Author's Note: I've really been away a while, haven't I? Sorry. I went on vacation for a month to visit family and didn't have the chance to write up anything. I hope this makes up for it.

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Arthur woke up the next day to the middle of the morning, when a phone call from reception told him that he had a visitor. He mumbled something into the phone and slammed it down.

He'd had the most surreal dream. He hadn't dreamt of… he hadn't dreamt.

Arthur put up his hands to stifle a groan of despair. Of all the insane things to have done, having any kind of close encounter with Tommy Stone was the worst. What had he been thinking of? He couldn't remember. It hadn't been very much for he could only recall a type of vague blankness.

That was it! He hadn't been in his right mind! Stone must have done something. He must have said something. Arthur wouldn't put it passed him.

Except that there was no conceivable reason why Tommy Stone would want to do anything to him. They barely got along! Arthur was a shit to him, he fully admitted it. Why would a man who could have anyone he wanted, seduce a reporter of no discernible attraction?

The phone rang again.

"Mr. Stewart? Mr. Stone is waiting for you in the lobby."

Mr. Stone was waiting. The article. The paper. Lou would kill him if he didn't get everything he possibly could. His boss liked him, but the story always came first; reporters could be dispensed with.

The man groaned again and stumbled to his feet, hurriedly pulling on a pair of trousers he snatched up from the chair. Being naked was too much of a reminder. Stone could wait, however- he needed a shower desperately.

There was no time to panic. Shower. Teeth. Dress. Hair. Out. In that particular order.

He was still stuffing books and a camera into his backpack when he hopped onto the elevator. A woman in a fur coat looked him over and turned her head disdainfully. Arthur didn't even bother to flush. He was too busy trying to wake up.

There was a distressingly gentle relaxation in his veins and he shifted uncomfortably, trying to find some way to alleviate the post-sex afterglow. Even his bones and muscles seemed to have relaxed, leaving his body in a languid slump. If he didn't concentrate, he would fall headfirst to the floor. But he concentrated. And he got off the elevator in one piece.

Tommy Stone was certainly waiting for him in the lobby, bland smile turned his way. Shannon was just as expressionless, cold and rigid as she always was, clipboard in hand and soft voice barking down the phone at the front desk. She shot him a veiled look of contemplation before turning away to get on with her work.

Arthur felt his face flush. She obviously knew.

"Arthur," Stone called pleasantly, "You never mentioned company, pal."

Arthur almost turned and went back up to his bed.

Stone was sitting down in a dark wood chair, a glass of orange juice in hand as he chatted amiably to an old woman. An old woman, Arthur noted bitterly, who looked a lot like the woman in his childhood photos.

"Mum," he said dully, offering her a weak smile, "When did you get here?"

"I took the bus, Arthur. Mr. Stone was most kind." She stood up and looked at him uncertainly.

Arthur tamped down the urge to snort and just kissed her cheek, offering her the chair again as he carefully avoided Stone's grey eyes. "The trip weren't too bad, eh?"

"No, not too bad." Mrs. Stewart bit her lip and fidgeted with her purse. "How is New York?"

"Good. Good."

"Must be very big."

"Yeah."

"And the traffic must be terrible. All those crowds and people everywhere."

"Yes, Mum."

"Do- do you drive, Arthur?"

Those cool grey eyes were fixed on his face and Arthur Stewart couldn't think of a simple topic of conversation. "No," he said, "I don't drive."

"Oh," she nodded. Once again she fidgeted with her purse. But this time she opened it and rummaged inside. "One of the Newcome girls went to New York for her honeymoon- do you remember Celia?- and she came back with this. She thought it was very good."

The newspaper clipping was tattered and old, both from the three years of its age and from being kept in a clutch bag. But Arthur felt even more ill-at-ease looking down at his own work from three years ago. It was unbearably sad, really, to think that this was all his Mum had to remind her of her son. She'd been quite proud of him. She always said how clever he was. She used to boast and he used to get so embarrassed about it. And now this.

"Which is it?" Stone broke in.

Arthur looked up and answered the challenge by passing it over. "An old piece," he evaded, "Not my best."

Stone scanned it and handed it gallantly back to Mrs. Stewart. "Don't listen to him," he joked, "He's telling it all wrong. I remember when he did a piece on…"

Arthur cringed inwardly. Stone had read some of his work! Well, not that he was very bad at what he did- Lou wouldn't hire him if he was- but it was appalling to generate the lie that his business here had anything to do with his writing skills. He was here because Brian Slade was bribing him.

Perhaps that was why Stone had let last night happen? As a little insurance policy? Blackmail?

