Just as a safety-note to begin, I thought I'd let you know I absolutely do not condone violence. From anyone, or for whatever reason - including revenge. So yeahhhh. And sorry it's been quite a while since the last update.

XOXOXOXOX

Hollyoaks felt different when Brendan returned to it. Weeks in that hospital made him disorientated… the streets now felt empty and strange… unwelcoming… not home to him anymore. Something was different… contaminating the place. And he knew only too well what it was.

"Oh – oh Brendan!"

The voice called from behind him but it was numb and distant in his brain – he couldn't focus on it with his mind set on something so severe.

"Brendan, wait!"

"What?" Brendan turned and snapped.

Jacqui's expression fell as she confronted the familiar face that had once been her boss. The face that usually looked so expressionlessly controlled and maintained but now looked wild, tired and miserable.

"I was just wandering… was just wandering how Ste was doing." She muttered slowly. "Is he alright?"

"He's fine." Brendan muttered shortly, spinning on his heel and heading towards the house.

"Well er, send him our love yeah?" Jacqui called after him, "Me and Rhys I mean."

"Why?" Brendan called back over his shoulder, not even putting in the effort to turn to his ex-employee, "Ye never bothered with him when he was here, did ye?"

He could just imagine the put-out and feisty pout Jacqui now wore having heard such an unreasonably biting statement. Still, he didn't care. He had bigger fish to fry. Important matters to take underhand. And his fists were already clenched in anticipation… his heart pounding with every step he took up the stairs towards his front door.

The whole place felt cold to him when he entered. He knew Cheryl and Lynsey and his Dad had all been living here for the past two weeks as though nothing had happened… but it was odd to actually SEE it. There was still cutlery on the table, an ironing pile at the bottom of the stairs. Nothing had changed physically. The world hadn't stopped turning for them.

He cleared his throat and called out into the empty space, "Dad…?"

Silence.

Fuck. Where would he be? Brendan wanted him here, NOW. He wanted answers. Explanations. He wanted cold hard revenge. His mouth was dry and thirsty for retribution. He wanted to make the man suffer the way he'd made Ste suffer. Suck the spirit from him the way he had Ste. Make him hurt… make him cry, just like Ste had been made to do.

"Brendan?"

But when Brendan turned, it was like the strength was sucked from him. His father stood before him, dressed in a well-ironed suit with slick back hair, combed moustache, face cold and poised for battle. Save the greyness of his hair, he looked the same as he always had. His expression was the same as back in the old days, when he made Brendan feel shit and useless and worthless; like he was nothing. How he sucked all courage and self-belief from Brendan then, with such ease… and had the power to do the same to him now.

"Long time no see." He muttered casually. "How's the barman?"

Brendan sucked in breath, flinching. How dare he. How dare he stand here with such calm composure and speak about Stephen so flippantly… after what he did. How dare he carry the opinion of himself so high, when he is so destructive and hateful. How dare he feel he can mess with peoples lives, their emotions, their bones as though they're nothing… just because he can.

How dare he turn Brendan into the exact same person, just a generation later.

The same scumbag.

"I know what ye did." Brendan breathed darkly. "I know what ye did to Stephen."

His fathers eyebrows raised to feign interest. "What did I do?"

"Still usin' the drugs, eh da'?" His heart hammered sickeningly inside his throat, "Stilnox. What ye used to have them girls back in the day – you still got em?"

"What are ye talkin' about, son?"

"Don't FUCK me about Da'!" Brendan spat, his body literally shaking with suppressed feelings and emotions that spurred not just from the last week, but for months, years. The times as a teenager that he'd seen his Dad drop tabs into girls drinks. Watch them loose control of themselves. Put them in the car. He'd never seen more than that, but he wasn't thick. "Ye put one in Stephen's drink!"

"An' when was I supposed to have done that?"

"Or you got someone else to do it then!"

"Why?" Mr Brady's voice was calm, but shuddered slightly with hidden-threat. He liked a challenge, did Mr Brady. He enjoyed to watch people battle their emotions, rage with their heart, and then he liked to break them down with cold calculating words. Emotion never got the better of him like it did others; that was his main weapon. "Why would I do tha'?"

Brendan swallowed. Don't rise to it… not yet.

"You tell me." He whispered, trying to keep his voice even and his fists steady. Don't lose control, not yet.

"What business would I have with yer little barman, Brendan?"

"He knows it was you, you know." Brendan threatened lowly. "Yeah. He's awake now. He told me everything."

Not even a flicker of doubt or emotion. Mr Brady had the poker-face even more perfected than Brendan did.

Brendan continued, "Flaw in the plan was it, Da'? Thought ye would kill 'im, did ye?"

The room stayed still in heavy calculating silence for a moment, as the two eyed each other dangerously from across the room, trying to pre-empt the others next attack-strategy.

Until Mr Brady broke into a smile.

"No, I never cared whether I killed him." He sneered. "If I wanted to kill him, he'd be dead."

Brendan inhaled a sharp breath. Just the sneer on his fathers face… it made his blood run cold. He had other cards to play. He knew something Brendan didn't. This turned the tables. His involvement wasn't a secret… he didn't care if Brendan knew or not.

"Then why the fuck did you do it?" Brendan hissed, taking a step forward but forcing himself not to move any further. Not yet. Stay calm. Make him talk. Don't attack.

"Two weeks you've not been home." Mr Brady spoke conversationally. "Two weeks, an' yer old man doesn't even get a decent 'hello'."

"WHY DID YOU DO IT, I SAID?"

"I wanted to know how much yer barman meant to ye." Mr Brady scoffed. "An' now I have a pretty clear picture in my head."

