Summary: Intrigued by his new concierge doctor, Boris schemes on how to more fully integrate Hank into both the Hamptons and Boris' own life. One plan after the next leads to mixed failure and success. Poor Boris!

A/N: Chapter Eleven finishes the Plan D arc. A nice, long chapter! :-)

Chapter Eleven

Plan D:

Breathe

And then chaos abruptly exploded upon them. Black-clad figures started running from every direction. He had no idea where these people came from, for they certainly were not the same men they had fought earlier. Even in the darkness of night, he could tell that their clothing was too clean, too unblemished by plaster dust and window shards to have been in their original fight. Naturally, there were now more of them, too.

Though he kept his voice soft, Boris heatedly cursed in every language he knew. Of course there were more men. Nothing was ever simple with Hank and Evan involved. Thus, he knew he should have expected the extra opponents; it would have been far too easy otherwise. With a roll of his eyes, Boris ran as fast as he could, charging for the shadows and shaking his head. He yanked Hank and Evan after him.

Apparently, the kidnappers had been intelligent enough to have back up. Who knew where the bastards had been hiding? He supposed they might be newly arrived reinforcements or perhaps perimeter guards.

However, as far as he was concerned, it could mean only one thing: their luck was infamously, nauseatingly bad.

They continued to sprint away from the building into the welcoming cover of darkness, now running at full speed as the four, no, five figures dressed in black came dashing after them. Cursing under his breath, now in German, Boris pulled his new cellphone from his pocket—amazed that it was still fairly in one piece, despite the scratch marks and nicks that had not been there earlier—and shouted into its chipped mouthpiece, "Now! Come pick us up!"

"Where—?" a frustrated voice asked through the speaker. That would be Swanson. The younger ex-Mossad agent had stayed in the second car, the Mercedes GL, just in case they needed a quick escape. Boris had expected that they might need one, as had Johnson. Swanson had been anything but pleased by his selection as glorified getaway man, and his voice even now clearly reflected that displeasure.

Now that he thought about it, maybe they should have had a spare helicopter waiting, given the unfriendly welcoming party and Hank's tendency to attract all sorts of unexpected and terrifying trouble. The man quite frankly seemed to be a magnet for it.

"By the buildi—" Boris began, only to find himself holding a burning bundle of plastic. A bullet hole reflected from smack in the middle of his once immaculate screen.

For a second, he stared at the phone, blinking. What was it with Hank's near presence and his cellphones lately? This would be his second cellphone to die in less than 24 hours.

He then dropped its useless form to the ground, muttering several appropriate German obscenities, and looked wildly for a safe area to run. Trees, trees, and more trees met his sight, though admittedly some of the trees looked perfect for an ambush. He found no obvious spot that seemed safer than any other path, so he simply veered to the right and ran. If he recalled correctly, Swanson was somewhere in this general vicinity.

He wondered where the hell Johnson, Miller, and Lever were.

They continued running, the trees and grass blurring past them. Before his cellphone had met its grim fate at the impact of a bullet, Boris knew that Swanson would have used the phone's GPS to locate him. However, right now, there was no way for the agent to trace their path. They would need to find an accessible location—obviously, even the Mercedes could not travel through a tree trunk—and they would need to keep in a somewhat linear track to Swanson's current location.

The next time Hank's brother needed rescuing, Boris swore he was going to board his jet and fly to Cuba as quickly as possible. He would just knock out Hank and drag him with him.

"Where the hell is the rest of your team?" Hank managed to ask through a coughing fit. The doctor tried to wipe the blood out of his eye even as he continued to cough. Boris quickly placed his arm under the younger man's shoulders and helped press him forward, knowing that Hank's lungs had to be burning. The ragged coughs continued, seeming to worsen the longer they ran. Even Evan was pulling out of his daze enough to notice that something was dreadfully wrong with his brother. "They—they se-see-seem—oh, fuck, he-hell with it!" The doctor finally gave up after trying to speak through a coughing fit that left him running while bending over as he struggled to breathe.

"Unknown," Boris simply responded to Hank's question. He continued urging his love forward, trying to support his heaving back and chest by leaning the doctor against his own side. He kept a steady arm around the doctor's shoulders, making sure the young man did not fall over or drop behind, then draped one of Hank's arms around his waist to help keep him upright. "But we need to keep moving."

The look of annoyance that Hank shot him told the German in no subtle terms that Hank thought Boris was being an idiot for stating the obvious.

