Falls Chance part 15b

There was a kind of energy that radiated
off Dale when he was really stressed, and there was always much more
evidence of it in his body than his face. Even without Paul's eyes
which grabbed Flynn's and said loud and clear this is not good, Flynn
wouldn't have missed the signs. Hands tense, shoulders and neck
tense, a quick smile that bore no relation at all to Dale's real
smile once you'd seen it, and when you watched him, he had several
tricks with his fingers and hands that were subtle but repetitive. He
was drumming a discreet but complex rhythm on the table now where his
fingertips rested, and Flynn had no doubt at all if he got hold of
Dale to check, he would find his heart rate up and his breathing
fractionally shallower. People would have looked at him like this in
the office, day after day, and marvelled at the boundless energy, the
restlessness, the obsessiveness that came as part and parcel of it,
and accepted that this was just who Dale Aden was.



He didn't appear aware of it which was unsurprising – this to him was
a natural state, he'd practiced it for years - and Flynn didn't say
anything to him. Just deliberately and gently wrapped an arm around
him in passing. That was all it took, as he had thought it would. The
body contact, an affectionate touch, slipped under his shields and
grabbed him at far more profound levels than any amount of words
would have. Flynn felt Dale stiffen with shock against him, and then
look sharply down at his own tapping hand as he realised what he was
doing. Flynn tightened his arm around Dale's shoulders and walked,
pushing Dale ahead of him, through the kitchen door and onto the
porch.



He sat down on the swing outside and had to manhandle Dale down
beside him, keeping his voice calm and matter of fact.



"It's all right. Breathe."



The body sensations alone would be distressing as he became aware of
them: Flynn could feel him wrestling with the flood of adrenaline,
the chemical reactions swift and well trained in a body long used to
running high levels of cortisol. Dale had thought of that state as
being normal for so long: to experience it now, fresh, knowing what
more normal body chemistry felt like, must be a shock. He probably
hadn't realised how strong the difference was. Flynn didn't rush him,
rocking the swing slowly with his feet against the boards of the
porch. It was some time before he felt Dale's shoulders lift under
his arm, the first deeper breath drawn in again.



"Ash." Dale said eventually. "I was talking to Ash, and….."



He had no idea how to explain it. Flynn's hand patted where it
rested.



"Don't think, just say it out loud. It doesn't have to make sense."



He'd said that so many times, making it a litany of reassurance.



"I was talking to Ash and he scares the hell out of me anyway," Dale
said thickly. "And I'm two bloody people. I've known that a few
times, I just didn't realise how strong it was. I am nuts. Split
personality or whatever you call it, it's a complete change of state!"

"Ok, and how long have you been chewing on that one?" Flynn said
dryly, tightening his arm. "Stop that, you're not going anywhere."



Dale didn't say anything else but he stopped trying to get to his
feet. Flynn waited, keeping hold of him.



"I don't know how long." Dale said eventually. "A while. You know if
you saw me in the office in New York you wouldn't know me? Put me at
a desk and –"

"You can do anything?" Flynn said when he didn't finish.



"I'm competent." Dale said grimly. "I know what I'm doing, I can cope
with pretty much anything."

"Why?" Flynn interrupted. Dale shut his eyes and this time Flynn let
him go when he pulled, watching him lean forward to bury his head in
his hands.



"Because I obsess and self medicate and yes, I know."

The despair in his voice was painful. Flynn put a hand on his back,
rubbing lightly and watching him.



"Dale, you do not have split personalities or any other personality
disorder. You tell me what happened."

"I don't know."

"Then figure it out." Flynn said ruthlessly. "Think. You're quite
smart enough to do it."



Dale took a sharp breath of frustration, hands still dug deep into
his hair.



"Bastard."

Flynn didn't argue, accepting it as a fair comment. Dale stared at
the ground for a moment more, then let his hands drop, head still
down.



"Ash asked me for some advice on expansion. Which is bread and butter
stuff, I can have those kind of conversations in my sleep. And I
churned out all the lingo and – snap."

"Snap what?"



"I just fitted back into that personality again like I'd never been
gone." Dale admitted.

"I didn't even realise-"



Flynn shook his head. "No. Way too simplistic, try again."



Dale glared at him. Flynn continued to rub slow circles over his
back, pushing at the tension there.



"Ash makes you very anxious. He asked you for a routine piece of
advice, which you gave from a very familiar script. Your body knows
the script that goes with it."



"Habit?" Dale demanded. Flynn nodded.



"Habit. Posture, manner, tension, you turned on the work habit and
your body just did what it's used to doing. You didn't do anything
wrong."

"The whole work habit thing is totally wrong!" Dale objected. Flynn
grasped his shoulder before he could stand up.



"No, it isn't. There's nothing wrong with your work or how you do it.
What is wrong?"



"I don't know." Dale muttered. Flynn shook his head.



"Yes. You do."

Dale finally twisted out from under his hand and flung himself to his
feet, heading down the steps towards the yard.



"Ok, I'm a nervous bloody wreck who's faked it for ten years and
finally got caught out –"

Flynn was already after him and heard his voice fracture. In Riley,
this kind of storm away would have been temper, easily done, based in
impulse and easily regretted. In Dale, it was the very end of his
tether. He captured Dale in the yard and turned him around gently but
forcibly, knowing Dale was crying and knowing he was doing everything
he could to swallow it down and contain himself. Dale wouldn't look
at him but he couldn't break Flynn's grasp on his arms either.



"That isn't true at all. Not one word of it." Flynn said gently. "If
you can't see your courage in coming here and facing up to all of
this, if you can't see the strength that got you where you are in the
corporation and here, then I can, and I can see exactly why you're as
admired as you are. None of it happened by chance or accident, it
happened because you made it happen. What did you fake?"



Dale took several hard breaths and Flynn could feel him forcing
himself under control.



"What did you fake?" he demanded again, and this time Dale swallowed,
very white in the face.



"Being any kind of real person."



Ash, Flynn thought wryly. Businessman and Top and perfectly happy in
both roles, leading a happily normal life with a happily normal brat.
He had been aware of Dale's wariness of Ash and Gerry, something
between fascination and anxiety like a kid expecting to be caught out
in a lie, as if he expected them to demand proof that he belonged to
this household and this lifestyle. Everyone else was going to be
gathering in the kitchen shortly for dinner and Dale did not respond
well at all to an audience. Flynn cupped Dale's head in his hands,
pulled him over and kissed his forehead firmly.



