Chapter Three


It was not pleasant.  

Quest had brought his medical kit to Bannon’s room, where he 
hoped they would be undisturbed.  He entered all his findings by 
voice onto an electronic notepad, patched through to his main 
diagnostic banks.  Bannon sat on a stool in the middle of the 
room, expressionless, allowing him to work undisturbed.

“Temperature is slightly elevated.  Blood pressure - up about 20 
points.”  He made no comment as he checked Race’s eyes and 
ears with a small penlight.  His fingers probed Race’s throat. 
“Some swelling - open your mouth.” He peered down the man’s 
throat and knit his brows, frowning in a detached way.  “Take off 
your shirt.”  He almost lost his professional detachment when he 
saw the other man’s back.  It was covered with long whip-cuts 
from shoulder to hip. Most had scabbed over, but some were 
still raw and oozing.  Race had improvised bandages made of 
gauze pads on long strips of medical tape.

Not trusting himself to speak, Benton removed the old bandages 
as gently as he could, but many began to bleed again as he 
worked.  He staunched the blood with styptics and gauze pads, 
then sprayed the wounds with a cool spray from a bottle no 
larger than a lighter.  He handed it over Bannon’s shoulder, 
uneasy with his silence.

“It’s a stand-in for skin; Dr. Chow finished testing it last year.  
It’ll prevent bacterial infections and protect those wounds until your 
body has a chance to repair itself.  It’s also got a bit of 
anesthetic in it.”

Race handed the bottle back to him without comment.

Next, Dr. Quest probed the bruised ribs.  He tried to be gentle, 
but he saw Bannon wince once or twice as he hit particularly 
tender  spots.  “I think you’ve got a couple of cracked ribs.”

“Surprise me.” Quest started to smile at his friend, then 
something caught his eye.  High on the breast, almost hidden by 
the golden hair around the nipples, were burns.  Not cigarettes, 
but something serrated.  Clips.  Oh god.  There were also thin 
lines of scabs, like patchwork tracings in brown all over his 
chest.  A scalpel or sharp knife had probably made those, one 
fraction of an inch at a time.

Bannon’s face was impassive, but his hands shook slightly as 
he reached for the burn cream the doctor fished out of his case. 

“Give it to me.” Quest handed it over without a word and didn’t 
watch as he smoothed the white salve into his golden skin.  “I 
told you, Ben.  Kids’ stuff; rank amateurs.”

There was nothing unusual when he listened to the big man’s 
lungs.  He was breathing more shallowly than usual, but the 
broken ribs probably accounted for that.

Remembering Bannon’s comment about needles the night 
before, Quest grasped each of Bannon’s hands in turn and 
looked carefully at the nails.  Yes, there were marks under the 
nails and some swelling was evident.  He noted it quietly on the 
pad, then moved his scrutiny to his friend’s legs.  There were the 
burns he had seen last night; they were healing cleanly and 
needed no attention.  Some livid bruises were turning a lurid 
purplish yellow on his upper thighs and he was wearing an ankle 
brace over a slightly sprained ankle.  He checked the ankle’s 
flexibility and noted the restricted range of movement.

“Ok.  Take off your shorts.”

“No.”

“Can we just get this over with?  It’s nothing I haven’t seen 
before.”  Quest’s voice grated.  Bannon glared fiercely at him, 
but again, the usually mild doctor won the silent battle of wills.  

Bannon stripped and allowed Quest to continue the rest of his 
exam.  Neither spoke until Quest stripped off his gloves.  The 
other clip and burn marks he had found had choked Quest’s 
throat with rage and he couldn’t speak.

As Race pulled on his clothes again, Quest reached for another 
set of gloves.  “Don’t bother with your shirt.  I need a blood 
sample.”  He rolled the muscular arm over and probed for a 
vein.   Finding one, he slid a six-inch hollow glass needle into 
the vein, allowed it to fill with crimson, then pulled it out, 
pressing a gauze pad over the miniscule wound.

Mechanically, Bannon folded his arm and held it up, keeping the 
pad in place to stop any bleeding. 

He watched as Quest plugged the needle into a small opening 
at the top of the notepad, then tapped a couple of flickering 
boxes on the small screen, choosing the tests he wanted done. 
“Analyze and print results in Race Bannon’s room,” he instructed 
it.

