Chapter 3

The gala glimmered. Dresses and suits, fluttery and lacy and silky fabric, rustled. Champagne fizzed. The eighteenth-century museum walls puffed up with pride, and every quirky painting and antique astrolabe and historical chess-set shone its best. Happy to play host, thrilled to encourage a love of books and history and people getting out checkbooks to support said books and history.

Jason said, "It's a perfect location." He had a hand on Colby's back, not possessive but guarding, with purpose. They'd done the entrance, the hand-shaking, an extensive round of greeting and chatting and saying hello to the donors who'd paid for a moment with Colby Kent. They'd retreated, for a moment. This corner of the room was erudite and sympathetic. "Will anyone care if I go look at that whole collection of games and gaming and dice across the centuries, and will they mind if I borrow some for a Wizards Wyverns session…"

Colby laughed. "To the former, they'd love it; to the latter, someone would probably notice, yes, but I could ask…we're very trustworthy, you and I, after all. It is a lovely museum and library; I'm so glad they've let us use the space. Fitting as far as advocating curiosity, collecting, reading widely, exploring. You know some of those dice are meant for divination, so they're magical…I do wonder what would happen if you played with them, my knight…"

"I could summon you a unicorn. Or a dragon. To be your friend, obviously."

"Well, yours too. Mutual draconic friend-sharing. Some sort of water-dragon, or—" The words hung, unfinished. Jason spun the direction of Colby's gaze. Kept his hand at Colby's back, for balance.

The person who'd just come in was short enough to be semi-obscured by other bodies, many of which had descended upon him and seemed to be very enthusiastic. Jason, despite being tall, tried to see. He also tucked Colby into the circle of his arm, because he had a fairly good guess.

"Never mind," Colby said, and drank almost all of the champagne-glass he'd been mostly clutching as a defense against random hand-clasps, "perhaps he won't talk to us, and we'll never have to deal with it—oh, just talk to me more about water-dragons—"

"Totally. We can go swimming with them. Or flying through rainstorms, the kind you like, all bright and splashing and drenched in water and clouds." He'd keep Colby safe. In all the weather.

The crowd parted enough that Jason could see. And the glint of extraordinary petite sun-spike beauty took his breath away.

"Ah," Colby said, the syllable quiet, so quiet, accepting it: which was worse. "Yes."

"I love you," Jason said. "And he's tiny and I'd accidentally step on him. And you're nicer."

Colby now looked surprised. "You've not even met him."

"No, I know. But…" He looked again. Fuck. So stunning. Right to the gut, a stab of loveliness, beyond rational thought. Steel lines, sunlight on water, glass edges and fine crystal. Simon Ashley smiled like the first-ever dawn and had flawlessly trendy blond hair and shook hands with everyone easily, so easily, happy to draw attention; he wore an ice-blue suit, no tie, like a pocket-nymph who'd been born to wear fine suits.

No. Not a nymph. An elf, the older legendary kind, beautiful as sharpened arrows.

Jason said, "I meant it. You're more…warm. Kind, the way you were to me, back when we first met." Colby's sweetness, rumpled-chocolate hair, those big blue eyes, the complicated color in them: that darker stripe of deeper blue, the way that Colby had layers and layers of generosity and desires to please and a heart that believed in love, in defiance of scars. "Because you want to be kind. You know, nicer. That…" He looked at Simon again. "I feel like I'd want armor. Lots."

Colby tried not to laugh, put a hand over his mouth, couldn't entirely hide the sound.

"The dragons are on your side," Jason said. "So am I." He eyed Simon some more. Considered smoky eyeliner, dramatic; jewelry, not too over the top but present, a chunky black stone bracelet, a loop of dangling stylish obsidian leather cord at his slender throat like a temptation.

Simon was speaking to Lakshmi, whom Jason'd met earlier when Colby did the social round of Youth Literacy Foundation directors. Lakshmi beamed and made a gesture, and Jason could almost read her lips: oh, yes, Colby Kent and Jason Mirelli are here, you must know Colby, you attended the same school for a bit, and of course you both love romance…

Simon's gaze darted their way.

And then he hesitated, and glanced away, and moved—a tiny flinch of motion, or what would've been tiny, except that his arm collided with a passing tray of canapes.

