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It's a bad morning, the kind when Fusco is woken up by Bear's whimpers as he swipes at the tears rolling down Fusco's cheeks."Ok, ok boy."Bear helps him sit up, like he's been trained to do. Fusco grabs at his phone to turn off the alarm before it goes off, just in time. The shril, ear-piercing tones would have added to the pain he's trying to categorize, both mental and physical. Of course he's still missing Claudia and Leila. They had arrived at his doorstep six months earlier, shivering and smelling of smoke, almost hidden behind Carter. Its been a month since they've left but he still finds himself listening for their laughter. Sometimes Fusco hears a baby's cry, some kid down on the busy street, and he snaps to attention.He tries not to miss Tom, whose last straw had been the housing of the homeless mother and toddler. "A baby, Lionel? You know I can't stand them! It's bad enough, these sad sacks you insist on housing. A dog is bad enough but babies are the last straw.""Either the baby goes or you? Is that what you're saying?""Yes."Fusco heads for the closet, grabbing Tom's suitcases, tossing them on the bed. "Knock yourself out."*That had been the last time they'd talked and if Fusco hadn't been poking around on Twitter he might not have seen Tom's post, a clip of him hanging on some hunk's arm at some dumbass movie premiere.It almost makes the damage from the six bullets he'd been shot with long ago seem inconsequential. Except totally not - from his left shoulder to his belly (twice) to his hip, thigh and ass, they are all singing the Hallelujah chorus. It's Bear's warm presence and the certainty of John's immanent arrival that keeps him sane.*"Bad morning?" Fusco grimaces as John rubs his right hand fingers from their white knuckled fist so that Fusco can grip the mug of coffee he's brought him."Thanks." He takes a long sip. "God that's good."John looks at him, hesitating. "I saw Tom on tv with that actor guy, the one in those movies with all the car chases?""Saw him, too." Maybe if Fusco wishes hard enough he can drown in his coffee."He looked like crap, if you ask me."Fusco hesitates, wondering if John's being earnest or is just trying to help. Maybe both? "Ok, I'm asking.""His suit didn't fit and it was so last year and I don't know where he found a hack to use that much filler. Not to mention the botox. I mean, he looked like Skeletor."Fusco smiles, giving John a tiny kiss as high up has he can stretch; it lands just below his ear. "What do you know, I'm feeling better. If you walk Bear, I think I'll try to write. Then take the rest of the day off. I'll see you tomorrow afternoon."*
Figaro crutches ovet to the scarred table near the couch. Crutches because his knee stump hurt like bejesus and he had taken off his false leg hours before. The damned coffee percolator was blowing all sorts of tarry smoke and the burly former lieutenant for the boys in blues figures that's finally all she wrote for the Machine that had made bad coffee all these years. It had been new when he bought it, shiny and modern and full of promise, like everything in the Brooklyn walkup where he's begun plotting to destroy the men responsible for ruining him. Either kit them out in Chicago overcoats or send them packing to the big house.