"Bull. Go sit in the study, I'm going to excuse us both from dinner.
Use the outside door."



He didn't wait to see if he was obeyed, heading up the steps into the
kitchen. Paul met him there, looking anxious.



"I just saw him burst up off the swing – is he ok?"


"Yes, this is another layer we were going to hit sooner or later."
Flynn said calmly, going to switch the kettle on. "Don't worry about
dinner for us, he isn't going to want to face anyone and we need to
talk this through."



He was aware of Paul searching him to see if he was worried, then
relax slightly, reassured.



"I'll plate something up in case you're hungry later."

"Thanks." Pouring tea, Flynn paused as another thought occurred to
him. "Paul? Feel like having a chat with Ash and seeing if you can
persuade him and Gerry to stick around a little longer? I think
there's a lot Ash could do to help if he's willing."







*







Heavy eyed, miserable, Dale let himself into the study via the
outside door and closed it behind him, shutting himself in the stone
walled room lined with books and heavy with the scent of leather from
the couches and the green leather topped desk. The admiral's chair
stood behind it, in front of the polished crystal ink wells that
couldn't have been used in fifty years. Left alone it was still
harder to control himself. Dale stood for a moment in the middle of
the room, hands steepled in front of his face, fingers pressing
sharply against the bridge of his nose. It took several minutes
before he was breathing evenly and his eyes were dry.



You're pathetic, Aden.



Thank God there were no mirrors in here. Folding his arms tightly,
Dale glanced down the line of the leather backed books on their
shelves. Philip's books. And the thought of Philip was a less than
pleasant one right now. Philip had also been a businessman, and
probably would have been revolted by the scene out on the porch. Or
business men who after months here still couldn't control themselves
and get the idea of what they were supposed to be learning.



Flynn is wasting his damn time. I am never going to get this!



Eyes stinging again, Dale moved on, concentrating on the books. The
horse behaviour tomes, the ones that Flynn had described, were lined
up above the stone hearth, amongst almanacs and encyclopaedias and
works of Scott. And a group of large, ancient and leather bound
atlases, well thumbed. Possibly David's: it was hard to know what
about them would have interested Philip. The desk was dust free and
the green leather was immaculate. Dale brushed a finger over it,
looking down at the empty ink wells.



A silver and black fountain pen and a man sitting at this desk,
working...



Flynn had two mugs of tea in one hand, shut the door behind him with
one elbow, and he sat on the couch, holding one out to Dale.



"Here. Sit down."

Calmly said, as though normal people flipped out like this all the
time. Dale took the mug, fighting his self control into place with an
effort.



"I'm sorry. I don't know why I freaked out like that-"



"Why are you sorry?" Flynn interrupted, waiting for him to sit down
on the couch. Dale sighed and gulped at strong, boiling hot tea.
Flynn made it strong enough to stand a spoon up in, powerfully
flavoured and comforting.



"It isn't exactly – helpful."

"Which means what?" Flynn leaned both elbows on his knees with the
purposeful expression to his face that Dale knew well. "Dale, don't
tell me just enough to shut me up. You're not in this on your own.
It's pretty plain from what you just told me that you're sitting on
whatever you're worrying about until you can't control it any more
before you'll tell me about it, and that's not acceptable."



In spite of everything Dale almost smiled. No point in explaining
about privacy or the Geneva convention or social convention: Flynn
didn't care. Here only his law counted, bluntly unreasonable and
unceasingly kind, and it was a better place to be than anywhere else
Dale had ever found. He had no idea why, but that kind of direct
demand made it so much easier to sit down and let go: it always did.
He perched gingerly on the far arm of the couch, still cradling his
tea, trying to order his thoughts.



"I'm not keeping back anything – nothing more than anyone does, just
stupid thoughts and – that kind of thing."



"Like what?" Flynn said bluntly. "Because I can see you chewing on
yourself."



Dale took another breath, feeling his face getting hot with
embarrassment.



"I don't know. That after all this time I've made no damn progress
and I've screwed this up too. It's one step forward and two steps
back. That I'm pulling up all this rubbish about David, and he and
Philip would have laughed themselves silly about me-"

The mug was taken out of his hand and plonked down on the table and
Flynn yanked him off the arm of the couch and down onto the seat to
face him in one clean pull.



"Do you belong here?"



Dale stared at him, knowing exactly what he was supposed to say and
knowing he couldn't say it with any kind of conviction.



"Do you belong here?" Flynn demanded still more curtly.



"No." Dale admitted. "How can I? I'm too old, I don't get this, I do
it wrong anyway-"

"Who told you that?"



It wasn't easy to look at Flynn's eyes when they were this grim. Dale
found himself searching very rapidly through a lot of internal
reasoning that had sounded very logical and convincing inside his
head and jettisoning an awful lot of it, fast, before Flynn got hold
of it.



"……. No one, but when I look at someone like Gerry or Ash-"



"What you're telling me," Flynn interrupted, "Is that you don't feel
as if you're getting things right to your standards of achievement,
and therefore you're failing, and Dale Aden doesn't do failure. So
far this evening you've told me you feel like you've failed at making
progress here; you feel like you've failed at being young enough and
perfect enough to qualify as a brat; you feel like you've failed in
being sufficiently convincing to Ash; you feel like you're unworthy
of the standards you see Philip and David as holding; and I think
you're also apologising to me because you feel you've failed us too
in properly implementing the advice we're giving you."

Ouch.



Dale blinked, stunned and very guilty.



"What have I missed?" Flynn asked grimly. "Does that about cover it?"



Well most of it?



Dale winced, knowing Flynn well enough to be fully aware he was
standing in the middle of a verbal minefield.



"I never do get one bloody thing right!"



"No, you don't mind about what you get right, you barely notice. You
mind bitterly about anything you don't feel is right to your
standards. Do you know what a tantrum is?"



Dale looked at him blankly, bewildered, with no idea what that had to
do with anything.



"……no?"



"It's an uncontrolled outburst of temper, usually when things don't
go how the person wanted them to." Flynn said grimly, not at all
surprised and reflecting that Dale needed to be around when Gerry
next demonstrated this phenomenon, since he did it
well. "Unacceptable behaviour. Adults often shout or threaten, some
throw things or knock things over, I'm sure you've seen a few."