Boris kept pulling him forward, glaring at Evan as the confounded idiot tried to slow down and see what was wrong with his brother. He understood why, but stopping in the middle of a gunfight was nothing short of suicide. And, really, Boris had not put all of this effort into rescuing the baboon only to have him killed now. On top of that, dealing with one suicidal brother was enough, was it not?

Bullets abruptly started whizzing past them, much closer than before. Boris could barely see a tree to the right lose its limb in the barrage of fire, wood splintering into the air. The darkness was starting to lighten into early dawn, and now he could see a bit more of what was around them. Unfortunately, that meant the enemy could see better, too. Dragging Hank with him, he ran at full speed, faster than he ever had, and prayed that Swanson would soon arrive.

Evan tripped over a root, shouting when he went down. Hank left the German's side and moved over to help him up. Unfortunately, his love almost tumbled right on his face. His breaths were coming heavily, wheezing, and Boris was certain that his face was white from more than the dust that had settled on it. The blood dripping down his face did not comfort Boris in the least.

Clearly, Hank and Evan were not going to be able to run quickly, not now.

As he watched Hank struggle to pull Evan up—struggling even to keep himself up, actually—Boris stepped several feet back. The brothers needed to be protected at all costs. He would try to give them cover so they could gain some distance from their assailants. With any luck and providing he somehow miraculously survived the next sixty seconds, he would meet up with them in just a few minutes.

Once more, the German had that odd sensation of time slowing, even stopping. He watched Evan finally stand up, stumbling slightly but beginning to run when Hank pushed him forward. Behind him, Boris could hear their pursuers drawing closer and closer. Muffled shouts reached his ears, though he could not understand them.

A light breeze suddenly kicked in, gently pushing Hank's shirt. Hank stopped for a moment, slowly looking over his shoulder at Boris. The doctor was supporting himself on a tree, breathing haggardly, eyes blinking as he tried to squint past the blood. He opened his mouth to speak, but the baron could tell that he had no breath for speech. Almost painfully slowly, Hank leaned over, forearms resting on his knees. Boris simply shook his head at the doctor. He waved his hands, trying to urge Hank to run, to escape.

Concerned, Boris again noticed how white his love was. He watched while Hank continued to gasp, one arm over his chest. Evan pulled further away. He did not seem to realize that his brother was no longer with him. He simply continued to run.

The German heard a noise behind him. Exhaustion burned through him when he turned to look over his shoulder, his own steps beginning to be unsteady, even weaving.

Horror shot through him.

No.

Heart beating insanely, breath abruptly constricted, Boris watched as a man lifted his assault rifle, pointing it at the brothers.

NO!

He shot alarmed eyes towards Hank, who was staring in the opposite direction. "Get down! Now!" he roared, eyes wide, terrified. He launched his body towards him.

Hank started to move, shouting in a strangled voice, "Evan! Move!"

All Boris could see was Hank: his love was not yet down. Boris lifted his gun, hands shaking as they never had before, and pulled the trigger. The recoil slammed into his wrists, but he continued to shoot. At the same time, Boris blurred towards Hank. Moving faster than he ever had, he pushed the doctor to the ground, falling on top of him. He pulled his arms up to protect his love, encircling his head fiercely.

Wildly, Boris looked over his shoulder. He watched their opponent fall to the ground. Blood dripped from his shoulder and stomach, and he did not move.

Seconds later, Boris ducked his head once more. The plink plink plink of a fired weapon trilled around them, and he could hear bullets whiz past them. A bullet passed overhead: barely. Fragments of a nearby rock shattered near him, but he just pressed his face closer to Hank's neck.

Abruptly, an almost deafening rumble roared through the air, shaking the ground. Boris could feel his eardrums popping, and he ducked, completely confused. What on earth—? Light flashed across the darkened woods, followed by three more bright, searing flashes of light. Each time, the earth shook beneath him and a roar swept through his hearing. Clumps of dirt, grass, and trees flew into the air. Rocks rained down on them, though he had the distinct impression that the scene behind them was even worse. He could smell wood burning, smoke pouring into the air. Screams echoed around them, then were suddenly silenced.

After a few seconds, only silence blanketed the area.

"What the hell just happened?" Evan murmured from several feet away, his voice strained. He was just lifting his head. Boris could see Evan's eyes looking at them, blinking rapidly.

