Gemini Rising

by Jami Wilsen

Disclaimer: all characters used here and alluded to belong to Alliance and their respective owners.

Rated: A slash

Pairing: Vic/Anson Once a Thief/Moloney

Spoilers: definitely for the final end of the OaT Series and the Maloney episode 'Damage Control'

Warning: Twincest!

Summary: Bad boy meets good boy and two not-quite parallel lives converge; can they help each other heal old and new wounds? (And I swear, before all Gods, that I didn't realize the significance of the city I chose for the setting of this fic until after I'd nearly finished it! The "Twin City" - Hah!)

Beta: Dr Ruthless

Author's Notes: Dedicated to my dear friend and mentor Sue, aka Dr Ruthless, without whose encouragement I couldn't have written this! Thank you for being there for me, Sue - This is for you, an offering for a fellow Anson fan! :)

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Anson looked up at the grill of the thick glass window screened with interlaced, crisscrossing wires. The sky outside was gray and featureless. Much like his mind, actually, or at least that's what it felt like. He wasn't sure he liked it. There remained a distant, fuzzy memory of shouting and screaming when they'd tried to shoot him up with whatever it was the needle contained.

Somehow he was almost sure that it happened repeatedly, although that was difficult to comprehend. He was sure they had kept him on the stuff for a long time, but the hazy floating he felt was mellow and only sometimes broken by a fitful restlessness, which came from an indistinct knowledge that it was inherently *wrong*. He felt slightly sick from the dosage too. Mostly in his stomach and down through his legs, in his feet, a vague nausea that continuously haunted him even as his brain refused to engage the vaguest possibility that it was worth protesting. It was as if his head was separated from his mind and the rest of his body was a discombobulated addendum with which other people interacted. Not that anyone had bothered since he'd found himself in here. He actually wasn't too sure who he was, either. He was considerably less worried about that at the moment than about dealing with the sick feeling that had started a distinct shaking of the nerves in his feet and hands.

He couldn't even find the urge within him to explore the unease he felt throughout his entire being, as discorporate as it was, yet Some tiny voice in the back of his head insisted that this was not right and he needed to avoid it happening again; that next time, he had to avoid getting doped up. This idea would of course require planning, thought and action; three things he wasn't sure he could concentrate on long enough to accomplish. Still, sitting effortlessly day after day in a heap didn't require too much in itself, and it left plenty of time for him to mull it over. There certainly wasn't anything else in his environment to care about. That was the worst part: he didn't feel anything - nothing at all - and all the while a hurt, wounded part of him deep inside kept time with the beating of his heart, waiting.

The concept of time was a sludgy, horrible idea that always seemed to hover beyond his grasp. Events played out before him almost as though he were merely watching them. What felt like several years later, he identified it accurately enough to find a possible comparison. It was almost like being in an interactive video game.

He grinned at that. Nintendo Man. Atari Guy. Or, what was it these days; Gameboy. Ha.

Wow. He could actually feel some humor drifting in here - somewhere - in his head. His mind and his head were getting to know each other once more. 'Hi, pal, long time no see. Yeah? Well it's good to see you again too. Little voices. Talking to themselves? Sure, just like ones that people joke about.' He giggled weakly to himself and then found himself wondering why he was feeling so incredibly sick. On the floor. A nurse moving in slow motion over him. God, sea-sick, this ain't right, make it stop oh shit, oh godsick blackness

Next thing he knew, he was sitting on the seat next to an old guy who was talking incessantly to himself and not making any sense at all - not to mention that he also smelled strange. That nearly made him sick again, hearing the gibbering and smelling whatever it was. But the nausea had faded and he was feeling differently about his surroundings now. Things didn't seem so stuffed with cotton, padded with fuzzy gauze from inside his brain. His eyes and what they saw began to make sense once more with what his mind could label and understand.

He realized he wasn't in solitary anymore, but he was still wearing a straitjacket with the sleeves down. What the hell? He couldn't understand why. He could hardly use his hands with the sleeves on. What a joke. Who was in charge here? He remembered being admitted here in the beginning, by the prison psychologist. He'd been transferred, despite his sentence He'd tried to kill himself. Yeah, whoa. Shit, he didn't need the memory of that back again. Damn. The cop killer. Right. Assholes, he thought bitterly.

This time, when the orderly came round with the pills he tongued them and didn't swallow. Hell, if the stuff made him sick anyway, what difference would it make when he entered withdrawal? He didn't look forward to repeating the experience - somehow being in here made the previous times even sharper in his memory. Withdrawal. But it was better than staying inside this institution, rotting. Gray. Waiting for something like sunshine. Yeah, sunshine and warmth from the inside-out. He wanted it, so badly. So much. Something he'd never had. Something he thought he'd given up hope of ever finding after having his daughter torn from him and his wife's betrayal of his heart. But then, he'd never been a very good judge of character when it came to those closest to him. It seemed to be a curse. Ever since his mother died

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Many, many miles and hours away

The taste of futility was like ashes in his mouth. Vic sat on the edge of the bed, in a room at a motel just off the edge of the highway. The noise of the passing cars and motors all night long didn't even reach him. He sat with his head in his hands. He felt curiously devoid of anything but grayness. That's what it felt like inside his head, and in his heart. In one day he'd lost two lovers, his friends, and been released from an impossible situation. He'd gained his freedom and the opportunity for a new life all in one fateful explosion. It seemed it was too dearly bought - at the price of two lives. Mac and Li Ann. The pain that lanced through him when he considered their deaths was enough to shake him out of dwelling on them for very long.

He'd spent three weeks on the run, both from his conscience at having fled the scene and his initial assumption that they were crisped and couldn't possibly still be alive. He'd managed to escape being trapped in the warehouse with a minimum of burns and shrapnel wounds, himself. He'd seen them tossed upwards and blackened from the blast as it roiled around themwatching their bodies fly backwards in those split seconds as he tore out of there, managing somehow with hot metal all around him to find a way out of the back of the building. Wincing, he stopped that train of thought abruptly. He couldn't keep playing that over and over. It was self- torment. His own singeing had been extensive and he hadn't dared to check into a hospital. Homemade burn treatment and secondhand medical care was painful when on the run.

Of course, the Director would have sent people out eventually to bring him back. He hoped to have disappeared too quickly for anyone to trace him, even now. He hadn't regretted his hasty impulse to run once he had the chance either. Now that he had made it this far, he was too glad to have escaped. To continue to work for the Agency after Mac and Li Ann had died would have been simply unbearable. Funny how close he had allowed himself to get to both of them. And it was odd that once he'd allowed himself to become friends with his ex-lover Li Ann, his new not-quite friend had become his lover And that familiar pain went through him. Mac.

God, another night of mourning, of tears, of wondering what the future might hold for a burnt-out case like himself. He wondered if the integrity and idealism that he'd always carried proudly within him had just been a defensive shield against the blows of an uncaring world. Once he'd let anyone in past it, into his feelings, he stood to lose more painfully as had been proven with this tragedy he still couldn't forget. They said time heals, he'd always believed that. Well, he really fucking needed to believe it now, unless he wanted the grief to swamp him.

He was even going to miss Nathan, he wondered with a glimmer of surprise. And he sighed. No, he was doing the right thing. He was too glad to be gone, to vanish. It gave him an excruciating measure of delight to know that he'd slipped out of the Director's grip. Never mind that he couldn't arrange to have a body replace his presence in that warehouse. Oh well. Thank god for small favors; at least he'd been given the chance. He wouldn't waste it. The dark angry pleasure he felt at slipping free of her noose, her manipulative cruel claws, gave him the one thing worth standing up for. He would seize his freedom with more vigor because of it. Grief was fine in it's place; it meant he could still feel.

Hopefully, rebuilding now would bring a fresh opportunity for him to make the kind of life he'd actually wanted. He knew a guy who knew a guy in the States and Vic knew that the sooner he sank out of sight, the better. City lights, gas fumes and nightmares were preferable to living under restrictive policies and no privacy, having to live every day with the knowledge that one was owned by an organization so secret that no one believed it existed and if one died one's parents wouldn't even know the particulars. But he'd got one up on her at last, over the Queen Bitch Herself! He'd already disappeared out from under her nose; how much harder could it be to vanish into thin air?

