Title: Nonretractable 
Author: Brigantine
e-mail: gidgetpup@netzero.com 
Pairing: Vig/Bean 
Rating: NC-17 
Warnings: AU.   
Disclaimer:  Dude, so totally Alternate Universe, it's like a movie or something. 
Feedback: is adored. 
Archiving: Rugbytackle, LoM 
Summary: When Viggo moves from the East to the West Coast, he finds it's even stranger than 
he expected.  
 
A/N:  Yet another failed attempt at writing dark!fic.  Inspired by a naughty photo manip. that 
Nienna Weeper posted (and which Photobucket promptly deleted) and Fawsley's muse, the 
Demon Lover, as described by her bardic studies mentor--that is, Sean Bean at his most 
menacing.  
 
I was trying for dark, nasty, and really angsty, but things took an abrupt turn when the plot bunny 
dragged himself out of his drunken stupor, got himself a cup of coffee, advised me in a casual 
sort of tone that bunnies just want to have fun, then made himself comfortable on the big red sofa 
and started watching "The Vicar of Dibley."   
 
Have been forced to conclude that I will never be a Serious Novelist and that I am, if anything, a 
Cartoonist.  I suppose things could be worse.  I could be Rosamund Pilcher. 
 
Also note, that the description of the chapel is probably incorrect, but I figure Unitarians worship 
eclectically, so why not? 
 
And how the hell did this thing end up so darned long, anyway?  
 
#################### 
 
"Lots of planets have a North!" 
 
	`````````Dr. Who 
 
***************************** 
 
Chapter 1 
 
Shortly after he had landed in L.A. Viggo bought a used truck, threw his modest suitcase of 
clothes and the briefcase containing his few important documents into the front seat of the Chevy, 
and spent six weeks driving up and down the coast of California, determinedly *not* thinking 
about the now ex lover he'd recently left fucking someone else in the living room of their flat in 
Manhattan, and searching for a new place that felt like a good spot to settle and lick his wounds.  
Finally he decided on a small resort town somewhere in the middle, and started house-hunting.   
 
What Viggo ended up closing escrow on wasn't so much a home as a project.  The small, 
disheveled building squatted, flaking old pink paint and leaking a palpable, forlorn darkness out 
through broken windows, in a semi-industrial tide wash between the swank restaurants and 
hotels of the posh beachfront boulevard at the most southerly part of town, and the respectable 
cafes and boutiques further up the city map.  Just a few streets north of him, before the real 
estate turns tidier and noticeably more expensive, Viggo can find such things as a hardware 
store, a flooring and carpet showroom, an artists' supply shop, and a small, elderly Russian 
Orthodox church building with a modest tower at the east corner, sporting a nifty blue onion-
shaped cupola, with a shiny, gold double-armed cross at the top.  Though Saint Vladimir's 
congregation these days is Unitarian Universal, no one has ever seriously considered changing 
the name. 
 
Three buildings west of Viggo is Eric's auto repair.  Tall, muscular and dark-eyed, Eric is an ex-
patriot Australian, and among the first to welcome Viggo.  It was, he said, a relief to have new 
people putting down roots.  On a corner just east of him is a grocer's that appears not to have 
changed much since nineteen-fifty-something--though he suspects that in nineteen-fifty-
something it wasn't likely owned by an excitable Jamaican ex-patriot, name of Edgar.  This is not 
a fancy neighborhood, but it's got a certain something to it, and apparently unlike the Dior-clad 
youth from the real estate office, so very eager to sell him the sad little pink building at a 
remarkably affordable price, Viggo felt a thrill of promise, as he stood there on the broken 
sidewalk, that he had not expected to feel again nearly so soon.   
 
The first things the sad little pink building needed were a new roof, and new windows.  Viggo's a 
fair handyman, but he's no roofer, and he ended up contracting out for both roof and windows.  
While the work progressed he went shopping at the nearby art supply, and along with much-
needed materials found himself a job, working Wednesdays through Fridays.  He doesn't 
particularly need the income.  What Viggo needs is a reason to get up in the morning, something 
to force him to get out and interact with other humans.  Viggo has learned over the years that 
though his tendency to prefer solitude has its advantages when he's writing, or messing with a 
new painting, the drawback is that he tends to pull into himself, turn broody, forget to eat.  His 
ability to focus helps him with his work; becoming malnourished and dizzy really doesn't. 
 
Just now he's sitting in a lawn chair out in his back yard, smoking and thinking.  This used to be a 
parking lot, but after the roofers had gone, and before he began renovating the battered interior of 
the little pink building--which looks markedly better already, with a spiffy new red tile roof and 
whole windows--he hired a couple of friends of Eric's to dig out what was left of the parking 
spaces.  It was a simple enough job for two men with a heavy truck and a bobcat, since the lot 
had deteriorated into mostly a random pattern of potholes strung together with a maze of 
crumbling asphalt.  At the moment Viggo can't quite call the new space a garden.  It's a leveled 
dirt area with potential.  A garden wannabe.  Having lived most of his life in or around Manhattan, 
he's never had his very own garden before, aside from a few pots on a rooftop.   Edgar has 
suggested Viggo add a patio, maybe a barbecue.  It's certainly worth thinking about.   
 
Viggo slouches in the dimming daylight, long, coltish legs splayed out in front of him and a beer 
bottle trickling condensation into a wet spot on the denim over his right thigh.  He stubs out his 
cigarette on the ground.  February in New York is freezing and icy, but here Viggo is comfortable 
in a worn flannel shirt over his t-shirt.  He's had to wear shoes most of the time, which is kind of a 
drag, but even in California winter can be cold, and what with construction materials scattered all 
over the inside of his in-process living space, it's a logical safety measure.  
 
He feels a nudge against his left shin, and glances down to see Miz rubbing her cheek against his 
leg.  "Hey," he greets softly.  As Viggo reaches down the little tabby turns and arches up under 
his hand, presenting her back for his scratching convenience.  She hangs around as she pleases, 
and she's filled out to a healthier weight since the beginning of their arrangement, so he guesses 
she must be his now.  Or vice versa.  Whatever.  Miz rubs her cheek against Viggo's hand, blinks 
round amber eyes at him, and trots noiselessly off, tail high, shortly to disappear through the back 
door of the building.  Viggo slaps a few bits of cat hair from his hand onto his thigh, spends 
another few minutes contemplating his back yard options, and decides to head on inside for the 
night. 
 
The kitchen has a little distance to go before Viggo considers it finished, but it's comfortably 
functional, and he's standing in front of the open refrigerator, wondering what he wants for supper 
when that *thing* happens again, that creepy feeling that someone else is in the room with him, 
and this time it's not a small, opportunistic cat.  About a week after he moved in--that makes it 
going on a couple of months, now--Viggo started having strange, fleeting visions out of the corner 
of his eye, feelings that someone was watching him, or passing by behind him, but though he 
turns quickly, grey eyes hunting in the dim evening, he never catches more than a shadow, a 
vague shifting of the light, and the odd sensation of wing beats.  It's become more frequent lately, 
and it gives him the jitters. 
 
Viggo spends most of this evening painting the downstairs bathroom.  After supper he goes for a 
walk and has a smoke, finally settles down and reads for a while, flipping through the large, and 
slightly intimidating garden book he picked up at the hardware store.  He contemplates the best 
spot for a compost pile, wonders if he's got enough earthworms, considering his yard used to be 
asphalt.  His elder brother calls him from the east coast.  The cheerful voice of someone who 
loves him bringing all the latest news of other people who love him is talismanic in the tense 
quiet.  Still, when he heads for his bed at last, Viggo glances warily one last time into the corners 
and shadows of his bedroom before he clicks off the light.   
 
 
 
He wakes crying out into the early morning, shuddering and thrashing after dreams that he 
doesn't clearly recall.  The blurred memory of something biblical or possibly jurassic fades quickly 
while he flings away the bed linens and sprawls, gasping, in the middle of his bed, his come 
drying sticky and unexplained on his belly, his thighs, his sweaty sheets.  This is not the first time 
this sort of thing has happened.  In the past couple of weeks he has begun to dread falling to 
sleep.  There is a small part of him though, there in the dark at the back of his mind, that can 
hardly wait for nightfall.  He prefers not to examine the motivations there too closely right now. 
 
Instead he rips the sodden sheets from his bed, and takes a quick shower, shaking off under the 
hot spray the unsettling effects from his restless night.  He runs his comb through dark blond hair 
that has a tendency to stick up in back, same as when he was eight years old.  These days he 
finds he's starting to go a little grey around the edges, there at that bit of a cowlick on the left of 
his forehead, there at his sideburns, if he were to let them grow.  It shows in his beard when he 
doesn't bother to shave.  He's always tended toward leanness, and any small weight loss 
immediately shows in the shadows beneath his cheekbones.  What with one thing and another he 
knows he's dropped a few pounds over the past couple of months.  Put that together with the 
grey in his hair, and the flat, tired grey of his eyes today, and this morning he's looking pretty 
damned worn.  He wouldn't mind being here, on the near edge of his middle years, if he weren't 
doing it alone.  He tries not to dwell on it, but there are days when his loneliness makes him feel 
grey right down to the bone... 
 
...there was a time, a life time past it seems now, when he loved a girl... assumed she felt the 
same, found out after they'd graduated university that she had never planned to stay.  She was 
genuinely surprised that Viggo had ever believed so.  It's been a long time since Viggo has 
thought about that.  It's not his favorite Kodak moment. 
 
He's got work at the art supply shop this morning, for which he is grateful.  It keeps him busy and 
distracted, and there is something soothing about the scents of linseed oil and fresh, stretched 
canvas.  Lydia doesn't mind that Viggo steers the high school kids and the university students 
toward her low-end stock.  She knows that because they're in classes they're using up lots of 
supplies on practice, and they'll make up in volume what they don't spend on expensive items.  
 
"It's good will anyway," she says, as Viggo is re-stocking brushes while Lydia sorts tubes of 
watercolors.  Her daughter Patty mans the register.   
 
"They appreciate the advice, and they'll keep coming back, because they know we don't cheat 
them for a quick buck."  She fishes in her trousers pocket and pulls out a small pendant.  "Here, 
this is from my Nana." 
 
Viggo watches the slender black rope puddle in the center of his extended palm.  The enameled 
medallion is about the size of a silver dollar, and heavy. 
 
"It's Saint George, the slayer of the Serpent on one side," Lydia explains.  "A guardian angel on 
the other." 
 
Viggo shivers.  "Thank you." 
 
"Nana had a feeling," Lydia tells him solemnly, and there's an expression in her pale blue eyes 
that makes Viggo wonder if he should be worried. 
 
 
Viggo spends the late afternoon nailing up drywall in the upstairs room that will eventually 
become his living room.  The evening catches him by surprise, a sudden realization that he's 
hungry and he can't see what he's doing very well, that he must turn on the light.  He decides to 
call it a day.  He heats up a can of soup.  It's too salty and the vegetables are squishy, but he's 
tired and he's on edge, watching the night officially fall, his little pink fortress surrounded by 
darkness until the street lights flicker on, feeble puddles of yellowed light eked out from the gloom 
that shrouds the rest of the neighborhood.  Viggo quits looking out the front window and shuts all 
the curtains in the building, nervous that he'll suddenly find eyes peering in at him.  He berates 
himself for being a sissy, steps out into that darkness for a defiant cigarette on his front stoop, 
then brews a cup of herbal tea, and settles in to watch some television.  The Arts and 
Entertainment channel is showing re-runs of Agatha Christie's Poirot mysteries.  Viggo never 
figures out who done it, but he enjoys looking at the period architecture.  Plus, the little Belgian 
guy is funny. 
 
Sometime around two a.m. Viggo is forced to admit that he must go to bed.  Installing drywall is 
tough going for one person, he's dozing off on the couch, and his shoulders are sore.  He takes a 
long, hot shower, wondering briefly if it's moot point, if he'll end up needing another one in the 
morning, like he did today.  And yesterday.  And the morning before...  He stands under the 
water, letting it scald his shoulders until it runs tepid. 
 
A few hours later he wakes with a start into pre-dawn darkness.  He doesn't remember dreaming, 
and he's not thrashing.  He's not made a mess of himself this time, but he lies there on his right 
side in the dark, his heart pounding as his eyes adjust to the dim light filtering in through the 
sheer white curtains over his left shoulder.  He realizes that he's listing back toward the left side 
of his bed.  The mattress has tilted. Unless the legs on that side of his bed have inexplicably 
broken off during the night, Viggo is not alone.  His heartbeat racks up painfully as he rolls left. 
 
The silhouette is a fever dream.  It can't be right.  Then one black wing flexes, blotting out the 
pale light from the window for a moment before it resettles against the back of the man sitting at 
the edge of Viggo's bed.  Viggo makes a small, embarrassing sound before he can get control of 
his voice.  "Uh..."   
 
The winged man offers up Nana's prayer medallion, the rope twisted around long fingers. "What 
did you think," the winged man asks, "you'd scare me away with this?" 
 
The man's soft, even voice catches at Viggo's mid-section, even as the amused tone annoys him 
into a sort of coherence.  "I've bought a haunted house." 
 
Green eyes glitter at him from a shadowed face.  They seem to hold the light, like Miz's amber 
eyes in the headlights of Viggo's truck, except that this is unsettling instead of cute.  "Not the 
house that's haunted."  The smile is a flash of predatory white in the dark, and then the man 
stands, spreads monstrous wings behind him, and he's gone.   
 
Where Viggo might expect to smell brimstone the strong scent of incense hangs in the air after 
him; maybe Japanese joss, Viggo thinks.  The prayer medallion lies, guardian angel side up, 
gleaming on Viggo's bed.  To his horror his body fairly screams with need.  This is Viggo's last set 
of clean sheets, and with a curse and a flurry of bed linens he escapes to his bathroom, flicks on 
the light, and the hot water of the shower, and soon he's howling his release into the cold tiles, 
green eyes, a shadow and a voice in the dark more than enough to get him spectacularly off.  At 
the last it all leaves him hollow, and he can't look at himself in the mirror afterward, for fear of the 
regret he won't find looking back at him.  And ain't that a damn fool way to be. 
