Summary: Lex gets lost, and Clark claims him. A la "Overboard."

Warnings: Eventually rated NC-17. m/m.

The dry-walling job at the McCoy's turns out to be pretty straightforward, no tricky angles to maneuver around, just putting up the panels and hammering them into place in endless succession. It requires no actual concentration, not a good thing for Clark after the morning he's had. He always seems to fare best when he doesn't think too much about how he must appear to Al, but today it's next to impossible to avoid it. Don't make half gestures, Clark's father used to say. People won't know where they stand with you. Only a few weeks together, and Clark has already sent Al enough mixed messages to seem downright schizophrenic.

Of course, he knows the right thing to do. He does. It's just that no matter how much he resolves to keep his distance there's still a screening room in the stubborn part of his head where memories play, moments from that day on the yacht and after Al's first stint in the fields and from earlier that very morning, Al naked and wanting in Clark's bed. The more he thinks about it the more vivid the pictures become, and the more danger he's in of developing a reputation as someone who gets way too excited about drywall.

He exerts what feeble self-discipline he has to wipe his mind clear, just think about nothing. The work goes faster that way, and he finishes up in good time to make their dinner with Mrs. Henderson.

At home, he's surprised to see Pete's truck parked in the driveway. He's even more startled to find Pete and Al sitting at the kitchen table, bent over a stack of papers, matching expressions of concentration on their faces. For a split second, there's a clench in Clark's chest, not jealousy exactly, more a sense that there's been some development and he's missed out on it.

He clears his throat, and they both glance up, Al with a smile, Pete slightly sheepish.

"Hey," he says, sliding his hands into his pockets, rocking forward on the balls of his feet, feeling rather awkward himself.

"Clark," Al's voice does a smooth glissando into a more intimate octave.

Clark is not such a clueless husband that he fails to understand the meaning of this. Pete gets it too apparently, narrowing his eyes, the weight of his scrutiny like an extra presence in the room. Clark looks from Pete back to Al. He doesn't want to be on the wrong side of either of them, but in the end, it's Al he has to live with. He walks over, bends down for a quick kiss. Al looks pleasantly surprised, as if Clark might not be such a hopeless case after all. Pete takes the opportunity to examine the tablecloth in greater detail.

"So..." Clark says, adopting a breezy tone he hopes will convince someone. "What have you two been up to?"

"Pete's been helping me with our grant application," Al says, holding up a form for Clark to see.

Clark can't help sounding surprised, "Hey, Pete, that was really nice of you."

Pete shrugs, trying not to look embarrassed. "I went through the same thing when I was getting the factory up and running. I just thought I could save you guys some of the screw-ups I made."

"We really appreciate it," Clark tells him.

Pete gets to his feet. "No problem, man." He glances from Clark to Al and back again, shifting his weight indecisively. "Um, well, I guess I'd better get going. I'll see you guys later."

"I'll walk you out," Clark offers.

They're silent all the way to the truck, and then Clark struggles to explain, "Look, Pete, I know you must think--"

"We already went through this, Clark. I can't say I think you're doing the right thing here, but it's your call, not mine." He shakes his head, a wry smile. "I will say this, though. If you had to hijack a husband, at least you got one who knows his way around a business plan."

Clark smiles at that. "I really do appreciate your coming over to help."

Pete holds his eye. "I would have done it a long time ago. All you ever had to do was ask."

Clark nods. "I know, Pete. I know."

He heads back inside and finds Al on the screened-in back porch, at the worktable, amidst a profusion of wild poppies and purple coneflowers and feathery white asters that he's gathered from the fields, arranging them into a bouquet.

"So you and Pete seemed to be…getting along," Clark ventures.

Al shrugs. "I still don't think he particularly likes me. But I suppose if you must have a best friend who merely tolerates me, at least he knows his way around a business plan."

Clark breaks into a grin. "You know, you guys might actually have more in common than you think."

Al does not appear particularly convinced, but he doesn't argue. He finishes up the bouquet, tying it up with a brightly colored strip of cloth that Clark recognizes as having come from one of the ill-fated thrift store shirts.

"I figured we don't actually own ribbon," Al explains.

"And you figured right." On impulse, he leans in and gives Al an appreciative kiss. "You're really good at this kind of thing, you know."

"It's hard to go wrong with flowers, Clark, even when you are taking them to a manipulative old busybody."

Clark shakes his head. "I may have given you a somewhat misleading picture of Mrs. Henderson. She is, at heart, a nice lady."

"We'll see," Al says coolly, not ready to forgive her for the morning's interruption.

That thought brings back pictures, which in turn brings the blood rushing to Clark's cheeks. Al shoots him a quizzical look, and Clark tells him hastily, "I'd better go get cleaned up if we're going to make it over there by six."

Clark darts back inside, although not quickly enough to miss Al's exasperated sigh.

He takes a quick shower, wraps a towel around his waist and pads into the bedroom, over to the closet. He's dithering, trying to decide whether his blue sport coat is too much or his favorite jeans too little, when Al comes breezing into the room.

He nudges Clark aside. "This will go faster if you let me." Two seconds later, he's pulled out an outfit for Clark and laid it on the bed, along with a clean shirt and jacket for himself.

Getting dressed proves awkward. Clark tries to find ways to stall, waiting for Al to finish up, but even after he's ready, he stays put. His eyes rest on Clark, as if this is a test of some sort, and finally Clark just gives in, lets the towel drop. He'd think nothing of letting his husband look at him, and he's tired of making up stupid excuses why he needs to go get dressed in the bathroom. He pulls on his clothes, and as he's tucking in his shirt, he meets Al's eyes, silvery with appreciation.

"You look nice," Al tells him, reaching out to straighten his collar.

Clark shouldn't let himself wrap an arm around Al's waist and pull him close. The near miss of the morning should have taught him not to start things he can't finish. But then, Clark is a walking testament that a person really can learn nothing from his mistakes. He thinks, Just one kiss. Even though he should know that's never going to be enough.

It's Al who finally pulls away, breathing too hard. "If we don't leave now, we're never going to go."

They gather up the bouquet for Mrs. Henderson and a bottle of wine that Al put into the refrigerator earlier to chill. Al is unusually quiet on the short ride there, watching out the window distractedly, fingers drumming on the seat beside him. It's not until Clark is turning into Mrs. Henderson's driveway that it occurs to him: Al might actually be nervous.

He takes his hand as they head up the front walk. "She's going to love you."

They step onto the porch, and Mrs. Henderson throws open the door, too impatient to wait for them to knock. "There you boys are. Right on time. Clark, so good to see you." She rises up on her tiptoes to give him a peck on the cheek. "And this must be Al." She smiles at him with unrestrained delight.

"Mrs. Henderson, it's nice to meet you at last. Clark has told me so much about you." Al extends his hand.

But Mrs. Henderson isn't having any of that. "Oh, let's no stand on ceremony. I feel like we're already old friends."

She wraps her thin arms around his neck, and Al is so startled that he barely manages to save the flowers from her enthusiasm.