Yes, several managing directors came to mind. Dale continued to watch
him, wondering where this was going.



"You'd never consider shouting or throwing anything, or do anything
to attack another person," Flynn went on just as grimly, "But you
attack yourself, brutally, to the point of meltdown when you feel you
aren't doing things as perfectly as you want. Destructive, aggressive
behaviour. That's still a tantrum, it's just a very discreet one. It
isn't behaviour I'll tolerate."

He said nothing else, simply pulled Dale to his feet and around to
his right side, unbuttoning Dale's jeans. Dale looked stupidly down
at Flynn's hands, very shocked as Flynn tugged his jeans and
underwear straight down to his ankles without ceremony and turned him
over his lap with hands too strong and too experienced to argue with,
even if Dale had had the presence of mind to try. Stupidly, with no
idea how this had happened, Dale braced his toes against the floor,
propping himself on his elbows on the couch as he felt his t shirt
pushed up his back under the weight and warmth of Flynn's palm, and
then a very sound swat fell across one bare cheek and Dale gripped
the couch quickly, ducking his head and shutting his eyes tightly,
trying not to yelp or squirm. The resolve didn't last very long.
Swift and stinging, Flynn's palm slapped down again and again,
covering every single inch of skin and it seemed to go on forever.
Dale had no idea how long it was before he was twisting over Flynn's
lap, his blazing backside involuntarily trying to get itself out of
the way, but Flynn took no notice whatsoever. One hand on Dale's hip
anchored him where he was. It hurt: there was absolutely no question
of that, Dale was aware of himself trying to catch his breath in
growing desperation as the fire grew and grew from hips down to the
tops of his thighs, but it was a good deal more than just sensation.
It was Flynn's disapproval; it was the matter of fact way he had
acted; it was the always extremely impressive act of being so simply
stripped, laid across his lap and spanked; that was what really went
deep.



And the very worst of it was that at the heart of everything, Dale
understood profoundly and acutely why. No amount of conversation or
reasoning or reproach would have made him admit to himself so clearly
that he knew exactly what Flynn meant and exactly why Flynn did this,
nor made him so very aware of his own actions. It was not pain but
emotion that overwhelmed him very soon after Flynn began, and it was
emotion that very quickly burst its banks beyond Dale's control.



His shoulders were shaking hard and he was making the extremely
choked sounds that was as near as Dale got to sobbing when Flynn
delivered the final few and hardest swats and stopped, resting his
hand across Dale's now scarlet backside, outlined between the white
of his back and his thighs.



"Are we clear that this is not a form of behaviour that's going to be
tolerated?" Flynn said bluntly above him. Getting the breath to
answer was a major issue, but it was fairly clear no one was going to
get to move until Flynn had one he was satisfied with. Dale struggled
a few times for coherency, swallowing hard.



"Yes sir."



"Come here."



It was growled, just as much of a command, and Dale obeyed it
blindly, barely aware of the strong hands that helped him upright but
burying himself in Flynn's arms. Flynn hugged him so tightly that
breathing was difficult for a minute, but the tightness gave more of
a sensation of safety and contact than anything else could have done.



"If you are chewing on anything, what do you do?" Flynn demanded in
his ear. Dale shut his eyes, letting the tension in his neck go so
that his head pressed heavily into Flynn's shoulder, as if Flynn
could really take this from him.



"Talk to you."

"Yes. Which you did, yesterday, when you told me about seeing David,
and don't for one minute think that this cancels out that success."



Ha, Dale heard his mind say automatically. From Flynn's tone he'd
heard it just as clearly as if Dale had said it.



"So what's this about? And I don't mean the percentage failures of
everything you don't feel you're doing satisfactorily, I mean what's
this about? You said you didn't feel like a real person. What does
that mean?"



"It was what I saw with Ash." Dale said as offhandedly as was at all
possible when you were sobbing into someone's neck, your pants were
at half mast and your backside felt as if it was torched. As an
interrogation technique this was bloody effective. "The work stuff is
all there, it's always been a surface layer and there's nothing
underneath it, there never was."

"Which means what?"



Dale gritted his teeth, reflecting on several responses, and yelped,
horrified, as Flynn swatted him hard where he was still bare and
extremely sore.



"Don't think it, say it."

"I'm a bloody useless excuse for a human being!" Dale said
sharply. "I don't get it, I never have done, all I know is how to go
through the motions at work and that scares the crap out of me-"



Because I'm not going back to work.



"Because?" Flynn said shortly when he stopped. Dale swallowed, still
not ready to go there.



"Because I have a five minute conversation with Ash and I fall apart."

"Mhm." Flynn put Dale on his feet and Dale yelped as Flynn dressed
him as efficiently as ten minutes ago he had stripped him. Flynn got
up from the couch, took Dale's hand and led him across to the desk,
pulling several books down from the shelf.



"This one – and this one, and Yates, and Rothwellan. Sit down."

Very cautiously, Dale drew out the admiral's chair and took a seat at
the desk, looking at the books Flynn was stacking in front of him.
Flynn opened the upper desk drawer and took out a lined pad and a
pen, both of which he set in front of Dale.



"You've got two hours to use those skills of yours to your benefit. I
want a researched report on what a pathological perfectionist is.
These books should contain a good amount of information, but you're
free to use anything else in here you think might be helpful. If you
need anything, you open the door and call me. Clear?"



Dale looked from the books to the pad with a growing sense of dismay.
Flynn dropped a hand on his shoulder.



"Dale. Look at me. Is that clear?"



He was actually serious, his eyes confirmed it.



"Yes sir." Dale said automatically, reaching for the nearest book.
Research was also bread and butter work; something he did near on
autopilot and usually with a stack of reports several times the
height of these four psychology volumes, but sitting on a burning,
well spanked backside had an extremely concentrating effect. Besides
which, Dale had a nasty feeling about what he was going to find
inside these particular books.















An hour later he was utterly certain of
it. It made extremely uncomfortable reading – although admittedly
deeply enlightening reading too, that distracted his mind away from
the heat and soreness of his behind. Still skimming and making notes,
Dale was already committing the information automatically to mind.
Unfortunately he was forced to conclude that he himself probably
categorised as an neurotic internal perfectionist according to the
measurement scales, albeit an adaptive one, which was slightly
better,



The tap at the study door roused him and Paul opened it, carrying a
plate and a mug which he put down in Dale's reach before he came to
put both hands on Dale's shoulders, leaning over him to look at the
open books and the paper. There was never any hesitancy in the way
that Paul touched, it was as open hearted as it was affectionate and
he couldn't seem to keep his hands away from anyone he liked. It was
remarkably comforting this evening and Dale sat back with a sigh,
letting Paul lean and read through the top page of his write up.