 
---tbc-- 
 
 
Chapter 2 
 
The next day at the shop Lydia notices that he's remarkably quiet, even for him.  "I think my 
house is haunted," Viggo jokes wearily. 
 
She doesn't laugh back.  "You should see Pastor McKellen," she says, and she shakes him a little 
by the shoulder to make sure he's listening.  "Sometimes spirits are friendly.  Sometimes they're 
not.  You have to be careful, Viggo.  I'll give you the pastor's phone number." 
 
Shortly after shop hours Viggo sits in the eleventh row, aisle pew at Saint Vladimir's Unitarian.  
The air is dusky and comforting with the scent of incense (not like *his,* though it's close), and the 
warm glow of beeswax candles eases him, lets him relax.  The new congregation has refurbished 
the old building, in the richly colored style of its former glory and Viggo can see from just sitting 
here that a lot of pleasure went into the work.   A tall, slender man in black trousers and a button-
down shirt with the sleeves rolled up approaches from a room off to the left of the altar.  "Viggo?  
I"m Pastor McKellen." 
 
Viggo stands to greet him.  "Yes.  Thank you for seeing me."  Pastor McKellen's hands are large 
and warm, and Viggo is surprised to hear a pleasant British accent.  He appears a few years 
younger than Viggo's father, and his eyes are bright, china blue. 
 
The pastor sits on the pew next to Viggo.  "You said over the telephone you think your house 
might be haunted?" 
 
Surprisingly, there is nothing patronizing in the older man's tone, but it is important to Viggo that 
he understand.  "I don't take drugs or drink a lot," he explains, then grins fleetingly and amends, 
"At least not when I'm alone.  But I've been feeling like there's someone in my house with me, 
and last night he showed up and chastised me for keeping Lydia's Nana's prayer medallion with 
me." 
 
"Cheeky bastard," Pastor McKellen comments.  "He, you say?" 
 
"Definitely."  Viggo decides to leave out certain details, assuring himself that they're irrelevant. 
 
Pastor McKellen gestures toward the old, Russian stained glass window behind the altar.   "Did 
he look like someone there?" 
 
Viggo notices the Devil lurking down in the corner; horns, hooves, bat wings, speared tail, 
cowering before the holy lights of the saints.  "Not really," Viggo decides.  "Except for the wings." 
 
"Ah," the pastor murmurs.  After a thoughtful moment he turns to Viggo.  "I suppose you expected 
me to think you a little loopy." 
 
"I wouldn't have blamed you." 
 
Pastor McKellen assures him, "I've known Lydia since she was a girl.  She isn't loopy, and though 
her grandmother has brought a strong suspicion of the unexplained with her from the old country, 
Nana Ordofsky isn't loopy, either.  It's been a while, but you're certainly not the first to come to us 
with a trouble like this, Viggo."  
 
Viggo finds it remarkably comforting that others have passed through this before him.  His 
affliction is known, and there's a cure. 
 
Until, that is, Pastor McKellen inquires, "I believe what you might be looking for here is an 
exorcism, is that right?" 
 
"Something along those lines, yes.  Or, you know, whatever would work." 
 
"Well..."  the pastor regards him apologetically.  "We don't actually do exorcisms." 
 
Viggo feels his hopes run aground.  He doesn't want to have to abandon his new home, but he 
can't see himself living with a demonic stalker.  He'd never sleep again, let alone be able to work.   
 
"...actually been hurt," Pastor McKellen is saying. 
 
"Sorry, what was that?" 
 
"Viggo," the older man puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder.  "This neighborhood has collected 
all sorts of ghost stories over the last fifty years or so.  To date, though many people have been 
surprised and generally made nervous, no one has ever been hurt, and when they have made it 
clear that he, she or it is not at all welcome, the visitations have always ceased." 
 
"Really?"  Viggo squeaks hopefully. 
 
Pastor McKellen chuckles, "Indeed.  Still, if you'd like I can come and take a look round the place, 
just to let your trespasser know that you're not alone here." 
 
"Thanks!  I'd appreciate that." The relief of reinforcements is almost dizzying.  "Um, how d'you 
feel about chocolate cake?" 
 
The pastor grins.  "That's so crazy, it just might work." 
 
 
In the evening, Pastor McKellen arrives, accompanied by Saint Vladimir's youth pastor, a friendly 
fellow a few years younger than Viggo, named Dave Wenham.  He seems a quiet sort at first, but 
there's a mischievous gleam in his eyes, and Viggo guesses by the accent that like Eric he's from 
somewhere Down Under.  It seems that with each new person he meets Viggo likes this 
neighborhood more, and he truly does not want to have to leave it. 
 
The two pastors have brought takeout barbecue chicken from that little place about six blocks 
down toward the beach.  There are french fries, cole slaw, and baked beans as well, and the 
three men sit down in Viggo's kitchen for supper. Viggo's stomach growls appreciatively.  He 
hasn't been eating very well lately, he knows.  Viggo gives them a tour of the little pink building, 
shares his plans for the future, including ironwork for a new fence some day, and Pastor 
McKellen gives him the name of an guy who owns an architectural salvage lot south and west, 
down by the dive shop.  Viggo learns that Pastor McKellen's given name is Ian.  Later, they 
consume the chocolate cake Viggo bought at the bakery north and east, watch a basketball 
game, and Ian ends up owing Pastor Wenham sixty-five cents in nickels for foul shots missed.  
Eventually, Miz introduces herself.  Dave is definitely a cat person. 
 
 
When Viggo wakes the next morning, he's nearly late for the shop.  He slept long and well, and 
can't remember his dreams.  If that puts him in a bit of a rush to get to work this morning, that's 
fine with him.  Lydia asks him how things went.  He does a little jig and kisses her on both 
cheeks.  She sputters and warns him, laughing, that her husband is the jealous type.   
 
Viggo grins, "So I'll kiss him, too."   
 
It's a good day. 
 
 
Viggo mostly re-paints the downstairs bathroom - green this time.  He can't seem to make up his 
mind.  He has marginally organized his construction mess downstairs, sorted through some of the 
debris and chucked it into the bin out to the side of the building, fed a remarkably patient Miz, 
eaten two bowls of Cap'n Crunch cereal, ignoring his mother's voice in his head reminding him 
that Crunchberries are not in fact fruit, and he is searching his freezer for that little tub of 
chocolate ice cream that he knows is in there somewhere when he realizes that he can just hear 
a voice coming from the front room .  Viggo closes the refrigerator door cautiously, stands 
listening and frowning.  Male voice. He realizes that it's gone dark outside now.  Oh shit, oh shit, 
oh shit... 
 
As he nears the unfinished room Viggo can't make out all of the words; the accent makes it less 
than easy, and what he ends up understanding as he arrives at the doorway and stands staring 
is, "...not a toy, little one, I need that finger." 
 
Within the unlit room Viggo can just make out Miz rubbing up against a pale knee, and the figure 
crouched in order to scritch her behind the ears.   
 
"Um..." Viggo starts.  This person.  This man.  This thing, he, it, shouldn't be here, should have 
been chased away by shouting and laughing and three guys throwing fried potatoes at the 
television.  He considers fleeing to Saint Vladimir's, beating on the doors, shouting for Pastor 
McKellen, pleading for sanctuary.  He doesn't move, and he briefly wonders why, but he's got no 
answer, and the question by itself isn't helpful. 
 
The winged man rises fluidly, stirs all the air in the room with one graceful flap of his vast, dark 
wings, and settles on Viggo's table saw, where he perches like a dragon, arranging his wings 
along his back and regarding Viggo calmly with his glittering green eyes.  "Exorcism," he drawls, 
"only works on evil spirits and ghosts, mate." 
 
Viggo gawps, "I-I didn't..." 
 
"Yeah I know, 'cause Unitarians don't *do* exorcisms, do they?  But you gave it a go, didn't you." 
 
"What are you?" 
 
The winged man rests on his haunches, his arms balanced across his knees and his chin resting 
on his forearms, his outlines just discernible in the dim room.  "Am I makin' you nervous?  Turn on 
the light, if it'll make you feel better." 
 
"I'm not--okay, yes, you make me very nervous, obviously..." Viggo looks away for a moment as 
he gropes for the light switch.  "...or I wouldn't have tried to have you exorcised.  Look, you can't 
just keep roaming my house at night--ohhh." 
 
Viggo's grey eyes widen, his body humming as he takes in the sight of his night-visitor in the full, 
incandescent light.  There are horns after all; not long and scraggled like those of the poor devil in 
the window at Saint Vladimir's, but short, slender, curving gracefully back from the winged man's 
hairline.  His hair is short and red-blonde, the horns a few shades darker.  
 
"Not from around here," the intruder chuckles. 
 
Viggo's throat goes dry, and his jeans have become suddenly a size too small in the crotch.  He'd 
love to be able to hide that, but it's too late now.  It vexes him that his body reacts this way, and 
he clings to that slowly catching flame of anger.  "Where, exactly, is 'not around here'?" 
 
The man smirks, stands in a single smooth movement, extending upward as though he's hardly 
bound by gravity.  He seems huge, and not likely to cringe before the saints.  "I'm Sean.  Your 
name is Viggo, yeah?"  
 
Viggo reminds himself that this person is standing on a table saw.  Of course he seems huge.  
Plus there's that whole thing with the wings.  "I'd like to say I'm pleased to meet you Sean," Viggo 
replies honestly, "but I'm not.  You don't belong here, and you're freaking me out." 
 
Sean snorts in amusement, shows off his wings, the span immense, even in this open space. 
Fine skin, a shimmering, deep tawny satin stretches over slender bone struts.  
 
"I'm only visiting," Sean deflects.  His green eyes narrow, watching Viggo carefully. His nostrils 
flare as he takes a long, slow breath, the way an animal scents the wind for information. 
 
Lean, cabled muscles across his chest roll as one wing shivers upward, then the other.  Sean is 
entirely naked, and with the exception of that on his head appears to be completely hairless, as 
pale and smooth as the rose marble on a cathedral frieze.   
 
Forgive me Father, for I am seriously considering sinning.  
 
That incense, or maybe cinnamon smell of Sean wafts up into Viggo's brain, fuzzes his thinking.  
Fuck, but Sean smells so good.... Viggo imagines he can feel the warmth of that scent on his 
skin.  His caution wants nothing more than for this intruder to leave him the hell alone, yet the 
rhythm of his body thrums out Touch Me Touch Me Touch Me with every heartbeat, most of 
which seem to be aimed at his groin.  It's no wonder he's light-headed.  Which brings him up 
short.  The flickering resentment catches and holds.  "You've been messing with my dreams." 
 
"I can't control your dreams," Sean replies. He steps lightly down from the saw, wings extended 
for balance, and Viggo realizes that except for the added inches of Sean's wings folding up 
behind him, they are the same height.   
 
Sean saunters catlike toward him, all broad shoulders, lean grace and confidence, and oh Christ 
on crutches, Viggo can't stop staring at Sean's uncircumsized sex as it sways rhythmically 
between his slender, rose marble thighs, and doesn't he just feel like a hormone-addled teenager 
again, drooling over a porn magazine.  He knows Sean can smell him sweating it out.  Jesus, he 
needs to get his brain in order. 
 
"You don't leave a whole lot to the imagination," he observes, hoping for sardonic, or possibly wry 
or rueful--anything but the pitiful way his voice just cracked. 
 
Sean stops an arm's length from Viggo, smiling sideways, as though at the inevitability of his 
having his wicked way.  "Maybe you need to expand the limits of your imagination."   
 
"I...um."  He's pretty sure his subconscious has already got a good start on that little project.  The 
accent to Sean's voice is strong and vaguely familiar.  North England somewhere?  How could 
that be possible?  Wherever he gets it from, the way Sean draws out the word 'imagination' has 
got to be illegal throughout the civilised universe. 
 
"I stand by your bed some nights, and watch," Sean confesses.  "Given the end result, I'd love to 
hear the details."   
 
Viggo takes a slow, shuddering breath, made less easy by Sean apparently having taken up all 
the air in the room.  He realizes that fine, blonde hairs scatter the light over Sean's legs and 
forearms.  They're so pale he couldn't see them from a few yards distant. He notices a scar just 
beneath Sean's left eyebrow.  This is not a god.  Viggo can look a mortal in the eye.  "Please go 
away." 
 
Sean's expression shifts from anticipation to mild surprise.  One flyaway blonde eyebrow lowers.  
"D'you mean that?" 
 
"Yes.  Yes, I mean it," Viggo insists.  He fancies he can hear his own baffled dick vowing revenge 
against him. Damn. 
 
"Huh," Sean says thoughtfully.  Viggo blinks at the swift beat of wings, wind on his face, and Sean 
has disappeared, leaving the scent of cinnamon, or maybe myrrh, heavy and sharp in the air. 
 
Viggo swipes at the sweat on his forehead, peers about the room, making sure.  His jeans are 
killing him.  They're old and ratty and loose on his hips, and he would think they'd give him plenty 
of leeway in this situation, but no, he's gone tight, sensitive and fucking uncomfortable.  The long 
journey up the stairs in his current condition could maim him.  He shucks his jeans with a whuff of 
relief, suddenly embarrassed by his awareness of Miz, who watches him with steady curiousity, 
apparently entirely unruffled by this whole Invasion From Planet Sean business.  Viggo wonders 
what that means, that his cat is not afraid.  He totters into the kitchen and up the stairs. 
 
Viggo watches bleary-eyed while his spent seed swirls in pale strings down the drain, wondering 
at how much juice has been pulled out of him during the past couple of weeks.  It's got to be a 
personal record, and through it all he hasn't even had the satisfaction of getting good and laid.  
There's an idea he really doesn't want to pursue to its fantastic and green-eyed conclusion, and 
he head-butts the tile wall smartly, hoping the pain will clear his mind of Sean's curious scent--of 
his voice, jeez, what is it about that?   It's as though it's got a double layer, like an animal's pelt; 
soft, alluring tenor on the surface, then a smooth rumble of baritone underneath, giving it weight. 
