Adult-FanFiction.org : Celebrity

An Urban Fantasy in Three Acts	By : Alhazred Category: Individual Celebrities > Athlete/Sports Misc Views: 1362 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the people written about in this fanfiction. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 8
- 9
- 10
The following is a work of fiction. It would be pretty stupid to say any resemblance to real people is coincidental, but any resemblance to real events, personalities and, yes, even sexuality of those involved most certainly is not based on fact.
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Michael woke about five minutes before his alarm clock would have gone off. He grabbed it and flicked the switch on the back, the hat he'd gone to sleep wearing falling the rest of the way off of his head as he moved. He hardly noticed, really. He couldn't remember dreaming, but he felt sharp. Maybe not rested, but ready.

It was fifteen minutes after eleven; he had time. He wouldn't stress out, he decided. He would keep his cool, because freaking out wouldn't help Ian. His sword was sitting on the floor, waiting for him, still half-bundled in Ian's white T-shirt. He didn't want to carry it like that again; it seemed a little too obvious. So the first thing Michael did was go into his closet, looking for a temporary replacement for Lenny's duster. If he got out of this alive, he decided he would take that thing to the dry cleaner's first thing tomorrow. After getting some sleep.

Michael wasn't really a fan of big coats, not even occasionally, like Thorpe. The only jacket he had remotely long enough to cover his sword was the one he'd posed for Vanity Fair in. He remembered thinking, when he'd done the shoot, that it was the gayest thing on the planet. Now he couldn't be more thrilled that they'd given it to him afterward. He turned the jacket inside-out because the massive amounts of flair on the thing would draw attention from anyone out this late. There was no buckle on it; Michael had to tuck his Wakizashi in and then walk with his arm a little in front, hand on his stomach so it crossed the sword and held it there. He didn't mind.

It took him a half-hour to walk to the school, passing the sign out in front of the campus that said Pendragon High School in giant letters and Campus closed after school hours; trespassers will be prosecuted underneath that. But the gate was wide open. Pausing, Michael looked at his watch; he was fifteen minutes early, and he had a strong suspicion that someone had either taken care of whatever night security the place had already, or that there was none at this time to begin with. It was pretty obvious that he was being led into a trap, with Ian in a hostage situation and everything, but what else could he do, really? Whoever this was had been trying to kill him for days; were he not worried over Ian, Michael thought he would've enjoyed the chance to take it to them instead.

On that thought, he put his sword down, took his jacket off, turned it right side out before putting it on again, picked up his sword, and walked to the gym. He absolutely refused to be ashamed of himself going into this confrontation; he would be proud, much more of a proud human being than the one he was going to confront.

Michael had been right about the distinct lack of night security, but the largest door into the gym was undoubtedly tampered with, a single brick wedged between it and the door frame to keep it open. Michael left it like that as he entered.

The nightlights in the hallway made the walls glow a surreal blue, almost like moonlight. He walked by the display case containing the famous trophies and awards won by the school's teams over the years; it was like walking around his old school in Towson again, only not.

Pausing again before opening the door with the distinct "School Pool" sign on it, Michael drew his sword and stood the scabbard up against the wall. It seemed only reasonable to expect a fight; why go in unprepared?

Then again, whoever had done this was stupid enough to challenge a Water mage at a pool. Michael had one advantage already, and he was sure he'd find a way to use it...until he walked inside. His stomach dropped when he realized the pool had been covered. Someone had done their homework after all, and even in the dim blue light, he could tell he wouldn't have any water to mess with aside from the condensation making the floor tiles slippery. He couldn't grab the moister in the air as easily as Lenny could.

A muffled, gagged noise echoed in the quiet room; Michael spun on his heels, looking towards the starting blocks; he was on a long side of the pool, so they ran in a straight line away from him. Ian was leaning against one, on his knees, his hands cuffed and a sizeable piece of duct tape over his mouth.

It was the person behind him that drew Michael's attention; some scrawny kid wearing a hoodie to hide his face, pointing a pistol at the back of Ian's head. It was the kid Michael had caught breaking into his house, and one look at the silencer on the end of his gun told him it was the guy that had shot Mack in the alley.