Pathological perfectionism is a maladaptive pattern of behaviours
reflecting psychological, interpersonal, and achievement-related
difficulties, including inappropriate levels of expectations and
intangible goals. Categories include the external perfectionist whose
expectations are based upon the environment, the social external
perfectionist whose expectations are based upon others around him,
and the most complex: the internal perfectionist, whose expectations
relate entirely to themselves and reflect a form of complicated self
regulation.



Outstanding achievements are often described by the internal
perfectionist in terms of shame and imperfections rather than
justified pride. Fragile self value tends to be entirely rooted in
product based, uninterrupted success, and any mistake represents
failure in all areas. They are more often driven to overachieve by
fear of failure than by desire to achieve, and can feel undeserving
of success, sometimes interpreting praise or good outcomes negatively
as a spur to work still harder. The condition is often associated
with difficulties with self esteem, and subjects can appear to be
locked in a vicious circle of self-incrimination, depression and
renewed determination to reach the impossible, each failure leading
to more shame and self-loathing. They often demonstrate a rigid,
moralistic set of expectations towards themselves.



Perfectionism is often seen in conjunction with depression, eating
disorders, workaholicism, difficulties with personal relationships,
high anxiety, and stress related physical disorders. All categories
of pathologically perfectionist personalities also frequently reflect
degrees of obsessive behaviour which can be severe. These are
frequently attempts to control or anaesthetise against anxiety.



Perfectionist personalities tend to avoid disclosing information that
they feel exposes an area of weakness, which can make successful
therapy difficult.



There then followed several beautifully drawn, immaculate and
extremely complex graphs and tables which Dale apparently hadn't been
able to resist and which Paul couldn't make head nor tail of, but the
main text said more than enough. He leaned down to give Dale a hug,
aware that Dale leaned against him instead of stiffening or pulling
away.



"Make sure all of that's eaten. You're nearly finished working on
this aren't you?"



"I speed read." Dale said wearily, caught Paul's eye and groaned as
Paul smiled.



"Yes, ok, I would, wouldn't I?"



"Eat something, or you'll have me after you as well." Paul said
mildly. "You've got about another hour."



That was a hell of a long time to fill when you'd already précised
every available passage in the text books, plus compared the research
and measuring techniques they discussed. Dale re read the report
through once more, started to re write it with the aim of producing a
better quality copy – and stopped himself, swearing.



Write a report on perfectionism and then prove to the last decimal
place that you are one and an irretrievable one at that! Great, Aden.



And the fact that the handwritten copy was not perfect was bugging
the living daylights out of him, a lot more than he wanted to admit.
Dale got up from the table and went to stand by the windows, folding
his arms.



Have I always been like this? …..Yes, probably. He seemed to remember
comments from adults even as a small boy about his keeping things
unusually ordered and tidy. He remembered re writing prep to get a
copy free from blots or crossings out, and the stress and distress if
on the weekly form lists he fell from the first few places he
expected.



Be honest Aden; if you weren't first. If you weren't, you felt
terrible and you worried about it for days until you got the marks up
again. If you were, you worried even more because then the pressure
was on to stay at the top for another week. You've been telling them
all along that you were nuts.



It was starting to get dim outside as the evening drew on and Dale
lit the lamp on the desk which filled the room with a soft light cast
mostly on the desk top. Passing by the desk again, Dale picked up the
sandwich Paul had brought him and chewed absently, more from trained
habit than hunger. In this house, not eating gained you someone
standing over you and nagging until you did. And he had no illusions
that Flynn might come in and rescue him before the two hours were up:
he knew Flynn too well. Two hours meant two hours to Flynn, and if
that meant he worked flat out for an hour and then sat watching the
walls for an hour, Flynn would point out that it served him right.
Which it probably did.



Too sore to try sitting again, Dale freed an absent hand to rub at
the seat of his jeans and continued to walk, looking at the shelves
of books. Another very masculine room, and this had been Philip's
sanctuary. Philip's room. Which meant it was probably not unfamiliar
with subdued brats imprisoned within it. Dale looked again at the
desk, trying to imagine the man upstairs in the photograph sitting at
the desk. It was actually quite an alarming thought. David – Dale
could, very privately, hope and believe David was a friendly presence
here, but Philip…. Philip would no doubt see straight through a brat
not co operating or succeeding and be very much less than impressed.
From the way Gerry described Philip, he had been still more
impressive – and scarier – than Flynn.



And Philip had loved Flynn, been everything to Flynn, and probably
would be outraged at some neurotic perfectionist having this kind of
obsessive crush on him. Dale put the rest of the sandwich back on the
plate, appetite gone.



What the hell am I going to do if I don't go back to the corporation?
I made that decision, I'd be mad to go back – but really, what else
am I going to do? What else am I good for? Where do I go?



There was a life here, one that Dale loved and envied, but one he
knew very well he was no damned good at.



The pen rolled off the desk and dropped to the carpet, and Dale
absently stooped to pick it up, having to bend half way under the
desk. The lamplight from the desk lit the rug and reflected up – and
Dale saw the small brass key sitting on a little ledge just
underneath the desk top. A tiny key, visible only when you knelt down
here and looked, but in easy reach of a hand slipped underneath the
desk. He put out a hand to take it down, finding it thick with dust
which was unusual in this house where Paul kept everything
immaculate. It took several blows to clear it and reveal the little
circular handle at the top. For a moment Dale wondered what it was
the key to: the drawers of the desk were kept unlocked, he knew
exactly what lay in the bottom drawer and the thought alone made his
backside prickle, and Flynn had opened the upper drawer to pull out
paper and pen. Whatever this key had unlocked in the past, it had
clearly not been employed for years. He laid it on the desk top to
give to Flynn or Paul later, and was about to continue walking when
he saw the biro on the desk start to roll again. Nothing had touched
it, nothing had started its movement, but it rolled slowly, not
towards the edge of the desk this time but away to the edge of the
green leather top. Dale put out a hand to catch it, and as his
fingers rested on the edge of the green leather, he saw the problem.
The drawers were set low in the desk – perhaps ten inches from the
top. The piece of wood that made the shining table top was thick, but
not that thick. There was another drawer here. Dale felt lightly
around the edge of the desk topping: that did not appear to lift out.
When he knelt beside the desk and looked, there was no compartment
apparent in the knee hole directly in front – but there was a tiny
keyhole to the left of the knee hole, close to the table top, and
Dale's fingers traced an almost imperceptible join in the wood.
Apparently David had not been the only one in the house who liked
secrets.



