One of those little meeting rooms with pockmarked tile ceilings and the smell of burnt coffee. Martin Vail has his back to the wall, and Aaron’s the one keeping him there. He didn’t even need to hit him. This is another thing his daddy taught him — you don’t have to be a big man to make it work, but you’ve got to keep on top of them, keep just the little shred of distance between your body and theirs and make it clear they’ll have to get past you.

But this lawyer of his doesn’t really want to get past him. He’s still spooked, but he's curious too. He’s used to the bad guys treating him like their oldest friend, like one of the gang. He's not used to having the rug pulled out from under him, like with Roy and Aaron, Aaron and Roy.

Aaron's got Vail backed up against the furniture now, trapped in an artificial corner where the plastic table cuts into the back of his legs. When he tries to push away, Aaron leans closer.

"You want your choirboy back, don't you?"

"The problem with that whole strategy is that it only works once, Aaron. Once if you're lucky."

Aaron shrugs, and rubs at the back of his neck. "I think I got pretty lucky, don't you, counselor? You play it like you're a real tough customer, but you wanted to feel like a big hero, and I wanted out of a real tight spot. We needed each other right then. I know it must have been a real letdown for you, but think of it this way. Now I know what you are, and you know what I am. We're just about equal.”

Vail looks worse than he did before, even in a good suit; he looks thin and tired, like a man who knows he’s been beaten. His hair’s still thick and shiny but he smells like cigarettes. The mental hospital and the jailhouse both have the same smell — not bleach, but something else, and it’s not quite covering up what it needs to. It can't mask what it needs to mask.

“Well, no, we’re not. You’re in here, and I’m out there. You’re insane, remember? You lost control of yourself, blacked out, tried to strangle the prosecutor. The judge took pity on you.”

Marty's still sore about that, isn’t he — doesn’t like Aaron stealing his thunder. Coming up on ninety days, and he’s had nothing to do but dwell on it. There must have been a couple of times he wanted to kick the shit out of the opposition, he just never had the balls to do it in court. Wonder if he's been in a courtroom again since.

Aaron snaps his fingers. “That's right, I did -- must've blocked that out. Wasn't she a friend of yours? Did it turn you on, slipping her a dirty movie?" He grins, showing teeth.

The nervous energy that's been rattling through his body since those words, you have a visitor, has him wanting to pace back and forth across the tile floor -- but the minute he does Martin Vail is out that door and gone, and he's never coming back. The door doesn't lock. Vail could raise his voice at any time, and he doesn't. Why doesn't he?

Even now Marty's voice is tight and low, pressured, like it's just the two of them. Close enough to feel the indignant heat of his body. "That tape was the only thing that saved your ass. You stabbed the Archbishop about a billion times, and you didn't spare a thought for how you were going to get away? Now I'm a really goddamn good lawyer, but I'm not a fucking miracle-worker. You were just about begging the state of Illinois to put a needle in your arm."

Aaron jerks his chin sharply upward. "Oh, please. That would have broke your heart, I'm sure."

"You knew what you were doing. Could have planned it better. I've been meaning to ask you--"

"And how is Miss Venable, anyway? How's her throat feel? If she knew what you did, she'd spit in your face. Maybe I’ll write her a letter."

Vail laughs, an objectively awful sound cutting its way out of him. "Oh, that's cute. That's really good. You really think you're something, don't you?"

"Like I didn't see you looking me over from day one. I know all about guys like you Mr. Vail. You think you can have it both ways.”

Coming in here in his nice suit like they’re back in the Maxwell Street lockup, like they're not in a state hospital. Nobody does anything for free, not out there and not in here.

"What do you think is going to happen when they find you out? Aaron, look. How likely is it that they're just going to let you walk on out of here? Judge doesn't want the hassle of sticking you on death row, hey, presto, you're cured. No more Roy. You're back in with the general population. You think you're such a hot piece now -- they're going to love you."

And what do you say to that? Aaron laughs. "I could stomp you into the fucking concrete, you know that? You think anybody's going to come running for a scumbag like you?"

"So fucking try it, then," Vail says flatly. "Do you expect me to feel bad for you? The last time I saw you, you said you killed your girlfriend. I hope you don't think I forgot about that."

"If you had any proof you wouldn't be here. And what happened to your girlfriend?" Aaron squares his shoulders, rolling out a muscle kink. He wants to hit him, wishes he could cut him; he wants to wrap his hand around that suntanned throat and squeeze. “You don’t need that bitch, Marty. You don’t even want her. We’ve got each other, we’re the perfect double act.”

Vail's body squares up to his, hands coming up to guard himself. For the first time since the courthouse Martin Vail has a little life back in him. “Listen, you little psycho. I’m not here to play games, and I’m not here to pick a fight with you.”

“I thought you liked picking fights. Hey, maybe I should be a lawyer. Go to law school, get myself one of those nice suits. You think our pal Roy could make it out there?”

Vail snorts. "Why don't you give the Roy stuff a rest? I'm not here to talk about your career prospects."

"Are you going to hit me, Marty? Do you want to?"

Aaron presses him back against the table, one hard jostle with all of his body weight — with his hands balled up around fistfuls of Vail’s nice starched shirt, he could just about yank his feet off the ground, could knock his head right open on that cinderblock hospital wall.

There's no answer. Vail doesn't have to say anything. He can feel it, clear as day. Aaron can’t hold back a cut-off sound of disappointment — like he’d thought better of him, or something. Like he didn't know what he was going to find.