Disaster did not happen, because an unobtrusive hand slid in and steadied the tray, and an unassuming shadow faded out of the background and gently took Simon's hand and squeezed, and then bent down to murmur something in his ear.

Jason considered that.

The person was shorter than himself and Colby, a roughly average height, and also apparently average in many ways: unremarkable, calm, generally a soothing earthen-brown in hair and tanned skin and eyes, though the hair had a hint of grey. They wore a suit, also brown, in the way of someone serenely accompanying a partner, with nothing to prove.

Jason's stuntperson experience replayed the swiftness of reflexes. The right place, the right motion. Not showy. Smooth.

Something else tugged at the back of his thoughts. Some sense of familiarity, though he couldn't place it. Not that he knew the person—he didn't—but something in the touch, the tip of Simon's golden head into that darker one, the way fingers brushed the back of Simon's wrist above the bracelet.

Jason knew that gesture. Because he would've done it.

And, given everything Colby'd said about Simon's wounded selfishness, he had no clue what that meant.

Colby had finished the end of the champagne, and was regarding the narrow roped-off stairs to the upper museum floors with some longing. "No one would mind if I suddenly developed an overpowering interest in eighteenth-century botanical engravings, would they…"

"They wouldn't, but you wouldn't want anyone to see you breaking a rule." He took the glass, handed it off to a swooping attendant, bent to kiss his husband. That pretty mouth tasted like champagne and vanilla-beeswax lip balm and a bloom of heat: Colby had bitten his own lip at some point in the last few seconds.

Jason pulled back. Rested their foreheads together. "You want to leave? We can. You've done the appearance."

"I don't know." Colby leaned against him; blue eyes traced the line of Jason's jaw, throat, chest under the tightness of his shirt. That was Colby wanting, wistfully, to curl up into shield-champion strength and hide for a moment and simply be held, the way no one had ever held him or been there for him. But unable to do so, here in public. Even in this for-the-moment unattended corner.

Their suits mostly matched. Not exact, but designed as complements. Lighter and darker, lavender and indigo, similar in style. Jason hadn't worn purple much before Colby. He liked it. Good with his dark hair, broad shoulders, California-sun-and-stuntman tan. And with those tumbling dice cufflinks, which Colby'd bought him. Because, with Colby, Jason was so much himself, all of himself, in a way he'd never been. Tabletop playing loves and knowledge of Elvish included.

He said, "We can sneak out. I'm good at stealth."

"You are. My knight. If we—" Colby's eyes became saucers. "They're coming this way."

They were. Simon Ashley, a clumsy but charming pixie, navigated the room by means of nearly running into guests, walking just in front of servers, and bumping a hip against a chair. They all forgave him, the second he smiled. His shadow-brown calm partner kept a hand on his shoulder, and reeled him in before any worse collisions occurred.

"If I could become invisible…" Colby mused.

Jason flexed a bicep. "Totally happy to, y'know, tell them you don't want to talk."

"I'd rather not cause a scene…oh, drat. Too late." Colby put on and turned up that smile: movie-star practiced, red-carpet polished. "Hello, Simon. So glad you could make it; your name on the list brought in quite a few donations."

True, and Colby even meant it. Colby could lie, and pretty damn fluidly, too; but not to Jason, and not about this. He did love this cause and this evening.

"Colby." Simon thrust out a hand, faltered. The sapphire of his eyes held a wince. Up close the eyeliner was even more dramatic. He was also wearing lip gloss, something shiny and no doubt expensive. "No, sorry, someone said—you don't like being touched, you don't shake hands, right? I forgot."

"It's fine." Colby put out a hand, touched Simon's like a butterfly brushing a flower, tucked the hand away. "Again, thank you so much for coming. The Foundation appreciates your support, and of course you've done so much for the romance genre, and for your readers. Have you had one of the sweet potato and walnut cups? They're marvelous. And interestingly spiced. Of course if you aren't a fan of nuts—or sweet potatoes—there's also those bacon and water chestnut bites—or the miniature quiches, though honestly my version is better so perhaps not that, but of course if you like mushrooms perhaps you'd like them anyway—"

Jason put a hand on the back of his neck.