When he pushed his hood off his head, Michael realized it was also the kid that had been sitting in the library, reading a Codex while he and Ian had done their thing. "Well. I guess I should've expected that."

His would-be burglar found that funny, and chuckled. But he wasn't the person who answered; that voice came from the door to one of the locker rooms as it swung open. "Surprised, Michael?"

And Michael knew that voice; hearing it right now turned his blood cold, made him want to curl up and just die even as he turned to see Cal walking out. "You've got to be kidding me..."

Cal looked every bit as dignified and preppy as he usually did, but twisted: instead of a nice button-down shirt, he wore a vest made of chain mail over his tank top, too small for him to buckle it across his chest. Water armor, Michael guessed, probably acquired too hastily to give thought to size. And gone were the expensive sneakers Cal usually wore, the legs of his khakis tucked neatly into combat boots. "You are surprised," Cal smiled. "I guess stress really does make it harder to think, I bet it would've been obvious otherwise."

Michael only heard Cal distantly; his mind raced back as fast as he could think, filling in this last piece of the puzzle into the things that should've given it away...

Nearly drowning in magical water at the diner...he could picture Cal throwing it into his glass when he'd bent down to pick up his watch.

The conversation he'd had with his team captain while Michael had overheard them...they'd been talking about how surprising it was that he'd survived.

It didn't take long for Michael's shock to begin turning into anger. He squeezed the handle of his sword, his eyes on Cal but glancing towards Ian as they stalked around each other, neither of them setting foot over the pool cover. "I...I never did anything to you..."

"Of course not," Cal chuckled. "It's not about you, Michael...just about what your death will accomplish. I like you Michael, I really do...but I'm a greedy bastard, and I'm quite honestly sick of what I have to do to put myself through school and just scrape by...your death will make my life a lot easier. "

Mack had been talking about this...how it wasn't about Michael at all, but Michael had been so engrossed in the hate Mack was giving him that he hadn't even noticed.

The kid with his gun to Ian had shot Mack to keep him from squealing on Cal, Michael realized.

"That makes no fucking sense," Michael tried to sound assertive, but he whispered more than anything. "You didn't even know what I am...you could've bullied me into extortion, could've found out and blackmailed me..."

"Ah," Cal said, raising a finger to stop him. "Lord Howel's collection is worth more on several markets than you are, Michael. No one here even knows you're one of us, which, by the way, is why Mackenzie made up the water for you...we didn't realize you'd be able to pull it out."

"So...what?" Michael blinked. "I die and it's...what, some stupid Shock and Awe tactic?"

"Hardly stupid," Cal chuckled. "Can you imagine how Lord Howel will flip his lid when a local celebrity, a mage he didn't know about, nonetheless, is found dead, killed by another mage? How poorly guarded do you think his museum will be when he sends everyone on his payroll out to scour the state for me, while I'm robbing him blind?"

Suddenly, Michael wished Cal would just give him the same speech Mack did. This was far, far worse. "You...you've put me through hell...for a get rich quick scheme?"

"Essentially," Cal nodded, "Yes."

Michael raised his sword. He heard a click; Cal's little friend had cocked the hammer back on his pistol.

"I'll let him go as soon as your heart isn't beating anymore, Michael," Cal raised his hand. "I'll even try to make this painless. You deserve better than this, but that's all I'm willing to give."

Michael's eyes tore from Cal to Ian...Ian, who looked more determined to do something than he'd been since Athens. Cal was a Lightning mage, it seemed...Michael didn't need to be told that when he raised an arm, energy crackling around it and up to his hand.

Lightning and Water opposed each other, so Michael knew if the first shot didn't kill him, it would hurt a whole hell of a lot.

And then Ian threw his elbow into his guard's lower ribs. The gun went off, but the bullet shattered tile, not Ian's head, even as Ian dived back to tackle him.

Cal was just throwing the bolt of lightning at Michael before he noticed this happening; Michael had seen lightning magic before, and it didn't look like lightning from a storm so much as it looked like a cross between ball lightning and a fireball.

