on his neck tightened and he began to kiss down his temple, his cheek, his jaw. Their movement had become so fast and urgent that it ceased to be organized at all, and had instead melded and reformed as the frenzied rocking of two people on the brink, clutching one another tightly. Pendergast felt himself jarred from his sense of disconnected objectivity and forced back into the world of raw, frightening, human sensation. His first impulse was to pull back again, to keep from becoming too close or connected, but then he felt Avery go stiff against him and heard a soft moan in his ear. “Ah, fuck... Aloysius.” A moment later he felt a series of exquisite muscle contractions around his erection, followed by sticky liquid warmth against his belly; Avery sighed contentedly and relaxed against his chest, sated.

Pendergast let out a low moan in reply, continuing to thrust against Avery’s limp and compliant form. Obscene images flashed through his mind in quick succession, and within moments he too reached orgasm, shuddering and bucking his hips and feeling the release of semen.

They lay together in the glow of the soft bedside lamp, panting quietly as they recovered. Pendergast rubbed his hands over Avery’s back, his fingers lingering over the even bumps of his vertebrae. He felt his pulse in his ears, his arms, his legs, and his groin slowing, felt his erection soften and slip out of Avery.

Then, abruptly, Avery rolled away from him. He staggered slightly as he stood, grabbed a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt that were at the top of a pile that had been stacked at the foot of his bed, and began to pull them on without saying a word.

Pendergast sat up and listened to the faint noise of Avery dressing, leaving the room, and walking down the hall to the bathroom. His limbs felt heavy and his muscles ached pleasantly with the aftermath of exertion and orgasm. The physical sensations were clear, easily translatable, and far preferable to the overbearing emotion of guilt that had suddenly come to rest heavily inside his chest.

He still missed his wife, of course, and he hadn’t expected not to. But he hadn’t expected to feel badly about enjoying his first sexual encounter since her untimely death. He closed his eyes, but in his mind he could still see the sharply delineated planes of Avery’s cheap box-spring and mattress. He felt almost taken aback by the sheer number of differences, by how far away Avery’s bed was from the one he had once shared with his wife.

With Avery there was no sense of luxury, obviously, as the young man lived mostly in poverty. But, refreshingly, there was no sense of obligation. Pendergast frowned slightly. His wife had been a tall, athletic woman and very beautiful. They had loved each other quite deeply, but during their marriage neither had ever been truly and consistently enthused about doing anything sexual.

A memory surfaced; it was from a time he had tried very hard to stay distanced from. He and his wife had been in Tanzania, nearly six months before she would be dead and he would be left alone. A handsome young man, a native of the area named Kingunge, had been acting as their guide and had just left for the evening—



“You were watching him.”

“I’m sorry?” He looked up from his luggage, startled.

Her voice was accusatory, but her eyes were smiling. “You were watching him.” She nodded toward the door of their hotel room. “Kingunge. I saw you.”

“I was just being cautious,” he said warily.

She shook her head. “No, you weren’t. Not cautious at all. Cautious looks like this—” She altered her expression, drawing her brows together and pressing her lips into a thin, straight line. Her normally open face became tight, severe, and withdrawn. “You looked like this—” Her face changed minutely, remaining smooth and closed as her brow relaxed, her eyes widened, and her lips parted very slightly. Her expression became one of reserved, but very clear and deliberate interest.

He froze, watching her carefully, unsure of exactly what to say or how to say it. But before he could react, she smiled at him sadly. “I don’t blame you.”

“You don’t?”

“I never have.”

He looked away, an uncharacteristic blush staining his pale cheeks a blotchy, broken red. “I apologize.”

“There’s no need to.” She stepped forward and laid her hand over his. “There are some things we can’t—and probably shouldn’t—control.”



—He had been more grateful to her in that moment than ever before. And that night, beneath the mosquito net, they had made love in the stifling heat, and it had been the most satisfying sexual experience of their entire marriage.

He looked up as he heard the toilet flush and the sound of running water in the bathroom. Avery emerged a moment later, walking somewhat stiffly, his hair tousled and his eyes red-rimmed. In one hand he carried a damp washcloth. He sat down on the edge of the bed and tenderly began to use the washcloth to clean away the semen, sweat, and lubricant on Pendergast’s chest, the warm water quickly turning cool on his skin as it evaporated. It was a more intimate gesture than any display of sexual affection could hope to be. Pendergast pulled Avery closer and kissed his temple briefly.

Once finished with his task, Avery balled up the washcloth and tossed it into the hamper. “So,” Avery said quietly, “I figured I’d let you have the bed, and I’d take the couch. Assuming you’re staying, I mean.”

“You wouldn’t prefer to share?”

Avery gave him a skeptical look. “This bed’s too small for both of us.”

Pendergast shook his head. “It would be a little close, maybe, but I’m sure there’s enough room.”

Avery still looked doubtful. “Most guys just want to be left alone afterward.”

“Again, I’m not like most people.” Pendergast paused, took Avery’s hand, and lifted it to his lips in a courtly pretense that caused Avery to raise his eyebrows. “And it simply doesn’t seem right for you to end the evening alone on a couch that was never intended for sleeping.”

“All right. Whatever you say.” Avery shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but Pendergast could see quite plainly that he was pleased. “Move over, then.” He reached over, switched off the bedside lamp, then pulled his legs up and laid down, curling himself compactly against Pendergast and allowing the other man to draw the sheet and blanket over both of them. “Good night.”

“Good night to you too,” Pendergast replied as he rested his head on the pillow. He felt the soft cotton of Avery’s pajamas on his own naked skin, the smoothness of the sheet and the heaviness of the blanket above it, and the small, subtle movements Avery’s breathing produced. He watched as each breath became slower, steadier, until he knew Avery had fallen asleep beside him. He allowed feelings of pleasure and security to creep over him, and permitted himself to begin to relax.

But still, Pendergast laid awake for long, long into the night.