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The deep crimson snout that poked itself through the open front door of the less-than-modest house sniffed both purposefully and whimsically, detecting scents of Saturday on the crisp morning air and, satisfied that the morning was the correct one and that any new curiosities on the breeze were interesting enough to be pursued according to the usual methods assigned to the day, retreated indoors to be present for the remaining ablutions and dressing required before venturing forth into what would have to be a day filled with spectacular events, if last night's news were any indication.

The snout, and all of the various accoutrements and accessories properly attached to it, moved back into the master bedroom and knelt carefully on the bed. "Are you awake, dear boy?" he whispered.

Dark, deep eyes opened slowly, and a smile spread across the Saluki's elongated muzzle. "That depends," murmured the voice, husky with sleep and memories of the previous night's endeavors. "Does wakefulness include benefits not found in sleep?"

"Pros and cons, no doubt." The crimson muzzle grinned, the rich golden eyes twinkling in their sockets. "On the plus side, I've got some of your favorite tea keeping warm in a thermos, along with a freshly-toasted bagel, adorned with a sliver of lox and the perfect schmear of cream cheese, wrapped in wax paper for you. On the minus side, I've prepared this little repast in a 'to go' fashion because I recall that you need to attend a meeting with your advisor and your design team. You've got forty minutes to shower, primp, and sashay your beautiful tail to the Sir David Anderson Building to spend at least part of this glorious day in the service of your chosen academic pursuit."

The groan that emerged from deep under the blankets would have done justice to members of the operatic society, proving yet again that books judged by covers are never what they seem. "Formal protest," the pup grumbled.

"Denied." A supple and carefully tended claw flexed in the air above the young engineer. "Full-bore tickling will begin in five, four, three..."

Tumbling from the bed, the pup righted himself onto his hindpaws with a grace made only more beautiful by his white-gold fur and his svelte build. He shook out his long-haired tail, set his forepaws on his narrow hips, and gave his lover a look which, to a mere mortal, would have been withering. "Benedict, I thought we'd discussed my aversion to tickling."

"We have, my slender young boy, and that's why it's such an effective tool to get you to bend to my will."

"Not that I have much problem with bending, or being bent." A slow smile warmed the Saluki's muzzle, made warmer by the beautifully unkempt nature of his morning "bed-fur" and the slight protrusion of dark red at his mildly matted sheath. "I do hope I've made that abundantly clear."

"Abundantly and repeatedly." Benedict stepped into the proffered hug and kiss with appropriate (if gently restrained) enthusiasm. The mix of his scents and the Saluki's forged an attack upon his nostrils (and libido) which ordinarily would have caused both parties to set about many variations of acts that would generate yet more such pleasing scent. In this instance, however, younger and elder realized that various commitments of the morning needed to be addressed. "Ah, dear, sweet Eoin," Benedict mumbled, his crimson-scaled neck bent down to place his muzzle near the pup's ear. "It's a good job one of us has some restraint."

"Really? Which one?"

Benedict licked a golden-furred ear gently. "Wouldn't go there on a bet."

Chuckling, Eoin kissed his lover's muzzle, rubbed his forepaws gently on the silver scutes of his lover's chest. "Had I known that dragons were so thoroughly entertaining, I'd have set my sights for one much sooner."

"And had I known that you aren't the stereotypical twink of the canine world, I'd not have resisted your interest for so very long."

"Oh dear... it must have been, what, a whole week?"

"An eternity for those of us with such a powerful, persistent, Promethean sex drive."

"Not to mention an alliterative one."

"Point taken. Shall we sup tonight, pretty fur?"

"I've no other plans, and certainly no better." The pup grinned. "I'm picking up your speech mannerisms. I may have to hang about the sports bar for a while and lower my standards."

"I shouldn't, if I were you." Benedict's demeanor became solemn. "Not today."

Eoin nodded, his eyes showing that he remembered last night's broadcasts well enough. After a moment, he tilted his head to one side. "Benedict, do you have some connection with that?"

"I think that I'm about to. For many reasons, I think that sticking to my accustomed Saturday morning visit to Extra Credit for some of Royal's best roast is a very good idea."

"Not that I'm objecting, mind you," the Saluki placed a final chaste kiss to the dragon's crimson cheek, "but why is it a good thing for you to be so predictable?"

"Because it makes me findable."

