The clock on Markus's desk read 1:14 when the door opened halfway, breaking him out of yet another trip down familiar pathways of maybes and what-ifs. He looked up from the same report he'd been staring at for half an hour, more grateful than he could have said for the intrusion.

"Hey. Saw the light on. What are you doing still up?"

Markus found a smile, though he suspected it looked as tired as he felt. "I could ask you the same thing."

Jeremiah's shoulders moved, the whole-body shrug he often used in place of words, and if he noticed Markus hadn't answered the question, he didn't comment on it. He kicked the door a little, watching the impact of his boot against the scuffed paint. "Nerves, I guess. Couldn't sleep."

"Big day tomorrow."

Jeremiah's mouth quirked. "So they keep telling me."

"We're excited for you, that's all. It's not every day your dad comes to visit."

"Yeah, I know. I know everybody means well. It's just...I wish it was tomorrow already, you know?"

"It's funny, isn't it? Time passes so slowly when you're waiting for something, and then when you finally get there, you feel like there's never enough of it."

Jeremiah nodded. "Kind of like Christmas, when you were a kid. Remember that?"

"I remember."

They fell silent for a moment, Markus studying the familiar profile, the irony around his mouth, the tension in his body. Jeremiah was an enigma he'd never quite solved, a wild card since the day they'd met. The fall of Valhalla Sector hadn't changed that, only shifted his place in the game. It remained to be seen whether he could find a new direction for that quick mind of his, the force of personality they'd all felt, had all been swayed by at one time or another.

Markus pushed his chair back from the desk. "Say, I've got an idea. How's about I pour us a drink?"

Jeremiah looked up at that, a real smile breaking through the guarded wariness he wore like a second skin. "Thought you'd never ask."
 

Jeremiah stood at the windows, looking down into the hydroponics bay, profile outlined by the soft blue glow of the grow lights. "I remember my dad one Christmas Eve, when we were little. I think I was about six. He put on this Santa hat and ran around outside the house, crouched down so just the hat showed over the window sills. My mom came running in and said she'd just seen Santa and his reindeer outside on the lawn."

"Did you believe her?"

"Michael did, I think. But I told her it couldn't be Santa, because Santa lived at the mall, and he was a lot taller than Dad."

"Six-year-old logic."

"It made sense at the time." He left the window and sat down on the couch, leaning forward on his knees, drink cradled between his hands. "So, you...want to talk about it?"

"About what?" Markus said, knowing perfectly well what he meant.

"About whatever it is that's keeping you awake, when it's obvious you're wiped out."

Markus studied the faint condensation on Jeremiah's glass, the marks of his fingers, feeling a pleasant buzz, warmth and numbness in his face and his own fingers. A little kernel of heat rested comfortably in his belly, and he let it spread outward, thinking about Jeremiah's question.

Did he want to talk about it? He supposed that must have been what he wanted. He must have known that when he poured the first measure of vodka, and the second. Must have known it when he asked Jeremiah to stay and drink with him, when both of them should have been asleep hours before. But the blessed numbness was so seductive, all he really wanted now was to do whatever it took to make sure it lasted as long as possible.

"Not really," he said, smiling a little. Jeremiah's lips curved upward.

"Fair enough." He sipped at his drink, then shook his head, grinning. "Man. Theo. I still can't believe she got that bunch to agree on anything."

"She's a force of nature, all right."

"You can say that again. I guess being pregnant changes your perspective and all, but if you'd told me six months ago that one day she was going to get up in front of everybody and make a speech like that -- supporting you? I would have said you were crazy. Well, I already think you're crazy, but you know what I mean."

"Coming from you, Jeremiah, that's almost a compliment."

"Hey, you know I only mean that in the best possible way. I still think you're a better man than the rest of us put together, I just figure you must be a couple sandwiches short of a picnic if you're putting me in charge of things."

It took Markus a second to convince himself he'd heard right. To the best of his memory, it was the first time Jeremiah had ever given him reason to believe his loyalty ran deeper than friendship or simple obligation. He'd trusted Jeremiah almost as long as he'd known him, but he'd never fooled himself that Thunder Mountain registered anywhere near the top of Jeremiah's priorities. He'd assumed his own place in that hierarchy factored in mostly due to pragmatism, and maybe a kind of grudging understanding between them, some recognition of kindred spirits that they'd never really acknowledged, that seemed to make them butt heads more often than it solved anything.

Jeremiah was looking at him, a frown creasing his forehead. "What? Did I suddenly start speaking Chinese, or something?"

Bemused, Markus opened his mouth, but for a second, nothing came out. Why it should come as such a surprise to hear Jeremiah say he thought he was a good man, the best of them, he wasn't sure. "I think I need another drink," he said at last, and suited actions to words.
 

"We should have Christmas some time," Jeremiah mused. "You know? Like with stockings, and a tree and stuff? Kurdy could dress up like Santa Claus. I'd kinda like to see that."

"I'll be sure and tell him you said so," Markus said.

"Yeah. On second thought, maybe it's not such a good idea."

The blue numbers on the clock read 2:37. Markus lay on top of his desk, the empty bottle on the floor beside it. The room spun lazily, a gentle motion that was rather relaxing, as long as he didn't close his eyes for too long. He realized he was smiling for no particular reason except that everything seemed very funny.

"You know what I want to know?"

"Who's going to explain to Erin why we're so hungover?"

"We could draw straws," Markus suggested, then snickered. "Or maybe we could just hide out in here until Tuesday."

"I think it is Tuesday," Jeremiah said. Markus, finding that terribly funny, started giggling. "What? It is. Well, it could be." Markus laughed harder, and Jeremiah started laughing a little, too. "Why is that funny?"

"It just is. Nobody needs Tuesday anymore. It's not like anybody has to go to work, or school, or a dentist appointment, right? It's an obsolete concept." That made him crack up again. The image of a warehouse full of obsolete Tuesdays amused him no end.

But his compatriot had gone quiet. Markus turned on his side, searching for Jeremiah in the half-darkness, finding him horizontal on the small couch, one foot hanging over the back, his face serious as he thought about it.

"But Saturday's not obsolete, right?"