Bolts of magical electricity moved faster than a Fire mage's fireball, but even then, now that Ian was (relatively) safe, Michael found new drive and slashed his sword clear through it. The fact that Cal had been distracted just as he'd tossed it helped immensely.

It stung his hands like a bitch, but that was fine because his sword knocked most of it away and being hit by it could've been fatal. Now, Cal was distracted for just a second as he turned to see his companion being grappled with on the floor.

Michael rushed him. And he brought his sword down from above, at an angle, but Cal turned just in time to see and stepped in closer to Michael, catching his arms behind the elbows and directing his momentum away.

Hearing the blade of his sword clack against the tiles just as Cal's elbow found his ribs, Michael could only be thankful that he'd managed to squirm backwards just enough to avoid broken bones. In turn, Cal kicked a foot up right to Michael's midsection, hitting him flat instead of with his toes, knocking Michael further back.

Still with a tight grip on his sword, Michael swung again; this time, Cal slid back out of range to avoid it, so Michael brought his arms back, and he lunged forward, intent on running Cal through, as uncleanly as possible.

Unfortunately, Cal didn't have trouble moving to the side, just enough for Michael to miss, and caught his arm again, raking his palm down and knocking the sword clear out of his hands.

Cal paid no heed to Michael's sword as it clattered away across the tiles, and Michael didn't get the chance to watch it rest because Cal landed a quick jab right to his face.

It drew blood. Michael stumbled back a step and swiped a hand across his split lip, only making it sting and bleed even more. He raised his fists, but when Cal made eye contact with him he kicked out instead, going off-balance but trying to get Cal in the knee.

He almost succeeded...almost. Cal bent his knee just in time to avoid having it dislocated and punched Michael across the face again, almost sending him to the ground as his foot landed. But Michael didn't fall; doubled over, he shot straight up despite protests from his back and sent an elbow at Cal's nose, but he missed and hit him in the forehead. He wasn't sure if it was worse or better. Not wanting to lose his flow, Michael turned and punched him in the span of a second, but when he tried to throw another punch, Cal had an arm out, and he pushed Michael's fist right into his water armor.

Not finished with him, Cal grabbed his arm and twisted. Michael didn't have a choice, he turned into where Cal was pulling him to avoid a broken arm, and as soon as he had to lean in, Cal threw a leg up and kicked his shin right across Michael's midsection. It knocked the wind out of Michael enough to get grabbing his own knees again, and when that happened, Cal reached under Michael's shoulders to lay his hands on his chest, underneath his jacket.

He saw Cal's hands start to glow and looked up just in time to meet his eyes before the shock of lightning sent him off of his feet, and Cal was smiling. Grinning sadly, it looked like, but smiling.

He landed hard. Tumbling over once after he was on the ground, Michael ended up splitting his lip open a second time and smashing his nose off the tiles as if that just wasn't enough. His arms instinctively wrapped around himself, trying to squeeze out the electrical burning invading his upper body...Cal hadn't even needed to put effort into it, because it hurt him twice as much anyway.

Michael had never understood the concept of one's life flashing before their eyes as death approached, but here, now, as he realized that Cal was a much better fighter, it made a lot more sense.

It just seemed like so much taught psychobabble. Even as he swam, the slight worry that he could drown if a certain few muscles cramped up for no good reason, he had never felt particularly close to death.

Maybe he just had to have it beaten into him for his immature mind to comprehend the idea that life wasn't always certain.

"A lightning mage doesn't make water traps for peoples' food, does he?" Mack had said. He'd said that, and more, when he'd been swinging his mace at Michael's head, and now Michael was wondering how in the world he could've missed it all so easily. "You should hear Cal talk about you when you're not in the room, how he wants to be like you, how he just knows you would break Spitz' record this time in Beijing..."

'Would if you were still alive,' Michael filled in for himself.

He understood it now, lying on his face, tasting his own blood as it ran from his nose and mouth only to puddle between his skin and the tiled floor. Chlorine from the nearby pool mingled with the scent of it... an interesting combination, to say the least.

Helplessness was pure torture, taunting him, telling him that he wasn't good enough to win this fight. He was used to being able to do something in any given situation, accomplish something. Worst of all, he had no idea where his sword had fallen to.