Dale took the key from the desk, slid it into the little keyhole and
the key turned smoothly in the lock. Nothing slid back, but a section
of wood swung slowly outwards on a well concealed hinge, revealing
two shelves and a faint smell of elderly books and dust. Several
folders and boxes sat on the bottom shelf and above them lay a book
with heavy leather binding. On the top shelf sat a silver and black
fountain pen.


Slowly, heart thumping, Dale took out the leather bound book, resting
it between his hands. Without looking, he knew if he lifted it into
the light it would be maroon.



But this isn't David's. This is Philip's.



Why would Philip…….?



He laid the book on the table top and softly blew the dust off.
Maroon. Dale sat gingerly at the desk and hesitated, not sure for a
moment if it was his place to open the book at all, or if this was
prying. Philip's belongings were the property of his family, the
people who had loved him. But how did you explain a dream of a man
sitting looking at this book? Sitting here now, looking it, Dale's
heart thumped even harder for a moment and he had the distinct
sensation someone stood behind him. It took all his courage to open
the front cover and turn it back.



The pieces of paper inside had been glued to the page of the book and
looked as if they were a short article cut from a journal or paper.
It meant nothing for a moment, until Dale caught sight of the name at
the top of the article. Flynn O'Sullivan. Dale turned the pages
slowly, picking up the journal names at the head of the articles. The
American Foundation of Psychology. The Carolina Institute of Mental
Health. The American Medical Association. On each article the author
was Flynn O'Sullivan. The articles were in date sequence, getting
longer and more complex as time moved on, and covered nearly ten
years before they stopped in the year 2000. It was peculiar to hear
Flynn's voice in the text, a glimpse of a mind analytical enough to
draw Dale's increasing respect, although glancing through one
article – 'The Functionality of Hyperactivity and Hyperfocus in
Management Positions' – Dale was struck by the understanding within
the commentary. The article was objective, but not detached. These
are people he knows, and cares about. Probably people who have stayed
here. My God, he really gets this.



And someone had taken a good deal of time and effort to collect every
one of these articles, to sequence them, to refer back to them, with
a care that spoke of a good deal of respect. No, not respect, Dale
corrected himself, thinking of the man at the table with the silver
and black fountain pen. Pride. This is an action of pride. I'll bet
this is everything Flynn ever had published in Philip's lifetime.



Ok Philip, why are you showing this to me?



That was a thought of enough vanity to make Dale blush – but he
couldn't bring himself to close the book. He sat, looking at the
article in front of him without fully seeing it, and he felt – as
real and as tangible as the pressure of the seat under him – a hand
gently close on his shoulder, the palm warm, the weight of a man
resting there. Someone read the article looking over his head, and
Dale's eyes involuntarily stung. His breath caught, he didn't dare to
look at his shoulder where that hand rested, nor turn to look behind
him, but he sat, looking at the book until the fingers squeezed
lightly and let go. And the room was perfectly still once more.













Dale thought afterwards that he probably
should have run out of that room screaming. In fact, he was left with
a deep and abiding sense of peace and safety. He thought for a while
and then quietly returned the book of articles to the desk, softly
locked the hidden compartment and pocketed the key. He then turned
out the lamp on the desk which left the room dim, nearly in darkness,
and curled up in a corner of the couch, letting a number of things
sink into his mind. Somewhere in the darkness across the room he knew
a man worked at his desk, and his sense of order soaked through the
study and up into the walls and the beams of the house. Dale shut his
eyes, curling deeper into the warm leather. Out on the pastures the
horses ran and the river tipped over the falls and the clouds scudded
by, and the house stood in the midst of it all…



"Dale?" Flynn's voice said softly. Dale stirred and half sat up.
Flynn had left the door open into the family room and the dimmed
light came in through the doorway. Flynn sat down on the couch beside
him, the sheets of handwritten paper in his hand.



"You were fast asleep, you didn't even hear me come in."

"Sorry." Dale pushed his hair out of his eyes, still blinking. Flynn
turned the pages over.



"This is pretty thorough as a report. I noticed you followed the
profile of an internal perfectionist."

"That's the profile I fit." Dale said wryly, pulling himself
upright. "Which was the point, wasn't it?"

Oh for God's sake Aden, why make this like pulling teeth? Meet the
man half way.



"I get it – that's probably me, and always has been." he said
slightly less steadily. "And I see where the 'failure' thing comes
from – that's always been the case too, that I get very depressed
over one thing going wrong, the whole picture seems bad."

"So a relatively minor problem cuts across and makes you demoralised
about everything." Flynn said quietly. Dale nodded.


"If I'm honest – this all started this morning. I mean I know I've
been wound up since this morning because we talked about the storm
last night and –"

"And you remembered that I know you don't like thunder and
lightning." Flynn said mildly. "You also know I don't think any the
less of you for it? And there's things I'm afraid of?"



"It just bothers me that I don't -" Dale trailed off, shamefaced and
not sure how to explain. "It's another failure. The whole profile
fits. The obsessive behaviour, the nothing ever being good enough. I
thought this was just about work, the problems I had were only
related to work, but it isn't, is it?"

Flynn nodded slowly. "No. And I think unless you acknowledge that and
work on it, you're going to take the same problems with you wherever
you go. I told you from the start, this was going to be a long job."

"And I need to quit self destructing when I hit a set back." Dale
said heavily.



"Not even a set back." Flynn pointed out. "All Ash did today was show
you that you haven't yet got the grip on anxiety or habits that you
hoped you had. You're not any kind of split personality, Dale. You're
the one keeping two sets of skills completely separate, because you
won't risk the unperfected model out in public in front of strangers
like Ash. And Ash bothers you because he's a Top."



Silence. Dale wasn't sure how to answer that. There were too many
issues tied up within it.