"Right!" Markus agreed, even though it made no sense. "I mean, what's a world without Saturdays?"

"Right. See? My point exactly."

"Point well taken, my dear Watson." The idea of Jeremiah playing Watson to his Holmes set him off again, and he giggled quietly over it until he remembered what he'd been going to say in the first place. He propped his head up on his hand. "That wasn't it, though. Want to know what I really want to know?"

"No, Markus. Tell me. What do you really want to know?"

"Who the father is," Markus said, deadpan. Then lost it, breaking up again.

"Okay, now? You're scaring me," Jeremiah said, and turned his head to peer sideways across the room. "Markus, has anyone ever told you that you're a very silly drunk?"

The hilarity died down at last, and Markus took a deep breath. His face hurt. "Yeah, you did. Last time we did this, as I recall."

"I did?"

"Pretty sure it was you. Obnoxious pain in the ass with no respect for authority? Disreputable leather pants? Regrettable tendency to sing when he's had a few?"

Jeremiah laughed. "Does sound familiar."

"Trust me, it was you."

They were quiet for a little while, the muted glow from the bay windows outlining shapes in the room. Markus found Jeremiah's face in the shadows, focusing on the straight lines of his eyebrows and nose to keep the rest of the room steady. The dark eyes were closed, his lashes a soft smudge against his cheeks. Oddly arrested by that delicate profile, Markus studied it, trying to fit the pieces together in his head. His white shirt showed the steady rise and fall of his chest. His legs were spread, one foot over the back of the couch, the other resting on the floor; he'd foregone those leather pants of his for once, and Markus felt a little stab of regret. A second or two later, that registered, and an embarrassed heat flushed his cheeks, his throat. He closed his eyes and swallowed, turning his face back towards the ceiling.

The seconds ticked past, his thoughts running around in little nervous circles in his head, refusing to acknowledge the source of the heat in his face -- and elsewhere. Then the dizziness caught up with him. He held on to the edge of the desk, but it didn't seem to help.

"Whoa." He drew a steadying breath, but the darkness kept moving around him, a little scary and yet not entirely unpleasant. "Spinning."

"Yeah, me too," said Jeremiah, his voice a rough-soft sound in the spiraling dark, an anchor. Markus opened his eyes, and the spinning slowed.

"Okay, that was not good. Keeping eyes open from now on."

"I dunno, I kind of like it," Jeremiah said. "Like a merry-go-round. I like those."

"Can we not talk about merry-go-rounds?"

"Suit yourself. I'll just stay on mine over here. You can watch me." He was slurring a little, his voice so low Markus could barely hear the last part. Markus risked looking over at him again; he had curled up to fit on the couch, only his feet still hanging over the edge. A wave of sleepiness came over Markus, and in his alcohol-fogged brain, it seemed to come from Jeremiah, like he was giving off some aura that could wrap itself around Markus, keep him safe, stop his thoughts from going into dark places, under-the-ground places. He wondered what it would have been like if they'd known each other before, when they were kids. Whether they would have been friends.

"Jeremiah?" he said softly. He didn't know what he was going to say next, just that he needed to say it. Needed to hear his voice again.

But Jeremiah was asleep, his breathing soft and even, his fist curled tightly against his cheek.
 

The mountain was never really quiet anymore, not even late at night. Not like it had been in the beginning. Not like the long weeks afterwards, when it had been just him and the handful of kids left behind, and the silence had echoed down the long corridors so profoundly that sometimes they'd find themselves talking in whispers without knowing when they'd started.

Maybe the constant, low-level buzz of humanity was part of the reason Markus had been having trouble sleeping lately. Maybe that was what kept him roaming the halls after midnight, even when he knew damn well the insomnia was starting to wear on him, even when it had never been more important that he stay sharp and on top of his game. Nearly every spare cubbyhole and closet had been turned into sleeping quarters, and with so many people living practically on top of each other, was it any wonder they were all starting to go a little stir-crazy?

Then again, maybe it was the part about him holding the future of the free world in his hands, or the part where every living soul in Thunder Mountain was depending on him. That might have something to do with it.

He wasn't really surprised when he found himself outside the door to Jeremiah and Kurdy's room, listening. He remembered when it had been a supply closet, and after, when it had been Allison's room, before she'd left them to go look for her brother, but that all seemed long ago now. Hard to believe it had been only a year since Jeremiah and Kurdy had first come to the Mountain. It seemed like they'd always been there, always been part of the team. In the beginning, they'd been outsiders, shaking things up, making waves -- Jeremiah had excelled at that -- but somewhere along the line it had changed, and they'd become an important part of what he and Erin had been trying to build for so long. He thought maybe the change had happened when they'd realized Lee had betrayed them; that somehow, it had brought the four of them together in a way nothing else had, made them all think hard about who they could count on.

He heard nothing beyond the door; the room's tenants must be asleep, like sensible people. Markus turned and walked on, wondering whether he'd done the right thing tonight. He thought things had been getting better between Jeremiah and Kurdy, but it was hard to tell sometimes. The dinner for Devon had seemed like a good idea when he'd thought of it, a good way for all of them to relax together, get some down time -- and it had been, but afterwards he'd thought maybe it had all felt a little forced, a little strained around the edges. Everything just seemed so hard, lately, even things that should be easy. Too many ghosts, everywhere you turned.

He turned right at the end of the corridor, and over the soft rush of water in the pipes overhead, a sound echoed faintly: a soft, repetitive tap, arrhythmic. Markus frowned, turning his head to identify it. It was definitely ahead of him, down towards the end of the hall. He moved toward it, feeling like he knew that sound. He was almost at the door to the gym when it clicked into place, and he recognized the repeated impact of bare-knuckled fists on leather, the bam! BamBAM! of somebody pounding the heavy punching bag for all they were worth.

He knew, even before he saw him, though how he knew, he'd have been hard-pressed to explain. Something about the single-minded focus in the speed and force of the blows, maybe -- something that was more fury than strength, more desperation than fury. He stopped in the doorway and leaned on the jamb, folding his arms. Jeremiah's back was mostly to the door, and he didn't see Markus there. Bam bam BAM! The big bag shuddered under the impact of determined fists. His black T-shirt was soaked through, and from the way he was breathing, he'd been at it for some time.

