“Pete!” Jazz screamed as the first wave of men attacked.

Smoke was good. But he was outnumbered. He fought valiantly, but he couldn’t possibly win. Splitting his attention between those who were targeting Jazz and those who were pummeling him didn’t help.

Still he fought on. Knowing he needed backup, knowing he couldn’t leave Jazz on his own.

“This here’s the one!” the man on the ground shouted, gleefully pointing out Smoke. “He needs to be taught a lesson!”

Suddenly two men grabbed Smoke, each one taking an arm, effectively immobilizing him. As they held him, a third man kicked him in the chest. Despite the tight hold they had on him, Smoke doubled over in pain.

Jazz winced. He heard an audible crack, and he knew. Smoke’s ribs were broken. As the older man tried to guard his ribs from further injury, he was attacked again and again.

He never uttered more than a low groan. It was as if he knew the crowd scented blood, and it would erupt into a veritable frenzy if it heard him scream.

Suddenly he heard a wail of pain, louder than anything the mob was making. It was James. Smoke’s eyes met James’, begging him to go back. Get help. Get Jazz out of here.

James saw the open cuts and dark bruises that marked his lover’s skin and howled, plunging into the fray like a man possessed. He didn’t care how many of them there were. He couldn’t let them do this.

A fine trickle of blood wept from the corner of Smoke’s mouth, and James couldn’t understand how Smoke could still be on his feet. One of the men grabbed the silver choker that hung around Smoke’s neck, seemingly admiring it. “This is real pretty, fag. I wonder what I could get for something like this.”

“Don’t. Please don’t.” Smoke was indeed on the verge of unconsciousness. But he couldn’t let them take his choker. It was a symbol of his commitment to James. It had to remain unbroken. It was the one thing left that he would fight for. Even in his condition.

The man chuckled ominously, tugging experimentally at the chain. It looked fine, but it was surprisingly strong. “Maybe I’ll just rip this sucker right off your fucking neck.”

“No!!!” James screamed.

The man turned, jerking his hand away from Smoke, and then, as if in slow motion, they both watched Smoke’s neck burst into a series of jagged little tears, each one dripping blood.

“NO!!! You’re killing him!”

James stepped in front of his lover, taking a blow that was clearly meant for him. Partially supporting Smoke’s weight now, James couldn’t even get enough air into his lungs to speak. As if he understood that James would do whatever he could to protect him, Smoke finally gave in to the demands of his body and passed out.

James followed Smoke down to the ground, holding him in his arms, daring anyone to approach. If they saw weakness, they would be on him in a heartbeat. So he couldn’t fall apart. He owed Smoke. Smoke brought him back to life. In so many ways.

“Jazz,” he hissed. “I can’t leave Smoke. You have to get help.”

Jazz was mesmerized by the sight of his adoptive father lying there so pale, so still. “Is he gonna die? He’s gonna die, isn’t he?”

That word seemed to strike fear into their would-be assailants. “Die? Shit, I ain’t going down for no murder rap, man! Specially not some fag!”

“Yeahhh, let’s get the fuck out of here!”

Some of them were ready and willing to disperse at that point. The rest were waiting for a signal of some kind. When it came, though, it surprised all of them.

There was a gunshot. A single gunshot. Suddenly the men couldn’t scatter quickly enough. There was a hideous flurry of noise for a few moments, followed by dead silence.

Michael lowered his gun, clicking the safety on as he pointed it at the ground. With barely a flicker of his now-grey eyes to betray what he was feeling, Michael placed his gun in the waistband of his jeans before pulling out his cell phone. “I’ll call an ambulance,” he said softly.

Jazz knelt next to James, quietly crying. “This is all my fault. All my fault,” he repeated, afraid to touch Smoke, for fear of what he might find out.

James placed his hand over Jazz’, trying to comfort him without words. He didn’t think he could get actual words to clear his throat yet.

But when he realized what Jazz was saying, he couldn’t stay silent another moment. “It’s not your fault, Jazz.”

“It is! I ran away!” He swiped at the tears trickling down his bruised cheek, unknowingly smearing some of Smoke’s blood across his face. The grotesque image, something so awful juxtaposed with something so intrinsically beautiful, would live in James’ mind for a lifetime.

“It’s not your fault. It’s—“ James turned slowly to face Michael. He owed him their lives, but he couldn’t help hating him at that moment.

“It’s *yours*,” he said to Michael, knowing the older man would not deny it. “He’s only a kid. You’re the fucking grown-up.”

“You’re right,” Michael admitted.

James cocked his head at Michael, not realizing until then how much of the heat of his anger had left him.

Jazz slowly stood up, his bruised cheek glistening darkly with Smoke’s blood, his green eyes impossible to read. Suddenly a figure appeared behind Michael. Michael and James exclaimed, “Adam!”