Arthur felt sick to see that slender hand making all those extravagant gestures in the air. Those hands had touched him intimately and by rights those hands should not show themselves so brazenly to his mother, flaunting before her eyes. It wasn't right! And if she knew, she would be just as disgusted as she always was.

"Isn't that right, Art?"

"Yeah." Arthur hadn't a fucking clue what Stone was on about. But anything to keep the conversation from continuing- "Mum, we have work to do. Mr. Stone has a show tonight and he needs to go. If you're staying, then maybe we can have dinner…"

"Arthur! No, I insist, Mrs. Stewart, you can't go back tonight. If I'd known you were coming I'd have cancelled my appointments."

Arthur coloured again and Mrs. Stewart went paler than she normally was.

"But anyway, you're here now. So, no argument, let me take the two of you out for dinner tonight. Shannon can get you a room here and anything else you want. I'll bring Arthur back as soon as we finish."

"I'm sure my mother needs to get back to…"

"No, I can stay, Arthur," Mrs. Stewart cut in. She gave him a tight smile that didn't reach her blue eyes. "The house gets so lonely sometimes."

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur after that. Arthur was vaguely glad that Stone arranged everything in his usual bluff, hearty way. The rock star put the old woman at her ease, nodding to Shannon to get things settled to his satisfaction, and then shepherding Arthur out to the waiting limousine as if it was entirely natural that he accompany him.

"Breathe," Tommy Stone commanded, sliding into the limo after him, "Don't you fucking pass out on me. I don't have the time to get you to the fucking hospital."

"'M not passin' out," Arthur snapped. He lifted his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"We're late," Stone said cryptically. And then his voice became softer, almost reluctantly. "How did you sleep?"

"I don't want to talk about it. And don't say a sodding word to my Mum, okay? She doesn't like that sort of thing."

Tommy Stone laughed softly and he leaned forward with Brian Slade's mocking grin. "Oh, poor Arthur! What did Mummy do to hurt you?"

"Shut up, you fucking wanker."

"Traffic, Mr. Stone. I don't think we can make it in time."

Stone swore under his breath and forgot about his companion. He picked up the phone in the limo and put a call through to the Shannon, telling her to let the people know he was late for the rehearsal. The band could go ahead and do a run-through without him, but he was going to be stuck for a while.

Damn England! He was always late in England. Something always went wrong.

Tommy Stone really did hate it.

He brooded out of the window for fifteen minutes while the cars crawled around him and tried to get a look through the tinted windows. He was dying to roll down the windows and toss them the bird for their impertinence but he didn't dare. At the pace the traffic was moving, he might get mobbed.

"Where are we going?" Arthur asked.

It was too much like the night before. La Glace had been a bad idea. "I've got an evening show on Casey's. I'm on my way to rehearsal."

Arthur took out the recorder and his notebook. "Mind if I get a little work done 'ere?" he asked casually. As casually as he could.

"Go ahead. Got any more questions? You might as well ask now."

"This show at Casey's, what will you be singing?"

"The song 'Veronica'," Stone answered distractedly, "Got a cigarette on you?"

"Me? No. I don't smoke."

"You don't smoke?"

"No."

"I thought all reporters smoked."

"I don't," Arthur insisted, scribbling busily in his notebook, "Do you?"

"No, I'm asking because I like the look of them! Of course, I bloody smoke. What else would I do with a cigarette?" Stone rubbed his nose unobtrusively. His fingers were itching and he was getting those phantom pains again. "I need a fag."

Too late, he realized what he had said.

Arthur's pen stopped and he was white with anger, his knuckles echoing the chalky appearance as his fingers dug into the pen. "What do you mean by that?" he asked quietly, looking up.

"Nothing. A fag's a cigarette, isn't it?" Stone snarked, "And I need a fucking cigarette."

"That's not what you said."

"It's what I said, Art."

"Bullshit!"

The older man raised a warning brow.

"I don't know what your fucking game is, but if you touch me again I will smash your face in," Arthur threatened, "Don't you think I won't. I'm not a fucking fag and I don't need you to fuck with me, alright?"

Stone waved the words away contemptuously, clicking his tongue in annoyance.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You are a fag, Arthur. You liked it as much as I did, so don't go around pretending that I drugged you. I don't need to do that."

"You think I want you to touch me?"

"You didn't have a problem with it last night," Brian snarled, itching at the tickle on the back of his right hand.

"I weren't thinking right!"

"You're blaming me?" Brian's voice was getting darker, deeper, his full mouth thinning in a fury. "I'll have your balls for this, you half-arsed little shit. You knew exactly what I was doing. And you begged for more."

"I wouldn't beg you for a coin if I were starvin'," Arthur said scornfully.

Brian didn't even bother to reply to that. He only pounced, like an angry tiger with his claws out. But he didn't rip or tear. He grabbed the back of the reporter's head and brought their mouths together in a crashing kiss.