Mrs. Henderson pulls back and holds him at arm's length. "I just want to get a good look at you now." She studies him admiringly. "Oh, such a handsome young man. You and Clark sure do make a fine couple. Now you boys come on inside and make yourselves comfortable. It'll be just a little while before we're ready to eat."

She bustles them into her formal front parlor, keeping a proprietary hand on Al's arm as she leads the way. Clark has to hide a smile, pretending to cough. He's beginning to think he'll have a war on his hands at the end of the evening when it's time to reclaim his husband.

Mrs. Henderson's parlor is even tidier and more sparklingly clean than usual, and every inch of the coffee table is crowded with plates of hors d'oeuvres, stuffed mushrooms and cheese pinwheels, and yes!, crab puffs, Clark's personal favorite.

"You boys go on and sit down and make yourselves comfortable. We'll have a little snack while we're waiting for dinner to finish up."

"Before I forget, Mrs. Henderson," Al holds out the bouquet, "these are for you."

"And this too," Clark hands her the bottle of wine.

"Oh, my." Mrs. Henderson is practically beside herself. "So thoughtful." She lifts the flowers to her nose and takes a deep breath. "Mercy, I don't know when I've seen anything so beautiful."

Clark slips his arm around his husband's shoulders and smiles proudly. "It was all Al. He's the artistic one in the family."

"Well, I should say so. Very talented, indeed." She gives him a bright, appreciative smile, before her face clouds over. "And to think what you've been through, you poor boy. I haven't even asked how you're feeling."

"Much better, thank you," Al tells her. "Although I haven't really made any progress getting my memory back."

Mrs. Henderson nods sympathetically. "I know that must be a burden to you, but you'll remember everything in your own good time, I'm sure. And in the meantime, you have Clark here to look after you." She shakes her head, smiling. "Such a fine couple."

Al seems rather overwhelmed by the attention, doubtlessly never so fussed over in his life.

Fortunately, Mrs. Henderson takes a deep breath and says, "Well, now, I'd better go look in on dinner." She nods toward the sofa. "You two go on and sit down, and I'm going to put these lovely flowers in some water and the wine in the refrigerator to keep cool. And when I come back, we'll have a nice chat."

After she's gone, Al says under his breath, "The two of you have a pact to embarrass me to death, don't you?"

Clark shrugs, smiling.

Al narrows his eyes. "I knew it."

Clark pulls him close, kisses him lightly. "I can't help it if I'm proud of you, can I?" he asks, still smiling, stroking his thumb affectionately along Al's cheek.

Al's gaze catches on Clark's, his eyes turning a dark, interested shade of blue. He leans in, and the next kiss is far more urgent than the last.

They reluctantly break apart at the sound of Mrs. Henderson's footsteps in the hall. She sweeps into the room, carrying a tray of wineglasses, and Clark hurries to take it for her.

"Oh, thank you, dear," she says. "You can just put it down over there on the sideboard, and help yourselves."

They all settle in with a glass of wine, and Mrs. Henderson says with a happy sigh, "Well, now, here we are."

There's a moment of silence, the kind that naturally settles in a conversation when people are still getting acquainted, and they look from one to the other, smiling politely, waiting for someone to break the ice.

It's Clark who finally does, "Everything smells really good, Mrs. Henderson."

"Yes," Al quickly agrees. "Absolutely delicious."

"Oh, please," Mrs. Henderson urges them, "you boys go on and have some of this," she waves her hand over the platters of snacks, "before it gets cold."

Clark doesn't have to be invited twice where crab puffs are concerned, and he cheerfully digs in.

Al glances around, taking in the details of the parlor with his usual sharp-eyed observation. "You have a lovely home, Mrs. Henderson."

She turns decidedly pink. "Oh, thank you, dear. Mr. Henderson and I and our two boys, Sammy and Richard, we all had many good years here together." She casts an appraising eye around the room. "I always think that's what gives a house its character, the life you've lived there." Her expression grows wistful for a moment, maybe even a little sad, reminded of happy days since past, but then she quickly regains her chipper composure. "Clark's been telling me about all the improvements you're making over at your place. That must be very exciting."

Al nods. "It is, really," and he goes into some detail about wainscoting and the advantages of travertine over limestone.

Mrs. Henderson nods along with every word. "That just sounds lovely, dear."

"We still need a focal point for our living room," Al tells her. "I love that when you come into this room the first thing you see is that Javanese dowry chest. Have you been to Indonesia, Mrs. Henderson?"

"Why, yes, dear, I have," she says, looking rather amazed, and even more smitten with Al then she was before, if that's actually possible. "It was a very special place for me and Mr. Henderson. We spent our honeymoon there and went back on our anniversaries whenever we could."

Clark blinks in surprise. "I didn't realize you were such a world traveler, Mrs. H."

She smiles at him. "Oh, yes, dear.

"When you were visiting Indonesia, you must have been to Lake Toba."

"My, yes, dear. Such a spectacular sight. The views and all the plants and that clear blue water. I assume you must have visited there?"

Al nods. "Yes, several times. It was--" He frowns and turns to Clark. "Why was I in Indonesia?"

Clark freezes, mouth full of shrimp. "Um, well..." He thinks frantically in the brief space while he finishes chewing. "It was-- when you worked for your father." He nods vigorously. "That's it. You were there on business. He owned," Clark waves his hand in the air and goes the vague route, "some sort of importing and exporting company."

Al's eyes spark with interest at this previously unmentioned detail of his personal history.

Mrs. Henderson says, "Well, now, that must have been very interesting. Where else have you had the opportunity to visit, I wonder?"

Al frowns as he ponders the question, and then details just start tumbling out of him like the narrative of a travelogue. He and Mrs. Henderson fall into an animated discussion about the cuisine of Hong Kong and the beauty of the Norwegian fjords. Clark takes a deep breath of relief, another question safely dodged, and goes back to his appreciation of the potato fritters.

At last, Mrs. Henderson bustles off to the kitchen to check on dinner and comes back a few minutes later declaring it time to eat.

Al offers her his arm. "May I escort you?"

"So gallant," Mrs. Henderson says, sounding girlishly breathless as she accepts.

They pass along the hall en route to the dining room, and Al stops to point out a black and white photograph of a ballerina on stage. "That's Coppellia, if I'm not mistaken. And is that you as Swanilda, Mrs. Henderson?"

"Why, yes, dear. It certainly is."

Clark goes up to the picture and stares at it rather slack-jawed. He must have walked through this hall...well, who knows how many times? And he never noticed the likeness before, never even realized there was a photograph hanging there. "I didn't know you were a ballerina."

"Rather a successful one, dear, if I do say so myself. That was before I met Mr. Henderson, of course. Four glorious years with the New York City Ballet. I'll never forget a moment of it."

Mrs. Henderson's good china and crystal gleam in the soft light from the dining room's chandelier. Proudly displayed in the center of the table is a porcelain vase with the flowers they brought arranged in it. Over dinner, an extravagant six courses that leaves even Clark declaring himself stuffed, Mrs. Henderson regales them with stories from her days on the stage.