 
Fox fur on naked skin, that's what it is, and it makes Viggo want to *feel* that voice on his body, a 
thought which inspires results that he'd really prefer to have more control over, rather than 
leaving himself open to some ravenous thug from a demonic dimension or whateverthefuck--how 
the *hell* does he carry those wings without having a huge chest full of pectoral muscle like a 
pigeon's, anyway--and Viggo finds himself fantasizing over Sean's bare chest, imagining how 
smooth that skin would feel to his touch; not cold like marble, but warm, Sean's nipples pink and 
tender, and the next thing he knows he's flushed and hard all over again.  He runs his hands over 
his own chest, fingers searching for the soft skin of his nipples.  Chest hair, dammit, he's got far 
too much of it for this fantasy, but he tugs at the tender skin he finds just the same, and 
concentrates on his image of Sean.  He jerks himself off once more into the cooling shower 
spray, groaning and cursing as tiny stars float around in his peripheral vision and his knees 
shimmy.  Son of a bitch.  He beats his forehead against the tile again, just to remind himself of 
how annoying all of this is.  
 
He leaves the light on when he goes to bed, and takes longer to fall asleep than one would think, 
after he's come twice tonight.  When he wakes in the morning, neither crying out nor gasping for 
air, he finds with a mixed sort of relief that his sheets have remained unsullied.  Perhaps it's over, 
after all.  Perhaps Sean has realized that his attentions are unwelcome, not wanted, and he won't 
ever return... 
 
...when he was twenty-four, living in Brooklyn and working in Manhattan, he waited tables and 
played extra parts in Beeman's late night dinner theatre, and there was a man who came there 
regularly, not much older than Viggo, but God, he was handsome, and such a knowledgeable 
lover... and married, and when Viggo found this out he discovered as well that he was not even a 
close second choice between the two, merely one diversion among many when the man he 
adored was in the city.  Viggo still isn't sure which was worse--the loss, or the humiliation.  
Goddamn. 
 
Viggo heaves himself out of bed with a silent snarl.  Coffee, that's what he needs.  Coffee, and 
breakfast, and the distractions of the day.  
 
--tbc-- 
 
 
Chapter 3 
 
It's Saturday, and as he lingers over a breakfast consisting of a slice of burnt toast slathered in 
peanut butter he considers his options.  He could work on the studio, or maybe his not-yet-
garden.  On the other hand, he might just drive up the coast a little bit, amble knee-deep in the 
cold blue Pacific, maybe take some pictures in the estuary, and the hills behind the beach.  The 
elephant seals might be in, noisily fussing at one another over the best spots on the crowded rock 
bays.  Edgar has invited him over to watch basketball in the evening, after he's closed down the 
store.  It will do him good to spend the day out, then relax and enjoy the company of a new friend.  
A human friend, who wears clothes and doesn't have horns and wings.  Jesus, but his life has 
gotten weird since he moved to California.  And this isn't even Hollywood. 
 
After a long, satisfying day of aimless beach-combing, and photographs taken in windswept 
February sunshine, Viggo does spend the evening at Edgar's place, a neat yellow bungalow two 
houses down from the grocery.  Eric and his oldest boy show up, arms full of Thai takeout.  Edgar 
beams at the generous tang of an abundance of hot ginger and wicked little red peppers.  Around 
halftime Eric wonders whether Viggo has thought about repainting the little pink building, given 
that pink might be construed as kind of, y'know, effeminate, no offense, but Edgar, fond of the 
mid-century, faintly tropical tone of the structure protests, and the two become involved in an 
earnest discussion of concepts of American masculinity.   
 
Eric's son--a tall, red-headed kid named Jake, who looks like a born marathoner--rolls his eyes in 
that long-suffering teenager fashion, and Viggo hands him a Red Tail, though the boy is hardly of 
legal age. 
 
"Beer..." Jake begins, wincing at the taste. 
 
"Ale," Viggo corrects with a grin. 
 
"...or whatever, really kind of tastes like crap.  Or is that just me?" 
 
"One develops an appreciation for these things," Viggo informs him wisely. 
 
"Ah.  Like stinky cheese, or cigarettes." 
 
Viggo waves a cautionary brown bottle at him.  "Don't start.  Filthy habit." 
 
Jake eyes him keenly.  "If you know it's filthy, and it's something you have to *get used to* to 
enjoy, why bother?" 
 
"Humans are inherently masochistic, that's why."  And he should know.  Shut up, Viggo. 
 
"I knew it!  I figured it out when Mrs. Prine, that's my English teacher, assigned us 'The Iliad.'" 
 
Viggo belches, curses briefly at a poor play on the basketball court.  "In that case, aren't you 
thinking of 'sadistic'?  Anyway, my fine lad, 'The Iliad' is a classic!  English teachers since the 
beginning of, well, of English have assigned 'The Iliad' to poor trolls like yourself.  She'd be 
breaking with tradition if she didn't inflict it on you." 
 
*"Exactly,"* Jake asserts.  "That students have endured this for generations without open 
rebellion is proof that we secretly enjoy being tortured." 
 
Viggo hasn't got an argument against that, all things considered.  Instead he jerks a thumb back 
toward where Eric and Edgar have entirely forgotten about the basketball game.  Good Lord, is 
Edgar drawing a diagram?   
 
"Beer," declares Viggo, "is part of your initiation into American manhood." 
 
"And then comes my first hooker, right?" 
 
Viggo giggles, "I was gonna suggest learning to cook a dead animal over an open flame, but 
yeah, I guess you could go the hooker route first." 
 
Jake looks at Viggo aghast, "Jesus, d'you know what my mother would *do* to me?" 
 
Viggo cackles darkly.  "Yes.  Yes, I do." 
 
 
At last Viggo winds his way home, full of Thai takeout, and twenty dollars richer for the Utah Jazz 
having triumphed over the Spurs.  He feeds Miz some of the wet cat food that she likes, and this 
time makes short work of his shower, with not a single urge to molest himself.  It's not especially 
late, but he's full, contented and sleepy, and he flops into bed confident that his dreams will be 
perfectly ordinary.   
 
"See, the thing is..." a voice complains. 
 
Viggo starts wildly awake from the beginnings of sleep to find bright green eyes peering at him 
from the dark.  There is a large, shadowy figure sitting awkwardly in the overstuffed chair in one 
corner of the room.  Viggo's heart pounds in his chest.  "Fuck," he protests angrily.  "Can't I get 
one night of porn-free sleep?" 
 
"Pfff.  You make that sound like a good thing," Sean argues from the corner.  "See, the thing is, 
Viggo, is that it's not so much you reactin' to me, as it is me comin' round on account of you." 
 
Viggo sits up in bed, glaring at the demon's dim outline in the dark.  "What?" 
 
"You ring like a bell every time I come near you, yeah?" 
 
"Agreed.  So?"  Viggo can feel his blood stirring ferociously already, and it's damn aggravating.   
 
"How can I be expected to resist that?" 
 
Viggo blinks, aims for sarcasm.  "I honestly hadn't thought of it that way.  I'm terribly sorry." 
 
"Bloody inconsiderate, mate." 
 
"It's not like I can help it.  *You* started it!" 
 
"Did I?  Huh.  I suppose I wouldn't know how attractive you are when you come in your sleep if I 
hadn't shown up to investigate the new bloke." 
 
Viggo snaps, "Yeah, about that whole situation, if you could stop that, that'd be great." 
 
"Why?  It's good for you." 
 
"--the hell?" 
 
"The release, it's good for you.  Expels toxins." 
 
"You are so full of shit." 
 
Sean gets up and crosses the room to Viggo's side of the bed, his wings shifting as he moves.  
Viggo frowns at himself for automatically making space on the bed when the demon sits down.  
The scent of him is stronger now, myrrh, or maybe ginger... no, that's not it at all. 
 
"I could prove to you otherwise," Sean offers, and there's that luscious feel of fox fur on Viggo's 
skin again, but he's too peeved right now to give in to it.  Maybe later. 
 
"You *could* quit coming around and making me dream weird crap!  How the hell do you do that, 
anyway?"  The pigeon question arises from his stint in the shower yesterday, and before Sean 
can answer the first question he demands, "And how do you carry those big wings without having 
giant mutant pectoral muscles, and can you really fly?" 
 
Sean licks his lips.  Viggo catches the gleam of his wet tongue, and kind of wishes he hadn't, 
'cause putting that together with the heady scent of Sean himself, Viggo's nethers are getting 
downright unruly, and if he's correct that Sean can see in the dark, there's no hiding it.  Hell, the 
demon can probably smell it on him. 
 
"Magic," Sean says.  "The wings, I mean, not the dreams.  The dreams are just a lovely side 
effect, apparently, to the wonder that is my presence." 
 
Viggo snorts.  "Wonderfully annoying." 
 
"Doin' me best, lad." 
 
"Best to drive me crazy, you mean." 
 
"Crazy can be good, Viggo." 
 
"Again," Viggo asserts irritatedly, "with the being full of shit.  Now go away, I'm tired.  And none of 
your nonsense with my fucking dreams--" 
 
"You fuck in your dreams--" 
 
"That's not--" 
 
"--but complain when I just stand by innocently--" 
 
"Innocently, my ass!" 
 
"And a perfectly lovely arse, too, going to waste!  As though it's my fault your subconscious uses 
me in a desperate attempt to garner for you even a pale semblance of obviously much-needed--" 
 
"Go away, Sean!" 
 
And exit one demon, laughing, leaving Viggo alone in the dark, realizing there in the quiet that 
somehow he has passed the point of being terrified, and moved on to pretty much pure vexation.  
Mixed with a fair amount of lust.  Yeah.  Well.   He wonders, mostly trying to divert himself from 
said lust, exactly what sort of demon Sean is, that he can not be exorcised?  And what kind of a 
name is Sean for a demon, anyway?  Shouldn't it be Abraxis, or Anthrax, or Nebuchadnezzar? 
 
Viggo ponders it all grumpily.  He jabs at his pillow, rolls onto his left side, and pulls his covers up 
high around his chin.  He sternly advises his disappointed man parts to just forget about their 
handsome new demon friend with *his* impressive man parts, though he finds that the more he 
commands himself to not think, the more he remembers what he's not supposed to be thinking 
about.  Eventually he tries to break the cycle by reminding himself that Sean is a pernicious 
bastard, and no doubt a slut of the first degree, but he finds that his imagination, his dick, and 
pretty much every inch of his skin have no quibble with any of that, and after all he ends up 
humping frantically into his fist and entertaining several alarming scenarios involving various 
fragile portions of his own anatomy and Sean's horns.  At last he brings himself off with a shout 
and a last lurid vision that his mental stability could do without, and he collapses boneless, 
panting and groaning, and disgusted with himself.   
 
"I hate that guy.  I really do."  Except that he doesn't, which he considers proof that at some point 
during the past week his brain has liquefied and shot right out through his cock, and as if that 
weren't bad enough, dammit, now he's got to do a laundry load of sheets.  
 
 
--tbc-- 
 
 
Chapter 4 
 
He awakens to the sound of the telephone ringing, grapples for it on the nightstand, and grunts 
into what he assumes is the proper end, "Yunh?" 
 
"Viggo, are you all right?"     
 
Viggo rubs at his face, trying to place the voice.  "Mmmf, Pastor McKellen?" 
 
"Yes.  Viggo, how are things at the house?  Are you all right?" 
 
Viggo sits up in bed, blinking at the clock.  After ten a.m., and he sounds drugged even to himself.  
No wonder the pastor is concerned.  He clears his throat.  "Yeah.  Yes, I'm fine, I guess I slept in."  
And of course his wank-scrambled brain has been either sluiced down the bathtub drain or 
smeared out onto his sheets, which doesn't help. 
 
"We just finished up morning service," the pastor explains, "and I thought I'd give you a call, see if 
things are still quiet over there." 
 
Viggo hesitates for barely a heartbeat before he lies, "Great.  All quiet on the western front, and 
all that.  Thanks again, Ian.  Things are good now."  
 
They chat for a few minutes over small nothings, Pastor McKellen inviting him to the church picnic 
next Sunday and at last reiterating that he and Pastor Wenham are there if Viggo ever needs 
them again--or if he simply has a yen for fine takeout food and nickel bets on a basketball game.  
As he hangs up the phone Viggo flops back onto his pillow, mourning, "I just lied to a priest.  
Pastor.  Yeah.  Oh, I am goin' ta hell, yessirree."   
 
He has lied to a friend in order to shield a certain demonic pest.  What the hell is wrong with him?  
What is he afraid of?  Is he suddenly worried that the pastor might in fact discern some method of 
making Sean well and truly leave, as in forever?  Wasn't that what he wanted in the first place?  
Didn't he want that as recently as *last night*?  What has changed?  Aside from the newly formed 
calluses on his manhood, that is.  "Pathetic," Viggo mumbles.  Finally he decides that he's not 
going to achieve anything like reasonable thinking on a belly so egregiously empty of both 
breakfast and coffee, and he drags himself out of his jizz-besmirched bed and into a fresh, new, 
guilt-ridden day. 
 
He makes good progress on the downstairs studio, contemplates re-re-painting the bathroom.  
Maybe purple.  No, too dark for that space, sucks up all the light.  Still, the green makes his 
reflection in the mirror appear as though he's recently been resurrected, so that's got to go.  Just 
after lunchtime--which did not involve any actual lunch--he busts a belt on the table saw while 
he's cutting a two-by-four to fix the bathroom door frame, swears for a few minutes 'cause it being 
Sunday he can't even go down to Eric's to see if he can jury-rig something intended for a Ford, 
then decides to spend the rest of the afternoon out back with a beer or six and his giant book o' 
gardening, plotting.   