*
Lionel Fusco scowls, clicking 'save' before his wonky computer up and dies. He is out of the habit of cursing but maybe he shouldn't give a fuck since he's alone and Bear doesn't mind. Unlike Figaro, Fusco's left leg isn't gone but the way it aches, he wishes they'd lopped it off during the surgery that had saved his life. He rubs his knee, thinking about a hot bath. He checks the weather app on his phone and yep, a storm is set to roll through. Good for the city, a cooling down for the last week of June. Maybe he'll get some more writing done after he goes to see Carter, maybe see if there's some sad case that needs a little Fusco-TLC? Lee's away for the summer and the apartment seems way too empty. Since Leila and her mom had left. Since Tom had called it quits. There are a couple of things that might make Fusco feel better but most are either illegal, terrible for his health or both. A cold nose presses against his knee. Fusco ruffles the dog's fur, scratching behind his ears. Something needs to change. * "Thank you for the water," the pale, bruised man says, taking a small sip. "But if you are trying to get my fingerprints, there's a more direct way of going about it."Carter's eyebrow rises. "How's that?" Thinks if he's aching for a fight, he's got another thing coming; she could mop the floor with a scrawny guy like him with both hands behind her back.He smiles. "Simply ask. Maybe throw in a 'please' and 'thank you' while your at it."He takes another sip. "I don't think you'll find anything useful."She blows at a stray hair that's escaped her sensibly pulled back bun. "How would you know? I thought you had amnesia."The man shrugs.She shrugs back, grabbing the ink pad and forms from the nearby drawer. *There's a tingle, there in the fine curly hair on the back of Lionel Fusco's neck. He laughs outwardly at claims of psychic abilities and silently at the plethora of NYPD superstitions but gets nothing from the line of sad sacks waiting to report something or another. He's getting that weird tingle that makes him stand up and take notice from deeper in the precinct building. Carter, who the Hell do you have, he thinks warily, clucking at Bear, tightening up his leash.Catching Carter's wave from across the room, they carefully weave their way around the desks, Fusco's former stomping grounds.. Carter is still at the same desk she used when they were partners. Bill Syzmanski, an honest cop if Fusco ever found one, sits at the desk across from her.Fusco tries to feel nostalgic but it just isn't in him, not today when the dozen bullet fragments in his body ache a hundred different ways."'Sup?" he asks Bill. who is wearing a wedding ring and a sleek, contented look of someone whose needs are all being met and then some."Nick and I just got back from Vermont. Calvin chased a moose." Calvin, Fusco knows, is the couple's regal, extremely spoiled orange tabby. "Did he catch it?"Szymanski shakes his head. "Missed by an inch.""Tell him better luck next time," Fusco replies, liking Cal better than most people.Carter gives Fusco a lavish hug and peck on his cheek before turning her attention towards Bear. "I was just about to text you." She looks down. "May I?" she asks. Bear's a working dog, after all."Go for it," Fusco replies, relaxing the leash.She pulls a dog biscuit from the top drawer of her desk. "Catch!"It's swallowed in one gulp and Bear's flashing white fangs send spectators packing, including Bill. Cat person, don't blame him, Fusco thinks as he admires Bill's rather spectacularg rear end."It's been a while," observes Carter pointedly.Fusco rolls his eyes. "You know my social calendar better 'n me. What do you think."Carter pats Bear's head. "At least you have a friend," she says. "Otherwise life would probably be 'un-Bear-able'"."Ha!" goes Fusco, pretending to grab something to throw. But if there's anyone who enjoys a pun, it's him. "Good one," he admits sheepishly. Then his eyes narrow, taking in the files littering her desk, the one in her hand.Photos spill onto her desk. There's a subway car door and in front of it is piled a heap of red clothes. He fumbles for his reading glasses, the amount and intensity of that red already giving him the shakes. Bear starts pawing at his knee and Fusco finds a bottle of cold water in his hand. He drinks it between assaults of Bear's tongue against his chin and cheeks."Ok, boy. I'm ok," he says finally