The smell of diesel was overpowering and he got up to close the window. He'd had to leave behind his beloved truck; somehow that was the thing that rankled the most.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Anson was biding his time. It was surprisingly easy, whittling away at the wood, chipping the window frame off and working at prying out the glass pane at night in the dark, replacing the wooden pieces and screws each morning. Tonguing his meds during the day and keeping the well- meaning nurses and well-educated doctors sufficiently entertained with his apparent zombie-hood. They bought it hook, line and sinker. They had no reason to suspect otherwise, considering all the other zombies he shared quarters with. He'd had so much practice before though, during previous stays in wards like this one. God bless mediocre attention to building maintenance and to crazies.

Then, one night, he was done at last. He located his old shirt and jeans, broke into the receptionist desk easily, managing to nab fifty-five dollars and a letter-opener. Out the window and across the grass, avoiding the lights and the security guards, over the high fence and past the dogs with a stealth that rapidly returned to him from his past training. And of course the high he was experiencing from fleeing, the adrenaline pumping from his flight and from not being detected He was out and away and lost in the dark.

And it was as easy as that. He guessed that drugged up patients didn't often make attempts like this. Hell, if security was that lax, imagine what someone even more motivated to escape could do. He wondered why one didn't hear more often about escaped inmates from places like the one in which he'd been held. They weren't all as crazy or stupid as people liked to think. He was a case in point! Time to make it good though. He melted into the city.

There was one good thing about being scruffy; people didn't just 'not see' him, they actively attempted very hard not to see him as he passed them on the streets. Convenient indeed for an escapee from a nuthouse.

Of course, he wasn't nuts. It had all been a terrible misunderstanding. From the very beginning. It had been a catalogue of disasters, one after the other. It was tragic, actually, and would have been funny if it wasn't his life. No one had ever cared to hear or comprehend his point of view, had ever taken the time to listen to the rundown of events that had led up to his incarceration there. And there were of course all the other times he'd been held in sanitariums; this told against him on his record. Why was it that if one is called a murderer when one has killed someone, even in self- defense, the title sticks? And why did the term 'nut' also stick with equally offensive prejudice, like the looks he was used to receiving from down the noses of certain types of doctors and shrinks? He sighed. He needed a new identity. Anson Greene wandered off in the direction of the downtown area.

He spent the night beneath an underpass and only for a few moments did he miss the bed back there No, the sheer feral delight he took in being free outweighed any lack of creature comforts. The only thing that pricked at him, stinging inside with nasty, sharp barbs, was the thought of his daughter. Never to see her again He fiercely shoved this away. Someday, somehow. A long time from now, maybe. Forever is a long time.

With the first light of dawn, he was pushing himself onward once more. He was motivated to lose himself in the bustle and jostle. Crowds were easier for disappearing in, particularly if anyone recognized him though he'd been gone for countless months, locked away. No one cared who he was anymore and he doubted that anyone would be the wiser that he was missing from the security wing for at least several more hours. No, it was just the paranoia from being so closely watched and guarded for so long. No one gave a fuck about him. He might just as well be invisible.

He took a bus as far he could on fifty dollars, hitching rides and stealing what he needed from minor stores to stave off starvation. By the time he got the last lift from a trucker headed towards Minneapolis, he was nine hundred dollars richer. Living like a drifter and petty thief was getting him down; it wasn't even really a 'front' anymore, it was what he'd become. It was certainly preferable to being a blindly-running mental patient with a history of violent crimes dating back to his early childhood. But that was his own personal pain; there were more than enough people to be found on the same roads who could match both the sob story and the criminal record.

Something about this city drew him. He figured it was just far enough away from LA to ensure his safety - as long as he didn't get involved in anything that might make him a known face or draw attention to him. Hell, maybe it meant his luck was about to change. Christ, it was about time. Dropped at the outskirts, Anson made his own way into the heart of the city. He desperately needed a shave and a shower, a change of clothes and a proper hot meal. Not to mention a solid stint of sleep, but first he did a little necessary shopping.

Twelve hours of solid sleep appealed greatly. He checked into a motel with every intention of looking for work the next day. He didn't want to become known for petty crimes all over again and he sincerely wanted to make a new break for himself in a place where no one knew him. It would be like fouling up his own nest.

He didn't sleep well. He was still too keyed up. But after a while the life on the road caught up with his system. He ended up sleeping closer to twenty-four hours before waking to find the tension had gone, leaving only the original and unshakeable intent to begin anew and start living again. He settled for getting to know the city for the first few days. It stretched into a week, then two. He was enjoying just being free to walk around, see the sights and do whatever the hell he wanted for a change. It was a novelty that he really enjoyed.

On a bright afternoon, cleaned up and feeling alive again for the first time in nearly a year, he was traversing an open courtyard near a park with pigeons that littered the ground so thickly people could barely walk. Anson suddenly experienced a sensation that crawled over him with strangeness. It was like electricity rippling over his skin. Lightly, but enough to make his hair stand on end. And that wasn't all; he felt lightheaded. He couldn't shake it and it increased the closer he got to the other side of the street, opposite the park. It wasn't unpleasant but it was not nice either. It felt like some kind of weird drug he'd never had before, inside his head.

It got so bad finally that he had to stop. Leaning against the wall to try to clear his head, he looked up at the glass window and happened to see - himself. He. Anson. His ownface. Him. In the window, inside, it was him! Sitting inside the caf, eating lunch. An actual other person that looked exactlylike his own body. The longer he stared, the less it he could deny it and the more he had to accept it despite all that his mind was trying to shout. It was him, but it - wasn't.

It was someone else, a stranger - another man, wearing his face. Different clothes but Jesus. It was eerie. In fact, it was fucking frightening.

What were the odds?

Maybe it was just a coincidence. The likeness was too uncanny. It was shocking in a way that he couldn't explain to himself. He experienced an unnerving disorientation. Was he was he really who he thought he was? Maybe the overdose he'd suffered at the hands of the thrice-damned fucking incompetent orderlies had fucked up his system so badly that he'd lost it for good now. He had to close his eyes, step back momentarily, and snatch a glimpse of his reflection in the warped metallic strip that ran along the outside wall of the building, as well as in the reflection of the glass above it. Yep, he was still himself. He hadn't lost his face. So what the hell? Who was the other guy? He even bit the inside of his cheek to see if he was having a particularly lucid dreaming experience. Pain. And the taste of blood. He was definitely real. And really here. But one never could tell. After spending as long as he had, drifting in and out of reality, and back and forth between both reality and delirium, he still had trouble with identifying reality occasionally.

He waited there, a slow smile coming over him. He had found direction suddenly; a new purpose. Finding a job, seeking some bombed-out shelter somewhere that he could call a permanent home, it all took a backseat to *this*. Those things would still be there waiting for him in the really real world. This was surreal enough that it felt as though it was really happening right now; bizarre enough to give him a strange sense of security. The shock of immediacy, and the thrill of the mystery of it. He was used to his life being fucked- up no matter how hard he strived for normality, snatching at reality. Hell, this was no freakier than some of the heavier prescriptions one asshole had given him once during his earlier incarceration in a military ward. It had been during that one, in fact, that he'd sworn never to land there again. So much for idle promises. In and out of trouble for so long now, it was a novelty to have something to pursue rather than run away from.

He waited outside for his double, intending to follow him when he left the caf. Every few minutes, he'd take another careful look. It was just too weird. He considered the premonition he'd felt just prior to finding the man and wondered if he'd ended up in this city by accident or if some strange quirk of fate had decided to deal him a funny wildcard for once, rather than a desperate losing hand.

It couldn't hurt to follow him and see who he was. The curiosity was sudden and surprising. He wondered why he was so willing to drop all other priorities to chase this man, but every time he caught another glimpse of him through the window, he found his resolve was firmer. He simply *had* to find out. At last, the guy was through, standing up and moving away to leave. He tensed, ready to turn and avoid being seen following him should the guy end up walking in his direction.

So it was with distantly careful and measured precision that Anson found himself stalking his reflection. A shadow of himself that might have existed in an alternate reality, if only his mother hadn't chosen to desert him to a life of empty hell; a lost child always frantically trying to find a hand to lift him out of the pit and never once being given the chance

Vic walked up the steps to his front door shabby it was not, this place. But he would have preferred something closer to the posh apartment the Agency had provided him. He tensed and straightened as he felt the presence of someone behind him, down the steps.

"Hey."

He turned and stared. Vic found himself unable to do much of anything except stare. Christ, the man looked exactly like

Anson pressed his lips together, his eyes narrowing and then darting to either side, checking out the street and who else was around. He lifted his chin, indicating the house. "This your place?"