"Is that how you met Mr. Henderson?" Al asks. "When you were dancing in New York?"

She nods. "It was at one of Howard's parties. Whenever he was in town, he would always throw a big soiree, invite all the well-known actresses and dancers. To impress his business associates, you know. Howard had quite a way with the ladies. Such a charmer! That was before he got all mixed up and started fretting about germs and all that nonsense."

Clark stares at her. "Are you talking about Howard Hughes?"

"Oh, yes, dear," she says, as if that should be perfectly obvious. "I met my dear Walter on the balcony of Howard's hotel suite. I'd gone out for a breath of fresh air, and poor Walter was hiding out there, trying to blend in with the potted palms. He was always a shy man, and he'd only come to the party because he was in the middle of some business negotiations with Howard's company and didn't want to offend him. So I struck up a conversation, more as a good deed than anything else. But my dear Walter soon won me over."

"I wish we could have met him," Al tells her.

She puts her hand on his. "I do too, dear. Such a good, fine man. He would have liked you and Clark very much." She gets a faraway look for a moment, as if lost in some private memory of her husband, then she smiles at them and continues on with her story, "Anyway, my Walter wouldn't let me leave that evening without agreeing to see him again the next day. We went for a boat ride in the park. The following evening, he took me for dinner at the Magnolia Club, that was the place to go back then, and when the cherries jubilee arrived for dessert, Walter pulled out a little velvet box and asked me to be his wife." She gets a sparkle in her eye at the recollection. "I said yes just as quick as I could before he had the chance to change his mind."

"What a wonderful story," Al says.

Mrs. Henderson smiles. "Love always is, dear."

At the end of the evening, Mrs. Henderson won't hear of letting them go without taking leftovers home with them. "Oh, mercy. I'll never eat all this food. You boys need to help me with it."

She packs up two large shopping bags for them, with enough crabs puffs to keep even Clark happy. "I know how you like them, so I made some extra," she tells him with a wink.

"You should come for dinner at our house next week," Al tells her. "Although I should tell you that we haven't done much entertaining lately, so we may be a little out of practice. Just to give you fair warning."

Clark shakes his head. "Don't listen to him, Mrs. H. He's a great cook."

"Oh, I had a feeling," she says. "You can always tell a person who has culinary flair. And I'd be delighted to join you. My peonies should be in bloom by then. I'll bring you some for your table."

They say their goodbyes, and on the way home, Al wants to know, "Why didn't you ever tell me what a remarkable woman she is?" He frowns at Clark, as if he's purposefully kept this information to himself. "You always make her sound so...tedious."

"You've never seen her when she has corroded pipes and water damage," Clark says, a touch defensively. "Besides, she never told me any of those stories before. She must like you better."

Al regards him skeptically. "As if that's possible. You are the soul of likeability, you realize, Clark."

Clark gives him a soft, sidewise smile. "I think you underestimate your own charm."

Al's eyes meet his, and the intensity in them gives Clark a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach. He lets his gaze slide back to the road, but he can still feel Al watching him the whole way home.

They carry the food into the kitchen. Clark starts to keep the crab puffs out, but Al gives him such a pointed look that he finally lets out a sigh and consigns them to the refrigerator along with the rest of the leftovers. Even after everything's put away, Al still lingers at the counter, a distracted air as he stares out the window.

Clark drifts over to his side. "It was a nice evening, huh?"

Al nods, but it's clear his mind is on something else.

"It seemed like you and Mrs. Henderson had a lot in common. You sure do know a lot about ballet."

"That was a strange experience," Al says, "having all those details come pouring out of me, not even knowing where I picked up any of that information."

"Ah," Clark says, beginning to understand why Al looks so contemplative. "It must have been kind of unnerving."

Al nods. "It was." He frowns, and his voice grows quiet, "Help me, Clark. Please. I need to understand what kind of person I am."

"Well," Clark says, letting his hand rest on Al's back, trying to be comforting, searching his memory for everything he knows about Lex Luthor. "You're an incredibly determined person. If there's something you want to know, want to do, there's no standing in your way. You're very smart, very curious. You have an elegant way about you. You know about the arts and history and what makes the perfect chocolate soufflé." He smiles fondly. "The truth is I'm just lucky you didn't mind marrying beneath you."

Al frowns, "Don't, Clark. Don't joke."

He presses close, and Clark's natural impulse is to slide his arm around him, like he's been doing that all his life.

"Maybe it's just because of the amnesia, but since I woke up in the hospital," Al says, "I've had this solitary sense of myself, like I've always been alone, and that's my life, not this. But tonight." He looks Clark squarely in the eye. "Tonight, I really felt like your husband, for the first time." He pauses. "And I liked it."

Clark freezes, in over his head again, and he starts to stutter, "Al--"

"Make me feel it some more, Clark," Al begs him. "Please."

He lifts his chin, and Clark practically falls into the kiss, fingers catching clumsily in the folds of Al's shirt. The touch of their mouths is raw, uncompromising, and Al is suddenly all over him like a man convinced he can find answers in Clark's skin.

Clark doesn't pull away immediately, probably a mistake, because the longer it goes on the more inevitable it feels. When he does finally to try to say something, it comes out feeble, "Al, I can't--"

"Yes, you can. You can," Al says breathlessly between kisses. "Unless," he goes still. "Only if you want to."

It's more than Clark can stand, the aching doubt in Al's voice, when that's so very, very far from the truth. "I do. You have no idea how much."

"Then please, Clark."

He isn't the same man Clark met on the yacht that day, but there is the same frayed desperation in his need. Clark kisses him resolutely, pulls the shirt from his waistband, sinks to his knees. He did have Lex Luthor's consent for this once upon a time, and he tells himself they're just picking up where they left off.

Clark backs Al against the counter and unzips his pants. Al must be expecting the usual last-minute freak out because he seizes up like he's been hit at the first touch of Clark's tongue.

Clark hasn't done this a lot, and he's never had another moment when it meant so much, too many dead-ends in his life, always so much to hide. But Al is still going to be here in the morning, and the next day, and if Clark is very lucky for a long time to come. They'll have breakfasts together, and they'll have fights, and maybe even a future. If Clark couldn't convince himself of that, he couldn't do this.

He moves his mouth along the shaft of Al's cock, wanting to make him gasp, make him tremble, his hands splayed over Al's hips, thumbs perfectly fitted to the hollows of his bones. This is the way Clark always thought sex would be, back in the innocent days when his only experience was what he'd imagined. Al doesn't clutch at him, as if Clark is just too convenient and he can't let him get away, the way other men have. His hands glide lovingly over Clark's shoulders, through his hair, brushing the side of his face, as if Al can't get enough of him, not just his mouth.

Al says Clark's name, a tortured half-groan, half-scream when he comes, and Clark realizes he would do anything to hear him sound like that again.

