Part 106
Philip eased himself onto the exercise bike in the corner of the Gym. It was very early on a weekday so the place was almost empty; the usual crowd were getting ready for shuffling papers across their desks or sitting in a meeting right about now. The only people in the room with him were the Instructor in the corner with a slightly over-weight woman who was obviously starting out a new training package to firm up her body.
Glad that the place was almost empty so that he wouldn't have to be embarrassed to be seen by other people, Philip even avoided looking at his own reflection, not wanting to see the proof of his own worry and grief. For grief it was, and always would be when Jack went missing like this, and being Mediterranean he seemed to develop unsightly dark circles under his eyes whenever he was ill or over-stressed. And of course today he felt both - big time! So he was determined to drive out his fears and concerns with a cathartic workout, designed to make him sweat and ache all over and think about something other than.. well...
He always felt so good after a workout like that! Hot and sweaty and aware of muscles he never knew he had! Maybe he'd even treat himself to a sauna. Ordinarily he avoided that room as it was a cesspool for pickups - and this being Colorado Springs, it was always male-female pick ups with lots of leering and posturing - the sort of ritual he just didn't have the stomach to suffer through. But today he'd be alone.
Never one to have exercised before the healing, basically because he wasn't body-conscious at all, Philip found he enjoyed pushing his body just that little harder each time he worked out these days - his muscles seemed to have no bounds as far as his rapid repair work went. Nowadays he was happy to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirrored walls surrounding the gym (though he'd never look too long - just long enough for an assessment) and see how remarkable his body had become in such a short time - Not overly big but he now had strong arms and a faint six-pack rippling his tanned stomach. He knew the healing device had everything to do with his instant success in the body department so he also felt sure it would all crumble away if he didn't maintain a regular, punishing workout. With the way Jack appreciated his toned muscles, newfound agility and his Y-shaped physique, he wasn't about to risk it, no way!
Uncomfortable hot prickles cascaded down his spine when he thought about Jack so he started to increase his pace of pedaling, really building up his heartbeat and sweat as he steered his thoughts to the argument with Graham instead. This was safer grounds and something he could work through mentally and know he was in a position to change or rectify if he found his actions in the situation wanting.
It infuriated him that his brother had clammed up when he probably needed him the most and he blamed Graham's choice of career for the emotional constipation.
As his blood pressure rose at that thought, his pedaling increased again and his breath expelled from his body in loud, heavy puffs.
Philip never went into the Military as a way of life because he disagreed with so much of their policies regarding human civil liberties - the biggest being sexuality, of course. He often believed that that was the exact reason why Graham *did* go into the Military - to have his homosexuality drilled out of him. With a derisive snort now the artist knew it hadn't worked and Graham would have a tough time convincing even himself he was so much as bisexual anymore.
As he pumped out his frustrations on the pedals of his bike Philip created such a sheen over his body that droplets of sweat were beginning to form on the back of his neck (where his long black hair cascaded down his back), on his upper back so that it rolled - most distractingly - down the indent of his spine, and across the small of his back as well. Sweat beaded on his forehead and cleanly shaved upper lip as he blew air upwards from between his lips to get rid of a few annoying strands of hair that stuck to his damp cheek now. Deep in thought he reached for his towel and wiped his face roughly, then circled the towel around to the back of his neck and sat back, with his hands on his undulating thighs. After a moment he reached forward for the handles again and begin to really pick up his pace.
So driven was he that he hadn't even noticed the other man who'd entered the Gym and was now on the bike beside him. Philip closed his eyes as he tried to slow down his spiraling thoughts because they had started to teeter towards Jack again. Bowing his head he huffed loudly then, with his strong legs working faster than the pedals could keep up, his foot lost traction on the rubber pedal and he slipped from the bike, tottering to the left and slipping until his feet could slam down on the floor to prevent him completely falling to the floor. He was anticipating a further fall though when the stranger suddenly straightened him up.
"Oh god!" He laughed with embarrassment when he realized his fall had been witnessed. The sandy-haired stranger smiled as he assisted him back onto the seat. "Sorry."