"Why?" Vic was slowly coming to terms with the fact that the man before him was his exact double, although it did appear that life had treated the man differently. He had the air of someone hunted; furtive and just this side of desperate. It clicked. "You followed me here?" At last, Mansfield. Get a grip.

Anson cleared his throat. "Look, I, uh I saw you on the street and I couldn't," he grinned and laughed slightly in disbelief. "I couldn't believe it. I mean, *look* at us!"

"Yeah, it's -" Vic died out quickly, wondering how, why -

It occurred to Vic that this really was a fluke, that it wasn't some sort of elaborate scheme by the Agency to reel him in. "Did anyone else follow you?"

Anson quickly shook his head. "No way. You know, this is so weird. I never had a brother. Maybe - maybe we were switched in the cradle or something. That - doesn't sound right. But you know what I mean. Some kind of separation when we were born? You think?" He gave another delighted laugh, shaking his head while scanning Vic's face with a genuine preoccupation.

Vic grew aware that this odd scene might be noticed and remembered in his new neighborhood. He'd had the place only a week and already something bizarre was happening here. He frowned. "Look, why don't you come in? We can compare lives." He turned and unlocked the door, moving inside to hold it open for Anson who looked slightly taken aback.

He slowly climbed up the steps but stopped at the doorway. "Hey, I wasn't - I didn't come here to mess things up for you or anything. I just couldn't believe it, ya know?"

Vic nodded, wondering why it was that with the man standing so much closer to him he felt something much like static run over his skin, under his clothes. Shit, this was just too weird. He shrugged. "This doesn't happen every day. Get in here."

Anson finally moved, entering the place and letting Vic shut the door and lock it behind them. Vic went into the kitchen and put on the kettle. He turned and came back to the living room where hisdouble was standing indecisively.

"Sit down," Vic suggested. "D'you want a drink? I'm making coffee but if you think you need something stronger, I've got it."

"No, I better not. Not yet anyway." Anson slowly sat down, taking in the dcor. "You haven't been here long yourself, have you?"

Vic shook his head. He felt like he was living in some kind of movie; this couldn't be real. It was too weird. "Just moved in a couple weeks back. I'm new in town."

Anson grinned. "Hey, so'm I." His eager and slightly over- wild grin faded fast. He seemed to do that a lot, Vic noticed. He was too jumpy, it was making Vic nervous himself. He said, "I'll be right back. Gonna make the coffee. Uh, sorry; what's your name?"

"Anson, Anson Gr-" Anson cut off abruptly, realizing he would need a new name anyway. He looked down, wondering what the hell he was doing here. It all felt like a fucking dream. But then, on top of everything else that had happened to him, this was pretty cool in comparison.

So. First-name basis only. Vic could well understand, himself. He stepped forward and offered his hand. "I'm Victor. Pleased to meet you." Anson slowly took his hand and shook it. A mutual residual tingle went over them both and Vic stepped away quickly, leaving Anson sitting there.

In the kitchen, Vic had to shake himself. This was like stepping into the Twilight Zone. No sooner did he escape the clutches of the Director then he meets his clone Now that was a horrifying thought. He wouldn't put it past someone somewhere in some shadowy agency or even larger official government body to have been doing cloning experiments. But on him? In which case, which one of them would be the original he shook his head again and took a deep breath. They'd figure it out. It was too weird to put it down to just coincidence. He made the coffee quickly, calling out, "Black? Sugar?"

"No sugar," was the reply God, it was so weird. Anson even sounded similar to his own ears; similar voice - they even looked to be the same age. And when they had shaken hands, Vic had felt that peculiar electrostatic charge dissipate, but not before rushing all over his body leaving him with a slight case of goosebumps.

He could be wrong, but Vic could swear that Anson's eyes and hair were a very slight shade darker than his own. Apart from that, they were virtually identical. He swallowed, took a deep breath to try to steel himself for the discussion he knew they needed to have and picked up both cups of coffee, bringing them out to the living room and handing one to Anson.

Taking another look, this time Vic saw that Anson didn't just look hunted, he looked haunted and beaten, as if he had survived some kind of traumatic experience. He put his own cup down and sat in another seat, slightly angled away from Anson. "I'm from Canada. Like I said, I only just moved here. I was living in Vancouver until a month ago. I was born there, in Canada." Well, shit, Mansfield. This is going really well*not*. Christ, get your brain in gear.

Anson stared at him. "So was I. But I've been living in LA for so long that I don't really think it would be right to claim anything towards that. I mean, like citizenship or anything. My parents moved to the US when I was born."

Vic was staring at him, mesmerized. "I-It's like looking at a mirror. You know, I could get into some places, do some checking around. I could find out, if you like. We really could be related. What do you think?"

Very swiftly Anson appeared dangerous, rather than hunted. "I don't know about that. I'm kind of at a disadvantage 'cause I just moved here too."

Vic considered this. "Are you in trouble? I'm on the run, myself." Trust me to open my big mouth, he thought. Let's hope I haven't put my foot in it. But it seemed so natural to him to want the other man to trust him. Problem was, Anson was probably more likely to be at risk than he was, despite Vic's past associations. The guy looked like he had been to hell and back - more than once.

Anson regarded Vic carefully. Secretly he had decided Vic was soft; the guy probably had been spoon-fed a college education and had moved to a new city to get away from the painful ending of a relationship or something. Or maybe it had been financial. He snorted; probably the guy went to law school. And had subsequently gotten in over his head. Or his wife had dumped him for another man. Poor baby; his heart bled at the thought. And then caught himself. Maybe he shouldn't sell him short just yet. Ex-Marine-and-unstable- inmate versus College-boy-career-yuppie. Could be interesting. "Yeah? What a coincidence."

Vic nodded. "I have a family that I don't see anymore. I left when I was young and I never looked back. Wanted to be a cop. They didn't approve. I joined the force for a while but it didn't work out. I ended up in the joint, would you believe? I was framed. I've been kind of out of it, here. That's why I moved." He grinned, deciding not to divulge his most recent employment until he knew Anson's agenda better.

Just my fucking luck, Anson thought, acidly. A cop who refused to go on the take. Damn it. Not just a cop either; a good one, one of those annoying kind who like to preach to others about not mixing with the criminal element. He shrugged. "I've never really had a steady career. Uh, construction, some bar work, you know. I was in the Marines."

Vic lifted his brows eagerly. "Really? That should make it easier to find out what common background we might share. In terms of family history, I mean. They always do a thorough background check, even if it doesn't go onto your service record."

Fuck, fuck, fuck, thought Anson. Now the guy was going to want to see that service record. He shook his head. "I don't know. Let's not jump into anything too fast here. I'm glad to meet you though. Hey, no hard feelings about following you here, huh? I wasn't stalking you, honest. I was just curious. I mean, look at us!" He laughed.

Vic chuckled. "Yeah. It's pretty unbelievable. Look, have you had lunch? Do you want anything?"

"No, no thanks. I'm, uh," Anson stood up, getting nervous. Truth was, he didn't want to intrude and actually felt out of place in this nice guy's place, regardless of whether they were brothers or not, they *were* strangers to each other. He put it down to not wanting to get in too cozy with an ex-cop, who undoubtedly would want to get him put away when he discovered the full extent of Anson's sordid history. Cop killer "I gotta go anyway, but maybe we could get together again?"

Vic bit his lip, also rising. "Was it something I said?" he quipped, flashing a slight smile. Then went serious. "Oh, right. Look, I'm not a cop anymore. I haven't been for years now, okay?"

"Hey, that's - that's great. Just, don't want to overstay my welcome."

There was something about the way Anson stood there looking simultaneously lost and unhinged at the same time that made Vic want to sit him back down, keep him there for dinner and - and - well, help him out somehow. He almost sighed at how predictable this was. Yeah, the old joke: Mansfield was a pushover for anyone with a sad story. "Do you have to rush off? I'm not doing anything this afternoon. We could talk. Hell, I have a part-time job that's only four days a week. It's a temporary thing. If you're looking for work, maybe I could find out if they have any vacancies -"

Anson stared at him, taken aback. He wasn't accustomed to open generosity. Nothing had ever been handed to him on a plate before. Life always had a way of taking a big chunk out of your ass the moment you thought you were getting something for nothing. "Yeah, right. How would that look - 'hey, it's the Hardy Twins, coming to work together'. Matching lunchboxes and all that crap. We look too alike. We could be brothers. That's what people would think."

"And that would be a bad thing because?" Vic looked down, peering at him from beneath his brows with a slight frown, wondering at the attitude. "No pressure. It's good work, actually. Cushy. Security, you know? For banks and things. It's just a get-by."