Boris coughed softly, trying to clear the smoke from his lungs. His eyes stung, burned. He felt Hank coughing beneath him and lifted his chest off of Hank as much as possible while still protectively laying on top of the doctor.

"I believe my agents have returned," he said simply. Carefully, he brushed Hank's hair back, worried at Hank's continued silence. Except for the coughing, his love had not made a sound.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!" Evan finally snapped, eyes wide. He watched Boris' hand carding through Hank's hair for a second before demanding, "What'd they use? Sticks of blasted dynamite?"

Boris, despite his growing concern for Hank, found himself staring at Evan. "Dynamite?" he repeated, nonplussed. After a second, he dismissed the idea as yet another proof of Evan's foolishness. "No. Dynamite is too volatile for these types of missions." His voice drifted, and he nodded. "Probably grenades. Concussion grenades, maybe."

"Grenades—really?" Evan asked. He swallowed hard, trying to get a good look at Hank but apparently not succeeding. He finally snapped, voice still low but heated, "Are the bast'rds dead?"

"Yes, I believe so. Some of them, at least," Boris muttered, peering towards the building. He thought he saw dead bodies and blood, but it was difficult to tell. He then looked at the quiet body of his love beneath him.

Silence hung in the air. It was a cold, chilling silence. He waited for the gunfire to resume, but it did not. All was still, silent, cold—dead.

They all lay mutely, listening to the silence, waiting for the next barrage of weapons to come. They listened, afraid to speak. In the distance, Boris could now hear the faint plink plink plink of guns firing again, but it seemed far removed from them now. He could only guess that his agents had taken the fight elsewhere.

"Hank? Are you all right?" Boris demanded at last. He continued brushing Hank's hair back, noticing that his breathing seemed to be easing though it was still painful sounding. As he listened to his love's strained breaths, he tried to pinpoint the remaining trace of bullets firing, but even that was slowly dying out.

Once more, silence blanketed the area. It was now complete silence. All he heard was the slight wheeze of Hank's breathing.

"Hank? Answer me!" Boris urged in concern, actually fear. He shook the doctor's arm. "Are you all right?" he repeated.

Hank's answer took moments in coming.

"Um huh," Hank at last mumbled, voice husky. He shuddered beneath Boris, and the German stared down at him in alarm. Had he injured Hank when he knocked him down? Perhaps he had hurt him, made it harder for him to breathe, especially since he had been wheezing only moments earlier? His alarm was turning into something all too close to panic when Hank cleared his throat. "Um . . . Boris . . . could you . . . ?"

"What, doctor?" Boris asked quickly, looking at his love with careful eyes. Hank turned his head slightly, and Boris could see his face in vague profile. Blood smeared his right cheek and jaw, but the bleeding had eased to a slight trickle. Beneath the dust and grit, the man's cheeks were flushed, almost as if his fever had strengthened. Hank had been running a low-grade fever all day, but this did not look like a low-grade fever. Immediately, Boris' fingers were on Hank's forehead, almost faster than he had been while knocking Hank down to safety. "Do you need anything?"

He was suddenly very conscious of Evan staring at them. In the partial light of dawn, Evan's eyes were large, the green irises almost entirely visible. Despite the insane situation, his gaze rapidly flicked back and forth between Boris and Hank, eyebrows lifting sharply the longer he looked.

"Yeah . . . uh, Boris, could you . . . move off me?" Hank managed to croak.

Abruptly, Boris understood something. He blinked. That flush was not because Hank's fever was worsening. It was simply because Hank was blushing.

Boris allowed himself a small smile, temporarily ignoring their lethally precarious situation for a moment of personal triumph. He could not be entirely certain, of course, but in this case he thought the good doctor's blushing might be a good sign. Judging from the speculative look on Evan's face, he was not the only one thinking that Hank's blush meant something.

Slowly, he pulled himself off Hank's backside, relishing the feel of the slender body and tight muscles rippling beneath him. His hands gently caressed the doctor's left side as he rolled to the right. Experimentally, he kept his arm draped over Hank's waist, and he looked at the younger man. Hank was definitely avoiding him, his gaze focused several feet away and his cheeks still bright red.

Boris believed this was what many termed an awkward moment.

Hmm. Inch by gradual inch, Boris moved his arm up to Hank's neck, caressing his hairline with careful fingers. Hank once more shuddered, the blush deepening; it was more notable against his too pale skin. Hank coughed several times, seeming unable to stop for a good minute. However, after the paroxysm abated, Boris watched as Hank bit into his lower lip, and he was sorely tempted to reach down with his own lips and nibble.

