Planet Earth—a tiny, backwater planet, hardly deserving of its status in the Intergalactic Confederation. It was light-years behind the rest of the alliance, having been admitted to the Confederation only a century or so before. The people were somewhat crude, unrefined, and simple. Their so-called scientists had barely tapped into the secrets of the universe before the universe had found them.

Earth's one and only claim to fame was its location—along a major trade route between galaxies. It had no important resources of its own, and yet it was quickly growing into a major intergalactic trade hub.

Nevertheless, the planet was still a fairly backwards, provincial place. Which is probably the reason why Zuriel and Zendahl, originally of Planet Zeles'Axial, settled there.

Of course, Zuriel and Zendahl didn't go by their Zelenese names. No, that would quite ruin the purpose of why they came to Earth in the first place. As far as any Earthlings knew, the two were Zane and Zachariah, and, with just a bit of what the humans called 'make-up' the Zelenians could mute their radiant gold-green skin to look merely olive-complexioned. 'Hair Dye' turned their silvery-white hair black for Zuriel, golden for Zendahl. The both wore glasses to distract from the unnaturally large, slightly oblong pupils in their storm-grey eyes. Add some Earth clothes, and the effect was two Zelenians passing as convincing-if-particularly-tall humans.

The reason for all the deception? Zendahl had wonderful people-skills, and was an infallible judge of character. Zuriel was one of the quickest-thinking logicians in the universe. Together, they were a seriously impressive detective team.

The pair had left Zeles'Axial for a number of reasons. They were both from fairly poor families, and on their home planet, that kind of quagmire was nearly impossible to get out of. They wanted something better. Secondly, neither of them was particularly interested in the Zelenese custom-necessity of settling down with a wife and starting a family. They were happier bachelors.

So, they had emigrated to out-of-the-way Earth, and settled in a fairly large city called Chicago in the Earthian province of America. They had first found a rather shady character who managed to get them an office, and, over the years, they had become more and more well-known. Business, as the Earthlings said, was booming.

Break

Zuriel glanced at the clock on his desk. 5:58 PM. Closing time, and thank the stars—life in the office had been nonexistent. And he was starving. With a sigh, he scooted his chair back and slipped out of his office to lock up—only to find that Zendahl had shared the same idea and was already finishing up the task. Hearing his approach, the other Zelenian sent him an oddly lingering glance and nodded in greeting.

"Today was beyond dull," Zendahl commented, turning back to his task.

"Agreed. The only person that even stopped in was the UPS guy," Zuriel replied.

"Bringing another shipment of your classic Earthian science-fiction books?" The other quipped with a grin, pocketing his keys.

"No! …Well, okay. But they're almost funny, how the humans used to think of space!" Lame defense trailing off, Zuriel followed Zendahl to the back of the office and up the narrow flight of stairs that led to their upstairs apartment.

The other flipped the light on, flinging his coat onto the nearby couch. Zuriel folded his and laid it neatly atop the same piece of furniture, seconds away from complaining of hunger when his stomach gave a loud rumble that made words unnecessary.

"I'll do something about that as soon as I feel Zelenian again," Zendahl smirked, already halfway to the bathroom.

"See that you do!" Zuriel demanded, trotting after him. Once there, both took off their pragmatic-but-useless glasses and set to work washing the human-skin-toned cream from the visible parts of their bodies, slightly metallic gold-green replacing matte tan.

Zuriel leaned over the sink to give his face a final rinse, and Zendahl pointed out, "Your roots are showing."

"Already?" He replied, "Damn it. Black hair is ridiculously hard to keep." Particularly when one's natural color is just about the opposite, he added in his mind. It was easier for Zendahl, whose was a light gold that blended much better with his own. "I wish I could just go back natural…" He added wistfully.

Zendahl was silent for a long moment, staring idly at one of the faucets.

"Do you ever miss it?"

Zuriel started at his sudden question. "Miss what? My hair color?"

"Zeles'Axial," Zendahl answered.

He lowered his head. "Every day."