"He's a Top." Flynn said eventually. "Not a monster. You can cope
with me and Jas and Paul, I suspect Ash is probably a normal person
too if you get to know him, and he isn't going to ask you for a
certificate to prove you're a proper brat. You don't have to be
sufficiently convincing, and you don't need to be worried about what
you let him see."



Dale flushed and Flynn gave that a moment to sink in before he
continued.



"I was glad you picked out the information about resistance to
sharing information, because that's a key one."

Dale flushed still more hotly. Flynn dropped a hand on his knee,
shaking it gently.



"I get why you do it; you get why you do it; now we're on the same
page and it stops. You are going to worry yourself crazy and those
worries are often going to be based on disproportionate or irrational
beliefs because you have this type of perfectionism. They are going
to be the things you're most ashamed of and really don't want to talk
about. But there's no leeway on this Dale; that's something
absolutely basic because of the kind of relationship we live in. If
you are trusting someone to make decisions – proper decisions – for
you then full disclosure is absolutely mandatory. Ask Riley how any
kind of lying goes down here. Tops have to have every piece of the
puzzle, the full picture, otherwise you're asking them to act on your
behalf with partial information and without your trust and it isn't
going to work. It has to be a two way trust, total trust, and it's
one of the most essential and most difficult parts of this type of
relationship. That isn't just disclosing facts either, it's how
you're feeling, what you're worrying about, the lot. It takes time to
learn how to do it, it's going to be particularly hard for you, and I
do not expect you to do it effortlessly from this conversation
onwards, but I expect your very serious effort on this, and you need
to understand that withholding information in this family is a
serious matter. Got it?"



"Yes sir."

Flynn nodded, handing him the written sheets. "Keep those, you did a
good job on them. We're nowhere near done with this conversation, but
you're shattered. Go on up and get ready for bed."



It was difficult staying awake long enough to change and brush teeth,
and Dale fell asleep long before anyone came up to say goodnight,
forgetting completely the small key in his jeans pocket.











*











"He's asleep." Flynn said when he came back downstairs. "Out like a
light."

Riley, who had looked with some concern at Dale when Flynn steered
him through the family room towards the stairs half an hour ago, met
his eyes and went on hugging his knees, curled in the window seat,
which at least three people in the room fully understood and another
one had a fairly good idea of.



"Gerry," Ash said calmly, tipping over the king on the chessboard
opposite Jasper. "Go up and get ready for bed."

"It's hardly past nine!" Gerry objected, lifting his head from Ash's
lap.



"And you're dozing." Ash said heartlessly. "Go up and get ready for
bed."



"Just because Jas is winning." Gerry groused. Ash landed an
affectionate and gentle swat on Gerry's rump, pushing him towards the
stairs.



"How well you know me."

"Goodnight sweetheart." Paul caught Gerry's hand and Gerry stooped to
kiss him, dropped a similar salute on Jasper's cheek and Flynn took
his eyes off Riley long enough to give him a quick hug.



"Goodnight, sleep well."

"He's been asleep before ten every night I've been here so far," Ash
said lightly as Gerry headed upstairs. "All the fresh air and
exercise. It's pretty clear you need to talk. Would you like some
space or is there anything I can do to help? I wouldn't ask, but Paul
mentioned earlier…?"



He trailed off discreetly and Flynn sat down on the hearth stone
beside Jasper. Riley promptly got up and came to join them and Paul
moved down the couch to the end, putting his arms around Riley's
waist as Riley perched on the arm of the couch.



"I said we'd appreciate it and we would. Dale's had a bit of a rough
day and you're the first person from the work type world he's spoken
to since he came here. He needs some practice in having work
conversations without snapping into overdrive. It was like throwing a
switch this afternoon."

"It's more pronounced," Flynn added, "Because you're a Top."

"So are you three," Ash pointed out. "I'm not sure how I feel about
being told I'm scarier than you are."



Jasper smiled, but shook his head. "No. The three of us are known
quantities to Dale."



"He knows nothing about you and he doesn't understand how you fit in
to the lifestyle, and moreover he has no idea what you think of him,
and he's afraid it isn't much." Flynn absently twisted his watch
straight on his wrist. "One of a number of things we went over in a
lot of detail this evening. He had a pretty good meltdown about being
a total failure, most of which was based on having panicked and
switched into work mode with you, and on having seen me remember this
morning that he doesn't like thunder and lightning."



"That's rubbish. He'd never call me a coward if I was afraid of
something, he doesn't think like that." Riley said sharply. Flynn
shook his head.



"No, he'd never think that about you, half-pint. If it was you he'd
be able to understand and sympathise. He applies totally different
rules and standards to himself and they're not rational. He even
knows they're not rational, but it isn't something he can voluntarily
control."



"I saw the work you had him doing on perfectionism." Paul said
softly. "He was taking it in, I saw he'd categorised himself."

"I thought about getting out a profile assessment and doing it with
him," Flynn said briefly. "I might yet, he's more than perceptive
enough to understand the process and the readings, and at this point
we need the shared language to be able to discuss this with him and
for him to understand why we're asking what we're asking. The brat
thing sods it up slightly."



"Why?" Ash asked, fascinated.



"It doesn't." Riley said shortly, "It makes it easier. Never mind
about 'it would help to talk to me when you think like this', you're
straight into the territory of 'quit it right now', plus aversives.
That makes total sense to Dale."

"It does." Flynn admitted. "But he's trying to get his head around
two sets of new perspectives, not one, and do two things at once.
Deal with the perfectionism and the whole brat and lifestyle idea,
both of which contain a lot of new concepts, information and
uncertainty, and the one winds up the other. We have a brat who
doesn't do failure, and a perfectionist who's worrying about being a
brat properly."

"He's about the least brat-like brat I've ever laid eyes on." Ash
commented. "He hardly makes a sound, he works like a Trojan, he does
everything asked without a murmur, I bet he doesn't even know what
chocolate is."



Paul shook his head, more than slightly rueful. "Don't tell him for
pete's sake or he'll feel he has to eat it, wanted or not, and we've
just got him off a caffeine addiction. And trust me, Dale can brat,
you just haven't seen him in action."



"You're still insisting on looking at the two things as equal and
completely separate." Riley said, looking at Flynn. "That's rubbish.
Dale is a brat, that's nature. Intrinsic. The perfectionist part is
just behaviour."

"You're well trained." Ash said dryly.