After it's over, Al's hands stay curled around the edge of the counter, knuckles white, his eyes wide and kind of spacey. Clark gently tucks him back into his pants, zips them, and stands up to give him a kiss.

But Al slides out of his arms. "I just-- I have to--" He hurries off to the bathroom.

Clark paces outside the door, torn between frantic confusion--hadn't that been what Al wanted? what he'd been wanting?--and berating himself for being careless and selfish and an idiot. He waits for Al to come out with a rising sense of panic, and when he finally does, his face is damp, as if he's been throwing water on it. Clark hovers at his side, wanting to reach out, reassure him, but he's not sure if it's okay to touch him.

"I'm sorry."

Al shakes his head. "It's not that. I just--"

"I shouldn't have just done it like that, right there in the kitchen. You probably weren't ready for--"

"I remembered, Clark."

Suddenly there's no air in the room, and Clark's whole body clenches like it's the end of the world. "I can explain."

But Al doesn't hear him, too absorbed in his own sense of revelation, "Not very much. Just you touching me. Kissing me. Going down on me. I don't even know where we were. But it was real, I'm sure of that." He meets Clark's eye, his expression shatteringly hopeful. "I remembered."

Clark swallows, and his throat is so tight it hurts. He opens his arms to Al and holds on, clutching at him, the way people always hold on to things that aren't really theirs. "I'm happy for you," he says, in a hoarse voice.

Al kisses him, both hands on Clark's shoulders, like maybe there's some subconscious part of him that realizes this doesn't belong to him, either.

If there is, though, he isn't listening to it. He pulls back and takes Clark's hand and says, "Come on."

In the bedroom, Al starts stripping off his clothes at once, with the kind of determination it's useless to argue with, not that Clark has any inclination to do that. He pulls off his own jacket, lets the shirt Al picked out for him fall carelessly to the floor. Al works more quickly than he does and is soon naked, while Clark is still half dressed. It's too much torment to wait even the few seconds it would take to get the rest of his clothes off. He pulls Al against him, and there's something so desperate, so illicit having bare skin pressed to khaki and leather he can't get his hands all over Al fast enough.

They kiss in a fever, the room silent except for the rasp of their breathing, their softly murmured exclamations. The only light is a pale splash of moonlight on the floor, neither of them bothering to turn on the lamp.

Al draws in a harsh breath and says, "I want you to fuck me. Do I like that?"

"Yeah," Clark tells him in a thick, slurred voice, utterly shameless. "You like that."

Even in the dim light, Clark can tell Al is smiling. "I thought so."

He goes to lie down on their bed, and Clark pulls off the rest of his clothes. It feels like a dream, like he's underwater, his body lumbering and weightless. He kneels on the bed and stretches out over Al. His skin is already so hot, and when it meets Al's, an inferno.

Every kiss is like diving into very deep water, the long plunge into darkness, the sense that nothing else exists, the only sound in Clark's ears the pounding of his own heart.

Time is watery too, meaningless, and when Al finally braces his hand on Clark's shoulders to push him back, it could be a minute later. Or an eternity. Clark can feel Al's eyes on him, even if he can't really make out his features in the dimness, and he would panic, terrified that more telling memories had come trickling back, but Al's gaze feels too inquisitive for that.

He twines his arm around Clark's neck, fingers playing in his hair. "I thought maybe-- we had problems. You wouldn't touch me."

"I just-- I didn't want to do the wrong thing with you." It's probably the most honest and most useless thing he's ever said to Al. Or anyone.

Al tightens his hold on him. "Don't, Clark. I don't want you to be careful. I don't want you to treat me like I'm going to break--"

Clark cuts him off with the force of his kiss, no chance of being careful after all this. He slides his body against Al's, cock pressed to cock, and says against Al's ear, "I'm touching you now."

"God!"

There's a bottle of lubricant in the bedside drawer--Al put it there pointedly one day when Clark was there to see him do it--and it proves both prescient and handy now. Clark has never been any good at this aspect of sex either, all clumsy fingers and spilling sticky stuff on the sheets and worrying that he's going to hurt the person beneath him. But Al kisses his neck and says "that's so good, Clark" the whole time, to everything he does, and when Clark finally eases his way inside him, God, it is. So good.

Afterwards, after the honest sweat and the urgent promises and the feeling Clark has like this is going to burn him up from the inside out, they lay weak-limbed and tangled together.

Al says Clark's name with a contented little sigh, as if that's all he really needs to know. Clark strokes his back, a profound quiet settled inside him, and after a while he realizes that Al has fallen asleep.

When he's certain he won't be heard, he tells Al, "Maybe I've done the wrong thing with you." He closes his eyes, corrects himself, "Okay, I have done the wrong thing. But you're mine now." He whispers a fierce promise, "And I'm keeping you."

Clark's most vivid memories of his father come while he's out in the fields, long, rambling conversations they had years ago as they worked side by side, a flash now and then of his dad's smile, the satisfied one he got whenever he gazed out over his land.

His father used to joke, "Son, the only folks more superstitious than ball players are us farmers." Knowing that didn't change the way he did things of course, the little rituals to bring luck, always starting in the north field when it was time to disc, keeping a faded red bandana that had belonged to his grandfather tied to the tractor's steering wheel, walking the entire perimeter of the land every Thursday like an offering to the gods of agriculture. The day Clark knew he'd truly found his vocation was when he caught himself doing the same sort of oddball things, even digging that old bandanna out of a box, returning it to its rightful place.

Lately, though, his voodoo thinking has taken an anxious turn. Every day that Al doesn't remember and Clark wakes to find him still at his side, he grows a little more watchful, restlessly pacing the rows when he goes out to work, inspecting the vines with a sharp eye and a nervous flip-flop in the pit of his stomach. It doesn't take a genius to figure out it's not merely root rot he's concerned about.

For all his fretting, though, he can't find a single thing amiss, not even a stray cutworm, no evidence anywhere of that old cosmic payback. May takes firm hold, and the wind gusts with a hint of summer in it. The vines grow bolder, their roots nursing the soil, leaves turned cheerfully up toward the sun, the meaty tendrils shifting lazily in the breeze.

The vines are not the only things flourishing. There is a new vigor in Al's stride, Clark has noticed, as he walks the floor of the winery, making sketches, planning improvements, a sure-handed sense of ownership as he works around the house, confidence that comes out in bed every night, as he shows Clark what he wants, demonstrates all the ways he has of giving pleasure in return.

The deadline for the grant application is fast approaching, and there are few days when Clark doesn't come in from work to find Pete and Al leaning in together at the computer, staring at the screen, a charged air in the room, the crackle of sheer determination. Clark hesitates in the hall, listening, the low throb of Al's voice, Pete chuckling in response, and the easiness of it gets him, emotion a taut violin string in his chest, their every word, their friendly laughter striking a resonant note. It's silly he knows to get so choked up about it, but the two of them, husband and friend…it's the strongest sense of family he's had since his parents died.

They glance up when he comes into the room. Al smiles, and Clark goes to give him a kiss.