Of course he did—it was his home. Earth was beautiful in its own right…but everything there was just different from home. He missed waking up to the soft scent of Zelenian goldsprouts, a tiny flower that infested the planet like Earthian grass, but smelled considerably nicer. He missed the friendly violet-blue of the oceans…those on Earth were a rather foreboding blue-grey-green mess. He missed the smooth, whirring language that he had grown up speaking. Most of all, he missed his family. He had four sisters and two brothers…Zuriel was the oldest. He wondered daily if they still thought of him. Even scarier was the thought that his youngest sister might not even remember him…she had barely been walking when Zuriel had left Zeles'Axial, and he hadn't been home to visit since then. Not even once.

Snapping out of his pensive reverie, he shrugged, and asked casually, "Do you?"

Zendahl turned around and half-sat on the counter. "I used to. Not so much, anymore."

Zuriel looked up at him in surprise, and their eyes met and locked for what seemed like an eternity. At length, Zendahl flushed a deeper olive and looked away, starting toward the door.

"I'll get started on dinner, then?"

Zuriel nodded, but the other was already out the door. Suddenly feeling the need for a nice, hot soak, he turned the shower knobs and undressed, allowing the water time to heat up before getting in.

Break.

Zendahl strode quickly down the hallway toward the kitchen, not missing the sound of water being turned on.

Don't imagine him naked, don't imagine him naked, don't imagine him slowly unbuttoning that Earth shirt, slipping it sensuously off his shoulders, don't imagine him naked, don't imagine his hands sliding down to the zipper of his pants—dammit. I'm imagining him naked. I need to stop doing that.

Arriving at his destination, he opened both the refrigerator and freezer doors, letting the cool air rush over his skin until he shivered. That's better.

The kitchen was Zendahl's domain, and he ruled it with a fervor. Glancing at the inside of the fridge, he grimaced at the sheer variety—or lack thereof. That was the last time he let Zuriel do the shopping. A quick inventory check showed that they had a gallon of milk, a half-empty bottle of wine, some very old bananas, a jar of strawberry jam, a bottle of ranch dressing, and at least five pounds of carrots.

Zuriel loved those odd orange tubers—something about him being from the country back on Zeles'Axial. He had mentioned once that they reminded him of some vegetables in his mother's garden. With a half-frown, he pulled out a few of the carrots and set them on the counter. It seemed that they'd be eating light—he had to remember to go to the supermarket tomorrow.

With a practiced ease, Zendahl set to washing and peeling the vegetables, slicing them into bite-sized pieces and scooping them onto two plates. His mind, though, was far from his task—far from his current galaxy.

It was true—he didn't miss his old planet. After he had gotten over the initial culture shock, Zendahl was surprised to find that he vastly preferred Earth people, society, and culture to his own. Of course he hadn't mentioned anything like that to his companion…Zuriel pined for Zeles'Axial every day; it was blatantly obvious. And Zendahl had enough secrets—what was one more?

He poured the remaining Ranch Dressing into a ceramic bowl, openly frowning by that point. Perhaps the difference in attitudes among the two Zelenian emigrants was to be found in their reasons for leaving. Zuriel's had been entirely economic—he was from a large, poor, rural family. He had wanted to make his fortune across the stars. Zendahl? He had been born into a society where he could never be himself. His home world was a beautiful place in itself, but it wasn't exactly the most open-minded of places. It was distinctly xenophobic, as well as, and herein lay Zendahl's problem, homophobic.

By the time he had figured it out, he knew he wouldn't be able to stay and live a lie. So, he had left his small-town home and gone to a spaceport, working odd jobs to make enough money for a ticket out—which is where he had met Zuriel. He couldn't say that it was love at first sight, but there had been a definite attraction on Zendahl's part—one that had only grown as he had lived in such tight quarters with the man for close on five years.

He sighed, setting the plates of sliced carrots on the tiny kitchen table, along with the dish of Ranch, and scoured the kitchen for something to drink. The milk was out of question—it was fresh and unopened, but Zendahl hated milk. He spied the bottle of wine, and muttered, "What the hell…" Sweeping the bottle and a couple of glasses from their storage places, he deposited them on the table just as the sound of running water shut off.

He closed his eyes and swallowed, certainly not imagining his flatmate naked again, strong Earthian gravity pulling beads of water down, down across gold-green skin...

Zuriel found Zendahl contemplating the contents of the freezer when he emerged from the bathroom.

Break.

Zuriel hadn't had time to check his email before he heard the ringing of the bell that announced a visitor to the office—they hadn't even been open ten minutes. Business was finally picking up, it seemed.