* * * * *

It would be difficult to lose so tall, so proud, so eminently there a drake as Dr. Benedict Spenser. As much a fixture of the university as any statue, mural, or other artistic construction - and no less splendid in demeanor and appointment - the great crimson and silver dragon was instantly recognizable from any distance by size, shape, coloration, and air of rightly-earned aristocratic bearing that smacked gently of Oscar Wilde, P. G. Wodehouse, and Lord Peter Wimsey. His trek through his neighborhood and across the campus was acknowledged by many with a nod or a wave, most of the people known to him, some unknown but polite toward what might as well been a living legend due to both his longevity and his reputation. It might be difficult to determine if the drake were famous or notorious. Someone once said that fame is to live in poverty and end up a statue. Unquestionably, Benedict preferred to be notorious.

As he entered Extra Credit ("Everyone Relies On Us Eventually!"), the professor quickly caught the attention of the owner, a dark brown-furred skunk who smiled a silent question, to which Benedict merely nodded happily. Despite the crowd and the line at the counter, he moved toward the back of the establishment, happily noting the fireplace, bookshelves, mismatched furniture and scattered bric-a-brac that made up one of the most eclectic coffee pubs in the known world. Royal Hornsby had scoured as much of the civilized world as he could afford, collecting the characteristics of as many such establishments as he could. From Spillin' the Beans in Troy NY to the Daily Grind in Pullman WA, from Demolition Coffee in Petersburg VA to the Black Hole Coffee House in Houston TX, Royal took the best from each and bound them together in an atmosphere that combined open spaces with intimate nooks, long tables and chair-side occasionals, kitchen stools and comfy armchairs, creating equal space for those who wanted company and those who did not. His best hints came from a certain cheetah in the small, rainy British town of Deresby, and in gratitude for the introduction to Joseph at his café, Benedict had acquired more than the usual deferential treatment as a regular of Royal's establishment. The drake was, in many ways, more than a little responsible for Extra Credit's existence.

Benedict seated himself at what he considered his "usual table," although he never insisted upon anyone vacating it should they have found themselves there before him. The surface of the medium-sized round table had been adorned with 45rpm records from a near-forgotten age, and then covered in no less than fifty layers of acrylic, each perfectly polished before the next was added, leaving the impression of those old platters floating in a sea of crystal-clear memory. Each title evoked curiosity in the younger customers and memories in the gray muzzles. For Benedict, the songs might have been in a jukebox just yesterday. All romantics have long memories, draconic romantics even more so.

Assessing the room, the dragon sensed the overall mood of the place. Last night's news had taken its toll, although the assembled population demonstrated a reasonably normal curve of campus curiosity: Perhaps 10% seriously disturbed by the news, another 10% clueless that anything at all had happened, and the remainder scattered across the range of somewhat aware but generally ready to have their attention distracted by something more present or more entertaining. To be fair, he thought, it's not as if any of them had much power to do anything about it beyond being semi-innocent bystanders. Someday, in a more civilized society, perhaps they'll overcome these foolish restrictions.

"The usual, your magnificence." The skunk grinned as he set down the steaming mug, the brew within as black as its name: Pitch Blend. "First cup unstinted, undiluted, and unadorned, the full effect for which the roasted bean is best known. Please make sure it's to your standards...?"

With appropriate ceremony, Benedict raised the mug, pinky claw extended in fully-conscious affect, and sipped at the liquid still much too hot for the average therian to find pleasant. He sighed happily. "Exquisite. My blood-overloaded caffeine system shall have its balance restored forthwith. By the by, I expect that I may have some company soon, and the situation may benefit from being sweetened a bit. Might you have scones this morning?"

Royal made an exaggerated grimace. "My apologies, but no; may I suggest some iced shortbread instead? Made fresh this morning, Joseph's own recipe."

"No doubt followed to the scintilla." The dragon smiled. "A small selection for two. And I think he'll want tea - the rooibos, blueberry, and black currants blend, with a bit of honey, steeped longer for the richer taste."

"Dean Williamson?" The skunk raised his eyebrows, drew them together again. "I know better than to ask or make assumptions."

"I'll tell you whatever I can, after it's done. I think you've already guessed."

Royal nodded, his long thick tail twitching once in something that the dragon recognized from his long acquaintance as concern. "I'll get that order ready. Let me know how I can help."

"Always, dear. Thank you."

