Virgil Hawkins stormed up the two flights of stairs to his destination and roughly shoved his key into the lock, nearly breaking the piece as he turned it. The door slammed first into the wall, then slammed shut after he crossed the threshold. He headed straight for the kitchen, throwing his bag onto the table where it skidded across the surface and fell to the floor, before digging in the fridge for a beer. Twisting the cap off, he sat heavily in one of the table chairs and glared at the stained linoleum floor.

He hated days like today.

He knew the dangers of being a cop, who didn't? But Adam was the older guy, and he was the rookie. It was HIS job to take the bullet! But is that what happened? No! His partner had pushed him to the side and taken the hit for him! Virgil had been torn between shooting the gangster punk and shooting his son of a bitch friend!

In the end, of course, he did the right thing. He took down Ebon, and after shooting a police officer, the guy wasn't going to be back for a long time. Adam would have a few weeks of recovery, but the man would be back and good as new. The outcome wasn't as important as the principle of the thing! He was the young guy, he was the one Adam was supposed to train, and HE was the one that was supposed to get shot!

Or maybe he was taking the whole thing a little personally because Adam was dating his sister. Nothing too serious, but they'd been in a steady relationship for a few months. And he knew if anything happened to her boyfriend Sharon would have his hide. And he certainly didn't relish THAT thought. Sighing, he sat back and chugged the rest beer, tossing it into the trash as he finished, then leaned forward to glare at the floor again.

A few minutes later, two hands wrapped around his neck. Under other circumstances, he'd pull away and deck whoever it was before they could get a decent grip. But these weren't other circumstances. After everything that happened, he hadn't wanted to go to his empty apartment and spend the night alone. That's why he'd wasted an hour traveling across town during rush hour. He knew he wouldn't be alone here, knew that the day wouldn't completely suck if he stayed the night.

The hands moved to his shoulders, then closed in and a pair of thumbs dug into his spine. He growled as the first few movements caused him pain, but the growls turned to groans as the owner of the hands worked even harder on his muscles. This was why they worked so well together. Whenever one of them had a hard day, the other would know exactly what was needed. They didn't exactly date, but they were definitely more than mere friends. His partner tended to refer to them as lovers, though he had yet to figure out how sincere affectionate terms were.

A few more minutes and he felt the tension in his neck melt away. He rolled his head back to look into framed concentrating eyes. "God, Rich, you've got the Midas touch."

"You're resorting to compliments taken directly from my latest reviews?" The blond's gaze never shifted, still concentrating on Virgil's back.

"Shut up. I've had a long day."

Richie grunted as he dug his thumbs into Virgil's flesh. "I can tell. You've got more kinks than a gay porn site." A hand slapped his shoulder. "Lie down."

"Rich, I'm not in the mood-"

"You want me to work out these knots or not. Couch. Now. Or I'll just go back to my welding."

Virgil grumbled, but he slid off the chair, pried off his shirt, and plopped himself face down onto the couch a room away. As partners went, Rich could be demanding, stubborn, and down-right annoying. The man was also very good at what he did, and soon after Richie straddled his waist he felt his spine unwind to the artist's ministrations. "I'll sell you my soul to do this every night."

"Eh, I could make more off my early pieces."

"Bastard."

"You know it." A kiss was placed in the middle of Virgil's back. "Ya love me anyways."

"Humph." Virgil hid his head in his arms. There was a prime example. Did Richie really believe that? Or was it a joke? Virgil could never tell, and while Richie said things like that all the time, Virgil hadn't once used the L-word. Ever. Considering their history, Virgil tended to lean more towards the 'it's a joke' theory.

They'd met senior year in high school. He'd seen Richie around, but his added responsibilities around the house and at the Youth Center limited his free time, and he tended to hang with the friends he already had. Then, senior year, Virgil had taken an art class. Colleges liked well-rounded students and all. Richie was in it, and he wasn't just a student, he was an artist, in every sense of the word. The teen worked with some pottery, some painting, but his specialty was metal sculptures.

A few weeks into the class Richie had asked if anyone wanted to model. The art school wanted human sketches for a portfolio, and that was one thing Richie wasn't very good at. The guy seemed like a nice enough kid, so Virgil figured what the hell. It was an easy fifty bucks. They met after school, went to an empty classroom, and Richie began sketching.