He glanced curiously out of his open door, glimpsed a man in a fedora hat, shrugged, and returned to his computer. He'd be called if he was needed. It was Zendahl's job to greet people—he got Earthlings, something that Zuriel was still having trouble grasping.

Sure enough, he heard the bright friendly voice, saying, "Welcome! I'm Zachariah Aleman—how can I help you?"

There was a low response from the tall stranger, and an equally low response from Zendahl—in a guarded tone that immediately had Zuriel worried and looking out the door again.

"Zuriel, you might want to come out here," the other Zelenian said, voice serious.

Not sure what to make of the situation—particularly Zendahl's use of his true name, Zuriel slipped out of his office into the front room. The visitor, now hatless, looked his way, and he gasped.

The man was obviously an Alezian—from Zeles'Axial's sister planet, Alez'Orian. The deep copper, metallic skin tone and grey-purple eyes, the wavy blue-black hair all screamed his origins.

The man smiled disarmingly, and some of the tension left Zuriel.

"You are both Zelenians," he said in the language shared by the two races. It wasn't a question, but they both nodded anyway. The Alezian took a breath, and continued, "I am in need of your detective services."

Straight to the point, Zendahl asked, "What's the situation?"

"So direct," the man commented, looking back to the taller Zelenian, "You have been on Earth too long." He received a glare from Zendahl and lowered his head in apology. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to offend. Alright, I shall take your cue and get to the point. I am Arisan of Alez'Orian, and my niece has disappeared. We have reason to believe that she has run away to Earth. I need your help to find her."

Zendahl let off his glaring, and habitually cupped his chin in his hand, uncaring of the smudged makeup. "This might be difficult—she could be anywhere."

"Does this mean you'll take the case?" Arisan asked.

Zendahl looked to Zuriel, silent questions asked.

"Have you considered that she doesn't want to be found?" Zuriel asked at length. The Alezian sighed, and replied, "I'm afraid that that is entirely the situation. And normally I'd like to let her make her own decisions—but His Eminence, King Akilan of Alez'Orian, who happens to be my brother-in-law, and the girl's father, is quite anxious to have Ashamin back.

"You didn't mention that we were dealing with royalty, Arisan," Zendahl said with trepidation, taken aback in the sudden shift in importance.

Zuriel, the more rational of the two, decided to step in. "Of course, knowing this, we'll take the case. But I have a question," he let the comment hang, and Arisan nodded at him, "Why us? There are hundreds more qualified for this job than the two of us."

Arisan sighed, and began to explain. "The matter is quite secretive, and possibly illegal by Earthian laws. We can't get the human authorities involved—that would tarnish the princess' reputation." He left unsaid the well known fact that reputation was everything on Alez'Orian.

Zuriel nodded and accepted the answer.

"Understood. Please give us any information you have relating to the case, and we'll get started immediately. Zendahl, I think we should close the office—this case definitely takes priority."

"Of course," the other Zelenian said.

The three retreated to Zuriel's office to discuss the details of the case—the case that, little did they know, would change everything.

Break.

Two weeks in, after endless pouring over facts and suppositions, information and conjectures, Zendahl cracked the case. His theory explained everything—Ashamin's sudden reclusiveness, her distance from her family and the rest of the court, her interest in the cultures of other worlds.

Well, actually the answer had all but been handed to him when Zuriel managed to hack into the princess' InterWorld Wide Web profile, and, with a little digging, had pulled up chat logs.

Ashamin had, apparently, met an Earth boy online, one as fascinated by Alez'Orian as Ashamin herself was sick of it. He felt like a voyeur, reading their conversations, watching their relationship grow from merely curious, to friends, to something more—something that the princess would abandon her throne and planet for.

Something that Zendahl and his work would take away from her. He frowned and pushed his desk chair away from the computer, blinking and scrubbing his hands over his eyes. He didn't like the situation. He didn't like it a bit. He knew fully well what it was like to be hopelessly in love with someone; it was something he had to deal with on a daily basis. Zendahl could only imagine what it would be like were he younger—young like Ashamin and her Earth boy, Jaden Hoffman. He wouldn't have even half the restraint that adulthood had instilled in him.