Michael frowned. “I thought I told you to stay home. I told you I would take care of this.”

Adam bit his lip. He no longer felt like openly defying his father, but this, this was too important for him not to be here. “I heard you. But I had to be here. I know you think you’re to blame for all this, Dad. But you’re not.”

“It’s my fault.” Adam’s words echoed across the silent alleyway. “I’m the one who has to fix this.”

James glared at the adolescent. “Not everything can *be* fixed.”

“I know.” Adam’s bleak eyes met Jazz’. “But I have to try.”

The ambulance arrived with considerable fanfare, but each of them was so preoccupied with his own thoughts that it could have passed virtually unnoticed. James was stroking Smoke’s hair back from his forehead as gently as possible. Smoke came awake with a low moan, pain surging through his body with such intensity, he didn’t even attempt to sit up. “Oh, God, Jamie, it hurts,” he groaned.

James was so glad to see Smoke regain consciousness that his deep blue eyes misted over. “Ssh, ssh, save your strength.”

The crew attached to the ambulance hovered impatiently over Smoke. One of the EMT’s finally glowered at James. “Could you please move?”

James looked up at the man, hurt evident in his expressive eyes. “Be careful with him. He’s in a lot of pain.”

The EMT snorted. “Just let us do our job, okay?”

James reluctantly slid out of the way and stood up very slowly. The EMT’s opened the back door of the ambulance and unfolded an orange canvas stretcher. After what seemed to be a strangely cursory examination, the three men exchanged glances.

The third man, apparently the driver, returned to the front of the vehicle, while the other two lifted Smoke onto the stretcher. As they attempted to place Smoke carefully inside the ambulance, James clung to his hand, clearly unwilling to be separated from his lover.

The EMT who originally addressed James suddenly stepped in front of the door, physically barring James from climbing into the back of the ambulance. “No ridealongs, sorry.”

“You don’t understand—“ James protested.

“I understand plenty. God, you people are so pathetic. You’ll have to wait to see him at the hospital, *honey*,” the man said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Michael stepped into the EMT’s personal space, so closely that it was obvious that the other man perceived it as a threat. Putting a hand up, as if something so meager could actually protect him, the EMT said, “Listen, I don’t want any trouble. So just back off, man.”

Michael didn’t even speak directly to the technician. “Get in the ambulance, James.”

James glanced curiously at Michael, but his need to be with Smoke won out over any residual anger. Poised to enter the vehicle, James stopped, once more effectively prevented from getting inside. “Next of kin only.”

Michael’s eyes flared bright green for a moment before returning to their seemingly placid grey. “Do you hold up medical treatment for *all* your patients? Or just this one?”

The EMT regarded Michael impassively. “I don’t know what you mean. If anyone’s holding anything up, it’s *you* people.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed, his voice deepening to a tone that those who knew him recognized as dangerous. “And what people would those be?”

The driver honked, lending the scene a certain urgency, and Michael took a step back, drawing his gun at the same time. “James, get in the ambulance.”

James pushed brusquely past the EMT and settled into a place at Smoke’s side. He was fairly sure that Michael wouldn’t shoot the man, but then again…you could never really tell with Michael.

The EMT frowned at Michael. “You’re in deep shit, my friend.”

“I don’t think so,” Michael replied tersely. “But if you don’t get these people to the hospital in the next few minutes, you’ll be dealing with *me*, and I don’t think you want that.”

Muttering to himself, the EMT backed up, closed the door, and thumped his large hand on the back of the door, signaling the driver that the patient was safely inside. “Okay?” he sneered at Michael.

Michael barely nodded. After he replaced his gun in the waistband of his jeans, he pulled out his cell phone again, this time dialing closer to home. “Neil? Who do you know at St. Catherine’s? And how fast can you get there?”

***

The ride to the hospital ER was a quiet one. Michael was lost in thought. Adam sat next to him, while Jazz huddled in a corner of the back seat. Although Jazz himself had minor injuries that needed to be treated, he had refused to accompany his adoptive father in the ambulance. Smoke had risked his life for him. He didn’t want to take one moment away from him and James.

He thought that James was probably injured as well, but James seemed so invincible that it was as if nothing impacted him. Well, except for Smoke’s condition.

And who was responsible for that? Jazz closed his eyes, feeling hot tears trace a path through the grime and the gore on his face.

If he could only have looked up at that moment, though, he would have seen that at least one person still thought he was the most beautiful thing on Earth.

***

The ER was a loud, bright, frightening place to be on the weekend. But it was the anxiety of not knowing the outcome that made all of them feel somewhat desperate. When hospital staff tried to separate James from Smoke, this time it was Smoke who protested. “Please! I need him with me!”

“You’ll see him later!” the resident yelled back over the din.

