by Ganymede
"My favorite dreams of you still wash ashore
Tomas hated cemeteries. Hated the dark that reached out and grabbed at your
pants legs as you walked, hated the noises that came from nowhere, hated the
possibilities. Too many possibilities, all of them imminently possible in the
place where the dead slept.
And every year, Alex insisted on going to this particular cemetery. And every
year, Tomas went with him.
Alex, next time I get to choose the rendezvous point. And you'd better believe
it's going to be well lit. And catered...
Following his memory, supplemented by the handwritten directions, scribbled on
the napkin that came with the tiny package of peanuts on the flight.
Follow the main path to the second branching road. Keep going past the angel
statue. Two rows of tombstones down, take a right. Hit the fence, turn left.
Past the little stand of trees. There.
A solitary figure, almost completely obscured by shadow, was sitting on top of
one of the older graves. Black and gray clothing, disappearing into the
moonlight, looking perfectly at home in a graveyard a few hours before midnight.
Alex.
Tomas stopped a few feet away, still wrapped in the quality of darkness afforded
by the tree cover, protected from the feeble moonlight. Alex wasn't aware of his
presence; that he knew for a fact. It was obvious in his half-fetal position on
top of the grass-covered plot, leaning on the stone for support, for warmth.
Eyes closed. Caressing the tombstone, tracing the words with his hands, carving
out the shadows with his fingertips.
The darkness lasted for a very long time. So did the silence. The moment looked
so...private, so intimate, Tomas felt like a voyeur.
"We really have to stop meeting like this, Alex. People will talk."
Sea-green eyes fluttered open, dazed at first, and then recognizing the voice
from the gloom. Tomas was shocked by the changes in his closest friend. The
trauma and stress of the past three weeks were etched in the planes of his face.
Sunrise was many hours away. For Alex, the sun hadn't risen in four years.
"Hi, Tomas. Glad you could make it."
Tomas carefully picked his way over to the grave and sat down next the larger
man. "Wouldn't miss it for the world. Graveyards are the next hip and happenin'
hangout, don'tcha know?"
Grinning. "Sorry. I must have missed the latest issue of GQ."
"You are so hopelessly fifteen minutes ago, Alex. Remind me again why I put up
with you?"
"Because you love me?" His voice cracked, need bubbling up in the broken places.
Alex winced. Tomas pretended he didn't hear it.
"Nyaah." Grinning evilly, Tomas wrapped an arm around his friend's waist. "I'm
only in it for your money."
"Eb tvoju mat'!"
Tomas, if you only knew...
One giggle. Then two. Followed shortly by a steady stream, laughter bordering on
hysterics, unnatural sound in the place where the dead sleep. It took several
minutes before Alex could calm down, before the tears stopped. Sweet tears, not
the salty ones recently soaking into the grass.
"Care to let me in on the joke?"
A few years earlier, when Alex had been centuries younger, he and Tomas had
shared everything. There had been no thoughts he couldn't express, nothing too
complicated or too messy to be explained.
Then Luis had slid into their axis, and everything had changed.
"I'll explain later—after this whole mess is over with." After words have
significance again. He looked over at Tomas, who responded silently with an
arched eyebrow and a befuddled expression worthy of Mr. Spock. "How's Dio doing,
by the way?"
Another grin at the mention of his lover's name. "He's fine. He fired the latest
receptionist du jour yesterday, after she called her boyfriend in Cuba from his
phone."
"That makes what—three receptionists in four months?"
"I don't even think it's been that long. They're averaging five weeks from hire
to fire. Mrs. Pinkston is giving him grief again after her stepson set fire to
the family cat."
Alex rolled his eyes heavenward. "Dio has been warning her about that kid since
before Christmas. She refused to listen for six months, and now it's his fault?"
"Didn't you get the memo?"
Alex shook his head. "The postal service hasn't been forwarding them to me. I
can't tell you how many Jewish Conspiracy meetings I've missed because I never
got the notices..."
"It's official. Everything that goes wrong is Dio's fault. I'm having it printed
on business cards as we speak. 'Thank you for calling Young and James—it's all
Dio's fault. How may I direct your call?' "
Laughing again, this time honest. Not misery pretending to be humor, pain
masquerading as pleasure. "Maybe you should go out for the receptionist job. You
have a great phone voice."
The smaller man snorted derisively. No one could do derisive like Tomas. He had
smug superiority down to an art form. "Kurite moju trubku, Alex. If I wanted a
job where I had a phone growing out of my ear eight hours a day, I'd work on one
of those 900 number phone sex hotlines. They pay better than he can, and they
wouldn't make me wear miniskirts and makeup. Not that I have a problem with
wearing miniskirts and makeup, mind you..."
"You can just stop right there. I don't need that mental image polluting my
brain. It's already a Superfund site, thank you very much." Short pause. "Have I
told you yet that I miss you and Dio like crazy?"
"Nope." Wide smile as Tomas stood up and brushed the grass and leaves off his
jeans. "I knew it would happen, tho. We're irresistible."
Tomas knew he was irresistible. He had been told that, in large ways and small,
since he was a child. Too many people who should have known better, been
stronger, didn't and weren't. He just thought that was the way people were.
"Ya, I missed you. Next time I'll aim better, bratishta. Going somewhere?"
Standing in front of Alex now, extending a hand, Tomas had a flash of Darth
Vader with Luke Skywalker. For just a second, he understood. Then it was gone.
"Yup. We're blowing this Popsicle stand, you and I. Are you done with what you
needed to get done here?"
His green eyes went cloudy, dark as the sea before a storm. "I guess so. I...I'm
not sure why I came even. I just needed to see them again, talk to them, let
them know what's been going on..." Words disappearing into the darkness. Being
absorbed by the night.
"What did they say?" Not flinching at the idea that his best friend was talking
to the dead.
"They're worried about me. Ya, I know. Join the club. Dad keeps telling me to
think like a soldier. Mom...Mom just asked if I was eating and sleeping on a
regular basis."
Suddenly, Tomas had no more use for the anger and helplessness that had polluted
his blood for the past several weeks. Here was his chance to finally do
something, make some sort of difference, no matter how vanishingly small. He
addressed his comment to the gravesite behind Alex. "The answer to both
questions, Mom, is a resounding 'NO'. That's why I'm here, Mrs. Cryder. I'm
going to make sure he eats, and at least stops moving for a few hours every
night."
Alex stared from his friend, to the grave marker, to the hand still extended in
front of him, steady and inviting. "What the hell are you talking about, Tomas?"
Face a perplexed mask. " You lost me when you started talking to the large pile
of dirt over there."
"Don't worry, Alex. I've got a plan."
"Now I'm terrified." He didn't look terrified. He looked...relieved. Like a
thirsty man gazing over a stream. Like a long drought had just ended.
"Don't worry, my little petunia blossom. Tomas is here, and he'll take good care
of you."
"Yeah, right. I may have been born on a Tuesday, Tomas, but it wasn't last
Tuesday. What are you up to?"
"What I am up to, m'dear, is a decent meal. Then a trip to the airport to
return my rental car. Then a long drive, followed by a good night's sleep in a
hotel room somewhere outside Bumfuck, Texas. You got a problem with that, Alex?"
"Do I get a choice?"
"I'm so generous, I'll even give you a choice. Do you want to stop by Café
Patchoulli for dinner, or is Mama's still open?"
That smile was back, the one Tomas hadn't seen since before Alex's mad dash into
oblivion. Maybe since before the hospital. Alex's patented
"All-is-well-with-the-world" smile. "Mama's, of course. If I have to be in
Texas, the least I expect to get out of the trip is some proper soul food.
Black-eyed peas, grits, chicken fried steak...I need my cornmeal and grease fix,
man!"
That night, in the unaccustomed pleasure of sleeping indoors, lulled to sleep by
the sound of another person's breathing, he dreamed.
Cold cotton sheets.
No tether. No weight on his wrists. Just cold cotton on hot skin.
His brain wasn't mired in molasses this time. Instead, it was soaring. Flying.
Or maybe he was flying—he wasn't sure.
Nope, skin definitely in contact with the sheets.
But he couldn't shake the sensation that he was floating half a foot off the
bed.
The image almost made him giggle. Almost. Sensation on sensation—the slippery
silk wrapped around his eyes, smooth unbroken expanse of cotton sheets, fire
inside his chest, burning outward.
Another almost-giggle.
Whatever drugs Luis had given him this time, they were da bomb. Really quality
shit. He'd have to ask him for another hit later. Or maybe he'd have to remember
what he'd done wrong to get sedated, and do it again. Nyaah. That would involve
higher brain function, and right now all circuits are busy.
