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CHAPTER 1: Chapter One

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First, a word of thanks to Patrick, Simon and Ben for their kindness and generosity in allowing us to indulge in flights of fancy using their beloved characters, and to Pete for so generously giving us such a wonderful place in which to do it.

And a brief disclaimer: I'm a yank, so please forgive any errors in slang or custom. Enjoy!
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SO BEAUTIFUL



--CHAPTER ONE--


JOHN DIXON sat uneasily in the plush burgundy leather chair of his law office in a posh high-rise office building in London. He was nervous, which was a feeling he rarely experienced. It was a time of transition-- his final week at the firm. He looked around the expensively appointed room, past the shiny mahogany furnishings, past the art deco sconces that gave a deeply indirect lighting to the fabric covered walls. He looked past the large windows with their costly curtains and cornices. It was already dark outside. He looked at the five-foot fish tank at the opposite end of the large room. He had it installed because he felt it would make the conference area more peaceful. Beautiful, exotic fish swimming peacefully and gracefully in their own little world, oblivious to the problems of real life.

As he sighed deeply, his mind trying to sort out a tangle of emotions, his eyes fell upon the framed photographs sitting on his desk, yet to be packed away. The recent photograph of his daughter Susan captured perfectly the vibrant personality and endearing quirkiness of the perky nineteen year old. It was hard for John to believe that she was now "on her own" here in London, and his daily duties as a father were over. It seemed too sudden. Another phase of life had passed.

On the other side of the desk was a photograph of his late wife Barbara, lost to him four years ago in an automobile accident. John had genuinely loved Barbara. She was a good woman, a thoughtful companion, and had done her best to make him happy during the course of their sixteen-year marriage. She had coped with his moods, up and down, and in general put his best interests above her own. With her went another major phase of his life.

He sighed. These unusually reflective thoughts led him to remember another photograph. One he hadn't looked at in a long time. One he carried in the backmost compartment of his wallet. He carried it there not out of shame, or to hide it, but in order to protect it. In order that nothing might hurt it, and that it might never be lost. He carried it there for reasons John himself couldn't fully articulate. He carried it there so that no matter what, it would always be with him.

The photo was old and small, and it was tattered and frayed around the edges. He didn't look at it often, for it always brought such a rush of --regret? No, not regret exactly, for John couldn't honestly regret Barbara and Susan. But it did bring the wistful bittersweet memory of what once was - and the bittersweet thought of what might have been.

John was suddenly startled out of this unusual reverie by a swift three knocks at his office door, followed by a blonde head poking round the door.

"Mr. Dixon, Larry Adams dropped by the report you asked for. Do you want it now?"

"Yes, Ann. Thank you."

The pretty secretary walked in and handed a plain manila envelope to John. He laid it in the center of his desk.

"We're going to really miss you around here, you know," Ann said.

"Thanks. I'll miss all of you, too, I'm sure," replied John.

Ann looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, "Basingstoke is not that far away, so we'll expect you to pop in for some regular visits."

"Oh, I'll have to stop in now and then to make sure you girls aren't spiking Mr. McCann's coffee again," John said with a grin as he stacked up some loose papers on the edge of his desk.

"Well, you know," said Ann teasingly, "when the cat's away..."

They laughed.

"Seriously," Ann said, changing her tone. "We really will miss you. I don't suppose we could persuade you to stay?"

"Oh, I don't know. I might be tempted. I don't know that I'm doing the right thing by leaving, but I just feel that it's time for a change." He paused. "Probably a mid-life crisis," he said good-naturedly.

"Well, just don't start buying sports cars and chasing mini-skirted women!" Ann said, rolling her eyes.

"In Basingstoke?" John chuckled at the thought.

They laughed together again.

"See you tomorrow," Ann said, moving toward the door.

"Okay," John replied. "Good night."

John heard the turning of the lock in the door of the outer office. Ann always locked the suite door when he worked late, as if she thought some late-working coworker might sneak in and kidnap him. He would miss Ann, too.

Suddenly, for a brief moment, it seemed to John as if life were the sum total of people missed, of companionship gone from his life. First, of course, Barbara. And now he would be moving further away from Susan and wouldn't see her nearly as much. He would miss their twice-a-week downtown lunches. And now, he realized that he would even miss Ann and the office staff. He might even miss old man McCann, he thought-- but, thinking again, that might be going a bit too far. John chuckled to himself at this thought.

Then, thinking of the photo in his wallet, he realized that there was someone else he missed. Someone else whose absence added to the burden he felt. There had been an emotional hole in his heart all along, all these years, even though he had learned to live with it, muffle it, even ignore it, most of the time. But it was there, nonetheless. He could never honestly deny it to himself, nor did he really try. It surfaced as a nagging ache, as a sense of being somehow incomplete, in spite of the fact that he was usually considered a man who "had it all".

He couldn't quite believe that he was indulging his melancholy this way but, almost in spite of himself, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out the wallet.

Slowly, almost reverently, he dipped one finger into a small, almost hidden back pocket behind his seldom used library card. Was it still there? "I don't feel it! WHAT'S HAPPENED TO IT?!!" he thought in a fiery flash of momentary panic. Then, finally, his finger felt the soft edge of worn paper. He heaved an audible sigh of relief, and tugged gently on the photograph.

The sweet ache of youth returned with the wave of emotion he felt in the pit of his stomach as he looked upon the wispy dark brown hair and large longing eyes of the young man in the school photo. And that smile. He could never get over that wonderful smile. Steven.

In the dark silence of the empty office John could almost hear the photo begin to speak, "Johnny--," Or hear it ask teasingly, with an upturned eyebrow, "Coffee?"

For some reason that John couldn't fathom, Steven had returned to his thoughts over and over with increasing frequency during the last few months. It was as if some long silent yet elemental part of John's nature suddenly was given voice, and kept urging, "Steven...Steven."

Waves of memory flooded his mind. Memories of a sunny park bench and a secret shared. Memories of a school ball. Memories of a night in the woods and a night in the rain. And, finally, the dark painful memory of another bench, on a cloudy day, when everything fell apart.

He stared at the photo for a few more moments, wishing fervently that he could cast himself back in time, longing desperately to hurl himself headlong into the photograph and somehow become a part of it.

Then his inner voice of self-condemnation rose. John thought that Steven probably hated him, and that this hate had probably festered and grown over the last twenty-two years. What right could John have to expect even Steven's friendship, much less anything more? No right at all, John admitted to himself. But whatever hatred Steven might have was nothing compared to John's own guilt and self-hatred. "Perhaps that's why I can't get Steven out of my head," John thought. "I need to somehow make it all right or, failing that, at least to know I've tried."

Deep in the back of his mind John hoped for more than friendship, but he wouldn't allow his mind to dwell on those thoughts. Steven might be in a relationship already, and even if he weren't he probably hated John anyway. "I've got to be prepared for the worst," John told himself,

With a heavy sigh, fingering the photograph gently, he put it back in it's place inside the wallet, taking care not to mar it's finish or further crumple it's edges. He handled it so very gently, as if he were caressing a person; he handled it lovingly, as if by his touching the photo some gift of gentle caress could be imparted to it's subject.

Then, startled by the distant sound of a phone ringing in another office and glancing down at the envelope on his desk, he quickly put the wallet back in his pocket and determined to get down to the task at hand.

He reached quickly for the envelope then suddenly stopped with it in mid air. He set it back down on the desk, flap up. He even fingered the clasp. But somehow he couldn't. He just couldn't. Not tonight.

So he placed the envelope in his empty lower desk drawer, locked the drawer, and determined to go out and get a good stiff drink. It seemed too late, already.