He gave a deep sigh and rolled his shoulders, freeing them from some of the tension of long hours looking over the logs. No need to invade their privacy any more—Jaden had given away more than enough information to allow the detectives to find him, and surely Ashamin, too.

Break.

Zuriel was always the one that was good with technology. He understood it…better than he understood people, at least. So, it wasn't difficult for him to 'sneak' into the state of Nevada residency database and find the home of a certain Earth boy all-too-entangled with an Alezian princess.

He had seen the looks on Zendahl's face whenever they had made a step toward closing the case for good. The regret, the sympathy. He wasn't entirely sure he saw where the other was coming from. Ashamin had made a mistake, and now it was coming back to bite her. Responsibility was responsibility, and it came before intergalactic relationships. Or so Zuriel thought. Apparently his partner on the case was more romantic.

Finally, after days of communicating with the computer in his office, Zuriel pinpointed Jaden's position. His parents owned a vacation home overlooking a scenic lake. The heating and electricity bills had been paid for the last month, while Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman were still in their Carson City residence. It wasn't a one-hundred-percent guarantee that Jaden and Ashamin would be there, but he thought the evidence was high enough in their favor to at least check it out.

He printed off the maps showing the cabin's location, straightened the small stack, and slipped into Zendahl's office. He caught the now-familiar drawn resignation in his friend's face as he halfheartedly attempted a crossword puzzle before he covered it with a fake grin, looking up expectantly.

"I've found them. Well…I'm pretty sure," Zuriel said, offering the maps.

He eyed the maps, shuffling through. "They're in a lake?"

The corner of Zuriel's mouth twitched in what might have been an almost-laugh, and he replied, "Not quite. The Hoffmans have some fancy-ass cabin at the lake. Apparently they're loaded. The cabin's in use, but the parents are still at the home address."

Zendahl went silent for a long moment, long enough for the quiet to grow awkward, before saying, "Sounds promising. Are we going to book a flight out to Nevada? Is it colder there, do you think? If we didn't want to bother with airport security, it's probably an all-day drive…"

Zuriel raised a dyed-black eyebrow. When Zendahl starting talking logistics, that meant that he was seriously concerned, but trying not to think about the matter at hand.

"Calm down," Zuriel interrupted, more harshly than he'd intended, and Zendahl cut off with a strangled sound. Letting out a breath, he continued more gently, "Look. I know full well that you don't like the situation. I can…kind of…understand…I think. But this is business. And it's got to be taken care of."

"Yes, but our business is completely destroying the relationship of two young people…they're in love, Zuriel, god damn it!"

Quietly, almost in a whisper, Zuriel replied, "Love comes second to responsibility."

The other let out something between an exasperated sigh and a scoff. "When someone—particularly someone young—falls in love, it takes over every part of their mind. Responsibility means nothing; they'd give up anything for love. Perhaps it is irrational, but that's the way it is. The only reason you're so damn logical about this whole mess is because you've never been in love!" The volume and tempo of his speech has risen throughout his rant, so that he was almost shouting by the end.

Still quietly, Zuriel responded, "And…you have been?" It was a curious question, and yet somehow it sounded disdainful and challenging, and his heart sank as Zendahl's grey eyes narrowed.

"Of course I have, you fucking idiot," he spat before lithely avoiding Zuriel and slinking up the stairs to cook with a fury.

Zuriel had the feeling that he had really screwed things up this time. Unfortunately, he didn't have the faintest clue what to say that might fix the damage he had done.

But his mother might. Homesickness hadn't prompted him to log onto the personal side of the InterWorld Wide Web, but this could. Reluctantly, he sent a flurry of keystrokes over thousands of light-years…

Break.

Zendahl stir-fried some noodles with a vengeance. Noodles and bits of meat and peppers and mushrooms and onions and little green things, and no carrots, just out of spite.

He really shouldn't be mad at Zuriel, some stupid rational voice in the back of his head told him, but the man was so ridiculously obtuse in the emotional department. He was a genius with computers, remembered the most obscure facts, and could generally think himself out of any situation.

So long as he didn't have to feel to do it. Feeling was beyond his capacity.

He continued making a generally epic Thai meal, sweet and spicy and entirely delicious. He always did his best cooking when he was thoroughly pissed off.