"I think you killed it," Markus told him, trying not to smile.

Jeremiah froze at the sound of his voice, and he started to look around; he turned away then, reaching for the towel on a nearby bench. His hand shook a little. If it hadn't, Markus might not have realized that it wasn't just exertion that had made his breathing so ragged. An ache squeezed unexpectedly in Markus's chest. He took an instinctive step into the room, uncrossing his arms.

"Jeremiah?"

Jeremiah stood with his back to him, scrubbing his face with the towel. He drew a long breath that was probably shakier than he would have liked, then let the towel fall, running a hand through his hair. His head dropped. Still he didn't turn around, or look at him. "I'm kinda busy right now, Markus. Can it wait?"

Markus opened his mouth. The idea of Jeremiah crying didn't quite connect in his head. It was on his tongue to ask if he was okay, if something had happened, but everything in Jeremiah's posture was warning him off, warning him not to go where he wasn't welcome. He knew too well what happened when you stepped over a line Jeremiah had drawn, and still he couldn't help wanting to cross it.

Instead, he heard himself saying, "I just came down to do some time on the treadmill. Couldn't sleep again. Thought maybe it would help." Completely untrue, and he hadn't even worn his sneakers, but he made himself walk over to the machine. He set it for his usual time and speed, stripped off his sweater and started his warm up, not looking at Jeremiah.

He counted forty-eight seconds on the timer before the sound of bare skin hitting leather started again, slower and steadier this time, more focus and less raw ferocity. When three minutes had passed, Markus let himself look up. Jeremiah's back was still to him. He hit the bag again and again, a steady, syncopated rhythm, but his breathing was even now, the energy of his slim body centered and self-contained.

Markus was just hitting his stride when Jeremiah laid off the punching bag and took a break, drinking deeply from a bottle of water, shaking a little over his head. He rubbed his face and neck with the towel again and then looked over at Markus, watching him for a minute with that half-smirk of his, that cool expression that said he had it all under control, unlike the rest of the poor slobs of the world.

"Why don't you give that thing a rest and go a few rounds with me?" He tipped his head toward the mat, an invitation.

Markus laughed. "I don't think so. That's just what I need, to show up in front of the next delegate meeting with a black eye."

Jeremiah came closer, smirk in full play. "Come on, Markus. It'll be good for you. Things are likely to get pretty hairy around here in the next few months. Who knows when you might have to fight your way out of a tight spot?" At Markus's look, he grinned a little. "Hey, it could happen."

"Don't worry," Markus said, grinning back and breathing hard as he ran. "If it does, I'll just talk them to death."

"Yeah, forget about attack helicopters, we'll just wind you up and point you in the right direction."

Markus started laughing, and almost missed a step. "Not if you kill me on this treadmill first." He hit pause, and let his pace slow until he was standing still, leaning on the console. The challenge was still in Jeremiah's expression and body language, and he nodded at last and jumped off the machine. "All right, one round. As long as you promise to go easy on me."

"No promises," Jeremiah said, rubbing his hands together.

He retrieved a roll of tape from the bench and held it up, offering. Wondering what he'd let himself in for, Markus presented his hands and watched as Jeremiah wound the stretchy tape around his wrist and the palm of his left hand, binding it tightly. The intimacy of it struck him hard, but he tried not to think about it, about Jeremiah's hands, small even against his own, about Jeremiah's scent, pungent and strong at such close quarters, but not really unpleasant. Jeremiah finished with his left hand and started on his right, the light brush of his fingers making Markus's skin warm, a little tingly wherever he touched. Around, around, over and around, the tape went. When both hands were bound, Jeremiah tossed the tape aside and backed onto the mat, giving him no real choice but to follow.

They circled each other for a minute, Markus feeling like a bit of a dork and hoping like hell that Theo didn't happen to be wandering the halls tonight, because she'd never let him live this down. "Come on," Jeremiah urged, "I'm not going to break. Take a shot at me." Markus dropped down a little and gave him a jab to the body, feeling the solid impact of his fist against Jeremiah's abs. "There you go. Not bad." Jeremiah danced out of range then back in, feinting with his left but not making contact. "You want to get your power from your leg and your shoulder, though. Don't just hit me with your hand." He jabbed again with his left, this time slipping past Markus's raised hands and connecting with his ribs. The impact wasn't much, but Markus felt it, knew he'd have a bruise there come morning. "Your hand should be turned towards the ground when you finish the jab. Turn through it, from here?" Jeremiah held his fist perpendicular to the ground and close to his body, then demonstrated, moving smoothly into a jab that connected only with air, turning his wrist through the punch. "To here. See?"

Markus nodded, mirroring the move. "Got it." They danced a bit more, trading jabs back and forth until it started to feel more natural, and he landed a blow with his right that made it inside Jeremiah's guard and connected with more force than he'd really meant it to. Jeremiah made a surprised grunt at the impact, then grinned, nodding.

"That's it." He straightened up and backed off a little again. "Now try this." He demonstrated a blow that used the twist of his body for leverage, his fist ending near Markus's chin. "Keep your left hand up while you do it, so I can't sneak in there."

"Where'd you learn how to do this?" Markus asked, circling, looking for an opening.

"Where do you think? Kurdy's been teaching me."

"Now he tells me."

"Hey, it could be worse, I could have learned from Erin."

"Good point."

They settled down to business, trading jabs that grew faster and more forceful as Markus learned to absorb the impact with his body, learned to block them, delivering a few good hits of his own. He was sore and breathing hard before long, but it felt good, too, some part of him finding a kind of release in the sharp bursts of pain and satisfaction of landing a punch, in the ache and strain of flesh and bone and the simple contact of their bodies. After a while something shifted and Jeremiah's grin turned feral, the blows coming faster and harder until he landed a good right to Markus's cheekbone, and Markus tasted something strange and bitter on his tongue. Irritation flashed through him, and he hit back without thinking about it first, just uncoiled his arm and let it fly forward in a fluid line, all the strength of his body behind it.

Pain shot up his arm from his wrist. He'd connected with the point of Jeremiah's chin, solid bone, and he felt it all the way up to his shoulder -- but Jeremiah was reeling back, was going down.