Was he alone? He couldn't tell. It didn't seem to matter much. No, he didn't
think so. He could just about sense another person in the room. Just the
slightest taste in the back of his mouth, a prickle in his skin as an unseen
gaze devoured him. He was being watched. Hungered for.
Sounds somewhere far away. Cloth rustling. Footprints on hardwood. Where was he
anyways? His room? Luis's room? There had to be a map around here somewhere...
He could worry about it, think about it, think. Period. Or he could just float,
happy and weightless.
Cool fingers across his cheek. He turned his head towards the sensation, feeling
the room revolve on it's axis. Another gentle stroke along the line of his jaw,
then lips barely pressing against his. Not taking. Just...asking. Luis never
asked. He just took. This was almost-sweet, almost-gentle.
Swimming through air, trying to get another of those gentle kisses. Another
weight on the bed—this one lower, near his legs. Murmured voices, fragments of
words, broken transmissions from another galaxy. Echoes, changing color.
And then another touch, another brush of lips along his, teasing tongue barely
stroking. Opening his mouth for more, and a quiet little moan slipped out.
Kisses too quick to catch and hold. Or maybe his neurons were too stoned to fire
properly. Happy, happy neurons.
Giggling, for real this time. Slow descent of fingers along his side, down his
ribs, searching out the ticklish spots with practiced precision. Squirming,
writhing away from those torturing fingers, mouth open, more little moans forced
out with every breath. Rolling over, uncoordinated flop onto his side, arms
trying to cover unprotected flanks, trying to pull his knees up, minimize the
amount of area exposed.
Broken transmissions coming in at louder volume now. Palm on the back of his
knee, grasping, pulling out and upward. Fingers transmutate to claws, scraping
down his back, sweet shock of pain. Arching hard with a gasp and a hiss, too
distracted to notice right away the fingers between his legs. Cold fingers.
Slippery fingers.
Kisses, harder, fingers tangling in his hair, plundering his mouth. More fingers
playing with his ass, a tease then a lube-slick slide. Bucking back and forth
between the two sensations, electricity conducted from head to thigh, skin
sliding along the cotton sheets. Something in the back of his head screaming,
screaming, but he couldn't make out the words.
Firehot body pressed up against his back. Blunt thickness replacing fingers,
another thigh wedged between his, keeping his legs apart. Slippery-cold burn
inside, splitting him, twisting him up a little more, pushing him onto more
kisses, more helpless whimpering sounds.
Warm hands sliding across his chest, finding a piercing, and a twist, and
another gasp into a kiss. Quiet chuckle behind him, voice whispering in his ear,
whispering directly into his brain.
"...you feel so good, Alex.....so tight...."
And the screaming inside his head suddenly hit a new and urgent pitch.
Wrong voice.
Wrong cock.
Wrong body.
Tomas.
no no no no NO NO NO NO
Trying to make his arms work, push away from the kisses, make it stop. Mouthing
the words over and over again, shaking his head back and forth.
stop it stop it stop it stop it
Hands finding cool skin, shoving, trying to break the current. Sounds tumbling
out of his mouth, scared animal noises. Cold fingers grabbing his wrists in a
vice-like grip, pinned above his head. More words sliding wormlike into his
brain.
"...wanted this for so long..."
Crying in earnest, trying to fight the electricity arcing through him. Cool hand
brushing against his balls, sliding up to grab his cock in an almost-too-tight
fist. Another circuit completed, more current tearing into him. Bucking,
twisting, trying so hard, and all he's doing is forcing himself forward onto
that fist and then backwards onto that cock.
"...if I'd known you would be this good....would have done this a long time
ago...."
Too hot. Too cold. Fear and rage not enough to dampen the pleasure sizzling
along his nerve endings. Hand on his cock, fingers pinching his nipples, and
that cock pistoning in and out of his ass. Wailing around the tears, around the
teeth nipping at his bottom lip. Taste of copper in his mouth.
no please no don't do this to me tomas no no
Whole body shaking, burning on contact with the live wire behind him, inside
him. Grounding through him, sparking and arcing in a crazy rhythm of mouth and
cock and hands, hot and cold, turning his bones to liquid, still not enough to
put out the fire.
Jackhammer behind him, twisting, making him cry out with every thrust, every
push onto that hand. Pouring more poisonous words into his ear.
"....belong to us now.....will you scream for me, Kitten?...will you come for
me?..."
Fingers playing with the rings embedded in his chest suddenly gone, replaced by
a cool tongue. Deep breath, then microscopically relaxing just before sharp
teeth come in contact with his skin, just in front of the piercing.
Screaming. All the nerve endings in his body exploding at the same time. Jerking
around like a puppet, like a man tossed onto high voltage wires, burning.
Burning.
Until the cool darkness takes hold, and he surrendered to it.
"Alex, shhh. Alex, wake up. It's just a dream. Just a dream. C'mon, man, you're
scaring me..."
Alex slowly pulled himself out of the gauzey dream-place, back to the present
tense. Cheap polyester bedspread, bad art on the walls, bible on the nightstand
- yup, bargain basement hotel. Alex looked down at his ratty cut-off denim
shorts and T-shirt definitely past its prime, the same clothes he had been
wearing for the past several days. Everything exactly the way he had left it so
many times before. Here and now. Luis thousands of miles away. Safe. No one here
to hurt him...
Until he looked up into Tomas's deep blue eyes.
Tomas. In his bed. Touching him.
And the voice in the back of his head started screaming again.
::No no please no no Tomas don't do this to me no no::
Tomas raised his hand to Alex's face, started brushing Alex's too-long bangs out
of his eyes, trying to comfort his oldest friend. Alex flinched, jerked away at
the contact, pulled back to the edge of the bed.
"Don't touch me." Growled.
Tomas just looked at him for a moment, not quite comprehending.
"Alex, it's OK. It's just me. You're safe—no one's gonna hurt you. Just calm
down..." His best friend was obviously stuck in the middle of this nightmare
that he was having trouble waking up from. Alex had helped him come back from
the horrible dream place more than enough times in his life. Now it was Tomas'
turn to be the strong one. He reached over and grabbed Alex's hand, gave it a
reassuring squeeze.
"Don't fucking touch me!" Practically screaming. Eyes wild, frantic. Looking for
an escape, a way out.
Before Tomas could move, could even react, Alex was off the bed and halfway
across the floor. A second later, he yanked the door open and ran out, into the
warm starry night. All Tomas could do was sit there, staring, listening to the
door slam closed, wondering what just happened.
Alex curled up in the bed of his pickup truck on the air mattress, sleeping bag
wrapped around him like a cloak, teeth chattering, fighting the full-body
shakes, trying desperately to calm down.
::Shh, shh. It's OK. You're alone now. He's not going to touch you any more.
You're safe here. You're safe...::
Chapter Nine—Sleep
"Everywhere I look, you're all I see.
*pound* *pound* *pound*
The door vibrated under his fist, echoing off the mailboxes and the eaves of the
small house next door, violating the early morning silence of a sleeping
neighborhood.
Sleep is useless. Worthless
Wait to a count of thirty. No lights emerging from the quiet shuttered house, no
sound but dogs frantically barking in the backyard. Try it again.
*pound* *pound* *pound*
Tomas stood next to him, insane banshee grin splitting his face, bouncing in
place. High on being naughty.
The rest of the neighborhood was slowly de-cocooning, even if the occupants of
this particular house weren't. Porch lights flicked on, doors opening,
disturbing the crickets reverie. Older men and women, dressed in their
dancing-with-sandman finery, emerging from the darkness.
I don't need to sleep. I don't want to sleep
*pound* *pound* *pound*
"This is the BATF." Tomas, hand cupped around his mouth like a megaphone, using
his best official voice. "We know you're in there, Mr. Sioux. We have a warrant
to search the premises."
No noise, no light emerged from inside the house, but Alex could feel movement
in the soles of his feet. Doors opening and closing, breaking and recreating the
seal.
When I don't sleep, I don't dream
Motion off to one side, near the sidewalk, being tracked by both men on the
porch. When they turned back around, they were face-to-face with the business
end of a shotgun, held by a very not-amused Bobby Sioux.
"You boys got more nerve than a bum tooth. Woke up the whole damn neighborhood."
Sleep-thickened Louisiana drawl flowing like molasses. "By rights, I should
throw you out on your asses."
"Nyaah." Tomas pushed the gun aside, stepped in front of Alex, banshee grin even
more frightening in the shadowed yellow bug light. Immensely pleased with
himself. "You wouldn't do that. You love us too much."
Hard look from the older man. "Don't be so sure about that, boy." Long moment,
contemplating, deciding, then an amused chuckle. "Get your asses inside the
house, before someone calls the police on the two of you." Swatting at Alex with
the butt of the gun, shooing them inside, before closing and double-locking the
door.