Nevertheless, Michael wasn't one to give up, and if finding the sword was the only thing that would give him a chance at victory, then it became the only thing on his mind as he pressed one hand to the tiles, and then the other. Slowly, he dragged himself up despite the stinging he still felt from Cal's magic, among everything else. His white T-shirt had burns on it now, and he could smell it.

He saw why Cal hadn't come after him on the ground, now. He was watching Ian wrestle with his friend, the gun pointing from one to the other until it fell away from them and rested on the floor.

Ian dived for it, but he soon found Cal's friend on his back, trying to hold him down. As Michael stood, Cal tossed lightning at them, but he didn't hit Ian; he knocked the pistol farther away from them.

Michael was determined, and he swung for Cal even as his eyes darted around the pool searching for his own weapon that he so desperately needed. His life was flashing before his eyes, the last few days a blur in his mind even as he tried to concentrate on surviving.

The punch he threw was a poor one, a desperate swing for the head with way too much curve and way too much momentum as he tried to attack while stumbling, clumsily, to his feet. And it sailed right by his target, missing by several inches, putting his back to his attacker.

For his troubles, Michael found himself with a hand reached around and planted firmly on his neck. He was in no position whatsoever to fight, no balance to keep him on his feet, and he wasn't entirely surprised to be dragged backwards by his neck, nothing he could do about his heels skidding across the tiles once his footing was gone completely.

He was surprised when he found himself dragged to one of the starting blocks and slammed into it. Several times, actually. Being held at the neck, the back of his head took the brunt of every hit.

Michael hardly felt the first one. It did nothing to distinguish itself from his other injuries. The second time, though, he knew his head was split open, another open wound to bleed from. And by the third time, what little resistance he was putting up ended.

From there, Cal hurled him at one of the starting blocks, and he stopped just short of it, face down on the floor once more.

He remembered what Cal had been like when he showed up in Michael's doorstep...not at all shocked by the news of Mack's death, almost like he already knew. Almost like he was just surprised that news had gotten out so fast.

He wasn't done yet, and he forced himself to stand, to ignore his own blood on the floor and turn to face his enemy. Michael refused to give up even as he concentrated on Cal egging him on. "C'mon, Swim Shady."

Michael hated that pet name. He glanced to the side, just long enough to see Ian's guard roll underneath him, trying to get a grip on his neck from behind while Ian tried to elbow him in the ribs again. He looked like he was having trouble doing it from that angle with his hands cuffed.

Cal was closer now, he'd moved so he was between Michael and another of the starting blocks. So Michael tried to catch him off guard; he lunged right in and punched Cal square in the gut, he could feel his fist sink in and he could hear the air forced out of his mouth. When he tried again, he aimed his punch wrong and hit Cal's armor once more, but he didn't even try to put any water into it, he couldn't concentrate on it enough.

He brought his arm up and tried to get a shot at Cal's collarbone, but by now, Cal was wise to his swings and caught him, punching him clean in the face once...then again, and then again with a decent right hook. Michael was back on the ground in front of the block he'd started at. This time, Cal let him stand, ignoring Ian's seemingly vain attempts at wrestling behind him. "Have anything left?"

Michael tried one more time, and that was it; Cal stepped to the side, grabbed his jacket and flung him stomach-first into the other starting block. Cal spun him around so when he punched Michael again, he snapped back against the block. He had to pull Michael up to punch him again. Again, Michael went down on the block, and again, Cal yanked him back, but he just let Michael stumble this time.

There are limits to the human body, tolerances it can't be pushed beyond. That was a fact, and Michael's body had finally had enough. For Michael, the thought of letting harm come to Ian would motivate him to push even far enough to injure himself seriously; permanently, perhaps. But there was a point where the abuse he'd taken over the last week, the physical injuries as well as the stress, finally added up with the hits he was taking here and robbed him of his strength. The switch had been turned off, and Michael was shutting off with it.

He was still conscious when he was let go, allowed to collapse onto the floor like so many rag dolls. Michael pressed his palms to the floor and tried to push himself up, even if he knew it was futile. Futile or not, he wouldn't quit, not while he was breathing.

