Title: "and burnt the topless towers..."
Author: monimala
Fandoms: "General Hospital"/"Queer As Folk" (USA)
Rating/Classification: SAC, slash, humor, crossover, Brian/?, drug use, language.
Disclaimer: The idea belongs to my hungover early-morning brain but the characters do not.
Summary: An ailing Port Charles company needs Brian Kinney's special expertise.

The view from the expansive, double-plated, windows was the charming Port Charles waterfront tucked cozily between buildings of varying size. The only thing that marred the pristine picture was a huge, ugly, industrial crane rising up into the skyline from the dockyards. It was more than vaguely phallic...and a far more interesting sight than the fluttering, delicate, hands and gleaming chrome dome of the man sitting behind him... the man who would *not* stop blabbering.

So, far Brian had learned that the owner of the company was locked in a nuthouse in London, that the spokesmodel, engaged to a Greco-Russian prince, had decided to attend law school, and that Deception was, basically, wheezing it's last pathetic breath under the faulty leadership of a man who flamed so brightly that he reduced The Honorable Emmett Honeycutt to a twinkling night light.

Of course he'd *heard* of Deception. Linds had been overjoyed when the company had started producing perfumes and make-up again and he'd given her an expensive gift set last Christmas. But the stock had plummeted over the last year and now the Little Company That Could was about to get crushed under Lancome's tres chic boot heels.

No wonder the agency had sent him. They needed a miracle worker to revitalize their marketing campaign.

All in all, a two day business trip to upstate New York wasn't so bad. His hotel was fancy, there was fine dining, the bellhop knew a guy who knew a guy who could score him some E. The only problem was..."Where do fags go for fun in this town?"

"Wh-what?" Elton blinked as he turned around, startled by the abrupt and off-topic question.

He repeated himself slowly and emphatically, letting his lazy grin stuff the blushing man deeper in his chair.. "Where. Do. Fags. Go. For. Fun. ?"

"Oh...! Oh...! Mr. Kinney, I'm not gay!" Elton turned an even darker shade of crimson and somewhere in the distance the Port Charles fire department was sliding down a pole and turning on the sirens.

"Riiiiight." He smirked. "That's why you've been staring at my dick for the last twenty minutes."

Red to purple and then clenched, pale, white. And fluttering. Again with the fluttering fingers. Was no one in Port Charles, New York Out and Proud? Oh, what a crying shame. It took several minutes for the poor flamer to recover and when he did, he sounded like the officious prick he'd been on the phone. Consummate professional, it seemed. Brian had to give him props for that. "We need to focus on the campaign, Mr Kinney. We've lost Gia Campbell... whatever shall we do?"

He glanced, dispassionately at the glossies on the edge of Elton's desk. A stunningly attractive black woman with huge eyes. Did nothing for him, of course, but he couldn't deny the appeal...to a certain extent. "Maybe you need to change your approach?" he wondered, taking to the view outside the windows again. "What woman wants to live up to THAT? There's no way any amount of self-Deception is going to make the average woman as hot as that model..." His breath caught as his queer Spidey sense started screaming "hallelujah"...something twink-ish and dark-haired and lean prowling the pier below. And he grinned wolfishly. "Unless you give her something that *gets* her hot."

"I...I don't understand what you mean..." Elton began.

He moved swiftly towards his briefcase, grabbing it up, and heading for the door. "You will," he assured, curtly, flipping a small purple card from his jacket pocket in the general direction of his flustered client. "Tomorrow morning. Or maybe...maybe right after I leave."

He so loved mixing business with pleasure. Lots of it.

And he hoped Elton thoroughly enjoyed JerkAtWork.Net.


He sprawled on the sticky sheets, lighting up a joint and making a mental note to call for maid service before he went over to the Deception offices in the morning. The kid was dressing, quickly, like he was preparing for a sorority girl's Walk of Shame...and far be it from Brian to stop him. This town was, evidently, the world's biggest walk-in closet.

He had a sullen face...just beaten and angry enough to keep from being pretty. And he was built like a brick house, all tight abs and firm pecs and a butt to die inside. Which Brian had, admittedly, just done a few minutes before. There were very faint scars on his skin that could be airbrushed away...and when Brian had queried, the kid had mumbled something about "bullet wounds" and "got cut" in between his cute virgin whispers of "Oh my God."

Brian was thinking a shadowed shot of chest, of faded blue jeans hugging hips. Maybe the tag line 'little white lies'? Except that there was nothing "little" about this remarkable specimen. Oh, not at all.

"What's your name?" he wondered, offering the safely jeaned and t-shirted twink a hit off the joint.

A smile...and it wasn't as stupidly young and pretty as Justin's... more dangerous and angry. "You always ask that *after*...?" He held the joint between his middle finger and thumb and inhaled like a pro. "Zander," he said with a grimace...whether that was from the pot or some internal angst wasn't clear. "My name's Zander."

"You ever thought about modeling, Zander?" He let the weed stay with it's new friend, rifling in the night table for the tab of E he'd stashed there earlier in the evening.

"Modeling?!?" The kid scoffed. "Yeah. I want to be the next Face of Deception," he snorted, rolling his eyes. They were nice, photogenic, big, brown, eyes. But it wasn't the eyes Brian was interested in...

"I wasn't thinking 'Face'," he assured, gestured not-so-subtly downwards...eliciting strong, tanned, fingers to work at the zipper they'd just inched upwards.

Keep the shadowed shot of chest, of faded blue jeans hugging hips... add a husky female voice-over for the t.v. spots and silver script for the print ads. *Deception...for your best kept secrets.*

Oh, yes.

Score one for Brian Kinney, Miracle Worker.



January 22, 2003.

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