The Grecian pose was the hardest for him to do, mainly because the place was freezing and he'd had to strip down to his boxers. Still, who was he to turn down good money? Plus, he'd noticed Richie actually looked cute concentrating: a pout that never let up, furrowed brow, and a fire of passion in the eyes. Virgil'd never seen a student so focused, so involved in one project.

He knew what the term gay meant, he'd just never really thought of himself that way. Hell, even to this day he didn't. He enjoyed going to all those bachelor parties thrown for his fellow officers. But that day in Richie's studio…he had an overwhelming urge to touch the artist, to see that passion directed at him, rather than some drawing. It wasn't that he was suddenly switching his sexuality, he was just…curious.

Patience had never been one of Virgil's strong suits, and as a teenager his self-control was rather…non-existent. Before he knew what he was doing he'd moved across the room, pushed the sketch pad aside, and planted his lips on the blond's. And he'd gotten his wish. The passion was now directed at him, a mix between anger--for disrupting the artist's concentration--and lust.

They never made it past second base, but something had…started. They became friends after that evening, belonging to two very different worlds, yet they worked together so well. Richie eventually went to that art college, and Virgil tried college for a year, but was eventually recruited into the police academy by Adam, a cop working the campus beat. About the same time, Rich returned to Dakota, tired of his style being "put down and suppressed to be educated about so-called good art." Virgil was glad to have his friend back, and they'd pretty much picked up where they left off. Friends with privileges.

It'd been rough, especially for Richie. The first few years the artist worked meaningless jobs to pay the bills. Then, about two years ago, the latest sculptures were called 'genius.' Richie's ego never inflated, and while the money was appreciated, Virgil knew his friend was in it for the labor. Richie loved working with metal to create unique and complex sculptures. In another life, he theorized Rich would've made a killer inventor.

It also meant his hands were very good at manipulating just about any medium, including his muscles. "You shoulda been a massage therapist for all those years."

"Shoulda, woulda, coulda." He felt Richie sit back, clapping his hands. "How's that?"

"Much better. Thanks."

"So you wanna talk about it?"

Virgil sighed, then rolled over, Richie moving to sit on the back of the couch so as not to be toppled. "Adam got shot."

"He gonna be okay?"

"Yeah, it's just…Sharon, and he's my partner, and he really shouldn't have…" He reached up and traced a finger down the inseam of Richie's jeans. "It was just stressful, you know? I was the one the shot was intended for. Adam should've never risked his own life…"

"This hero complex stuff has got to stop, V." Virgil frowned and looked up to Richie's face. "Seriously. Your partner protected you. It'll happen again. Even with other partners. Stressing isn't gonna make it any easier. Adam'll survive, that's the important thing. You can't protect every single person, and you shouldn't go nuts when someone gets hurt."

The growl returned to Virgil's throat. "So if I got shot shielding you, you'd be relaxed about it?"

"Course not. I'd probably tear the shooter's head off." Richie clasped his hands together and looked at them. "But I'd also know that you chose to do that, to protect me no matter the risk to yourself. Adam chose to protect you, Virg. He knew the risks, and he did it anyways." Richie finally gazed at him again. "So stop blaming yourself because someone got hurt protecting you. He CHOSE to. Guilt trips'll just burn you out and make him regret the action."

"That's a cynical view."

"It's a realistic view." Virgil crossed his arms and looked away, scowling. "Would you take a bullet for me?"

"Of course I would! It's my duty-"

"Not as a police officer, V. As my friend."

"What're you getting at?"

"Do you think Adam protected you because of duty, or because he's your friend?"

"I don't know! What kinda question is that?!"

"Maybe he knew that your family couldn't handle another tragedy, and he wanted to spare Sharon the pain."

His head snapped back to Richie and his voice took on a dangerous tone. That was striking a bit too close to a wound that had never fully healed. "What do you know. You sit here all day in your studio and you barely interact with the real world! You don't know what you're talking about!"

"Maybe I don't," Richie countered, his voice just as dark, "but you're punishing yourself for no reason! I'm TRYING to justify what happened so YOU'LL feel better! Excuse me for trying to make a friend feel better!"

