Sitting in the small cramped office, peering across the desk at the slightly balding middle aged man there judging him, Kellerman couldn't help but flash on McManus.

When he graduated high school, he had thought he would never again have to deal with that feeling of explaining and answering for his mistakes to someone else. He had thought his time sitting in the principle's office was served. It wasn't.

He had gotten a bit out line a few times at the academy and had to pay his dues by sitting across a desk from an older man with more rank and eat crow then. He had to be summoned numerous times to Giardello's office, taken ass chewings, and tried to defend himself.

Then came the one he thought would be the worst ever. When he was summoned before the Grand Jury, he was sure that was the ultimate in humiliation. Having to explain and defend and deny actions to those people. It wasn't one person with a higher rank than he. It was a bunch of outsiders, looking at him, staring at him. Judging him.

They sat there with their pinched faces and accusing galnces, looked him up and down, their eyes boring into his brain, and their high ideals which had never actually been tested stacked against his alleged deeds. He had thought that was the worst he would ever endure. The embarrassment, the powerlessness he felt. The condescension that poured out of them, oozing toward him. It galled him. He nearly choked on it. Who in the fuck were these people to be accusing and judging him?

He had thought that was the worst. It wasn't.

Within a couple years he found himself right back across a table from another man whose eyes bored right through him. A man whose words refused to relent. A man who was supposed to be his colleague and peer. And he was judging and accusing too. That was the worst. Until five minutes later when his own partner walked in and looked at him with disdain and regret, and what was that other thing- a touch of pity maybe. Recalling that icy moment now sends a shiver up Mike's back.

But that's been forgiven. Not forgotten, but forgiven. Even that wasn't the end though. He had to replay the whole damned thing again in a courtroom. It wasn't a private affair like the others then. No no, this was wide open to the entire public. Attorneys, a judge, a jury. Witnesses, a stenographer, bailiff, and his parents. And the press. And again he had to sit in a chair and look at a man who questioned his integrity.

Didn't stop then either. When everyone else decided that they were better than he was, that he was wrong, he then had to pay for it. One of the first things he had to do when he walked through the doors of Oswald was go to Tim McManus' office. He sat across from another man who peered at him and judged him again. And every time he did something that wasn't in McManus' play book while in Em City, he had to trudge up to that tiny little office and answer to that balding man who sat across the desk and held more authority than he.

He thought it was over.

He had worried plenty. It had occurred to him on numerous occasions that his life was going to be difficult to rebuild once he got out of here. He had been police. It wasn't what he did, that was who he was. And he wasn't that anymore, and never would be again. He didn't know what he was going to do. That was frightening enough. And intimidating. But he made up his mind he was going to have to simply find a new way to bring home cash, and even if that wouldn't be his identity, it would at least feed him and Meldrick.

But he hadn't though of this. Once Meldrick picked him up from Oz, they really didn't have a place to go and call home. Lewis had stayed close by in New York, working mostly tiny construction jobs to make ends meet. But neither of them had much interest in staying there close to Oz.

They made an obligatory stop in Baltimore. Mike visited his still distraught mother and still bitter and angry father. Neither one of them really cared to try and go on in that city any longer either though. Every bit of charm had drained out of it for them the moment their colleagues had started looking at them as "them" instead of "us." Meldrick got a decent chunk of cash from Bayliss and Munch when they repurchased his share of The Waterfront at least. And they had cordially offered him employment there too. But he turned it down. Not only would working in a bar be walking the line as far as his parole was concerned, he just didn't feel like hanging out with the old gang anyhow.

So they left. They didn't know where they were going. It started out as a joke between them to come here. But they ended up here within a week anyhow. They had a little money, not enough to live like kings, but enough that they weren't going to be starving or without a roof over their heads immediately. So when they got to the city, they spent a few hours driving around, up and down the steep hills, weaving carefully, never quite certain of what was going to appear beyond the next curve in the pavement.

They got lost. Or, rather, were found for an endless amount of time. Between Lewis' driving skills and Mike's land locked navigation, they simply kept going in large circles that kept leading them back to The Embarcadero and along the bay. Finally, they gave up. Kellerman was more than happy to stop there anyhow. It wasn't his beloved Chesapeake, but it was water. Even before they found a room at the Sheraton nearby, Mike couldn't resist walking directly to the edge of Pier 44 as soon as he was able to get out the car.

Lewis didn't understand, but he followed along behind anyhow, trying to catch a glimpse of what Kellerman was seeing. Even if he didn't understand the preternatural appeal, he appreciated that it was very real for Kellerman, so he was willing to try and comprehend it.

Gazing out at the choppy azure waves, Mike for the first time since leaving Oz finally felt a sense of being out of the place. When they had stopped in Baltimore, his mood was destroyed by the joyless homecoming his parents received him with. Suddenly, the water there didn't seem quite as renewing. Maybe it wasn't just his parents, but all the memories of all that had transpired in that city though. Perhaps it was the culmination of one too many lonely, restless nights spent on that bay. Who knows. But he didn't glean the comfort and satisfaction that he used to when he gazed out onto the Chesapeake. It used to signify daring and adventure. He saw boundless possibilities and a seemingly infinite array of treasures there. But not anymore.

Standing there, on the other side of the country, far removed from the bloodstained streets that he used to call home, he had it once again. As the salt filled his nose and the flapping wind ruffled his hair, it all came flooding back. Smells of the day's catch inundated him. Crab and shrimp permeated every corner of the atmosphere. Tug whistles sounded and ferry horns sounded both near and far. The clanking of winches and the swoosh of nets gliding across watery decks all seemed so familiar, and yet new and exhilarating. At the moment that he saw the honeyed ray of golden sun flash across the waves, his own eyes filled with the reflection and Meldrick looked at him. He saw what Mike was seeing.

Vibrant blue, seemingly opaque and thick, but revealed with that flash of light to be translucent and shifting. The restless waves on top covering an ever changing undercurrent. Sometimes dangerous, often contrary patterns, weaving and mixing, keeping everything around it fresh and invigorated. A seemingly indecipherable mystery from the surface. The only way to ever truly know the goings on is to dive in, immerse and feel. Test and try to learn to understand the patterns from within. That one glint of sunshine revealing the depth and possibilities. As Mike was staring out at the frigid waters of the San Francisco Bay to see that, Meldrick was looking at it reflected in his partner's eyes.