"Oh, fuck," Simon said. He was looking at Colby with more insight than Jason would've guessed: head on one side, taking in the flow of words. "Colby, I'm so sorry."

Jason absolutely knew what the next words out of his husband's mouth would be, and he was right, and he hated being right. A slicing-open. Old scars tearing wide and red again.

"Oh, no, I'm sorry, I know I talk too much, often about food, please ignore everything I've said and go and enjoy yourselves!"

Jason folded an arm around his husband. With maybe a little more display of muscles than necessary. He didn't exactly glare. Well, not much.

Simon swallowed. Visibly. Good.

Simon's person, on the other hand, looked moderately amused. And had a small thoughtful quirk to brown eyebrows: evaluating the moment, or Colby, or Jason, or all of them collectively.

Colby smiled. It was the smile Jason'd seen him deploy in interviews, on press rounds, in front of cameras and microphones.

"Colby…" Simon hesitated. "I don't know how to…you'd think I'd have words, but I honestly…oh, damn. I'm better when I can revise and write multiple drafts. I told myself I was going to talk to you. To apologize. This is me trying very badly to do that. Even if you throw cheese at me."

Colby blinked, lifted both eyebrows, echoed, "Cheese…"

"Ah." Simon's cheeks went pink; he told his own shoe-tip, "Never mind," and then looked back up. "Can I…introduce you to someone? Someone important. My husband. Ben. He's actually a fan of yours, a properly devoted fan, in fact, he's seen every—"

Ben shifted weight, adjusted position, kept the hand on Simon's shorter shoulder; and drew attention like a magnet.

Presence no longer a shadow but a solid order, given shape and physicality. Even Jason kind of wanted to snap to attention. To focus on him. It was that sort of command.

In charge, powerful, assured. Dominant.

Colby's eyes had gone huge. Jason, who was made to take care of his Colby, forever, felt his own stance subtly respond. Ready to do some protecting.

And then Colby said, "You look so familiar…I'm sorry, have we met?" and made everyone including Simon's stylish shoes and the museum-shelf backdrop goggle at him.

Ben's expression flickered with surprise, though he caught it. "No, I don't think so…unless you know a lot of history teachers? Maybe it was at some charity event, or, you know, we both like books, so maybe just randomly in a bookshop?"

His voice was unremarkable as well: smooth, warm, no distinctive accent-traces or word-choices beyond generally American. Not the aristocratic English of his sunlight-sharpness pixie husband, and also not Colby's anxious tapestry of London and California and various European castle-spires and parental diplomat's homes. Might've been from anywhere. Wherever he taught history.

Wherever he'd picked up, Jason's head pointed out again, those excellent physical reflexes.

"I've met a few teachers, at Foundation events…" Colby had forgotten about Simon for a second. Jason wasn't sure whether that was good or the opposite. "But no. I'm sure it's not that. Someplace else, some time ago…"

"Ben doesn't travel much, anymore." Simon's voice had gone oddly tight. Defensive, almost. "And I'm sure he hasn't met you."

"No, but I'm normally good with faces…sorry, what was your last name?"

"Smith," Ben offered. No pause, no obvious lies. Nothing to justify the prickle along Jason's arms. "The worst, I know. The definition of ordinary."

Simon glanced all the way up at him. "As if you're ordinary, love."

Ben laughed. Some of the granite dominance gave way to humor. "Thanks."

"I'm certain we've met before." Colby was regarding Ben, head on one side. "Were you in Berlin, at all—perhaps giving a talk, or part of a diplomatic reception—oh, maybe twenty years ago, or so?"

"Maybe," Ben said, very easily, a man unbothered by the question. "I've been to Berlin, but it's been a while. My work's taken me lots of places."

"Yes," Colby said, "I imagine it would. And do you like what you're doing now? Retired from travel, but teaching history, Simon said?"

"History and rhetoric and politics. I do, yeah. It's rewarding. And I like knowing that maybe it's making a difference, in a way, for the future."

Jason watched him. The answer seemed honest, simple, unassailable. But Colby also sounded confident. And Jason would always bet on Colby.