Pete is frowning at the screen. "I still think we can shore up this section on the town's economic situation a little more. There's some new data just came in over at the Chamber of Commerce. I'll bring it by tomorrow." He nods at Clark. "Hey, man."

"Pete. So how's it coming?"

"We finished the draft," Al explains. "Now we're going back through it, looking for weak spots."

"It's a good proposal," Pete says, with the self-assured smile he always wears at town meetings. "You guys aren't going to have any trouble getting the money."

"Hey, can you stay for dinner?" Al asks him. "We're grilling out tonight."

Pete nods. "Sounds good." He grins at Clark. "And I wouldn't say no to a beer, either."

Al gets to his feet, gives Clark another kiss. "I'll go put on the steaks. Can you get Pete something to drink?"

He heads off to the kitchen, and Clark and Pete trail after him. Al takes a platter of meat, already marinated, and a big bowl of vegetables from the refrigerator, and starts for the back door.

"You need help?" Clark asks.

He shakes his head. "Just hand me my tongs."

Clark digs them out of the drawer and holds the screened door open for him.

"Thanks." He gives Clark a kiss on his way out.

Pete settles at the table, and Clark breaks out the beer, flips the caps off the bottles, and joins him.

They sip at their beer. Clark can't help smiling.

Pete rolls his eyes. "You can cut that out any time now, man."

"What?" Clark asks innocently.

"You know," Pete says, "looking all satisfied with yourself over there."

Clark shrugs, grinning. "Hey, I can't help it if I have a good memory. The day I start drinking beer and hanging out with Luthors..."

Pete scowls at him. "Shut up, man. And it's your own fault anyway. I swear you're rubbing off on me. I don't even think of him as," he waves his hand in the air, "you know who anymore. Just Al. And Al...well, he's a pretty okay kind of guy."

Clark smiles softly, and Pete meets his eye. There's so much in that gaze, happiness for Clark's happiness and an edge of worry for the future and a slightly befuddled look at how strange the whole thing really is.

Clark understands that well. Pretty much none of this has gone the way he thought it would. Even Pete and Al warming up to each other. Even the way he reacted to that little development at first. It wasn't jealousy, not exactly. Just every day, he would come home, and it seemed all Al could talk about was Pete, that they'd had lunch together again, or Pete had come up with some brilliant insight on the proposal, or Al wanted to invite him over to watch baseball.

Whenever Clark talked to Pete, it was the same routine, Al this and Al that and Al the other thing. In hindsight, he sees now that he'd just never had a relationship important enough to share with his friends before, and it took him a while to learn the dynamics. At the time, though, all he knew was that Al and Pete had a connection apart from him, and even though there was nothing he'd hoped for more, it still made him feel left out.

Al was the one who'd finally put a stop to his weirdness. One night over dinner, he was going on about Pete's new quality control system. He'd spent the morning at the factory getting the personal tour, something Pete had been inviting Clark to do for weeks.

"It was such a smart solution," he said, eyes bright with appreciation. "Who knows how much it'll end up saving a year."

Clark picked at his fried chicken in a sulk way and did the obligatory nodding in agreement.

Finally, Al put down his fork and declared, "Clark, you are not going to act strange with me because I'm finally getting along with your best friend. You're just not."

Clark shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I'm not?"

Al shook his head with certainty. "No."

When Al sounded that sure about things, it was hard for Clark to disappoint him. "Um...okay?"

"Good," Al said with satisfaction and leaned across the table to kiss him.

When he started to pull back, Clark reached out for him. "What if I don't get all guilty either, because you went to see the quality whatever thingy and I totally blew Pete off about it?" He smiled hopefully.

Al gave him a fond, if somewhat exasperated look, and kissed him again. "I'd say we're definitely making progress."

Clark and Pete finish their beers, and Clark goes to the refrigerator for a second round. The screened door slams shut, and Al returns with the platter full of steaks cooked to a perfect medium rare and a colorful splash of grilled vegetables. Al is regular a barbequing wizard, in Clark's opinion at least, and the delicious smoky aroma quickly fills the room.

"Man," Pete says, his mouth dropping open in anticipation, eyes tracking the food as Al carries it over to the counter.

"Clark," Al says, "can you go outside and bring in the utensils for me? I couldn't carry it all."

"Sure," Clark tells him.

Al moves to the cabinet to get plates, but Pete says, "Hey, man, let me. Setting the table is pretty much the one thing I can do in the kitchen."

Pete slips past Al, over to the cupboard, and Clark lingers at the door, watching. Pete carefully lays out plates, silver and napkins.

Al smiles at his meticulousness. "You're clearly ready to turn pro with this."

Pete cheerfully flips him off. "Hey, man, don't think I don't know jealousy when I hear it."

They laugh, and Clark heads on out to the grill, smiling. Progress. Definitely.

After dinner, Pete lingers, pitching in to help clean up the kitchen, smiling at Clark's excitement over how well the vines are doing, trading a few last thoughts on the proposal with Al.

"Man, I didn't realize how late it was," he says when he finally gets up to go.

Clark sees him out, and then wanders through the house, his nightly routine, locking doors, turning off lights. By the time he finishes, Al has already changed into his pajamas and is waiting for him. Clark lightly touches his face and smiles as he kisses him. He drifts over to the dresser, starts to pull off his clothes, and then Al is there again, hand on Clark's side, coaxing him around for another kiss.

Clark sighs against his mouth and winds an arm around his waist. To keep some secrets, he's come to realize, you have to give up knowing others. All those years, trying to hide what he was and what he could do, he'd remained a stranger to this, the exquisitely private knowledge of being close to another person. Now, with Al, Clark is finally learning the delight of small secrets, knowing Al's body and his ways, knowing that when Al lifts his chin at that particular angle and his eyes go the same dark shade as a starless night that they won't be going to sleep any time soon.

Al pulls Clark down onto the bed with him. Clark closes his eyes, presses his face into the curve of Al's neck, his scent and his sweat, the warmth of his skin, the most comfort Clark has had in a very long time. Al moves over him, kissing, fingers trailing over his chest, and Clark starts to think that maybe there won't be any grand operatic retribution, after all. Maybe he hasn't been so wrong to make this life with Al. Maybe he even deserves it--after all those years trying to do the right thing, out saving humanity, losing himself. It's just possible, he thinks as he reaches for Al, that he's actually earned this happiness.

Another few days, and Al and Pete declare the grant proposal finished at last. They make a ritual out of sending it off, the three of them taking it to the post office, a solemn procession up to the window. Walt Whittaker, Blue Cove's postmaster for the last thirty years, wears an appropriately grave expression as he meters the postage onto it, like he understands the importance of this particular eight-by-ten envelope. Or perhaps it's simply the sharp-eyed way Al follows his every move making him kind of nervous.

Once the proposal has been carefully placed on top of the outgoing mail bin, Pete claps them both on the back and suggests, "Lunch? My treat."