The first thing he felt was satisfaction. Then Jeremiah was lying on the mat at his feet and a chill of horrified remorse sluiced over him. Markus went down to one knee, reaching out, but Jeremiah was already sitting up, shaking it off. He saw the look on Markus's face and laughed, rubbing his chin.

"I guess that was a long time coming, huh?"

Markus stared at him for a long second. At last a weak laugh escaped him. "I guess it was. You okay?"

"Yeah." Jeremiah worked his jaw as if testing to see whether it might be broken. "Told you I wouldn't break -- but that was a hell of a good try, I gotta say."

Markus examined the point of impact, seeing the red mark that would probably be a nice purple bruise by morning. "Don't suppose you ever did that to Kurdy?"

Jeremiah looked at him as if he'd just asked when he and Theo were going to move in together. "What, are you kidding me? I look crazy to you?"

Markus sat down on the mat, suddenly feeling every ache in his body. His wrist throbbed, and he rubbed it absently. "You are a lot of things, Jeremiah, but crazy is not one of them."

"Damn straight."

Jeremiah leaned back on one elbow and started unwinding the tape from his left hand, flexing it as he did so. Weariness overcame Markus, and he realized they'd been at it for a while. His ribs hurt, his face hurt, and his stomach felt like it had been tenderized. He lay down beside Jeremiah, groaning as other bruises made themselves known. God, he was going to regret this tomorrow.

"I didn't really mean to do that," he said after a while.

"Helluva job faking it, then."

"No, I'm serious. I know we've had our problems. But you've always been straight with me, even when I wasn't with you, and I respect that. I always knew where I stood with you."

"Yeah, well. One of my few good traits, I guess."

"Most of the time. Sometimes it's a pain in the ass."

"So I've been told."

They lay there for a while, recovering. Markus had just started to think about mustering strength to get up when Jeremiah spoke quietly. "Markus, can I ask you something?"

"Sure, what is it?"

"Are you sure about this Millhaven thing? Because the more I think about it, the more it seems like a bad idea. I mean, my track record isn't exactly the greatest when it comes to telling other people what to do."

He had to smile. "Let me tell you a secret about leadership. If you're sure you're doing it right? You're about one step away from falling flat on your face. Being scared to death is half the trick, because it makes you careful -- makes you think about what can go wrong before it does." Markus chuckled ruefully. "If you're lucky, anyway."

Jeremiah considered that. "What's the other half?"

"That's easy. Just pretend you know what you're doing. You'd be amazed how far that will get you."

"Okay, just so you know? You're not really inspiring a lot of confidence here."

Markus turned his head to look at him. "Jeremiah, as long as I've known you, I've never known you to back down from a challenge. What's this really about?" Jeremiah's eyelashes flickered a little, and Markus noticed irrelevantly how long they were. Jeremiah's personality was so emphatic, so in-your-face most of the time, it was easy to forget how small he was, how finely made. He hid his looks behind his scruffy beard and hair, looking most days like he'd never heard of a mirror, and it occurred to Markus for the first time that there was probably a certain amount of survival instinct in that. The outside world could be an ugly place. A guy like Jeremiah -- sensitive, intelligent, honest to a fault, his vulnerability written all over him in spite of his tough-guy attitude -- must know that as well as anyone.

The insight felt like an intrusion, like something he shouldn't have seen. Markus felt his face warm, but Jeremiah didn't seem to notice, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. At last, he swallowed.

"I really fucked things up with Kurdy. I didn't mean to, but I just got so caught up in trying to find Valhalla Sector, I couldn't see what I was doing. He says it's okay, that he just needs some time...but it's different now. Everything's changed."

He fell silent, and Markus wished he could tell him that things could go back to the way they were, but they never did, did they? "I know what you mean," he said instead, and there was a pain behind his breastbone, a dull ache that receded sometimes now, but never quite went away.

He'd closed his eyes against it without realizing it. Beside him, Jeremiah's voice was soft, startlingly intimate. "It was like, the closer I got, the bigger it got, you know? I couldn't see anything else."

Markus turned over and propped his head up with his hand. He weighed his words, wanting to say the right thing, feeling like he'd missed more chances than he could count where Jeremiah was concerned, and this was his one chance to get it right. "What happened to Elizabeth wasn't your fault. Kurdy knows that. He's hurting right now, but you're doing the right thing, giving him space. He'll come around."

"You think so?"

Markus wished he could tell him how obviously worried Kurdy had been when they were waiting for the quarantine, how impatient for news, but it wasn't his to tell. "Trust me," he said instead. "And trust me about Millhaven, too. I know what I'm doing." He smiled, and was glad to see the lines of Jeremiah's face ease in response. "We all make mistakes. God knows, I have -- hell, the last two weeks pretty much broke all my previous records in that department. It's not about being perfect. It's about doing the best job you can, that's all. I wouldn't have asked you if I wasn't sure I could depend on you."

Jeremiah nodded after a moment, the struggle to accept what Markus was saying written on his face. "Thanks. I'll try to remember that." He sat up, scrubbing his hands through his hair, making it stick up even more than usual. "Man, what time is it? It's got to be two in the morning."

"Long past time we were in bed, that's for sure. We're going to be sorry tomorrow."

"I think I'm already sorry," Jeremiah said, rubbing his jaw ruefully. "That's a hell of a punch you got there, when you put your mind to it." He rolled easily to his feet and held a hand out, offering. Markus took it, levering himself up.

"This was your idea, you know."

"Yeah, I know, don't remind me." Jeremiah lifted his shirt and took a whiff of himself, grimacing. "I'm thinking a shower is in order, if I want Kurdy to let me back in." Before Markus could think beyond how good the hot water would feel on his bruised and abused body, he'd grabbed his sweater and followed.

It was only when they were stripping off their clothes, side by side in the locker room as they'd done a dozen times before, that he remembered the embarrassing thoughts he'd been having, and it occurred to him that this was probably not the smartest thing he could be doing right now. He hesitated, and thought about making up an excuse, getting out of there -- but it would have sounded odd no matter what reason he gave, and he couldn't trust himself to pull it off without tweaking Jeremiah's curiosity. He'd always been a terrible liar. God knew Meaghan had told him so often enough.