 
Miz promptly disappears into the ivy at the half-rotted west fence--another repair, for another 
time--likely hunting for lizards and/or mice.  Viggo doesn't mind her catching mice, but he's fond 
of lizards, and unlike the mice she never eats the lizards she kills, so he wishes she would just 
leave them alone.  So far Viggo's No Hunting Lizards lectures have fallen on the proverbial deaf 
ears, Miz regarding him with that steady, vague expression that makes him feel like an imbecile 
for lecturing a cat.  "If you were a dog," he accuses toward the rustle of green leaves that marks 
her passing into the next yard, "you'd focus when I'm talking to you, and I could at least delude 
myself that you're taking me seriously." 
 
Around eightish o'clock he's folding laundry downstairs, half-listening to random television noise 
from upstairs, and contemplating for the zillionth time today why he lied to Pastor McKellen, all 
the possibilities circling around in his head and making him kind of sick.  He had to have been 
shielding Sean.  That's the only possibility he can think of, but the why of it still eludes him.  He 
groans defeatedly and leans over the going dryer, the rhythm of the tumbler soothing beneath his 
cheek. 
 
A soft rush of air, the scent of... cayenne?  Frankincense?   
 
"What's Hell like?" 
 
Sean leans one bare hip against the washing machine.  "Don't know, never been there."  
 
Viggo peers up at him from his awkward lurch against the warm dryer.  "Really?  Then where--" 
 
"Tch, you assume that because I come here with wings and a pair of horns I must be one o' the 
Devil's own, eh?"  Sean sniffs reproachfully.  "Typical o' you lot, innit." 
 
"But you look like all the old images of demons and devils." 
 
"Aye."  Sean crosses his arms, his dark, tawny wings crowding the small space, though Sean's 
got them tucked hard against his back.  "That were my kin back then, but we ain't devils, not like 
you mean. We were just summat folk at the time didn't understand.  Like wolves, or lightning, or 
Galileo claimin' the earth revolved around the sun.  And see what happened to him, right?" 
 
Vigo stands up, frowning.  "People got burned at the stake for fraternizing with your kind."  
 
"Which is why," Sean informs him, sniffing at one of Viggo's freshly laundered shirts, "the Council 
of Elders eventually forbade it." 
 
"Then... I'm not the only one who doesn't think you ought to be here." 
 
"Couldn't resist." 
 
"Rebel without a clue," Viggo mutters, retrieving his shirt and hefting the laundry basket. 
 
Sean clucks, "Have I just been insulted?" 
 
Viggo makes for the stairs.  "I am going to put this away and then get me some dinner.  Do you 
eat?" 
 
"Ate, but thanks." 
 
"How come you always come around at night?" 
 
"'Cause that's when I get off work." 
 
"Work?" 
 
"What'd you think, we all hang about learning Morris dances all day?"  
 
"What's a morris dance?" 
 
Viggo starts arranging socks mostly neatly into a drawer, while Sean picks up Viggo's pillow and 
inhales deeply of it, his eyes closed as he presses it to his face.    
 
Viggo shifts discreetly to accommodate his usual response to Sean's proximity.  Dammit, there's 
his body, in league with the devil again, his guy bits practically knocking at the fly of his old jeans, 
trying to reach out toward the winged... person standing near his bed and toying with the trinkets 
on his nightstand.  "Hey.  Quit fondling my stuff." 
 
Sean laughs aloud.  "Lad, I haven't fondled any of your *stuff* yet!"   
 
Something like a growl, or possibly a gurgle of frustration bubbles up from the back of Viggo's 
throat.  He swallows hard, reaching for the irritation Sean tends to inspire.  There it is.  Never far 
away.  "Listen, you can stay if you behave.  There's a program I want to watch on the History 
Channel." 
 
Sean follows him downstairs, the heat of him noticeable at Viggo's back.  "Telly, eh?  Exciting 
evening you've got planned.  I could help liven that up for you, Viggo." 
 
"Do I have to tell you to go home?"  
 
Viggo trips over Miz just inside the kitchen, and as he suddenly halts half-turned Sean nearly 
bumps into him. 
 
Sean makes a little gasp of surprise and backs rapidly away, and Viggo just glimpses the 
expression of alarm on Sean's face before the demon hides it.  "I'll be a good boy," Sean smirks. 
 
Viggo snorts.  "Right." 
 
 
They're watching a documentary on the history of the Louvre, Viggo finishing off a mostly jelly 
sandwich while Sean perches like an attractive condor on the back of the sofa.  He's got his 
wings tucked neatly against his back, his knees bent up near his chest, much like that evening on 
the big saw downstairs.  He seems perfectly comfortable in that position, and Viggo assumes the 
demon's remarkable balance must be the result of a lifetime of practice.  He wishes Sean wasn't 
sitting quite so close.  His slender haunches flex subtly as he balances next to Viggo's head, and 
the peripheral view isn't helping him concentrate on either his dinner or the wonders of the 
Louvre.  He's got wonder enough right here, according to the discomfort in his pants.  He 
considers whether or not a guy can eventually become accustomed to a perpetual hard-on.  
Given the choice, he'd rather not. 
 
As he washes down the last of his meal with a swallow of cooling tea he turns to ask Sean 
whether they've got art museums where he's from, and he notices that although the demon's 
attention appears to be fully on the documentary, the index finger of his right hand is idly circling 
inside the pursed opening of his foreskin.  Sean's cock bobs at an easy half-mast.  He lightly tugs 
at the loose skin, then goes back to stroking the hidden head of his cock with the tip of one finger. 
 
Viggo blushes hotly.  "Oh Christ, could you *be* more vulgar?" 
 
Sean starts, halting mid-circle as he glances down at Viggo with a raised eyebrow, as though it's 
Viggo whose manners are lacking.   
 
He clears his throat for cover and clarifies unconvincingly, "It's just, man, that's right in my face, 
okay?"   
 
Sean grins widely and licks his lips, not sounding the least bit repentant when he offers, "Sorry, 
Vig.  Didn't know you were so sensitive." 
 
Viggo shifts uncomfortably.  "You're just so blatant about it all." 
 
"Puritan," Sean sniggers.   
 
"I am not!"  No, no, he's not gonna let Sean make him lose his temper.  "I’m just saying, would a 
little discretion kill you?" 
 
"I'll be happy to share," Sean purrs, "if you're feeling left out."  He shifts position on the sofa back 
to afford Viggo a better view. 
 
"Incorrigible," Viggo grumbles, failing to look away. 
 
One slender eyebrow flickers.  "I prefer to think of meself as constant, Viggo.  Valuable character 
trait, constancy.  Dependable, that's me." 
 
 "Shit.  You should be a politician."   
 
The demon winces, "Oi, now that's just mean!" 
 
Viggo snickers, recovers, reaches automatically for his irritation.  He had it here just a second 
ago.  Quick, change of subject.  "It bothered you when we almost bumped into each other back in 
the kitchen.  Why is that?" 
 
Sean takes a thoughtful breath, rubs at the back of his neck.  "Part of the rules." 
 
"Excuse me?" 
 
"Rules being one of those things that separates my kin from the Devil's kith." 
 
"I don't quite understand." 
 
Sean regards him evenly, "I can't touch you without your permission, Viggo." 
 
"Oh."  Viggo frowns.  "But you're not supposed to even be here, yet you're here.  If you can break 
that rule, why such a stickler for this one?" 
 
"They'd *know,*" Sean assures him gravely.  "The anti-fraternization edict is a secular law.  The 
no touching without permission is a law of magic, part of what makes us."  He shivers his wings.  
"Like these, part of our fabric.  They'd *know,* Vig." 
 
It must be true, then.  Sean has never touched Viggo during the night.  All of his reactions have 
resulted purely from Sean being near him.  That's weird.  And kind of exciting.  Wait.  Why would 
there be a need for such a law?  Viggo eyes the demon warily.  "If I give you permission, what 
happens then?" 
 
Sean leers at him, his body's prompt response to what Viggo guesses is the answer seemingly as 
beyond his control as Viggo's own body is.  The difference is that Sean obviously doesn't mind. 
 
Viggo watches mesmerized as Sean's sex thickens and lengthens, the moist, rounded head 
pushing out of the retreating folds of his tightening foreskin, a clear drop of fluid already beading 
at the tip.  The fluid trickles down the underside of Sean's heavy, garnet shaft. 
 
Good God.  Viggo mentally shakes himself.  "Okay, I guess that would be you.  If I decide I don't 
like the way things are turning out, can I rescind my offer?" 
 
"No, Viggo."  Sean's expression has turned feral, his eyes darkened to malachite.  He dips one 
fingertip into the fluid leaking from his substantial cock, raises it to his mouth and licks at it with 
his delicate, pink tongue.   
 
Viggo recognizes a dare when he sees it, and oh yes, yes he wants to take him up on that, wants 
to taste him, lick Sean's redness up and down, nuzzle into Sean's hairless balls, feel the heat of 
Sean in his mouth, the sharp spice of him on his tongue, but no, Viggo doesn't budge, though 
he's gone a bit breathless with the effort of not launching himself toward Sean's lap.  "Somehow I 
don't think you'd be gentle." 
 
"Not my nature," Sean admits.  "Mind you, though 'crude' and 'cruel' may be near to one another 
in your dictionary, they're not the same entry.  I'm not a bloody rapist, Viggo." 
 
"Uh-huh," Viggo replies doubtfully.  "Exactly at what point were you going to tell me about that 
particular little catch, there, Sean?" 
 
Sean shoots him a grin exquisite in its savagery.  "I would have warned you, if you'd been 
inclined," he says.  "No fun for me, if you don't know what you're getting into." 
 
Viggo swallows hard, knowing Sean can probably hear the buttons of his jeans straining under 
the press of Viggo's want.  He takes a deep breath, and he says, "I really need to give this some 
thought.  I need to sleep on it." 
 
Sean gives a disappointed little huff, which isn't the dramatic response Viggo was expecting, and 
he sighs, "Oh, very well.  I suppose you mean sleep alone, don't you?" 
 
"Alone.  Yes.  That would be best." 
 
"Bugger.  Right, then."  Sean stands up on the back of the couch, as easy as any slender 
gymnast there on the tilted back, and then he's gone, leaving Viggo with a brush of spiced air 
over his skin, and a final, enthralling vision of Sean's dark, red cock thrusting up like a closed fist 
against his smooth, pale belly. 
 
Groaning, Viggo unbuttons his jeans and wriggles hurriedly out of them.  He winces at the cooling 
damp patch where his dick has leaked in a frenzy of thwarted wishes all over the front of his 
boxers.  "Son of a bitch..." 
 
 
--tbc-- 
 
 
Chapter 5 
 
He spends Monday jumpy and distracted, and all in all doesn't get a whole hell of a lot 
accomplished.  Sean doesn't show in the evening, and Viggo would like to believe that the demon 
is giving him space and time to think things over with a level head.  On the other hand, Sean 
could be just leaving him alone to stew, 'cause the way things work out Viggo's imagination 
doesn't let him focus on any mundane task for long.  He spends an awful lot of time gritting his 
teeth and snarling at his body to quit wondering what Sean's would be like snuggling up against it 
here, or licking it there, or inserting itself into *that,* and yeah, stewing pretty much covers it. 
 
Tuesday isn't much better, though an old friend phoning him from Boston seems to ground him, 
finally, and that night he sleeps soundly.  That's something. 
 
(Wednesday) 
On Wednesday Viggo takes off a couple of hours early from the shop, as all of his work has 
arrived from New York in a large delivery van, which pulls into the dirt ex-parking lot to unload, 
making Viggo glad he hadn't started planting saplings back there yet. 
 
He chirps for Miz, who disappeared at the first rumble of the van's arrival, and sees to her supper 
before getting himself fed.  Then he grabs a crowbar, and starts to open crates.  The store room 
is close to being finished.  Still, he'll leave most of his paintings in their crates for now.  He just 
wants to check them for damage.  This proves something of a mistake. 
 
Darkness finds him still standing and staring at a particular piece, and when he feels the soft rush 
of warm, spiced air he declares, with quiet bitterness, "I may have to get me a bonfire license." 
 
Sean raises an eyebrow at the large portrait.  "Dissatisfied with your work?  Looks good to me, 
Vig." 
 
"Yeah.  One of my best.  Pity I can't stand to look at him anymore." 
 
"Ah.  Sorry."  The demon shifts from one foot to the other, looking vastly uncomfortable. 
 
"There were times, in the first few weeks, when I wished he was dead," Viggo admits.  He hefts 
the crowbar and advances on the portrait, the pain just below his heart turning his knuckles white 
around the iron. 
 
"Viggo, don't!"  Sean starts to reach for him, but pulls back at the last. 
 
"What?  You want him?"  The idea that Sean just might at that makes Viggo unreasonably angry. 
 
"Rule of Three," the demon cautions. 
 
"Rule three?  Fuck, Sean, how many rules to you are there?" 
 
"Rule *of* Three.  Karma.  What goes around comes around.  It's a basic law, no matter which 
dimension you're in, Vig."  Sean shakes his head, unexpectedly sympathetic.  "Let him go, Vig." 
 
Viggo sets aside the crowbar, rubs at his temples.  He wasn't prepared to be confronted with this 
particular pain today.  This is the sort of thing a guy ought to have, say, a year or two to prepare 
for.  And then Viggo realizes that that is pure crap. 
 
Viggo sighs heavily.  "It was my own fault anyway." 
 
Sean says nothing, waiting, Viggo supposes, for him to decide whether or not to own up. 
 
"The trouble," he admits wearily, "is that after I've been with someone for a while I tend to drift." 
 
"It was you who left?" 
 
"I guess.  But see, I believed he would be the one who wouldn't let me go.  Instead he just turned 
to someone else, didn't even put up a fight." 
 
"You don't have to explain if you don't want to, Viggo." 
 
Viggo picks up a battered old hinge where it lies on a work table.  He picks at the old paint with 
his thumbnail.  "Things start out well, intentions are good, but eventually I always seem to pull 
away, until finally whoever I'm with realizes that there's something missing in the relationship, and 
it's me." 
 
When he looks over at Sean, he supposes his eyes reveal far more than he'd like, but he can't 
help it just now.  Sean looks sorrowful, as though if he had trousers he'd be shoving his hands 
into his pockets.   
