The band and its hangers on had rented a whole floor of one of DC’s nicer hotels to stay in while they were all still camped in the area. Ryan had a place of his own, the townhouse he and Michael owned, though he wasn’t really using it—while the others were in the hotel, he was for all intents and purposes living in the hospital. But at the hotel, Isabella had actually gotten herself a suite, since she needed space to work. The fact that the band was on hiatus didn’t mean Money City Company was, and she was still the owner and major investor of a number of other businesses.

But when there was a knock on her door, she knew it would be Tony. So she shut her laptop, stretched, and let him in. He looked… Well, he looked like Tony. Stressed and angry. He had a beer in one hand and a bag of Skittles was sticking out of his pocket. He smelled of cigarette smoke—and, to the best of her knowledge, he was not seeing anyone who smoked. Not a great sign.

( Read more... )

Marco made his appearance the next morning. It was just him and a few guys in suits; if they’d still been in the mob, they’d have been ‘casing the joint.’ Instead, they were discussing strategic check-points and security protocols and, well, Sean was actually pretty inwardly pleased that they really were taking Michael’s safety this seriously.

Marco still looked like a model. Of course, he was genuinely middle-aged now, and his hair was starting to gray pretty noticeably. And yet somehow, the phrase ‘devilishly handsome’ came to mind. And when he smiled—well. Sean glowered in his general direction. It still pissed him off that a guy that hot was so impossible on every level.

( Read more... )

At around quarter to eleven the next day, as usual, Sean headed out towards his car in the parking lot. And discovered that Isabella was sitting in the passenger seat, reading a magazine. He raised an eyebrow, certain he had left the doors locked, but not entirely shocked that Izzy had managed to get in regardless.

He tapped on a window, and she leaned across to unlock the door for him. He slid inside, buckled up, and started the car without comment. She began giving him directions and he didn’t argue until they pulled in at an upscale restaurant.

( Read more... )

(A/N: The Spot/Guy I promised got pushed back in favor of coherent plot. I swear it's coming someday. In the mean time, this arch ended up way longer than I planned. But I kind of like it.)

Sean was surprised when, as he walked towards the hospital exit at quarter of eleven the next morning (Tony usually got to the hospital promptly at eleven—Sean didn’t mind having an early shift, but he was annoyed that he only got a few hours) and found Gabe standing outside Michael’s room. Not odd because Gabe was there; he and Sophia had both come to visit almost daily since the shooting. (The only days they’d missed had been trips home to see the kids, who were staying with Angelina and an army of nannies.)

Rather, Sean was surprised that Gabe was lurking outside. He raised an eyebrow. “They’re both in there, if you were waiting for privacy.”

“Nah,” Gabe said, and fell into step with him
( Read more... )

The decision was easy to make: the wedding would happen in the hospital, as soon as the paperwork could be rushed through. Michael had a whole slew of contacts in DC, and one of them turned up a judge willing to come out to the hospital to marry them.

As it happened in Michael’s new room (finally out of the ICU, he’d been given a lovely, large room that overlooked a courtyard with a garden), it was a very exclusive guest list. As witnesses, Ryan and Michael had selected Sean and Tony respectively. Dutchy, Itey, Isabella, Sophia, and Ryan’s dad crowded inside, leaving next to no breathing room. Diedre and her parents waited outside. The only other spectator was Spenser—Ryan and Michael had asked him to take photos.

Even decades later, the photos were iconic. Spenser, Ryan, and Michael had agreed to make them freely available for reprinting; every newspaper in the country, every magazine, every news show displayed them over and over again. A series of black-and-white photos.

Michael was still wearing a hospital gown, still hooked up to an IV and breathing tube. He was propped up on a pile of pillows, leaving him sitting. Ryan sat on a plain wooden chair next to him, wearing a pair of jeans a plain button-down shirt. They were holding hands. The judge stood in front of them, back mostly to the camera. In some of the photos, Tony and Sean were visible; in others—the most famous—the photo was too closely framed, focused on the Ryan and Michael and the judge.

It was a short ceremony, but that seemed appropriate. After all, it was only making legal what had already been fact for well over a decade: Michael and Ryan were married.


( quick note )

    Tony was sitting with Michael when Deidre arrived. Michael was awake, though drowsy—he always was, thanks to the painkillers. She knocked hesitantly on the door, and Tony and Michael looked over. It actually took Tony awhile to recognize her—he’d barely seen her since high school. The family resemblance was still clear, though.

    “Michael?” she asked quietly, then added, “Tony? May I…May I come in?”

    It was a few seconds before Michael inclined his head, barely nodding. Deidre walked over to the bed and Tony did not give up the cherished seat. The only people who’d spent excessive amounts of time with Michael were him and Ryan—neither one of them gave up their position willingly.

Take Good Care of the Poor Boy
But you must drink it down
And what do you make of the nights
When you thought you'd make much more
Than being too drunk to turn the lights out
And too tired to drink more?
And what does it take to not hear the cynics at your door saying
"It's time the turn the lights out, and you'll want to keep it down!"
- The High Party, Ted Leo and The Pharmacists

Chapter Four: Party Boy Blues

"Did you SEE?" Dutchy exclaimed, giving Itey a noogie after the game, where they were swarming Itey on the court. "Did you see this little fucker? He fucking won the game!"

"We won the game, Dutchy," Itey said, embarrassed. "The tea-"

"Gabe! You did soooo good!" A cheerleader popped up next to Itey, grabbing hold of his arm.

"Uh, thanks," Itey said.

"Yeah, really good," another said on his other side, pushing Dutchy over.

"Did well, damn it, well..." David muttered under his breath. Jack gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder.

    Consciousness came back to Michael slowly. He realized that he still couldn’t really move, but that he was lying down on a firm bed with a pillow under his head. He ached all over, but especially his chest. The air was cool but comfortable. A steady, slow beeping kept time like a metronome.

    He opened his eyes. Light flooded them and he squinted for a moment before opening them again. All he could see was an ugly textured ceiling. He tried to breathe deeply but discovered some kind of tube in his nose. His mouth, though, was free.

    “Ryan?”

    Dutchy called Isabella at almost four o’clock—the surgery had been in-progress for not quite three hours.

    “You okay?” she asked softly.

    “Yeah. I just…you guys aren’t watching TV?”

    “You are?”

    “No, but someone in the crowd has a radio. We’re listening.”

    “What crowd?”

    “Iz, there’s a whole…like, an encampment of supporters…prayer groups and stuff…everyone is waiting for news…Anyway, you’re not watching the news?”

    “No. What’s going on?”

    “The Supreme Court.”