"I expect you've got a great deal of firsthand knowledge," Colby mused. "About keeping the future safe. I know we've met. And your name wasn't Ben Smith, and you weren't a history teacher, either. Some sort of junior aide or attaché. Something like that. At least that was what you told our nighttime security."

In the silence, in their little corner, everyone's gazes swiveled to Ben.

Who attempted, casual and dismissive, "Someone who looks like me, maybe? I've heard that before. One of those faces, I guess."

His husband, trying to help, put in, "Perhaps at a book signing? You've said you read romance; you might've met in a shop? At an event?" He was not the best actor among them.

"No," Colby said, not precisely ignoring Simon but answering Ben instead. "Did you get what you needed, out of my father's office, that night?"

This time all their gazes went to Colby. Then back to Ben.

Ben did not move. But his shoulders, his expression, changed.

The edge of a metaphorical knife scraped down Jason's spine. A threat. Pointed.

He himself had played a superspy, an action hero, on camera. This—

This was real. This was completely, bone-chillingly, real. And he had absolutely no doubt that Ben Smith, supposed history teacher, had every single skill Jason had only ever pretended to have.

The night teetered on a balance beam, unsure which way to jump, if a jump was imminent.

Fortunately Ben at the moment seemed caught between wryness and real surprise, a retired lion calmly aware of his own strength, regarding a young daredevil kitten with astonishment. Jason adjusted his stance anyway—some martial arts knowledge, some Krav Maga, years of fight training, all at hand—and put himself and his muscles more in front of Colby, not that it'd do any good if an actual real-life secret agent decided to do…whatever someone like that did.

Still worth the attempt. Protecting Colby. Jason's job, no matter what.

"All right," Ben said. "You obviously know I was there. That mission's been declassified for years, anyway, and it was just a document retrieval. But how do you know? You were, what, twelve?"

The night exhaled, and sat down on the balance beam. No wild protective leaps necessary.

"I'd just turned twelve, yes." Colby's eyes sparkled. "And I didn't know for sure—not completely—until right now. But I saw you that night. It was all perfectly aboveboard, you know, or so it seemed. You were calling yourself Brian Hunt, some sort of junior attaché, and you were there to pick up something my father'd left in the office, and I honestly believed that was who you were, right up until you came in with Simon tonight and introduced yourself as Ben Smith, history teacher. CIA? NSA? An even more secret acronym?"

"Something like that. The family wasn't at the official residence that night. We checked."

"Yes, but whenever anyone said anything like, oh, the family went on holiday, that only ever meant my parents, not me. No one ever remembered I existed."

Jason, watching, saw Ben's expression change. He knew that reaction; he had it often himself, when Colby's parents came up in conversation. He liked Ben a little better for it.

"Father's office was unlocked," Colby offered. "Wasn't it?"

"I thought it was odd at the time, but we knew he had a reputation for carelessness—" Both Ben's eyebrows went up. "That was you?"

"It was locked," Colby said. "I learned how to pick locks the first time they went to Italy and forgot I'd be coming home from school. I didn't know you were there for any sort of mission, of course, but I knew one of the senior secretaries had the keys, which meant you didn't, and obviously you needed whatever document it was, if you'd come over while Father was away. So I opened it for you while you were explaining your credentials to the evening's security detail. Did it help?"

"I can pick locks too," Ben said. "But this was faster, and no one had to wonder why a harmless junior attaché knew how to break in. So yes, actually, thanks. Though…for all you knew, I was a spy. On the other side, I mean."

"Well, I didn't think of that then. But I thought you were trustworthy." Colby's smile lit up his eyes. "I saw you stop to pet that little stray kitten, the one that lived on the grounds, on the way in. She came right up and trusted you, and you were gentle with her. So I decided you were a safe sort of person. And it actually was a secret spy mission? That's marvelous."

Ben looked at him for a heartbeat or two. "You trusted me because I like cats."

"Because she liked you. You were kind. And you didn't know anyone was watching."

"Colby Kent." Ben shook his head; but he was grinning now. "Never would've guessed."

"I do like to be helpful?"

"Might've recruited you, if we'd known. Not at twelve years old, though. Maybe a few years later."