Race finished dressing, slowly pulling on a t-shirt, then a flannel 
shirt.  Quest repacked his bag.  Outside, rain began to tap on 
the glass.  They both watched the wind rake up whitecaps on 
the slate-gray ocean.  The printer hummed and Quest moved 
swiftly, ripping it off and reading it.  Bannon waited, still sitting in 
the middle of the room.  “You’ve got a low-grade infection; I’ll get 
you some antibiotics.  There’s nothing viral.  Whatever else they 
may have… you haven’t got any diseases to worry about. No 
HIV, no VD, no Cooperman’s II Syndrome.”  As he spoke, he 
filled a syringe with a broad-spectrum antibiotic, swabbed a spot 
on Bannon’s arm with alcohol, then injected him. He continued,  
“Everything else is pretty minor. Pulled muscles, contusions, 
fatigue. It should heal cleanly and quickly.  I’ll want to keep an 
eye on that elevated temperature.  Take a couple of these,” he 
handed Bannon a small bottle which he considered suspiciously. 
“They’re a little stronger than aspirin but won’t impair you. Good 
for sore ribs and pulled tendons.  Your ankle is going to need 
some physical therapy, but you know what to do to get the 
flexibility and strength back, so do it, starting in about a week.”

He picked up his bag and started to leave when Bannon’s voice 
stopped him. “Ben, thanks.”  

Quest turned to look back and something in the set of Race’s 
shoulders made the scientist drop his bag and cross to his 
friend.  He stood above him for a moment, then wrapped his 
arms around Race, pulling him to rest gently against his body, 
mindful of the lacerations on his back.  Bending, Quest rested 
his face in the white-blond hair.  “You’ll get my bill in the mail.” 

Slowly, Race’s arms came up to hold Benton closer. They 
remained, unmoving, listening to the wind rise as the storm 
swept in around the house.  It was later in the afternoon that 
Race awoke with a small start.  He remembered that Benton had 
eventually coaxed him to lie down and rest. Benton had laid 
down beside him, close, but not touching, while he stared at the 
ceiling.

They had spoken, finally, of the many things between them. 
Haltingly, Race explained how much more willing he had been 
that Benton’s love for him be killed by silence than that he or 
Jonny or Hadji should suffer from the ones who pursued him. 
How it was that, only after he had discovered that no one knew 
that he, Race Bannon, was Jessie’s father, he had come home. “I 
wasn’t going to bring the war home to you, Benton.”

“We would have fought it with you.  You’ve stood by us too many 
times to count.”

“It was my job, Ben.  That’s what bodyguards do; it’s not for 
scientists and half-grown boys, no matter how good they are in 
tight places.” He smiled to take away any sting to his words.

“Race. Your battles are ours.  They’re mine.” He stopped, 
suddenly afraid that he had said too much. Race groaned and 
turned toward him, throwing an arm across Benton’s chest and 
burying his face in his shoulder.

“I need you, Ben. I always have. Forgive me?” His voice was 
muffled and his arm had tightened to a crushing grip around the 
scientist.

“I think that neither of us has ‘moved on’, Mr. Bannon.”  

He shifted, sliding his arm under the larger man’s head and 
drawing him closer.  “I’m here. Remember that - I’m always here 
for you.  Your battles, your wounds, your daughter - whatever 
you need from me is yours.  Agreed?”

“Mmmm,” Race had murmured, already falling asleep.

Waking was sweet, in the late afternon gloom.  Rain still fell, the 
ocean still growled with storm-surge and Benton was still beside 
him. The scientist was leaning up on one elbow and was 
checking his patient’s forehead for fever with his wrist.  He 
smiled a little when Race opened his eyes.  “Well Doctor, will I 
live?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Bannon, but you’re doomed.  I give you another 
40, 50 years more, at most. I’d suggest you put your affairs in 
order,” he teased.

But Race didn’t smile.  He said earnestly, “No affairs to put in 
order, Ben.  I swear.”

A nagging fear in the back of Quest’s head receded.  He smiled 
and and pressed his lips to the blond man’s forehead.  “I wasn’t 
worried.”

“Liar,” Race suggested, remembering that scene in the garden. 
Quest sighed.  From the first day they had met, Bannon had 
always been uncannily accurate in his assessment of his 
employer.  Which was admirable in an employee and hellish in a 
lover.  No secret flaw was safe.

“Why don’t you go take a shower?  It’ll be dinner soon.”

“Why? Do I stink?”

“No, but I’ll bet that you haven’t been able to take one for a week 
because of those cuts.  The spray-skin will hold up fine, as long 
as you don’t let the water run too hot. Try it - it’ll feel good on 
those muscles.”

“It certainly will - I was getting sick of all those sponge-baths.” 
He rolled out of bed, still stiff and slightly clumsy.  His fingers 
fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, then he stopped suddenly. 
He walked into the bathroom, turned on the water and stripped 
off his clothes.  The shower stall was made of shimmered glass 
and could easily have fit four people.  He stepped into the steam 
and stood under the showerhead, letting it send needle-jets of 
hot water streaming down his chest and face. He leaned back 
against the wall, eyes closed and mouth open.  The pain wasn’t 
entirely gone; whatever Benton had said, there was still one 
thing that would stand between them. 