Although they drew it from different sources, they both had the same feeling for the first time that instant. Maybe it was due to fatigue from travelling so long, perhaps it was simply time for it happen. Maybe the large rock with the imposing, infamous, man-made prison walls rising and looming in front of them, settled in the middle of the bay, desolate and eerie amidst so much natural beauty was a contrast that made it even more real. Who knows. But at that second, they finally felt what they had been waiting to feel since walking out of the doors of Oswald. They felt free.

The first night had been absolutely marvelous. They ate at Tarantino's overlooking the Bay. Meldrick plucked all his seafood out the ciopino sauce while Mike bitched at him for even bothering to order it that way. The crab was different from the blue they were accustomed to. It wasn't served with mallets, and the bodies weren't even served to them at all. Legs only, with crackers to open them. It was meatier, but a bit less salty. It was a touch of home, but with a coastal deviation.

They walked through Ghirardelli Square and bought a few candy bars which Kellerman intended to send to his niece in St. Louis. They sucked down fountain drinks and let the simple pleasure remind them of easier, childhood memories, when that's all they really wanted out of life. A good candy bar, a stiff soda, and somewhere cool to hang out.

Stunned at the contrast to the place they had always called home, they took in as much as they could with eyes that wanted to mark everything, log everything in an attempt to push other memories away. There were no bodies waiting to be turned, no yos to question. The air wasn't laden with the smell of death, remnants of gunpowder and sweat mingling below the ever- present stench of decay. Nope. They were surrounded with welcoming aromas of warm coffee percolating and bittersweet cocoa confections all around. The streets weren't drab and grey, run down tenement houses and beat cars lining the paths. Everything was swept clean, cared for. The charm of the old world mingled with a uniquely American touristy atmosphere.

It wasn't dim and dismal like Baltimore, where the only illumination spills from above from the harsh light of lonely overhead streetlamps to offer to some sort of meaningless false protection, serving mostly to cast long, ominous shadows. It was instead a mysterious night. Cloaked in dark yes, but lacking the dread and fear that went hand in hand with it back in Baltimore. It was far removed from the desolate, confining, murky dark of Em City, where all your loneliness comes pouring out, the only thing you have to let you know you're still alive. It was instead the night that poets and lovers revel in. A night and dark that affords privacy and intimacy, yet doesn't confine enough to strangle out hope. The lights around weren't the sickly incandescent blueish-white of urban streetlights. They were the homey, welcoming golden-yellow light that more closely resembled the sun.

The night was sultry and romantic, everything magical that San Francisco can be. After finishing their sodas, they hopped a cable car to take them through the heart of the city. There was no reason not to. They didn't have to count off, they didn't have to be locked down. They didn't have to rush off to a different neighborhood to turn a rigoring cadaver either. They had all night, a new city, and the company of a good friend. And they didn't want to rush. Tomorrow they'd have to start again. They'd have to wake up, look for jobs, look for a place to live, and rejoin society. But not tonight. For right now they could leave behind responsibility and expectations. They could just simply be.

Sensuous sounds of the city whirred around them as they rode the cable car across Nob Hill. From the whoosh of taxis and cars passing by, to the buzz and hum of passersby. The buzz of activity and life was all around them. Not the startling crack of gunfire, and not the surreal quiet of Em City. Oh sure, nothing is idyllic. Some lame dude tried to pick Kellerman's pocket as he jumped of the cable car when they decided to walk for a while. Lucky for him, Mike was filled with goodwill that evening and after knocking the guy's hand away and whirling around to glare at him, turned back to his partner and laughed it off.

What amazed them the most was the constantly shifting scenes and vastly different areas of the city. How each little section pulsed with a personality all it's own. Each section had a uniquely different look, sound and feel from the others. When they walked through Chinatown, they were submerged in hues of red and gold, with eastern scents filling their nostrils as they wove through narrower streets amidst exotic cuisines. Dragons puffed out smoky incense and signs indecipherable to them invited new experiences. It was a high contrast, a wholly agreeable aura, yet completely set off from the feel of Ghirardelli Square they had just left. There they were submerged in taunting scents and aromas too. But they were more familiar ones there. Just as rich, from the percolating coffee to the richness of the sweet chocolates, but strikingly different from here. And even that was nestled inside a completely deviated atmosphere. The Bay and Fisherman's Wharf. Where the salt air invigorates and relaxes at the same time, and sea lions cavort with freedom near the most famous prison ever made.

It was completely different from the following blocks where they ran into the now quiet and serene Financial district. Bustling with life and hurried masses during the day, at night it closes its doors and the looming structures seem to fall into a contented slumber while the rest of the city still pulses around it. Even here though, it's different from other cities. From the trademark pointed triangle atop of the Transamerica Pyramid, it makes its bid that even in the most conventional and restrained section of the city, it refuses to be a homogenized version of what it should look like. It's not a replica of Wall Street. It isn't remotely akin to Chicago. No, even in the conservative area, the buildings and streets of San Francisco say that they are unique. They are part of the quirky, romantic, and visionary city they help make up. They stake their claim to be more than about function. They're a testament to what the city is about.

Mike and Meldrick just kept walking through the city that night. For the first time in a long time, they weren't rushed. They didn't have to answer to anyone but themselves. And they weren't stuck amidst a confining, barren landscape that offered nothing for the eyes and even less for the soul. To the contrary, every corner they turned and every block they perused in the new city held some new fascination, or beauty, or inspiration, or interest. It was simply stunning. And for Mike, the simple pleasure of walking wherever he pleased to was still new and exhilarating.

The weather couldn't have been more accommodating either. The heat of the day had dissipated and left a balmy evening in its place. Just the slightest bit of humidity hung in the air, but was balanced out by a gentle, sweeping breeze that kept drying and cooling everything off. It wasn't strong enough to physically push anything around, just enough to whisk away any stuffiness before it had a chance to cling and cause discomfort.