Anson started to feel panic welling up inside. Victor was far too self-confident and sure of his own worth. Anson felt cheap and dirty, soiling the place by simply remaining in his house. Victor had no idea of Anson's past. If he did, he doubted he'd tolerate him here, let alone be suggesting employment in something like security! He had to leave. He had to go. "Thanks for the offer, but I can manage. I've gotta go but," he hesitated, "hey, we can get together again at some point. Right?"

Vic shrugged and folded his arms. "You know where I live."

"Yeah." Anson stood, returning his gaze, saying nothing more. Finally, he said, "Alright. I'll see you around."

"Okay. It was nice meeting you. Bye." Vic wondered why it felt so wrong just to let him walk away. By the time Anson got to the front door, Vic had grabbed a notepad and a pencil. "Anson! Give me your phone number. Or some way I can reach you. I'm going to trace back my birth records, do some digging. It might be somewhere in some database I can get access to. I'll let you know. It was kind of my job, before, what I did before I came here? I learned how to do that kind of thing. So" he trailed off, invitingly.

"Alright. Sure." Anson came back and took the pencil from him, scribbled a number hastily down and then looked back up at him. They were about a foot apart and Vic could suddenly feel himself growing warm. It was too intense, being in the same room with him, let alone this close. He wondered if that was partly why Anson was so eager to leave.

Anson turned finally and said, "Let me know how you get on. See you around." Anson wasn't worried; Vic didn't even have his surname.

"I will." Vic sat down after Anson left. He sat there for a long time. Jesus Christ. His entire world had just been turned upside down yet again. It seemed to be happening with alarming regularity. One thing was for sure, he wasn't bored.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

The phone number Anson had given to Victor was actually a public phone in a bar. Anson quickly became a regular. He was quiet and kept to himself. The barkeeper, Charlie, actually found him a likeable guy and Anson suspected he'd be able to sweet-talk his way through with him if he had rent trouble. The room where he was boarding was above the bar, on the second floor. He found himself sticking closer to the bar with each passing day. Strangely, it had quickly become the one thing he looked forward to. Waiting for the phone to ring, waiting for a message. He'd told them downstairs to take a message for him if anyone called. He tried to pretend it didn't mean as much to him as it did.

He was unable to forget Victor. There had been something so - attractive about the guy. It wasn't that he looked so much like him, no. It wasn't that simple. It was Victor's kindness, his compassion. Anson sneered at charity, yet somehow if Victor were to offer it, he wasn't sure he'd be able to turn him away. Because coming from Victor, it would be genuine, he was sure. The idea of having a brother was alluring in that it might help explain some of the lack of details of his own parent's background, his father not to mention the rather glaring hole where any kind of family feeling should have existed. That hole that had always longed to be filled.

Still, it seemed like another desperate wish, a dream, and that if he actually tried to touch it, it would disappear. The luxury of hope belonged to others. Days passed.

Yet he hung around more and more and it was kind of by default that he ended up with a job at the bar, clearing tables and cleaning, for some extra cash. He even started looking after the bar when Charlie had to go out or leave for some reason.

And he waited for the phone to ring. It never occurred to him to go back to Victor's place. He thought it would have seemed discourteous. Some vestigial part of Anson found itself wanting to look better in Victor's eyes.

Two weeks went by without a word and Anson began to wonder. Then he was surprised to come back one afternoon and find Charlie waving a slip of paper at him. Victor had called and asked to see him that evening at seven - if he were free. Apparently, he had discovered something about their origins after all. Anson excused himself from janitorial duty that night; Victor was family, he told Charlie, who promptly gave him a bottle of Glenmorangie to take with him.

Come seven o'clock, Anson found himself standing on the doorstep, finger poised to press the buzzer, holding the whisky. He'd dressed better this time, wanting to prove something by making a better impression.

A sudden noise came from inside and he realized Victor was coming to the door. He knocked quickly. The door was whisked open a second later. Vic grinned at him. He was still wearing an apron. "You'd better be hungry." And he pointedly stood aside, waiting for Anson to enter. "Scotch? Great. We can open it afterwards. I think we'll need it."

"That bad, huh?" Anson wanted to start fishing but Vic looked preoccupied.

"Depends on your perspective. Give me a minute, okay? I've still got something on the stove. Make yourself at home." Vic prowled back into the kitchen.

Anson set the whisky down on the coffee table and took a breath. He took off his jacket and laid it on the couch.

Vic came out soon though, without the apron. "Sit down," he murmured, sitting himself and snagging a briefcase he had put by the side of the chair. Opening it, he started removing documents.

"It's all here; everything. There's the good news - and then there's the bad news."

Anson met his eye squarely. "Give it to me."

Vic sat back, letting his breath out with a rush. "We're not clones, which is what I worried when I saw some of the more experimental research they're involved in. But we are related. We're brothers*close* brothers."

"No fucking kidding. How close?"

Vic licked his lips, chewing on the lower one. "Twins. How clichd is that, huh? Separated at birth and all that. Like you said."

Anson shrugged. "Could've been worse, I suppose; as *you* said."

Vic sighed and tossed his head to the side jerkily, working the kink out of his neck. He began rubbing it absently. "Like I said, clones and - things. It was kind of stomach-turning."

Vic sat for a moment, lost in his own considerations over this. It explained not just their uncanny similarity of appearances but also the strange pull he felt towards Anson. He had been drawn to him from the very beginning. It had been much more than a fascination with someone who looked as much like himself as if he were looking in a mirror. Anson was sufficiently different in character and background that he didn't think anyone would really have that much difficulty telling them apart despite their obvious shared blood. No, it was deeper than that. He felt a compelling bond with him and wondered if Anson felt it too. It had sprung up out of nowhere - almost as if he were just making it up in his own head.

There were hard, rough edges to Anson that made him dangerous, like a serrated blade. Yet for all his apparent psyched-out damaged ferocity, Vic could tell that it covered a wounded and vulnerable heart that had already given up hope years ago. Like a whipped animal, cast out on the streets and backed into a corner, he knew instinctively that all his *brother* needed, was some gentle coaxing. With the right persuasion, he might let himself be tamed a little. At least enough to live with.

Vic shook his head. What the hell was he thinking? This was hardly some cozy family reunion. His eyes narrowed as he thought of the irony of it; all his life he'd searched for a counterpart, his 'other half' and it turned out to be his twin brother. In managing to escape the clutches of the Director and her shadowy Agency, he'd regained something he'd never known was lost to him. He'd always wondered at the feeling, and now it made perfect sense. Despite their separation, the bond still existed, no matter how buried. It also explained the weird connection of static and sense they had when they met.

But he'd uncovered as much as he needed to know about Anson's past. He knew it would probably be difficult to get Anson to accept him and his own involvement with the Agency, not to mention having been a cop. And also it would be hard to expect Anson to feel safe enough with him to share his past, even knowing that Victor was aware of the circumstances and the events. And although maintaining a prudent level of awareness of Anson's history, he didn't judge him for what happened.

But Vic was sufficiently engaged to invest whatever attention it might require to heal the rift between them. He wasn't nave; he knew it might be difficult at times. But it was worth the chance. It seemed that both of them had met up here by accident; it would be a shame to throw the opportunity back in the faces of the fates, who had given it to them.

Anson was still looking through the papers, looking at photos, evidence and certificates. Finally he looked up at Vic, slightly bewildered. "Some of this talk about government facilities, and an agency? A shadowy government agency? Is that the one that you were working for, the one that screwed you over?"

"Yeah, says it on this page here," Vic leaned over and pointed at the lower half of the page Anson was holding.

Anson was shaking his head. Finally, he sat back with a groan. "You're right. A drink is in order, here. So let me get this straight; they separated us at the beginning, cut me loose with the father and left you with the mother? Our mother - " He drew a sudden breath at this. That meant the woman who he had always called mother wasn't -

Vic was nodding, going through a similar understanding over the father he'd never gotten along with and who had been the final reason he'd been estranged from them so long ago. "We both got screwed. And the thing that stinks the most is that the goddamned Director knew it. She *knew* it, all along. Fuck." He let out an explosive breath. "All for the sake of meddling in psychological experiments."

"Yeah, well, they got twisted up in their agendas, I think. Training and weapons, as well To run both of them on both of us, while keeping us in the dark - for all these years"

"You know what else?" Vic whispered, "Our parents wanted out; that's why we were split up. Our father most of all. When he saw the both of us, his two boys, his *sons*, that's when it hit him. That's when he opted out. Of course, then it was too late. The bastards were going to get their pound of flesh out of us all."