"We get a lot of clients and we get the hang of the terms," Flynn
steepled his hands, looking down them. "And Riley's good at cutting
to the chase with them."

"And I've been right about him this far, you know I have." Riley
pointed out. "Respond to the brat. Everything else is secondary, and
if you get the brat part right you'll handle everything else anyway.
How did you handle it this evening?"



There was a moment's silence, then Flynn blew down the sides of his
fingers, dropped his hands and gave Riley a wry smile.



"As a tantrum, part and parcel. Your doctorate's in the post."

"And he was ok?" Riley demanded.



"He understood exactly. Sometimes with Dale the words get in the
way." Flynn crossed his arms, propping his elbows on his knees and
glancing at Jasper beside him. "We're going to need to be very tough
with him about with-holding in all its forms."

"We have been all along." Paul said, hugging Riley. "In fact the
majority of times we've disciplined him has been about with-holding-
the disappearing off alone being a major example. That's never been
the cry for attention it would be with some brats, it's pure self
containment. 'Leave me alone, nobody sees this problem until I'm
ready'."

"Exactly." Flynn agreed. "And he expects to be pushed on the obvious
manifestations. But we're into the next stage now, we need to go up a
gear. Dale's used to getting away with the more subtle versions and
that's what we really need to stamp on. It's all about, as Paul
says, 'nobody sees until I'm ready and on my terms'. Not talking
about worries or concerns until they're serious; polite social lies
which he's very good at; even to an extent things like eye contact
and not wanting to be touched."

"Although that's pretty much along brat lines anyway." Ash said
thoughtfully. Flynn looked up and Ash shrugged.



"Not that I have anything like your knowledge and experience here,
but when I feel like Gerry's getting out of hand- which often means
I've slackened off actually, or that we've got too busy and lost
touch a bit – that's the kind of thing I tighten up on. Eye contact
and answering properly, not tolerating the little social lies,
confiding, communicating. That's what really reduces distance fast."



"Told you." Riley said calmly. "Fix the brat and everything else
falls into place."



"Philip was a strong advocate for that." Paul agreed thoughtfully. "I
admit, I find it hard sometimes to be firm enough with Dale."



"What can I do?" Ash asked discreetly. Jasper answered, propping his
elbows on his knees, long legs beside Flynn's.



"Talk with him a lot about corporate finance."



"Among other things." Flynn gave Jasper a brief smile. "Normalise it.
He really needs the practice."

"Talk shop with Dale Aden?" Ash raised his eyebrows. "Er, yes please?
If he gets as wound up as he did this afternoon, what's helpful to
do? I wouldn't have seen the signs, I don't know him well enough."



"Keep him near the house and keep one of us in sight to start with."
Flynn suggested. "He got taken by surprise today and he was already
upset before it started. I don't think it'll be that strong again.



Ash nodded, getting up as they heard a bathroom door open upstairs
and Gerry cross the landing. "Ok, with great pleasure. I'll look for
opportunities."



"Which leaves us with one more thing," Flynn said when Ash had gone
upstairs and the door to his and Gerry's room had closed. "It's
earlier than I'm happy with, but we're getting to the point of Dale
starting conversations about how he's going to cope with going back
to his job. I could see him touching on it this evening and I'd
rather we took the initiative and set the pace than he sprung the
subject on us."



"You mean about him not going back to the corporation?" Riley said,
wide eyed. "Flynn, however are you going to suggest that? I bet it's
never even occurred to him."



"Well we can start by reminding him how many options he's got." Paul
said comfortably, seeing Flynn wince. "I'd be interested to sound Ash
out on that subject and see what he suggests."



"Well I'm glad I don't take clients." Riley said in the slightly
apprehensive silence that followed. "All that double thinking and
reasoning it out before hand."

"It'll work out." Paul said firmly. "Don't you worry."

"I'll try not to." Riley promised. "Just don't ask me, I'm just a
brat. I wouldn't be any help there at all."















Dale was clearing the small barn in the
corner of one of the far home paddocks – which strictly speaking was
a shed more than a barn – the following morning when he heard a clunk
and looked around to see Riley overturn one of the empty feed buckets
and sit on it, propping his elbows on his knees.


"Hi."

"Hi." Dale said, glancing back towards the house. It was some way
off: several paddocks away and horses grazed between it and them,
eating the still dew-wet grass. "I thought you were working with
Flynn with the babies this morning?"



"He's riding one." Riley said matter of factly. "Be gone about forty
minutes. You looked awful last night, what happened?"



Dale would have answered that without hesitation – for some reason,
sharing bad information with Riley was not nearly so difficult,
perhaps because Riley did it so frankly himself – but for another
clunk as another feed bucket was turned over and Gerry sat a little
more stiffly, giving Dale an apologetic shrug.



"Yes it's me. It's a quorate meeting of the Falls Chance Brats in
Residence, so no doing the scary looks at me duckie. It's plain as
sin you got tanned last night."



"No one heard anything, but Flynn grabbed you before dinner and you
looked like death when he sent you up to bed." Riley said
apologetically.



"So this is the 'would you like to talk about it' invitation, and
don't leave out any gory details." Gerry added, stretching his legs.
A second later he reeled them in again and got straight up, catching
Dale and yanking him across into a very tight hug, his voice changing
completely.



"Oh good grief don't look like that! Honey you don't have to say a
word unless you want to, I'm only teasing! this was basic curiosity
and an 'are you all right' query, that's all! It's ok."



There was a surprising comfort to his embrace, something very
heartfelt that reminded Dale a little of Paul, and there was no
doubting his sincerity. Comfortably round, a good deal older than
himself or Riley, his tone was as kind as it was sympathetic.



"The rules of the meeting state, members may tell the other members
to bog off at any point in time, and the other members might even go
without a fight." Gerry let him go, holding his arms to look at him,
eyes serious even if the words were flippant. "So if you want to, you
say it."

"It's ok." Dale said, and meant it. Riley hadn't commented, but he
was standing close and Dale felt the bump of Riley's shoulder against
his as Riley dug his hands in his pockets. The shed was mostly done.
Dale picked up the fork he had dropped, dug it into one of the old
hay bales he was clearing out, and took a seat on the nearest one,
watching the other two resume their buckets.


"You don't have to." Riley repeated, watching him with enough concern
to make Dale feel guilty. He shook his head, holding Riley's eyes.