So they kept pacing along, exploring the new territory. Eyes and ears trained to notice the tiniest details for possible later reference were able to appreciate all that they took in though. They weren't wearily cataloguing details and mentally annotating minutiae in a stress laden context to serve someone else's justice. They were simply taking it in for pleasure, and to remember with fondness, not regret, at a later date.

Doubling back out of the business section and heading back toward the heart of the city, they began climbing what seemed like innocuous hills at first. With each block, the slight inclines grew increasingly steeper though. Their legs, despite months of long workouts in the gym on the weight machines, began to strain and pulse with exertion. It was a different kind of workout. Sure they were conditioned. But this wasn't a machine. This freedom, this was walking long distances, something they hadn't done in some time. Their calves began to tense with each step, their thighs began to warm, slightly burn. They loved it. Neither one dared to admit to the other it was taxing them, so they kept walking further, up Market Street, higher still. Past rows and rows of Victorian houses, each one perched seemingly so delicately, almost precariously, upon and into the steep landscape.

Higher still they climbed, in the direction of the magnificent park. As they had traversed away from the Bay area at Fisherman's Wharf, Mike had lost the scent of the salty sea, but he could again begin to pick up the faintest trace of it lingering in the air, calling him onward.

Hearing the buzz of activity and seeing the change of scenery again up ahead, they both realized where they were headed. Feeling a gentle breeze upon the back of his neck caused Mike to turn around for a second, hesitating at what he saw. Whacking Meldrick on the arm, he pointed downward, beneath them, to the area they had just left. He hadn't realized they had walked so far. His legs testified to the length of the journey though, the mildest hints of fatigue starting to pulse through his muscles. It felt so good to him.

Turning around to see what his partner was pointing at, Meldrick took in the cityscape below them. All the lights of downtown, the neon signs in windows, the streetlamps illuminated, headlights of passing cars were no longer individually distinguishable. Instead, it was a twinkling array of a man-made mini cosmos down there for them to see. It looked so vibrant, and it looked so peaceful. It was hard to imagine anyone suffering down there amidst such luminosity.

Turning back around, Lewis nodded above them again. "Shall we? Old Munch'd probly want us to drop in, say hi to some friends of his here."

Chuckling with that thought, Mike nodded, "Yeah, I'm kind of interested in what the allure was."

"I'm sure it ain't the same now though. Might be depressing and shit."

"Are you tired or something? You wanna go back?" Mike taunted, seeing if he could make Meldrick break so early in the unspoken challenge.

"I'm fine, Mikey my man. I been out an about. You the one I'm worried 'bout. Haven't stretched your legs much these days. You wanna call it in?"

Shaking his head once and staring back with a defiant grin, Mike replied. "Not me. Good to walk, metabolize that dinner. I think we owe it to ourselves and Munch, anyhow."

"A'ight then, get on with it, let's metabolize the shit out of this place," Meldrick waved him first.

Upward they continued. The elusive scent of the ocean again became lost to Mike as they climbed what he thought was closer to it. Instead, a new, unnamable, yet somewhat vaguely familiar smell began to reveal itself to him. Reaching the bottom section of the neighborhood, they simply passed a knowing glance as they hesitated and again stopped to take in the sights.

"Maybe it ain't changed all that much," Meldrick quipped.

"This explains so much about Munch," was all Mike could find to say.

It wasn't often that two grown men, former Homicide detectives, stopped to take the time to look around and be truly amazed at what they saw.

Mike's eyes flitted off the bizarrely decorated buildings momentarily as he watched a young, barefoot woman pass by him on the sidewalk. Clad in large, raggedy light brown corduroy pants and a thin, whispy halter top, he squinted to try and see her face. Her hair looked as though it had never been combed; long, but more than shaggy, completely knotted and disheveled. He heard a twinkling sound as she passed, and noticed she wore a row of bells adorning her bare ankle. But it was the smell. That's what he noticed. Then he realized that it wasn't coming from the neighborhood per say, but from the people in it. It was intense as she passed him, and wafted behind her, taunting him with its strength to identify it before it weakened again. Snapping his fingers, he turned to Meldrick and said one word, with seeming utter astonishment.

"Pot."

"Huh?"

"Pot, Meldrick. This whole neighborhood smells like pot."

Squinting his eyes, Lewis shook his head and looked back to the fairer man who seemed distressed by his revelation. "Ain't pot, Mikey."

"Yes it is."

"No it ain't. Ain't you never smelled reefer before?"

"Yeah, I have, and that's what this place, that's what that girl smelled like."

"Not pot, my man. Patchouli."

"Pa-whoey?"

"Pa-chou-li. At's what it smells like. Not pot."

"I think it's pot. No wonder Munch loved it here. He was a fiend, wasn't he?"

Shrugging, Meldrick giggled a bit at the thought. Kellerman wasn't around to witness firsthand the now infamous picture of Munch in his younger glory days. "Wasn't no fiend. And it ain't pot."

Still moving forward, Mike jumped out of the way as a shirtless man approached him. Clad only in baggy denim shorts that reached his knees and a beat up pair up Vans, the man carried two sticks, one in each hand. Upon them, he twirled and balanced a third stick, occasionally tossing it to the air, allowing it to twist around a few times before catching upon another stick again. He was bald, one arm sleeved with a dark inked tattoo, and never even glanced in the direction of the man who had to move out of his way lest he get beaned with the flying projectile.

Watching the guy pass, then turning back to look at the buildings for a moment. He took a beat to take it all in. Bookstores, clothing stores and cafes lined the street, an average array of shops. But they were housed in the most outrageously painted and decorated buildings he could've ever imagined all piled together. One across the street was painted on one side with a giant neon pink and black spiral. Another had a giant mural of a man he couldn't quite place. Everyone, everyone was clad in something more bizarre than the next person. The only thing he saw in common was that they either had way too much hair, or none at all. He thought the temperature seemed to rise a bit too, then realized it was just heat from all the other bodies along the busy street. They were blocking him from the cooling breeze now. And that smell. Earthy, but pungent. Familiar, yet exotic, all at once.

"Oh come on, Meldrick, everyone here has to be stoned. How could they not be?"

"Oh, I ain't sayin they ain't. I'm just saying that ain't what you smell."

