Adam gave him a wry smile, taking another sip of his coffee. "I'm sorry," he murmured quietly. "I'm not sure...I suppose I didn't realize it would come as that much of a surprise. At least not my," he hesitated over the word, "Interest. I'm nearly four-hundred years old. Things like gender cease to be as important as what's inside someone, the connections you form."

Plus he'd been in the merchant navy, the British navy, and a pirate, he thought ruefully, loud enough for Peter to hear if he was trying. You learned things then about need and friendship and comfort. And love, though that thought was gone as fast as it came, pushed back, hard to the places he didn't have to examine it.

"His friendship means more to me than that," he told him, half hoping to reassure him. "We went through hell together, in the Company's cells. He gave me hope when I didn't have any left, and I like to think I kept him from going mad. He got me out of there when no one else could. I owe him my life, literally."