 
"I thought maybe I could, y'know, moor myself here for a time, while I figure out what stupid thing 
in my head keeps me cutting myself loose."  Viggo shrugs.  "Maybe I keep leaving in the hope 
that one of these times the person I'm with will follow me, make me come home, and that will be 
*the* person." 
 
Sean raises a pale eyebrow.  "That's a mite messed up, Vig." 
 
Viggo laughs, brittle and sharp.  "Yeah, it is."  Heart-weary and his body wanting Sean something 
fierce in spite of his ex lover's portait staring at him, or perhaps because of it, Viggo tosses the 
old iron back into the pile of odds and ends, and he turns and steps close to Sean; handsome, 
otherwordly Sean, who *wants* him.  "Do it now.  Touch me.  I really need to be touched right 
now, Sean."   
 
"Um, Vig..."   
 
Why is Sean taking a step backward?  "Sean?"   
 
The demon gulps.  Distress is almost cute, on a face that masculine.  "Don't do this now," Sean 
advises.   
 
"Why?  Won't the magic work?"  He feels the hurt rising, his middle turning cold and hollow.  
"What is it, suddenly you don't want me, if I want you?" 
 
"But you don't want me, not really," Sean tells him.  He nods toward the portrait of Viggo's 
recently ex lover. 
 
And Viggo does feel like the biggest fool ever.  He sits down hard on a battered and sawdust-
covered old kitchen chair, leans forward with his face in his hands.  "Fuck me," he moans. 
 
Sean chuckles ruefully, "Still hope to Viggo, just not tonight.  Anyway..." and here the demon's 
voice quiets, and he murmurs, "Not much inclined to take on that role of the rebound bloke, am I." 
 
Viggo looks up, catches the moment of vulnerability.  Sean shrugs it off with a half-grin that 
doesn't quite work.  He seems tired just then, almost human, as though right now Viggo might put 
an age to him.  A little younger.  Late thirties, maybe, whatever that means in other dimensional 
being years.   
 
"Can't really claim I'm on the rebound, when I'm the one who keeps sabotaging my relationships," 
Viggo asserts. 
 
Sean cracks his neck, rolls a sleek shoulder, and shakes the moment off, cheeky devil smile in 
place once more.  He suggests, "You should go see Pastor Wenham.  Or Edgar, maybe, he's a 
nice chap.  Be with a friend. You know, a human friend."   
 
"You know my friends?"  Why does that set off an alarm for him? 
 
Sean hops up onto the broken table saw, crouching there as before, and Viggo notices for the 
first time the lean roll of muscle beneath the pale skin of his arms.  He supposes he's been 
distracted lately by other parts of Sean's anatomy, which is too bad.  Sean has very nice arms. 
 
"I've visited everybody in the neighborhood over the years," Sean says. "Though only you, these 
days." 
 
Viggo sees the pattern, now; Lydia's concern, Pastor McKellen remarking that Viggo is not the 
first to be visited, not the first to be frightened.  "You showed up here merely out of curiosity, to 
see who had moved into the building, didn't you." 
 
"Aye.  Been a long time since anyone put this place to use.  I wanted to see who you were, what 
sort of man."  An honest smile softens his angular face remarkably.  "I'd hoped someone might fix 
up the old place, make it right again." 
 
Odd.  Odd, that this doesn't surprise Viggo all that much.  "Are you immortal, Sean?" 
 
"No.  Long-lived by comparison, but we're not immortal." 
 
"Has anyone..."  Viggo bites his lip, suddenly not sure whether he wants to know.  "Has anyone, 
you know, like I almost did just now..." 
 
Sean fills it in for him, a faint, bitter edge to his voice, the softness that his earlier smile had given 
him hardening out.  "You mean, has anyone taken me up on my devil's bargain?  Let me have my 
wicked way with him?  Or with her?" 
 
Viggo's eyes narrow.  "And how did that arrangement work out, for her?" 
 
"Briefly," Sean answers flatly.  "And none of your business.  I could claim I gave her as much of 
meself as she needed and then left her to her happily ever after, but if you're not inclined to 
believe me, what's the good, yeah?" 
 
Viggo frowns, thinking it through, whether it was fear that made him ask, curiosity, or something 
else?  Jealousy?  Surely not.  He rubs at his forehead.  The day is just getting better and better.  
"Shit.  You're right.  Forget I asked."  
 
The demon watches him for a few beats, as though evaluating, maybe guessing at what Viggo's 
thinking, and then finally he asks, "You gonna be all right, Vig?" 
 
"Yeah.  I'll just put that back in the crate for now.  Maybe some day I'll sell it."  He pulls at one ear 
lobe.  "Still think I'd like to set it alight." 
 
"Just make sure it's not *him* you imagine burning." 
 
Viggo manages a smile.  "Okay, Sean.  I'll watch my karma." 
 
Sean stands, extends and flexes his wings.  "Call your mum, maybe your brother, yeah?  I'll see 
you tomorrow, let you rest easy tonight.  Let you sleep on it." 
 
"I suppose you mean sleep alone." 
 
"Clever lad," Sean returns the tease with his usual sideways flicker of a grin, and he's gone. 
 
Viggo sits staring at the empty space Sean has left.  Miz jumps up onto the flat surface, sniffing 
about where Sean had been.  "I don't get him at all," Viggo complains. 
 
 
--tbc-- 
 
 
Chapter 6 
 
Sean is as good as one promise, leaving Viggo to sleep heavily the night through, though he fails 
to appear the next evening.  In fact, he disappears for several days, and Viggo begins to worry 
that he's not coming back.  Why Sean would simply leave him without a word at this point is a 
question for which Viggo hasn't even got a plausible theory, so he tries not to fret.  What 
surprises him is how much he misses this peculiar being who once frightened him, and certainly 
vexes him.   
 
At one point late Friday afternoon Viggo is ashamed to find himself faintly drunk, smoking and 
brooding in his back yard, wondering with a rush of jealousy whether there might be someone 
else in Sean's little patch of forbidden human territory, someone perhaps who has already said 
Yes, Touch Me, and even at that moment, they might be touching, a lot, and loudly.  Viggo 
shakes himself loose of an emotion that should be beneath him, and is an insult to a friend--he 
stops at that, makes himself think it over.   
 
First he lied to Pastor McKellen, later to Lydia, now he's sitting here buzzed, mopey, and missing 
the naked bastard.  What has Sean done to him?  Or has Sean done anything?  If Sean has been 
telling the truth, the attraction between them is an accident, none of Sean's doing at all--though 
he certainly has seized on the opportunity.  Viggo decides to go back inside and distract himself 
from his pointless brooding.  He tries watching the home and garden channel.  There's a guy 
talking about how to plant young trees, but though Viggo would ordinarily be very interested in the 
advice, he finds himself instead staring at the images while wondering how much of Sean is 
magic, and how much of him is mundane.   Where does the magic end and evolution begin?  
Aside from Sean's admission regarding his wings, there's really no way to know, and eventually 
Viggo decides to let it go.  Perhaps he'll ask Sean later.  If there is a later. 
 
 
Saturday evening finds Viggo hunched on that battered old chair in his almost-studio, brooding 
again, worrying that something has happened to Sean.  Just over a week ago Viggo wouldn't 
have given a tinker's damn that Sean's visits are a risk to him.  By logic he ought to be wishing 
Sean would just stay gone, but for some reason he kinda likes the big freak.  Which only goes to 
prove his brother's contention that he's not quite right in the head.  Viggo runs his hands over his 
face, tugs at his hair.  He's tired and he's covered in drywall dust.  He really hates drywall.  He 
sees to Miz, heads for the shower and then to bed, wondering as he dozes off whether Sean is 
okay.   
 
 
Sunday, Saint Vladimir's throws their barbecue.  Viggo shows up hoping merely to be kept from 
brooding all day at home, and finds instead that he actually enjoys himself.  He spends most of 
the afternoon dozing in the sunshine on the church lawn, watching the kids tear around, and the 
old people gossip, and it fascinates him, how an eighty year old woman laughs just the same as a 
nineteen-year-old.   
 
Eric brings him a spare belt for the table saw.  "I meant to get it to you last week," he says, "but 
my idiot brother-in-law, the one who married my sister, not my wife's brother, he's okay--he's 
been hanging around the shop getting in the way, and I swear to God, it's all I could do not to 
beat him to death with a carburetor." 
 
Viggo laughs beer up his nose, and the funniest thing, really, is Eric not being sure whether to 
phone 911 or to laugh his ass off while Viggo's coughing. 
 
 
By Monday morning Viggo is nervous and torn between anger and fear, wondering where the hell 
Sean has got to.  It confuses him how important that's become, not just knowing that Sean is 
safe, but that Sean is coming back.  Sean makes him fucking nuts, and not always in a good way.  
This makes no sense.   
 
Viggo decides it's time Miz went to see the vet for a checkup and vaccinations.  He buys a cat 
carrier, and puts it down on the kitchen floor, hoping she'll make friends with it. 
 
Tuesday, Miz's trip to visit the veterinarian is successful. Viggo's got the battle scars to prove it.  
Who knew cats could twist 360 degrees like that? 
 
That night proves more of fucking Seanless same.   
 
 
Somewhere in the small hours of Wednesday morning Viggo is roused by the sounds of quiet 
voices in the hallway.  He recognizes one as Sean, scents the spice of him.  He feels his body 
stirring, but he remains still, trying to figure out what is happening just on the other side of his 
open bedroom door.  The second voice seems... female?  There's a certain urgency to the 
conversation, all of it in a language Viggo doesn't understand--it sounds like something nordic, 
though Viggo can't place it--and then Sean comes across persuasive and soothing, making Viggo 
smirk into his pillow.  Typical Sean.  The conversation lulls, and finally, in the after-quiet the 
female voice murmurs affectionately, and then he can just sense the movement of a softly 
scented wing-beat, and there is silence. 
 
He expects Sean to come to him immediately, but there's a wait of a few minutes.  He listens, 
fancies he hears the sound of Sean either arriving or leaving, but until he scents him he can't be 
sure. 
 
He knows when Sean approaches the bed, stands silently at the foot of the mattress.  "Vig?" 
 
Viggo smiles.  "How did you know I'm awake?" 
 
Sean moves to Viggo's side of the bed, scoots into the space he makes for him.  "Your body's 
humming, Viggo.  I feel the tune in my bones these days." 
 
Viggo sits up against the wall behind his bed.  "Busted.  Who were you talking to?" 
 
"Me baby sister."  The demon shakes his head.  "Mercy, but no one can nag you and fret over 
you at once like a baby sister." 
 
Somehow it has never occurred to Viggo that Sean would have family.  But then, it had never 
occurred to him that Sean would have a job.  "Do you wear clothes when you're at home, or does 
everybody go around butt naked?" 
 
Sean snickers.  "We wear clothes.  It's colder where I am, though.  Nice and warm, in your 
house." 
 
"Certainly you were not just standing there with all your jewels hanging out, talking to your 
sister?" 
 
"Blink out, blink in.  I'm quick." 
 
Viggo imagines Sean rushing home to strip off, just for him, and he chuckles, "All that hurried 
nakedness, just on my account?  Or no, I get it, you're a harmless nudist, here on holiday." 
 
"Clever you," Sean grins.  "Not the least bit dangerous, me.  Oi, don't snort at me like that, you'll 
rupture something." 
 
They sit silently together in the darkness then, Sean's fingers fidgeting and twisting together in his 
lap, as though he's got something on his mind.  Finally Viggo asks, "Where have you been the 
last few days?  Sean, are you in some kind of trouble?" 
 
Sean glances up at him.  "Trouble?  You mean the Council rule.  No fraternizing, all that shite.  
No, I've got no trouble.  Me sister's worried that I will have, though. Spent a few days with the 
family, that's why I couldn't come to you.  She finally insisted on gettin' a look at you." 
 
Viggo clears his throat, jokes nervously.  "Wants to know if I'm really worth the risk?" 
 
"Aye," Sean nods. 
 
Shit.  Viggo's mind whirls, and he feels his heartbeat speeding up.  Unless Sean is so devious 
that he's brought another person into his deception... "Sean, exactly how bad would it be for you if 
this Council of yours decides to punish you?" 
 
Sean shrugs, staring at his restless hands.  His wings rustle softly, extending a little, then 
resettling.  "I don't know, exactly." 
 
"How can you not know, Sean?" 
 
Sean shrugs again, his wings twitching.  He chews at one of his finger nails.  "It's not so bad." 
 
Viggo flails frustratedly, his voice rising in frustration, and a certain amount of fear.  "D'you get 
spanked, sent to stand in a corner, have your head chopped off, what?" 
 
"Look, mate.  They don't know I'm here, and I'm not causing any disturbances, yeah?" 
 
"I tried to have you exorcised, Sean!  People know about that." 
 
"Unitarians don't--" 
 
"I know, I know!"  Viggo twists a bit of blanket in his hands.  "It's just... I'd hate to think I'd have 
died of old age by the time you got out of stir." 
 
Sean's eyes are bright in the dark, his smile a quick slash of white.  "You'd miss me, then?" 
 
"Your sister would probably tear off my head for getting you sent up the river." 
 
"'Up the river'?  Oh, I get it--what are you snickering about now?" 
 
"Big bad Sean, scolded by his kid sister."  Viggo cackles, even in the gloom able to see the 
disgust wash over Sean's face. 
 
"Shit, I knew it were a bad idea to bring her here!"  He rises, his wings extending and flexing 
agitatedly.   
 
"Oh come on, you gonna flee in a sulk just 'cause your Evil Sean rep is ruined?" 
 
The demon makes an irritated sound, but his wings settle down.  "You should go back to sleep, 
Vig.  We never meant to wake you.  I'll be back tomorrow--" 
 
"We can watch tv again," Viggo giggles.  "Find something on the Learning Channel about demons 
with self-esteem issues." 
 
"Hysterically funny.  Right pain in the arse you are." 
 
"You started it." 
 
"Don't know why I bothered," Sean gripes, and then he's gone. 