"It's pot."

"Patchouli."

"And what's with all these beggars? They're young, they could work, they're all healthy."

"I know. So don't give 'em no money."

Halting at the corner, Mike looked around and remarked simply, "This is freaking me out." Nodding down a cross street, he took a step, "Come on, let's go this way."

"You don't wanna see more of the Haight, huh?"

"I think I've seen enough. A guy that just passed me was selling crack I think."

"Yeah, probably."

So they made a right onto Ashbury and continued to walk across more level terrain, both of them silently thankful to stop climbing the hill for a time. Their legs were nagging them fiercely now, and they had just left the bus path, forsaking the more traveled area to escape the seeming madness of Haight Street. Walking a few blocks more, Kellerman could again breathe in the salt of the sea, and it brought a simple smile to his features as he halted. "Isn't that great Meldrick?"

"What?"

"That smell, instead of pot."

Eyeing his partner, but refusing to refute him once more, Lewis simply breathed deep, trying to catch the same scent. "Yeah, I smell it man. Smells fresh."

Slapping his partner on the arm for the second time that night, Kellerman nodded up at the sky.

Craning his neck to look above him, Meldrick searched it too. It nearly dizzied him. All the twinkling lights they had looked down on earlier, as beautiful as that was, it was still a tiny reflection of up above. And it was there, every night, waiting to be seen and admired, but he never did. He never bothered until Mike told him to just now.

Taking a few steps back, Kellerman looked at the house behind him. It was dark and quiet. A little worn and run down compared to the other houses on the street, could've used a fresh coat of paint or something. In fact, it looked utterly abandoned, but he didn't see a for-sale sign anywhere in the vicinity. In the dark, he couldn't see the melted wax or the dried up flowers higher up on the broad stoop, and the address wasn't displayed anywhere prominently either. Since it seemed quiet, he eased himself onto a lower step so that he'd be able to gaze up a bit more easily at the nighttime sky. Even if he had known he was sitting at 710 Ashbury, it wouldn't have meant a thing to him. Maybe Munch would have known, maybe not. But he and Meldrick were clueless.

Looking back from the stars to his partner, Meldrick couldn't help but rub it in. "Ah, had to take a load off there, huh Mikey?"

"No," Kellerman protested. His body was appreciating the rest though. It was a welcome respite from the long, uphill walk. "Just wanted to take a closer look."

Hunkering down on the step next to him, Meldrick looked up again and asked, "So, how does it look?"

It was bright and clear that evening. Every discernable star up there seemed to be peeking its head out and winking at them. Millions of them up there, splattered onto a black velvet canvas, sparkling and shining. Quiet as can be, nothing flashing for attention, just there, patiently waiting to be admired. The only competition they had up there was a small waning crescent moon, situated in the northwest corner of the sky at that time. "It looks exactly the way it's supposed to," Mike remarked.

"It looks peaceful up there, you know?" He nodded at Meldrick, then looked back up. "It's like, up there, none of this matters much. It'd be nice, huh? Be like that. Be up there, standing on the moon, looking at all this, seeing only the good."

Nodding his head, Meldrick understood. But he disagreed. "Nah, it'd be lonely up there. I'd rather be here, with you," he confided. He then nudged Mike's shoulder and laughed devilishly. "Come on. Let's get goin," he said, rising, beckoning his partner to join him.

"Where we goin now?" Mike asked.

Raising a shoulder reflexively against his ear as another cool breeze whispered into it, he fought off the urge to shiver from the sensation. "Let's go see that big ocean."

"Nah, we can do that some other time."

"You don't wanna?"

"Yeah, I do. Just not right now, let's go home."

Shaking his head once, Meldrick drew a hand down through his goatee and followed after the blonde man. "A'ight," was all he said.

"Let's get away from the smell of all this pot before I catch a contact buzz."

"Patchouli," Meldrick corrected.

"Pot," Mike countered again.

Every city has its own sights and smells, and every city has its own overall theme. New York can be argued to be the brain of this Country. It's still the center of culture and business. It's the largest, most impressive spawn of architecture there is. And LA is its polar opposite. Huge and expansive yes. But without the solid foundation and depth. As New York's stunning skyscrapers reach high, LA spreads out, not as concentrated. Just as busy, but without as lofty purposes. As New York tries to feed the mind, LA caters to the face and body, it is the skin. Chicago could be argued to be the pulse. A connection between the two extremes of deep and shallow. Built on blood and liquor, it's the guts of the country. And New Orleans, hoo, no confusing what the Big Easy is all about. Pure and simple libido. Sure it's washed in romance and intrigue, stunningly beautiful balances between artful decoration and soul shaking mystique. And its foundation is beat out with a mixture of primal African drums and European melodies. Music rocks it's streets, and carnal decadence rules. All the other smaller cities, the Pittsburghs and Clevelands and heartland farmlands? They drive everything. The produce and manufacture and grow. They're the muscles.

So where does that leave San Francisco? It can't be fully understood until you've walked through her varied areas, seen the Victorian houses lined upon the steep hills, encompassed on both sides by the swirling currents of the Pacific Ocean. It had to take a determined sort to settle here. Only a particular eye could appreciate her regal beauty juxtaposed with her daunting strength. Goldminers, they sought her out. They had vision, they had hopes and dreams. They didn't see the world the same way as others did. And they had heart. They found a way to combine the intellect of New York with the class and beauty of New Orleans. They had the guts and stamina of Chicago, and a touch of slickness of LA.

San Fran is an amalgamation, but she's all about heart. She's where Tony Bennett left his. She's the city that although he made a career and garnered fame in New York, Joe DiMaggio decided to call home. While Diz and Bird were on the other coast trying to squeeze three notes at once out of their horns, she took a laid back attitude. She showed Gerry Mulligan and Miles Davis that less can be more, and that one note played perfectly can sound as good as the frantic pounding of the East Coast be-bop. She was the birthplace of the cool. She was the birthplace of one of the most radical social and musical movements this country has ever seen, the vestiges of which are still brilliantly alive in certain sections. She's a place that welcomed all lovers, not just those that fit society's accepted template. Because above and beyond all else, she has heart.

