A/N: Sorry this is so long in coming. RL is such a drag sometimes! Thanks to EVERYONE who's sticking with me. I've got another chapter coming this weekend, so stay tuned! The reviews have been deeply appreciated, so feel free so send more!

Look for these next two chapters to crank up the angst and pour on the sadness. (Then we can get to some hot sex...woohoo!)

Standard non-ownership, non-profit disclaimer applies.


"Lost in thought or just half-asleep?"

Arthur looked up from the pure green of the winter rye grass under his shoes and saw a purplish sihlouette against the sky.

"Hello." he replied softly.

"Mind if I join you?"

He politely shuffled himself and his things to one side of a cold iron bench. The flick-hiss of a lighter pricked the air and was followed by a thin line of quickly exhaled smoke. The sky was a cold ceramic white.

"I figured you would be here. It's the only green spot for blocks."

"It's quiet, I like that."

"And a church, no less. I haven't been to a church in ages. Geez, it's huge. Ever been inside?"

"A few times."

"Aw...well, you are the sensitive one. So, haven't seen you in a while. Keeping busy?"

"More or less. Curt is planning to go on the road soon."

"It's funny, I ask you about yourself and you tell me what's Curt's doing."

The sound of his lover's name was fairly flung out onto the ground like a sweet's wrapper.

"Yeah, well, he keeps me busy."

"Hmph." A breeze stole furtively between the two. "Well, he always had a talent for keeping people occupied." Another jet of smoke darted through the air.

"Mandy..."

"I know, whatever. I'll keep my mouth shut."

"Did you see me sitting here quietly and decide to stir things up by picking a fight?" Arthur finally turned to stare at Mandy face-to-face.

Her hair was a mass of dark cinnamon curls which tossed playfully in the wind. She sat wrapped tightly in a rich leather coat the color of roasted eggplant, vibrantly pink gloves covering her hands from the cold. From her broad silver hoop earrings and iridescent purse, she looked like an overgrown doll, fashionable and sharp. The only tell-tale signs that she was not, in fact, a well-appointed mannequin were the deep cracks in the soles of her boots and the hard, brutal edges in her voice. Where a doll's eyes were vacant and shining, Mandy's glare was hot and inescapable.

Realizing perhaps that her mask had slipped, she twisted slightly and batted her eyelashes. It was extraordinary, Arthur mused to himself, how women could shift personality so abruptly. Mandy could forcibly seize the memory of her youth out of the atmosphere (or out of her purse or mind or wherever women kept it) and pat it over her face like a powder.

Being a man, however, and not privy to the secrets of feminine guile, Arthur failed to realize that women most often look for those former selves in the eyes of friends. Or lovers. Or the person sitting next to them on a hard bench in the middle of a chilly morning.

"If you are here to bitch, I'm leaving." Arthur stated flatly.

"I'm not here to fight with you, darling," Mandy waved off Arthur's protest with practiced flourish; she had repossessed her familiar charm as casually as one adjusts a hat.

"I just wanted to catch up with you, you know, find out the latest scoop from my favorite reporter." Her words traipsed along with the silly enthusiasm of someone fishing for gossip.

"Is that so wrong?" Assuming the pose of a schoolteacher to a sullen child, she blinked girlishly and patted Arthur's knee.

But he wasn't buying it.

"I'm afraid I don't have a good scoop for you today," he sighed. He fought the sudden urge to tell her to sod off, to leave him alone to stare at his shoes and the strange winter grass. But Arthur's cruelty always abandoned him in the most inopportune moments. He knew it was there, he could feel it snaking warmly across the lining of his stomach and into his throat—vibrations of rage and anger—but in the instant he made to release it, only phantoms escaped. Sighs and shrugs.

He hated it when his cruelty failed him.

It wouldn't have mattered much anyway, as a different feeling quelled any outburst he might direct at Mandy.

He pitied her.

"Alright then, if not scoop then how about a little favor." Her accent swung like a pendulum between a vague mid-North Atlantic clip and a lumbering Brooklyn drawl, the latter of which she had only recently adopted. Arthur wondered if Hong Kong ever came back into vogue would Mandy be able to swing Cantonese.

"Just a quick mention, you know, nothing too extravagant. Here's the address and date." She offered Arthur a dark gray letter-sized card. Thin lettering had actually been cut out of the card, making it resemble a stenciler's template of characters and symbols. He took the card and snickered.

"What the hell is this?" He flipped the card over to see the letters in reverse.

"Oh please, it's what everyone is doing now. People won't be writing with ink again until...well until at least next month."

"What's this then?" He pointed to some raised black lettering at the bottom of the invitation:

Brought to you by Sombrero Productions, Inc.

"Well, have to give credit where credit's due, right? Although, with all the discounted advertising you've given me, your name should be on this too. Promotions is a cutthroat business, and not always profitable. Which is why— "

"You need the ad." Arthur conceded breezily. "S'okay. I think the marketing girl has a thing for me."

"Well who wouldn't?" Mandy chirped, though even her flirtations had sharp edges.

Arthur's sympathy flinched. Although Mandy had wrenched herself out of the dank bar where they first met and hoisted herself back into a position of some repute, she was still surrounded by an air of defeat. In the garish nightclubs of New York, hidden away from the cold glare of the everyday, she regained some of her former luster, but none of the warmth. Instead, she learned to carry her bitterness like credentials. Hard-won lessons in manipulation and glad-handing, ego-stroking and star-fucking paid off in a rolodex of connections and flunkies that would've made Jerry Devine flush with envy. Like Brian, Mandy could make herself famous anywhere.