“You serious?” Aaron exhales sharply. “Jesus.”

Aaron reaches down between Vail's legs, feeling along the inside seam there and finding the blood-heat waiting for him. He can feel Martin's muscles tense, he can feel the fear seizing him up, and it feels good. It makes him laugh.

“It's not -- Aaron, you’re making a mistake. You don’t want this.”

“But you do. You don’t want her, Marty, you want me. Look.”

“Don’t do this to yourself.” Vail swallows, exhales, leans back. “I know what he did to you, and I don’t blame you for that, but I'm not like that. I'm not that man."

But he’s getting harder under Aaron’s hand. He likes this, the bickering and roughhousing. Martin wanted this once -- when he thought he was getting something over on a sad white-trash choirboy, when he still believed he could pin all the bad things on some guy named Roy. Aaron gets hit, but he doesn't fight back, or get mad. He fucks, but he doesn't enjoy himself. He gets fucked, but it doesn't matter. Easier to swallow.

There’s no privacy anywhere on the ward, except here. Out there you can hardly take a piss without asking for permission. Out there everything Aaron does is a symptom; the way he talks, the books he reads. He can't even jerk off. Aaron is incredulous.

“Don't stand there with a hard-on and tell me what you don't want. What do you think people do in visiting rooms? You think they know about you trying to fuck me, Marty? Or do you figure they believe all this is out of the goodness of your heart? I’m about to do you a favor.”

They're face-to-face, practically forehead to forehead, except Aaron's got the advantage of height when he stands up straight. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to break his fucking nose, probably. Aaron’s leg presses between his thighs; he presses down with all his weight. He can see it on Martin's face, the mutual recognition of self-disgust. Bet he wishes he was hearing this from Roy.

“I didn’t come here for that," Vail says, but his voice is hoarse, with a little heat in it. "I didn’t come here to feel you up, or whatever you think.”

“Oh, you didn’t!” Aaron rocks back on his heels, a springing half-step. “What’s the occasion, then, counselor?”

Vail's face is drawn, his movie-star jaw is tight. “Alex is dead. Your altar boy boyfriend. I thought you might want to know.”

Alex has been dead since he got to Savior House. He just didn't figure it out yet. He never wanted this either, he just wasn't smart enough to defend himself, to show the world what kind of person Rushman was. Aaron had to do that for him.

Aaron snarls and shoves. “The fuck do I care?”

“You've got something wrong with you. It's not your fault, but you can't take it out on me."

"You fucking faggot. Fucking cunt," Aaron says. "All you fucking cunts are the same. I thought we were friends.”

He can't keep the tremor out of his voice, and he hates it.

“I’m not your friend," Vail says, "I’m your lawyer.”

Vail's hand rests against his chest, just about over his heart -- clean, warm -- and it raises a revulsion in him that he can't restrain. Aaron exhales through his teeth, and drops his head against Martin’s shoulder. The lines of contact are the same, the press of another body.

Aaron lets go of his coat, and lets his hands drop.

“Don’t,” Marty says, but he’s already on his knees. He hates this, hates Vail for receiving it and himself for how easy it is — what’s become automatic to him, the method of it.

Touch him; use your mouth. Show him how much you appreciate him. Show me how much you appreciate me. Aaron presses his face against Vail’s hip

Zipper down, hand slipping through the narrow slash of seam in the front of his boxer shorts — Vail makes a sound of protest and Aaron glares up at him, and for a second he can’t keep that soft innocent look on his face.

It’s not his fault this is what he looks like, this is what he sounds like. He’ll grow out of it, and people’ll stop trying to fuck him, when he sounds like pure Creekside.

He jerks him off with hard little strokes, feeling the muscles of Vail's leg tense and shake. If he didn't want it, then his hips wouldn't hitch like this.

Aaron takes him in his mouth, wetting the head of Vail's dick with his tongue. His throat is tight with hate. Marty’s hand moves for his shoulder, his collar, the back of his neck. Aaron wrenches his hand away and grips it until he can feel the bones shift.

Just a hole to fuck, some way to get off and get it over with. He makes his mouth a tight sheath, working over the length of Vail's hard-on with all his diligence. You don't have to be present to do this; it's easier if you're not. Aaron wrenches the satisfaction out of him.

His eyes are stinging, but it's over fast. Aaron swallows past the bitter taste.

At least like this Martin Vail can’t lie about what he wants. He wants him, he’s wanted him this whole time. Martin Vail thinks he wants an arrogant hard expensive piece of ass but he keeps coming back to these rooms where it's just the two of them, just him and Aaron. In the courtroom they'd had their audience and still when Martin came in close to whisper in his ear it had felt like just the two of them, in conspiracy. They had something there. They made that work.

The two of them break apart.

Aaron sits himself down on the edge of the table. Vail's back is to the door and it's not locked; the steel handle is right there, ready for his hand to turn it. He's tucking in his shirt and zipping up his fly, like he's on automatic. The silence in the room is like a third person.

Aaron feels hollowed-out, like someone’s scraped away all his insides. He doesn’t know how Vail feels and he doesn’t care. For the first time in their acquaintance Martin Vail has nothing to say.

“Give me your lighter, Marty." Aaron feels at his pocket for the last of his cigarettes in their spindled packet. He's not looking at him. He's not looking at his face.

Vail holds it out to him, and Aaron lights his cigarette at the tall thin flame.