He risked a glance at Jeremiah and caught a glimpse of skinny, pale legs as Jeremiah wrapped a towel around his hips and tossed one to him. Not exactly an irresistible Adonis, when it came right down to it. Markus laughed at himself, thinking Jeremiah was probably right about the crazy part. It was just like his twisted corkscrew of a brain to get him hung up on wanting the impossible. Wasn't it the story of his life?

Jeremiah was looking at him oddly, a question in the quirk of his brows. Markus just smiled, and tucked the towel around his waist. "Trust me, you don't want to know."

It wasn't as hard as he'd feared it might be to keep his eyes and his thoughts to himself. It helped that he was more than a little exhausted, his body past focusing on anything beyond its own aches and pains and the desire for sleep. Whatever was going on in his head, it would keep for another day.

He reminded himself of that when they were drying off, Jeremiah bare-chested only a few feet away, a long, slim shape in the leather pants and nothing else, his hair sticking up, moisture dewed on his skin.

"Your dad's helped us out a lot," Markus said as he dressed, casting about for a safe topic. "We're lucky to have him."

But maybe it wasn't as safe as he'd hoped, because Jeremiah didn't say anything at first, just stilled, then went back to lacing up his boots. "I'm glad," he said finally, not looking up. "I know he wants to help."

"Libby, too," Markus said. "She knows as much as any of us when it comes to the old comm systems." It was inane, he knew it even as he said it, but he couldn't seem to stop himself.

Jeremiah just nodded, finished tying his boots, and dusted his hands off on his thighs. "Listen, I really appreciate what you did tonight," he said, studying the toes of his boots. "The dinner. That was really...it was a generous thing to do, Markus." He looked up, meeting Markus's gaze. "Thanks."

Markus smiled wryly. "You're welcome." He debated whether to say more. But something in Jeremiah's face spoke to him, something vulnerable and uncertain that hurt him to see. "It was a little weird for you, though, wasn't it?"

"Was it that obvious?"

Markus shrugged. "Maybe a little. Maybe just to me."

Jeremiah made a sound, not quite a laugh. "Ironic, isn't it? I spend fifteen years trying to find the guy, and now that he's here, I don't know what to say to him."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, he probably feels the same way."

Jeremiah sighed, and nodded, looking down at his hands. "Yeah, I know. It's just...there's just so much you want to ask, you know? It's hard to know where to start. And it's like...all of a sudden, I feel like I'm different from everybody else. Like I have this thing that nobody else has, and now I'm -- I don't know, out of the club, or something. I never counted on that."

Markus wanted to be able to tell him it would pass, that it wasn't really true. But in a way, he was right. Markus had said it himself. Impossible not to envy him; impossible not to wonder why him, why Jeremiah, and not me? He hadn't even thought about how that would feel from Jeremiah's standpoint -- no more than Jeremiah had all those years he'd spent looking for Valhalla Sector, because it just wasn't what you thought about, not if there was a chance.

Jeremiah rubbed a hand against the back of his neck, looking away. "Look, forget I said anything. I should be grateful as hell for what I've got. And believe me, I am, I just -- I wish--"

"Jeremiah--" Markus searched for the right words. You'd think these things would get easier, not harder. "You went through hell to find your dad. God knows you earned it. The rest of us can only imagine what it was like in there, what you went through. So, maybe it isn't fair. That's life. I don't think there's anybody left on this planet who doesn't know that by now. We're still your friends. That hasn't changed."

"I know that," Jeremiah said, his voice low, but his face told another story.

"It's just going to take some time, that's all."

The ghost of a smile answered him. "This is another one of those things, isn't it? Like Christmas."

Markus had to smile, too, though his heart felt like something was pressing on it. "Afraid so."

Jeremiah stood up, gathering his workout clothes and stuffing them into a laundry bag.

"Look -- don't tell Kurdy about what I said, okay? I don't want him to think--" He broke off. "He's got enough to deal with." His voice had roughened, and Markus couldn't help remembering the desperate fury he'd directed at the punching bag, the ragged gasps and the way his voice had sounded when he'd warned Markus off. The lines weren't so clearly drawn anymore.

"Listen," he said, treading carefully now. "I know it's been tough, you guys still bunking together. If it's a problem, we can figure something out."

Jeremiah put down the bag and started rummaging in his locker. "No, it's nothing like that. It's -- we're good, I think. Better, anyway."

"Want to talk about it?"

Jeremiah looked up, the not-quite-smile reaching his eyes. "Not really."

Markus's lips curved in answer. "Fair enough. But if you change your mind, you know where to find me." He bent his head to lace his own boots, and when he straightened up, Jeremiah had turned around, a clean T-shirt in his hands. He'd drawn into himself, that stillness in his face that he'd worn so often lately. Markus's eyes were drawn to the shadow of his fist on Jeremiah's chin, and again he had that sense of seeing him for the first time, noticing things about him that he never really had before. The fine line of his jaw. The way the water had spiked his long lashes. The planes of his body, clean and compact, nothing wasted, nothing--

Jeremiah was looking at him then, looking right through him, and if Markus had thought him an enigma before, the expression he wore now was as opaque as armor plating and just as impenetrable.

Panic spasmed in Markus's chest. His lips parted, but the words that could have made this okay, explained what he was staring at, beat like nervous wings in his mind, escaping him. "That's going to bruise," he finally managed. His face felt hot. Could Jeremiah tell?

"Tell me something I don't know." Wry acknowledgment colored the words, but Jeremiah hadn't moved, the T-shirt still held negligently between his hands. Still he held Markus's gaze, his own unfathomable.

The image was perfectly clear in Markus's mind: his hands on Jeremiah's bare shoulders, pressing him back against the lockers; the smooth hollow at the base of his throat, and how it would feel when he touched it. The yielding of that slim, strong body. The rough-soft press of his mouth against Jeremiah's, kissing him--

"It's late," he heard himself say, and his voice was rough. "We should -- we should get to bed. Get some sleep." Shut up, he told himself. For God's sake, shut up.