as he blinks the room back to normal."I'm so sorry," says Carter and Fusco knows she means it. "Look, can I describe what happened before? The part with our guy?" She deliberately used the word 'our'. Fusco has never had her deliberately pushing a person like this, deciding to hear her out despite the shock."It...it's weird. He's weird. But maybe not in a bad way?""Go on," he grunts, suddenly wishing he was home.She describes him sitting alone with a book on an otherwise empty subway car. That is, until a pair of thugs struts in and makes him their business. "Russians gangsters from Brighton Beach. Brothers."One grabs the shaggy man's paperback. Trying to play keep away except their guy doesn't flinch. "He just closes his eyes and sinks into his coat.""Like a turtle?"She laughs at that. Carter has a pretty laugh. "Yeah. There's a real resemblance."Poor guy, except Fusco privately thinks turtles are cute."They pull him up and push him around, punch him, cracking his glasses and blackening an eye. The train was pulling into the station and it wasn't a scheduled stop but it slams to a halt. Witnesses say that the lights on that car started blinking off and on and only the doors of the car slid open long enough for our friend to run out. The guys made chase but, you know...""The doors slammed shut, crushing them in two?" provides Fusco, who once had a cast iron stomach with the best of them."But those doors have sensors. Were they inspected recently?"She nods. "And get this. They tested the sensors after the bodies were removed. They worked perfectly."They ponder this as Bear snores at Fusco's feet."How did he react when he was picked up?" Carter shrugs. "He was surprisingly calm despite the attack. He collapsed on the steps to the street. Doesn't know what happened to those boys.""Jesus.""Medics cleared him until they discovered he didn't know his name. Didn't know if he was faking or what and by then the detective on duty had heard about the carnage.""They didn't charge him, for God's sake? Our guy's a victim!"And like that, it had been decided. Fusco's taking him on. Except..."Does he mind dogs?"Carter grins. "Let's go find out."*Not a turtle, Fusco decides as he enters the lounge newly situated in the precinct's previously unused offices. The man's huge pale eyes, beak of a nose and surplus of downy beard and shaggy hair, a fledgling owl is more apt a description.The lounge, new feature of the otherwise lackluster precinct, provides assistance to the homeless and otherwise disenfranchised denizens of the area. There's a private shower that the man has obviously taken advantage of, as well as a closet of clean clothing of all sizes. The hoodie he's over large but comfy looking. Sweatpants and gleaming white sneakers round out the ensemble.He looks up warily at Fusco and Carter until Bear jumps onto the chair next to where he's sitting. "Hello," the stranger says solemnly. "Aren't you a good boy?""He is," Fusco says warmly, sitting across the table from them. "The best. His name is Bear and I'm Fusco. Lionel Fusco." "Hal."Fusco stuffs his notepad and pen back into his pocket, ready to just listen. He gets them each a cup of coffee. He asks what he remembers."I can tie my shoes," Hal supplies. "I can read and write and use the bathroom." He looks glumly at the mug of coffee in front of him. "I know I prefer green tea. I just can't remember who I am or who I was before."Still a detective, Fusco leaps. "Before?"The man frowns. "If I knew that, we probably would be here, Mr. Fusco."He settles back in his chair. "Call me Lionel. Please."The man smiles. "You'll notice that I remembered your name. Detective Carter's. So I don't have trouble converting short term memories into permanent."Fusco thumbs something on his phone.v. smart educatedNot the thing about forming memories, he's figured that out already."Do you have recall things, you no, unintended?""There were a couple of abandoned cars where we stayed. A couple of the others would think with them and the smell, gasoline and motor oil made me..." Fusco can see how hard he's trying, his cheeks flushing and his mouth twisting with concentration. "The smell made me feel safe. That's the only way I can describe it. Safe and loved.""That helps.""Oh?""You had family. Or friends. Somebody looking after you. Maybe you still do.""I'll try to borrow some of your optimism, Lionel," the man replies, looking so small