When I don't dream, I don't feel the pain
Long pause inside the front door, after the ritual of locking and dead-bolting.
Tomas still bouncing, Alex trying very hard not to fidget under Bobby's intense
gaze. Being looked over, like a new recruit under the microscope of the Drill
Sergeant, always made Alex's skin itch. Especially considering the spotlight was
on Alex and Alex alone. There was something lurking under that look,
something...else. Something that Alex didn't want to examine too closely. It was
too similar to something he had searched for too long in another pair of eyes.
"You look like hell, boy." From Bobby, not a criticism, just a statement of
fact. No insult intended, kid, I just thought you'd like to know you look like
death warmed over.
"Gee, thanks for the compliment, Daddy." Sneering. A little too much venom in
the voice. A little too much old pain seeping through from a place he thought
was long numb.
Hand on Alex's arm, spotlight gaze pinning him in place. "I'm not your daddy,
Alex." Quiet voice, gravel and concrete. "I think you have enough of those in
your life right now."
Alex bit back a laugh. An excess of fathers. Right. How many was he up to now?
Three? One who abandoned him, one who beat the shit out of him, and one who
died.
::Speaks volumes about you when you can't even keep a parental figure around
without him hating your guts and wanting you dead::
Alex looked away, down, out, anywhere but at Bobby, at that concerned look in
his eyes, fighting the urge to jerk out of his grip and dart back out into the
night. He couldn't handle any one else's pity, couldn't handle one more person's
well-meaning worry. Not now. Not ever.
"Second bedroom upstairs is yours, Alex." Stepping back, giving the younger man
space. Friendly voice. Impersonal. Hotel-clerk voice. "There's a new dog running
around upstairs, but he won't bother you."
Another stray. Just another homeless creature that nobody wanted, lurking in one
of the spare rooms of the big ramshackle house. Alex bit the inside of his
cheek, fighting the rising stream of bile-soaked words that threatened to drown
him.
::And I'm supposed to care. And you're supposed to be able to hurt me with your
words. And I am so far beyond being hurt-able right now::
So far into the pain that lived inside his head that he couldn't even feel the
pain directed at him from the outside.
"How is he doing?"
Tomas wrapped his hands around the mug of coffee, heat-seeking, as if it weren't
nearly eighty degrees outside at nearly four in the morning. The June Louisiana
heat was a living thing, with weight and breath and teeth.
"About as well as can be expected, considering..."
"Don't give me the party-line crap, Tommy. I've got eyes. I can see that he's
still ambulatory and breathing." Leaning over the scarred butcher-block table.
"How is he doing in the places where I can't see it?"
Tomas took a deep breath, shook his head.
"That good, eh?" Cajun drawl mellowing Bobby's words.
"Yeah. About that good." He shrugged; expressing more with a droop of his
shoulders then his words could ever aspire to. "He's not sleeping. He eats when
I remind him to. Nightmares are getting worse. His 'bad thoughts' are starting
to interfere with his ability to function. I'm afraid if he stays out much
longer, he'll end up back in the hospital."
"Bad thoughts?" Forehead wrinked. Not understanding.
"Alex's term, not mine. Flashbacks. Intrusive memories. He's here, he's now, and
then he's gone mid-sentence and it's hard as hell to drag him back. Between that
and the nightmares..."
Long pause. Then again, quietly, so quietly that Bobby had to strain to make out
the words.
"I thought my being here would make it better. Charged out here like Don Quixote
on his fucking horse, stupid, conceited, fucking idiot. And all I'm doing is
making it worse."
Now it was Bobby's turn to shake his head. "You're not making it worse, Tommy.
He needs...someone. He needs you. You're family."
Blue eyes locked on brown, and Bobby was shocked by the pain and self- hatred
radiating out from behind them.
"All I am is a reminder of...of every bad thing that happened to him on that
island. Of everything that Luis forced him to do. Of what ..." Eyes closed, he
buried his face in his hands.
::What did he do? He drowned me in him. He forced me to breathe underwater, and
then dragged me back to the surface. I can't survive the air anymore::
One deep breath. Then another, gathering courage, the courage to look his latest
father figure straight in the eye and tell him the truth.
"There were a lot of things that Alex didn't tell you about what happened on the
island."
"I'd gathered that." Murmur in the background. Affirmative noise.
"Luis..." False start. Another deep breath.
"Luis had different reasons for choosing us. I mean, he had different reasons
for choosing Alex than he had for me." Searching the older man's face, looking
for a response, for anything.
"I figured as much. You two are very different people."
"He wanted...he chose Alex because he wanted a protégé. Someone he could shape,
and mold, and turn into a little version of himself. He was grooming Alex to
take over where he left off. Y'see, he had plans for Alex."
Bobby was priming to say something. Tomas waved him off with one hand.
"I was a tasty morsel, but not the main course. The reason I was along for this
particular bumpy ride was because I looked like I would be fun in bed. That
and..." Looking out the kitchen window, studying the darkness.
"I was also there to help him control Alex, keep him in line. A bribe, an
implied threat—call it what you will.
"I was the evening's entertainment. Alex was...the main course. The
prodigal-to-be. But, as you know, Alex is one of the most hard-headed, stubborn
son-of-a-bitches you'll ever meet." Tomas warmed under Bobby's smile, even
though it wasn't for him. Tomas wasn't too good to steal affection intended for
other people. It was the story of his life.
"Luis...I don't know exactly what Luis expected when he grabbed Alex, but it
wasn't what he ended up with. Alex has this—I don't know what you call it, but
it sure as hell isn't a gift—an ability to disappear inside his own head. If
things get heavy enough outside, he just goes away. His body is there, but when
you look in his eyes, there's no one home.
"I must be a quicker study than Sleeping Beauty upstairs, because I figured out
the game plan really early. The only way to stay alive was to give Luis what he
wants, and save as much of yourself as you can in the process. As far as that
goes, Luis wasn't the worst I've ever lived through."
::And exactly how much experience have you had with soul-murder, boy?::
"Give him control, offer him what he asks for with a smile, and he'll pretty
much leave you alone. Sometimes, he could be almost...gentle." A wistful, nearly
sad look flashed across Tomas' handsome face, and then it was gone.
"Alex couldn't do that. He couldn't play the game. He fought, every single step
of the way, even when giving in wouldn't have killed him, or even hurt that
much. He challenged Luis' power, tried to escape, even physically attacked him
on one occasion that I had the distinct displeasure to witness." Tomas looked
away, closed his eyes, still trying to block out the images dancing in front of
his retinas.
"I tried, Bobby. I really, really tried. I kept Luis distracted, so he wouldn't
come down so hard on Alex. I talked to Alex, tried to make him understand that
he was just making it worse on himself. Alex didn't take very kindly to it, but
I just couldn't stand back and watch Luis break him.
"First, Luis tried beating some sense into Alex's thick head. That got nowhere
fast. Then Luis played the starvation card. Alex didn't seem to notice. Finally,
he started using drugs on Alex.
"Alex hated that with a passion. He told me once he would rather be beaten than
drugged up. That's probably why Luis did it with such relish. But it still
wasn't enough for Luis."
Hard swallow.
"Luis made me an offer I couldn't refuse. He would take it easy on Alex, stop
beating him bloody, in exchange for my help. He wanted me to help him control
Alex. If I did, things would go more smoothly for both of us.
"Looking back on it, I think Alex would have preferred the beatings." Sharp pain
inside his chest, where his heart would have been if it hadn't been torn out
months earlier.
"The other night, I finally persuaded Alex to crash at a little dive of a motel,
instead of driving all night or sleeping in the cab of his pickup truck. Nasty,
dingy little place, but it was cheap, and it didn't ask for any ID when we
checked in.
"Alex was having a nightmare, just the latest in the continuing series. I have
had a through-the-wall front-row ticket to more of his nightmares than I ever
want to count.
"But this one was different.
"This time, instead of Luis, instead of his name on his lips, begging him to
stop, not to hurt him any more..." Eyes too shiny, clenching his jaw tightly,
biting back the words, the tears.
"This time, in the middle of the night, it was my name he was screaming. Begging
me to stop, begging me not to hurt him anymore."
Tomas looked across the table at Bobby's weather-hardened face, and didn't
bother fighting the tears as they fell.
"I raped him, Bobby. I raped my best friend."
Chapter Ten—Piggy
"Hey pig—
Midnight.
Bobby and Alex sat on the back porch of Bobby Sioux's house, nursing a beer,
reclining on plastic beach chairs, watching the moon.