James shook his head, giving in to the inevitable, but not liking it one bit. “I’ll wait here, Pete.”

“No! Jamie!”

James shut his eyes tightly against the noise and the smells and the sound of Smoke’s voice fading away as he was whisked down the hall on a gurney for evaluation.

“Are you going to be okay?” Michael interrupted softly.

James looked at the man to whom he owed his life. His and Smoke’s and Jazz’. “Ask me later,” he said, his voice breaking.

He didn’t have to be strong any longer. He ached in every part of his body, but he knew it was nothing compared to how Smoke must feel. “He looked so…battered. God, what they did to him. All that beauty…gone.”

Michael tapped James’ chest. “He’s still beautiful…in here. Where only you can see.”

James gave a tiny gasp as the last of his control shredded. Michael caught him as he slumped forward, and he pulled the younger man into a fierce hug. “I’m so sorry, James.”

“I know you are. I think that’s the only thing making this bearable,” James whispered. Having someone even stronger than he was to hold him helped. It made him feel…safe.

James pulled back, swiping at his suddenly tear-filled eyes, noting that Adam and Jazz were standing very close together on the other side of the room. “Hey! Stay away from him! I think you’ve done enough for one night!”

Michael turned, catching the stricken look in Adam’s dark eyes as well as the heartbreaking glance Jazz allowed himself before moving away from Adam. “James,” Michael began, not sure if he had words articulate enough to say what he wanted.

“Don’t make the same mistake that I did.”

“But they can’t—“

“Do you think telling them they can’t is going to change how they feel about each other? I did.” Michael stared grimly at his oldest son. “And look how well that turned out.”

“But Jazz is too young—“

“So’s Adam.” There was a beat and a restless step as Michael shifted his weight, unconsciously betraying his remaining anxiety about his son. “I’ve just gotten him back. I don’t want to lose him.”

“You won’t.” The voice came from behind Michael. His face cleared, relief taking the place of concern. “Kita!”

Michael held out his arms, and his wife walked into his embrace, as always the only person who could pass freely through the boundaries of Michael’s emotional defenses. James could swear that he saw tears in Michael’s eyes, but he was sure he must be mistaken. No one as strong as Michael would—

Then he realized that it took someone even stronger than Michael to allow him to express all that emotion that he kept so carefully under control. That someone was Nikita.

***

Adam watched somberly as a nurse’s aide briskly started to clean Jazz’ face. But when Jazz winced, he intervened. “Here, give me the cloth. I’ll do it.”

“Are you sure?” the young girl asked hesitantly.

“Absolutely,” Adam said, looking intently into Jazz’ vivid green eyes.

When she left the two of them alone, Adam began wiping slowly at Jazz’ face, concentrating on the dirt and careful to avoid the huge bruise that encompassed his entire left cheek. His lip was cut, too, though not badly. Adam dabbed at his lip, and he was rewarded with a restless sigh from Jazz’ vicinity.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

There was a dead silence, and then there was a moment as they both tried to talk at once. “Sorry.”

“No, you go first.”

“I just—we have a lot to talk about,” said Adam.

“We do?” Jazz asked hopefully.

“Yeah.” Adam’s voice had grown impossibly soft, but Jazz didn’t mind at all.

“About what?”

“About—this.” Adam slid his cheek along the side of Jazz’ face, lightly contacting the bruised area.

Jazz drew a sharp breath, but whether from pain or pleasure was hard to tell. Adam frowned. “Did I hurt you?”

“Yes—no—I…” Jazz colored and shook his head.

Adam grazed Jazz’ bruised cheek with his fingertips. “Someone hit you?”

“Yeah.”

Adam nuzzled Jazz’ cheek with his nose, then his lips. “You’re still beautiful.”

Jazz turned his head, ever so slightly, and Adam’s lips touched his chastely. He couldn’t prevent an involuntary grimace as his torn lip protested the intrusion, and Adam pulled away.

They looked at each other for a long moment before speaking again. Adam’s thumb rubbed at Jazz’ brow. It seemed like the only place where no cut or bruise marred his skin.

“So where do we go from here?”

“Someplace warm?” Jazz suggested brightly.

“Are you teasing me?”

“Me? Dunno how.” But Jazz’ impish grin gave him away. “Ow!” he said as the smile tugged at the cut on his lip.

“Want me to kiss it and make it better?”

Jazz’ eyes slid away shyly. This was everything he had hoped for and more. But maybe he was asleep. Maybe he had been knocked out during the fracas. Maybe he was dreaming all of this.

“Would you?”

Adam tenderly brushed his dry, warm lips against his, the touch lasting no more than a fraction of a second. Jazz stared back at him, incredulous.

“That almost didn’t hurt,” he whispered.

“See? Getting better already.”