She's smart and charming. She's wildly diverse and often unpredictable. There's a thrilling edge in knowing that at any second, the ground could suddenly shift and all could be wiped out without any warning. And yet there's the comforting timelessness of the ocean nearby, assuring that for all eternity, some things will endure. She's the home of one of the most impressive and gorgeous architectural wonders created on this continent. Spanning and connecting her with her more pastoral and less inhabited sister area across the bay, it's a treasure to behold either day or night. And another gateway leads to another wholly different, much more savage area. Once nearly destroyed, then rebuilt upon the shaky foundation, refusing to yield to nature.

Strikingly beautiful, breathtakingly romantic, pumping with cultures and subcultures so wild and colorful they literally take over the entire visual and visceral landscape they inhabit, she somehow manages to gracefully pull it all together with class. She doesn't mimic or resemble anywhere else. She is uniquely her own. And she's able to synthesize it and present it as a cohesive whole because above all else, her heart shines through. Maybe that's why she inspires music, literature, and painting so prodigiously. Because it takes not only intellect to achieve true art. It takes heart.

Even if they didn't realize it, that's what Meldrick and Mike needed the most. They had brains, they had guts. But to feel free again, they needed heart. And that's what she has plenty to spare and was willing to share with them.

They caught a bus back on Haight and took it down to the heart of the city, jumping off to hop aboard a cable car again to transport them the rest of the way back down to the wharf.

Once back down amidst the more understandable climate, Mike's sweet tooth kicked in and they stopped and picked up a fresh cheesecake to take back to their room with them. The breeze picked up as the crowds thinned out for the evening. Walking gingerly, still refusing to rush, they enjoyed the feel of the salt dipped air brushing past them, nestling in their hair, and licking their faces.

They were quiet as they traveled up to the room, neither speaking, neither feeling they needed to. Mike flopped down on a bed, lying on his belly as he opened the box to get at the cheesecake. Meldrick flopped on the other bed, watching the man. A satisfied smirk crept across his face as he watched the kid in the other guy reassert itself once more. Even three years in Oz hadn't been able to crush that, he thought to himself, satisfied and heartened by it.

As Meldrick smirked, Mike dipped his index finger right into the middle of the pie, drawing it up covered with the creamy rich confection. Thoughtlessly plunging it into his mouth, he sucked briefly, trying to lick off all that he could. Nodding, he declared his approval. "This is fuckin good man," he laughed.

"Mikey, you kill me man."

"What? It's dessert. We didn't have any earlier."

"Not that man. You sittin over there like that. Ooohin over a piece a cheesecake like that. Like some woman or somethin."

Removing his freshly dipped finger again, Mike stared defiantly at him. "So I can't eat cheesecake without you saying I'm feminine now?"

"No, man, it's not that. Just the way you enjoyin it."

"Well, you'd enjoy it too. It's fuckin good."

"Yeah, I know," Meldrick smirked.

"It is!" Mike insisted testily. He then dove his finger back into the cake and brought up a sizeable chunk which he held in front of Meldrick's face. "Try it."

"Nah, don't want none."

"What, you watching your girlish figure?"

"Ha ha. Just ain't my thing," he shrugged.

"Just try it, dammit," Mike persisted, shoving his finger closer.

Glancing down at the pale yellow clump before him, Meldrick frowned noticeably, then relented, taking it and Mike's finger into his mouth. Mike was right, he thought, as the rich taste filled his mouth. Drawing on it with his tongue and cheeks, he raised his brow in appreciation. Wasn't no Sarah Lee shit, that was for sure. Swallowing it down, he sucked again briefly, extracting the last remnants of the creamy substance before intending to let go. But as he did, he glanced over and caught Mike's face, watching him. Their eyes locked momentarily, and Meldrick teased, opening his mouth slightly, daring him to pull away.

With the brief hesitation, Meldrick had his answer. His lips closed around the finger again, this time more softly, more deliberately. His tongue grazed along its bottom, and he stared back, watching for a reaction from Mike. Seeing a slight flicker of his eyelids, he increased the pressure, drawing on the finger, sucking at it strongly.

The actual sensation was in his finger, but it sent a jolt directly to Mike's groin. With each pull that Meldrick made upon his offered finger, a responsive pulse coursed between his legs. Inhaling deeply, he closed his eyes momentarily, reveling in the sensation of slowly being turned on. He felt the lips encircling his finger part, releasing it, but just as swiftly pulling the next waiting digit in, sucking on that one, sending the same waves of pleasure to his core.

Sighing lightly, Mike forced his eyes open, and caught Meldrick's smoky eyes watching him. He had been watching his pleasure, and he grinned in response. The pressure in his crotch was becoming intrusive, so Mike rolled onto his back, hoping to gain some relief, never pulling his hand away from his partner's ministrations upon it. Lying there, he closed his eyes again, running his own hand up his chest, under the fabric of his t-shirt. He felt Meldrick release the finger he had been working on and then dart his tongue between the soft v of skin bridging it to the next one. He lapped briefly at his palm, then pulled the next one into his supple mouth, warming it, wetting it, finally sucking on it with the same thrilling pressure as the others.

Exhaling a stuttering breath, Mike squirmed slightly on the other bed, his free hand reflexively traveling down again. He pressed gently against his own cock with his free hand through the thick fabric of his jeans, making his own hips grind uncontrollably. His pulse began to quicken, his face grew flushed. Fumbling with the zipper on his jeans while reveling in the warm, sensual pulling on his hand, his desire heightened even more.

Meldrick picked it up too then. He never released Mike's hand, but inched forward on his own bed, closer to the other man sprawled on his back. From his vantage point, he could see him reaching inside his pants, rubbing his own hand along his length to ease the building tension. Reaching across, spanning the chasm of the beds, he twined one hand into the fine blonde hair on Mike's head. Massaging his scalp with his strong fingers, continually sucking upon his fingers, his other hand ran up and down the length of his arm. Rubbing the soft, tender underside of his forearm, drawing his hand upward, intensifying the feeling he was taking more of him in. He heard Mike groan then, and that sent a churning to his stomach. He began to roil with the first trills of lust through his veins while watching Mike get more and more excited.