"Kid, you don't turn into anything funny during the full moon, do ya?"
"Yes, Bobby. It's on my Medic-Alert bracelet : Allergic to Penicillin and
Lycanthropy. What the fuck kind of question is that?"
"Just had to be sure." Another swig of beer. "Let's talk."
::Let's not and say we did, OK?::
Sigh. "Bobby, I am sick and tired of talking about last summer and how I'm
doing. Can we just enjoy the quiet?"
"Kid, you're going to hurt yourself jumping to conclusions like that. You don't
want to talk about them, fine. That's your business." Heavy Louisiana drawl
pulling the words down.
"Then what exactly do you want to talk about, Bobby?"
"Let's talk about Walter Skinner."
Alex nearly spewed a mouthful of beer across the lawn. "Walt? You know Walter
Skinner?"
Bobby laughed. "Know him? Hell, kid, I've dragged him out of every sleazy bar
and strip club in Hoh Chih Minh city. I've held his head when he puked. Taught
him how to shoot an AK-47." Another long mouthful of beer. "You could say I know
him, yeah."
"The war?" Understanding look.
"The war. And afterwards. Walt is one of my boys. He's the godfather of my
middle son, Tim. He's spent the Thanksgiving with us right after he and his wife
split up. He's family. That's what gives me the right to ask you this—what are
your intentions towards him?"
"Intentions?" Alex sounded incredulous. "You want to know what my intentions
are towards him? Are we going to discuss his curfew next? What alternative
universe did I just get dropped into here?"
Shrugging. "I want to know if you're really interested, or if you're just
dicking him around because of his position. He's been a friend for a long time,
and I don't want to see him hurt if there's anything I can do to prevent it."
"You're making a pretty big assumption there, boss. You're assuming he's
interested in anything more than dicking around with me."
"Oh, that's not an assumption. That's a fact."
Blink. Blink. "How the hell can you know that?"
"He's told me." Smile playing around the edges of Bobby's tanned, weathered
face.
"He told you WHAT?"
"Relax, kid. He didn't come out and profess his undying love for you, if that's
what's got your knickers in a twist. He didn't say anything at all. He didn't
need to. As I said, I've known him for a long time—a damn long time. I know
what he sounds like when he's in heat, and I know what he sounds like when he's
really interested. When he talks about you, it's definitely in the second
category. And the question still stands..."
"And how about the other people he's sleeping with? What category do they fall
under?"
Another patented Bobby Smile. "You sound jealous."
"Maybe I am. No—that's not true. I don't have any room to be."
Arched eyebrow, questioning look. "You trying to tell me you've got someone else
on the side? When did this happen? You've been busy?"
"It's not.... it's not like that, Bobby. He's just a friend."
"But you want more." No question, just a statement.
Alex clenched his hands into fists. "I want a lot of things, all right? I want
him. I want Walt. I want the last twelve months to have never happened. I want
my adoptive parents back. Do I need to continue the list?"
"So you want both of them?"
"Yes. No. Maybe." Alex rubbed his eyes tiredly with one hand.
"Well, that covers all the possible options, kid." Gentle voice.
"They're just really really different, Bobby. My friend—he's a hell of a lot
like me. We both come from the same dark place. We understand that part of each
other. We're both broken. I can be strong for him. I can do that."
"And Walter?"
Alex licked his lips unconsciously. "Walt.... it's different. Completely different.
He hypnotizes me. When I'm talking to him, I feel like a deer in the sights of a
mountain lion. It's like I'm frozen and waiting for him to get close enough to
make his move. I've never felt like that with anyone else."
"So he's... intense." Bobby offered helpfully. "Anything else?"
"Try everything else." Alex snapped. "He's fifteen years older than me, he's a
professional, he's wealthy, he has a fucking harem, and I can't figure out what
the hell someone like that wants with someone like me... except one thing. Rough
trade."
Bobby's voice was cold, almost a growl. "If you really think that's what Walt's
looking for..."
"I don't," Alex interrupted. "I could handle that. Hell, I'm used to people
wanting that from me. He doesn't. I don't know what he wants. And I don't know
how to feel about the fact that he wants me—and someone else."
Bobby relaxed back against the plastic webbing. "Let me tell you a few things
about Walter Skinner. Number one, he will never, ever lie to you. If he's
sleeping with someone else, he'll tell you. He won't volunteer much more
information than that, but if you ask, he'll answer the question completely, and
honestly.
"Number two, he will never, ever try to push you into anything you're not ready
for or can't handle. The man's a fucking psychic when it comes to figuring out
what makes other people tick."
"Yeah, he needs his own 900 number and infomercial," Alex muttered under his
breath.
Bobby ignored him. "If he wants something from you, he'll come right out and say
it. If you say no, that's fine. He won't pressure you.
"And number three, he might understand where you're coming from a little better
than you give him credit for. He's seen—and done—some pretty ugly things
during the war when he was even younger than you are now. He pulled himself out
of his own personal hell. Give him half a chance, and he might be able to help
pull you out of yours as well."
Looking away, anywhere but at the older man by his side. "I'm doing all right,
Bobby. I don't need anybody's help."
"Bullshit, Alex." Frustration evident in his tone. "You are not all right. Not
by a long shot." Taking one deep breath, then another, trying to calm himself.
"Last night, after you crashed, Tommy and I had a long talk. He told me what
happened between the two of you on that island."
::Shit shit shit shit::
"I don't know what ..."
"Shut up and listen, Alex." Command voice. "I know what Tommy did to you. I have
a damn good idea of what it's doing to your head. You need to find someone—a
professional—to help you with this. This is not something you get over on
your own. This is something that will fuck up the rest of your life if you don't
take some steps to make it stop." Reaching over, one surprisingly strong hand on
Alex's forearm. "Do you want to end up back at that hospital? Do you want to be
in this kind of pain forever? If not, then do something to make it better. It's
not going to do it for you—you have to want to get well. You do want to get
well, don't you?"
::Do I want to get better? Or do I just want it over?::
Chapter Eleven—One More Casualty
"Years go by and I choke on my tears
Dribble. Fake left. Fake right. Charge.
Sweat dripping in Merlin's hazel eyes, staining the back of his gray FBI
T-shirt, matting his hair flat under his Washington Wizard's baseball cap. The
late June sun stubbornly refuses to concede possession of the sky to the cooler
moon. The heat stays on, pouring out of the cracked concrete, out of the
buildings, out of the never-ending rainbow-colored progression of cars.
Slide. Bank. Arch shot. Missed. Damn. H-O-R...
One of JJ's friends sidled up next to Merlin. Or maybe he was a cousin, Merlin
couldn't tell. JJ had so many, a steady stream of relatives, former roommates,
brothers of ex-girlfriends... JJ was almost always surrounded by people. Merlin
was almost always alone.
"You play pretty well, for a white boy. Where'd you learn?" Heavy street drawl.
Fake.
Merlin smiled. If this man wanted to play head games, he was outclassed. Out of
his league. "Oxford."
"Hot damn. I got some relatives from Ole Miss. When you there?"
"Not Oxford, Mississippi. Oxford, England."
He stepped back, blinked, stared. "Mother-fuck." Turning, hollering at JJ across
the court. "Hey, JJ! This FBI-boy say he learned to play hoops across the
fucking pond. He shitting me or what?"
JJ's response was lost in the sound of Merlin's cell phone ringing. Wiping the
sweat off his hands, he jogged over to his duffel bag and extracted the
irritating cricket.
::One of these days, cricket of mine, you're going to find yourself at the
bottom of the Potomac...:
"Mulder." ::Alex, you're early. You don't normally call before midnight::
"Agent Mulder, it's Deputy Chief Skinner. How quickly can you get back to my
office?"
Glancing at his watch—$95 Casio special. Nothing special. Just a replacement
for the one his foster mother had bought him—the one he killed sticking hand
into a sewage pipe. 8:15. Fifteen minutes back to his apartment, ten minute
shower, five minute change back into corporate suit second skin, then half an
hour back to DOJ. Or he could head there now, be at his boss's doorstep in
twelve minutes, fourteen max. Sweaty and disheveled and half dressed...
lions and tigers and bears, oh my
Grinning again. "Depends, boss. I'm on the basketball court now. How important
is it to you that I'm dressed in regulation blue?"
Merlin could hear the older man's smile as his voice dropped an octave, into a
register he only used when he had a riding crop in his hand. "Come as you are,
Agent."
Oh, yeah. This was going to be good....
Ninety minutes later, the phone on Skinner's desk rang. Merlin jumped, exchanged
a quick look with his boss, and picked up the phone.
"Agent Mulder."
"All right, let's try this one more time. What the hell is so important that you
needed to speak to me right away?" Alex, his pissed-off mood evident from the
first words.