Benedict didn't have long to wait. Within minutes, a well-dressed, full-bodied, chestnut brown-furred wolverine entered the café and made for the dragon's table without the slightest hesitation. The mustelid's attire was tailored to fit his solid, stocky frame in such a way as to remind all of his service on the school's gridiron not so many years ago. Even in current Faculty/Student football games, where ripping off flags replaced actual tackles, few students were eager to try to take him down. His physical presence was such that most legislative, academic, or other transgressors who were forcibly referred to the office of the Dean of Students were reduced to barely-sentient blobs of flesh. It made the subsequent conversation - rarely made in anything but the calmest and most soothing tones of voice - all the more memorable. Repeat visits were uncommon.

The Dean put up a forestalling paw as Benedict began to rise to meet him. "Might I join you, Dr. Spenser?" The velvety voice caused a few heads to turn, of both genders.

"Of course, Dean Williamson, do sit down." The dragon gestured with less affectation than usual, noting the formal greeting and knowing that dozens of eyes were upon them. "I've taken the liberty of ordering... ah, here's Royal now."

The young skunk set down a steaming mug of sweet-scented tea and a plate of beautiful frosted cookies. "Good morning, Dean," he offered.

"It may yet be, yes. Thank you."

After the skunk's departure, drake and wolverine chatted as idly and superficially as possible for a short time. Few of the curious would be fooled, but many would become quickly tired of waiting and let themselves be distracted. Comfortable with each other, the pair sensed the time was right and let their thoughts emerge.

"How much do you know?" the Dean asked, without further preamble.

"Whatever you let the media have. It was a local broadcast, very late; caught it channel surfing after a thrilling evening with my young lover."

Williamson smiled a little in spite of himself. "Still seeing Eoin?"

"That's one of the senses involved, yes."

"He seemed a bit delicate to be your type."

"Lithe yet sturdy," Benedict allowed. "More bendable than most toy action figures of the day, an amazing stamina, and the physical proportions of--"

"Please don't specify the vegetable; I'm easily deflated."

"Not from what I remember about you." The dragon allowed time for the merest touch of red to touch the wolverine's ear linings before returning to the more serious discussion. "How much of the reporting is accurate?"

"Enough to prevent them from bringing a slander suit down upon them, but less than they implied." The Dean leaned back slightly. "I had a quiet word with the local producer."

"He's still living? You surprise me."

"He might still be useful someday. And the most grievous damage would have been the saturation of the Internet. We may still have stanched that wound. Even better for us, the Shepherd will indeed live to play another game or two, although not soon."

"The local station made it sound as if the pup were at Death's door and all but pounding upon it to get in."

"Benedict, you know the rule of television circuses - if it bleeds, it leads."

"Then the attack was less than what was made of it?"

"I'd be lying if I said it was anything less than brutal. Words like 'vicious' or 'cruel' pale. Our young fullback appears to have been only just short of a killing mood. Fortunately, the very same equipment that old-timers call 'overprotective' was precisely what kept the Shep alive."

The drake sipped at his coffee, considering. "The news was full of the phrase 'hate crime,' but they wouldn't pin that tail on a particular donkey - no offense meant to our esteemed Chair of the Criminal Justice Department. The sum of the hints was that the attack was related to someone being accused of being homosexual."

"The most accurate report that I'm able to find," the Dean succumbed to the temptation of the shortbread and paused to take a bite, "is that the Shepherd was something of a latter-day poet, assuming that you allow 'rap' to be considered poetry. He had been taunting Parker with an amazing array of epithets, half-mumbled as if cursing being tackled or blocked. Like any good advanced neurotic, he took note of the effects and eventually zeroed in on exactly the right combination to let slip this particular dog of war."

"And the final trigger?"

"Our slotback almost choked himself with embarrassment for repeating it."

"Nelson, you're even more a tease now than you used to be."

"Just preparing you." A wisp of smile formed on the wolverine's muzzle, as he softly yet clearly reproduced the phrase. "Parker was called a pussy-scared cock-sucking ass-licker."

"Eloquent indeed. And if true, quite the recommendation, in my book."

The Dean cocked an eyebrow at the drake, which Benedict took to mean that he should return to treating the matter with a bit more seriousness.

"I apologize, Nelson. It would seem that I correctly intuited that you would want some help in the matter. What do you want me to do?"

"The pup hasn't said a word since he was taken into custody. Since the injuries were less severe than first thought, and because we have at least some pretext to claim provocation, there won't be any formal charges brought." In a move nearly worthy of Benedict's own fastidiousness, Williamson brushed a few cookie crumbs from his eggplant-colored shirt. "Suspension from the team for the rest of the season is a minor punishment for such an attack; there's question of whether or not he should remain in school at all. Before we can go so far, however, we need to reach him. He's in hospital now, his minor wounds seen to, his blood chemistry clean, and his room locked down by minimal security. He's made no move to escape, nor to speak, since he was ensconced there some ten hours ago."