Evan was outright staring at them, lips slightly parted.

Unfortunately, ravishing his love would not help matters right now, not with the danger surrounding them. This would have to wait until later, preferably when he had Hank all to himself and was well away from guns, grenades, and Mafioso minions chasing after them.

"Hank," he began, his voice deep, almost guttural, "are you all right?"

Hank merely nodded. Boris wondered if his doctor did not trust his own voice. Naturally, it could be the strained lungs, but Boris hoped it was because his doctor was finally realizing that he had feelings for the German.

It was a most inappropriate time for Boris to hope this, but, honestly, who cared?

Evan stared at them for a good five seconds more, eyes sharpening when he noticed that his brother was wearing Boris' Armani jacket. He then exhaled noisily. He clambered to his feet. After clearing his throat and looking anywhere but at Hank and Boris, he asked overly brightly, "So . . . Boris . . . what's the plan now?"

The question completely and irrevocably pulled Boris out of his desirable but wholly inopportune contemplation. He grabbed his fallen gun and blinked at Evan, then carefully helped Hank up. Hank coughed harshly, waving aside their assistance while he looked at Boris. He nervously ran a hand through his curly hair, still looking a bit flustered. "Do you think they're okay?" he rasped, as if his throat were shattered, obviously thinking of Boris' agents, who had abruptly vanished.

Boris glanced behind them. "I believe so, Doctor." He smiled reassuringly. "I am almost completely certain the grenades were theirs. They are probably . . . taking care of stragglers now."

Boris had almost admitted that they were probably on mop-up duty, but he did not want to risk opening that Pandora's box, not tonight, at least. That his men routinely performed mop-up duty and, even more, that Boris knew it would introduce Hank to the darker side of his world far faster than he wished. Given such a reply, he imagined his doctor would immediately start in with a host of questions on just what he had his agents doing on a regular basis. The questions would obviously come at some point, but he did not think that now was the right time. Hank's health was already stressed as it was, and he quite bluntly did not want Evan present when the inevitable argument ensued.

Once more, Boris placed himself at Hank's side. He gently helped the good doctor, making sure to support his unsteady walk. A frowning Evan immediately moved to Hank's other side. Only seconds later, Evan wrapped his arms around Hank's shoulder and chest, his face deeply concerned. Hank's wheezing was increasing—and his skin looked frankly ashen. If Hank got any worse, Boris would carry him.

It was eerie, running through the silence after such violence. Periodically, Boris heard shots firing into the distance, answered rapidly by yet more firepower. Other than that, the only sound they heard was Hank's strained breathing, which was becoming increasingly irregular. Hank was now shivering uncontrollably and coughing violently, his feet moving shakily, his body barely able to stand.

This had to stop. Boris was five seconds away from lifting his love into his arms, no matter how much the young man protested—providing, of course, that Hank could even speak—when he heard a branch break to the right of them.

He stopped, listening. Evan looked at the surrounding trees, eyes alert. Boris noticed that he was eyeing Hank like he, too, was thinking of just picking his brother up and running for it. Crack. He heard another branch break, then something that sounded suspiciously like someone whipping aside a branch.

Without further thought, Boris grabbed his ailing love and gently hoisted him to his shoulders . . . and then ran as fast as his legs could carry him, not even bothering to look behind him. He just ran and ran and ran.

"Bo-Boris—" his love gasped hoarsely, voice so soft the German could barely hear him. Hank rubbed at his shoulder blades, trying to get his attention. "I—c-can r-run—"

Sure you can, Boris thought in annoyance. Of all the absurd, preposterous things to say. Just what was it about absurdity and the Lawsons? Did it run in their veins? Certainly, Hank could run, once he was able to breathe again without collapsing. Thus, Boris did what he typically did when Hank was being cantankerous: he ignored him.

Boris had been running for what seemed hours. However, he knew in reality it had probably been less than ten minutes, fifteen at the most. From time to time, he glanced at his side. Evan seemed to be managing to keep up with him, though he could tell that the younger man had many questions brimming in his mind. Hank periodically beat against his back, but mostly he tried to breathe through what seemed unending coughing fits. Boris was sure hanging upside down was not helping his love, but he could do little else right now.

"H-how is he?" Evan panted, looking at his brother. Hank was now hanging loosely over Boris' shoulders, and he could barely feel him moving. The younger brother shot a concerned look at Boris, eyebrows raised. "Doesn't . . . doesn't look good."