"Hello, Alex. I'm going to put you on speaker phone."
"Fine. Whatever. I don't care."
Merlin hit a few buttons on the base, and hung up the receiver. "I see you got
my message."
"It was a little hard to miss. Let's see—you called my voice mail. You called
my house. You called Tomas. You called Dio. Can you say Overkill, boys and
girls? I knew you could." Dripping sarcasm.
"I apologize, Alex, but I needed to get hold of you quickly."
"Next time, just put up a fucking billboard! Fine. You got me. Now what the hell
do you want?"
Short pause, and another complicated look between Skinner and Merlin.
"Alex, do you remember the first time we met?"
"Yes, Merlin, I remember the first time we met." The 'You idiot' heavily
implied, but not spoken.
"When and where was it?"
Alex snarled in response. "I don't know what the fuck game you're playing,
Merlin, but I'm not in the mood for this shit. Why the hell do you want to
know?"
Merlin's voice was cold. Cutting. "Just. Answer. The. Question."
"Fine." Just as cold. "The first time we met was outside a gun shop in
Apalachicola, Florida. You prevented two of the fine, upstanding citizens of the
town from beating me to a pulp and then shooting me for good measure. At the
time I thought you were a contract killer. I'm still not entirely sure my first
impression of you wasn't accurate."
Merlin looked at Skinner, nodded.
"The second time we met was in Chicago, at a gun show. You wanted someone to
translate documents from Russian to English for you, ASAP. The problem was that
the documents weren't written in Russian. They were written in Ukranian, then
transliterated into Cyrillic. I couldn't make heads or tails of them."
Another nod.
"The third time we met, I propositioned you. You just looked at me like I had
eaten a whole bag of the pink sparkly crack for breakfast."
Skinner arched an eyebrow at Merlin. Merlin covered his eyes with one hand,
sighed, nodded. "Thank you, Alex."
"Now will SOMEONE please tell me what this lovely little trip down memory lane
was all about?" Alex, sounding slightly less pissed, though not much.
"Sorry about that, Alex. I needed to be absolutely, positively sure it was you."
"Who the fuck else would it be? I'm beginning to think you've been smoking the
pink, sparkly crack for breakfast."
"I'm at work, Alex. And there's someone else in the office with me."
"No shit, Sherlock. I clued into that little fact when you left the phone number
with a Justice Dept. exchange. And as far as the audience, if you don't care
that I knew you when you were young and stupid, I don't care who else knows."
"Alex, it's my boss."
Skinner.
"Lovely. Thanks ever so much for the warning, chum. Remind me to beat you
senseless the next time I see you—not that it would take much. Would it be
asking for too much to get an explanation of what the fuck's going on?"
"Alex, this is Deputy Chief Skinner." Using his Deputy Chief voice, very
different from his Seduction voice he had used with Alex the night before.
"I'm listening."
"Two nights ago, a high ranking member of the Colombian mob took receipt of a
package from Luis Christien. We had the room wired and heard the entire thing."
"And?"
"The package was a body. Their internal report came back today, identifying it
as the body of Peter Cryder."
Silence on the other end of the line. Then a snicker. Guffaws, and finally
laughter, bubbling over the phone, bordering on hysteria. It took Alex a moment
to calm down enough to talk.
"Reports..." Voice cracked. He swallowed hard, tried again. "Reports of my death
have been greatly exaggerated. I've always wanted to say that."
"Yes, Mr. Twain." Skinner cracked a smile for the first time all evening. "The
question still stands, how did they get a body that matches your DNA?"
"DNA can't be changed, but DNA tests can be faked." Merlin, focusing hard.
"Samples can be mislabeled, contaminated. There's always the fallback method -
bribing the lab tech."
"The only person in a position to do that was Christien, Agent Mulder. Why would
he go to so much trouble? The only rational reason for that course of action
would be to protect Alex."
"Oh, there's another reason." Alex's voice as dark as the night sky. "He wants
to fuck with my head. He loves doing that—being kind out of the blue, after
weeks or months of being cruel and sadistic. It's just another one of his head
games."
Alex gave up. Sleep just was not going to be happening that night.
His arms hurt. His wrists and elbows were being rubbed raw by fighting against
the restraints. His lower back was one massive muscle spasm. His hips and thighs
were screaming at him after being held immobile around a spreader bar for so
many hours. His feet were practically numb.
If he could just roll over on his side, pull his knees up to his chest, he would
be all right. Then he'd be able to massage some circulation back into his feet,
work out the kinks in his hips and back, and stand a snowball's chance in hell
of relaxing enough to sleep.
That wasn't going to happen. Luis had made damn sure of it.
The darkness in the room was an absolute thing, unbroken. It had substance,
weight. It breathed, whispering bloody nothings in his ear. On more than one
occasion, he had heard the darkness laugh.
::Focus, Alex. There's nothing there. There's nothing there::
::Breathe in...breathe out. Breathe in...breathe out::
Until the disembodied hand started a slow, lazy slide up his thigh.
When the fingers brushed up against his thigh, Alex didn't think. He just
reacted, arching his back and thrashing, trying to get away, fight or flight in
full swing.
Bad move.
The pain hit him like a freight train, cutting across his back, sending
white-hot flares down both legs. His lungs were being crushed. He couldn't
breathe. He couldn't see anything but red spots dancing in front of his eyes,
couldn't hear anything but his own blood pounding in his ears.
He thought he was going to vomit. He thought he was going to pass out. He
thought he was going to die. This pain was worse than the whippings he had
received at Luis' hands. This pain was worse than his father's beatings. This
was going to kill him.
Alex didn't know how long he was lying there, barely breathing, in a pain haze.
Finally, the sound of his own name being spoken in increasingly urgent tones
pulled him back up to consciousness.
"Alex—- Alex—- ALEX!"
He opened his eyes, realizing for the first time that they had been clenched
tightly shut. Luis was kneeling over him on the bed, flashlight in his hand,
beam dancing randomly around the small room. Luis's eyes were fixed on his,
showing traces of worry, and fear."
"Back, or stomach?" Clipped, angry tones.
::Wha...::
Alex tried to shake his head, but the slight motion sent another flare of pain
down his back. He swallowed hard, trying valiantly not to vomit all over
himself.
Another mystery hand entangled in his hair, grabbing him roughly. "Is the pain
in your back, or in your stomach?" Fingers tightening, clenching into a fist,
nearly pulling his hair out by the roots.
Another hard swallow. "My...my back.."
"Don't. Move." Hand yanking one more time against his scalp, for emphasis, then
it was gone. Fingers quickly found the buckles holding the spreader bar in place
and released them, pulling the bar up and out of the way. When his legs fell
into a more natural position, Alex nearly screamed.
"Alex. Listen to me very carefully." No request in that voice. Just an order,
and a promise of more darkness if it wasn't obeyed. "Can you move your legs?"
Alex clenched his jaw tightly, expecting another surge of pain, and slowly
rotated his ankles. The pain was so intense it brought tears to his eyes.
"Good."
::Good for you, maybe, asshole::
"I'm going to roll you over onto your side now. This will hurt, but I have to
get a look at your back, to see what kind of damage you just inflicted on
yourself."
Strong hands behind his knees, fingers like bands of iron. "Three, two, one."
This time, Alex did scream. It felt like someone was ripping his body in half,
leaving his intestines dangling out of a bloody, gaping hole. The gentle
stroking of fingertips next to his spine was excruciating, and it seemed to go
on for an eternity. Finally, after a moment or an hour Alex wasn't sure, the
fingers were gone, and a weight settled next to him on the bed.
"Congratulations, Kitten. You not only managed to throw your back out, but you
successfully managed to tear several muscles in the process. I'm impressed—I
had previously underestimated your ability to injure yourself while lying flat
on your back." Rolling away, fiddling with something next to the bed, then a
brief flare of light, settling into a steady flame. One candle. Two.
"I'm going to get you a muscle relaxant, and something for the pain, as well as
a heating pad. Tomorrow morning, we'll try moving you into my room. It will be
easier for me to keep an eye on you there, since you're going to need help
walking for the next few days."
"No." Quietly, since it hurt to breathe.
Puzzled look. "No what?"
"No shots." Still quiet, but more force behind the words.
Arched eyebrows, disbelieving. "Fine, Kitten. You want to sit up so you can
swallow the pills—you go right ahead. Don't let me stop you."
Alex closed his eyes again, took in several slow, shallow breaths.
Luis was right.
::Stupid, motherfucking, cocksucking....he got me. Again. Right where he wants
me::
"Why did you ask me about my stomach?" Another breathy question.