"Yeah," Jeremiah said, and after a long moment in which Markus was sure he was read like a book, he turned away and pulled the T-shirt over his head. He closed his locker, ran his hands through his hair as if it could make some kind of difference, then turned back one last time. "Night, Markus. Let's do this again some time, okay?"

"Any time," Markus said, and watched him leave.

When sleep finally came that night, he dreamed he was pressing his hand against glass, its cool familiarity spreading over him like water in a dark, swirling pool.
 

The next day, he went down to the motor pool to bid safe journey to Devon. Jeremiah stood at the railing above them, watching; Markus had seen the two of them talking in the cafeteria earlier, and guessed they must have said their goodbyes there. Still, it seemed a little odd that Devon never once turned around to wave to his son.

When the truck pulled out, Markus looked up. His eyes met Jeremiah's and held for a long moment. Maybe Jeremiah and his dad had reached some kind of understanding after all. That stillness was gone, and some of the tension had left his posture.

But he wasn't at dinner, and when Markus saw Libby afterwards, she said she hadn't seen him.

He met Erin at the usual time. They started going over the schedule for the next few days, planning logistics for the meeting space and the agenda for each session, comparing notes on which committees they'd need to get up and running immediately, and which could wait a few weeks. It was as daunting a task as ever, but Markus found it difficult to keep his mind on the work, his concentration far from what it should be. After a while, he realized he'd been looking at the printout in front of him without seeing it, that he'd completely spaced the last thing Erin had said.

"I'm sorry, say that again?"

She gave him a look that spoke volumes. "I asked if there was something on your mind tonight. Guess that answers that question." Markus drew a breath, let it out. He tried a smile, but she wasn't falling for it. They knew each other too well. "Listen," she said, "how about we finish this conversation in the morning, over breakfast?"

"That would be... that would be great. Thanks. I'll meet you around oh-six-hundred?"

"I'll be there. Try and get some actual sleep tonight, okay?"

"Yes, mom."

He stood in the middle of Hydroponics after she left, pretending to himself that he didn't already know what he was going to do. The pretense lasted about ten seconds. Before he could even laugh at himself, he'd turned and headed back the way he'd come.
 

The sun had long since set by the time Markus exhausted all the obvious places and headed out into the woods. He was circling the area north of the mountain, just starting to worry a little in earnest, when a momentary breeze stirred in the trees and he caught the whiff of a campfire somewhere off to the right. He turned off his flashlight and let his eyes adjust to the darkness until he could make out a faint, orange flicker about fifty yards away.

Pine needles crunched underfoot as he followed the glow of the fire through the trees. They betrayed his approach as he reached the little clearing, but Jeremiah didn't look up. His back was to the path, but Markus could see that he was holding a sheaf of handwritten papers, watching as a delicate line of orange flame slowly consumed them.

"I wondered where you'd gotten off to," he said, stopping a little distance away. "Saw you with your dad. Did you find the answers you were looking for?"

Jeremiah didn't respond, just watched the flame do its work. Markus drew nearer, hesitant to intrude, wanting to help somehow, if he could. He got a good look at Jeremiah's face and knew he'd been right to go looking for him. No matter what he might think, he looked the last thing he needed was to be left alone.

Markus came closer, into the circle of firelight. "Mind if I join you?"

"Suit yourself."

He sat down on the log beside him, holding his hands out to the fire to warm them. Jeremiah let the last of the pages go, and their remains fell into the fire, disappearing as the flames swallowed them up.

"What's that?" Markus asked, though he thought he could guess.

"Letter my dad wrote me."

"Can I ask why you're burning it?"

The eloquent shrug. "Libby says it's for closure."

"And what do you say?"

Jeremiah picked up a stick and stirred the fire; sap popped, and a few sparks danced upward. "I guess so. Maybe it's just force of habit."

Markus nodded, and waited, but nothing more was forthcoming.

"Are you okay?" he asked, wishing he were better at this.

Something glinted beneath Jeremiah's lowered lashes, but he just poked the dirt with the stick. "No." Then he smiled faintly, and his eyes met Markus's for the briefest of instants. "But I will be."

Markus smiled a little, too. It was what he'd said when Jeremiah had asked him the same question three weeks ago. "I get that."

They sat like that for a little while, the crack and pop of the fire talking to itself all that passed for conversation.

"You want to know what's weird?" Jeremiah asked at last.

"What's that?"

"It's like, my mom wasn't really gone until now. I mean, I always knew that the chances of them both still being alive were practically nil, but somehow I never really believed it. And now it's like, it feels like it just happened, even though I know it was fifteen years ago."

"Hope's a funny thing. It's just human nature, I guess. As long as there's hope, we just don't think about the rest of it."

"Yeah, I guess that's it."

He was drawing patterns in the dirt now, squares and lines, as if trying to make the world fit into some kind of order that made sense. Markus wanted badly to lay a hand on his shoulder, but he felt painfully awkward and inadequate. It felt like presumption to think that his touch would be welcome, or that it could help.

The temperature was dropping. He tucked his hands in his pockets, drawing his coat closer around him. "It's good, though," he said after a while. "It's like selective memory. Doesn't do you any good to think about things you can't change, you know?"

"You got that right." Jeremiah looked up, really looking at Markus for the first time. "How about you? How you holding up?"

Markus shrugged, lips curving. "You were right. Too busy to think about it much."

Jeremiah nodded, but his steady gaze said he didn't really buy it. "If you don't count that not sleeping thing."

"Yeah," Markus said wryly. "If you don't count that." The fire was starting to burn down. Markus dug his hands deeper into his pockets. "So, we spending the night out here?"

Jeremiah tossed his stick into the embers and pulled his own coat around him. "I think I've had enough of the great outdoors for one night."

"Glad to hear it."

Markus scattered the remains of the fire with his boot, and they covered it with dirt until the last spark was gone, the clearing lit by the half-moon and a handful of stars overhead.

They started back towards the mountain in silence, the only sounds the rustling of their boots in the carpet of fallen needles and the faint night noises of the forest. Markus didn't bother with the flashlight. They didn't need much light to see the familiar path through the trees. At the bottom of the hill, Jeremiah jumped over the narrow stream; he was a little ahead of Markus as they started up the slope on the other side, and he stopped at the top of the rise, where the path curved, glancing back as if waiting for Markus to catch up.