Zendahl wasn't sure how long he'd been at the stove when he heard a tentative knock on the door to the flat. He barely paused in his sauce-mixing.

"Yeah?" He yelled sharply at the knocker. Not looking back, he heard the door creak open (he really should get new hinges, he thought absurdly) and footsteps come his way. A glass clink on the rickety table caught his attention, but Zendahl stubbornly refused to turn away from his stirring. He could feel Zuriel's eyes boring into the back of his blond-dyed head.

"Okay, what," Zendahl demanded at length.

"I am an insensitive asshole with no tact and I fucked up. Bad. I'm sorry." It was given with Zuriel's typical soft, flat delivery, but some edge to the words was enough to make Zendahl declare his sauce done and turn around, leaning back against the counter.

"Oh, really?" He asked, not quite over his earlier anger.

Zuriel nodded, studying his knees. The bottle partially obscured by his shoulder caught Zendahl's attention.

"Whassat?" He asked, semi-intelligibly.

"What's what? Oh! Um, wine. From that one place. I sprang for the expensive stuff, 'cause I know you like it and yeah…" Zuriel said, trailing off lamely.

His awkwardness dissolved Zendahl's anger more than the peace offering did, and he relented, dropping his defensive posture. "It's cool. Have some food. I'm not sure that wine technically goes with Thai food, but since when have we been culinary snobs?"

With one of his heart-melting grins, Zuriel grabbed a bowl and began scooping some noodles. After a moment's observation, he exclaimed, "Whaaat? Where are the carrots?"

"Insensitive assholes don't get carrots."

Break.

Several days later saw everything back to normal with Zendahl and Zuriel, and found them on a plane out to Nevada. Zuriel shifted. He hated human planes. His legs were too long for the cramped rows in the economy class, and he was too cheap to go for first. Zendahl apparently had no such problem—his knees were curled up to his chest and he was dozing against the window. Half-out of the corner of his eye, Zuriel observed his friend. Zendahl's roots were showing, although he would have missed that if he hadn't been looking for it. Zuriel had touched up his only the day before—he idly wondered if the old lady at the corner store got suspicious, with him buying hair dye every two weeks or so.

"Urngh," Zendahl said, turning his face more into the window without waking. Zuriel took it as an invitation to observe more closely. Zelenians were an attractive race, tall and lithe, and he could—on a purely objective basis—admit that the one curled up in the seat was a particularly fine specimen. Certainly more attractive than the girls from his hometown—on a purely objective basis.

Zendahl's eyes fluttered open as he grumbled something about his neck hurting. He languorously rolled it from side to side, with more than a few audible pops, and Zuriel passed off the strange warmth in his stomach as a reaction to the complimentary soda.

About then, the pilot announced that the plane was beginning its descent.

"Time to get on with this, I suppose," the drowsy Zelenian muttered. Zuriel gave him an inscrutable look, willing himself not to say anything that might provoke another argument. But Zendahl fixed him with a storm-grey stare, and said, "I still don't like this."

Zuriel played with his plastic cup. "I know."

Break.

By mid-afternoon, Zendahl had escaped the hellish compound that was an airport, and found himself behind the wheel of a semi-decent rental car. It was an old model—one of the first mass-produced antigravity vehicles on Earth. It kept a constant distance above the ground, but it followed the bumps and pits in the road like the new ones didn't. He shuddered at the thought of the wheeled cars of ages past.

Despite the vehicle's shortcomings, and the overall purpose of this trip (something that he was desperately trying to distract himself from), Zendahl was a bit entranced by the scenery whizzing by at 120 miles per hour. Mountains were one thing that Zeles'Axial didn't have—not like Earth mountains, at least. It was a flat planet, not so dynamic as this one.

"How close are we?" He asked, speaking for the first time in half an hour. Zuriel started from where he had been playing with the GPS thing.

"Oh—um," he said intelligently, pressed a few buttons, and announced, "About thirty miles from the lake."

"That close?" Zendahl asked, mostly of himself.

So, only twenty minutes later, according to the car's clock, they were on the dirt road (not that it made much difference, with anti-g technology) and the cabin (more of a lodge) was growing larger and larger.

A good distance away, Zendahl put the car in park, and it slowly settled to the dust. He went through calming motions—locking the doors, checking his wallet for his license before briskly striding up to the front door, Zuriel beside him, so close that their hands brushed every few steps.