"I thought you were about to take off across the room on that thing." A hint of English accent through the polite chuckle alluded to the man's heritage.
"Cathartic workout, I'm afraid. Thanks for catching me," Philip said, re-adjusting himself on the bike seat. With a groan and a screwed-up nose he stepped off the bike again and checked the seat. It was smeared with moisture so he grimaced and reached down to the floor to retrieve his towel then wiped the bike seat dry. "No wonder I slipped," he muttered to himself then rubbed the backs of his thighs and between his legs quickly. The long, tight bike shorts he was wearing under a pair of looser wide-legged shorts were damp from perspiration and the quick flick of the towel over the lycra surface did nothing to alleviate the problem.
He sighed and ran his towel down the curve of muscle at the back of his right thigh then heard, "Very cathartic," from the other man. He turned to meet the hazel-green eyes that were watching him.
"Best place to work through problems, right?" the artist said with a smile as he tucked his towel around his neck again then stepped off the dais the bikes were on to move over to the weights area.
From the bike, where he was still pedaling at a speed that wouldn't do him much good really, the man called out, "Do you need a Spotter?"
Philip looked around for the Instructor and saw that he and the client were nowhere to be seen. With a shrug he said, "Sure," and watched the blond slip himself off the bike, pick up a towel and water bottle before crossing towards him.
"Tristan," the man announced.
"Hi." Phil reached across his body to hold out his hand. Briefly they both looked at the hand then Phil reached over, swiped it down the towel around Tristan's shoulder - making them both laugh - then held it out again. Tristan clamped his hand into the now-dry palm. "I'm Philip."
"It's a pleasure to have caught you, Philip," he said with a crisp English clip in his voice.
Through an embarrassed mutter Philip said, "Yeah, I can't believe I did that!" He adjusted the weight on the bar and then locked it into place.
"We all have those moments," Tristan assured him as he took his place at the top end of the bench. Philip sat on the bench then laid back and adjusted himself to be under the shiny silver barbell. He flexed his hands around the cold metal bar, blew a breath from his body and gritted his teeth while he lifted the weight off the brace.
Tristan stood ready to assist if he needed it but the bar lifted and lowered with a comfortable regular rhythm so the Englishman asked, "So where is your regular Spotter today?"
"Huh?"
"The man you usually have spotting for you. Short black hair.."
"Graham? He's.. Uh.." Philip concentrated on his fatiguing arms for a moment then said, "He's probably at home drowning his sorrows in a cup of coffee and some walnut'n'choc-chip cookies right about now."
"Sorrows, cookies and cathartic workouts." There was a pregnant pause then Tristan ventured, "If I suggested you'd had a fight would you throw that weight at me?"
Philip's brow crinkled and he stared up at the man above is head. "Why would I throw this..? Oh!" He blew out another breath and raised the bar again, this time Tristan sensed he wanted to put it back on the brace and reached forward to guide it into the metal holders with him. Philip remained flat on his back for a moment to catch his breath then, with a grunt, he sat up and turned towards the stranger. With a smile that clearly indicated that they were both on the same 'playing field' Philip confessed to him; "I wouldn't throw the weight at you.."
A smile of relief flooded Tristan's face and created charming dimples just at the edge of his mouth. "Lovely. I might be swift at catching falling men but I'm lousy with anything heavy!" Philip bowed his head and chuckled softly.
"Will you spot for me now?"
"Sure," Philip said as he got off the bench then wiped the bar with a towel. "What weight?"
A blush crept across the pale skin. "I'm not sure. I'm rather new to all this, you see."
The artist chewed his bottom lip a moment. "Ever lifted before, Trist?"
"Oh, once or twice.."
"Once or twice?"
"Once-" Tristan nodded nervously - "Rather than twice."
The ebony brow arched high. "Do you know what weight it was?"