"What is it?" said Markus, reaching him. He wondered if he'd seen something in the woods.

Before he knew what was happening, Jeremiah's hand was on his chest, pushing him backwards. A step, two, then Markus's back hit a tree. He stopped, and Jeremiah didn't, just stepped in and kissed him. Markus drew a sharp breath of surprise in through his nose. He let it out, his lips parting, answering hesitantly, then more deeply as he gave way, as he let Jeremiah press him against the tree. Their bodies aligned, warm, Jeremiah smelling of wool and the faint, sweet-acrid scent of sap and wood smoke on his hands. Markus's own hands flexed, not touching, then found Jeremiah's shoulders, gripping hesitantly through the layers of wool. Jeremiah's fingers brushed against his neck, then went back to his shoulder, but they were kissing like they couldn't get enough of each other, nothing hesitant in the fervent embrace of their tongues.

Jeremiah's mouth was hot, softer than Markus would have imagined, his tongue yielding, licking his without hesitation. Blood pumped through Markus's heart, feeling like it thundered within him, pulsing at his throat and his wrists and between his legs. His hands sought Jeremiah's hips. The leather felt cool against his fingers though he could feel the heat underneath. He burrowed under the sweater and spread his fingers against Jeremiah's skin, smooth and warm where it was bared to his touch. The kiss went on until he felt dizzy, light-headed; he broke off. "Jeremiah--"

"Markus." There was laughter in the way he said it, his eyes bright. Color had risen in his cheeks, a faint flush that spread down his throat. His coat had fallen open and his legs were spread, his lips parted. He held on to Markus's coat, and Markus wanted to look down, wanted to see Jeremiah's arousal outlined starkly against the soft leather, to put his hand there and feel the length of him, but self-consciousness tripped him up and he didn't quite dare for fear he'd end up staring like a kid, or just go to his knees and press his face against him. The image made sweat prickle under his arms, melting heat curl in his belly. He could see the pulse beating fast at Jeremiah's throat.

"You sure about this?" he asked, needing to hear it.

"Are you?"

Was he? Painfully aware of his own inadequacy in this as in so many things, Markus felt his heart racing. He couldn't remember ever being so hard, couldn't remember ever feeling like this, like he'd jump out of his skin for wanting something so badly. Jeremiah's nose was red from the deepening chill. his breath frosting a little in the space between them, and Markus couldn't help it -- he reached out, hands finding his waist under the heavy coat, pulling him in and kissing him as if everything depended on it. Jeremiah made a muffled sound, maybe a laugh, but his tongue was sweet and hot, a maddening thing, then gentle, letting him in. Markus spread his legs and pulled Jeremiah against him until he felt Jeremiah's -- hell, what did you call it in a situation like this? He'd never needed a name for it before because he'd never -- "Jeremiah?" Breathless, Markus searched his face, the dark eyes. Sadness, he'd always named the shadows in Jeremiah's eyes, and wondered why it should be so compelling, when so many of them had so much to be sad about. What was it about Jeremiah that made him feel like this, like he was being turned inside out, like all his failings were written on his face, plain to see, all his pretenses transparent as glass? "Is this okay?" --that terrible awkwardness again. "Say something." He was shaking, every nerve in his body awake and hungry.

"Markus," Jeremiah said, and his voice was barely more than a whisper, a rough-soft rasp that felt like a touch. His eyes were wide and dark. "If you ask me that again, I swear I'm going to deck you. Now will you shut off that brain of yours?"

Markus wanted to say something, wanted to tell him that he'd never done this before -- but maybe Jeremiah was right, and he ought to stop thinking so much.

The smells of the forest mingled with the scents of leather and wool and their own heat, heady and overpowering. His knee bumped against Jeremiah's; his fingers brushed bare skin and he heard the soft intake of breath. Then they were pressing against one another again, Jeremiah bumping up hard against his body, pushing him back against the tree. Jeremiah's mouth touched the side of his neck and a rush of goosebumps lifted on Markus's skin, made him gasp and arch back, hands sliding around Jeremiah's body, finding the soft hollow at the small of his back. All of a sudden it was real, and the risk he was taking, that they were taking, hit him like a gut-punch. Everything they were trying to build here depended on him, on the respect the delegates and the Council had given him. If anybody found out--

Jeremiah's hips pressed between his legs then, rigid heat rubbing against his own, and he made an involuntary sound, forgetting everything but how good it felt to have Jeremiah's body against his, to feel how hard they both were, to feel the thundering of Jeremiah's heart, maybe as desperate as Markus was himself. Their mouths found one another and he closed his eyes and thought of nothing at all, letting his tongue and his hands and the rocking of his hips be the only reality that mattered.

It would have been enough to finish him, more than enough. He was close already, shaking with it. But in the pleasure-haze of desperation and blind response, his thoughts flickered towards dangerous territory, those few times with Meaghan when they'd -- he slammed the gates shut on it, the memory beating against the walls of his mind like dark moth wings. He couldn't think about that, not now--

Jeremiah bent his head to rest against Markus's collarbone. He rested there, breathing hard, the rigid heat of him pressing close. "What is it?"

"Nothing. It's nothing."

"Markus."

He squeezed his eyes shut, seeing things in the darkness he didn't want to see. He fumbled for the laces of Jeremiah's pants, the intricate criss-cross at his hips. "Please, just--"

"It's okay." Something brushed against his cheek -- the rough-soft touch of long fingers, a callused palm. Jeremiah caressed the side of his face with surprising gentleness, then curved his hand around the back of his neck. Markus thought he would say something else, thought he would pull away, but they just stayed like that for a minute, until the frantic beating of Markus's heart eased and he drew a deep breath. "Okay?" Jeremiah said, and Markus could hear the smile in it, the familiar ironic tone that he never had quite deciphered.

"Yeah," he managed, and let the breath out, making himself relax. His hips pressed instinctively into Jeremiah's solid weight, the pleasant ache of his arousal pushing against answering heat. He felt the shape of the laces again under his fingertips, traced the small x's that rested just above Jeremiah's hipbones. "Do you mind if I--?"