and alone that Fusco could cry.CRY? What the hell? Fusco tries to shake it off by tossing back his cup off coffee, burning his tongue enough that real tears roll down his checks. "Shit!" He wipes his face, glad for the moment to collect himself. Sureriends but only one other has ever gotten under his skin so badly."How'd you get your name?""Hal?" He looks down at his hands and back up at Fusco, twitchy-like, like the question's struck a nerve. "Old Joe, one of the homeless camp, loves movies more than anything and since we didn't have a tv or DVD player, he'd amuse himself by telling movies. Not just the plot, he'd really bring them to life.""Like 'Kiss of the Spiderwoman'," Fusco blurts.Hal closes his eyes and goes still like he's slipped into a coma. I've killed him, Fusco thinks, starting to panic."Raoul Julia!" Hal shouts triumphantly. "Yes, like Spiderwoman."This is better than any movie, thinks Fusco, unabashedly fascinated."Joe started telling us 2001: A Space Odyssey and when he started telling about the computer." Hal looks at Fusco shyly. "Have you seen it?""Yeah, yeah. It was damned trippy. And the computer." Fusco shivers. "Yeah, H.A.L. It was alive and the guy had to kill it."Hal shudders. "Well, apparently I had a sort of breakdown. They started calling me Hal as a joke and it stuck.""Do you want to be called something else?"Hal shakes his head. "I've gotten used to it. Even grown fond of it. Plus it could be worse. Before that, they called me 'Pigeon'."I wonder why?" chuckles Fusco, still voting for wet owl."I suppose it's as good a last name as any. Better than 'Doe', anyway," Hal admits."Hal Pigeon. It has a ring to it," Fusco says approvingly. "And, Mr. Pigeon, if you're willing to be taken under my wing, I think we should be getting home before traffic."Hal stands, bowing a little under the weight of his bags. "And home is?"Fusco takes the bags. "Brooklyn."*They pick up a pizza on their way up to Fusco's place, from a pizzeria called "Carl &Tony's," which takes up the left storefront on the ground floor of Fusco's building. Fusco had checked with Hal, asking if his stomach can handle pizza. A lot of his clients can't handle more than soup and crackers at first. Hal says he can and except for brief strange look Hal makes upon seeing Tony, it's all as uneventful as Fusco could hope for. And as far as Tony, well, the jagged scar crossing his cheek might seem alarming or it might just be Hal's exhaustion showing."There's the pizzeria and there's Leon's junk store on the right." He types in a code to operate the elevator. "They each apartments on Floor 2. Floor 3 through 4, more apartments and a therapist's office. And here we are on 6." Another code and they are home.*"What?" Fusco asks, watching his new project gape open-mouthed over the apartment's floorplan. Fusco still gets a kick about the vastness of it, the gorgeous views: the Statue of Liberty, the Verrazano Bridge, the Brooklyn Bridge, Manhattan's lower waterfront. He'd lucked into a great gob of cash (thanks to being shot six times and surviving) AND buying the ancient factory just before Brooklyn became hip again. Plus some really strange instances of luck, the kind that fattened his accounts to breathtaking heights. "It was formerly a shirtwaist factory.""I like the pressed tin ceiling," Hal says as he runs his fingers on some of the original exposed brick. He looks down. He frowns, toeing off his new sneakers. "Aubusson?"Fusco shrugs. "I put the good rugs in storage when I got this guy." Bear thumps his tail. "Tom, my ex, was an interior designer/actor. I'd have tricked the place out in pinball machines and neon, probably.""Chacun a son gout," Hal says under his breath but within Fusco's hearing. "To each his own, damn skippy," Fusco replies, amused rather than offended.*Leaving Hal to enjoy the bookshelves, puts down the pizza before sitting down on the one piece of furniture that doesn't fit the room's aesthetic, a well worn recliner. The fight over that recliner had been one of the first cracks in his and Tom's doomed relationship.Maneuvering Bear onto his back, Fusco carefully wipes his paws and rubs them with lotion. "Why?" asks Hal, eyeing the nightly ritual with fascination."He's a working dog. Gotta keep his paws in top shape, first things first. Concrete is rough on them and God forbid he get a pebble or piece of glass stuck between his pads." Fusco tosses Bear a dog biscuit. "Wanna give him one?"Hal's pinched, tired look brightens. He takes the biscuit that Fusco offers. "Does he do any tricks?""Besides keeping me mobile and sane? Yeah."Answering the question as well, Bear extends his right paw, waving it until Hal grasps it gingerly. "Goodness! How do you do?" he asks, giving it a shake."Now toss it."He does and Bear snatches it with easy grace.