"Weight?" The pink hue on the peaches-and-cream complexion clearly told Philip that Tristan had no idea what weight he'd used. To err on the side of caution Philip unlocked the bar, dragged off his weights and replaced them in the rack, and then he reached along for the lightest weights and latched them into place on the bar. Once ready he indicated for Tristan to lie on the bench, which the man did, then he stood, legs slightly straddled, above his head. Looking down the length of his body he gripped the bar with both hands and said, "Ready?"
Tristan nervously licked his lips then, with a flick of his eyes, his gaze shifted up to Phil's eyes. "Sure."
"Put your hands here.. and here.." Philip guided him onto the grips by curving his own hands around Tristan's at the right spot. His fingers looked slender and dark, and the tiny black hairs on the base of each finger and near the wrist of each hand stood out vibrantly against the pale pink, seemingly hairless English skin. "It's okay," he assured the nervous man, "I won't let go until you feel ready."
The dimpled smile reappeared, albeit upside-down. "Thanks." With a brow furrowed by concentration Tristan allowed Philip to lift the bar off the brace then he lowered it slowly to his chest, while Philip absorbed a lot of the resistance.
"That's the way. Slow and keep the bar level or you'll end up with your left bicep bigger than your right..."
Both men chuckled at that thought. "Good thing I'm left handed then."
"You too? So am I," Philip said with surprise but he completely missed the connotation behind the other man's words.
"We artistic sort usually are," Tristan said regardless of the response then he concentrated on the weight, and keeping it level, again.
"Artistic? How do you know I'm artistic?"
With a soft laugh Tristan said, "Well, you just *look* it."
"I look artistic?" The American asked.
"I look artistic?" Tristan mimicked the accent well then added, "I adore your accents here."
The comment made the standing man laugh louder. "I don't have an accent! You do though - A rather toffy one too, what?" He said in a bad attempt at the English Upper-class accent.
The weight started to slide sideways so Philip quickly grabbed it and guided it back to the brace. They both laughed now and then Tristan's hands collapsed onto his flattened stomach and he huffed gently.
"I think I shall stick to the cardio-vascular.." He said with a grunt as he sat up unsteadily. "Leave this heavy stuff to you men who have more of the physique for it." He leaned over onto his thighs and caught his breath. Philip wiped off the bar and removed the weights.
"How about we do hand weights instead? CV's good but it's no substitute for sculpting work."
Again the hazel eyes traveled slowly up Phil's body then met his gaze. "So I see."
The artist smiled politely as he said, "Come on." He playfully slapped Tristan's arm and headed past him to the hand weights. The Englishman collected up his towel and drink bottle then wiped his face and neck as he followed Philip over to the corner of the room.
*
Jack checked his watch. "Sixteen hours overdue," he announced quietly to no one in particular.
"I can't believe there's been no attempt to rescue us," Sam said hoarsely, her mouth and throat parched from lack of water.
Daniel shifted when he suddenly remembered he had a chocolate bar in his pant-leg pocket. He pulled out the melted treat and then said, "It's all I've got but it will be something, I guess.."
Jack looked at him and shook his head. "Not for me. Chocolate always makes me thirsty.."
Daniel nodded slightly.
"For champagne," Jack continued. The others all looked at him. "What?" he asked with a nonchalant shrug. "So I associate chocolate with champagne, open fires and an Adonis body and lots and lots of s...."
"Uh.. Jack.." Daniel cautioned his rambling friend.
The dark eyes shifted towards him and he said, "Sorry everyone. Thoughts are wandering.." Jack clamped his eyes shut tightly and tried not to think about the mood Philip would be in when he came home – finally.
"It's okay, Sir. No offense taken," Sam mumbled back as she covered her face with her hands and sighed heavily. Her own thoughts had been straying to Janet actually; recalling the way she always brought her a coffee when she was working back late, always looking after her in so many small, incidental ways. After a moment she lifted her face and asked, "What's that smell?"
"I think it's the head," Daniel replied flatly as he rubbed his tired eyes.
Noises outside the cell, in the direction of the trees, caught Daniel's attention and the anthropologist struggled to his feet and stretched to peer out of the window.