 
Feeling pretty proud of himself, Viggo scrunches back down into his bed clothes, stares through 
the dark up at his ceiling.  Smug bastard, he thinks.  That'll teach him.  The trouble is, now 
Viggo's bedroom seems sort of lonesome.  He reaches down, strokes himself a little, rolls his 
balls in one hand.  It feels good, but it's not near enough.  His groin is throbbing with unsatisfied 
lust, the insides of his thighs aching to know what Sean's hips might feel like rubbing up between 
them.  Viggo resigns himself to yet another highly unsatisfactory three-way with his right hand, his 
frustrated libido, and his increasingly demented imagination.  Dammit. 
 
 
--tbc-- 
 
 
Chapter 7 
 
At work the next day, he plays Clark Kent to try to subvert memories of his recently acquired 
night-time identity as the Mad Wanker.  He doesn't think he can look Lydia, nor Patty in the eyes 
while certain details from last night are still fresh in his mind, eyes being windows to the soul, and 
all that.  Lydia's a lovely woman, but there are certain things he's pretty sure his boss really, really 
does not want to know about him.  She has brought in a big bottle of hand lotion for the shop.  It 
seems there's an epidemic of the flu going around at the schools, so she, Patty and Viggo spend 
considerable time washing their hands.  Viggo has started running the frame shop in the back.  
He gets a kick out of the expression of pride on a high school kid's face when her best school 
project is shown off in a sleek walnut frame, under real glass. 
 
 
Thursday Viggo goes downtown in the afternoon.  He wanders the art galleries, gets to know 
some of the managers.  One of them recognizes him from a show in Boston and eagerly 
suggests a showing.  She's got a full gallery for now, but she'll have space in March.  It's nice 
when someone offers, and he doesn't have to sell himself each time.  He spent a lot of years, in 
the beginning, convincing galleries--anyone, the local library, the university, anybody with a few 
extra feet of space, he wasn't proud--to have a little imagination, to give him a chance to have his 
say. 
 
After supper at a restaurant on the pier he roams the little shops along the wharf, and then 
ambles over to the breakwater, looking at the boats.  Tiny dinghys snug up in small batches along 
the moorings, interspersed with top-heavy fishing boats, small, slender sailing craft, long, lean 
yachts.  Pelicans fluff their wings and settle down for the night at the edges of the docks.  From 
somewhere Viggo can hear a sea lion gargling as the harbor lights come on.   
 
He checks his watch.  He hadn't realized he'd been wandering around for so long--though mostly 
he's been leaning on the sea wall, and staring out at the waves.  He checks for witnesses, finds 
himself alone in the murk toward the end of the breakwater, and he climbs the concrete barrier, 
clambering carefully over the wet, mussel-encrusted boulders at the base.  He takes off his shoes 
when he hits the sand. 
 
It isn't long before he's walked out of sight of the shops and cafes.  It's cold at night this time of 
year, and it's a week day, so he's on his own out here, past the harbor lights, ambling north.  Or 
at least he thought he was alone.  There's a faint waft of... candy?  Hot Tamales?  Red Hots?  
No, that's dumb. 
 
"Shouldn't you be haunting my house?" 
 
"Told you mate, it's you that's haunted, not the house." 
 
Viggo turns to the demon at his shoulder.  The moonlight suits him.  Viggo's crotch promptly 
warms and snugs.  He'd resent that, except that he finds that he welcomes the company, after all.  
"Hold on," he tells Sean.  He takes a quick look around for innocent bystanders, unbuttons his 
jeans and reaches in to readjust himself more comfortably. 
 
Sean makes an appreciative noise. 
 
"Shut up, you.  This is your fault." 
 
"Here, I brought you ice cream."  Sean holds out a neatly stacked cone. 
 
"Chocolate?"  Viggo reaches, but then pulls his hand back.  "Say, if I take ice cream from you that 
doesn't mean I'm your sex slave, does it?"  Which just doesn't sound as bad as it probably 
should.   
 
Sean shrugs.  "I suppose that depends on how good the ice cream is.  Come on, it's your 
favorite."  He waggles the double dip enticingly, takes a hedonistic lick of the one in his other 
hand.  "Mmmmm, strawberry." 
 
Viggo maneuvers his fingers in-between Sean's.  Don't touch.  "Where did you get this?" 
 
"Restaurant back at the breakwater, o'course." 
 
"I don't suppose you paid for it?" 
 
"Sure, I carry my wallet up me arse." 
 
Now there's a visual, and Viggo tries to shunt it away from behind his eyes.  He expects it'll show 
up later, a gift of his subconscious.  Great.  "So I'm eating hot ice cream, then." 
 
"Hot ice cream?" 
 
"Stolen." 
 
"Mm.  You lot need to learn to say what you mean, Vig." 
 
"We do indeed."  How about, I want to get down on my knees and suck you off?  Oh shit, where'd 
that come from?  Ah yes--beautiful, butt naked and eating strawberry ice cream right in front of 
him.  Viggo mentally douses his privates in ice water.  Not helping.  The moonlight on Sean, a 
backdrop of sea and stars, it all just accentuates his otherworldliness, and, well, everything.   
 
Which is right about where Viggo realizes that what he'd *really* like to do is simply touch Sean.  
Trace the bone struts of his wings, the smooth, satin skin spread between.  Run the mid-line of 
his hand up over the curve of Sean's horns, test the bow and the subtle yield... but even more, he 
would twitch that little muss of hair over Sean's forehead, trace the feathered arches of his 
eyebrows, feel his lips open and warm beneath the heel of his hand, the whisper of Sean's 
eyelashes against his palm.  All that, imagined in a moment, and maybe...  damn. 
 
Viggo says, "Aren't you cold?" 
 
"It's chilly," Sean admits.  He points toward his naked groin.  "See?  Hiding.  Or it was.  Hmm.  
Tends to wake up when it's around you, doesn't it." 
 
"I am *not* looking at your crotch, Sean." 
 
"Why not?  It's looking at you." 
 
Viggo sniggers, tries for a snide comeback, but instead concentrates on his ice cream.  Definitely 
safer. 
 
"It's too bad," Sean comments.  "About the cold, I mean.  If it were warm, you could strip off and 
we could go skinny-dipping." 
 
"And me get arrested for indecent exposure.  There's a fun evening." 
 
"Pfff.  It's dark.  Nobody's around," Sean scoffs.  "If there were, I doubt it'd be you holdin' their 
attention." 
 
Viggo gives him that one.  "Still, not something I'd like to risk this close to civilization.  You can 
just disappear if there's trouble." 
 
"But you're pretty when you're naked," Sean argues.  "I *like* you naked.  Not that I don't like you 
not naked, mind, it's just that I quite like it when you are naked." 
 
"I..."  Viggo stands still, blushing in the dark, and feeling even more throttled than earlier.  "Um... 
thanks, Sean.  That was a very strange and unsettling compliment, but thanks.  I think." 
 
Sean chuckles, slurping at his treat.  "You're furry, in all my favorite places. You look soft to the 
touch.  Quite frankly, I have fantasies about rubbin' meself up against all that lovely soft fur on 
your chest and your belly. Pity it doesn't actually keep you warm." 
 
Fantasies.  Sweet Jesus.  "Er, yeah.  Look, could we change the subject?" 
 
"Sorry."  Sean flashes him an impudent half-grin and scrinches his toes in the wet sand.  "You do 
have a beautiful body, though," he insists.   
 
It seems to Viggo that this evening Sean hasn't especially been angling for reactions from him.  
Rather, Sean's merely been speaking his mind, and letting Viggo take it however he will.  
Somehow, that makes it worse. 
 
"You should eat more," Sean suggests, frowning a little at the water.  "Sometimes I think you 
don't take care of yourself." 
 
"I'll keep that in mind."  Viggo wonders why this among all of Sean's observations makes him the 
most uncomfortable. 
 
Using one toe Sean turns over a small clam shell, draws two little stick figures in the sand, 
watches the edge of the tide wash them away. "We need to get you some different garden 
books," he says. 
 
"What?  Where'd that come from?"  Surreal does not even begin to describe the turn this evening 
has taken. 
 
Sean keeps a certain distance between them, letting his wings stretch and spread, catching the 
silver light like a coverlet of sable. "I've been looking at that great, whacking encyclopedia you've 
got," he explains, "and it's a fine reference, but it's got every damn plant on Earth in it, and that's 
too much to think on for a beginner.  It's no wonder you're overwhelmed.  You need to get an idea 
of what you want from your space.  Easy maintenance?  Native plants?  Flowers, trees?  Sun or 
shade?  You need an overall plan.  Then you can start looking into specifics." 
 
Viggo stops and blinks at him.  Chocolate ice cream drips over his knuckles. 
 
Sean bites the top off of his cone.  He speaks from one side of his mouth. "W'at?" 
 
"Where'd all that come from?" 
 
Sean shrugs.  "It's what I do, Vig." 
 
"You're a gardener?" 
 
The demon waves away Viggo's deduction.  "*Master* gardener, Viggo." 
 
Viggo licks at the ice cream drip, slurps the remains into some sort of order as he chuckles, "I 
have a tough time picturing you tiptoeing through the tulips." 
 
Sean makes a long-suffering noise.  "Barbarian.  Look, d'you want me to help you find some 
better books, or not?" 
 
"What are you thinking, we'll go raid the garden shop?" 
 
"Easy enough," Sean grins.  "Blink in, blink out.." 
 
"Ack! Please," Viggo protests.  "I appreciate the advice, but under no circumstances will you 
thieve reference books for me!" 
 
"Tch.  All right, look.  Just go and find yourself somethin' with lots of pretty pictures in it--stop 
making that face at me, I'm serious. Find something that's aimed at where you live, and get an 
idea of what attracts you.  Then you go lurk about the local nursery, start chattin' up the staff.  
Best place for advice and resources, Vig." 
 
A small, chilled wave rushes over the arches of Viggo's feet.  "You amaze me." 
 
Sean grins and shrugs, walking backwards.  "Yeah, well, the wonder that is me.  I've tried to tell 
you." 
 
"All those brains, *and* a gorgeous ass."  Viggo cringes, "Oh shit, I can't believe I said that!" 
 
Sean laughs, "See, now you're saying what you mean!" 
 
"And I expect a proportionate amount of grief will follow," Viggo grouses.  He splashes his hands 
in the cold surf to wash off the stickiness. 
 
"Like an elephant, I never forget," Sean chuckles.  "Oo, look!"  He plunges his hands through the 
water, down into the sand.  Sand and water run through his fingers, leaving behind a handful of 
little sand crabs wriggling in his palm.  He pinches a larger one between his thumb and forefinger, 
washes it off in the tide, and pops it into his mouth, crunching delightedly. 
 
"Eeeeeyuuugh!" Viggo shivers in revulsion.  "That is disgusting!  Put those down!" 
 
"They're crunchy.  Nice and salty.  Hint of seaweed."  Sean pops another wriggling crab into his 
mouth.  He makes a face. "Kinda gritty, fresh like this. Ach, well."  He offers his catch to Viggo, 
and a few of the more enterprising creatures leap for freedom, burrowing rapidly back into the 
sand.  "You sure you don't want to try one?" 
 
Viggo waves him off frantically.  "No!  Blecch!  No." 
 
"Hey, you got any gum, I've got sand between me back teeth." 
 
Viggo pats at his jacket pockets, but comes up empty.  Cigarettes, car keys, yes.  Gum, no. 
"Sorry.  Got some in the glove box of the truck, but not here." 
 
"Okay."  And then Sean disappears, Viggo blinking at the space where he'd been.  There's a 
vertical shimmer left behind in the air, like the moonlight reflecting off of the back curl of a 
breaker.  It hangs there for a few heartbeats, then it's gone.  He's never noticed that before. 
 
"Much better," Sean's voice says from behind him. 
 
Viggo turns and accepts the spearmint from Sean's fingertips, puts it into his pocket.  "Damn, 
you'd make a great spy." 
 
"Already do."  Sean grins and laughs at him, skittering away from the large, white half shell Viggo 
slings at him.   
 
And it occurs to Viggo here that he has become attached to Sean's grin; broad and boyish, it's 
actually kind of goofy when he's laughing like this, but at the same it shifts him from mysterious 
and possibly dangerous to accessible and kind of adorable.  The difference between this Sean, 
mucking about now in a tide pool and the demon seducer who makes Viggo insane with 
frustrated lust sets him back a bit.  How does he reconcile the two?  But now Sean's calling to 
him, and he figures he'll just have to work it out later.   
 
Sean pulls his arm out of the tide pool and brandishes his prize. "Look what I found!" 
 
A small octopus writhes in the palm of Sean's right hand, most of its tentacles clasped about the 
demon's wrist, others waving wildly.  Viggo can't tell in this light what color it is, but it flashes 
darker and lighter versions of itself, clearly outraged.  Sean tilts his head back and aims the little 
octopus toward his open mouth. 
 
Viggo reaches for Sean's arm, but stops himself in time.  "You are *not* eating that!" 
 
Sean giggles, clearly teasing.  "Far too slimy," he declares.  He crouches down and releases the 
angry gastropod back into its puddle.   
 
It darts toward the shadows of overhanging rocks, and Viggo loses sight of it beneath the glimmer 
of night sky on the water.  "You are so weird," he informs Sean. 
 
"*You* eat those!"  Sean retorts.  "Now who's weird?"  He makes a face.  "Ech, I've swallowed me 
gum.  I always forget." 
 
This is the problem, this right here, that this fooling in tide pools and swallowing his gum Sean is 
the other half of fucking annoying seducer demon stalker Sean.  That they exist in the same 
person is a problem for Viggo.  He's not sure that he can love them both.  He is sure that he 
doesn't want to be without them.   
 
Wait. 
 
Son of a bitch.  Don't panic.  Do.  Not.  Panic. 
 
"Hey, Sean..."  He hopes the sudden irregularity of his heartbeat isn't showing in his voice. 
 
"Yeah?"  Sean stretches, his backward arch an art deco silhouette against indigo sky.  He rolls 
his shoulders.  "You okay, Viggo?" 