Trying to do as little as possible to satisfy himself, Mike still couldn't resist circling his hand around his engorged cock, refusing to begin pumping it, but holding firmly. Seeing him do that set Meldrick off even more. He rose from his own bed, dropping Mike's hand for the first time and crossed the short distance between them. Climbing onto the bed, he knelt over Mike, hovering above him, looking down into his lust soaked features. Mike reached up for him immediately, his free hand darting directly to his groin, starting to rub at the hardness through his pants. Dipping his head down, Meldrick pushed his hand away and began to hungrily kiss at his parted mouth. Licking, sucking, just as he had done to his fingers. Unrelenting pulls upon his soft lips, his tongue working alternately, sliding in and out.

Mike began to lose control then, unwittingly starting move into his own hand, his hips thrusting up and down, demanding satisfaction. Feeling him writhe beneath him, Meldrick reached down, pushing Mike's hand away, replacing it with his own. He gripped him firmly, but refused to move. Still intently sucking upon his lips, prodding him with his tongue, when Mike began to thrust into his palm, Meldrick pulled back, stopping to stare at the golden face below him. Mike opened his eyes in protest, refusing to beg, but indicating longing. "Uh uh, Mikey, not yet. We gonna metabolize that cheesecake nice and slow tonight," Meldrick whispered. A slow smile formed at the corners of his mouth, the subtle downward angle of his eyes curled up even more then with it, revealing the crooked grin and long laugh line from the corner of his mocha eyes.

Reaching down, he pulled upward on Mike's t-shirt, easing it over his head, over willing arms. Tossing it to the floor, he dipped back down again, this time tracing the sinewy lines of Mike's throat with his tongue. Laying back, Mike relented, trying to block out the persistent pulsing in his cock to enjoy the other sensations. Meldrick was right, he thought. We shouldn't rush, not tonight. He breathed deeply a few times, regaining some control over his racing body. Leaning back, he relaxed completely under Meldrick's touches. His throat, lavished and taunted with the contrasting feel of the soft tongue gliding across it with the rougher hairs of Meldrick's goatee dragging after it. His ear, warm breath dropped into it as teeth grasped the lobe. His head, with strong fingers running through his hair. Oh god, it was so good.

Meldrick tasted it all. He lapped at the gentle skin upon his collarbone, dropping light kisses upon it, inhaling the cool, musky note of his flesh. He was so warm already, his chest, the downy softness of the hair on it. He pressed strong kisses into his stomach while his hands eased his jeans down further. He taunted then. Moving even lower, he lapped at his hipbone, starting on his side, kissing it, nibbling the skin there. He followed it around front while Mike raised his hips to meet him, allowing him to slide the useless pants even lower. Lower still he kissed, pressing firmly and licking at the base of his stomach, the lowest rung of muscles in Mike's abdomen.

Uncontrollably, Mike pressed up into him, nearly pleading with him to touch him. Hesitating briefly, considering, Meldrick obliged. His tongue flicked out, darting maddeningly over the head of Mike's cock, then tracing a single line down its shaft. He heard Mike moan above him again, and decided that was enough. So he went even lower, one hand massaging the strong, overworked thigh muscles as the other finished stripping the pants the rest of the way off and discarding them.

Meldrick throbbed then too, his body craved release which he relished denying it yet. He moved back up again, kissing the tired, strained thighs as Mike spread his legs apart. Becoming unbearably hot, he stopped, sitting up to strip off his own shirt, watching the reaction on the bed beneath him. Mike was watching him all right. He drank in the vast expanse of coffee colored skin suddenly exposed, the broad shoulders revealed for him.

Reaching into the forgotten box laying near Mike's head, he dipped two of his own fingers now, offering them to Mike. He accepted, hungrily tasting the luscious richness of the dessert, sucking it down, then sucking greedily at Meldrick's fingers. Just the slightest amount of teeth, backed by that longing pull set Meldrick completely off. Hurriedly undoing his own pants, he knelt between Mike's legs, and let his hand roam across his chest again. Stopping over his heart, he felt it beating wildly, thrumming with desire, syncopating his own rapid pulse. His own cock was throbbing now, screaming for release. But he wanted it specific.

Getting up, he kicked off his own pants and tipped over his bag, spilling still unpacked clothes and sundries across the floor. Fumbling through them, he found what he was looking for and grabbed for it as Mike called out to him. "Meldrick, come on," he said annoyed. Dropping the cap on the floor, he squeezed the gel onto his palm as he situated himself between Mike's legs again. Rubbing his hands together, he leaned down to kiss Mike's swollen lips again, tasting the last vestiges of the rich cake, and under that, the familiar salty taste of his lover.

Sitting back up, he grabbed them each with one hand. Mike bucked beneath him at the sudden contact that he had desired so bad. Slowly, firmly, Meldrick rubbed up and down, over Mike, over himself. Mike rose up for him, hooking his legs on top of Meldrick's.

Still rubbing himself, Meldrick scootched lower, aligning himself and starting to guide himself in. Feeling Mike relax, he breathed deep and pushed in, moaning at the sweetness as he became more fully encompassed. Shuddering as he pushed more deeply, he dropped his free hand to catch himself from falling over with delight. Mike pushed against him then, taking him in more deeply. He began to thrust. Slowly at first, his hand working on Mike with the same rhythm he was moving with inside.

Building slowly, he wanted to pound away, but controlled himself, controlled his hand on Mike. He worked that way for a while, probing, testing, refusing to go deep and hard either way. It drove them both nuts, heated them. Their strained and tired legs wanted to seize under the new assault, but he kept on. Gradually building, ever so slowly increasing the pace. They became slicked with sweat, an unsatisfied fever coursing through their veins. Mike growled beneath him again, and he couldn't resist plunging harder at that.

The pace picked up. Mike could barely stand it. Inside and out, he was burning and pulsing. His hair felt soaked, small trickles of sweat ran down his temples. He started to contract around Meldrick, needing release soon. Needing release everywhere.

Driving harder, Meldrick's stroke grew insistent, his hand relentless. Up and down, in and out, over and over. Harder, quicker. Opening his eyes, he saw Mike's teeth clenched, his stomach contracting. His legs gripped tighter around his waist, still pushing against his thrusts. He started to shake, and Meldrick gripped even tighter then, pulling slowly, watching him. He could never resist watching him come. He stroked him again, watching his face and neck tense as he drew him out, still pumping.