"What's up?" Jack asked weakly. Daniel tried harder to hear any words that were familiar to him but he gave a desolate sigh as he dropped to his heels once more. "Still can't get the language?" the colonel asked, this time more considerately than the last time he'd question Daniel about it.
"No, I just thought I knew it but there we some differences that just didn't make sense.."
"Differences?" Sam queried.
Rubbing his eyes tiredly, the linguist said, "I think it's a derision of Latin and something else.. but I just don't know *what* that something else.."
"Vast difference?" She asked.
"Imagine mixing Italian with Greek. On the surface - to the untrained ear - they might sound similar, but of course, they are vastly different."
Jack had nothing to say but "Ah," to that revelation.
"If I had my books.." Daniel said as he slid down the wall again, seemingly defeated by the situation.
"Don't beat yourself up, Danny. None of us are able to act in our area of expertise on this one." It was obvious to them all that Jack hated being so thoroughly trapped, with no conceivable way out. Unused to not being able to bully his way, or blow his way out of a situation, Jack felt tightly wound at having to sit and wait, with no contingency plan in action.
"So what's the plan?" The linguist muttered under his breath. "We stay here to.. what? Starve to death?"
"Actually, we'd die of thirst before that," Sam informed him off-handedly.
"I feel so much better now," he remarked sardonically.
"Sorry." She lowered her chin to her chest.
Daniel met Jack's gaze and they locked stares for a few heartbeats until the younger man finally looked away and over towards the covered head. The blood had seeped through the green material turning it almost black, and the metallic stench, coupled with the warmth of the cell, was permeating every pore of each person in the room and making everyone sick in the stomach.
*
By the time they made their way from the gym to the shower room an hour later Phil had a brief background history on the Englishman. As they worked out on the stair-master Tristan told him that he was a journalist and was writing a travel book about America. He rattled off a list of 'must stay' towns in the States - names of places Philip had never even heard. Confessing to have not traveled much in his life the artist asked why the Brit was writing a travel book about America.
"Why not?" had been the response amidst lots of laughter. Tristan told him how he was from a well-to-do family and when his marriage failed, "for many reasons", he decided he'd had enough of high corporation lifestyle, where he wore a suit and tie to work everyday, ate his lunch either on the run or at his desk, and never felt a summer's day for three years because he was at work before the sun fully came up and went home so late at night that the day was usually almost over, or completely gone. "That's why I'm so pale," he had confessed.
"I thought all Englishmen were pale," Philip teased him.
In a perfect copy of the Texan accent, Tristan drawled, "Just like all you Yanks are tall, tanned and dress in cowboy boots and ten-gallon hats!"
Philip chuckled. "Touché!" As they passed by the sauna Tristan paused and placed his hand on the door.
"Should we indulge?" he asked his new friend.
Philip looked at the timber-clad room then at the man beside him. "Sure, why not?" But before he entered he added, "I'll just leave my cell phone at the front desk. I'm expecting a call and I'd hate to miss it." He raced over to the front counter and left his phone, with the strict instruction to come and get him the second it rang. The girl nodded and placed the phone beside the cash register while she reassured him she'd personally come and get him if it went off.
Philip went back towards the Sauna where Tristan was already on the top of the three-stepped benches, completely naked apart from the small white towel supplied by the Gymnasium that strategically covered his groin.
Unabashedly the late-comer stripped his clothes off and bundled them onto the end of the lowest bench then he settled himself down, leaving the middle bench between them empty.
Both men lay subdued for a short while. The easy companionship they'd had out in the main gym seemed stifled now in the heated heavy atmosphere. After a moment Philip gripped the small white towel covering his crotch and rose to add more moisture to the coals. The hiss that emanated was loud and the steam billowed up in a soft, white cloud, adding intense humidity in the room briefly before dissipating to a more bearable level.
"So, what did you two fight about?" Tristan asked from his perch on the upper bench of the room. Philip lay back down and adjusted his cover to keep his private area decently 'private'.