"I wonder how many broken homes there are; other families that have suffered from this kind of thing," mused Anson.

"I don't know about you, but I'm pretty well pissed," Vic said, regarding Anson slowly, and added, "I think you got the worse end of the deal, too. When I think of what they let you go through, how they threw you to the wolves, deliberatelywhen they could have bailed you at any time. I just wish I had known. I would have done everything in my power to get you out."

Anson looked down at the documents spread out before him. "They never meant for us to know each other. To know any of this."

"No." Vic inhaled, rubbed his face and said, "Are you still hungry?"

Anson smiled. "It would be a shame to waste it."

"Come on." Vic led him to the kitchen. He'd laid the table and made Italian, with a Caesar salad. He considered red wine and decided against it, in favor of the whisky afterward.

Anson sat down, feeling self-conscious. He looked up, met Vic's eyes and said, "I'm kinda new to this stuff. I'm not used to having family and, I - "

Vic shook his head. "It's okay. Don't worry about it. It's bound to be strange for both of us, at first. I always wondered what it would be like, to have a brother. What do you think? We both have a fresh start here; with the advantage that we've joined forces. They don't know it and for all they know, we've either vanished or died. We have each other and a new life. Yeah?"

Anson regarded him and then smiled. "Alright. Sure, I'll give it a go." He didn't want to sound over-eager. Inside, his heart leapt at Victor's words. Then something came to him. "How did you manage to get all that at such short notice? You aren't even with them anymore."

Vic looked uncomfortable. "I called in a favor. I got a friend to call a friend in the Agency." In fact, he'd gotten Nathan to dig it up for him but he didn't see the point in elaborating on that. "Don't worry; they can't trace it. They won't know it was me." He began serving up the food.

As they ate, they gradually realized that it was not only to their mutual advantage to get to know each other better and to share life-stories at this point, it was also a joy. Vic was enjoying it greatly; he no longer felt alone. But for Anson it was a watershed; he wasn't used to trusting anyone, let alone relating to them. It was all starting to overwhelm him. It was a bit much to process all at once.

Anson couldn't understand why he felt such an implicit trust in Vic, though. He was still a stranger, and as strange as the circumstances were, he couldn't explain it to himself. He didn't look down on Vic anymore, as he had at first. If anything, he found himself rather in awe. Vic was far from the soft sissy college grad student lawyer or ex-cop with the heart of gold he was an escaped operative of an agency so secret it didn't even officially exist. He knew it was silly to romanticize that part, but it was so much more glamorous and interesting than his own twisted story. Which he of course downplayed as much as possible, making it boring rather than sick. Perhaps it was out of pride, but he really didn't want Victor looking down on him.

Victor was actually far from feeling that way and was in fact wrestling with an entirely different problem. He had come to terms with his own bisexuality years ago; having had a close relationship with Mac had also deepened his self- knowledge about what he liked and what he wanted, what his expectations were. And he was disturbed to find that he was drawn to Anson in the same way that he'd been drawn to Mac. Hardly an appropriate desire for a sibling, so close by blood and birth, yet that was partly the fascination. And it wasn't exactly the fact that he reminded him of himself, either, although to be honest, that also played a part. But Anson was like the perfect cause; it matched Victor's own search for one on too many levels. It seemed as though Anson was the cause for which he had been searching all these years. He suddenly had not only a twin brother but one that needed emotional support and building up of his self-esteem and sense of self- worth. To heal all those scars - it appealed to Vic so deeply. He cursed himself for being a sentimental idiot. If he wasn't careful, he'd screw this up, too. He could never forgive himself if he alienated Anson with his own emotional needs, let alone perverse desireshowever inadvertent and unintentional they were. Vic firmly suppressed them.

Anson was eager to help with the dishes afterwards and they found themselves carrying on the conversation throughout, finally taking themselves back to the living room to open the scotch. Vic found himself sharing things he never would have dreamed of telling anyone else, ever. And Anson surprised himself by opening up for the first time in his life; actually relaxing the death grip he had on his past and his pain. It made sense to go along with it, not realizing that he was trying to prove to his brother that he was worth the attention.

Vic kept getting flashes though, throughout the evening as it wore on, that somehow they fit perfectly, totally complementary together. Where Vic had weaknesses, Anson had strengths. Despite the relative damage, Anson still had spirit; no length of time spent in a mental ward could quell it. And where he lacked emotional maturity, bereft and wounded by the early trauma of his childhood experiences and the deaths of his mother and stepfather, Vic provided his usual innate care and concern. Anson needed him; and Vic needed to be needed. They just seemed to fill the spaces in each other's selves, in their lives. And after a few more hours of scotch and catching up with things, talk dwindling to simple brevity and anecdotes, small hurts, little plans for the futureVic realized something irrevocable had happened. He'd fallen in love with his brother. Didn't take very long, he mused. Still, there was something unavoidable about it. He just prayed he could hide it well enough from Anson so that he wouldn't think he was sick and break off this new relationship, and kill this new light in his life.

He began to cool his emotional overtures, aware that if he didn't, he was most likely to blow it and end up saying something regrettable. He was having a harder time not staring at him, too. He had to fight the impulse to go over to him and hug him.

Unfortunately, Anson sensed this immediately and took it as a sign that Vic was feeling more uncomfortable with him now that they'd shared too much, so suddenlyand he wondered why. Anson could only put it down to a lack of his own ability to meet Vic halfway and so he tried that much harder - after a few minutes of feeling rejected and then worthless.

Luckily, Vic picked up on this and tried to lighten the mood once more.

It was three in the morning and Anson was laying on the couch, lengthwise. Vic was slumped in the big chair opposite, regaling him with exploits that he and Mac had engaged in against Dobrinsky, in retaliation for the chores the man had subjected them to. When Anson had yawned for the twentieth time, Vic suddenly lifted his head. "Hey, why didn't you say something? You're beat. Listen, feel free to stay right there, okay? I'll rustle up a blanket from somewhere." He staggered to his feet and wandered down the hallway to rummage through the closet cupboard.

"I'm glad. That this happened, I mean. I always wanted a brother," Anson called, the exhaustion making itself apparent in his voice.

By the time Vic had returned with covers, Anson had slipped away and was dead to the world. Vic tucked the blankets in around him and then sat by his side for a moment, watching him sleep.

His brother, his twin. His new family What was left of what he had wanted to call family? Mac and Li Ann had been more of a family to him than the one that Alice (he mentally sighed), Allegra had left months back.

He would do anything for Anson. Do anything to keep him safe, to stop anything from hurting him again. The fierce protectiveness he felt on Anson's behalf almost scared him; it was more than for a good friend, or even family. Vic watched him sleep, wishing he could just kiss him once on the cheek. Or hold him close, just for a few moments. The strength of the desire to do so was what made him stop himself, in the end. He finally got up, went to his own bedroom.

Sleep, I need sleep, he told himself. It's just a case of discovery, a new addition in your life, that's all it is, he told himself. There was no need to get maudlin over it - over him. Anson... God, he was so beautiful.

But every time he thought of all the things Anson so carefully hadn't spoken of, all the things he'd read about his twin in the carefully documented files that he had neglected to show Anson along with the others Vic wanted to kill someone with rage on his behalf, to hold him tight and protect him from the world, and - yeah, to kiss his pains away. Damn it, he thought, I always knew that habit of mine for wanting to rescue strays was gonna land me in trouble.

It was like the old saying; be careful what you wish for, you might get it.

He was still pondering that when he fell asleep himself.

When Vic awoke in the morning, he felt like he'd been stretched out over a flat rock all night and pummeled by wind and rain. Groaning at his headache, he pulled on jeans and a t-shirt. He found himself in the kitchen gulping down water. Whisky, and talking all night long Anson. He lifted his head suddenly and then careened into the living room. It was empty of course. A small note on the coffee table read:

Victor

Thanks for dinner and everything.
Next time it's my treat, bro.
I'll call you.

A.

Victor felt a warm feeling go through him, blossoming in his chest and spreading everywhere else. He folded up the note and put it in his right front pocket, in his jeans. Then winced as he realized he was treating it like a love note from a cherished crush. Looking around, he saw Anson had also tidied up all the documents and placed them in the briefcase. Anson hadn't taken a thing away. He shrugged slightly. He would keep them safe enough for both of them. He went to shower and get dressed for work.