*Fusco divys up the pizza then grabs some ice water for them both. "I can make a salad," he suggests, watching Hal nibble mouse-like on a slice."I think I'll be full if I can manage two of these.""Ok next time. You probably need to push veggies, lots of veggies. And lean meat." For some reason, this last bit leaves them both blushing. Grabbing the bull by the horns, Fusco has a pertinent question. "Can I ask you something?"Hal's openness shuts off, Fusco can practically hear the slamming door. "I suppose." "Do you think I should mention the gay thing when I meet potential clients? Give 'em a chance to say no if that's their bag?"Hal puts down his slice; already half finished, Fusco notices to his delight."I think you might," he says carefully. "Considering my own preferences, such as recollect them, I might have felt comforted by the fact. However, there are may be others who are terribly religious and who would mind. Best sort things out before you get them home, I think.""Thanks. Now two more questions: pineapple on pizza and Mets or Yankees?""Aboslutely not and absolutely the Mets," Hal answers with firm conviction.Fusco releases a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "I think you and I will get along fine.:They finish eating. Fusco packs the leftovers in the pizza box and plays tetris with the contents of his fridge to find room for it."Time for the grand tour?"*Hal and Bear follow at Fusco's heels as he clicks on the bedroom light. It's roomy, pale greys and delft blues. Fusco hesitates near the queen sized bed. "I know it can be hard sleeping on a mattress when you're used to living rough." He pulls out a bundle from under the bed. "Here's some blankets and a mat, the kind campers stick under sleeping bags. So if you want to sleep on the floor." He walls over to the closet door. It's bare, just deep enough to be called walk-in. Fusco reaches down, presses one of those round, stick on lights, the kind he used to see in late night commercials. "Sometimes people need to feel safer. If you want to sleep in here for a bit, knock yourself out."They check out the bathroom, both getting a kick out of Bear jumping into the tub and barking. There's a gleaming metal shelf, practically industrial sized, taking up half the room. "Here, we got towels, big and small. Soaps, body wash, shampoos. Down here we got your razors, deodorants, toothbrushes, toothpaste and floss. A first aid kit, foot powder. Damn, we'll pick up some more sunscreen tomorrow." He nods towards the bottom shelf. It's loaded with pads and tampons and the like. "Uh, lady stuff." Hal nods solemnly, then yawns so hard that Fusco hears his jaws pop."Well, guess I'll leave you to it," Fusco says a little shyly. "Don't worry if you need to sleep in, you had a rough day. And if you wake up and can't find me, I'm giving Bear his morning walkies." He hesitates, damn, it feels like the end of a kid's first date. He extends his hand. Hal takes it, giving it more of a squeeze than a pump. "Good night, Lionel. And thank you." "Goodnight."Fusco adds politeness to the mental list he's started. Adds that he seems perfectly sincere, not putting on an act. A warm feeling, a fondness that seems impossible for the scant hours of their acquaintance, wells up inside Fusco. As hard as he tries to tap it down, it's impossible.*It's a good morning, pain-wise. Bear is his alarm clock, jumping on the bed every morning to administer as many face licks as needed."Yah, geddoff," huffs Fusco, ineffectually pushing him away. The floor is cold as Fusco pads to the bathroom for his morning whizz. Washes hands, splashes face. Hanging off a bedpost are yesterday's jeans. They go on, followed by his lucky pair of Crocs. It's not until he sees the pool of light near his bookcases that Fusco remembers that he's got company. Hal's curled up on Fusco's easy chair, a blanket around his shoulders and a paperback in hand.Hal stumbles to his feet, saved from a nasty stumble by Bear's quick thinking.Hal blushes, waving the