Boris shot him a derisive look that clearly communicated his thoughts that the younger man was an imbecile. However, after a moment, he replied as calmly as he could, "Not good. You can probably tell better than I can since I cannot see him."

When this was all over, Boris promised himself that he would lock Hank away. Boris would chain Hank to the bed if he had to. All arguments and protestations aside, the good doctor should not have come. The fact that he was almost unconscious, hanging over Boris' shoulder was proof enough.

"Any . . . any idea who's chasin' us?" Evan panted a second later, still panting as he spoke. At the same time, he reached over to Hank and grabbed one of his dangling hands. A smile quickly formed on Evan's face, and he looked at Boris. "He just . . . just squeezed my'and."

After finally interpreting my'and as my hand, Boris acknowledged Evan's words with a tight smile. He could feel something inside loosen, something like a knot in his gut. Hank was still conscious.

Continuing to run, Boris heard noises behind them: weapons fire. Quickly, Boris looked over his shoulder. He could see very little clearly, but he did see metal glinting in the moonlight about twenty feet away. Hell, he thought, fear hitting his mind. He truly had no idea who was holding that weapon. It could be one of them—or one of their opponents.

At the same time as he realized their vulnerability, he felt his love's arms dangling against his back. If shooting should start, Hank was in an exposed position. A bullet meant for Boris or even Evan could hit Hank instead.

That was clearly unacceptable. He would get Hank out of here alive, no matter what, even if Boris were killed doing it.

Without stopping, Boris smacked the gun into Evan's hand; he ignored the man's wide eyes. He then grabbed Hank and swung him down from the top of his shoulders, now carefully holding him in his arms. Regrettably, it cut down on his running speed, but he could never risk having someone place a bullet in his love's head.

He just hoped that Evan shot the enemy, not them.

They kept running, pushing towards what Boris sincerely hoped was the right direction. Abruptly, they had company. From the left, Johnson and Lever suddenly exploded into the clearing, hauling Miller right behind them. Johnson stopped, dropped to his belly, shouting something at his companions. Firing ensued, Johnson shooting frantically into the darkness. A second later, Johnson tore clear of them, still shooting into the night. If Boris were not highly mistaken, it looked like Johnson was enjoying himself.

Boris shook his head. This night was madness. Where the hell were Swanson and the Mercedes?

Swiftly, Johnson tore back towards them, apparently finished dealing with the closest of their pursuers. As his lungs felt like fire was consuming them, Boris had to wonder where the seemingly endless supply of enemy underlings was coming from. The Matini family was known for being heavy hitters, but this was more organized and prepared than he would have expected, especially given the poorly staffed building the criminals had used to hold Evan. He could only imagine that the back up had arrived by chance, probably to move Evan to another location or something similar.

Shots fired behind them. While the German baron watched them, Lever and Miller now ran breathlessly beside Boris and Evan, both glancing at Hank with concern. Johnson finally ran up beside them, suddenly shooting into a tree as a black-clad figure tried jumping out of the dark towards them. He did not even bother checking to see if the man was dead; instead, he simply pushed forward. As they moved forward, Boris noted with some relief that the trees were giving way to rolling fields. Indeed, in the distance he saw what looked like a dirt road.

He began to think that maybe, just maybe, they might live through this bloody night.

Before Boris could point out the road to his companions, the headlights to the Mercedes swung into view. Boris urged Evan to increase his speed, moving as quickly as he could. Lever stumbled; Johnson grabbed his elbow and pushed him forward. Nestled securely in Boris' arms, Hank stirred slightly. His eyes slid open. The doctor looked at Boris with glassy green eyes, and Boris quickly shot him a comforting smile.

Hank looked around, his gaze seeming a bit disoriented. Boris supposed that was only natural, given that he was being hauled across the woods in the middle of the night while people shot at them. After a moment, Hank whispered so softly that the German could barely hear him, "Where are we?"

He frowned at this, especially since it reminded him all too much of the disorientation Hank had experienced when he was well within the grip of his pneumonia. He hoped it was just the insane situation that was confusing his love—or maybe the fact that he was currently in Boris' arms. After all, in all honesty, it would confuse anyone.

Boris continued running, considering his answer. He finally settled on, "Almost someplace safe, Doctor."

At this, Hank gave him the most gentle smile, his eyes shutting as he muttered in words that Boris could barely hear, "I'm w-with . . . you, Boris. That's . . . s-safe . . ." Hank's words drifted off.