They go off to celebrate, and in the following few days enjoy a giddy sense of I-can't-believe-that's-finished, before settling into the hard business of waiting. Al puts himself to work overhauling their accounting system, and Clark concentrates on the vines. They both do their best to keep from watching the mailbox like it might get up and walk away at any minute.

Weeks pass, and whenever the anxiety gets too much they call Pete and make him tell them for the hundredth time that he went through the same thing. "Oh, man, it took forever for me to hear back," he assures them. "You don't have anything to worry about."

Mrs. Henderson does her part to keep up their spirits, plying them with home-baked apple pies and enough crab puffs to feed half the population of Blue Cove and a healthy dose of positive thinking, "I just know you boys are going to get some good news real soon."

They don't, however, hear anything, good news or otherwise, even after the official notification date has come and gone. Al grows steadily more peevish, snapping at Clark when he doesn't cut the carrots for their salad on the diagonal, growing fitful about the paint color in the bedroom, insisting that it's so unflattering whenever he looks into the mirror over the dresser he sees a bald Marcel Marceau staring back at him.

"It's going to be okay," Clark reassures him many times in an average day. "You know the old cliche, working on government time. I'm sure we'll hear soon enough." He always says it with a smile, always to little result.

Eventually, even Pete doesn't have much reassurance to offer. "Three weeks late?" he says after a disconcertingly long pause. "Um…well, you know," he stammers. "I'm not quite sure what to tell you, man."

Clark keeps this little tidbit of information to himself, not that it really matters. Al goes from testy to withdrawn as the days continue to tick by. Clark's words of reassurance sound increasingly feeble, even to him, and at night when Clark tries to touch Al, offer comfort that is more believable than words, Al just tenses, turns on his side toward the wall and pretends to sleep.

Tonight, his mood is especially taciturn, a strained silence all evening, and Clark finally suggests that they just turn in, get an early start in the morning. They go to their room and stand on opposite sides of the bed as they undress. Al won't even look at him.

Clark lets out a sigh. "We need to talk about this."

Apparently Al disagrees, because he strides out of the room without a word, and Clark sighs more heavily. Al seems to take forever brushing his teeth, and when he does finally return, he makes a beeline for bed, clearly no intention of discussing anything.

"Hey," Clark reaches for him as he tries to slip past, "are you mad at me?"

"No," he says in a clipped voice, muscles tense beneath Clark's hand.

Clark rubs his back, presses a kiss to his temple. "Then why won't you talk to me? Let me make it better?"

"Because there's nothing you can do," Al says, not meeting Clark's eye.

Clark curves an arm around his shoulders. "Look, Al, I know how much time and thought you've put into this whole thing, and if those people in Washington have any sense at all, you'll get the money. Because you really deserve it."

"We deserve it," Al insists, and Clark feels him relent a little, some of his tension easing.

Clark takes the opportunity to pull him in for a hug. "And I hope we get it. But if we don't, we'll apply for something else. And if we don't get that either, we'll still manage, like we always have before. Okay?"

"I just want to do my part, Clark," Al mumbles against his shoulder, "keep up my end of our partnership."

Clark goes perfectly still--sometimes being struck by realization feels a lot like lightning--and he can't believe he didn't understand this sooner. He pulls back, tilts Al's chin with his fingers so he'll look at him. "Before you, Al, I didn't have anything."

Al starts to say something, profess some doubt, and Clark kisses it away. "Believe me."

He strokes his hand in circles over Al's back, and Al locks his arms around Clark's waist in a fervent hug. "Thank," he says softly.

Clark smiles and places a kiss on his forehead. "Come on. Let's get some sleep. You never know. Tomorrow could be the day."

It's actually five days later when their daily vigil at the mailbox ends at last. Clark pulls out a bundle of seed catalogs and bills, and stuck there between the pages of his Irrigation Management Journal is a slender little envelope from the U.S. Commerce Department. Clark stares at it, his palm sweating, making the paper damp. Like everyone who's ever applied to college, he knows that good news almost always comes in bulky packages.

His gaze flickers nervously over to Al, who has gone as pale as a statue, his expression frozen over, bleak like a winter landscape. Clark feels as if he's plummeting from a great height; guilt is always dizzying that way. Finally something that seems like the comeuppance he's been expecting, and it's Al on the wrong end of the karmic whammy, not the one who deserves it at all.

Al takes the envelope from him, and Clark quickly volunteers, "I can do that, if you want."

Al shakes his head, slides his finger under the flap, pulls out the sheet of paper and silently peruses it, his expression utterly grave.

"It's not the end of the world," Clark tells him. "We can start looking around for other programs. I'll help do the research. And I'm sure Pete will have some ideas--"

Al shakes his head.

Clark puts a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, come on. It's just a little setback. We can still--"

"We got it," Al says at last, his stunned expression gradually transforming into a smile. "Clark, we got it!"

Al jumps into his arms, startling him, and Clark can only stutter, "But...?"

Al draws back, his face alive with happiness. "Come on. We've got to go call Pete. And start planning our victory party!"

Suddenly Clark doesn't even care about the details, why it took so long or what they have to do next or when they can expect their first check. All that matters is the look on Al's face.

This is something he has to keep reminding himself as Al gets caught up in his celebration planning, a complex staging of hors d'oeuvres, flower arrangements and rented folding chairs unrivaled by any actual battle plan. What limited experience Clark has with parties comes from his college days, and the sum total of that wisdom is making sure to buy enough kegs and hoping no one calls the cops. Needless to say, he proves no use at all in helping Al orchestrate his soiree, not that Al really seems to mind this. Clark suspects if he had the temerity to question Al's decision to serve wine instead of cocktails or go with an all-white color scheme it would be the first rough patch they'd had in their marriage.

They set the date for the third weekend in the month. Clark personally delivers the invitations, to their small circle of friends, his customers and a few dozen prominent citizens Pete insists they shouldn't slight. When that's done, he takes charge of the unskilled labor portion of the preparations, planting flowers out back according to Al's hand-drawn plan, setting up the canopy Al picked out at the Home Depot, cleaning the patio chairs, stringing lanterns from the trees. Al spends three days straight holed up in the kitchen, making various kinds of salad, pans of lasagna, two cakes and three pies, more appetizers than Clark has ever seen in one place, including the all-important crab puffs from Mrs. Henderson's recipe.

On the big day, they spend a hectic morning and afternoon taking care of last-minute details. By the time, they have everything set up, white cloths on the tables outside, candles lit, music lilting softly from an upstairs window, Clark can hardly believe this is his same backyard. It looks more like the grounds of a Tuscan villa.

He tells Al, "You're amazing." And gives him an appreciative hug.

They get dressed and do a final review of Al's checklist.

"Shit!" Al frowns.

"What?"

"I forgot the cilantro. I wanted to garnish the avocado salad with it."

"Can we get by without it?"

Al's mouth pulls into an unhappy line. "Yes."

"Hey," Clark lays a hand on his shoulder, "I'll run down to the Shop-and-Go for it."

Al's expression brightens. "Thanks, Clark."