He spent the rest of the day oscillating between ludicrous fears - that Anson would get hit by a bus or otherwise be taken from him - to standing about dreaming idly with a smile on his face, feeling as though he were on cloud nine. He was only made aware of this by a couple of passing co-workers at the admin office remarking to him with grins that he 'must've got lucky last night'.

Luckily, the feelings didn't fade over the next few days, either. Rather, they grew in strength as he anticipated when Anson might call. He knew it was absurd but then what else was there in his life that could compare with this overwhelmingly positive turn of events? He was just so glad to have found not only family but happiness for a while.

That's when he finally had the Dream. That's how he referred to it afterwards. One night soon afterwards, he dreamt he was back in his apartment in Vancouver, (unsurprising, considering how long he'd spent there) and Anson was in his bed, in his arms. He had clutched at Anson as if for a life raft at sea, desperately, kissing him deeply and unwilling to stop even as Anson had laughingly pulled away to catch a breath. Their bodies had been pressed together so tightly, Vic wanting them to remain that way and almost wished he could climb into the other's skin, inside him, united. The completeness he craved was somehow denied him though, despite holding onto him dearly, promising him over and over again that there wasn't anything he wouldn't do for him. When Vic had awoken that morning, a few minutes later, he found he'd come all over his sheets. It remained an important dream in his mind, because he realized he couldn't deny it to himself, no matter how secret it had to remain. He still couldn't understand how he could fall for Anson, so deeply and so quickly, let alone the fact that the man was his own brother. Feeling more than a little guilty, he tried not to become pensive while he waited and waited and still Anson never called. He couldn't afford to crowd him.

It might drive him away and that was something Vic couldn't bear to even think about.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Anson was sitting with a tumbler between his hands at a table on his own, trying to bolster the courage to call. It had been nearly ten days and he still felt anxious about calling. He couldn't remember the last time anything had meant so much to him and it frightened him, deep down. Mostly because he wasn't sure when it might be taken away from him. The last time he'd let himself get this close to someone, they'd been taken from him. He was still worried that he couldn't match up to Vic's level or qualities. And he still wasn't yet in an income bracket that could afford him a reciprocal evening of the standard Vic had given him before. He wouldn't have cared except that Victor was decidedly not a snob and obviously put such effort into it, such attention on his behalf.

Beer and pizza was friendly, casual and - cheap. He knew he was being stupid to even worry about it. There was that thing about Vic that that made him so damned *good*, better than everyone else, better than him, that made him want to gain his approval. He knew Vic saw potential in him and for the first time in his life, Anson did not find it condescending. Before it had always been someone expecting results of him with a decidedly superior manner.

So, every time he sat there and decided to stop being an idiot and just call, he found himself at a loss for words. What was he supposed to say? Come on over - you can see where I work, where I live and just flake out upstairs with beer. No. Order takeout and invite him to - what the hell? Why was he acting like this was a date?

Anson shook himself. This whole family thing took some getting used to. Having a new twin brother was somewhat of a shock. He liked it, of course. But he knew he didn't really deserve Victor. He felt completely useless and helpless. He didn't know what he could possibly do for him to return the trust and affection that Vic so easily gave. He took another breath and gripped his glass again.

He didn't see the speculative frown that Charlie cast in his direction.

Finally Charlie could stand it no longer. Anson looked up to find Charlie pouring a wee dram more into his glass, saying, "For God's sake man, just call her, why don't you."

"Yeah. Right." He lifted the glass and drained it for fortification, a self-deprecating smile twisting his mouth. He shoved his chair back as he stood, getting up from the table and yanking the phone off the hook.

Charlie finally smiled as he overheard the words 'tomorrow night, okay?' and 'yeah, eight', followed by a number of chuckles and replies he couldn't quite make out.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Vic stood in the shower, letting the water pour over his head like a miniature waterfall. He remained motionless, his eyes closed, wondering if he stood there long enough whether the water would wash away his doubt, fear and desire. He was electrified, almost running on automatic. The sheer anticipation of seeing Anson again now was like some kind of thunder thudding inside him no matter how many times he told himself to be cool. He couldn't remember being this screwed up over someone since, let's see, it had been Mac, hadn't it? Yeah. Shit.

What *was* it about the men in his life, that they ended up evoking such an uncontrollable wild side in him? Not that they came along with any regularity or frequency. But when they did it was such a tidal wave, usually sweeping him off his feet and pulling him under. He grimaced where he stood under the relentless cascade and considered taking the edge off by turning it cold. And then thought, fuck, I'll just end up with even bluer balls by the end of the evening anyway. And ran one hand over his chest slowly, letting the other glide to his cock to work on it roughly, imagining the two of them together the way they'd been in the Dream. At the thought of licking those lips, running his tongue over them, so pretty and yet so male, so defined, he felt his climax rushing over him to join the rivulets of water rushing over his body, lost in them quickly and swirling away even as he felt the tension abate nicely for a while. He finished up his shower after that.

When he got out, a somewhat crazed man with dark green eyes stared back at him from the bathroom mirror, slightly marred by the steamed glass. Definitely not Anson's face. Anson had a countenance that was a little sharper, with eyes more deeply overshadowed with the weight of his past, and darker hair.

By the time Vic had dressed and was ready, he glanced at the clock. Fuck. Another forty-five minutes. He paced briefly and then forced himself to sink down into the chair and flicked on the TV. Sports, news, toons, crap, news, more crap, more sports He switched it off impatiently and tried to calm his breathing and his pulse. Returned to pacing. Why the *hell* was he so keyed up?

He couldn't lie to himself. Every fiber of him was quivering. And it wasn't even that static, hair-raising feeling he got when Anson was around. He cursed bitterly under his breath, surprising himself with the amount of invective he actually was actually able to call up with no effort at all. Nerves. It was just nerves, right? At the knowledge that he was going to have to restrain himself - control! control! - in Anson's presence.

Time crawled.

It was just beer and pizza, for God's sake. It wasn't a big deal. So why did it mean so much to him?

Anson. Hm. Anson. Handsome. God, even his name was delicious.

Realizing that if he didn't get himself under control soon he stood a pretty good chance of not being able to keep his hands to himself, he forced himself to remember the consequences of such a thing. He'd mostly likely lose this most precious and wondrous thingthat had come so quickly to mean everything in the world that he valued it was enough to sober him. Fast. Cold.

By the time seven forty-five arrived, Vic was once more master of his own body. Well, as he'd ever be under the circumstances.

Introspection was something that Vic had not dared indulge in yet and he further sobered himself with the thought that it was not only narcissistic and egomaniacal in the extreme to lust after his twin, it was sick, perverse, disgusting, objectionable, hot and dirty and - well, hot. He shut his eyes and thought of glaciers, icebergs.

Time slowed to a molasses trickle.

Anson went up the steps, grateful for once that he was carrying so much and couldn't afford to stand outside dithering around like a fool on Victor's front door. He rang the doorbell, balancing everything and hoping Vic would open the door before it all started to get too heavy.

The door was opened a little too quickly and his eyes widened, unable as he was to take a step back, nearly wavering backwards. Vic grinned at him. "Hi. Come on in. Let me take some of those."

They got the pizza boxes in and Anson carefully set down the two six packs.

"Heineken?" Vic inquired.

"Of course."

"Do you mind blues?" Vic asked, probing a little.

"Nope. Go for it."

Vic went to his meager but newly growing collection. It was with some sadness but in honor of Mac's memory that he had finally broke down and decided to go for CDs. He cursed that his precious 8-track and collection of tapes were sitting probably on Dobrinsky's desk by now, languishing unappreciated. What a waste. What a loss. He shared this with Anson and got a sympathetic chuckle.

"In honor of Mac, huh?" Anson repeated again, more thoughtfully.

"Yeah."

"You must have had it pretty bad for him." Anson was busy picking up a pepperoni with cheese and extra ham and didn't see the startled expression cross Vic's face.

Vic stopped with a bottle halfway to his lips. "W-what? Why? Why did you say that?"

"Well, it's kinda obvious that you had pretty strong feelings for him - whenever you talk about him," Anson said, around a mouthful of pizza. "More than you'd have for a best friend. And like you said, you used to fight all the time." He darted a glance up, seeing Vic's serious face. Anson shrugged. "Hey, it's not a problem for me."

Vic handed him an open bottle of beer. "Glad to hear it."

"Thanks. Yeah, really, s'okay by me. I don't swing that way myself, but hey, I don't mind. Really."

Vic shrugged with a nonchalance he didn't feel. "Great. It - might have been a rebound kind of a thing. You know, after Li Ann and all."