Philip knew immediately whom he was referring to. "A number of things, but mostly his emotional constipation."
The lounging man burst out in laughter. "Emotional Constipation! I love it."
"I don't," Philip remarked somewhat seriously as he adjusted himself on the slatted bench and draped his arm over his eyes.
"No, not that he has it, but the term you used. I've not heard it before. Mind if I use it in the book?"
"I'm going to be in your book?" Philip lifted his arm from his face and looked up.
Tristan rolled onto his side to peer over the edge of his bench at him. "If you give me your permission to use you?" He said with an endearing smile. "I like writing about the locals I meet."
"I hope they're more interesting than me then," the artist commented derisively, "or else your book is going to be very dull."
"I find you fascinating," Tristan told him enthusiastically.
"Yeah, well, you ought to get out more." They both laughed again.
"So, may I use you in my book?"
"I guess." Phil paused mid-thought then added, "You're not going to mention I'm gay though, right?"
"No." Tristan leaned further over the edge of the bench and let his left arm drape down to skim the middle bench. "Mind if I ask why you asked that?"
"My partner is in the military. People around here.. well, they don't ask questions, they leave us alone. The last thing we need is me, or us, being Outed in a Travel Companion."
Tristan pushed up and ran his fingertip over his smooth, pink chest in a cross shape. "I promise," he told as he settled back down onto his stomach, leaving his pale butt exposed to the ceiling. With his chin on his folded arms he closed his eyes and soaked up the heat.
Phil had returned his arm to across his eyes and one leg was bent, that foot perched flat on the wooden bench while his other leg dangled over the edge of the bench and rested on the black rubber mat on the floor of the Sauna. The heat and humidity of the room had given the honey-brown skin a glistening sheen and made the dark hairs of Phil's chest, midriff, forearms and legs stand out.
After a moment Tristan mumbled torpidly, "So what do you do for a living, Philip?"
"I'm not working at the moment," came the muffled reply against the folded arm.
"What 'did' you do then?"
"I was the Head Librarian of the Colorado Springs Library, the one on Main Street."
"Go on! Head Librarian? Wow!" He was obviously impressed. "Why did you leave?"
Philip remained motionless for a few minutes then he removed his arm and stared up at the man peering down at him. "I inherited quite a lot of money and decided I didn't need the job anymore."
"Very gallant!" Then the writer jibed- "And you said you were dead boring!"
"Very rarely are Librarians hailed as the most exciting career people. When people write about us in books we're usually depicted with small glasses perched at the end of our nose and we're dressed in tweed jackets."
"I bet you don't even own a tweed jacket!" Tristan smiled knowingly.
"You're right, I don't." Philip sighed then lay back slowly and said, "But my partner does...."
"Ah." Tristan nodded then settled his chin on his folded forearms once more. "Is Graham rich?"
"Grae? No, not really." If he weren’t so lethargic from the heat Philip might have wondered more about the constant line of questions involving Graham, but he numbly put it down to the Englishman being interested in his brother – after all, Tristan did ask about him straight away.
"I suppose working for the military is not really the most lucrative career either."
"He would argue with you on the grounds of job-satisfaction, though not right now I guess."
"How so?"
The usually open and honest man grew thoughtful on that question and he bit his lip while he frowned slightly. After a moment he said, "I don't want to go into it, if you don't mind?"
"Sure!" Tristan was surprised by the sudden change in lucidity but he smiled benevolently and said, "I understand. Sorry, it's the journalist in me, I probe and I probe.."
Philip smiled then shrugged. "That's fine, but I guess sometimes I have to have a little verbal constipation as well, if my relationship's going to work. I need to learn that more I think."
"Well, Grae can help you there, I'd gather."
Philip laughed then rambled, more to himself than to his companion, "Yeah, and he's not the only one."
*
After their efforts in the gym, and with no word yet from Jack or Graham, Philip
decided to treat his new friend to breakfast. Considering the disaster with the coffee pot that morning he never did manage to get any food before he limped out of the house, seeing Graham on his way and heading in his low black car to the gymnasium.