Jeremiah made a soft sound in the dark, and it took Markus a second to recognize it as a laugh. "I think it's a pretty safe bet I won't mind."

Markus's fingers were clumsy with the fastenings, but Jeremiah started kissing him again and it didn't matter, the awkwardness melting away as their tongues touched hesitantly, as Jeremiah's hands found their way under his sweater, drawing cool fire over his belly and ribs. Markus heard himself moan softly, tried to draw enough breath through his nose as he melted under the touch and touch and touch of Jeremiah's tongue, the shuddering heat that surged through him as his arousal returned in force. Who could have guessed that Jeremiah would kiss like this? Did it feel like this to him, too -- like his whole body was melting, like his legs were jelly and about to give out on him any second? He had to have more experience at this; that wasn't saying much. Markus didn't know if he was a good kisser, didn't know how you could tell something like that, but what he didn't know he tried to make up for in enthusiasm. At last the zipper slid down. The leather was soft from wear and gave way under his determined assault, baring warm skin to his touch--

He gasped, and his knees gave way at last as Jeremiah's cool hands slid under his fatigues, cupping his ass and pressing him closer, the hard length of him at last rubbing against that spot, the one that sent waves of sensation rippling through him, the one that was like touching heaven. Their lips broke apart because Marcus needed more air, needed -- but Jeremiah was adamant and claimed his mouth again, his tongue gently merciless. Markus made a pleading sound, got the leather pants open at last, pushed them down, the warm cocoon of their coats shielding them. His own pants were open to the tops of his thighs -- when had that happened? -- and Jeremiah's cock was in his hand, velvety soft, unbelievably hot, silk and steel against his palm. He closed his hand around it and stroked him. Jeremiah's hand was on him, caressing him with that rough-soft grip, still kissing him, his other hand closing around Markus's, encouraging him. Slick wetness streaked the inside of Markus's wrist, and he could feel his own cock leaking like crazy, slippery heat making him shudder under Jeremiah's grasp. Harder and faster and they were both close, too close, God, he couldn't breathe but he didn't care, this was so good, so hot, so--

Jeremiah seized the back of his head and kissed him deeply, smothering his cry as he came in a bright, overwhelming burst that seized him with pleasure, racked him with it. Even as it took him there was a sharp ache inside of him, needing something, needing more -- and then Jeremiah made a soft, vulnerable sound, and it broke open, and Jeremiah was spilling in fierce spasms against his encircling grip, shuddering against him.

At last Markus drew a shaky breath. The solid tree behind him was all that had kept him upright. Jeremiah was a heavy weight in his arms, their skin sticky and warm and wet, smelling like sex, sweet and bitter. He didn't want to move, because moving would mean letting in the cold, would mean letting go, would mean taking up all the burdens of responsibility again, going back to the mountain where this could only ever be a liability, something to be hidden and guarded against. Bad enough that he was hopelessly inadequate to the tasks he'd set for himself, more lacking in skill and charisma and talent than any leader in the history of the world. He had only his brain to rely on, only his ideas and the courage and strength of his friends to carry them through. Bad enough, without revealing this truth about himself -- a truth that could only be seen as another weakness.

After some measureless time, Jeremiah rubbed his head against Markus's shoulder and straightened, chilly air rushing in to the space he opened up between them. They covered themselves, zipping and buttoning and tucking away, both shivering a little. The temperature was still dropping, winter approaching on the night wind. They started back in complicit silence, Markus a half-step behind, their shoulders not quite touching.

Markus had always known this part of himself existed. It had been easy enough to hide it before; he'd had Meaghan, the secret to end all secrets, and his chaste love for her had been enough. He'd even confessed it to her late one night, and she'd listened, had told him that it didn't make him any different, that everybody had these feelings inside of them to one degree or another, and there was nothing wrong with it. If for no other reason, he would have loved her for that.

He glanced at Jeremiah, wondering what was going on in his head. He'd been out in the world for fifteen years; he'd probably encountered far worse prejudice and hate than Markus could imagine. Unless -- it was possible this was a first for him, too. If Meaghan was right, and it was all a matter of degree, maybe it was different for him.

Markus stopped, and held on to his arm, turning Jeremiah to face him. "Wait a sec."

At the look on Markus's face, a hint of Jeremiah's crooked grin surfaced. "Not everything has to be discussed to death, Markus. Some things just happen because they happen."

Holding on to Jeremiah felt good, he realized. His hand tightened a little. "Why now?" he said, not sure how to ask what he really wanted to know.

Dark eyes held his, bright with something he couldn't identify, enigmatic and fathomless as ever. "Because the moment you're in is all you have. Because I have a tendency to forget that, and I didn't want this to be one of those moments. Because sometimes you have to take a chance."

"Then it wasn't just...?"

"What?"

Markus felt the heat in his face. "I mean, it wasn't just about me?"

"You mean was it a pity fuck?" Jeremiah eyed him in disbelief. "Trust me, I don't play those games."

The relief threatened to unman him, it was so profound. He swallowed, feeling like it was the first time he'd done so in a while. "We have to be careful. Things are so touch and go now, and we can't afford to let everything we've worked for fall apart because a rumor gets started. You've seen how provincial some of these groups can be. I want to build a new world that's more tolerant than the old one, more understanding, but we're not there yet, and I can't--"

"Is this the part where I remind you that you have a tendency to talk too much?"

Markus drew a breath. Then let it out, finding a smile. "Yeah, I guess so." He let Jeremiah go, and they started walking again, this time side by side. "I'm sorry, it's just that I--"

"Markus. Don't worry so much, okay? Just...let it be what it is. It doesn't change anything, not really. It just is."

"Okay. Got it." His shoulder brushed Jeremiah's; something settled into place, and he decided just to do as Jeremiah had told him, and accept it.

Once they reached entrance to the access tunnel, they didn't touch again. When they got to the cafeteria and went their separate ways, it might have been no different from any other night, any one of a hundred times they'd said good night as friends, nothing more.

But later, alone in his own bed, Markus let himself remember everything, and fell asleep breathing the scent of him on his skin.