Quite bitterly, it occurred to him that he didn't need help staying down. In the few seconds he was allowed respite, he'd barely managed to heave his body an inch from the floor. Weary recruits driven to the brink by their drill sergeants didn't have this much trouble.

Still, he tried. If he was going to die, he would make his murderer fight for every bit of his kill.

Right then, Michael felt something he really feared worse than death; Cal had really done his homework, it seemed. He couldn't remember ever reacting to pain beyond wincing or complaining or being frustrated. Maybe he'd fallen and been reduced to tears a few times as a little kid, like everyone else in the world.

But his now-classic injury had already been acting up lately, and from the first time Michael felt the heel of Cal's boot crash into his lower back, he cried out. Slowly, deliberately, Cal regained his own balance before he raised his foot and did it again.

"Cried out" didn't describe Michael's reaction anymore; he just screamed until he didn't have air in his lungs and that noise, in itself, was a horrible plea for mercy. Cal stomped on him again, and he raised his foot for a fourth time, not caring that Michael had half-rolled to the side in an attempt to curl up, the illusion that it would offer protection better than nothing at all.

The door Michael had walked in flew open again; he could see it from where he was, barely. Either his vision was blurry from pain or he was crying, he couldn't tell which. But he could see enough to watch a man in a pristine white suit take precisely three steps in and raise the blue-tinted staff he carried in one hand.

As he heard the water condense from the air and splash like an explosion again Cal, Michael didn't think he'd ever been happier to see Lenny Krayzelburg. He nailed Cal right in the middle of the chest, where his vest-shaped armor didn't cover, and then Lenny was gliding across the condensation on the tiles like he had rollerblades on to follow him as he careened across the room.

Getting his hands back flat on the ground, Michael pushed with his arms to roll over and watch Lenny give Cal an old-fashioned flat-palm strike to the chin. Right as Cal's head snapped back, he lost his footing and hit the wall behind him.

Metal scraping the floor drew Michael's attention away. He turned in time to see Ian collapse against the next starting block over, blood drooling out from a fresh blow to his head. As he laid there trying to get his head through the fog of the blow he'd taken, Ian's eyes were only half-open, and he didn't see Cal's friend find Michael's sword and pick it up.

Michael saw it, even as Lenny beat on Cal some more, he watched the kid crawl, shuffling back to Ian. With his back screaming in protest at even a movement of his arm, Michael put a hand out to reach for the top of the block he'd fallen next to, and he pulled.

He still couldn't make his legs work and stand, and while his back didn't quite care for any application of upper body strength, he could at least make his arms move. Cal's friend, looking a little worse for wear after Ian had landed a few blows, got up on his knees. Michael pulled as hard as he could, getting his other hand over the top and heaving himself up to it until he was resting against the block.

His back just didn't cooperate and he knew this was the kind of injury that could very likely end his career. He could feel his legs, at least, but his back was one big giant knot of muscle as it tried to cope with the abuse and he couldn't move anything below his midsection. Lenny would take care of that later, though.

Unfortunately, unable to do much of anything, Michael felt stuck and useless as well as tortured. It wasn't until Cal's friend flipped the sword downward and raised it over his head in both hands that he was inspired to do something. It was the look in Ian's eyes when he realized he'd let the guy trying to kill him get a weapon and come back with it.

Michael couldn't really jump at the guy, or he would've. What he could do was push off the block and fall, and fall he did. He fell right behind him, a little to the side, the metal pins on the front of Michael's Vanity Fair jacket pressing into his back, one knee banging hard on the floor and the other landing on the kid's leg, but he didn't care. He fell almost on top of him, close enough to grab him around the chest, if he wanted. Letting his arms fall with him, instead, Michael grabbed his hands. And he twisted his wrists downward, so the blade wasn't pointed at Ian anymore, it was pointed back in on the kid and Michael himself, right behind him.

Really unsure how much strength he had left, Michael pulled down with all of his might, just in case it wasn't enough. Having caught the kid off guard, it was more than enough, and the very second his sword went through the kid's heart and out his back, Michael felt the blade; he'd pulled too hard, been too close, and his eyes went wide as he met Ian's over the kid's shoulder, but the only thing he could cough out was a simple, gargled, "Shit!"