He took Tristan to the diner that he and Jack had gone to on their first night together. It was an easy walk from the gym so both men could leave their cars in the parking lot and amble along together. Consequently it was the same diner that he and Jack re-met up in after their separation last year. As he eyed the place he realized how long ago all that seemed nowadays. He hadn't been here in a while.
Liz, the waitress there, hadn't forgotten him though. The minute he walked into the diner and shook off the snow she squealed with delight at seeing him, tore around from behind the counter and threw herself into his arms. Tristan laughed and made a comment that Philip was almost as fast at catching people, as he was himself. That earned him a winning smile from over the waitress's shoulder.
"You look so good! Why, last time I saw you you looked like you were on death's door!" She laughed heartily as she held him out at arm's length, unaware how close she was to the truth. He laughed as well.
"It was a cold!" He retorted good-naturedly.
"Some cold!" She tossed her bangs from her eyes.
"Must have been that bike ride you took me on then!" He teased her.
"Oh Good God!" She roared and hugged him again. "I'd almost forgotten about that. Why I haven't ridden that thing since my accident. You have a great memory!" She turned to face Tristan and then frowned and looked at Philip. As if to prove her memory wasn't as good she asked, under her breath, "Jack?"
The younger man shook his head. "No, this is Tristan. Trist, this is Liz."
Both politely acknowledged the introduction then Phil added, "I met him in the Gym today." The look on her face either subscribed to the well-worn notion that all gay men 'picked-up' in a Gym, or that she herself ought to renew her membership in the hope of getting so lucky. "Accident?" He asked her now as they made their way to the booth at the end, the booth he and Jack always sat at. He was aware of her limp but she dismissed the question and his concern with the wave of her hand as she set out some menus before the sitting men.
"Too long ago now. Old stuff. What can I get you?" She dragged out the dog-eared pad from the pocket of her apron and poised the stubby pencil over the page.
"Anything healthy," Philip said as he handed back the menu without looking at it. "Cereal, whatever.." He propped his chin with his hand and asked, "So, d'you own this dive yet?"
Liz snorted and reached for Tristan's menu. "No, not quite. If I did I can tell you this much-" She called to him over her shoulder while she went behind the counter and fetched the coffee pot- "I'd renovate it if it were mine! Get rid of the red.. Looks gaudy these days." She poured out the thick, black brew into the men's cups when she added, "Purple. I'd make everything purple."
"Oh and that's *never* going to date," the artist drolled.
She acknowledged the tease good-naturedly with a crinkle of her nose. "Nup, I agree!" To add insult to playful injury she said, "Maybe you could help me paint the joint. You're a painter, aren't you?"
Philip made a choking sound and grabbed at his heart. "Arrow straight through the heart, woman! Be gone with you and fetch us some breakfast!" He threw his hand in the air dramatically and she chortled all the way to the counter then out to the kitchen through the doorway behind. He shifted his gaze to Tristan who looked more than amused. "Painter, indeed!"
"I take it you're both good friends."
"Were." He seemed saddened by that word. With a glance at the doorway he told Tristan, "She helped me get over a difficult time a while ago."
"Jack?"
Phil nodded. "When we separated she kinda took me under her wing, so to speak." His eyes shifted towards the closed kitchen door again. "I'm sorry to hear she was badly hurt. If I know Liz, she'd have gone through that whole experience alone." He sighed, like that thought really affected him, then he blinked and looked out of the window, at the soft snow that drifted down on the street outside.
Tristan placed his elbow onto the table as he lifted his cup to his lips. "I'm sure you would have done something had you known. There are some people in the world who prefer to keep really bad news to themselves. Personally, I don't subscribe to that way of thinking. If I'm hurt, or miserable - say, with a cold- the world knows about it. Apparently it was one of the reasons my marriage broke down."
"One of them?"
As he brought his other hand up to complete the circle around the cup the Englishman confessed, self-effacingly, "I'm not very easy to live with."
