This is the twenty-third story in the Rewriting History series, and it follows Bittersweet Applause. Okay, things turned out a bit differently than I anticipated, and Curt isn't exactly *in* this part. But he *will* be in the next one. Really. ;)

Warnings: m/m, angst, AU, bad language, spoilers for the movie.

~Silk

*****

Give A Man A Mask...

By Silk

Brian groaned. "Did I pass out?"

Shannon's acid-tongued response made his head ache. "Yeah. But when you see what happened, you're probably going to wish you'd stayed *dead*."

"Wha--?" Brian struggled to sit up, eventually succeeding with absolutely no help from Shannon. The constriction of his costume made his chest hurt. That's when he remembered. The shot. The fall. He frowned as he stared at the dark brown stain covering his upper abdomen. No wonder he felt like he'd been run over by a bloody truck.

"Am I all right?" he muttered, almost to himself.

"*You* are. I think that outfit's seen better days, though."

"Ow," he winced when he took an unexpectedly deep breath.

"You're bruised. If you'd worn the vest like Jerry said-"

"Fuck Jerry," Brian said with a trace of his former animosity for his manager.

"I do," Shannon replied sweetly.

Brian shook his head, as if the image Shannon put there troubled him for some reason. But if it did, it certainly wasn't because there was any love lost between her and Brian.

He looked around at the familiar surroundings. His dressing room. Evidently, they had brought him back here after he "died". "What'd the doctor say?"

"Jerry paid him off. He won't talk. Until we want him to."

"Good." Brian absently rubbed his abdomen. When he saw that his hand came away covered in a better than average imitation of blood, he made a moue of disgust. "Ugh. I need a shower."

"Just don't let anybody see you. This place is sealed tighter than a virgin's twat, but it's best not to take the chance."

Brian glared at Shannon's choice of words. "Do you kiss your mum with that mouth?"

"You should talk."

"And here I thought you were as pure as the driven snow," Brian said, sarcasm grotesquely twisting his beautiful mouth.

"I drifted."

"Jerry's influence, no doubt."

"You should be nicer to me, you know."

"Why on earth would I want to do that?" Brian laughed darkly.

"I could fuck you up in a heartbeat, Brian. You just see if I don't."

"Is that a threat?" Brian couldn't help it. The thought of mousy little Shannon intimidating anyone, much less him, was amusing. More than amusing. It was fucking laughable.

But desperate people could do desperate things. As Brian well knew. It was a pity he forgot that.

*****

Christ, Brian swore, not for the first time since he'd started this. What were they fucking waiting for? His hair washed free of the damnable blue coloring, the natural light brown strands glinted with golden highlights. He wrapped a towel around his nakedness and began to get dressed. Plain clothes. Literally. Soft faded blue jeans. A pale gray T-shirt that reminded him of Curt's eyes.

*Curt*.

Brian sighed, impatiently pulling the shirt over his head. Curt would have heard the news by now. Maybe he was already on his way.

He hoped so. They had been apart far too long, both of them hopelessly wounded. But now Curt would surely come. Wouldn't he?

*****

They spirited Brian out of the theatre with all the stealth of an undercover British intelligence operation. "Bond, James Bond," Brian whispered, chuckling to himself, much to Shannon's consternation.

"Ssh. Do you want someone to hear you?" she hissed, making sure that the sheet over Brian's "body" didn't reveal his hiding place.

"Did you call Curt?" Brian asked softly. Curt would have appreciated the intrinsic humor of the situation while missing none of the inherent drama. He could hardly wait to see him again. It was all he could do not to fidget restlessly.

But Shannon didn't answer.

That should have told him something.

*****

By the time they reached the Bijoux townhouse, chosen because it was infinitely more impregnable than Brian's hotel room, Brian was growing weary of the charade. It was a means to an ends. Nothing more than that. Something necessary that had to be done. Now he could have his life back.

He smiled at the thought. *Curt* was his life. Now he would have *Curt* back.

*****

Brian leaned back in the overstuffed leather recliner and clicked the remote at the TV. He was on every fucking channel. Hastily thrown together retrospectives appeared everywhere. Mourning fans, some of them quite obviously distraught, gathered in small groups that grew larger as the evening passed into night.

Ultimately he found all of it boring. No one, not even his alter ego, the self-absorbed Maxwell Demon, could possibly enjoy this rapacious picking over of bones and feathers.

He turned off the TV and lit a cigarette. He hadn't seen or heard a word from Shannon or Jerry in hours. Buoyed by his conviction that Curt would be there soon, Brian hadn't stopped to consider the alternative.

What if Curt *didn't* come? What if Curt...oh, God...didn't *care*? It was well known to Brian that Curt had moved into Jack Fairy's flat in Berlin. Ostensibly to facilitate cutting a record. But Brian knew that things were often not what they seemed.

Lost in thought, Brian didn't notice Shannon's unobtrusive entrance. "Brian."

Brian jerked his head up, light blue eyes lit with a feral glitter, and Shannon was struck once again by his beauty. It was a shame he lusted after...the wrong people, she mused with distaste.

"Someone's leaked the news that your death was a hoax to the press."

Brian blinked. "What? But how? Who?"

"Probably your wife," Shannon said with a tight smile.

Brian shook his head. "No. She doesn't know."

"You didn't tell her?"

Brian's cheeks flushed dark red. He couldn't admit that he was so consumed with what *Curt* would think that he had forgotten to tell his own wife. But it was the truth.

"Well, I'm sure it won't matter to her one way or the other. Isn't your marriage over anyway?"

The only marriage that counted? The one in his heart? The bond he'd made with Curt? That could never be over. Not until both of them were well and truly dead.

Shannon turned to go, but Brian grabbed her by the wrist. She looked down at the pale hand clutching her and studied it for several seconds before finally, reluctantly, meeting Brian's intent gaze. "You did call Curt, didn't you?"

Ah, Shannon's heart sunk. She was hoping she wouldn't have to confess her sin of omission until later. Much later. But she should have known Brian was focused on only one thing. Being reunited with Curt.

Wrenching her wrist out of his bruising grasp, Shannon said tersely, "No."

Brian's eyes widened in horror. "You didn't call him? He thinks I'm really *dead*?"

"Well, I can't do everything, Brian. If you wanted it done so badly, you should have rung him up yourself."

He couldn't. He couldn't just call Curt and tell him outright what he'd done. The death of The Demon was a well-orchestrated act calculated to get Curt's attention. But more than that, Curt had to see that killing The Demon was a selfless undertaking, a ritual sacrifice meant to bring Curt back.

He'd given it all up. For *him*.

And now? When Curt found out that it was all a *lie*?

He would *hate* him.

With the same intensity that he had brought to their bed.

Brian buried his face in his hands, so preoccupied that he didn't even realize that Shannon was still there. Shannon eyed him unsympathetically. "That's what you get for underestimating me, Brian."

Brian's head came up sharply, and she realized her error. "You did this on purpose? To get back at *me*?"

Shannon hesitated before she replied, and it was into the tense silence that followed that another sound tumbled.

It was an inhuman scream. The sound of a wolf grieving the death of its mate.

Curt had come.

End