They both fell over, to the side, and Michael couldn't will himself to move anymore. He wasn't sorry, even if all he had left to do was bleed to death, or die in the next few seconds, if he'd run his own heart through as well. Ian was safe; what else mattered?

Across the pool, Lenny turned to see what was going on, and Cal laughed. He was outclassed and he knew it, but free of being hit, Cal threw lightning at the highest window to break it and then he turned into lightning himself as Lenny turned back to watch, powerless to stop him from escaping out into the cloudy sky.

Just like that, Cal was gone.

"Michael!" Frantic, Ian stumbled over and yanked the sword from both of them; it made a quiet, wet noise even as the blood began to run off. That accomplished, Ian shoved Michael so he rolled onto his back, away from the new corpse

Ian had been thinking the same thing, that Michael had gotten himself in the heart as well...but when Ian started laughing, laughing at him, wrecked with frightened relief, Michael looked down at himself. He'd brought the sword down at just enough of an angle to miss any vital areas; he was bleeding, sure, but it wasn't all that bad, the tip of the sword having nicely sliced through his pectoral and off to the side, stopping just short of the solar plexus.

But that was okay. Ian was safe. Ian was pressing the palms of his hands to the middle of the dark red spot spreading out on Michael's shirt, and he was safe. "Bastard...scared the crap out of me."

"See if you get a heroic rescue next time," Michael groaned, smiling back up at him.

The ceiling became a lot more interesting once Lenny walked over to Michael and leaned in so he could see him. Michael wasn't about to hide his gratefulness. "Lenny...man...are you a sight for sore eyes."

"While you, my friend, are just a sight," Lenny said. "Michael, Michael...what have you gotten yourself into?"

"That's a long," Michael said; it hurt to talk, and he bled a little more with every breath. He remembered what Cal had said, about why he was doing it all. "And...surprisingly uninteresting story."

Ian whispered, "You don't say." He didn't get up, he just took his hands off Michael when it seemed like he wouldn't bleed excessively, rolling back to sit down and draw his legs up, hugging his knees, Michael's blood smeared in his pants...funny, Michael thought...Ian had been perfectly calm even with a gun pointed at his head. Maybe actually getting hit did the trick.

"I tried calling you," Michael chuckled. It came out more as a gurgle, and he realized the stuff nearly choking him was his own blood running into his mouth. "Few times. Where've you been?"

"Out," Lenny smiled. "And then on my way here, when I tried to call you back and neither of you would answer."

Oh, how simple things would've been, Michael thought, if he'd just turned his phone back on sooner. "Oh...well...glad you made it."

"Glad to hear it," Lenny answered. He turned, "Ian, you seem rather...unsurprised."

"I've been here a few days," Ian nodded, eyes never coming away from Michael, "Lenny, his back is...um..."

"I know," Lenny nodded, "I saw too. I'll take care of it. Can you give me a hand?"

"Yeah, yeah...sure," Ian scrambled to his feet with his new purpose. "Is it...is it safe?"

"I'll deal," Michael groaned. "Really. All the pain so far, well, hey, I can take a few more minutes."

Ian took one arm, Lenny took the other and they hauled Michael up from the floor; he screamed again, biting his lip so hard to cover it that he drew more blood. It was a lot better once Lenny and Ian had Michael upright, his arms over their shoulders. Ian carried Michael's sword in one hand and he grabbed the scabbard as they dragged him, quite limply, out of the door.

He managed to shove the sword in before picking it up, and grabbed it all as one. "Are we just...going to leave a dead body in there?"

It seemed more ridiculous to leave the corpse of one of their attackers in a high school than in an alley, somehow. Lenny wasn't bothered. "I'll have it taken care of. I've met Lord Howel before, he'll be more than happy to have this cleaned up without harassing us about it."

"Thanks, Lenny," Michael said.

Ian left it at that. Lenny's car was larger than the one Ian had rented, and it didn't take them long to ease Michael into the back seat. Ian slipped in next to him.

