Author's Note: I know I seem to be taking forever with this, but since there aren't that many reviewers, I thought I could chance it.

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"You're joking."

Arthur looked in disbelief at the man facing him. But Tommy Stone only smiled jovially and shook his head.

"You got to see," the rock star said, using his hands to make his point, "It's not everyday I find someone who doesn't think the sun shines out my ass. I want you to come with me- as a personal guest, of course- and tell me what you think of the show."

"I've seen the show," Arthur argued, folding his arms and refusing to believe that Tommy Stone was standing in his crummy apartment and offering to take him along on the English tour in two weeks, which- if he wasn't mistaken- was considered so hot that the tickets had been sold out in three hours flat.

It wasn't happening.

He'd sat in that armchair to write the novel that had never gotten published. His old Glam Rock records were stacked carefully into the little cabinet right behind him and Tommy Stone was sitting there in his impeccable white suit with his platinum blond hair and his fake tan, smiling at him! This was not the way he had always imagined meeting Brian Slade.

"Then see it again," Stone offered, ignoring the 'get out' look on his host's face. "Be a personal favour to me, you know. Couldn't thank you enough. And you can take pictures, if you want. You'll get to see the whole shindig happen; see the backstage mess and meet the geniuses behind the spectacle. And you can interview me, too. Your paper would jump at the chance for this."

"Yeah, yeah," Arthur snapped, "I know. The legendary Tommy Stone doesn't do candid interviews. So what? The 'Erald doesn't need a lot of talk about writing lyrics and the best way to record the masterpiece known as 'Love You Always'." The song was spat out like it was poison on his tongue.

A brief flash of annoyance reminded him that whether or not this was Tommy Stone or Brian Slade, the man before him did not like his art being dismissed so peremptorily. And Stone believed in what he was doing; there was no doubt about that. Never mind about the fame and the money, Stone did also trust in his music. And Arthur was briefly made to wonder why that was unacceptable to people like himself? And then the anger flared up again and chased that discomfort away.

Slade had had no right to put his fans through such an emotional rollercoaster. People had mourned him, for God's sake! Kids had been traumatised to think they'd been screaming his name in joy just a second before he was shot. The chaos had been horrendous. He'd had no right to do that.

Stone stood up, eyes as cold as the smile was friendly. "So you won't do it, eh? Okay, then. You change your mind, you call this number." The long, slender fingers with the manicured nails never went out to him. They flicked a white card down to the table and then Stone nodded to him and made his own way to the door.

The reporter took a step forward, guilt flushing through him. He'd been brought up right, he liked to think, and this level of rudeness was not normal to him. "Thanks for the offer," he settled on awkwardly, hands shoved in his pockets against the cold, "I can't accept it."

Stone stopped and looked around inquisitively. "Why not? Got something better to do?"

The cocky remark grated on Arthur's nerves but he kept a tight hand on his temper. He didn't lose it very easily; he was more of the type to sink soundlessly in a black reflection if things went wrong and he knew that. But somehow this man set him off in the grandest way. "As a matter of fact I have. And even if I didn't, I wouldn't accept."

"Why not?"

"Got me principles," Arthur muttered, reddening under Stone's amused glance, "I won't be bribed."

"Bribery? Now, hold a minute!" Stone exclaimed, humour very evidently in his voice. He turned fully and held his arms out on either side of his body. "Do I look like the kind of stand-up guy to bribe anybody? You got me all wrong, buddy- just thought I'd show a little appreciation for what you've done for me. That's all."

"Look, you can quit laughing at me and get out! This is my house and not yours so I'll thank you to leave. And take your bribes with you."

Stone left.

The door shut very firmly behind him, propelled by a firm hand.

Arthur stood and glared at the shut door, quivering with embarrassment and insult and anger.

For a few minutes he stood there and quivered. And then he thought better of it and sat down and quivered. Only the quivers went away, just as they always did, sinking him down into that never-ending pit of black sand that wouldn't let him breath in peace without rasping over his thoughts like a lash.

Minutes floated away on silent cat paws, of no importance until he looked at his clock and realized it was past midnight. He'd been down in those pits for three hours straight. And that, he knew, was not healthy. So he pulled himself together, got determinedly off the couch and made his way to his room. Stripping off, catching a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror that was his one concession to taking care of his appearance. After all, he'd reasoned, he might as well see just how frightful he looked before he stepped out of his front door.

For that night the mirror showed him a body that was far too pale, too lean- broad shouldered, but lean. Stockier, though, than he'd been at sixteen, and thank god, there were no more traces of make-up on him. No more glitter in unlikely places, courtesy of Ray or any of the others who'd made up the mad heady world of his seventies' days.

But it was too cold to stare at himself. There was no point in any case. Arthur turned his back with a steely glare at himself and grabbed up his t-shirt and tracksuit pants. Slipping them on, liking that he swam in them just a little, and then bounding into bed.

Only to have the doorbell ring.

"Fucking hell," he muttered. He could get up, or he could let whoever it was ring themselves hoarse and go away.

The doorbell rang again.

"Please, just go. Please?"

The doorbell rang twice more in quick succession. Whoever it was, was getting impatient.

Arthur gave up. He bounded out of bed, the light of killing rage in his eyes. He wanted to sleep. It was either sleep or be sunk in gloomy depression and Goddamn it, he refused to get depressed over a prick like Brian Slade. And if it was the recalcitrant rock star outside his apartment again, he would personally…

"Oh."

"Arthur, m'boy! Didn't wake you, did I?"

"Al? What are you doing here?"

"Just got back from a meeting, my boy, a business meeting." The older man seemed a little the worse for drink and Arthur dragged him in alarm. Al wasn't supposed to be drinking, not after that incident in the office with his wife. "Oh, don't fuss, man! Just- just get me some coffee."

"Lorna isn't going to like this," Arthur cautioned.

Al, surprisingly, laughed and shook his head. "She won't care when she hears. Good job, Arthur! Never knew you had in you! Ah, I see you've agreed, then."

Arthur looked up as a matter of course, standing in the kitchenette with a mug in one hand and a spoon of coffee. When he saw what it was his boss was holding, the mug smashed to the floor and the spoon clattered back to the countertop.

"Arthur! You okay?"

"F- fine," Arthur stammered, "What did you say before?"

Al was beginning to wonder who was tipsy, him or Arthur. "The deal with Tommy Stone. The paper can use a good inside piece on him. Ha! That manager of his is a regal little cookie, hard as they come and pretty with it. I like her."

Shannon? What was Al doing having drinks with Shannon? Arthur didn't like Shannon. And Tommy Stone had shown up on his doorstep with a deal, certainly. When did Al hear about it? And then it hit him like a ton of bricks. Stone had always known he would refuse. He'd given him the chance to say 'yes', but he'd known better. So he'd been the sneaky, lying, underhanded little bastard that he was and he'd set Arthur up!

"Sir, I don't think it's a good deal. I have my assignments here and Stone wants me to go on this tour with him an' I just don't 'ave the time." There! That bloody accent again!

"Nonsence," Al said bracingly, slapping his knee, "The others can cover that. This is more important. Be a bit like that piece you did on Brian Slade, only with a star that is a star, if you know what I mean. By the way, you never did tell me what you found."

Arthur was still standing in his room, thoughts roiling in his stomach and a shattered china mug in his kitchenette and his boss was sitting there, gazing at him expectantly. "Oh, it weren't important."

He'd have to go through with it.