Boris found himself staring at a now-silent Hank, genuinely shocked. He almost stopped right where he was standing. No one had ever associated him with safety; no one had ever felt safe simply because he was near. The thought warmed his heart, despite the dangerous conditions they currently faced. Perhaps Hank was beginning to love him, too, though the doctor might not yet realize it.

The thought gave him hope and made him literally grin.

Naturally, his grin was quickly wiped right from his face.

"Everyone, down!" Johnson suddenly shouted, pushing at Boris' back as he, too, dropped to the ground. Without question, Boris fell to his side, clasping Hank to his chest and trying to protect his doctor's barely conscious figure. Bullets passed overhead, plinking into the soil a foot to Boris' right. He swallowed hard—very hard. That had been far too close for the German's comfort. Johnson returned the fire, eyes determined, cold.

Quickly, Lever popped his head up, frantically looking around him. Boris inappropriately found himself thinking the man looked like a demented groundhog looking to see if it was safe to emerge from its burrow. With a quick shake of his head, Boris met his eyes, following his gaze. It seemed clear, at least for the time being. As one, they all rose, Boris clasping Hank to him and again sprinting for the Mercedes, Johnson now running at their sides with Evan and Miller right beside him. Lever came running up from Boris' left, panting, face pale, eyes glowing.

The Mercedes shrieked to a stop in front of them. Boris simply continued to run, watching as Swanson leaned over to push the passenger door open. Miller opened the back door, and Johnson and Lever clambered into the back row of seats. Boris then carefully climbed inside, followed by an anxious Evan. As soon as Miller was in the front passenger seat, they screeched out of the area and onto the dirt road, dust billowing behind them. While Boris knew that they would pick up his Porsche Panamera on the way out—if he were to guess, he would imagine that Miller would be driving it—the baron truly did not care. His only concern was addressing Hank's deteriorating health.

With that in mind, Boris placed Hank in his lap, gently touching his cheek but finding the good doctor had, indeed, passed out. He was still wheezing, and Boris could tell that his fever had climbed. Perhaps this time Hank would stay in bed until he was completely healed . . . wait, what was he thinking? Shaking his head, Boris immediately discounted such an idea. He was obviously exhausted if he was even entertaining such a ludicrous notion. Hank would never take care of himself unless he was forced to, which Boris was more than prepared to do.

The idea of chaining Hank to bed once more tantalized him, and he smiled.

Inhaling deeply, Boris eased Hank against his chest, carefully circling his arms around his love. He gently brushed Hank's hair out of his eyes, pulling the Armani jacket around him tighter to keep him warm. Hank's breathing seemed to ease the higher he lifted him, so he placed the younger man's head on his shoulder. For a moment, he just watched his love, content in holding him.

However, even with his focus on his love, Boris could feel Evan staring at him. Evan sat beside him, his eyes questioning. Boris knew without question that they would soon be having a very lengthy discussion.

Evan continued to stare at Boris. After a moment, something like comprehension dawned on his face. His narrowed eyes focused on Hank before looking at Boris in something between accusation and warning. Boris knew they would soon be having a very long conversation, one that he most certainly was not looking forward to. Evan Lawson might be annoying, childish, immature, rash, and a hundred more annoying adjectives, but he was definitely one thing: he was as protective of his older brother as Hank was of him. And while Hank could be a bit naïve in some ways, Evan had rarely struck Boris as such; the only exception had been with his father. Without doubt, he would spot Boris' strategic planning for what it was, his attempt to permanently draw Hank into his sphere of influence and into his life.

He would understand that Boris wanted Hank, but Boris would have to make sure that Evan also understood how much he loved Hank, truly and deeply loved the good doctor who had warmed his soul from the first day they met.

Then again, that trip to Cuba was sounding increasingly promising.

And that's a wrap, folks, for this part (Plan D). There will be one more part after this—one with a few chapters—and in that, the boys will finally admit their feelings and have some fun! Of course, there will be angst, and Evan will be knocking at Boris' office door for that "talk."

Next chapter: Hank and Boris spend some un-interrupted time together: no bullets, grenades, enemy minions. Boris professes his love to Hank. What ever will Hank do?

Thanks for all of the wonderful reviews! They're wonderfully inspirational, especially when Ye Olde Writer's Block is trying to step back in. And DelightfullyDeranged, I'm chuckling at your comment because the chapter after next should make you grin!