"It's ok. It just wasn't a great evening. Ash – asked me a few things
about work, and I kind of went into work overdrive and then, er –
'melted down' I think was the phrase Flynn used?"



It clearly made sense to the other two, both of whom nodded. Dale
glanced at his knees, feeling his ears redden but keeping his tone
light.



"Then Flynn asked me if I knew what a tantrum was, and it went down
hill from there."



He'd been prepared for some kind of shock or teasing – tantrum wasn't
a pretty word for grown men, but Riley groaned and Gerry openly
cringed.



"Ouch. Walk into my parlour said the spider to the fly…"

"He's death about anything he can call a paddy, I should have warned
you." Riley said with sympathy. "I threw a cup through the kitchen
window once – it was an accident!" he added indignantly to Gerry as
Gerry drew breath. "Well mostly an accident, it really wasn't
supposed to hit the window- and Paul made him go do the stables
before he'd let Flynn in the house and in arms' reach of me. I think
he thought Flynn was finally going to strangle me."



"Dramatic gestures that go wrong; it happens to me all the time."
Gerry murmured in what Dale was starting to think of as his Noel
Coward voice.


"We'd been bickering all afternoon and I kind of pushed it a little
far," Riley said ruefully, "It happens."

"It does." Gerry gave Dale another of his shrewd looks that was not
nearly as critical as Dale had expected. "That was what you got
tanned for? You really don't look the tantrum throwing type."

Dale felt his ears get hot again but managed a shrug. This was
friendly interest, camaraderie, and it encouraged him to try.



"He said it was a very discreet one."


That produced a shout of laughter from both Gerry and Riley that
startled him.



"Oh what I wouldn't give for a little discretion," Gerry said, wiping
his eyes. "Ash doesn't cope well with stamping or shouting, and I'm
so good at it too. Don't worry about it, it happens and I've never
known Ash – or Flynn – to bear grudges."

"Flynn said to ask about how lying went down?" Dale asked very
hesitantly. Gerry made a sharp intake of breath between his teeth and
Riley grinned.



"The sound a mechanic makes when looking at a car …. You know when
the police talk about 'zero tolerance'? Like that, only worse."



"Cardinal." Gerry agreed. "Absolutely cardinal sin. Not that I'm
saying I've never done it, or I don't occasionally decide under
certain circumstances it sounds like a good idea, but no. We're
allergic to the whole concept. Have to be."

"And there's very clear definitions on exactly what constitutes lying
too." Riley added dryly. "Lying, fibbing, omission, lack of clarity,
covering up, failure to disclose,"

"David used to say he was going to install a bent, back woods lawyer
in the bunk house," Gerry said, grinning, "To sit and manufacture
ways of blurring information that Philip couldn't argue with. Philip
just used to tell him it made no odds, he was the only judge and jury
on this ranch and he knew damn well when David had a guilty
conscience."



"Gerry!" Ash's voice shouted from the direction of the house. Gerry
rolled his eyes skywards and got up.



"The genie of the lamp is required. He probably wants to clean out
the stables again. He's got this mad idea about 'we're family, not
visitors Gerald, and families help'. I keep explaining that they
don't when they're on holiday but it hasn't sunk in yet. Honey, this
is like learning to play the violin. You start out thinking it's
never going to work and you'll never be able to do it, but you
concentrate on practicing the scales and one day the music just
happens without you noticing. I promise you it's worth it."



"Very poetic." Riley called after him.



"I'd curtsey but I'm wearing a thong." Gerry called back.



"TMI!" Riley flung a ball of elderly hay after him and got up. "Want
a hand to shift this lot? Where did Flynn want it?"



Dale grabbed at the cord wrapped around the nearest bale, heaving it
up. "The corral, he said to stick it in the feed bins and let the
riding horses eat it before it got past edible."

"We'll be cutting the new hay before very much longer." Riley picked
up a bale, starting the long walk with him to the corral and glancing
once or twice towards him.



"Scary stuff." he said eventually and lightly. "Isn't it?"


Dale looked across at him. Riley gave him a faint smile.



"Being told you have to tell, every time, particularly about things
you really don't want to confess. All the really embarrassing stuff.
All the stuff you just know is going to get you into trouble – or
even more trouble than you're already in."



Dale didn't answer, swallowing, but Riley could see the answer in his
face.



"I know, it sounds completely insane, doesn't it?" he said
lightly. "I mean, 'Hi Flynn, I just went swimming. Alone. In the
fast part of the river. Right after eating. In the dark. With an
alligator sitting there watching'. If I just did something stupid
then no, I really don't want to tell Flynn about it."

Dale managed a faint smile in response. Riley pulled the bale higher
in his arms.



"And who wants to add all the details in when you know you're already
toast to begin with just on the basic information? Adding each
sentence is like going ahead and saying hey this spanking isn't going
to hurt much, let's up the ante and see you get really mad."



"I know it's not like that," Dale said rather hesitantly. Riley shook
his head.



"Yeah, in a way it is like that, it just isn't as crazy as it sounds.
It's one of the hardest things to do, and generally they try to help
by making it easier for you to go ahead and give all that information
up front. Jas, Flynn and Paul always do. The other side of the coin
is that you know you're going to face the charge of lying if you
don't come clean or if things come to light later on, and lying's
such a major, major no-no that you can count on it just about
doubling whatever it was you were going to get to begin with, and
trust me, that helps too."



"So what do you do?" Dale asked softly. Riley shrugged, giving him a
quick smile.



"Sometimes I do the wrong thing and try to cover it up anyway, but
mostly – mostly I know if I'm asked a question, I'm going to answer
it, even if the answer's going to get me toasted. Once you're there
you just sort of have to soldier through, and know that you did know
better to begin with and that he's not really going to kill you
because he does love you, and he will forgive you. You do it because
it's something you do together because you believe in it. And because
when you're not in trouble, you feel the safest and most loved you
ever have."



That went deep. Riley's tone said it all and Dale knew exactly what
he meant; that spoke to a level of him that didn't care about sense
or logic and wished the rest of him would just shut up.



"I get that if it's something done wrong – broken rules," he
persisted eventually, not sure how to explain. "But other things –"



Oh spit it out Aden.



Dale took a deep breath. "Like you said. The embarrassing things.
What you're scared of. What you're worried about."



"It's no different." Riley said gently. "Really. Just think about it."