Zendahl knocked on the door, and stepped away. There was a long moment of silence, then noises from within. Finally, a tall Earth boy opened up, craning just his head and shoulders out the door.

"Yeah?" He said, fixing them with a dark look.

Zendahl went into friendly mode. "Hello, Jaden Hoffman, correct?"

"Yeah," he repeated again, suspicious, nervous.

"I'm Zachariah Aleman and this is…"

"Zane Adams," Zuriel filled in.

"And we're here to—" Zendahl continued pleasantly, but Jaden cut him off.

"I don't' care about your Jehovah's Witness shit," he said, voice edging hysterical.

Zendahl's voice dropped a level. "We're not Jehovah's Witnesses, Mr. Hoffman. We're private investigators hired by Duke Arisan to locate the missing Alezian princess, Ashamin. Do you know where she is, Mr. Hoffman?"

Panic definitely flared in his eyes. "No. I don't know who you're talking about—"

"Let them in, Jay." It was a female voice, with the lilting accents of Alez'Orian.

Break.

Ashamin's demeanor screamed royalty. She was calm, poised, articulate, and somehow intimidating, even to Zuriel. He found himself ushered to a very nice leather couch and placed next to Zendahl before he had really registered that they found the princess.

She plopped down in an armchair across from them, Jaden hovering slightly off to the side.

Before Zendahl could explain the situation, Ashamin began, "So, Uncle Ari sent you."

"Yes, princess," Zendahl answered, while Zuriel just nodded.

"And I expect that he wants you to fetch me back?"

"Also correct," Zuriel found himself saying.

"I suppose it was really just a matter of time until someone showed up. I'm glad it's not the Alezian royal guard," she said somewhere between facetious and exasperated.

Zuriel glanced toward the Earth boy, who was fidgeting, clearly trying to keep from speaking.

"I suppose that you don't plan to go, then?" Zendahl asked her, in a voice so soft that even Zuriel had to strain to hear it. Ashamin had, apparently, for her face grew grim.

"I'll admit…that running away like that was short-sighted and impulsive of me…" She trailed off, obviously at odds with her mature statement.

Jaden finally started forward, "Ash, baby, you can't leave like that, not after everything…"

"Jay," she said, and he promptly shut up.

Stronger, now, Ashamin continued, "But now that I've gotten out, I'm not going back."

Zuriel said, "Princess, you have to. You have a responsibility to your father, to your uncle, and to the people of Alez'Orian." He felt Zendahl stiffen; the words were too close to their argument the other day.

Ashamin sighed, and said, almost plaintively, "Don't think I don't know that. I've been beating myself up over that ever since I got this ridiculous idea. But…I had to get out. You have to understand that—you two clearly aren't Earthian, am I correct?"

Zendahl answered for them. "Right." He wiped a smear of foundation from his face, exposing gold-green. "Zelenian. We emigrated. But…there's a difference."

"It's because I'm a princess." Ashamin made it a statement. Zendahl nodded grimly. She continued, "That's true, but I'm alive before that. I'm real, and I feel as deeply as anyone else. And…I love Jaden."

"She makes valid arguments," Zuriel said aside to Zendahl, "What do you want to do?" Perhaps it was a sudden change of heart, or perhaps he was finally letting his rational side take the backseat, but suddenly he didn't want to take Ashamin's freedom from her.

Zendahl understood, and didn't even bother to confer. "Princess…Ashamin. I didn't like the idea of having to force you to go back in the first place. Look…we're going to…pretend we never found you."

Her head snapped up, eyes wide, and Zuriel could see how young the princess really was. Jaden took her hand, and the Zelenian couldn't help but smile.

Break.

The next morning, after a completely sleepless night, Zendahl and Zuriel were back in Chicago. He had called in Arisan to discuss what had happened—or the cover up, which he felt horrible about. But he had been stuck between a rock and a hard place.

The Alezian was there the minute they opened the doors, looking expectantly at them.

Zendahl took a breath. "What do you want first: the bad news, or the bad news?"

Arisan frowned. "I suppose I'll have to go with the bad news."

"We didn't find her," Zuriel said bluntly, as Zendahl had hesitated, trying to soften the blow. Arisan was silent for a long moment.