Clark grabs his keys off the counter. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Make sure you get a bunch that's really fresh," Al calls after him. "And don't get it confused with flat leaf parsley. They're always near each other on the shelf, and they look somewhat alike. And--" He lets out his breath and holds out his hand for the keys. "I'd better go. Can you start setting out the food?" He heads for the door and calls over his shoulder on his way out, "Just make sure you leave the plastic on."

Clark carries the trays of elegantly presented goodies outside and does his best to guess how Al would like them laid out on the table, although he suspects his husband will probably end up rearranging it all when he gets home. He checks his watch, surprised that Al has been gone so long. He's starting to get a little concerned when he hears the truck pull up at last.

He goes out onto the porch to meet Al, who slams the truck door, glowering.

"No cilantro?" Clark calls to him.

Al holds up the bag, thuds up the steps, and brushes past him into the house. Clark stalls there a moment, wondering what in the world just happened.

Inside, the atmosphere is downright chilly. Al stands at the counter, chopping the cilantro as if it's done something to personally offend him. He doesn't glance up when Clark tries to get his attention.

"What's the matter?" Clark asks him.

Al says nothing.

Clark moves to his side, puts a hand on his arm. "Hey, what's going on?"

Al throws down the knife, fixes him with a furious glare. "What's going on?" he says, jaw so tense it looks like it might snap. "I'll tell you what's going on--"

They're interrupted by a loud knock, the first guests arriving, and Clark has never found it more annoying that no one in Blue Cove seems to know the term "fashionably late."

"I'd better--" He waves his hand in the direction of the front door.

"Fine," Al says, his tone about as forgiving as a glacier.

It's Pete at the door, soon followed by Mrs. Henderson, and then the rest of the guests begin piling in. Clark falls into front door patrol, greeting everyone as they come in, showing them out to the backyard where the party is underway. Al pours wine and passes cheese plates and smiles every time someone congratulates him on their grant. Only Clark can see the lines at the corners of his mouth, the effort all those smiles cost him. When their gazes happen to connect, the expression in Al's eyes gets harder, more frozen.

By the time everyone has shown up and Al has invited them to help themselves to the food, Clark is sticky with nervous sweat, seriously starting to panic. There's only one thing he can imagine that could have happened between the house and the store to make Al so thoroughly furious with him, and he keeps trying to find a moment to pull Al aside, swear on everything that's precious to him that he never meant to hurt him with his lies.

Every time he starts to make a move, though, someone waylays him.

Doc Hadley pulls him aside to check up on Al's progress, "Hasn't remembered anything yet, you say?"

"Um," Clark follows Al's progress across the patio, watching him intently, as if that will magically give him the answer, "no, I don't think so, not yet."

Doc Hadley nods. "Well, these things take time. Just keep filling in the details for him, and I'm sure one day when you least expect it everything will just click into place like that." He snaps his fingers.

Clark winces. "Yeah. I'm, uh…sure you're right."

When Doc Hadley drifts off to go talk to with Mrs. Henderson, Clark looks around, spots Al and manages to take exactly one step in his direction before Mrs. Klinghoffer, owner of the Blue Cove Garden Center, grabs him by the arm and gushes, "I'm just in love with what you've done out here. The canopy, the sculptural way you've laid out your flowerbeds. Who'd you use?"

"Excuse me?"

"Which designer? I simply must have their number."

Clark shakes his head. "Oh, no. Al came up with all this." He points him out to Mrs. Klinghoffer. "My husband over there."

Mrs. Klinghoffer leans in and says confidentially, "Between us, do you think he might be interested in doing some design work for us at the Garden Center? The person I have now," she pulls a face, "and I'd be willing to negotiate a very generous arrangement with him. Really make it worth his while."

Clark blinks at her. "Um...I don't really know. We're kind of busy with the winery right now--"

She interrupts, flashing him a bright, plastic smile, "Do mention my offer to him when you get the chance." She winks. "And put in a good word for me?" She pats his arm. "There's a dear." She walks off calling, "Oh, Gertrude, there you are. I simply must tell you about the new garden gnomes we just got in. I ordered them with you in mind, dear."

On Clark's third attempt to get to Al, he's intercepted by Sheriff Nelson, along with a sturdy, round-faced lady with a kind expression.

"Clark, it was such a big rush before with everybody just getting here that I didn't get the chance to introduce you to my wife," the sheriff tells him. "This is Flora. And, Flora, this is Clark Pacino-Kent. Married to that nice young man you just met over by the stuffed mushrooms." The sheriff confides in Clark, "My Flora took something of a shine to your Al."

Flora shoots him a shushing look. "Now, Earl."

Clark smiles and assures her, "Al has that effect on people, Mrs. Nelson."

"I just couldn't believe it when he said he'd made all this food himself." Her eyes go wide. "I can't tell you what I'd give for a husband who was handy around the kitchen."

The sheriff clears his throat. "Now, Flora."

Clark can't help smiling. He thinks this is what he and Al will probably be like in forty years. And then remembers with a stab of terror, that there might not be even forty minutes left in their lives together. His smile abruptly vanishes.

"Well," Flora says, "if you men will excuse me, I'm going to go have some more of those little cheese strudels. Just delicious. I hope I can get your husband to share his recipe with me, Clark."

""I'm sure he'll be happy to," Clark tells her.

She points her finger at her husband. "Remember what Doc Hadley said. No dessert for you." And heads back to the food table.

"Well, Clark," Sheriff Nelson picks up their conversation, "it sure does seem like you and your mister are doing well for yourselves. I'm awful glad to see it. After everything you went through with the accident, you deserve some happiness."

Clark experiences a sudden inability to breathe, the way other people must feel when they've just been punched in the stomach. "Yeah, it's--" Al passes by on this way into the house, and Clark reaches out for him. "Hey."

Al pulls his arm away, won't look at Clark, concentrates all his attention on the Sheriff instead. "Can I get you anything? Maybe another glass of wine?"

Sheriff Nelson's brow knits together, clearly picking up the scent of trouble, but he answers with a genial smile, "Oh, no, Al. I think this will do me. I'm driving, and I'd hate to have pull myself over for being under the influence." He chuckles at his own joke, trying to lighten the mood.

Al and Clark laugh along, tensely.

"Well, if you'll excuse me, I need to go get some more ice," Al says, starting to move away.

Clark catches his arm again. "Can I talk to you?"

"I'm busy right now." Al glares at him.

"It'll just take a minute." He tells the sheriff, "We'll be right back."

Al takes off in a huff, and Sheriff Nelson shoots Clark a sympathetic glance as he follows after him. They go around the side of the house to the deserted front porch.

"All right," Al says. "So talk."

Clark takes a deep breath. "What is the matter?"

Al crosses his arms over his chest, an aggressive sarcasm in the gesture. "Why would you think anything is wrong, Clark? Do you have a guilty conscience perhaps? Is there something you want to confess?"

This is it, what Clark has lived in fear of, and he swallows hard. "It's not the way you think."

"Apparently nothing is."