Luis took a deep breath, sighed. "When I came in here earlier, you cried out and
doubled over in pain. My first thought was that you ruptured your appendix. It's
a good thing that it was just your back. Those injuries I can take care of
myself. If it was your appendix, I would have had to get a surgeon out here, and
they're a bitch to get a hold of in the middle of the night."
"Why?" Breathy-voiced, eyes half closed.
Luis just looked at Alex. "Why is it so difficult to get a surgeon to a remote
island at two A.M.?"
Alex's eyes fluttered open. "Why are you being so nice to me?"
"You prefer that I leave you here for a few hours, alone, in the dark, in
agony?"
The pain was making Alex's brain slow. He fumbled for the words. "That's
not...no..." Mouth closed, breathing slowly, deliberately through his nose. "For
the last two and a half weeks, you've been cruel and fucking sadistic towards
me. Now, all of a sudden, you're Florence Nightingale. I don't get it."
Luis' smile was gentle. Almost warm. His fingers carefully carded through Alex's
sweat-soaked bangs, pushing them out of his eyes. "Your hair is getting long,
Kitten. It's almost time to get it trimmed." Long pause, as his hand wandered
down lower, stroking Alex's cheek. "Contrary to popular opinion, I don't get off
on your pain. I don't take the belt to you because I enjoy it. I do it because
it's the only way I know to get through that thick head of yours. I do it
because you need to learn that actions have consequences, and that when you
break the rules, you will be punished. I don't like doing it, Kitten, but I will
do it as many times as I have to until you understand that." Hand cupping Alex's
chin, brown eyes looking deeply into green. "I know this is hard for you. It
wasn't easy for me, either, when I was in your place. But your old life is over
now. This is your new life. The sooner you accept that, the easier the
transition will be on everyone involved." Leaning over, a soft kiss on the
forehead, and then off the bed and halfway to the door before Alex could think
of a response.
Chapter Twelve
"I wanted to be with you alone,
Kim wasn't quite sure what to make of her boss's behavior that morning.
Deputy Chief Skinner was usually very...predictable. To be blunt, the man was
boring. She could set her watch by what time he arrived for work (seven AM on
the dot) and left for lunch (12:30, unless his weekly conference call on Tuesday
ran long), and predict with amazing accuracy what he would eat for said lunch
(California roll, extra wasabe, large iced tea with lemon, no sugar). Kim had
worked at several other departments before coming to Justice, and she could say
a lot for boring. Boring is good. Predictability had its definite pluses. She
always knew what to expect from her boss.
That was why she was still his secretary after eight years, when none of her
predecessors had lasted eight months.
That, and he bribed extremely well.
Bribery was a little-known job skill utilized by only the smartest bosses.
Deputy Chief Skinner could bribe with the best of them.
Coffee. Chocolate. Flowers. Hardcover Harry Potter books the day they hit
bookstores. Once he even got her sold-out tickets to the hottest show in town
-The Producers when it came to the Kennedy Center. The man had connections, and
he wasn't afraid to use them for her benefit.
That was one of the reasons why she was so loyal to him, even though other
departments had tried several times to lure her away. That was one of the
reasons why she had turned down higher-paying jobs in the private sector. That
was why she put up with his sometimes weird behavior.
His behavior that morning was odd even by her admittedly liberal standards.
He cleared his schedule for the early afternoon. Not in and of itself unusual.
His reason floored her and nearly made her drop her frappucino.
Mr. Skinner had a date.
A lunch date.
This was so far out of character for him that she carefully checked the corners
of the office for his pod. Walter S. Skinner didn't have a social life. In the
eight years she had worked with Skinner, he had never once had anything
approaching a date. His marriage had disintegrated years earlier, expired from
inattention and unuse, according to the rumor mill. He had hardly seemed to
notice. As far as she could tell, his entire waking life was totally wrapped up
with work. Not a fulfilled life, according to her definition, but he never
looked unhappy.
And now he had a date. Unfortunately, that was all the information that he had
seen fit to pass along to his most loyal secretary. She was left with nothing to
pass along to the rumor mill. Not a name, not a comment on how long they had
been dating, not any background information. Just the fact that he would be
incommunicado from noon until around three and to reschedule his meeting with
Accounting.
Kim's morning was busy trying to theorize who this mystery date would be, with
the help of frequent phone calls from Mary, the Chief's secretary and one of her
closest friends. By the time noon slowly rolled around, Kim had hypothesized
virtually every possible person or permutation that his lunch date could
possibly be. When the knock on the door finally came at ten minutes until
twelve, Kim thought she was ready for any eventuality.
She was wrong.
First of all, the woman was African-American. Cornrows flowing halfway down her
back, ending in a spray of rainbow colored beads. She was tall and thin, wearing
a multi-colored wrap dress that simultaneously covered everything and left
little to the imagination. She resembled a Nubian goddess. Drop-dead gorgeous,
in many books.
Then there was the wedding and engagement ring sitting prominently on her left
hand. Well over a carat, according to Kim's trained eye, a beautiful pear shaped
stone in platinum. Walter's lunch date was not only a knockout, but very
married.
Blinding smile. "Would you please let Walter know that his lunch date is here?"
"May I tell him who is here?" Very polite. Her mother raised her better than to
be rude to a guest, even though her jaw was skinned from where it hit the floor.
Another supermodel smile. "Mikaela Fisher."
Walter and Mikaela talked of nothings on the drive over to the restaurant, of
inconsequentialities. They talked of her husband Joe, one of Skinner's oldest
friends and another of Bobby Sioux's boys. They talked of her twin
fifteen-year-old daughters, of her husband's medical clinic in the impoverished
S.W. quadrant of the city, of the weather. They were both holding their tongues,
biding their time.
It was only after they had placed their order at her favorite Vietnamese
restaurant that she turned her intense brown eyes on him, looking through him.
Searching for questions.
"You said when you called that you needed to talk to me—on a professional
level. For you, I cancelled three appointments and a group session. Here I am,
Walter. Talk to me."
Skinner sighed. For a moment, he wished he still smoked, so he could find
something for his hands to do besides fidget in his lap. He had been rehearsing
for this all morning, organizing words in linear patterns, trying to figure out
just exactly what he wanted to say, how he wanted to say it. This wasn't
supposed to be so difficult, talking to the wife of one of his closest friends.
The fact that she was also a social worker who offered counseling sessions at
her husband's medical clinic made her the perfect person to seek answers from.
Unfortunately, it didn't make it any easier for him to open his mouth and talk
about it. If it were about him, about his life, his past, it would be easy. He
would have no trouble saying the words, no trouble at all. But this was about
someone else, something else, something newborn and fragile. He didn't want to
break the soap bubble, expose it to light quite yet. He didn't want to run the
risk of damaging something before it really had a chance to start.
She looked at him, shaking her head, smiling indulgently. "You men are all
alike. Do I have to make it an order? 'Unburden yourself NOW, Soldier!'" Amazing
imitation of a Marine drill sergeant.
"You're way too good at that." Grinning.
She shrugged. "What can I say? I'm the child of a drill instructor married to an
ex-army guy. Purely a self-defense mechanism, I assure you. Now what did you
want to talk about?"
Self-depreciating smile, small shake of the head. "I need your help."
"I'd kinda figured that out already, Walter. What do you need my help with?"
"I've met someone."
::And it's about fucking time, too. I've only been throwing all my single female
- and most of my single male—friends at you for the past half decade or so!::
She arched her eyebrows at him, did her best 'Go on' expression, accompanied by
appropriate hand gestures.
"I've only known him for a few weeks. So far, all of our interactions have been
on the phone, but he's due to get back to our fair city in the near future."
"I'm waiting to hear a problem in this."
He sighed again, closed his eyes. Wished one more time for a cigarette.
"Confidentially?"
"Of course." She looked positively insulted. Professional, but insulted.
"This man that I'm interested in....he's had a very rough time of it lately.
Less than a year ago, he was kidnapped, beaten and raped. I'm not 100% certain,
but I believe he hasn't been intimate with anyone since then."
"And you plan on changing that fact."
Lupine grin. "I plan on fucking him through the mattress at the first possible
opportunity." He looked away, suddenly serious. "Therein lies the problem,
Mikaela. This is new to me. How do I do that without terrifying him? I don't
want to step on any buried land mines here."
Now it was her turn to sigh. "Walter, you couldn't have possibly picked an easy
person to become interested in, could you? Some nice, normal, emotionally
healthy type? Nyaah. Didn't think it would be possible. You've never done
anything the easy way in the entire twenty years I've known you. Why should you
start now?" Another sigh. "Can I ask you a couple of questions?"
"Sure. Shoot."