"So, you didn't find her," he mused.

"The cabin was empty when we got there," Zuriel lied again, glibly.

"In fact, she and her human boy probably got an untraceable space craft and have gone to an unknown planet, and you don't have a clue where, correct?"

It took Zendahl a minute to figure out that he was playing along, trying to protect Ashamin.

"That's right," he said.

Arisan smiled. "Good. She never wanted to be queen. And I…I just want her to be happy. Her sister is much more suited to the throne, at any rate. Her father will still be devastated, though."

Neither Zelenian said a word, so Arisan continued, "Thank you two, for your help and…discretion in the matter. You will still be paid handsomely for your service to the Alezian throne."

"Yeah," Zendahl said eloquently.

"This whole thing has been rather awkward, hasn't it? I'm sorry about that. Anyway, you look like you could deal with a nap. The money will be delivered within a week, or would you prefer it wired into an account?"

"An account's good," Zuriel said, as he handled the monetary aspects of their business, "Let me get you the account number…" He dug a bit in a drawer, scribbled on a post it note, and handed it to the Alezian duke. With a final nod and farewell, he left the office, and the two exhausted investigators went upstairs to sleep the day away.

Break.

Zuriel had been up for a while when Zendahl stumbled out of his room as the sun was beginning to set. Without looking up from the newspaper he was pretending to read, he demanded, "I want coffee. Let's get some."

Zendahl yawned, and answered, "Fine with me. I don't wanna have to go all human, though."

"We'll just put on dorky tee shirts and pretend to be tourists, then?" Zuriel offered, silently amused and relieved. It seemed like he spend more time with a layer of tan goop on his face than he did natural.

"Also fine with me." Moments later, outfitted in matching Washington D.C. shirts, the two were walking down the street to the nearest chain coffee shop, where they ordered to go, and, by unspoken agreement and tradition, walked to a city park to watch the sun set. They attracted some attention with their skin and all, but mostly went unremarked, a sign that Earth was really joining the Confederation.

Located on an isolated west-facing bench, they sipped their drinks and enjoyed the early autumn warmth. Finally, his coffee drained, Zuriel worked up the courage to ask the awkward question that had been plaguing him for days.

"So, Zendahl," he said, and the other made an acknowledging noise. "You know how a couple days ago we had that conversation that ended with you being really pissed at me?"

"Yeah, I remember it," Zendahl said cautiously, leaning forward to set his empty cup on the sidewalk.

"I've been wondering…Um, this I a personal question, but…Who is it that you were in love with?"

He laughed softly. "There's no 'were' or 'was' about it. I've never fallen out of love with this person."

"Oh…" He trailed off awkwardly, without a clue what to do or say next. To occupy his hands, he copied Zendahl and placed his cup on the ground.

"You…really want to know who it is?" Zendahl asked in a voice so soft and vulnerable that Zuriel did a double-take at the man he had known for so many years.

"Yeah…I do," he answered, and before the ensuing silence had a chance to get awkward, Zuriel found a familiar pair of lips moving firmly against his own. For a moment, he was too surprised to do anything but sit there and take it, but by the time Zendahl's hand found the back of his head, threading through his hair and tilting his face up, he was kissing him back with an equal amount of enthusiasm—which surprised Zendahl almost as much as Zuriel himself. Perhaps, he allowed himself to think, those admiring thoughts he'd had toward the other Zelenian weren't entirely objective at all. Perhaps, he allowed himself to think, that he had loved him after a fashion for years. Zuriel certainly trusted no one like he trusted Zendahl; no one could make him smile like Zendahl could; and surely no one else made Zuriel feel like he did at that moment, as their kiss grew deeper, and he clutched at the other man's silly tourist shirt for dear life.

Finally, air became a necessity, and Zendahl gasped, "It was you. Always you. Zuriel, you're an idiot, but I love you."

"Yeah," Zuriel replied breathlessly, that one word saying about a million more. He was about to lean back in before he realized that they were in a very public park, and everyone and their dog could see them.

"Home?" Zendahl asked, his voice a purr that Zuriel hadn't heard before, one that sent a shiver down his spine.

"Yeah," he repeated.

End.

Author's Note: This is for Dramatizer, who I promised a oneshot months ago. I'm sorry it took about a million years—forgive me?