"I was just trying to protect you. I never meant--"

"Protect me?" Al practically spits out the words. "That's what you call fucking someone else?"

"No! I--" Clark is brought up short. "What?"

"You heard me!" Al shouts at him.

His face has gone a livid shade of red, but when Clark looks more closely, he sees hurt beneath the fury.

"Al, I'm not cheating on you. I haven't slept with anyone else since we've been together."

"Then how the hell do you explain this?" He stomps inside, letting the door slam behind him, and returns a second later waving the long-forgotten monogrammed silk underpants. "Look familiar?"

Clark stares, mouth open wide. "Where did you--"

"On the way to the store, I had Pepsi cans rolling around under my feet, as usual. So I thought I'd do something nice for you, since you've been so patient about all this party stuff. So when I get there, I start cleaning out the truck, and this is what I find! Standing there like a fool in the parking lot of the Shop-and-Go."

"Al, please," he says desperately, "I can explain."

Al shakes his head, eyes angry bright. "How long has it been going on, Clark? Since the accident? Or did it start before that?"

Clark puts a hand on Al's arm and won't let go, even when Al tries to pull away. "There is no one else, I swear to God. But there is something I need to tell you."

"If you're not having an affair, then who the hell is 'LL'?" Al demands. "And what is his underwear doing shoved behind the seat of your truck?"

"That's what I need to tell you." Clark swallows hard, braces himself. "You see--"

"Clark?" Pete peers out at them from the other side of the door.

Clark turns sharply. "We're trying to talk here, Pete. Privately. Okay?"

But Pete doesn't take the hint, doesn't get lost. He comes out onto the porch, looking anxiously from Clark to Al and back again. "What are you guys fighting about?"

"It's none of your--"

Al angrily holds up the underwear. "Clark's mystery boyfriend." He glares at Clark. "What does 'LL' stand for anyway?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you--" Clark begins.

Pete interrupts. "Man, you don't have to cover for me anymore. It's not worth having a fight with your husband over it."

Clark and Al both turn to stare at him.

Pete nods. "Yeah, Al. That underwear? It's mine." He hangs his head. "Well, not mine, exactly." He takes a dramatic breath. " You see, I was over in Portland at this bar. This gay bar, as it turns out."

Clark shakes his head. "Don't do this, Pete. I'm trying to tell him--"

Pete nods gravely. "I know, man. And I appreciate it, that you're trying to keep my secret, like I asked. But I owe Al an explanation."

Al's expression grows concerned. "So what happened?"

Pete takes another big breath. "Well, at first I didn't realize the kind of place it was. I don't know Portland all that well. I'd just stopped on my way out of town for a quick drink. So I start talking with this guy, and it's a nice conversation, and then it finally hits me where I am. By this point, the guy already has ideas, wants to go out to my truck and," he shakes his head, with a helpless look, "I don't know why, but I...did it."

"But," Al glances over at Clark, "how did--"

"Yeah, how did Clark get the underwear," Pete finishes the question for him. "Well, after it was over, the...you know, sex, I kind of," he throws up his hands, "freaked out, I guess you'd say. I made the guy get out of the truck and I took off, flying up the Interstate the whole way home. It wasn't until I got out at my house that I realized he'd left his underwear. And then I just freaked out even more. So I called Clark, and he came over and helped calm me down. And I made him take the underwear, so I wouldn't have to think about it." Pete shrugs. "I guess he must have forgotten to throw it out."

Al shoots an impatient look at Clark. "Why couldn't you have just told me that?"

Clark tries to explain, "Because it's not--"

Pete chimes in again, "Because it's not something I wanted you to know." Al frowns, and Pete elaborates, "It just...it was something that happened, but it wasn't for me. The man-on-man thing. I didn't want you to think...you know. That I'm some kind of homophobe or something."

Al's face lights up, understanding mixed with relief. "I wouldn't think that, Pete. Not at all. Not everyone's gay, and sex can confuse the best of us. I've done things I've regretted." He frowns. "Well, if I remembered any of the things I've done, I'm sure there would be some regret in there somewhere. You know what I'm trying to say?"

"I do, man," Pete tells him. "And thanks. You're a good friend."

Clark just shakes his head. "You can't believe--"

Al throws his arms around him and hugs him hard. "I can't believe I accused you of cheating. I'm sorry, Clark. So sorry."

"Al," Clark tries to blurt out the truth right there and then, but the way Al is holding on to him makes it too damned hard to say.

"I really should have known better," Al continues. "You would never do something like that. Something to hurt me." He pulls back, searches Clark's face, his expression painfully contrite. "Can you forgive me?"

"Al." Clark touches his face.

"I need to hear it, Clark. Please."

He swallows hard, shakes his head. "Nothing to forgive. Just a misunderstanding."

Al smiles and gives him another big hug. "Thank you." When he pulls away, he looks as if gravity can't touch him. "I'd better go see how our guests are doing." He kisses Clark one last time and lets go of his hand with the greatest reluctance.

On his way back inside, he tells Pete, "I'll toss these in the trash." And balls the underwear up in his hand.

They listen to his steps recede down the hall, wait until they hear the back door bang closed.

"I was trying to tell him the truth," Clark says tiredly.

Pete nods. "I could see that."

"So what the hell were you doing?" He points his finger at Pete. "You're the one who told me I was crazy for doing this in the first place."

"That's right," Pete tells him, eyes sparking. "I did. I never thought you should have started this with him. But you went ahead and did it anyway. And the thing is, Clark, I've never seen you happier. And I would bet anything he's never been so happy either. So what do you want to go messing up a good thing for?"

Clark lets out his breath. "I don't want to. But he's going to remember sooner or later, Pete. I truly got that for the first time tonight. And I need to tell him before that happens. So maybe there's some chance he'll forgive me."

"Okay, man. But pick the right moment. Don't just lay it on him in the middle of a fight when he's already pissed at you. And definitely not in the middle of his big celebration, when you've got, like, fifty people in your backyard."

Clark nods. "Yeah, I guess you're right. I should find a way to prepare him for it, break it gently."

"Yeah, man," Pete says. "Build up to it. Slowly, if you have to."

Clark studies him, suspicion dawning. "I'd almost think you were encouraging me to put this off as long as possible."

Pete looks him squarely in the eye. "You know what, Clark? You're not the only one who likes having Al around."

Clark falters, lets his gaze drop. "I know, Pete."

They rejoin the festivities, and the difference in Al's demeanor has noticeably perked up the party. He's gallantly pouring glasses of wine for a group of ladies collected around him, smoothly handing out compliments, making them all giggle like school girls. When he sees Clark, he excuses himself, brings over a glass and a plateful of crab puffs, and gives them to Clark, along with a lingering kiss.

"That's the '98 Chardonnay," he tells Clark, kissing him again. "Your favorite."

One last embrace, and Al drifts off to mingle with their guests. Clark watches him with an expression that must be as horsewhipped by love as he feels, because the sheriff comes over and claps him on the back.

"Ah, son, I know just how that is. My Flora, she's a firecracker, too."