Connected (Bureau #12)

Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

A lthough Keaton woke up earlier than usual, when he glanced out the window, Owen’s car was already gone. He was probably in a hurry to finish his assignment and get the hell out of Copper Springs. Under the circumstances, Keaton couldn’t blame him.

The storm hadn’t done any damage to the house, which was lucky. A few years earlier, hail had taken out part of the roof. Today there were some fallen branches and leaves in the backyard, together with an assortment of small debris that had collected in the narrow area between the rental unit and a stone wall that ran along the back of the property. Keaton spent a couple of hours cleaning everything up, then took a long shower.

He tried not to think too much about his guest, but he couldn’t help it. Owen was interesting, and not just because Keaton was lonely. When Owen had first appeared, his whirling storm of negative emotions had hit Keaton like a tornado. Once they’d spent some time together, however, and Owen had relaxed a bit, Keaton had realized that the tornado was only on the surface. At Owen’s core were the same feelings that Keaton had sensed in him over twenty years earlier. Sorrow and loneliness, but also fierce determination, loyalty, and a rich sense of wonder. Time and circumstances had built a hard shell but hadn’t destroyed the essence of a good, if vulnerable, man.

And Owen was attracted to him. Which hadn’t been a surprise when Keaton was in his twenties—hell, he’d pretty much taken it for granted back then—but nowadays it was intriguing and pretty damn gratifying.

But none of that mattered, because Owen was here on a mission and tomorrow he’d be gone.

Keaton’s original plan for the day had been to continue stripping the old wallpaper in the larger parlor, a task that was partly finished. His long-term goal was to upgrade the wiring, repair the lath and plaster as well as the wood trim and floor, and install a nice tile surround for the fireplace. With the room’s high ceilings and front bay window, it would be a really nice space. Someday.

He found that he wasn’t in the mood to get dusty again, so instead he made some almond peach muffins. Like much of the rest of the world, he’d picked up some baking skills during the pandemic, although it rarely seemed worth the effort to bake just for himself. He could freeze some, he figured, and give Owen a couple for tomorrow’s breakfast.

He’d just taken them out of the oven when he heard a car pull up in front. He felt Owen right away: exhaustion, annoyance, and disappointment. A few moments later, the sensation dimmed when Owen entered the guest house.

Then… Keaton dithered. He knew he should leave Owen alone. The guy had signed up for a place to sleep for a few nights, not a pushy host. On the other hand, he hadn’t seemed to mind Keaton’s company yesterday. Even after they’d emerged from the basement, he’d spent another hour with Keaton in the kitchen, eating ice cream and then popcorn as they chatted. Owen had told a few stories from the Bureau—amusing ones, not gory or tragic—and Keaton had filled him in on some of the things that had happened in Copper Springs over the past number of years.

After fifteen minutes of pacing and calling himself an idiot, Keaton marched next door and knocked.

Owen wore dress slacks and a white button-up shirt, both of which looked considerably worse for wear. He huffed a laugh when Keaton’s eyebrows rose. “Not the wisest outfit for tromping around a coal tipple,” Owen said.

“You can use my washer if you want, but you’re going to need a dry cleaner for those pants.”

“Fuck it.” Owen waved a hand. “I’ll deal with it in LA.”

Keaton nodded and cautiously opened himself a little more to Owen’s emotions. Ah. The guy was hungry. “Did you have lunch? There are a couple decent places in town.”

“I was— Shit. I was worried I’d run into someone who knows me.” Owen wouldn’t meet his gaze.

Instead of asking why this would be a problem, Keaton said, “I can make sandwiches. I haven’t eaten yet either.”

“Do you dote this much on all your guests?”

“Only the ones I’ve overcharged.”

After a short discussion, it was decided that Owen would clean up and meet Keaton in the big house. Keaton managed to hide his delight, although he felt guilty that he could mask his feelings while Owen’s were easy for Keaton to sense. But since it wasn’t intentional, it wasn’t Keaton’s fault and there was nothing he could do about it.

Owen came into the kitchen twenty minutes later, smelling of soap and shampoo, his hair still damp, and wearing jeans and a navy T-shirt. He took a seat at the table in the breakfast nook. “Smells great in here.”

“Muffins.” Keaton set down a couple of plates full of food—turkey sandwiches, potato chips, apples—and then poured glasses of iced tea before joining him.

“I really appreciate you feeding me so well.”