 
"Yeah.  Listen, I have to help Lydia at the shop tomorrow.  I should head home.  Don't you have 
to work tomorrow?"  He manages a needle.  "At the flower shop?" 
 
"Very amusing, Vig.  Aye.  Forgot about that."  He looks out to sea and murmurs, as though to 
himself, "S'all right, it were worth it." 
 
 
Viggo offered Sean a lift home, which was sort of silly, given that Sean can will himself pretty 
much anywhere he wants to go, but he didn't want Sean to feel abandoned there on the beach.  
Sean seemed to sense that Viggo wanted some time on his own, however, and declined with 
thanks, and then he was away.  Viggo had a feeling that Sean's thoughts had recently turned 
inward, as well, and during the drive home couldn't help wondering what Sean thinks about, when 
these days Viggo's mostly thinking about him.  
 
Finally home he fed, fussed over and apologized to an impatient tabby, though he pointed out 
that there was a little dry food left in her bowl, so she clearly was not on the verge of starvation, 
as she had implied.  Miz pretended not to hear him.   
 
Now Viggo stands under the shower, trying to sort out his feelings.  He's tired, it's late, and he 
finally decides to sleep on it rather than uselessly attempting to keep up with the carousel of Ifs, 
Buts and What the Hell Are You Thinkings that whirl incessantly inside his head.  It's debilitating, 
this confusion, yet a considerable part of him revels in it, can't imagine life without, and that--that 
loving all of this disturbance that Sean brings with him, that is just plum crazy. 
 
He lies in his bed in the dark for nearly an hour, tired but unable to sleep.  His mind won't shut up.  
He keeps replaying this evening, remembering Sean messing around on the beach, so caught up 
in the simple pleasures there that he apparently forgot to be dark and scary and dominating, and 
for once Viggo got to see just ordinary Sean, who happens to be not from around here.  Viggo 
wishes he could be with him there at the shore in daylight, watch the sunrise color his skin... and 
now he's in trouble.  Damn.  He starts to stroke himself beneath the covers, takes it slow, running 
his fingers lightly over hot skin, trying to imagine that these are Sean's hands, elegant and 
callused by work, thinking about how dexterous Sean surely is with those knowledgeable hands, 
his long fingers, how delicate he can be when he wishes.   
 
Gonna make a mess in this bed, have to change the damn sheets.  Again.  Fuck it.  If he had 
Sean here, if this were real, he wouldn't care about the damn sheets.  Yeah.  Sean's hands... 
 
...he tugs a little, grasps himself harder, does a neat little twist up around the head, runs his 
thumb across the slit, spreads the slickness he finds.  Not quite enough there, and he licks his 
hand, tastes the saltiness of himself.  He closes his eyes and imagines Sean's got him, Sean 
pressing the very tip of his thumb into the slit of Viggo's cock and holding him prisoner that way.  
Oh.  Viggo's other hand drops down to his balls, and this is Sean's other hand cradling him, 
rolling carefully, plucking at the loose skin.  Viggo's hips rock slowly up into the vision.  He's open-
mouthed, breathing deep, moaning a little at the possibilities, the images of If Only and What If.  
His hand on his cock starts picking up speed.  He tweaks the tip, there at the slit, between his 
knuckle and his thumb, making it smart.  He imagines he can smell Sean now, feel the heat of 
him, the bed shifting under his weight, and he's tearing the covers from Viggo's body--Oh shit-- 
 
Viggo opens his eyes, stares up at Sean as he crouches over him, his fists braced on the pillow 
on either side of Viggo's head, his face mere inches from Viggo's.  His lips are so close.  Sean's 
wings spread out behind him, veiling them both in their vast shadow.   
 
"Oh fuck, Sean!  I--"   Viggo's hands fumble.  
 
Sean snarls, "Don't you dare stop!" and he is terrifying and magnificent. 
 
Compelled now, Viggo doesn't dare look away from Sean's intent stare, but he can feel the heat 
of Sean's cock, jutting hard and red, inches above his wrist as his hands move, and then, warm 
and wet, dripping there on the back of his wrist, on his hands as they move, and Viggo groans 
and trembles, knowing what that is that's slicking his grip, dripping on his cock.  He wonders in a 
fractured way if that counts as touching, but loses the thought to a fine stuttering that starts in his 
groin, arcs out into his spine, through his chest, out to all of his edges, and then curls right back 
toward his hips.  He gasps for breath, he and Sean breathing together, their faces close as Viggo 
thrusts up into his own hands, so close that he could lift up and kiss Sean, if he dared, and he 
thinks about that as he feels the pleasure mounting, surging through him, over him. Sean is 
shaking above him, arms unsteady next to Viggo's head.  His wings stir the air, helping keep him 
aloft.  The look on Sean's face is desperate, his eyes so bright now, Viggo breathless with the 
beauty of him.  Viggo's eyes squeeze shut, his face tensed, as if in grief.   "Sean..." 
 
"Give it to me, Viggo!  Come on luv," Sean growls, and Viggo arches hard into his own grasp, 
frantic, calling out into the narrow space between himself and Sean.  Warmth splatters slick over 
his hand, over his belly, mixes with what Sean gave him.  Sean utters a cry like a wounded hawk, 
and then he's gone, leaving Viggo stunned, the worse for imagining Sean alone, finishing himself 
in the dark, without anyone to demand it from him, no one's eyes on him at all.   
 
Sweet revenge holds no allure, all those nights Viggo jacking himself off alone and frustrated, it's 
nothing.  Until now it has never occurred to Viggo that Sean's life might be as fucked up as his 
own, that he might be lonely, that he might be capable of love, that he could be broken.  Viggo 
lies sprawled in the dark, cold, sticky and miserable.  "God, we are such idiots!" 
 
 
--tbc-- 
 
Chapter 8 
 
Friday is a curse and a blessing.  The one thing Viggo wants most is to see Sean, but the blasted 
demon only comes around at night, and anyway he's got to go to work.  That gives him the focus 
that he needs to calm himself down, gives his brain a rest from the endless wrestling with what he 
wants, what he might expect, what reality will demand.  He needs to let go of Sean for a while, 
and spending the day giving practical advice to a steady variety of Lydia's customers proves a 
welcome respite. 
 
When Sean doesn't show up Friday night Viggo is crushed, but can't help wondering if it's for the 
best.  He needs the time, needs to figure out how he could feel the way he does, why his 
allegiance has shifted, from Them to Us, with Sean being one of Us.  He has fallen in love with 
Sean, against all reason.  Stockholm Syndrome, maybe?  When did it *happen?*  And for fuck's 
sake, why? 
 
He entertains the thought that if Sean has had enough of his hesitation and decides to leave for a 
more promising venture with someone else he won't blame him, though he fervently hopes that 
isn't the case.  He doesn't know whether he's ready to give himself over to Sean, but neither is he 
prepared to lose him, and finding himself caught between the two poles has got him a bit crazed.  
He wouldn't know what to say if Sean asked him for an answer right now.  It seems insane that 
he ever tried to get Sean to go away forever.  Part of him wishes Sean had never come around at 
all, but imagining that sparks a pain that he can't ignore.  He really needs to sleep. 
 
He spends most of the night sitting outside, smoking, thinking, and getting well and truly 
snockered.  It doesn't help, but it passes the time. 
 
 
Saturday morning Viggo wakes late, only half as hung over as he deserves to be.  He decides to 
blow off working on the little pink building and instead goes to the zoo.  It's no cure for feeling 
lonesome.  Nothing quite like being surrounded by groups of people distinctly *together*--moms 
and dads and kids, boyfriends, girlfriends, friend-friends, all of that guaranteed to make a lonely 
person feel even more isolated.   Viggo, however, is staunchly here for the meerkats, and for the 
elephants and for all the bizarre little creatures in the bat house--which makes him a little weepy, 
'cause jeez, look at the cute little bats' wings--and most of all he's here for the giraffes, an 
affection which seems to be reciprocated, as they invariably follow him around the perimeter of 
their enclosure, and it's not as though he's their only choice.  At one point the giraffe exhibit 
overlaps the petting zoo, and here Viggo buys a bundle of giraffe fodder.  He spends an 
agreeable and soothing half hour communing platonically with big brown eyes, soft, inquisitive 
noses, and long, purple tongues.  One of the giraffes licks him behind the ear, which is a gooey 
experience, but a sweet gesture.   
 
By the time he gets home he feels considerably more relaxed, though he's got an ache at the 
back of his neck, and he's probably sunburned as well, as he feels sort of hot all over his face.  
He orders a pizza, extra sausage, chats briefly with the delivery girl about how the neighborhood 
has been steadily improving, and tips her generously.  He's been a delivery boy, way back when.  
It wasn't glamorous.  He settles down in front of the television and shoos Miz away from the 
pizza, claiming that Italian sausage isn't good for her.  She retreats to the other end of the sofa, 
but appears unconvinced.  She glances up and behind Viggo the moment before he feels the 
rush of air on the back of his neck. 
 
"You ever consider requesting permission to come in here?" Viggo scolds amiably.  He takes a 
slow, experimental breath.  Cloves?  Burning sage... no.  Almost. 
 
"That rule is for vampires.  Hey, is there hot sausage on that?"   
 
"You should come with an instruction manual," Viggo suggests.  Hang on.  Vampires?  Save that 
one for later.  "Go ahead, have some." 
 
Sean wriggles a slice of pizza out of the box.  He sniffs suspiciously.  "What're these little green 
things?" 
 
"You've never eaten sweet peppers?" 
 
Sean sniffs again, takes an experimental bite, apparently decides sweet peppers are non-
poisonous, and settles into the sofa, stretching his wings up, and letting them fold at odd angles 
over the back.  "Oi, I used to watch these blokes," he says happily. 
 
"Monty Python?"   
 
"Aye.  Were a kid, couple of streets over, we used to stay up late and watch 'em on the little telly 
in his room." 
 
Viggo eyes him.  He feels like a jerk for thinking such a thing, but can't help asking.  "Um... you 
and this kid..." 
 
Sean chews for a few seconds, grinning at the television.  "Ha!  Good old Mr. Gumby!  Me and 
this kid what?" 
 
"The two of you, up in his bedroom together, late at night--" 
 
The demon swallows roughly and makes a face.  "Eeuuuugh, Viggo!" 
 
"Well jeez, Sean," Viggo huffs defensively, "you're the one traipsing about all..."  He waggles his 
fingers at Sean.  "...naked and stuff all the time."   
 
"Not *then,*" Sean insists, still looking at Viggo with a frown of revulsion.  "Bloody inappropriate 
with a twelve-year-old, innit?  What d'you take me for?  No, don't say it!  Just, no.  We watched 
cartoons and Monty Python and monster movies and such.  And he got me hooked on Dolly 
Madison raspberry cream-filled snack cakes, the little twerp." 
 
Viggo laughs, commiserating, "Those'll rot your pancreas." 
 
"Tell me about it." 
 
"You do have a pancreas?" 
 
"Yes, Viggo." 
 
Sean keeps sneaking Miz little bits of sausage until Viggo warns him that if she yaks it all back up 
he's the one who's going to clean up after her, and then Viggo wonders, "Sean..." 
 
"Aye?" 
 
"Your little cartoon-watching friend... when was this?" 
 
The demon shrugs.  "Nineteen seventy-something, I reckon.  Polyester.  Disco music in its death 
throes, at last."  He shudders.  "Pink Floyd were right good, though." 
 
"Led Zeppelin, Patti Smith," Viggo adds.   Apparently what he has come to think of as part two of 
their first date never happened.  He supposes it's not a disaster, if they remain friends.  Still, he 
can't help grieving.  "How long did you know him?" 
 
"Only a few years," Sean recalls.  A hint of sadness crosses his face, just a shadow, nothing 
more.  "I stopped comin' round when he were about fifteen.  Time for him to be chasin' girls and 
joining the school baseball team, not hangin' about with me."  And then, "Hey, you all right there?  
You look pink."   
 
"'M fine," Viggo reassures, slurping up a surfeit of cheese before it falls into his lap.  "Went to the 
zoo today.  Got sunburned." 
 
"You sure, mate?  'Cause I can feel excess heat coming off you from here.  And why do you smell 
like a giraffe?" 
 
"You've got my average body heat charted?  That's bordering on obsessive, Sean." 
 
"Me?  Never." 
 
"Where d'you suppose he is now?" 
 
"Hm?  You're full of questions tonight, eh Vig?"  The demon grins.  "Remind me of Sis when she 
were just a little one.  Why?  Where?  How?  Relentless." 
 
Viggo scratches his belly through his shirt.  "I have a naturally inquisitive mind," he claims.  "What 
d'you think, he's about my age, now?  Give or take a few years?" 
 
Sean shifts on the sofa, finds the remote and mutes the television.  "Viggo.  What's bothering 
you?" 
 
"We don't live very long compared to your kind." 
 
Either all of his worries are plain across his face, or Sean is even more perceptive than Viggo has 
realized, because he deduces easily, "You're worried about gettin' older, aren't you?  And not just 
as it's natural, but on account of me, and what I'll think of you when you're old... and you won't be 
beautiful anymore." 
 
Beautiful.  Viggo hasn't heard that one in a long time.  Handsome, sexy, all that, but not beautiful, 
not lately.  "Yeah, I guess so."  Thursday night Sean called him pretty.   
 
"You won't be as strong, and your skin won't be perfect.  What of it?" 
 
"Easy for you to say," Viggo counters.  "You'll be strong and perfect and all that for, well, you 
haven't said, but I'm figuring it's a very long time, so when you're tired of me or bored you can just 
go find some younger guy and start over, but for me, if I agree that we should, y'know, touch one 
another, it's a commitment..."  And it's right about here that he notices that he's light-headed and 
babbling, but he can't seem to help it. "...so that's it for me, total romantic servitude forfuckingever 
if I say Yes Please Touch Me--but what if I don't want to just end up getting fucked into next week 
whenever you feel the urge, what if what I daydream about is to kiss you, or just sit here with your 
head in my lap, I mean not like *that* with your head in my lap, I mean I could touch your hair, or 
your shoulders--" 
 
*"Viggo stop!"*  Sean rises abruptly and backs away a few steps, his eyes wide, and bright 
against his blush.  His wings have extended to their fullest, as though he might take flight.  "Don't 
keep on like that!"   