"He needs a physician."

"He needs a miracle worker." The Dean looked the professor in the eyes. "You have a variety of skills that could be brought to bear."

Smiling in spite of the gravity of the situation, the drake observed, "I take it that you aren't asking me to verify the charges leveled by the Shep?"

"Not directly, anyway. In part, I'm relying upon your reputation to stir him into responding. If what we're dealing with is some psychotic break brought on by acute homophobia, then..."

"I'm a good punching bag."

"You're strong enough to deal with it." The wolverine nodded slowly. "If you can get him to respond to you at all, in any way, you'll have broken through whatever mental barriers he's hiding behind. After that, it comes down to your remarkable abilities as a counselor."

Benedict's expression sobered slightly. He looked down, spotting the title on one of the vinyl disks floating in time: Bad Moon Rising. He considered a cookie, then his mug. He looked up to catch Royal's keen eye and raised his near-empty mug in the universal signal for a refill. He waggled two claws as well, and after Royal nodded his understanding, he returned the mug to the table and his gaze to the Dean. "That was many years ago."

"Your credentials are still in order, should it come to that. You know that the state rarely revokes life-appointed licensure, even for a species as long-lived as dragons. I'm reasonably sure that your annual dues to various affiliations, including those accrediting your skills in talking therapy and hypnotherapy, are up to date. You're too fastidious not to keep them current."

"I think you mean 'too vain.' And shush, Nelson, we both know I'm right, and you needn't practice your highly vaunted tact with me. Besides, habits, in my kind, are deeply ingrained." The drake considered for a moment. "I still don't think that makes me a fit candidate to be the university's social engineer."

"It's been your forte for more years than I can count. I, in fact, was one of your early successes, and there are many who would rally to support that claim. Benedict, you've been at this university for decades, and in that time, you've held any number of positions." Williamson held up a cautionary finger. "Don't even start to go there, you old reprobate; you know exactly what I'm saying. There are only three reasons why you change from one job to another around here - an incoming grant that can bring more money to you and the university; you've gotten bored with your situation, and a change is better all around; or some idiot tries to make a point. The latter has happened exactly once."

"For precisely the reasons why I should not be made counselor to this pup."

"No. The reason you succumbed to the idiot's point was because you decided to avoid Oscar Wilde's mistake and go to court over it. That bastard was never worthy of being your Marquess of Queensbury, but the times were against you, and the ridiculous tide of conservatism - which, praise be to whatever gods may be listening, is finally ebbing into nothingness - was against you as well, and just enough local faculty were in terror of losing their jobs that it would have been foolish to fight it." The wolverine leaned forward, his silken voice becoming even softer. "That kit would have killed himself if not for you."

"He almost did anyway."

"And that was the other reason you didn't fight the demotion. You outlived the old bastard - hell, you'll outlive me as well, I shouldn't wonder - but most important, there's a certain Serval cat named Wendell Jefferson - Doctor Wendell Jefferson, MD, PhD, ACSR - whose research into renal cancer has saved hundreds of lives already, and thousands more to come. Without you, he would have ended his own life rather than find the strength to become himself fully, from brilliant scientist to being the first openly gay winner of Sloan-Kettering's Paul Marks Prize. And from what else I've heard, he's a loving husband and foster father. How many lives might have ended, but for your intervention?"

Benedict felt a tear threaten to form in his eye, and he strictly forbade himself to release it. Thoughts of Wendell were always tender ones. He still heard from the kit - often, if truth be told, and always with warm wishes and updates of a life being lived to the fullest. If further truth be told, the sweet love that the kit returned was as much the reason for the drake's survival of that long discontented winter.

"That," he said softly, "was a mean card to play, Nelson."

"It was to prepare you. This matter is already public, and we can't hide our responses forever." The Dean leaned forward, imploring. "I need you, Benedict, and I don't know how much I can shield you from public view in this regard. Your work, your tenure, you situation here, none of that is in danger. But I know how much it hurt you, and Wendell too, to be under so much public opinion and scrutiny. I can't say how Parker is going to respond either, but I truly feel that it's a question of weathering a storm of publicity in order to save his life."