"Why is that then?"
Lowering the white china cup to the pock-marked table top, Tristan seemed to think about that a moment then he laughed, brushed his finger under the tip of his nose and muttered, "Now it's I whom seems to have that verbal constipation."
Philip tilted his head and studied the pink-hued man opposite him. "So I've noticed. Come on. Fess up. What's so hard about living with Tristan... What is your last name?"
A sheepish smile filled the handsome man's face as Tristan confessed, "Von Patterson."
Philip frowned. He'd heard of that name in the past. "Of The Von Pattersons?"
"I'm afraid so," Tristan muttered apologetically through an embarrassed mask. "Guilty!" He held his hand up as if pleading in a court. "I'm the Heir to the Von Patterson's cake and muffin empire."
The ex-Librarian studied him closely then ventured, "And also the son of the biggest Anti-Homosexual politician in England at the moment."
The pink turned a beet red as Tristan lowered his face. "Please, don't hold that against me!" He muttered into his cup as he took another hasty drink.
Philip’s mouth hung open momentarily then he made a soft cough as he sat forward. Despite being alone in the diner he whispered, "That must make things extremely hard for you.. at home.."
Tristan frowned at that comment but the conversation halted there as Liz returned with the food; a bowl of cereal each, a bowl of fresh fruit each, some freshly squeezed orange juice and some toasted muffins. Philip waited for her to put the last item down then he caught her hand and said, "Can I get a top up, Liz?" He indicated to his coffee cup with a jerk of his head.
She arched her brow at him. "How healthy is that?"
"I'm truly not sure of the nutritional value of dirt, but the moment I look it up, I'll let you know."
She smiled and patted him like a beloved child before walking over to the counter for the pot. As she refilled his coffee she told him, "You are so mean, Philip Simmons, but so breathtakingly beautiful that I'll let you get away with it." She shot a look across to Tristan. "I'm sure you'll agree."
Tristan looked at Philip, who now appeared to be the embarrassed one. All he said was, "He is an extremely handsome man, I'll agree to that." The two new friends exchanged smiles then Philip lifted his cup to his lips and took a long sip. Liz grunted then turned and limped back to the counter, where she pulled out a cloth and began to wipe down the well-worn counter top.
"I'm sorry about that," Philip whispered under his breath. "I think she's got the wrong impression of us."
Tristan shrugged. "That happens to me all the time."
"Does it? I guess that would be even harder then, with your father as famous as he is for what he is.."
Tristan scooped up some of the muesli but paused with it at his lips, white milk dripping off the mountain of oats and bran. "My father may be misguided in some of his opinions, but he means well. If he ever got into power he'd rule the people very well."
"Provided they weren't gay."
"His Anti-Homosexual thoughts and opinions are grossly exaggerated in the press, really they are. They proclaim him as quite a despotic man, but that's really so very far from the truth that, as his son, I'm personally offended. I find it deplorable that the papers would be allowed to vilify someone so viciously."
"If what they say is so far from the truth then it's slander. Why doesn't he simply sue them for slander and be done with it?"
"Because we are English." Tristan gave him a patient smile. "Suing at the bat of an eyelash seems to be an American way of life."
Philip stared across the table at the other man and found that, for the first time in a long time, he'd found an equal in the art of debating. Curbing the smile on his lips he ate his food heartily, leaving Tristan in peace to do the same.
<End of Part 106>
Stories on this page are the property of Nessessitee and Slida. Please do not copy these without the written permission of the Author. All Rights are acknowledged for MGM, Gekko and Stargate Productions as to the Copyrights of the characters within this story and no infringement on the copyrights are intended. For the Bombshells Series the character of Philip Simmons is entirely the creation and intellectual property of Nessessitee and Slida.
While the performances given by RDA and MS help to fuel the author's desire to write for their characters in a niche that she feels is present on the actual show, the portrayal of their characters in loving relationships in no way reflects the Author's opinion of the men's private life, nor should it be construed in that manner.