"You're lucky to have had friends who loved you like that," Anson remarked, more seriously. "I wish my wife had been a friend."

To Vic, it suddenly seemed as though the room was crowded with unseen faces, like ghostly reminders of all the previous people who had shared their lives. He was jealous - he'd been looking forward to having his brother here to himself. This of course led to a surge of guilt at the strength of his crush on him and he was ashamed. He attempted to hide this behind the motion of helping himself to pizza.

Anson saw through it, already far more attuned to Vic than his twin would have probably found comfortable. And worried that he had somehow touched on something painful without meaning to. He swallowed. When it came to showing Vic any kind of concern or supportive gesture, comfort even, he felt lost, not really knowing how to give it. He felt clumsy and stupid. "I didn't mean bring up anything that would remind you of -"

Vic shook his head quickly, a little negating motion. "Don't worry about it." Swiftly changing the subject, he said, "You brought a lot. Planning on snacking throughout the night?" he smiled at him.

Anson looked up, met Vic's gaze. The warmth in it, the tenderness still unexpressed except through Vic's eyes, hit Anson without warning. He slid his eyes away and raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, I kind of overdid it I guess. Hell, we can split the leftovers." He grinned back and then took a hasty gulp from his bottle. Why the hell did he suddenly feel like whole conversations were silently happening throughout everything they said and did? And that they were all going right over his head?

Vic was silently swearing and cursing at himself with the same talent he'd discovered in himself before Anson's arrival, for the folly of allowing his cock to rule his brain.

The need to confess to Anson now before it got way out of hand and he spent even more time digging a hole for himself as their relationship progressed, began to consume him. It was only the sheer idiocy of such a move that stopped him from blurting it out right there.

But the tension manifesting itself on Vic's face despite his efforts to conceal it was evident to Anson. Anson began to wonder exactly what his brother was thinking that would make him behave this way. Finally, Anson threw down his pizza and let out a frustrated, short sigh. He sat back in his seat and drank deep for a moment. Considering him, Anson said, "Look, whatever it is that's bothering you, why don't you just come out and say it. If you're worried about what I'm gonna say, don't be. I'll hear you out. I will. It's the least I can do, Victor."

Vic shut his eyes and gulped the mouthful he'd been chewing. He sat back himself and, emboldened by Anson's reassurance, considered carefully what he could say. Finally, he raised his eyes to meet Anson's enquiring ones, so dark andhe could almost imagine him forgiving him for his admittedly shameful thoughts. He mentally shook himself. Now was definitely not the moment to get stupid. "I can't, in good conscience, keep this from you." How to frame it, Christ. "I've been doing a lot of thinking about us. I know it's new and must be kind of weird for you after spending so long alone without anyone to - to understand you or listen to you." He paused, licking his lips. Fuck, this really wasn't going how he had meant it to. "I'm sorry I get heavy and serious on you sometimes. It, this, means more to me than you know. Just spending time with you, getting to know you. It means a lot to me. I'm worried about saying the wrong thing or doing something to make you not want to continue - seeing me. Or coming here," he ran down, wondering what the hell was wrong with his mind that he couldn't even think straight anymore.

Anson nodded though. "I know what you mean. It means a lot to me too. I don't want to take it for granted anymore than you do." He glanced down with a shamefaced grin. "I've been worried myself, that you - I mean, even here, tonight. I didn't mean to take so long to get back to you. To call you. I just thought, you know, beer and pizza. So cheap, you know?"

Vic stared. Damn. This is isn't what he'd meant to convey. Still, it was considerably safer ground. He grinned, relief making his reply probably more euphoric than was necessary.

"This is more than okay. Jesus, you don't have to do a big number. Just spending time with you is enough for me." Vic stopped, wondering if what he'd just said was actually kosher. Or not. Or if the way he'd said it was off. Christ, Anson had already twigged about his relationship with Mac from the way he spoke about him He wondered exactly how well Anson could read him. His eyes narrowed, wondering next if Anson suspected that his feelings for him had quickly developed into others that were less than wholesome. He looked down, experiencing a sudden and complete loss of appetite. He sought respite in his beer and found he'd drained it already. Frustrated, he put the bottle down and replaced it with another.

"There's something more, though, isn't there?" Anson's question was perceptive but his tone was actually nervous, as though worried that Vic had some kind of difficult issue he intended to raise with him.

Vic let his breath out with a nervous chuckle and opened his bottle. "Yeah. But it's not you. It's me; it's about me. I figure you're already half-way there, and I don't think I can stand pretending it isn't here, now, affecting the way I act." God, that sounded so - cryptic and just plain awkward. But it was true. As painful it was, he couldn't lie to him, even if was just an omission. Hell, for all he knew, Anson would just deal with it and let him figure it out for himself. He tried to raise a little fortitude with more beer and gulped some down. Looking over at Anson now though, he saw his brother had a solemn look, like a wet dog, who fully expected to be ejected out into the storm once more. Fuck. Here he was, expecting to be the one who was rejected and Anson was worried Vic was having second thoughts about associating with him.

Vic tried to take a different angle. Hopefully with more truth and less dissembling this time. "It would be too easy for me to take advantage of you, especially after all the disappointments you've suffered in your life. I don't want you to carry on with me under a false impression of where I'm coming from. It - it might be difficult for you to take. But I don't want to lie to you. And I'll understand completely if you decide you want nothing to do with me, once I've told you. So please remember that. Will you?" This last he asked, earnestly, looking for understanding in his brother's face.

Anson still didn't get it though; he had no idea what Vic was referring to. He was still waiting. "Okay, I will. What is it?" He visibly set himself, prepared for any number of weird revelations.

Vic groaned under his breath. This was not what he'd wanted at all. Taking a deep breath, he said, "I never expected to meet you, not in this lifetime. You - my life has been pretty strange, especially the last couple of months. Kind of heavy, you know? I never -" He stopped, swallowed and took another drink. Stumbling onward, he continued, "The last thing either of us expected, I think, was to find each other here. When you followed me that day, turning around to see you, I was," he nodded absently, "yeah, I was in shock. But I've gotten over it. You probably - oh hell. Look," he took another breath, "Here goes. I love you."

Anson sat, waiting obviously expecting something a little more enlightening. When Vic didn't continue, he nodded slowly. "Okay. Um," he ran a hand through his hair, "me too. I'm really glad. To have you, I mean, as my brother. And not just that, as my friend as well," he added swiftly, obviously thinking about saying it properly and wondering if he had.

Victor shook his head once. "No, I mean, I'm in love with you."

"Oh." Recognition flared in Anson's face at this. "Oh." Considering, he said, "Alright."

Vic scowled. "You don't find that - I don't know - sort of -"

Anson lifted his chin. "Disgusting?" He raised his brows. "No. Not really, I guess. It happens."

Vic snorted. "Not to me."

Anson let out a short laugh. "Yeah, me neither."

Vic wondered why Anson hadn't noticed that Vic was shaking, right where he sat, across from him. He closed his eyes again and took another swallow from the bottle. "I feel like such a complete, fucking moron right now."

Anson frowned slightly, worried that he hadn't said something that maybe Vic was expecting him to say. Or needed him to say. "You too? Thought it was just me." Maybe it was the tension, but he started giggling.

It was contagious, Vic found himself joining him in it. "And we haven't even had that much to drink."

Anson made a face. "I don't feel much like getting tanked, anyway."

"No," Vic agreed. Wetting his lips, he said, "So you really don't mind that I'm, you know, getting all, uhGod damn it," he ended in frustration.

Anson asked him outright, "Do you mean, in love like you're gonna want me to join you in a blood ceremony where we slap bleeding palms together or something? Or 'in love', like, you want to fuck me?"

Victor's mouth went dry. He bit his lower lip, feeling a flush crawl over him, leaving his face burning. He didn't dare look at him. "Both, I guess," he managed.

Anson realized what he needed to do. He got up and went over to Vic, leaning down to him and lifting his head by his chin to face him. So he could place a kiss on his mouth. Gently. Nothing passionate, nothing to get heated about. Then considered him solemnly. "Is that really what you want?"

Vic looked up at him, desire flaring but wariness too. "Only if you want it as well. I'm hardly going to demand it of you." He brought his hand up, trembling as it was, to hold Anson's against his jaw, keeping it in place. "I mean it, I won't ask it of you ever again if you don't."