“It’s nice to have company for a meal.”

Owen squinted at him. “You haven’t found people to hang out with here?”

“Haven’t really tried. I’m, um, kind of a loner.” By necessity rather than choice, but Owen didn’t need to know that.

“Innkeeper is kind of a weird profession for a loner.”

Keaton ate a few bites of sandwich before answering. “Like I told you, I don’t actually have guests that often. I get residuals, you know. Not a lot, because mother dear wasn’t the great negotiator she thought she was, but almost enough to live on. Guests just fill in a few gaps. And with the separate guest house, well, most of them pretty much do their own thing.”

The response was a grunt that could have meant anything. Owen seemed to be enjoying the food, though. Keaton wondered how often people cooked for him, and how often he ate alone.

“Do you have a husband?” Keaton asked. “A boyfriend?”

That earned him a long, considering look—which he didn’t shy away from—followed by a shake of the head.

“Is it a problem being a gay Bureau agent?”

“The being gay part isn’t a problem. We have agents all over the gender and sexuality spectrums. Hell, my boss is queer and his partner is, um, unconventional. Being an agent is the problem. Life with the Bureau is… weird. Hard. Some of the agents have spouses, but almost always they’re married to someone else in the Bureau. Or to someone who’s out of the norm.”

Interesting phrasing. “What does that mean?”

“Well, one agent has a partner who’s some kind of house spirit. Not a ghost—something different. The spirit’s a nice guy. Agent Alvarez married a vampire a couple of years ago. When I was first hired, the man who ran our lab up north was shacked up with a Sasquatch. They’re retired now. Then there was a dog-shifter who— Well, you get my drift.”

Keaton digested this information while chewing his sandwich. He would have assumed that Bureau agents would be hostile toward NHSs, but apparently not always. Owen certainly seemed nonchalant about it. Keaton wondered if he was equally accepting of humans who were freaks of nature. Such as, for instance, people who could read others’ emotions.

He decided to change the subject. “Did you find anything at the tipple?”

“Just a lot of coal waste and rotting machinery. I’m going back when we’re done here, but I doubt anything will turn up.”

“What kind of reports did the Bureau get, anyway?”

Owen shrugged. “Vague shit. Weird sounds, lights moving around at night, faint screams. A couple of the people who live closest have claimed that sometimes they feel the ground shake. Sounds and lights and screaming could be kids messing around. Animals too—coyotes, raptors…. And the shaking, well, fracking and oil production can produce quakes, and both of those things have happened around here. And the whole hill’s probably swiss-cheesed from mining.”

That made sense. Keaton wondered how often agents got sent on wild ghost chases.

“How about you?” Owen asked. “Have you ever experienced something unusual at the tipple?”

“I’ve only been there once, back when I first moved here.”

Owen’s mouth tightened slightly and something like suspicion emanated from him. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Right. The guy did have decades of experience in law enforcement—or something like that. “I didn’t see or hear anything weird,” Keaton said. “I went out there just because I’d heard about it and I was curious. I’d never seen a coal tipple.”

“And you never returned?”

Keaton’s instinct was to say that he had no reason to go back, which wasn’t a lie. But it also wasn’t the whole truth, and he was so damned tired of hiding. Over forty years now, and he’d never told anyone what he was. Not his parents. Not his shrinks. Not any of the men who’d briefly shared his bed.

Fuck it.

“When I was there, I… sensed something.”

“What do you mean?” Owen seemed intrigued by the admission, not angry.

“I can….” This was hard. Keaton tried to find the right words. “I felt fear. Pain. Despair.” He hadn’t been able to pinpoint the source—nobody lived close by since the surrounding land was still owned by mining companies—but the sensations had been so awful that he’d vomited into the scrubby grass. Then, still sick, he’d looked around for someone who was hurt or lost but hadn’t found anyone. Back home, he’d scoured the internet, trying to discover if anyone had gone missing, but again, he didn’t come up with anything.

“Tell me what you mean by felt .”

“I can’t…. I don’t think there are any terms for this, in English at least. You know how most people have seven senses? Vision, smell, vestibular, and so on? I’ve got eight. I can read other people’s emotions.”

Owen stared at him for a moment and then, to Keaton’s considerable surprise, simply nodded. “So that’s why Townsend tried to recruit you.”

“Huh?”

“An empath could make a useful agent.”