"Oh, goodness." Colby did what was almost a tiny hop in place. "Me. A secret agent. Imagine. Although I'm not certain I'd be good at shooting anyone. No offense. Codes and ciphers and disguises and messages, though…I'm good at calligraphy and languages and I know about wines and how to waltz…"

"We could've used someone skilled at copying handwriting, in Vienna." Ben's grin got more conspiratorial, inviting. "By the way, we liked your latest John Kill movie. Totally unrealistic, but flattering."

Colby looked at Jason, breathless with the compliment. "He liked our movie."

"He likes all your movies." That was Simon, aristocratic voice hushed: not jealous, but flattened somehow, muted. The brilliance of his eyes almost hid the emotion: not quite pain, perhaps self-effacement, holding out a tiny offering into a conversation he knew he hadn't been part of. Might've recruited you, Ben had said about Colby. Praise, and a secret, shared. And that'd been followed by: thanks, it did help, you contributed to that mission.

"Oh…" Colby laughed, an astonished flutter of response. "Thank you? Do you have a favorite? I do love history, and of course romance, and Shakespearean adaptation…"

"Maybe Steadfast," Ben said. "For all those reasons. A love story." He touched Simon's arm, slid his hand to Simon's wrist. Encircling. Affirming.

Colby noticed that too. Jason saw him notice.

Simon took a breath, let it out, and said, "Colby, I truly did mean to apologize. Not only for earlier, I mean. For everything. I know I was entirely awful, when we were younger. I said things that—that I shouldn't've said, to you, about you. I wasn't very happy with myself, not that that's an excuse. I'm sorry." He said it without artifice, without pretense, with honesty written in blue and gold.

Colby started to speak, stopped. Gazed at him. "You…that is, you and I…"

"I'm really sorry. And I don't think you're the most boring person ever, I promise."

"Well…" Colby held out his own hand this time. "I thought some rather dreadful things about you as well. I didn't say them, but that was only because I wasn't rebellious enough. So it's more or less even, if you look at it that way. And you didn't have to come here and say it, and you did, so thank you, and I'm so honored that you did; you really are braver than I am. I thought so even then."

And that was Colby, every word, every sincerity. That was why everyone, from extras on film sets to new acquaintances to old friends, would follow him anywhere. Not for the first time, Jason looked at his husband and thought about kind-hearted old-fashioned rulers, the sort of king who'd smile at his people and tell them how wonderful they were, and remember everyone's names, and bake them cakes for their birthdays, and give everything he was, open up his own heart if he had to, to make someone else feel better. Even Simon Ashley.

And Colby meant it all. Not an act, not a pretense. Seeing the good in people, believing in it, in deliberate generous defiance of pain.

God, Jason loved him. And the blunt force of that love, as it sometimes did, hit him in the heart and left him breathless, amazed.

"Me," Simon said, "I nearly didn't come tonight, I was sure you'd hate me and I knew I deserved it and I didn't want to ruin your event—and you, you can look at me and say all of that—" He took Colby's hand, exquisitely gentle about it; and didn't try to hold on too long, letting go. "Thank you. So much."

Colby's smile was real this time, if shy. "I, ah, debated sending regrets. I'm so glad I didn't. Jason helped me be sure about it."

Simon lifted both eyebrows, golden demon-wings. "Did he. Because, as it happens, Ben helped convince me…" The look in his eyes, directed at his husband, was hot, fond, unmistakable. "Very thoroughly."

Thoroughly, Jason nearly echoed. Between Ben's hand on Simon's wrist—thumb doing a little soothing motion—and Simon's choice of jewelry, the leather necklace and heavy bracelets, he was starting to be relatively certain about their relationship. Not a hundred percent. Not confirmed. But so much of that dynamic stood up and shouted in his bones, a recognition, understood.

Colby was looking at Simon's bracelet choice as well. And said, with what might've been only curiosity, "I do like your jewelry. The weight of that, the statement…"

"Ben got me these," Simon said, and held out an arm; Colby leaned in, not touching, which was both innate politeness and—if Jason's guess, which was obviously also Colby's guess, was right—politeness regarding the not-touching of someone's symbol.

Simon added, "I like the weight of them, too," with a glance up at Ben, and that was unmistakable, it had to be, it was all but spelled out. "They'd look good on you. Not mine, but something…similar." This time he looked at Colby. And that was a question, too.