Trying to lean back and just let gravity settle him in, Michael found himself without any kind of balance, even sitting, almost falling into the other door until Ian grabbed him and held him up. Lenny was outside, on his phone to Lord Howel's estate. "Ian...dude...you don't need to baby me...actually, I think you should sit up front so I can lie down. It might be safer."

"Fine," Ian said, but he didn't get up. He moved over and tugged at Michael's shoulder; Michael promptly landed on Ian's lap with a solid "Oomph!"

Michael's eyes went wider then they'd been since Cal had first knocked him to the floor, but he didn't say anything. He felt one of Ian's arms wrap around him, holding him steady while Lenny drove, but it didn't feel nearly as awkward and frightening as when Ian had done that whole boyfriend act.

Ian was just being a good friend. And Michael found it oddly, extraordinarily comforting, instead of awkward.

He heard his sword slide further out of it's scabbard where Ian held it; Ian had, in fact, noticed the inscription on the blade, right at the handle guard, and his curiosity got the better of him. Slowly, his hand on the scabbard, he edged the sword out, shoving it with his thumb until the letters were all visible.

To Mikey, little brother in my life,
Keep on rockin' in the pool. ~Lenny

Ian just stared at it for a good long time until Lenny brought them to Michael's house, seeing Michael underneath his arm, his eyes closed, probably trying to blot out what had to be a lot of pain. He looked a lot more peaceful than he probably felt. Maybe it was Michael's (admittedly silly) declaration of undying love, the sheer devotion of that, but Michael felt like more than a brother to him. How often did someone prove you could trust them with your life?

"Hey," Lenny said as he parked, "Don't you fall asleep!"

"Yes, Mom," Michael snickered. He opened his eyes anyway.

Lenny answered, "Hardly. Your mother is far more adorable than I am."

Ian helped him drag Michael out of the back seat, and they brought him inside on their shoulders in much the same way they'd left the pool. Once the door was closed behind them and they didn't have to worry about rushing (aside from Michael still bleeding a little,) he said, "Bathroom's upstairs."

Ian and Lenny took to the task of bringing him there, but halfway up the stairs, Ian's curiosity got the better of him. "Should I ask why that's important?"

"Let's get it done first," Lenny snickered, "Then talk."

Michael managed to shuck his jacket off while Lenny filled the bathtub; Ian had to help him pull his shirt off, though. He rolled it up and tossed it into the trash can, figuring Michael wouldn't really care for it, what with the cuts and bloodstains and things.

He didn't even bother with his pants, it wasn't worth the effort. Seeing that Ian was still holding him up, Lenny said, "Grab his shoulders, I'll get his legs?"

"Alright," Ian blinked

It wasn't hard to lay Michael in the tub. Or at least, it wouldn't have been, if he hadn't become extremely objectionable over one little fact. "Holy shit that's freezing!"

"Gotta have something to work with," Lenny answered. He nodded to Ian, and they let him go so he slid in down gently against the back, teeth chattering all the way.

Lenny straightened up, and turned the palm of one hand towards the water, stretching his fingers a little. "Ready?"

"Please," Michael shivered a little more, before he inhaled like he was taking his last breath. Holding it, he slipped completely under.

"That'll do." Lenny's hand moved ever so slightly as he took hold of the water with his magic, forcing the temperature up, slowly, but enough right off the bat for Michael to be comfortable again.

Michael opened his eyes after a few seconds, once the water was warm and he wanted to just float there forever in his little liquid cocoon, as opposed to suffering hypothermia. He couldn't make out what Lenny and Ian were saying to each other through the swishing and churning sounds, made worse by Lenny's manipulations, but he didn't care. It was like watching a dream, a warm, surreal dream.

Laying in water touched by another Water mage, Michael felt his back un-seize as the pain ebbed away. He moved his legs as much as possible while still staying under, just to see if he could. It worked well; that problem was solved. The cut from his sword healed in short order as well, and soon the bruises were fading

Once Michael had to come up for air, nearly every injury he had was gone. Lenny let the water go and offered Michael a hand up; he took it and pulled, most of his strength having returned, leaving only the mental exhaustion.

He was still pretty tired, actually.

Ian couldn't help himself. "So, you’re okay?"