"And what about my life?" The drake nearly raised his voice. "Do I get no say in this? You seem ready to put me in the public eye, not just here at university, but perhaps across the country. You know what a shit storm this is going to be, and you want me to break out a brolly and dance through it?"

"Benedict... I know perhaps better than anyone else how important you are, in this and all the other situations." He paused, looking down at his paws for a moment before continuing. "I've never forgotten what you did for me. How you helped me. I would still call you senpai, if you would allow it. And there have been many nights in these past twenty years when I've found myself craving the touch of your lips again. I've no regrets, Benedict; I have a good life, because of what you taught me. I do miss you, in some of the deep hours, but I've never once been hurt by you. You repaired me. And I'm asking you to do the same for Parker."

"Making it personal, Nelson?" The drake was almost unaware of the tiny plume of smoke from his nostrils. "I expected better of you than emotional blackmail."

"If you really think that's what this is, then punch me here and now, and walk away from this."

Royal hesitated before setting down a new mug for Benedict. The skunk's hearing was acute, though he did his best to appear not to have heard. The brew in the drake's new mug was the same Pitch Black, this time mellowed by two dollops of house-made Cornish cream. Raising the mug to his muzzle, he sniffed appreciatively and sipped as a connoisseur would a fine wine. "The first, for taste..." came the phrase familiar to the proprietor's ears, "the second, for satisfaction." The professor smiled warmly, if distractedly. "Perfect, Royal. Thank you."

The skunk glanced cautiously between the two academics. "Another, Dean Williamson?"

"Thank you, no, Royal. I suspect I'd best be going." The wolverine rose from his chair with a muscular fluidity that could not help but cause a few heads to turn in appreciation. His tail flicked with a self-satisfied twitch that both acknowledged and ignored the response. "Will you call me, Benedict?"

The pause was brief, the air charged. The words were made in quiet, polite tones. "Yes... yes, Nelson. I shall. Please give my best to your family."

From the Dean's manner, it was clear that he had noted the pointed absence of Benedict's usual effete manner. The courtesy came almost as an afterthought. Suppressing a sigh, Williamson replied, "I'll ask Emily to arrange to have you over for dinner. It's been too long, and I know the boys would like to see you too." Turning to the young skunk, he asked, "May I settle with you, Royal?"

"My treat today, Dean Williamson. May it be a light to you in dark places, when all other lights go out."

The wolverine smiled. "Tolkien."

Royal sketched a bow, his tail moving softly behind him.

"Your light is most appreciated." Patting the skunk on the shoulder, the Dean moved through the coffee bar and out into the remains of the morning.

Turning back, the proprietor waited a moment to see if the dragon wanted anything further. When nothing was said for half a minute, he asked, "May I offer you something more, Benedict?"

A brief laugh escaped the drake's muzzle, his eyes containing, for a brief moment, a twinkle. "Oh Royal, dear lad, you should know better than to ask me so leading a question!"

"It did get a chuckle from you, though. Thought you needed one."

"I'll need more than that, I daresay." Looking fondly at the skunk, he said, "I may well need your support, sweet mustelid. I seem to have been designated as knight errant in a life-saving quest. That will most likely take more than one pot of coffee to accomplish."

"I'm certain that you can do it. I'll keep the pot ready at all hours." He paused so as to ensure that the words would be taken note of. "All hours."

Benedict nodded once, slowly. "Thank you, lad. Thank you."

Royal padded silently away, and the softly shifting buzz of the coffee bar's clientele wrapped around the drake, a backdrop of random sound against which he remembered the intimate touch of small, soft Serval paws, the sound of deep sighing sloughing off the pain of a world too cruel to deserve saving, the damp tenderness of tears begging for the conflict to be resolved. Perhaps Wendell wasn't the only one, merely the most dramatic one, the most public one, in a long train of lovers, protégés, _kohais._Life-saving, in various ways, had been an integral part of the dragon's life as well. And now once more, although he was being asked formally this time rather than finding the next needful fur himself. Perhaps he could help this pup, Parker, find himself before he destroyed himself in the attempt.

"Once more unto the breech, dear friends, once more..." he murmured to himself. For good or ill, Prince Hal rallied the necessary resolve. In peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility; but when the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the tiger. Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood... the game's afoot!

Acknowledging the quaint irony of synchronicity, the drake polished off the last cookie - striped in the school's colors of orange and black - and smiled at the vinyl disk bearing the title of a popular anthem that many knew but could not name: For What It's Worth.

Everybody look what's goin' down...