Mr Brady took a step forward, his dead eyes piercing harshly onto Brendan's wild ones.

"It was a test, Brendan." He breathed. "An' you failed."

XOXOXOXO

Ste shuffled slightly in his bed, needing to move, hating to lie still like this. Everything ached. No… everything throbbed… and most of it on the inside rather than out. It was night-time; the room was dark and empty. No visitors. Amy had stayed until 7.30pm, until Ste had insisted she get back to the kids. Brendan had only stayed half an hour longer, before he seemed to grow fidgety, stressed… on edge. Ste knew what was going through his mind:

As far as I'm concerned, he's already a dead man.

Ste had pleaded with him to leave it… begged him to let it be; Mr Brady was a dangerous man, as Ste had experienced first-hand… he was furious that Brendan was gay… Brendan should just stay well clear. In the end they'd been interrupted by Amy returning and forced to let the conversation lie.

In their half an hour alone after Amy left, Brendan's edginess had made Ste grow wary. He'd suggested Brendan go home and sleep. And now, thinking back, he remembered how Brendan's eyes had flashed momentarily with hurt… before returning to the old poker-face and agreeing.

He'd barely said goodbye, so distracted he was.

He seemed to find it hard to even look at Ste.

And that was the other thing… Ste looked awful. He knew it, just by the way Amy and Brendan looked at him, with sympathy or caution. His head was wrapped in bandages, his face was bruised… his limbs were limp and stupid. He was surprised that Brendan hadn't run a mile long ago.

Don't think about it, he repeated to himself, don't get upset… there's nothing you can do now. He blinked rapidly… fighting back tears. He was already humiliated that he'd sobbed so shamelessly to Brendan earlier… Christ, that was the last thing he wanted – reminding Brendan how weak and useless he was. Well now look at him. Now he was the epitome of weak and useless; he couldn't even write his own fucking name anymore.

And now, as those hateful tears sprang back into his eyes… all he wanted was for Brendan to be back again. He shouldn't have told him to go. He was just saving his last bit of pride… but what was the point? Now he was lonely, hurting, desperate for some company… for some reassurance… desperate for Brendan to wrap him in that strong hold again the way he did, and hold him as the minutes stretched on and on.

Ste drew back a sigh and allowed his head to sink back into the refreshing coldness of the pillow. The hum of the hospital monitors drilled through his head infuriatingly. He had an itch on his waist but his hands wouldn't crease themselves to itch it. The silence engulfed him in its menace and Ste came to the foreboding realisation… he couldn't be alone. He quite simply couldn't. Even when he left here, he'd be reliant… needing people to help him. All because of some disgusting homophobic old creep. Who right now he wanted nothing more than to suffer. To be dead.

XOXOXOX

"Ye don't know anythin' about me and Stephen." Brendan hissed.

"I know everythin', Brendan! Everyone knows; you've been fuckin' the boy behind the bar."

For the first time his father showed signs of emotion; his face contorting in ultimate disgust and hatred. He looked at Brendan like he was vermin… shit on the bottom of his shoe, or worse.

"You've been fuckin' around with a boy, and everyone fuckin' knows about it! What the… what the fuck's wrong with you?"

"Nothing." Brendan breathed slowly. He didn't like his Dad looking at him like that. Like he was shameful. He wanted to make it stop… he felt exposed. Sickened… humiliated…

"Nothin'?" Mr Brady let out a hard laugh. "Look at yerself. LOOK at ye."

Mr Brady's eyes ran up and down Brendan's body – the suave suit, the expensive shoes, all of these things Brendan had copied off him to give the image of power and perfection. When really, he was this.

"You disgust me." He jeered darkly.

Brendan grit his teeth, his stomach churning in self-hatred. Like he was holding a mirror to himself. Reminding himself of the shame… he forgot when he was so wrapped up in his obsession for Stephen. He never wanted to be this. He never asked for it. He didn't want it. It's not his fault.

"What?" Mr Brady spat, taking in Brendan's silence and mocking, "Do ye love him, Brendan? Ye love the pretty boy, do ye? That's why ye fuck him an' that's why you're here for him?"

Brendan thought about Stephen now. He couldn't help it. He remembered Stephen as he'd last seen him; distraught and tear-stained as he lay useless in that hospital bed, all bandaged up. And looking at Brendan with soulful, open and forgiving eyes… after everything, believing that Brendan was his friend, and trusting him enough to cry to him.

And even now, in the moment that Brendan was filled with such hatred and anger… his heart tugged somewhere deep down with the pining. The pining he'd finally succumbed to months ago… as the ache of love.

Fucking love.

"Ye thought you'd come here to fight me, did ye?" Mr Brady jeered. "The little queer's gonna shout at his ol' man, is tha' what ye…"

He didn't get to finish his sentence.

Before he knew what was happening, Brendan had him up against the wall, his fist clenched tight around the old wrinkled neck, and hearing the man that raised him gasp for breath under the strength of it.

"Man?" Brendan whispered fiercely. "Five against one. An' that makes you feel like a man does it?"

This so-called 'man' had stood back and watched as five burly and trained professionals had laid into Stephen… a smaller, younger lad, yes, but more man than any of them.

"No." Brendan jeered, his voice ticking hatefully inside his fathers ear. "I'm a man."

And with that his fist pumped like reflex; smashing against the weaker ribs of the older man… hearing them crack… hearing his father gasp for breath and keel over. And Brendan held him up easily with a fist still clutched around his neck.

"You." He spat. "You're nothing."

And then the fierce red cloud took him over, and he was no longer in a comprehensible state – just black harsh anger. From that moment on, his fists did the talking.