"Don't tempt me- I am armed. And dangerous." Smiling. "Does your friend have a
name?"
"His name's Alex."
"Has Alex received any counseling or therapy since his attack?"
Walt shook his head. "I think so. He's not exactly forthcoming on the entire
topic. The first time, his shrink was apparently a few fries short of a happy
meal. The second time, he ended up in a group therapy session for rape
survivors. He was the only man in the room. After those two debacles, he gave up
on counseling. Can't say as I blame him." Another shake of his head. "When we
talked about it, I got the distinct impression that there was something else,
something he wasn't willing to discuss yet. I'm not going to push it, but I
think it's important."
Nodding. Full shrink mode. "Does he know about your, ahem, proclivities?"
"You mean the one involving duct tape and farm animals, or the one where I dress
up like Nathan Lane doing Carmen Miranda? " Mischievous grin. "Yes, he does. I
made a point of explaining it to him the other night. Full disclosure up front
and all that other good stuff."
"How did he take it?" Leaning forward, almost conspiratorially over their spring
rolls and soup.
"I'm not sure. At the time, I thought he handled it fine. Then he called me back
four hours later..."
The phone rang while he was de-mummifying his dry cleaning, hanging out the
white starched shirt and crisp pleated dress pants he would be wearing the next
day. Nightly ritual. Ablutions to the gods of power dressing and cleaning
chemicals.
"Skinner."
"I need to talk to you." No introduction given, and none needed. The voice was
the same as a few hours earlier. The tone was as different as night and day.
"I'm here. Talk to me."
"It's about what we discussed earlier." Vague.
::Are there people listening in on your conversation, Alex? Or are you just that
uncomfortable saying the words?::
"I presumed as much. What do you need to tell me?"
Long pause. Long enough that Skinner thought Alex might have fallen asleep, or
hung up.
"Alex? Are you still there?"
"Yeah, I'm still here." Shorter pause. "There's something you need to know -
about what we talked about earlier. About me."
"I'm listening."
Deep breath. "I don't...you shouldn't....it's...." Frustrated snort. "I don't
want you to think that I'm..."
"You don't want me to think you're what, Alex?" Gentle tone. Not interrogating,
just asking.
Snapping now. "I don't want you to think I'm into pain, all right? I'm not into
pain. I needed you to know that."
Patiently, slowly, like he was talking to a frightened child or a spooked
animal. "Alex, it's all right. I already know that. I know you're not into pain.
I didn't think you were. Why was it so important that you tell me that?"
Even more frustrated. "I needed you to know. I didn't want you to think...hell,
I don't know. It was just important, all right? I'm sorry I called and wasted
your time, all right? Is that good enough for you?"
"No, it's not. I think it's more than that. Do you want me to tell you what I
think it is?"
"Sure. Go for it. Don't let me stop you—as if I ever do."
Skinner closed his eyes, willing himself to see nothing but green, do nothing
but breathe. "Here's what I think, Alex. If this isn't right, please tell me so,
OK?" Getting no answer, he continued. "You wanted—no, you needed—me to know
that you weren't into pain because you didn't want me to think that you wanted
pain. You didn't want me to think that in the past, when people hurt you, that
you wanted it. Is that somewhere close?"
Upset breathing, like he was trying not to cry. "Yes. No. I don't know."
"Well, that certainly covers all the available options." Light tone, smiling.
"Alex, I know you aren't into pain. I know you didn't invite what Luis did to
you. You didn't want it, and you definitely didn't deserve it. It wasn't your
fault."
"You don't....you don't know that."
"I think I do. I think I understand it better than you think."
"You don't know shit!" Frantic now. "You don't know! You don't understand. I
knew I shouldn't have called. I knew this was a bad idea..."
Skinner recognized that Alex was not up to handling logic right then, and
decided that a course correction was definitely in order, before the young man
got even more upset and said—or did—something they would both regret later.
"Alex, can I ask you a question?"
"Depends."
::Gotta love those definitive answers::
"Earlier today, you sent me a picture..."
"Is that your question?" Mildly shocked, somewhat pissed off.
"No, but I was about to get to my question when you interrupted me." Mock-stern.
"My question to you is, what was up with the dog in that photograph?"
Alex snorted, smiled for the first time. "That dog is my new traveling
companion. His name is Jacob, Jacob T. Dog. Once I get back home, I'm filling
out an application for him to get a Platinum Card."
"Good name. Where'd he come from?"
"He was another of Bobby's strays. He had been living at Bobby's house for a
couple of days when we...when I showed up. He snarled and snapped at everyone
else in the house, wouldn't let them within arm's reach, but insisted on
following me around and sleeping in my bed with me. So, when I left, the dog was
sitting in the passenger seat. He's obviously a mix, but none of us can figure
out exactly what combination of breeds would make a dog like Jacob. I'm voting
for Heinz-57 myself."
"Let me tell you something about my old friend Bobby—he can't tell a purebred
from a pimple on his ass. Jacob isn't a mix. He's a purebred, but his breed is
one I wouldn't expect any of you to have run into before."
"Oh, do enlighten us, Mr. Secret-Westminster-Watcher-Rare-Breed-Guru." Flippant
and silly, previous disagreement forgotten.
"Jake is a beautiful example of a Rhodesian Ridgeback. He has a ruff on his back
that stands up when he growls, or gets upset, doesn't he? That's his ridge.
They're great dogs—smart, tough as nails, great watchdogs. They were
originally bred in Rhodesia—now Zimbabwe—to hunt lions and other prey many
times their size. Absolutely fearless dogs. They can sense when someone needs
them—like you."
"Ya hear that, Jacob?" Talking to someone away from the phone. "You're a lion
hunter. Shame there are no lions around here to let you loose at. Maybe we'll
stop by the zoo on our way out of town..."
"...and then we just talked about dogs for a while, until he got tired and we
got off the phone. He hasn't brought up the subject since, and neither have I."
Mikaela was picking at her rice noodles, pulling them out of the clay pot and
letting them slither back in off the edge of her chopsticks. "Good call, Walter.
From what you've told me about him, I think your hunch was right. One very
common mind-fuck that rapists use is telling their victims that they really want
it, that they get off on the pain and humiliation. Even if it's not true, it can
still strike a nerve and make the survivor wonder if maybe he did want it, deep
down."
Skinner cursed in Vietnamese and English. Mikaela laughed and patted his arm.
"You've got good instincts, Walt. If you ever decide to give up wearing a suit
and working for the government, give me a call. I could use a top-notch lay
counselor in my practice. And, speaking of lays..."
He smirked. "Speaking of lays, how can I do this without making things worse?"
Gentle smile. "There's no formula for this, Walter. It just depends on the
person. Every rape survivor is different, because every person is different and
every rape is different. I'll give you a couple of generalities, but you'll
really have to play it by ear. Trust your instincts. You've got good ones."
"I'm all ears, doc."
Mikaela reached up and tweaked one of those ears, with the affection of old
friends. "And very nice ears they are too. Here are some things that I've seen
come up again and again when I counsel rape survivors and their partners."
"Should I be taking notes?"
She huffed at him in mock exasperation. " I took half a day off work for this?
You don't need to take notes, smartass—there's only two or three. Number one,
don't touch him when he's asleep. It's very hard to differentiate between past
and present in a dream. You might end up with a black eye—or worse, if he
thinks he's fighting off his attacker.
"Number two, keep it light and fun. Make him laugh. Sex doesn't have to be
deadly serious. It can just be two people hanging out, making each other feel
good.
"Number three, let him show you how fast or slow he needs to go. He should set
the pace and the boundaries. Let him initiate—hell, let him top. Take your
hands off the wheel and give him the controls for a while. Who knows? It might
expand your horizons a bit. You might even enjoy it.
"As I said a minute ago, trust your instincts. Follow his lead. Sex is supposed
to be fun..."
Skinner's cell phone rang, and he apologized profusely to his lunch date and
impromptu therapist as he fumbled to retrieve the phone from an inside jacket
pocket and walk away from the table to a more secluded corner. The call was from
Merlin, buzzing in on his private line as instructed to pass along the breaking
news.
The trial was over. Fifteen minutes earlier, the jury foreman handed down guilty
verdicts on each of the charges for the three defendants. Alex's usefulness as a
bargaining tool against the presiding judge had just evaporated.
The threat was gone. Alex was safe from the Colombian mob for the first time in
weeks, and on his way back to DC. Back to Walter and Merlin.
Chapter Thirteen—My Burden
"And I lay
The knock on the door Walter had been waiting for didn't arrive until almost
11:30 Saturday night.
Walter knew who it was. Alex had called half an hour earlier, letting the older
man know he was on his way, and asking permission to bring Jacob into the condo.