paperback. "I'm sorry. I should have asked."Fusco fumbles his reading glasses, gently pulling the book from Hal's reluctant grasp. "Park Slope Patricide?" He snorts, gently elbowing Hal. "Here I was, guessing you were a man of good taste." He returns it and Hal clutches the book protectively to his chest, his hand obscuring its lurid sepia cover. "I happen to enjoy Jake Franco's work," he says with a defiant tilt of his jaw that Fusco finds unexpectedly adorable. "As far as I'm concerned, a ripping good noir detective novel is an excellent waste of time. I'm surprised you don't care for him, seeing you have his entire collection."Fusco gives him a small, warm and bashful. "Nobody's ever accused me of having good taste." He points to the book. "I heard it was one of the best, if you don't mind Figaro getting shot to bits at the end."Sure Fusco's tired but he could kick himself, especially as Hal's eyes widen."That doesn't happen in Park Slope Patricide, I've just finished it." Hal turns the paperback in his hands, suddenly gasping. "You're Jake Franco!"He wants to deny it, to laugh it off but Hal's eyes are as steely as his sudden grip of Fusco's elbow."How'd you figure it out? You're the first, you should know."Hal relaxes his hand, smoothing Fusco's shirt. "I'd say it was something to do with your body language, your manner of speech," Hal says coyly. "But really, I saw this." He flips the book to the back cover. "Here."Tony 'Scarface' Elias, leather jacket collar popped, staring from a waterfront at them."Tony volunteered," Fusco tells him. "I thought I my looks probably would scare the readers.""Don't. I find you quite attractive and if you'll respect my opinion you'll stop thinking that at once," Hal says severely.Fusco grins. "I like the cut of your jib, Mr. Pigeon." He extends his elbow and Hal takes it. "Let's make you some tea."*The tea suffices for now and Fusco doesn't insist after Hal's first, 'No thanks.' Bear's at Fusco's knees, whining. "I need to take him out. Will you be ok for a few minutes?"Hal nods."Let me give you the codes for the elevator and the doors, just in case you need them," offers Fusco as he clips Bear's leash. He reaches for a pen and his notepad but Hal stops him."No need to write them. I've got them up here," he says, pointing to his head."You're shitting me," Fusco replies. "Go on, tell me then."Hal recites each code perfectly, looking pleased with himself. Fusco looks astonished. "How?'"Last night I watched as you keyed them in.""Simple as that?" Hal shrugs.*Passing the corner newsstand, Fusco skids to halt, catching Bear up by his collar. He grabs a newspaper, the Daily News, and drops it like a hot potato."Shit, shit, shit!" There, splashed on the front page, is the subway scene in all its colorful glory. There's so much red stuff and though the bodies are covered, it's obvious from the four sheet-covered lumps that they are cut in two. And, sweet Jesus, there's a blurry shot from inside the subway car, of a skinny, ragged man being lifted from his seat by a stranglehold. "Can't let him see," he says, trying not to panic. "Well keep him inside until it blows over," he tells Bear. "Cut his hair, get rid of the beard. New glasses.""Talking to you self, Lionel?" a voice purrs in Fusco's ear, when Fusco would have sworn he and Bear were standing alone."I thought I gave you the day off"John checks his watch. "Half a day. What's wrong?" His aqua eyes narrow as he reads the headlines.
Punks Cut In Two By F Train
And
Bullied and Beaten, Unidentified Victim Flees Scene Ahead of Machete Malfunction
"Your new guy?"How the hell did he ever know? But that's John, like questioning the rain or snow or the fucking Grand Canyon."Yeah," Fusco answers miserably. "How'd you even know I had one?"John rips open a carton of milk, knocking half of it back in one long swallow. He winks, taps the side of his nose."One or the other, dummy. Wink OR tap your nose," Fusco replies sourly. It was Carter who spilled the beans.It must show on his face because John wraps him in a friendly headlock, lifting Fusco's heels a half inch off the bodega's scarred linoleum. "You know Carter means well. You haven't bucked up since Tom broke up with you...ooof!"Fusco's elbow to John's guts lands as needed, doubling him over. Released, Fusco rubs his neck. "I broke up with Tom, not the other way around!"At an impasse, they get down to business."New guy eating