 
"Keep on?"  Viggo flails, finds nothing but air to hold onto.  "Earth to demon, wildly hot but slightly 
more than tragic duet hand-job session Thursday night!  We are so fuckin' beyond keeping on like 
this!" 
 
Sean rubs at his face.  "I know, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... to intrude like that... Shit.  I will arrive 
without fanfare, won't I," he admits sadly. 
 
"You will be young for a long time, Sean, but I'll get old and you won't want me," Viggo sums 
miserably.  He really is exhausted. 
 
Sean takes a few deep breaths, his wings gradually refolding themselves.  "It's not like that, 
Viggo," he argues gently.  "It wouldn't be." 
 
Viggo can't help the edge of sarcasm.  "So sexual obsession has nothing to do with our 
relationship, eh?" 
 
"I mean, that's not all there is to it."  Sean seems to slump a little, trying to explain.  "Physical 
beauty, physical grace, all that, as nice as they are, they're not the total of being attractive." 
 
"Oh that's rich.  Don't you have mirrors where you come from?" 
 
"I can't help that, Viggo.  I'm not going to apologize for the way I turned out," Sean tells him.  "I 
enjoy it.  But I'd like to think that isn't all there is to loving." 
 
"That's a strange thing to hear from you," Viggo observes. 
 
Sean half-grins and scratches the back of his head.  "Aye.  Well.  I do want to get into your pants 
eventually, don't I." 
 
Viggo collapses sideways with a melodramatic groan.  "God, you make me tired!"   
 
"Look..."  Sean crouches in front of Viggo, trying to fit his wings between the front of the sofa and 
the coffee table and finally leaving them extended.  "Just because I make fun don't make it less 
true." 
 
"I can't figure out who you are, and I don't know what I want," Viggo confesses wearily.  Or more 
to the point, what he does want he doesn't think he can have. 
 
"I'd make a suggestion," Sean offers, "but I honestly don't believe you're in any condition to 
consider it rationally." 
 
Viggo snorts.  "As though all these nights with my dick wanting to follow you around like a hungry 
dog, that's rational." 
 
Sean sputters, "I'd love to be able to say I'm sorry about that."   
 
"I hate you," Viggo whines into the sofa cushion. 
 
"Listen," Sean's voice has gone soft, and Viggo finds that his teasing smile has faded.  "Viggo, 
are you sure you don't know what you want, or are you just too terrified to go after it?"    
 
There was a boy, when we were sixteen, and I fell in love with him... is what he ought to say.  "Oh 
fuck, Sean, I can't sort this out now.  I feel like shit."   
 
Sissy. 
 
"I know, Vig.  Go to bed.  Seriously, luv.  You are way too warm for a human, and it's makin' me 
nervous." 
 
"'Kay."  He sits up, tilts woozily, and focuses on Sean, who regards him fretfully.  It's really kind of 
sweet.  "I'll just... ugh.  Ow."  His lower back and his shoulders have taken on a dull, steady pain.  
That's always how it starts.  Damn. 
 
"Can you make it upstairs, Viggo?" 
 
"Yeah."  He starts to nod, thinks better of the motion, and begins to make his way toward the 
kitchen.  He needs a shower.  He would prefer not to begin his confinement still smelling of 
giraffe, regardless of how fond he is of giraffes.  He's not that fond.    
 
Sean follows behind him, rattling on about fetching him water and painkillers, and does he have 
things like crackers and soup, 'cause Sean can easily acquire those for him.   
 
When did the stairs get so steep and so long? 
 
"Sean?"  Viggo manages not to fall over, clinging to the edge of his bed as he's pulling off his 
jeans. 
 
"Yes, Vig?" 
 
"I feel weird." 
 
"You are weird, Viggo." 
 
"Ah.  That explains it.  I think I'm sick, Sean." 
 
"Into the shower, luv." 
 
 
 
When Viggo wakes on Monday morning he doesn't immediately remember much after Sean 
putting him to bed Saturday night.  He is, in fact, not entirely certain of the day, and wobbles 
downstairs to the kitchen in order to peer at the calendar.  It occurs to him about then that he's 
wandering around the place wearing nothing but his runners.  No wonder he's chilly.  Thank 
goodness all the curtains are closed, or Viggo's busy Monday morning neighbors might get an 
unexpected eyeful. 
 
He supposes it was Sean who closed the curtains, locked the doors.  Viggo shrugs into a plaid 
shirt left over the back of a kitchen chair and he feeds Miz, careful not to trip over her as she 
winds enthusiastically between his ankles.  There is a little bit of mushy food left in her bowl, so 
apparently Sean's been feeding his cat, bless him.  But of course, Sean would do that. Viggo 
opens a window and leans out for a smoke, but gives up after the first drag, coughing and feeling 
green. 
 
He makes a cup of peppermint tea, wonders while the water's heating whether it's the done thing 
to bless a demon, reminds himself that Sean's not that kind of demon so it's probably okay--it's all 
very confusing--and he tries to recall the last couple of days.  Saturday he's got down well 
enough: zoo, giraffes, pizza, Sean.  All good.  After that things get sort of jumpy, like an old reel of 
film with too many splices in it.  He carries his tea upstairs, brushes his teeth, which feels great, 
though perhaps he might have done that after he'd had the tea, 'cause now it tastes odd.  He 
drags the bed covers over his legs and as high up his waist as he can wrestle them, and sits 
tiredly on the edge of his bed, sipping and thinking.  On his nightstand are a half-pitcher of water, 
a glass partially filled, and a mostly empty bottle of Bayer.   
 
Viggo slept through most of Sunday.  All of him hurt, from his toenails to his teeth, and the fever 
was a seasick bitch, but thank God it wasn't the stomach flu, 'cause Sean *watching* him barf his 
guts out would have made the whole godawful experience that much more grotesque.  He's still 
shaky and weak, so he finishes his tea and puts himself back to bed, and as he's drifting off the 
defective film reel in his head snaps and jerks to brief images of Sean, playing nursemaid while 
Viggo shivered and sweated and writhed, searching vainly for a comfortable position when all of 
him hurt.  He experienced some spectacularly strange dreams, no doubt a potent combination of 
the effects of illness and Sean's presence.  He probably would have slept better without Sean's 
particular influence over his subconscious, but overall he would have had a harder time of it 
without him.  It warms him now, remembering the demon hovering over him like some ferocious 
nanny, straightening twisted bed clothes, bringing Viggo aspirins and water, rubbing his back 
where it hurt the worst, right there just below his shoulders-- 
 
Viggo sits up suddenly, clutching at his woozy head.  "Fuck me sideways!" 
 
Sean *touched* him.  Repeatedly.  Does the Council know?  Did they feel it as it happened, a 
vibration along the strands of a spider's web?  He feels panic rising from low in his belly, and he 
declares into the room, as though someone might hear him, "I would've said yes!" 
 
The silence is an edged thing, waiting.  He hears a truck pass by below, on another planet.  "I 
would have said yes," he repeats plaintively, "if I'd been rational at the time." 
 
 
It's after nine o'clock, which isn't late, but it's hours past dark, and Viggo is pacing the little pink 
building.  He managed to sleep for a couple of hours today in spite of everything, finally quit trying 
for more and got himself up and into a much-needed shower.  He has since added an old pair of 
sweat pants to the plaid shirt, which he hasn't bothered to button, 'cause he's still too hot, thought 
it's probably more nerves than anything, and his untended hair is sticking up every direction, all of 
which conspires to make him look slightly deranged.  He's tried to eat supper--heated a can of 
chicken soup and ate about half of it before he was off and pacing again, and now the rest is 
stone cold on the kitchen table. 
 
The not knowing is what's killing him--whether Sean has been arrested and slung in front of a 
firing squad, or if he's just late, though really, there's never been a set time for him to show up, so 
why would this be considered late, except that Viggo's been so ill, and Sean was taking care of 
him, even all day Sunday, so it makes no sense for Sean to have just taken off like that.  What 
would they do, that Council of Elders?  Sean's broken two rules; one secular, one magical, 
neither of them minor infractions.  Fuck.  Viggo tugs at his hair, and yowls "Arrrrgh!" at no one. 
 
And that's when it happens.  Viggo is passing through the unfinished studio for the eleventh time, 
Miz trotting along at his heels, worried because he's worried, when suddenly the tabby stops in 
her tracks, half-turns, hisses, and dashes off toward the kitchen.  There is a disorienting sense of 
vertigo, Viggo feels as though an electrical charge is passing through the house, and in mid-air 
about ten feet from him there's a vertical rupture in the air, not gossamer like the fleeting vision on 
the beach, but a great, rushing tear, blue and white fire coming through, but cold, terribly cold.  As 
Viggo gawks dumbly with his hair sticking up as though he's been too long in the dryer, what 
looks like a small, metal briefcase flies out through the gap, lands with a clunk on one corner and 
flips and clatters up against the a short stack of lumber, followed immediately by Sean, burning 
and screaming.  Sean collapses in flames on the concrete floor, the rupture heals behind him, 
and Viggo's studio is thick with smoke and the stench of burning flesh and bone.   
 
Sean thrashes on the floor, howling as his wings and his horns disintegrate.  Viggo throws himself 
at the fire, frantically rubbing at the cold flames, but his panicked efforts make not the least 
difference.  He's sobbing with frustration by the time the fire sputters out, and Sean struggles 
loose from Viggo's grasp, leaving him kneeling there with open arms, and covered in ash.  They 
stare at one another, Viggo teary-eyed and waiting for something, he doesn't know what, Sean 
crouching just out of reach, naked and panting raggedly, his fair skin dimmed by the grey sift from 
his own fire. 
 
Viggo tamps down on the desire to go to Sean, to crawl to him across the floor.  In Sean's place 
Viggo imagines he would be curled into a ball and whimpering like a beaten pup, but there's a 
hard look in Sean's green eyes, a hint of menace that Viggo's never seen before.  "Sean..." 
 
Sean's voice is hoarse from screaming when he rasps, "Imagine..."  He coughs, and tries again.  
"Imagine the Justices' surprise... when they hauled me in, twice guilty and I asked 'em for a 
favor." 
 
Sean coughs and swallows, and Viggo would offer him water, but he can't seem to move. 
"Please.  What's happening?" 
 
"One of us," Sean snarls, "had to fuckin' make a decision, Viggo.  If you can't admit to what you 
want, just reach out and take it and damn the consequences, then one of us has bloody well got 
to, hasn't he!"  
 
Sean lunges, predator quick, and Viggo hardly has time to draw a surprised breath before Sean's 
got him by the back of his neck and he's kissing him, hard and painful, and it goes straight to 
where Sean's nearness always goes for him, only worse, because Sean's tongue is in his mouth, 
and Viggo can taste him, smell him, feel him, and Sean is *strong.*  Sean pulls back, leaving him 
wanting, his bruised mouth gaping like a baby bird's. 
 
Viggo watches the burned out places where Sean's horns used to be slowly close over, leaving 
angry red blotches at his hairline.  He licks his lips, wonders if he smells sandalwood.  
 
Sean cradles Viggo's skull between his palms, and he warns, "Don't even think about fuckin' 
driftin' off, luv.  'Cause shorn o' magic, decades closer to Heaven's gate I may be, but I am no 
longer bound by the old laws.  I won't ask fuckin' permission to touch you, and I *will* come after 
you if you take off!"  He gives Viggo's head a little wiggle.  "And I even know how to drive, mate, 
so don't think I'm stuck 'cause I can't blink in and out anymore.  You savvy?" 
 
Bizarrely, instead of mentioning California's anti-stalker laws, Viggo's first response is, "When'd 
you learn to drive?" 
 
Sean's fair eyebrows flicker. He nearly smiles.  "Nineteen sixty-eight.  Old bloke with a red 
Corvette convertible.  We cruised the coast highway at night, radio up loud, two barkin' mongrels 
and a long board in the back.  We'd stop, he'd surf, I'd sit on the hood of the Vette and watch the 
daft old bugger didn't drown.  Fuck, but I *miss* him!" 
 
"And you would miss me, like that."  Viggo lets the emotion spill, knowing Sean won't tease him 
for it. 
 
Sean rubs his thumb gently across Viggo's cheek, smears a damp trail.  "Much more than that, I 
would miss you, Viggo."   
 
Then he grins, fierce and irresistible.  "Now come on luv, I'm all covered in the ashes of me own 
cremation.  I need a good cleanup and a bit of a lie-down before I toss you bum-up into bed and 
give you what we both deserve."   
 
Viggo snickers, "Bum up?  How terribly romantic of you."  It's a token protest.  Sean can no doubt 
smell Viggo's body giving him permission, and lots of it.  
 
Sean rises with a grunt and a bit of a wobble, and he takes Viggo by the hand, hauling him 
upward.  He walks Viggo carefully backward, through the kitchen archway, and then toward the 
stairs.   
 
Viggo wonders if Sean's eyes will still hold the light at night, they're so bright on him now. 
 
"You're right," Sean purrs.  "I'll want to watch your face while I'm having you. You know how I like 
to watch you."   
 
Viggo groans a little, all sorts of orgiastic visions flickering behind his eyes.   
 
Sean stops them at the bottom of the stairs, draws Viggo forward by his open shirt front, shifts his 
hold to grab Viggo hard by the ass, and kisses him again, this time slow and sweet beyond the 
bitter taste of ash. 
 
"I don't mean to be impatient," Viggo gasps out, "but d'you think you could manage to ravish me 
first, and nap later?" 
 
Sean's answering chuckle is warm, and dark as mink against the side of Viggo's neck when he 
confesses, "Don't want to disappoint you, but I'm in a fair bit o' pain here, Vig." 
 
It is now that Viggo differentiates between his own eager trembling and Sean's exhaustion, and 
he holds him tighter.  "I will never abandon this," he promises Sean.  "Not ever." 
 
 
 
--end--