Page 14 of Connected
“Oh my God. The Bureau is woke.” Keaton couldn’t help a grin, at both the concept and Owen’s earnestness.
“Fuck yeah, we are. Look, I don’t know what those guys in DC were thinking a century ago when the Bureau was created. But at least as long as I’ve been an agent, our policy has been clear. We don’t judge someone because of their species or their abilities. Our mission is to protect humans—allhumans—and also all NHSs. If someone isn’t harming others, we let them be.”
“Really?” Keaton crossed his arms.
“I already told you that we have NHSs in the agency and that some of our human agents are, um, romantically involved with NHSs. Keaton, listen: my boss’s partner is ademon. Horns andall. And honestly, he’s way less creepy than my current or former boss.”
Demon? As in creature from Hell? Keaton decided not to pursue this since it wasn’t the main point, but it would be interesting to talk about later. “So you just let empaths go on their merry way.”
“Unless they’re hurting people, yes. I’ve interacted with two empaths before you. One of them was a serial killer who got off on his victim’s fear and pain. He’s, um, permanently out of commission. The other, though, was a woman who lived in Nevada and made a pretty good living as a sex worker and card player. From what I understand, her clients went home very happy, so that certainly wasn’t a problem. And as for the gamblers she beat, well, anyone playing poker in Vegas has to assume the risk of getting cleaned out.”
Owen wasn’t lying; Keaton knew that much. But it couldn’t possibly be this simple, could it? This benevolent? Keaton’s openness to others’ emotions had plagued him for his entire life, and now this man was acting as if it was no big deal. As if it was agoodthing, like being a math whiz or a piano prodigy.
“So if you meet up with a monster, you just shake their hand—or tentacle, or whatever—and move on?”
“If I meet up with a monster, I capture or kill them.” Owen’s expression had turned stony. “I’ve done that plenty of times. But a lot of those monsters were ordinary humans. A monster is what someonedoes, not what they look like or what talents they have. And while we’re on the subject, I don’t believe in pure evil or pure good. I’ve never seen either. Chief Townsend used to say that both will always exist, and our job is to make sure the balance never tips too far toward evil.”
Keaton stood and began gathering their dishes, and when Owen made as if to help, waved him back into his seat. He wished he’d made something more elaborate for lunch so thathe’d have the excuse of more cleaning up, but there wasn’t much to do. Instead he took out two small plates and plopped a muffin on each, then sat down across from Owen again.
“This is really good,” Owen said with sincerity, and with a little crumb at one corner of his mouth. Life had hardened him, but it hadn’t made him any less handsome. Yes, the boyishness was gone, but there was something to be said for maturity. Especially when maturity clearly involved a lot of time at the gym.
God, when was the last time that Keaton had been turned on by anything other than a photo or video? It wasn’t just that Copper Springs lacked a thriving gay scene. It was his goddamn talent—he’d get near a good-looking guy and intrude on the poor guy’s emotions like an involuntary voyeur. And he couldn’t even warn the other person about what was going on.
But Owen knew already.
“Can you read me right now?” Owen asked. As if he were a mind-reader.
“I can read anyone within about a hundred feet. Farther than that if the emotions are strong. Walls help, but they don’t block it all. I can put up mental barriers too, but they’re….” He tilted his hand back and forth. “They’re permeable.”
“What am I feeling?”
Keaton let out a noisy breath. “You’re tired—in an existential way as well as a physical way. You’ve got some mild pain going on but you’re used to it. You’re a little angry at the world in general. No, not angry. Disappointed that it’s not doing better. You’re tied up in knots over something, but I’m not psychic so I don’t know what. You’re intrigued with me and a little smug that you got me to spill my guts.” Should he get even more personal? Why not. “You’re lonely. And you’re attracted to me.”
Owen smiled. “I’ve had a thing for you since I first saw you on TV. In fact, it’s your fault I got kicked out of my family.” Keaton could sense that this was said without any rancor.
“My fault? How?”
After holding up a finger, Owen finished his muffin and wiped his hands on a napkin. “Okay, when I was fourteen years old, on three separate occasions I shoplifted issues ofTiger Beatfrom Walmart because I was too embarrassed to buy them and because Criss Tempest was on the covers.”
“Oh no,” Keaton groaned.
“It gets worse. I cut out all the photos of you and I hid them under my mattress because I shared a bedroom with one of my brothers. I didn’t get much time to myself, but on those rare occasions when I did, I’d take out those pictures and….”
“Oh nooooo.” Keaton was blushing. So was Owen.
“And I continued that particular hobby past the age when most kids probably would have because at eighteen I was stuffed firmly in the closet with no intention of ever touching a real man. My brothers sort of suspected something was up because I didn’t date girls and couldn’t fake being interested in them, but when they asked me about it I denied it. Until one afternoon when I thought I had the house to myself. I had my headphones on so I didn’t hear my brother Andy come home and open the bedroom door, and I was… right in the middle of my hobby. I was holding one of your photos in my left hand.”
Owen’s mortification and fear, now over a quarter of a century old, still felt fresh and raw. Keaton buried his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said through his palms.
“For what? Being cute?”
Keaton could picture it: Owen young, vulnerable. Horny, and desperate for a little alone time. Certain he’d never have the type of relationships that straight people took for granted. His entire world ripped apart just because he was acting like a normalteenager. And because of this piece of himself that he’d been born with but that others couldn’t accept.
Without making a conscious decision to do so, Keaton stood, walked around the table, and wrapped Owen in an embrace. It was awkward because Owen was still seated and because Keaton didn’t have much practice with hugging. But dammit, Owen embraced him back.
Then Owen stood, and their arms were tight around each other, and Owen felt deliciously warm and solid and strong. Keaton felt as if no harm could ever come to him as long as Owen held him. There was a chance that Keaton could have laughed at the ridiculousness of that thought, or he could have cried from wanting so badly for it to be true.
He was saved from both when Owen bent his head and kissed him.
