Title: A Picture Says A Thousand Words
Author: Granitite Stone, granitite@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: If they were mine, would I be writing fanfiction?
Rating: R
Distribution: Ask and ye shall receive
Website: Choose Your Poison at my sister's site, who's nice enough to host my stories. https://www.angelfire.com/weird/cobalite/index.html

Part Two

He blamed everything on Eminem. His brother was a fan, and he knew all the homophobic lyrics by heart. He'd known Andy might not understand, but his parents…. Their reaction shocked him. Thrown out, practically disowned. All because he thought guys were cute. So, he did what any red blooded American would do. Stan planned Eminem's murder.

He found his name ironic, and appropriate. Stan would have finally have his revenge. His plan was perfect in every respect. Eminem only used bodyguards for public appearances. His house was protected by an expensive computerized security system. Stan would know. He was part of the team that installed it after Kim moved out. He still knew the override codes that would get him in, silently, without tripping the system. He already had a gun. Reasonably untraceable, because it was so old it wasn't registered. A gift from his maternal grandfather. He was sure Grandpa would approve. Revenge was big where he came from. It was well maintained, and shot well enough to be fired at point blank range. Stan wasn't stupid.

He would creep in after seeing Eminem going to bed. He lived alone, so there was no chance for mistaken identity. A single shot, and he would take the gun and shell casing away with him. A check of the pulse, with gloved hands, that he would rinse, and dispose of with the gun. Stan was a fan of forensic science. He also routinely shaved his head. No hair, and the clothes he wore were a dime a dozen. No evidence, and he had a reasonable alibi.

Stan had taped four hours of prime time television. He'd watch it when he got home, and if the police did manage to find him, the tape would be long gone, and his VCR would have deleted the program.

He turned off the alarm, and opened the bedroom window. There was a male figure curled under the covers, and he could even see dull blonde hair in the moonlight. Stan smiled, and slipped on his gloves. The gun was loaded, and he took aim. A single, silenced shot. Just as planned. Stan's smile just got bigger. "Well, Mr. Mathers. I believe you won't ever say a bad word about queers ever again." He pulled back the cover, and turned on the bedside lamp.

"What are you doing here?" Stan had never been more confused in his life. Then he saw it. The drawing on the nightstand. The gun fell from his fingers. His fingers went to AJ's carotid. A pulse. Weak, but there. "Oh my god. What have I done?"

He grabbed the phone, and clumsily dialed 911. His old First Aid training kicked in, and he monitored vitals as the line rang. He couldn't believe AJ was still breathing.

"911. What's your emergency?"

"I shot him."
-----
"Pulse coming up!" The EMT gave a sigh of relief. Maybe this kid was going to make it. Not like the one who shot himself when they walked in the door. A murder suicide, and a case of mistaken identity. No one knew where Marshall Mathers was, or what AJ McLean had been doing at his house, but there was media swarming everywhere. His supervisor had order a blackout. If something untoward had happened here, maybe one of their careers could be salvaged.

"Let's get him in the ambulance." His lady partner helped him lift the backboard.

They could both hear a car roar into the driveway. Luckily, it wasn't blocking their path. Eminem had broken the time barrier to get here so quickly. "What's going on?"

"Not now. We can save him if we hurry." She was in no mood to deal with someone like Eminem tonight. "Talk to the Sup." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, and another alarm rang out.

"Fuck. He's crashing again. Get him on the ground." The male EMT took a deep breath, and started CPR again.

Eminem looked like a man who's entire world was ending. The supervisor walked over. "He told Rescue Services he came to shoot you. He kept up rescue breathing until the EMT's arrived, and then shot himself."

"Why?"

"We don't know."

"Pulse is back!" A triumphant shout. "Dammit, he's waking up. Get some tranqs in him. It's gonna be a long ride." She dug through her bag, searching for the right bottle.

Eminem pushed forward, dropping to his knees. "Alex, Alex, can you here me?"

AJ looked up, barely registering where he was. "Hurts."

"I know." He took AJ's hand, noting how clammy it was. "You're gonna be alright."

"You think?" The needle slipped into his vein, and the drugs started to take effect. "Just in case, though. We don't say it enough, Marshall, but I love you. You know that, right."

"I know. Don't you dare die on me, Alex. I don't have anyone else who can say that with a straight face." He was being pushed away by the EMT's. "Love you too." Then they were taking him away, leaving Eminem standing in his driveway, the supervisor trying to get his attention. "What happened?"