ok?""Yeah.""Go home. Don't say a word." John pauses. "You were planning on keeping him in today, weren't you?"""Today. Maybe a few days. He's gonna need rest to heal."John beams. "I'll be at your place in an hour. With brunch. And my hair clippers." * As luck would have it, the story has legs and even the Times runs a story about 'The Chopped' and the mysterious man who'd escaped his attack.Smothering curses, he ditches the papers in the overflowing recycling bin, the pages with the artist renderings of 'The Mysterious Victim' looking all too apt, especially drawing depicting Hal as clean shaven. Like two peas in a pod, Fusco thinks, comparing Hal's newly barbered look to the rendering. And the reward for his location, one million dollars offered by the CEO of IFT, of all people? Fusco's starting to doubt his lefts from his rights.His phone rings, it's Carter. Fusco doesn't want to answer but he knows she's tenacious. "Fusco here.""I'm on my way. We need to talk." Her voice sounds strained. "Privately."* They meet at the pizzeria, which is empty at this hour except, of course, for Tony. She's in a booth, the catbird seat, of course. And because school just ended, Carl is working, bringing them cokes and slices."Bellisima!" Carl say, taking Carter's hand to administer a courtly kiss. Then he looks towards Fusco, nodding."Whatsamatter? Don't I get a kiss?" asks Fusco, who gasps as Carl plants a big juicy one on him."Save one for me!" shouts Tony, whose muscles, Fusco sees, are rippling beneath his clinging sweat-soaked tee."Back to business," says Carter pointedly. "A man's been hounding me about your guy, a big important guy who's coming by the station this afternoon!""What's his name?" asks Fusco, the sinking panic in his stomach ruining his yen for the slice in front of him."Nathan Ingram." She catches Fusco's reaction, the look of dawning recognition."The computer billionaire? IFT's celebrity CEO? J. Lo's ex?""And Kim Kardashian's ex? And Beyonce's? The same."Ignoring his now flaring pain, Fusco gingerly navigates out of the tight booth. "Talk to him. Stall him, ok?"Waving to the Eliases, Fusco takes the exit into the building's lobby. He and Hal have to talk. * "Again?" whimpers Hal, cringing, trying to disappear, trying to make the lurid newsprint disappear. "This has happened before?" Fusco asks, a sudden chill prickly his skin. "Was...was anyone hurt?"Hal nods. "Twice. Another homeless man, violent and ready to stab me. He was electrocuted. We were standing on a metal exhaust vent and the moment I cleared it, a light pole came crashing down. I don't want to talk about the other." Hal starts hyperventilating so Fusco finds him a paper bag. "That's it," he tells him encouragingly. "In and out."Fusco goes and gets a glass of water and when he returns, Hal's breathing is restored but his skin is waxy, his facial bruises standing in stark relief."You can wait, tell me about the other when you're able.""There's been good things, too."Fusco takes Hal's hand, cradling it, wishing he could siphon away Hal's guilt and pain and add it to his own. What's a little more, anyway?"I'd get deliveries. Food and even medicine a few times. The delivery worker would have my exact location. No name but my description down to the socks I wearing. Always when I was desperate. I don't know how I could have been so lucky. Like I had a guardian angel."Or a angel, the kind with a big sword, Fusco thinks. But what about his extraordinary run of luck himself? He puts that thought on the back burner. "Do you think it has something to do with computers?"Hal turns ashen. "Computers? No!"Fusco take Hal's hands. "It's the only thing I've seen make you jumpy. Especially my machine's camera.""?""I noticed you coved it with a piece of tape.""Those things make me nervous," Hal says defensively. "I hate them."Fusco shifts uncomfortably in his chair. "Would you give it a try?" And when Hal hesitates, Fusco pulls out the big guns, something he hates. "Would you do it for me?" * Fusco's computer whirs to life, stopping short of loading. A barrage of error messages floor the screen and Hal is on like Donkey Kong, his fingers flashing as he enters strings of code like nobody's business."Jesus," swears Fusco, his alarm scaling new heights until his breath is cut short by the sound of a voice. It's the computer. Never talked to me like that, Fusco flashes, becoming completely unhinged at the thing it's saying. "Father!" "Father, father, father, father, father, father...!" all desperate and lonely, things Fusco's known too well. And Hal's sobbing. It's time for Fusco to stand up and make the tough decision. He walks away from Hal and the computer but still within sight. He dials his phone, which answers in a heartbeat. "Nathan Ingram."