"God why couldn't I have been chained to a girl?!" Trickster wailed for the umpteenth time.

"It's a good thing you aren't," Piper grated, "As if she wouldn't have enough problems with being shot at, hunted and starved, she'd have to worry about being raped by you." The sudden shocked silence told him he'd struck a home run but it wasn't enough, "I suppose I have it easier. It's not like I'm chained to a hot guy."

The silence was leaden. They'd escaped Deadshot by the skin of their teeth and their nerves were frayed. They were both agitated, a condition not helped by Trickster's inconvenient surges of testosterone. He'd been taking it out on Piper without really thinking about it. Piper was strong and patient, a rock of strength. He seldom bit back.

But when he did, damn did he bite hard.

Still reeling from the vicious one-two punch, Trickster rallied, "Don't try to kid me. When was the last time you got laid?"

"Five years ago," Piper replied.

James blinked. Somehow, that wasn't the answer he'd expected of a gay guy. Weren't queers always out for it? Weren't they, y'know, promiscuous? That's why AIDS had run through them so quickly, right? But the soft, guarded way that Piper had answered made him look at him. "Really?" Piper nodded once, curtly, withdrawing further into his cowl. "Why so long?"

"Haven't really wanted anyone since James died."

James blinked again. That's right, Hartley'd had a boyfriend for a while, hadn't he? A long while. "How long were you, y'know, together?"

"Six years."

James blinked a third time. In a kinder voice he said, "I'm sorry.. You never said you were a widower."

Hartley flexed an eyebrow and gave James a long speculative look. That was Trickster, ever a surprise. A continuous stream of ridiculous gay jokes, then something like this. Moments like that were why he continued to consider the guy a friend. Still, he knew what was coming next and decided to head it off at the pass. He pushed his cowl back, pushing his fingers through his hair, and sighed heavily. "Fifteen car pile-up on the I-90. A semi jack-knifed, wound up sitting across three lanes. Three cars slammed into James's Civic and shoved it under the trailer, sheared the roof right off."

And his head with it, James realized. He'd seen that kind of accident before. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, "I didn't mean to open up old wounds. You know me, just an insensitive asshole..."

Hartley gave the ghost of a smile and reached into one of his pockets. The photograph showed him and another young man, arms around each other and beaming, the sun dancing off their hair. Hartley's hair was lighter then, a bright coppery colour; age had darkened it to coppery auburn, James noted. He also noted how much Hartley's face had changed. How much age and grief had thinned it, sharpened the lines, hollowing the cheeks and eyes. "You look good with long hair," James offered. Hartley shrugged. "You look happy. Looks like you made each other happy." This time Hartley's face softened into a sad, misty smile. "Thanks for sharing that with me."

Hartley shrugged and put the photograph away again, "S'good to talk about him once in a while, I guess. Takes me back to happier memories."

James winced. Man he'd really fucked it up this time. "I'm sorry," he said again.

Hartley cocked an eyebrow at him again. That's three times, he must mean it. He shrugged, "Forgiven. This time."