Letting go, he placed his hand on his shaking stomach, contracting beneath him, and drove in harder. He couldn't go anymore either, he was on edge. He licked his upper lip, tasting the slick salt of perspiration gathered there. The shuddering contractions around him pulled him deeper, gripped him tighter as he was suddenly overtaken too. Moaning and grunting as he came, his own body racked with spasms.

They both wanted to collapse, but their muscles seemed frozen there, momentarily seemingly locked into place from so much use. Breathing deeply, Mike raised a hand and wiped his face, swiping at the layer of sweat gathered there. Meldrick finally raised his bowed head. Sliding from between Mike's legs, he plopped on his back down next to him. Yawning, he said a single word before dozing off, "Patchouli."

By the time the famous mist began to creep in and blanket the city, they caught a chill and had to move. Groaning as their tired muscles had to move them across the bed and under covers, they both fell back into a heavy sleep as the fog outside muffled everything else.

Mike woke up first the next day. Rubbing his eyes, he winced at the stiffness in his legs. He had overdone, not only walking, but the exertion of their lovemaking had also taken its toll. Walking gingerly to window, trying to shake some of the stiffness from his thighs, he peered at the bay stretched beneath him. The fog had already begun to retreat, being broken up and scattered by the intensifying sun for the day.

So this was it. It had an almost official feel to him. It begins again now. His life. Glancing back at Meldrick, still lightly dozing, the luster of the previous evening began to wear off. Stretching one leg again, then grabbing the thick carpet between his toes, he padded toward the bathroom.

Flipping the shower faucets on, adjusting them until the cascade was bearably hot, he stepped underneath, allowing the water to wash and relax him. The voice began. 'What the fuck am I going to do?' it asked. Who in the hell am I? I have to get a job, I have to make money. I have to find somewhere to live. Is that all there is anymore? No, I have Meldrick. So is that who I am? That's what my life is about now? His chest began to constrict, and his mouth got dry. Turning under the shower, he gulped mouthfuls of the hot water, trying to shove the rising feeling aside. But his heart began thrumming anyway. Not with anticipation as it had the night before, but with trepidation. Not as strong and robust. A smaller, quicker, fluttering that made his pulse unsettled. Shaking his head, he shoved it back down and pushed the nagging line of thought out of his head. After getting dressed, he left Meldrick still sleeping in the room. He stopped at the head of the bed briefly on his way out to drop a single word in his ear before leaving. Leaning down, he cleared his throat, and made his claim to this day being his. Neither yelling nor whispering, he spoke the word matter of factly into his partner's ear. "Pot," he said simply, then quickly retreated as Meldrick stirred.

He walked through the wharf area again, eating fresh crab for breakfast. Then he sat on a bench at Ghirardelli square and tried to figure out where to go. He hadn't a clue. So he decided to go everywhere. He figured since he didn't care what he did right now, but indisputably needed cash, he'd simply put in applications everywhere for everything. Once he was making a few bucks, he could then afford to be selective and come up with a game plan.

What better place than the wharf, he figured. He'd simply start by applying to all the fishing companies. That didn't sound too bad at all. Everyone knows they make a decent buck, and it's work he'd enjoy. All the nagging trepidations of earlier subsided, and he was again filled with renewed hope. Shaking his head, he bounced along the street with anticipation again.

He stopped in the first office he found, and as he sat there filling out the form, that brief cloud was again shattered. His name, his birthday, previous experience, even previous employment, those were all easy. It came down to a box. One tiny little box upon a double sided sheet of paper filled with other information. But that little box screamed above everything else. It did to him, and that's when he realized that it did to future employers too.

Have you ever been convicted of a felony? Yes or no. Yes.

If so, please explain the nature.

Fuck. What the fuck was he supposed to write? Simply write what he was convicted of? Voluntary manslaughter. Didn't sound really good. Then again, neither did the explanation. Shot a man. Ok, how about a longer explanation. Shot a murderous drug dealer. I was a homicide detective, see, and...

Fuck. That one little box submarined his hopes as quickly as they had resurfaced. He almost stood up and threw the form in the trash and stomped out to go get a beer. Turning the pen around between his fingers, he sat and stared at it for what seemed like an eternity. He hated that fucking box. Squeezing the pen more sharply, he wished it was a cigarette. Just a few drags to calm down and think about this. His other hand clenched tight into a fist as he swallowed through a thick throat. He could feel his temperature rising and tugged slightly at the collar of his shirt. His favorite blue shirt. Well worn, an old friend. But suddenly it felt stiff and confining and choking. Exhaling deeply, his jaw clenched together, throbbing with the rising pulse beating through his forehead.

Have you ever been convicted of a felony? It seemed to repeat itself more demandingly now. Getting insistent with him, accusing him. Scanning the room, he suddenly heard a loud pop, and for a second he thought it was the pop of his gun from when he fired that fateful shot. Confused, he looked around and felt his hand go limp. The pen. He had squeezed so hard he broke the pen, sending half of it flying across the room. Luckily, not too much blue ink stained his hand, and he couldn't detect any splattered on the wall or floor. And he'd have noticed it. His eyes were used to searching for stray blood smears and splatters like that. Great. Fucking marvelous skill to have now, he thought.

Rubbing his forehead with his other hand, he rose and retrieved the wounded object, grinning sheepishly at the receptionist who had handed him the form. She smirked, placed another pen upon the counter separating them, and then looked back down at her own paperwork.

Collecting his cool, he checked the box, wrote a description, and then dropped the paper on her desk and turned and walked out before she'd have a chance to nebbishly look it over and glance back up at him.

That's how it progressed for the week. He thought that would be the hardest part. He was wrong. Silently filling out applications to be reviewed for consideration later were easy.

He had continued to walk around the city, dropping papers everywhere for any sort of employment at all. Meldrick lucked out. He got hired almost immediately as a waiter in a decent restaurant. It was pretty good pay with tips added in, and even though he was pretty inept at first, he was rapidly adjusting. That's fuckin Meldrick for you, Kellerman thought. He'll bitch and kick and fuck up and somehow get by anyhow. Underneath it all, he'll put his nose to the grindstone and do what needs done.