*Their reunion is heartfelt and pure, but Fusco's front room, as spacious as it is, soon feels overwhelmingly crowded. Nathan Ingram, looking fucking golden in his finely cut blue suit, roars above Fusco and Carter's voices as discussion turns into argument. And the Machine, what Hal calls it, has figured out how to raise the volume on the computer, adding her own two cents as Bear bays and howls."Stop!" Everyone stops, midsentence. Even the Machine."Look at what we're doing to Hal," Fusco continues, pointing towards the prone form on the couch, his face buried in a pillow as if to muffle a scream."Harry. Not Hal. His name is Harry." Fusco's ready to slap the living crap out of Nathan but that would only add to Hal's stress. He gestures to John. "Please remove Mr. Ingram and Detective Carter. We're recessing until Hal's ready. Capiche?"None too happy, the visitors retreat, leaving blessed silence. Fusco limps to the couch, wincing as he sits. "May I put my arm on you?"God, that sounds awkward as fuck but given the circumstances, Fusco can't not ask."Ydfgjp.""Come again?"Hal lifts his face from the pillow. "Yes. Yes, please."He can feel Hal relax. He decides to risk talking. "Look, you're safe. I promise there'll be no more questions until you're ready. Not even from me. And if there's something you need, I'll make it happen.""I could use a drink of water, please. And some fresh air."Fusco grins. "Done and done."*The private rooftop patio is one flight up using a staircase accessed through Fusco's pantry. The moon provides some light as do the street lamps and the neighboring buildings but Fusco presses a button at the top of the stairs and a thousand fairy lights blink on."It's beautiful."Guiding Hal to a park bench surrounded by fragrant plants, they sit. Without a word, Hal's hand finds Fusco's, gripping firm and dry. Fusco wonders, not counting Lee, if he's ever been happier. Even if Hal decides to leave, to never grace his presence again, Fusco knows this will be marked indelibly. "Well, it's June, you know," he replies dumbly.Hal stands, motioning Fusco to do so as well. He prods Fusco into dance position, placing his hand firmly on Fusco's waist as they start to sway. "I like New York in June, how about you? I like a Gershwin tune, how about you?"Hal sings with a sweet baritone voice. "That's all I remember." "That's fine, real fine," Fusco replies, bouncing on his heels and lifting his chin so that their lips meet.*They sit back down, hands clutching."I'd like a compromise," Hal tells Fusco. "I'd like to stay with you. I want to see where this can take us. My feelings for you," he says.Flailing, thinks Fusco sympathetically, 'cause he's that way himself. "But I need to spend time with Nathan. And the Machine. Quite a lot of time, I'm afraid. There's a lot that's gone," he points to his head. "But a lot that's recoverable.""The whole 5th floor is empty. You can knock yourselves out. There's plenty of room for Nathan to have an apartment of his own," Fusco offers, aware that his generosity benefits himself as well. And speaking of generosity, there's one more question. "Did your machine, your baby, did she help me, too? Were things set up so we'd find each other? That I'd be rich as Croesus- not just from my injury settlement but from these little texts telling me to stop at the bodega and buy a bunch of a certain lottery ticker? That and a million little things...shit, my book contract? Was that her?"Hal looks taken aback. "I...I don't know. I can ask. What I do know she considers you an asset.""An asset? Is that good?"Fusco's kissed again, thoroughly, with a heat that hints at what's to come. "It's the best." But Hal's still troubled."What's wrong?""Nathan showed me those old pictures but I only got flashes It's like being a ghost." Hal wipes his eyes. "With you I start at square one.""True""There's just a few things I know for certain. I can tie my shoes. I can read and write and use the bathroom. And I like you, Lionel. Very much.""I can work with that" Fusco says, kissing Hal once more.