"I never ASKED you to!"

"No, you didn't! YOU came over to MY place, and let me relax you! In all the time we've known each other, V, when have I NOT asked why you're stressed? When have I NOT given my advice, huh?"

"You could just silently support me!"

"You don't get to pick and choose what you want from me! I'm not some Chinese restaurant! You get the massage, you get the opinions! You get the sex, you get the cold feet against your legs! It's a package deal, Virg!"

"And sometimes it sucks!"

"Yeah, I know!" Richie pulled his legs over the back of the couch and stood up, his neck-length hair swaying. "And you know what REALLY sucks? I'M never the one that gets to seek you out! I have to wait for YOU to come to ME, and then I have to deal with YOUR shit! You ever think I might want to go to your place for once? Ever consider that I want a place I can be pampered and unload the crap I deal with?!"

Virgil pulled himself into a sitting position. "WHAT crap? You hardly leave this place!"

"I deal with art dealers! I argue with museums! And despite what you think, I DO go out into the world, and I can have bad days as much as anybody! But do I get to go over to your place to unwind? NO! Your homophobic sexually repressed cop buddies might see the QUEER artist and come to the RIGHT conclusion about you!"

Richie took a breath, fumed, then threw his hands up. "I give up! Be miserable that your partner saved your life! Regret the fact he'll be fine and it's a happy ending! I'll be in MY workshop and YOU can go to YOUR place where YOU can deal with this shit YOURSELF!"

The artist stormed off, muttering things Virgil was sure would make some of the toughest cops balk. Virgil collapsed back onto the couch and snarled at the ceiling. Why the hell was Rich upset? It wasn't HIS partner that had nearly been killed today! He heard clanging noises, and ignored the fact that it sounded like Rich was throwing scrap metal around like a three year old. HE was right, not Richie. Rich could never understand what life as a cop was like, what it felt like to see someone close to you fall to the ground with a bullet in their arm.

And a hero complex? What was that about? Okay, yeah, he wanted to protect people, but that didn't mean he had a complex. Okay, he was a wee bit more neurotic about it than any of the other guys, but his mom had died because the police failed to protect her. He was just making sure some other kid didn't have to go through that. Even if it meant sacrificing himself-

Oh.

Crap.

Richie was right. He DID have a complex. And damn if that didn't piss him off. Richie was right about that, which meant he was probably right about Virgil overstressing himself, too. Damn it, damn it, damn it! He punched a the cushion he was lying on. He HATED when he lost the argument even after Rich had left. Not that they argued often, mostly about politics…or when he was being an ass. Like tonight. He'd gone and thrown Richie's heartfelt help back in his friend's face.

His lips thinned as he recalled the latter half of the argument, then thought back through all the years they knew each other. Rich was right, he'd never once had the blond over. Richie didn't even have a key to his place, although Richie had given him one to the studio right after it was bought. He couldn't remember the last time Richie just vented to him, but remembered countless nights where he'd laid here, or in bed, and shed all his burdens.

He'd have to ask his father, but he was pretty sure he was officially in an 'unhealthy' relationship. And HE was the problem. Richie kept giving, he kept taking…geeze, when had he become such a prick? He got up and headed for the workshop, the other half of the floor Richie rented. It used to be a dance studio, but now it was littered with tables of scrap metal, half-done sculptures, and a number of tools.

Richie sat on a stool on the other side of the room, back to the door, staring sullenly at a pile of metal on the floor. Virgil hesitated, then walked over. Richie didn't even bother looking up. Virgil stuffed his hands in his pockets. He wasn't good at talking, that was Richie's angle. Somehow, though, he had a feeling any physical action he took would result in his balls ending up in his throat.

Which meant he had to figure out how to talk to his friend--no, they were more than that--before he lost one of the most important relationships he'd ever had. "Rich, I…I would take a bullet for you. Even if I wasn't an officer." That didn't get any response. He swallowed loudly, then shut his eyes. "Because…because…" He could do it. It was three little words, and if was ever going to utter them to anyone, it was this man. It wasn't just joking, or affection, it was the truth, and it was time he faced it.

"Because…I love you."