And Mike was sure he would too. If only someone would let him near the grindstone. No callbacks yet though, and whenever he'd call the places to check up, they'd simply reply that they were still reviewing candidates. Mm hmm.

So many times, he wanted nothing more than to quit his journey and drop his ass on a barstool in any joint in the city. Just for a while, to kick back, light up a smoke, and suck down a hard drink. But he didn't. He snapped at Meldrick instead.

"Mikey, my boy, what be up partner?" Meldrick greeted as he came through the door and spied Kellerman lying on the bed later that week.

"Nothing."

"Get any good news today, there?"

"No, I didn't. Could you get off my back about it?"

"I ain't on nobody's back. But a'ight," he conceded, sensing the frustration. Flopping onto the bed next to the blonde man, he kicked off his shoes and leaned back. "Got some good news, though."

"What?"

"Got a line on a nice place to rent. Close too. Right below the park, really cheap. We can move in next week if we want. Wanna go look at it later?"

"What? Below the park? That's that freaky Haight area Meldrick. I don't wanna live there."

"Well, but it's cheap. Can't stay here forever, startin to cost too much man."

"Whatever."

"What's that mean?"

Bolting upright, Mike walked over to the window to look out at the bay. Fixing his eyes on the rocky island, he refused to elaborate.

"Look, Mikey, I know it's hard. But you find somethin, seriously, man, just give it some time."

"That's not it, Meldrick," he quietly replied.

"Then what? You hate the Haight that much? Hate the Haight, huh," he chuckled, trying to lighten the mood.

"That's not it either."

"Then what? What? What's goin on, huh?"

"I don't, I don't know if I can do this, Meldrick."

"Do what, exactly," he countered, getting defensive now.

"This, you and me."

Nodding, Lewis steeled himself. He should have known. Should have seen it coming. "You want me to go? That it? Cause I will, if that's what you want. But if you just low down an feelin sorry for yourself, that's another matter."

"I don't know. I don't know anymore."

"Don't know what, Mikey. Talk to me man."

"Huh. Isn't this a switch. For years I tried to talk to you, and you never wanted to. Now you want me to talk."

Lewis just looked down at the floor, unable to reply. "I don't know who I am anymore, Meldrick," Mike confided. "I don't know, what I am. I was murder police. Now I can't get a job because I have to check a box that says I'm a criminal. A job is just a job, right?" He shrugged, turning and staring at Meldrick.

"That's fine. I can deal with that. And I'll get hired sooner or later. But is that who I am now, a criminal?"

"You ain't a criminal Mikey, you..."

"I'm what. I'm your, what, boyfriend? Lover? Is that who I am? Is that who I am now? Huh?"

"No. I mean, yeah, you are that, but you still more than that."

"What? What am I? I'm nothing. That's the only thing I am right now. And I don't know if I'm ready for that. I mean, living in the Haight, living with a man." Folding his arms across his chest, his voice began to rise. "That's not who I was. All of a sudden, I'm supposed to live around a bunch of potheads in a crack neighborhood. Move in with my boyfriend, get shag carpeting and track lighting? We can become a fuckin cliche then. People will smile knowingly about us and think we're so cute. You'll start using your hands more as you speak. And girls will whisper about me and say, the best ones are always gay. And face it, neither one of us has impeccable taste. We can't pull off the typical gay couple routine. I can't be that!"

Meldrick understood. He understood everything though. He knew Mike was serious, and he knew he was scared. But he didn't know what he could do about it. And what he was suggesting was so real, and yet so absurd, he reacted the only way he could. He got angry and defensive. Standing and pointing at the smaller man, his voice rose against him for the first time in ages. "First off," he began, startling Mike with the harshness of his tone. "You an me, ain't nothin typical 'bout us. Second, no, you ain't gonna be murder police no more. You made that decision though. If you don't want to be with me, that's fine. I'll get over it, Mikey. But I don't wanna hear no shit that you wanna be with me, it's just not who you want to be. Cause 'ats bullshit! And you ain't a nothin or a nobody!" He bellowed.

Stepping back for a second, he looked at the floor again, then back to his partner. His voice calmer, but still strong and loud, he continued. "We gotta go somewhere, if you don't like that area, you try findin somethin we can afford. And I don't even know what the fuck track lighting is, so if you don't want it, don't get it!" he yelled again.

At that, Mike couldn't help but smirk a bit. Noting the change in attitude, Meldrick had to take one last shot. "And chicks'll be lookin at ME and saying how the best ones are always gay. Not you, brother. And my tastes is fine."

"Fine," Mike countered pushing the sly smile back and pasting a look of mixed taunting and interest on his face. "Your tastes are fine. So that Pendergrass painting, that's your idea of high art, that's fine to you?"

"Don't talk 'bout Teddy. And at least I know the difference between patchouli and pot."

And then it got kicked up a notch. That's where he sits now. After a week of facelessly depositing applications with a box checked "yes," he finally walked in a place that was doing things differently. They're taking applications, but they're live. So Kellerman sucked in his breath, and walked to the back with a slightly balding middle aged man. Now he sits across a desk from him, and the other man is reading questions, scribbling down notes or answers, whatever. But he's judging him. He's looking at him, and he's eyeing him up and down, and he's determining his worth. Just like back in high school, at the academy, during the trial, and in McManus' office.

Mike can tell he likes him. But he's got one of those forms in front of him. And he's going to ask that question. Kellerman won't simply be checking a box then. He's going to have to sit here and answer it face to face. With a man across the desk staring at him, peering into him, accusing, questioning, and judging him. It's never going to end, Mike thinks. His heart palpitates as his mind leaps ahead to that moment. His mouth gets dry, and he swallows hard. His hands grip the arms of the chair, knuckles whitening from the pressure. Clearing his throat as he absentmindedly speaks of his days running his own charter, he shifts in his chair slightly.

And then the man asks the question.

Exhaling deeply, Mike blinks slowly, then meets the man eye to eye.

And then Mike answers.