"Promise me you'll try to come this time? This will be a classy event. Just your style."

"Yeah right. We'll see."

But even as he said it, Arthur knew he couldn't refuse her—even when her eyes cut through him in search of some evidence of hurts she would not forget or disappointments she could not overcome. She would rattle her bracelets and shake her hair, then peer at him sideways looking for reasons to hate him. But reasons were stubborn in revealing themselves.

"You can even bring Curt if you want."

Ah, there was a reason.

Over a year ago Arthur Stuart walked into a bar and interviewed the ex-wife of Brian Slade. The exchange was quiet but lengthy, stretching into the early hours of the morning. Arthur found Mandy sad and fascinating; Mandy found Arthur polite and soothing. It wasn't until she contacted him a few days later than she realized how haunted he was, and, even more interestingly, that he was haunted by familiar ghosts. Something drew her to him, she told herself, but hardly believed it. Confessing loneliness was never an easy thing, even after ten years. So, a few mild jokes, some courteous inquiries, and a dozen shots later, and she ushered the solicitous young journalist into a corner and whispered vaparous hints that they should "share something" and "forget the world for a moment." The next day Mandy opened the door of Arthur's building to fresh air and sunshine and congratulated herself for bedding someone who felt as good as he looked. Arthur, on the other hand, surfaced from a murky pool of alcohol and perfume to be greeted with a blinding headache and an apartment littered with regrets. When Curt and Arthur appeared together a few days later, Mandy's eyes went dark with jealousy—she certainly had no plans to pursue Arthur after one night (at least she told herself so), but neither did she enjoy seeing her discovery in the arms of Curt...again. Envy settled into hard resignation, and she contented herself with the smug satisfaction that at least she had Arthur first. Arthur simply didn't have the heart to tell her that it wasn't true. He couldn't give her Brian or Curt or happiness or her youth, but he could give her deference. Respect earns itself, and Arthur promised himself that Mandy would always have his.

"Really, it's fine. I haven't seen him in a while." She focused on a crowd of pigeons across the street as she repeated the invitation.

"Bring him, if you two can tear yourselves away from that apartment long enough."

Arthur smiled. "Yeah, well, I might be inclined to release him from his cage for an evening. Take off the chains and let him get some air."

"Curt in chains? Well that's something I would pay to see."

The words and their veiled truths hung in the air for a moment and then sunk to the moist ground. Arthur suddenly wished that Mandy had a child, someone to dote on who wasn't working an angle or covered in makeup. Someone who would stay with her.

"Well kitten, I'm off." Mandy stood and shouldered her purse. Arthur straightened in response and smiled lightly. "Come see me anytime," she added, "we'll do lunch."

She flicked away her cigarette and walked around the bench. The wind whistled through the alleys, rushing and disappearing in chilly gusts, urging movement in everything it swept across. But Mandy had frozen still.

"You know he's back in town. For a while, I heard." Her back was turned as she spoke.

"Yeah."

"I know it's none of my business— "

Though neither could see the other, they both rolled their eyes, he in recognition of the sad irony, she with old resentment.

"—but you should be careful, you know?" She turned to look down on him. "Don't let yourself get caught like I did. You're too nice a person."

Arthur, still sitting, turned around to face her. He did his best not to think about Brian Slade, but when he looked at Mandy standing alone in the wind in her curls and eggplant coat, he hated him. Hated him for the memories that danced and taunted behind Mandy's eyes, images that he had never seen, conversations and fights and betrayals he could only imagine. All that was left for him to see was collateral damage. Curt had the same look in his eyes when the bottle of wine arrived.

"Careful." Arthur repeated sullenly. His eyes fell. "Well," he shrugged slightly, "either I've got something to worry about..."

"Or you don't." Mandy offered. She smiled, and Arthur saw a flash of compassion pass over her face, just as her eyes started to shine painfully. She removed a pink glove and placed her hand on Arthur's shoulder. He accepted it right away and squeezed her cold fingers in his own.

"Don't let him hurt you," she cautioned in a strained whisper.

And as quickly her mood shifted the first time it veered back to its original position of polished safety. She straightened up and wrested herself out of the moment with a sharp inhale and toss of her hair. Smiling one last pert little smile, Mandy marched away and across the street, pigeons fluttering inelegantly in her wake.

Arthur sighed and gathered his things. His movements were unconscious, absent. Don't let him hurt you. He hastily glanced up to find Mandy, to call after her and ask her who she meant, but she was gone.

Him.

Who posed the greater threat to his happiness? To his sanity? Could she have meant Curt instead of Brian?

As Arthur walked, he felt invisible threads tighten around him, constraining his stride and clarity of thought. How had it happened? How had he managed to stumble into the lives of these people? No, he corrected himself, stumble was not the right word...they found him somehow. After years of his childish yearnings and confusion, the wreckage of Maxwell Demon's beautiful mysteries ended up on his doorstep. He didn't know whether to blame fortune or coincidence, to be thankful or resentful. It had been his life too, after all, and wasted time leaves memories that inevitably sour. He slowed to an amble, eventually stopping to lean against the bricks of an empty deli.

He missed Curt.

A shape overhead caught his eye, a tattered-looking falcon sailing the currents between the skyscrapers. The bird titled its head this way and that, scanning the dreary sidewalks as if it were looking for its own shadow.


Don't forget, my lovely little minskies, reviews draw Brian and Curt closer together.