Bouncing a little, waving his arms once or twice as best he could in the confined space, Michael said, "Yeah...yeah, I think I am."

"I took care of your little problem," Lenny said. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his white suit truly glowing now that they stood in a properly lit room. "Lord Howel put your friend on his shit list, so to speak. He won't be welcome anywhere near Detroit by any of us that acknowledges the validity. That's quite a lot, really. And this is all assuming he's still alive."

"What do you mean?" Ian's eyebrow went up. "I can't picture what could be dangerous about this shit when I don't see it, like...out of context."

"Lightning magi," Lenny started, "When they leave like that...they have to have something in the direction they're going to bounce towards the ground. Cloud, mountain, something...there's no way he could've seen a cloud in the sky, and out a high window like that, he'd just go up further if there wasn't any. To put it simply, he wouldn't come back."

"Well, that's good to know," Ian deadpanned; he may not have understood it all at this point, but he understood enough.

"I could do it too, actually," Lenny shrugged. "It's not hard, strangely enough. Michael wouldn't have trouble learning at this point. Our problem is that we turn into a puddle. Throw the puddle into the pool, and they just mix. I really don't care for the ability, it's too much flair and too much danger for too little results.

"Yeah," Michael said. He deflated, then, too tired to express his actual enthusiasm. "Man...I hope we're done. I don't think I can handle another surprise."

Lenny gave him a smile. "I'll hang around for a little while. Besides, I want to hear this whole story, anyway. But if there's anyone else out to get you, Michael, well...I'm not invincible, but I can say they'll have more trouble than they know what to do with, going through me first."

"I appreciate that," Michael said. "Really, I do...thanks, Lenny."

"My pleasure. For the moment, though, I'd like to turn in before I let myself get jet lag. And I imagine you wouldn't mind such a thing yourself."

"Not at all," Michael cracked a smile. "You guys can use my roommates' rooms...they won't be needing them until September."

"Works for me," Ian said.

But while Lenny staked out one of the empty bedrooms, Ian followed Michael into his. It was almost automatic, he was forgetting that Michael was suddenly, magically almost all better, save for his worst bruises. The cut on his chest looked a week old, like it was never worse than an angry scratch. "Michael, you're soaking wet."

Unfortunately, Michael had already been in the process of flopping down onto his bed. It was unmade; Ian really hadn't the time to fix it up after he'd slept in it the night before. The denim of his jeans made a distinctly wet squishing sound. He suddenly noticed just how much weight jeans acquired when wet. "Well, shit."

"Yeah," Ian chuckled. The options for helping Michael out of this particular predicament didn't really make him feel all that comfortable. Then again, the last predicament they'd been in almost got them killed. This couldn't have been worse. "Need a hand?"

"When did I fall into a porn movie?" Michael said.

He was so straight faced that Ian just about died right there. "You ass."

Raising an arm, rather limply, Michael pointed to his dresser. "Grab me a pair of sweatpants?"

"Sure." But Michael didn't say which drawer; Ian went through them all, top to bottom, briefly crept out by his picture on top, then even more crept out when he came across the drawer reserved for Michael's boxers and he almost offered a dry pair of those, too, out of politeness. But that was a bit much; Michael could deal with wet underwear.

By the time he finally found a lovely, fluffy pair of completely bland grey sweats, Michael was still fumbling with the rather wet button on his pants. It wasn't really due to the dampness this time, he was just nervous as hell. And that made him even more klutzy, because he remembered countless times he'd changed with Ian in a locker room, but now that they had some solid sexual tension going...it made Michael feel rather girly about the entire thing.

Ian eventually grew impatient and tossed Michael's sweats over his head. "Thank you, Ian, thank you very much."

"Welcome," Ian said. He left then, in a hurry.

Michael finally got his pants off and the new ones on. He couldn't find it in himself to care about wet underwear, especially when the blankets he had were thick and comfy and covered over his entire head without suffocating him.

Michael took a deep breath, and grew more content than he'd been since getting back in the pool for the first time after his back and legal problems. And more than anything, he enjoyed the fact that he hadn't bothered to change the sheets since last night. "Smells like Ian..."
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An Urban Fantasy in Three Acts