He hadn’t even been able to undress in front of his friend.  His 
body had been cruelly used and, whatever else might be 
between them, he wondered if either would ever forget it.  The 
physical had been hellish, knowing what Benton was seeing and 
the revulsion that he had to be feeling.  He hadn’t even been 
able to look him in the eye at the end.  Comfort him, yes, like a 
child.

He groaned in frustration.

“Race?  What’s wrong?” Benton’s voice came from outside the 
stall.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”  The scientist’s figure rippled outside the glass.  There 
was silence as Quest waited.  Hot water still streaming down his 
body, Race tried to explain to the indistinct figure. “Do you know, 
when I was first assigned here, I almost hated you?  Do you 
know why?  Because you hardly noticed me and I couldn’t stop 
thinking about you.  Wondering about what you were like, when 
you weren’t wearing a lab-coat and attitude.  About your wife - 
your life together - where she was.  I didn’t even know what I 
wanted from you -I just couldn’t stay away.  I felt like I was 
trapped; I hated that.”

“That’s odd.  Do you know - I used to watch you all the time.  I 
was afraid you’d notice and know what was going on in my 
head.  Then you’d put in for transfer and I’d never see you 
again,”  Quest said quietly. “I never knew.  Then, when we 
…became friends, I still couldn’t think of anyone else.  Couldn’t 
be with anyone else.  Then I was even more afraid - you had so 
much power over me. 

“I hate being afraid.”

“What are you afraid of, Race?” Quest asked carefully.

Bannon’s whole body locked; he had to force the words out. 
“That you won’t be able to touch me. That you’ll always be 
disgusted - hate my body because of what happened to me. 

“Tell me now, Ben, if we’re just going to be friends.  I can live 
with that - I’ll never find a better friend -but tell me now.”

The door of the stall opened and Quest stepped in, still fully 
dressed.  He considered the large man still slumped against the 
wall, letting water run down his golden body as he stared at his 
friend.  “You think I hate your body because they tortured you? 
That I won’t be able to make love to you now because of it?” 
Relief at finally knowing the root of  the problem made him feel 
almost giddy.  “Hmmm - let’s see.”  

He took a bottle from the shelf and poured some shampoo into 
his hand.  Disregarding the water soaking his clothes, he 
reached out and began gently massaging it into the white-blond 
hair. Race bowed his head as the scientist’s long fingers ran 
through his hair.  He pulled Race’s head under the shower spray 
and the white suds slid down his body and away.

When he opened his eyes, Benton was pouring body-wash into 
his hand.  Race leaned back against the wall and Benton began 
to slide it along one of his arms.  The lather was rich and 
forest-scented, making his head swim.  Benton lathered his 
chest, then the other arm, always using slow, long strokes.  He 
kept looking straight into Bannon’s eyes - there was no 
possibility that he could misunderstand, this time.  His hands slid 
up Race’s lathered arms, then down onto his broad chest.  He 
allowed his hands to linger a moment on the nipples, then slid 
them down along the ribs, across his belly, then back up and 
around the big man’s throat and shoulders.  

“No - I don’t hate your arms.  Or your chest,”  he said with a 
gleam of humor. Race’s hands began to reach out to him, and 
Quest stopped them, placing them firmly back against the tile. 
He knelt, the water streaming around his head and through his 
beard.  He lathered first one leg, then the other, ignoring the 
obvious signs of his friend’s growing arousal.  He used his 
hands as a blind man might, tracing the form and textures under 
his touch. Almost without thinking, his hands slid to the backs of 
the large man’s legs, then up.  The powerful muscles of his 
thighs melted into the taut hardness of his buttocks.  

At this touch, a deep tremor ran through Race’s body.  His 
hands came down to drag Benton to his feet by his clothes, then 
pulled him against him, kissing him deeply, as the hot water kept 
pouring down both of them.  The passion flowing through him 
was clean and hot, and he was so grateful he was almost in 
tears.  He clawed the scientist’s clothes from him, struggling a 
little with the wet denim, kissing whatever he could expose. 
Benton laughed at his eagerness, a happy, triumphant sound. 
No, there was no revulsion in that sound. 

“Gently - you’re still recovering,” he protested, still laughing.

“No.  Now,” the blond man breathed in his ear, his hands 
running up and down the scientist’s body.  Ah - his skin was still 
like silk under his hands.  He drank water from the hollow of his 
throat and tangled his fingers in the auburn hair. Home.


***