"We don't know." The supervisor cleared his throat. "But he said his name was Stan."
-------
Time. It goes on and on. Except in the waiting room of the OR. The other Backstreet Boys had arrived several hours before, towing a hysterical Denise with them. They found Eminem pacing, like a feral animal. Only Denise dared to go near him and Kevin mummered that she should be eligible for some kind of medal for bravery. She managed to get him to sit down with absolutely no bloodshed, and he was sure that if it had been anyone but Eminem, Denise would have been stroking his hair.

But it was, so she settled for talking quietly to him. Nick watched them. "Brian, what are we going to do?"

"We wait." Brian touched his cross. "And we hope Marshall doesn't snap in the meantime."

"I don't want to see him unhinged." Howie was staring at the ceiling. "I know you guys don't really believe it, but he loves AJ. If something happens in that operating room….."

"We're all fucked." That came from Kevin. Six eyes stared at him. "He was shot in Detroit when he should have been in Orlando. How the hell could we cover this up? We're fucked. He dies, I won't keep going, and neither will any of you. He lives, we have a lot of explaining to do."

The doors swung open, and a doctor, still in scrubs, walked in. "Mrs. McLean?"

"Yes?" Denise stood up. "How is he?"

"I'm sorry. There's nothing we could do." The doctor said it as quickly as he could, noticing Eminem rising from his seat. "We did everything we could do. There was just too much trauma."

"He's dead. You're telling me Alex is dead." Eminem's face was blank, expressionless, but his eyes were even deader. "Say it, you fucker. Don't dance around it."

"Yes." He took a step back, as if expecting to be hit. "He's dead."

Eminem made a strangled noise, and punched the wall. His fist went through drywall with a cracking noise, and he slumped to the floor, like a run down toy. "Marshall." Denise knelt next to him. She touched his face, and her hand came away wet. Tears. "Shhhh." And then she did what any mother would do. She hugged him.

Nick buried his face in his hands, and Brian latched onto him. Howie and Kevin crossed the room, and joined them. Brian stroked Nick's hair, before whispering. "We need to call someone."

"Who?" Kevin looked down at Eminem and Denise. "You want to tell Dr. Dre that Eminem's gay lover was just shot in his Detroit home? That the front man to D12 is crying on the floor of a hospital?"

"I'll do it." Howie pulled away. "Marshall? We're gonna take care of this." There was no answer. Howie just walked over to the payphone, and picked up the receiver with a quake in his hands.
-----
The funeral was a who's who in the industry. Backstreet up front with Denise, Nsync and Britney sitting a few rows back. Michael and Janet Jackson, Mandy Moore, Christina Aguilera. O-Town in the last row, and even 98 Degrees had come out of hiding and put in an appearance. Assorted other artists, including Shaggy and Sisco, all the Carters, Krystal.

Dre thought he was going to get hives from all these pop stars in one place. The rain was getting worse as the priest rambled on, and Dre hated funerals period, especially ones in the rain. He'd been to a few too many. To top it all off, Denise had come and stolen Eminem to sit with her, and he'd gotten stuck sandwiched in-between two fawning starlets AJ used to fuck before hooking up with Eminem. 'The next boyfriend, he buries on his own. And I cannot believe I just thought that.'

His protégé had been in a state of catatonia for days. He'd broken three bones in his hand, and had barely flinched when the doctors had set them. Howie Dorough had called, and woken him up to his worst nightmare. There was a total press blackout. The official story was that Stan had shot himself because Eminem wasn't home, and AJ had been killed in a car accident.

As Eminem stood and joined the line to throw dirt on the coffin, Dre wondered how long it would take Slim to realize he was dead too.
-----

The funeral was closed to the press, but that wasn't stopping MTV. Their news van was parked on a hill about half a mile away. Two low level grunts, Darrel and James, were assigned to sit here for three hours in the rain, watching them intern one of the biggest pop stars in history. Darrel looked through the binoculars, the rain finally starting to let up. "There's five of them."

"What?" James looked up from his magazine. "There were five of them, bud. McLean's almost six feet under."

"Sitting with his mother. There's five guys. Take a look." He passed his partner the binoculars. "You know, they say he was queer. This could be our break, if we can actually photograph the boyfriend."

"Holy shit." James set down the binoculars. "I didn't believe her. I thought she was crazy."

"Who?"

"My cousin, man. She works at this toy store in Detroit. That guy, sitting down there, is none other than Marshall Mathers." James rubbed his eyes. "I gotta send her a thank you note."

"You're kidding me." Darrel took another look. "You're not kidding me. Holy shit doesn't cover this, my friend. Get the telegraphic lens."

James screwed it onto their camera. "You realize we're about to destroy five careers?"

"You still have your morals, Jim? Good for you." Darrel took the camera, and took aim. "A picture says a thousand words, but for MTV it sails a thousand ships. This is our one shot. I’m taking it."

The camera clicked.

The End