And just like that, Keaton had to blink back tears. Because not only had he just bared his soul, but Owen had reacted as if it was no big deal. He hadn’t been repulsed or horrified. In fact, he’d pointed out a potential positive aspect of Keaton’s talent. God, to be accepted so easily! Keaton had never expected that.

“How strong are your abilities?”

“Uh… strong?”

“And that’s why you moved out to the sticks. Being around others is rough for empaths.”

“Yes,” Keaton whispered.

“Also explains the substance abuse. It’s easier to block other people when you’re high, right?”

Keaton put a hand to his mouth until he was certain a sob wouldn’t escape. “How do you know all of this? Can you— Are you an empath?” The word felt strange on his tongue.

Owen made a face and shook his head. “I’m an okay agent, but that’s because I work hard at it and don’t do much else. I have no special talents.”

So Keaton’s ability, which he’d always considered a curse, could actually be viewed as a benefit, a gift. “How do you know about… people like me?” Keaton asked.

“Bureau, remember? I’ve had training. I’ve met a few empaths over the years too, although there aren’t many with skills strong enough for anyone else to notice. It might be genetic. You mentioned that your parents both drink—do you think they’re empaths too?”

Keaton considered this. His mother never seemed to give a shit about anyone except herself, but she was skilled in manipulating others. She knew exactly how to play people to get what she wanted. Maybe that was because she was good at reading emotions. And as for Dad, he mostly liked to party. He was happiest when surrounded by a crowd, preferably an adoring crowd. It could be that he fed off their admiration, sort of like an emotional vampire.

“Maybe,” said Keaton in response.

“If so, they’re probably not as good at it as you are.”

This was a lot to take in, and Keaton’s own emotions—which he tended to neglect—were all over the place. He took a big gulp of iced tea and looked Owen in the eyes. “What will you do with me now that you know my secret?”

Owen blinked. “Do?”

“Is there a secret lab? An Arkham Asylum or dungeon? Or will you just….” He made a cutting motion across his own throat.

“None of those.” Owen was somewhat bewildered. “Dude, the Bureau knew you were an empath twenty years ago. Or Townsend did, at least. And when you turned down his offer, he simply let you go. He told me he was disappointed, but he didn’t round you up or anything.”

That was an excellent point. But it still didn’t make sense. “I thought your mission was to eliminate, um, supernatural creatures.”

Owen snorted and leaned back in his chair. “Okay. First off, we don’t use the term supernatural. Because talents like empathic ability, precognition, seeing dead people, they’re perfectly natural. We just haven’t studied them enough to understand them yet. And using that term also leads to attitudes of othering instead of acceptance. We don’t condone exclusionary language.”

“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— all humans—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 a demon . Horns and all. 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 a good thing, 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 someone does , 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 that he’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 of Tiger Beat from 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 normal teenager. 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.

It was a polite kiss, undemanding and not at all pushy. A gentleman-on-a-first-date kiss that tasted of sugared peaches. But behind all of the sweetness and courtesy burned passion hot enough to scorch. And damned if that didn’t set Keaton on fire too.

Owen was the first to pull away. He looked down solemnly at Keaton. “I wish I knew what you were feeling right now.”

“Then I can just tell you. I’m surprised—in a good way. And I’m incredibly turned on.”

“Yeah?” When Owen smiled like that, he looked almost like a kid.

“You’ve been waiting for two decades to give me that kiss. From my point of view, it was worth the wait. I think I’m a better option than a magazine photo, and nobody’s going to walk in on us.” Keaton stroked Owen’s cheek with his thumb. “You know, the first time I saw you, I thought you were pretty hot. But I was too busy being surly and drunk to do anything about it.”

Owen started to lean down again but stopped. “Shit. I’m supposed to be working.”

“Can it wait?”

“I don’t want to risk stumbling around the tipple in the dark.” He stepped back and out of the embrace, which was a shame. “I’m going to head up there again, just to confirm nothing hinky’s going on. Then I’ll be back. I could… take you out to dinner? I’ll pay—not the Bureau.”

“Are you asking me out on a date, Agent Clark?”

“I guess I am.”

Keaton tugged him down for a quick peck on the cheek. “Good.”

He sent Owen off with another muffin and watched through the small parlor’s window as Owen’s car pulled out of the driveway and rumbled down the street. Then Owen headed for the larger parlor, where the wallpaper awaited him.

It was going to be a long afternoon.