Anson stood where he was, not trying to pull his hand back but not exactly moving away either. He took a few breaths. "Yeah, I do. I'm willing to give it a try. It isn't like I haven't thought about it, myself. With you, I mean. But I've never had a relationship with a man. I'm not very good with relationships in general. Sure, there's been the occasional -" he took a breath before continuing, memories obviously rising to the fore, "- encounter, here and there, in prison. But it was never something I'd choose, you know? You'll have to cut me some slack."

Vic sank back, releasing the taut position he'd held. He let out a cautious breath. "We don't have to do anything at all, actually. Not - not right away."

Anson frowned slightly at him and then leaned down to kiss him harder this time, holding Vic's mouth under his, until Vic's lips opened and he moaned against him. Desire was melting Vic so fast now that he wasn't really sure he was capable of thinking at all.

Anson pulled back again; this time he was shaken, himself. "I could - I could get used to that," he admitted, hoarsely.

Vic could only stare up at him, blinking slightly, little tremors of want occasionally rippling over him.

Anson came to a decision. He smiled, "It's your play, Victor." He stepped backwards. Victor stood up and looked him right in the eyes. Anson involuntarily took one more step back at the intensity he saw there, focused on him.

Victor slowly smiled, letting happiness color his face. He held out a hand to him. "Come on, then. I promise you won't be disappointed."

Anson gulped, wondering what in hell he had done to deserve all that radiance being turned loose on him all at once, in every way, including inspiring such desire and obvious - love, yeah love in someone he admired, respected, needed and - even loved. Loved back. Hell, yeah. He let himself be pulled forward but he didn't stop and instead wrapped his arms around Vic in a tight embrace, his face lost against his neck, feeling the indescribably comforting sensation of Vic's own arms going around his back to hold him closer. He hadn't been touched like this inwell, ever.

Finally, pulling back to look into Anson's face, Vic quietly said, "We don't have to do anything now, you know. We can wait until you're ready. When you feel-"

Anson cut him off, shaking his head. "No, I'm ready. I feel like I just came home." He stopped, stricken. "After all these years. Home." And he dissolved in tears, suddenly realizing that he did fucking deserve this. One fucking break, after all the shit he'd had to endure, all the pain and endless string of losses - finally to be thrown one single golden chance. There was no way he was going to let this one get away, either. A brother, a friend. A lover. Someone who actually did give a damn. It was too much.

Vic was alarmed to find himself holding a shuddering, weeping brother in his arms now. Hushing him soothingly, he stroked his back, his hair. This was Anson's method of finding a way he could deal with all of it, he guessed. Although the electricity was back, softly running over him in little vibrations, the chemistry between them still zinging but he suspected Anson hadn't actually experienced a breakdown like this in many years. Not one accompanied by comfort and a shoulder, a sympathetic ear and a loving voice.

He began to slowly walk them towards the bedroom, knowing that a gentle seduction, no matter how tentative, might not be the right thing just now.

Now it was his turn to comfort while Anson clung to him, still drenching his neck and his shirt. He sat them down on the edge of the bed and Anson raised his head at last. "Jesus, I'm sorry. Sorry. I'm sorry." Anson was sniffling.

"No. There's nothing for you to be sorry for. When was the last time someone let you cry, huh? Or said they'd do anything for you? I know how that feels. To be alone for too long. To want it so badly for so long." Vic handed him a hand towel and Anson gratefully wiped his face.

"Fuck, I can't help it. I feel so stupid now."

Vic said fiercely, "You're not. You're beautiful. I love you, I do. I love you."

Anson raised his eyes and something sparked in him. He gave a little growl and moved forwards, pushing Vic backwards and throwing himself upon him with smothering kisses on his face - not just his mouth but all over. It was like being eaten alive. And Anson's hands were just as busy, undoing buttons, pulling shirts out of pants, undoing belts. Vic found himself clumsily attempting to help.

Somehow they divested themselves of the constraining obstacles and then Anson was leaning into Vic, hard flesh on his, direct contact of their chests making Vic tremble with the combined arousal and static charge. It was some kind of weird energy they had when they were together. He couldn't just be imagining it, Anson was shaking too, and he couldn't figure out why yet. Hell, who knew what might happen if they - no, when they came, together.

Anson was lost in the surprising discovery that Vic was beautiful; not just good, not just hot, but magnificent. Naked, he was even more so. He could barely contain himself. He suddenly realized what Vic had been going through over him, and he laughed, a little wildly, his gaze openly raking over Vic's body.

Vic found himself laughing back, though at what he didn't know and actually didn't care at this point. And then found himself just as suddenly pressed back hard into the bed with Anson devouring his mouth with deep, hard kisses, his tongue exploring with remarkable freedom for someone who had never yet experienced tenderness with another man. In fact, Anson's manner had a little of the sexual desperation he must have had in previous encounters. He thought of what Anson had said: prison... He winced to himself as he imagined for a moment what Anson had been through, wondering if Anson would ever feel safe enough to discuss it with him. And he was suffused all over again with renewed motivation to ensure that all those painful memories would be replaced with as much love as he could give him. But the enthusiasm with which Anson was kissing him was also overwhelmingly charged and Vic very quickly found himself responding with equal intensity.

He was drowning, his body pulsing and shivering, wanting this more than he could describe or even beg, reduced to whimpering and moaning as Anson continued his oral discovery of him, sweeping down his neck, moving to suckle at the skin in the hollow of his throat, then trailing down to seize his nipples, first one and then the other. Anson's hands went to his shoulders and he pushed him down, enjoying the way Vic's head went back, his chin lifting, and the way he moved up, against him.

"God, please, fuck... Anson," Vic was saying, harshly, in between shudders and his teeth clenching.

"You're mine," Anson said, with some finality. "Are you gonna keep *me*?" And the plea in it was also evident.

"Y-Yeah, of course. I will, I'll keep you. We belong to each other. I think we always did. God. Anson, please. Please, please!" The sight of a begging, writhing Victor under him was too much and Anson ground his groin into his, their hard cocks slipping together and he covered Vic's body with his own, pressing them together, and felt the shivering over himself too. It was like catching fire, and as Anson increased his tempo, sliding them together, against each other, grinding into him hard, faster, holding Vic's shoulders back, he dipped his head again to lay down upon Vic fully, their mouths connecting and their tongues meeting just as the wave began to crest, hitting them both, rolling over them, sending them up, up, up up

And then Vic was coming, jolts of pleasure-fire reaching jaggedly up his spine, all along his blood, down into his toes, and centered between his legs and inside him, making him feel like some kind of animal as he moved against Anson who was calling out his name desperately, repeatedly as his own climax shook him, the sensation of his cock trapped against Vic's making him come as his twin's orgasm spread wet and hot between their rubbing bellies.

The ecstasy rushed over them again, and receded, came back teasingly and then pulled away once more, leaving them speechless, beached and utterly drained.

They lay like that for some time, unspeakably bereft of any previous words to describe it. Didn't matter, really. Didn't need any kind of description. Anson found himself truly at a serious loss for words.

And then Vic was chuckling beneath him, and moving under him, enjoying the way their slick skin still felt, as the contact was so hot and damp. "You smell fantastic," he murmured into Anson's ear.

"And you taste the same," Anson said, licking at his nape in a demonstration of the sincerity of his statement. He raised his head. "You're right. I think we were fucking made for each other."

"Well, apparently, we did sleep together for nine whole months."

But Anson took Vic's flippant answer seriously. He stared down into his eyes. "Yeah, we did. Sure took us a long time to get back to it."

Vic smiled up at him and brought his hand up to touch his cheek. "Love you."

Anson returned it, grinning down at him. "Love you, too." And he moved off him, to snuggle against him, leaving his knee over Vic's right leg and his arm thrown over his chest. Anson heaved a sigh. "Gonna fuck you later, I guess."

"You'd better."

"Or else what?"

"Or I'm gonna be fucking you, little brother."

Anson opened his eyes. "Oh? How do you know which of us came out first?"

Vic grinned at him. "I did. I came out years ago. You only just did tonight, here with me. Come on, you were married."

"For God's sake," Anson grumbled, returning his head to dig his chin into Vic's neck as Vic chuckled silently.

They lay like that for quite a while, letting the contentment settle into their bones.

It wasn't until Vic awoke sharply at the cold on their bare skin and the sticky mess that he realized they'd dozed off. He came back with a wet towel and a dry one, got a woozy Anson to clean up too, and then slid them both under the covers. Vic figured they'd get about three to four hours sleep before attempting anything else. He closed his eyes gratefully. The nagging question remained though in the back of his mind How and why exactly had both of them felt the pull to move to Minneapolis?

End

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