It hurt.

Bruised lips and a bitten tongue but the pain seemed just as much a part of it as the sheer delight of dragging his tongue as far over the roof of the younger man's mouth as it was possible to reach. Brian Slade had the bit well in hand and this was the only way he knew how. Arthur had responded to him, he had asked for it, even if he hadn't used words. He had liked it!

Brian had been called many things in his life but he wasn't a rapist. He wasn't! And Arthur had liked it.

Arthur had liked it. He still liked it even though the kiss hurt and the tongue was intrusive and the teeth that nipped at his mouth was harsh enough to make it sting. He hadn't felt it in so long, his brain reasoned wildly, of course it felt good! Anything would feel good after so long without any proper contact! It had nothing to do with Brian Slade or childhood dreams or sheer attraction.

Arthur pushed the rock star away and sat back, breathing hard and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "Hell," he swore, licking his bruised lips to check for blood.

Brian did the same and sat back on his seat, automatically lifting his hands to straighten himself. His hair was a mess from those large hands and his clothes were rumpled. He looked thoroughly kissed, even if the embrace had been a battle rather than a need.

"Alright I liked it," Arthur admitted, "But I'm not a fag. And I'm not doing it again."

Stone shook his head and reached for the case kept permanently in the backseat of any vehicle he travelled in. Grabbing a mirror, he set to work to restore his make-up to pristine condition.

If the chauffeur had heard anything, he gave no indication of it.

The hired help were background noise to Tommy Stone and Stone had forgotten about their very existence. Besides, he didn't hire anyone unless he was sure of their discretion. And this chauffeur had been handpicked too, vetted both by Shannon and his security firm before being selected by his employer himself. Arthur wasn't so sure. He was too hyper-aware of himself, of the little telltale signs that were still left on his person.

But he ignored the self-conscious nagging at the back of his mind and got to work. There were two other guests scheduled for Casey's little talk show and Arthur got to talk to them for a few seconds on his subject. Did they know Tommy Stone? Had they met him before? What did they think of his new work? What were they currently doing? He took a few backstage photos and then got to talk to the band.

Tommy Stone didn't bother touching base with anyone. He went straight to his band, harassed them into position on stage and dragged them through a lightening-quick rendition of 'Veronica'. He didn't need to turn around and yell. His band knew him well enough to know that he was angry from the way he moved and from the way he didn't fool around. The second try was tighter, better, more fluid. Casey himself came out to shake hands and watch the rehearsal.

Tommy Stone still wasn't satisfied. "The sound's distorted," he said quietly, beckoning a sound engineer over to rectify the mistake. Then he turned, strode over to his bass player and yanked the guitar from him.

Arthur took a photo of that, catching the look of intense concentration as the rock star adjusted the strings to suit himself.

"You were out of tune," was all that Stone offered by way of explanation.

It didn't matter if he were right or wrong. If Tommy Stone demanded it, he got what he demanded. The bassist waited for the man to turn his back before hurriedly returning the instrument to its previous timbre. The drummer rolled his eyes and everyone got down to the business of keeping their heads down and the boss satisfied.

Arthur went off by himself and found a quiet spot somewhere. The song was terribly catchy; he could hear that. Unbidden, he began to hum along. The verses were horrible, a mangled love song to a girl who was cheating. But it was catchy.

"Not like the good old days, but I could get used to it," a female voice said.

Arthur craned around in surprise.

The girl was about his age, trouser suit neatly pressed and make-up flawless. She nodded in a friendly fashion and pulled up a chair next to him. She watched the performance for a little while and then held out her hand and grinned.

"Are you Arthur Stewart?" she said, interested, "Hi. We're always happy to welcome reporters from the New York Herald."

"Hi. Er, I didn't get your name, sorry."

"Oh! Actually, my name is Veronica," she laughed, "Great coincident, huh?"

"No. Really? Veronica?"

"Yeah. Veronica Fern."

Arthur nodded and let go of her hand, smiling at the bubbly enthusiasm wafting around her. She really sparkled. "I'm not in the way or something?" he asked.

"No, no! You're not in the way. I just came over to introduce myself. I work in the PR department and we wanted to make sure you got everything you needed. Mr. Stone asked that we make sure of it."

"Really?"

"He had his lawyers talk to us, so I suppose he really means it." She looked at Stone where the man had just stopped the band for the fourth time to give them further instructions. "He always takes the show seriously. Everything has to be just right. We're used to it by now."

Arthur frowned a little but didn't question her further on that. When she left with a last friendly smile backwards, he pulled out the notebook and scribbled it down. Even if it didn't make it into the article, he was intrigued by that.