Walter was grinning, remembering how hesitant Alex sounded, how unsure of the
reception he would be receiving.
::Not for long, kid. Soon you'll understand just exactly how much you're
wanted::
Just to be on the safe side, Walter had his left hand on the Sig in the back
holster as he checked the peephole. Considering what he did for a living, he
didn't think it was possible to be too careful.
One tired-looking black haired green-eyed male. Check.
One large light brown dog on a leash. Check.
Walter forced himself to stop grinning triumphantly. That was a look that scared
people, and the entire purpose of this evening was not to scare Alex. Fuck him
into the mattress, yes. Scare him, no.
He quickly unlocked the deadbolt, flipped the lock on the doorknob, opened the
door and smiled. The object of his desire was finally here, after almost four
weeks.
Alex wouldn't look him in the eye, wouldn't look at him at all as Walter ushered
him in the apartment. Alex kept looking at the dog, the floor, anywhere but in
the direction of the older man who he'd become so obsessed with during the last
month. He looked...almost shy. Sweet.
Walter let his eyes wander over the younger man. In the better light, Alex
looked worse than Walter had expected. He knew the boy would be ragged around
the edges, but this was more than that. If Walt didn't know better, he would
almost think that the exhaustion well predated the run-in with Luis at the bar.
Deep purple rings surrounded his emerald green eyes, contrasting with the almost
unnaturally pale skin. His clothes weren't in much better shape—black T-shirt
with the name of a band Walter had never heard of and a pair of cut-off camo
shorts definitely the worse for wear—hanging loosely off him, like he had
recently lost weight.
That would change. That would all change. A couple of days of sleeping in,
eating decent food, soaking in the Jacuzzi.
And sex.
Lots and lots of sex.
Walt smiled, gently. He could do this. They could do this.
"I'm glad you're here, Alex. I was hoping you could help me with a little
problem I'm having." ::Besides the raging priapism::
Alex just looked up at Walter, arched an eyebrow. Said nothing verbally, volumes
with his eyes.
Jacob was noisily sniffing around the entranceway, whining, tethered by the
leash. His talented nose was telling him that there had been cats here recently,
and was itching to be allowed to track them to their lair and flush them out.
Cups of coffee were offered and accepted. Cream and sugar proffered. Jacob was
let off leash to go sniff, and realize to his disappointment that the cats were
no longer living there and hadn't been for several weeks. Alex still wouldn't
look Walter in the eye. Walter wrapped his hands around his coffee cup, rested
his elbows on the breakfast bar, and looked across the bar at his guest/lover to
be.
"So, I've got this little problem..."
Alex wasn't sure exactly what Walter was up to, but he recognized the
mischievous twinkle in the older man's chocolate brown eyes. Bobby Sioux got an
identical gleam in his eyes when he was about to get himself, and by extension
Alex and Tomas, into trouble. Fun trouble.
This was good. This Alex could handle.
"Oh, really?" Grinning.
"You see, I have this...friend. His name is.."
"Fred," Alex supplied helpfully.
"Fred. Thank you. Well, there's this guy that Fred is very interested in."
"What do you mean, interested in? As a friend, or as something more?" Leaning
across the mini-bar, elbows on the table, in unconscious imitation of Walter.
"In purely scientific terms, I believe Fred wants to fuck him into the
mattress."
"How very scientific."
"But Fred is worried because this guy is a little ... skittish."
"Skittish?" Trying for a proper Dio clinical look, and failing miserably.
"Yeah, and Fred really, really doesn't want to scare this guy off. Y'see, Fred
really, really likes this guy."
"So what can I do to help your friend Fred?"
"Well, here's my plan. I was hoping I could tell you what Fred wants to do to
this guy, and you could tell me if you thought it would scare him off."
"I see. So you were just going to tell me what Fred's plans were, in great
detail?"
"Well, no. I was also planning on demonstrating. I thought it might help you
give better...feedback."
"Let me see if I have this straight." Fighting back the laughter that was
bubbling up. "You would like me to give, ahem, feedback to you, to pass along to
your friend Fred, as to whether Fred's plans at seduction would be
well-received, or would frighten this poor chap into joining a monastery."
"You have an amazing, intuitive grasp of the obvious, Alex. Have you ever
considered a career in the U.S. Government?"
Laughing, low and easy. "So were you planning on staging this....demonstration
here in the kitchen?"
"Actually, I had planned to adjourn this to the couch in the living room. We can
conduct more rigorous scientific controls there."
"Scientific is good. I can do scientific." Glancing around skeptically. "I don't
have to wear those godforsakenly ugly safety goggles, do I?"
Walter glared at him momentarily over the top of his glasses, as Alex did his
best innocent expression during the silent moment while they reconvened on the
brown leather loveseat, both men waiting for the other to back out, or flee.
"So," Alex turned halfway on the loveseat to face the older man, legs crossed.
Casual. Relaxed. Absolutely edible. "What was Fred planning on doing first?"
Walter licked his lips. "I believe that Fred was planning on starting slow, just
touching this guy's hair, running his fingers through it. Apparently Fred has
been fantasizing about how silky it would feel."
"Fred's been spending valuable CPU time fantasizing about this guy's hair?"
"Smart-ass." Warmth, no bite. "Yes, he's been fantasizing about his hair,
amongst other things."
"Oh, good. I'm so relieved. I was beginning to worry that Fred was a
little...weird."
"Back to the topic at hand. Do you think that it would scare this guy off?"
Alex looked up at the ceiling, pondered for a moment. "I don't think so."
Walter slowly raised his right hand up to Alex's cheek, and slowly ran his
fingers through Alex's thick black hair, pushing his bangs out of his eyes. Alex
took a deep breath, closed his eyes as Walter carded his hand through the
younger man's hair, tried to stop himself from purring, melting into the seat.
He always liked people playing with his hair, starting with his adoptive mother,
moving on to every girlfriend he ever had. Some days he preferred it to sex.
"Will that scare him off?"
Alex opened his eyes, grinned satedly. "I think he's safe with that move. What
else was Fred planning?"
Walter moved his hand back down to rest on Alex's denim-covered thigh, surprised
at the thrill he got from the limited contact. "If that went well, Fred was
planning on kissing this guy."
::Has anyone ever told you, boy, that you have the most beautiful green eyes?::
"Tongue?"
"Not at first. Just a little gentle brush of lips, nothing heavy. If it was
well-received..."
"If it was well-received, major tonsil hockey."
"So, survey audience says?"
"Not scary, provided Fred has brushed his teeth since the Clinton administration
left office."
"Good." Walter leaned over and gently brushed his lips against Alex's mouth.
Just the gentlest of kisses, tentative and cautious, until Alex ran his tongue
along the other man's mouth. Walter groaned, soft heat tracing the inside of his
lips, over his tongue. Walter had to fight to keep his hands by his sides, not
wrap them around Alex, not try to devour Alex whole.
::You like that, Alex? I'll do a lot more than that before I'm done. You'll beg
me to do more::
They broke apart a moment later, Alex out of breath, panting. Flushed.
"Scary?"
"Oh, I don't think so. What was next on Fred's agenda?"
"Fred mentioned something about a necklace that he was just dying to kiss his
way under, biting his collarbone, that sort of thing. What's the verdict on that
one?"
"Mmmm, probably not too scary, but I'll need a demonstration to be absolutely
certain. Certainty is important in the scientific process."
"I'm sure I could oblige you, in the name of accuracy." A second later, warm
fingers were pulling the collar of his T-shirt aside, as lips and tongue gently
traced the line of scars under the thick silver chain, sliding down to gently
nibble on the collarbone, lick the sweat pooling there. Alex gasped, shivers
running down the whole length of his body.
It took a moment for Alex's brain to come back on line, waiting for those wild,
unfocused green eyes to come out of their hormonal fog. When he finally blinked
back to the here and now, Walter was looking expectantly at him, eyebrows
arched. Just waiting.
Alex opened his mouth, but nothing came out but a breathy moan. Hard swallow,
then another try. "Wh...what was the question again?"
Walter's grin was triumphant. "I said, do you think that would scare him into
joining a monastery?"
Alex took a deep breath. "My expert opinion is negative. What's next for Fred
and his guy?"
::Walt, if you don't fuck me, and soon, I'm going to make a mess all over your
nice leather couch::
"Fred was quite...descriptive about the next part. Apparently this guy has
several tattoos that Fred was wanting to examine, in close detail, with his
fingers and mouth."
"Tattoos? Where?"
"Oh, on his arms..."
"Like this one?" Pointing to the black and white tribal swirls on the inside of
his right wrist.
"Uh-huh. And on his back..."
Mock-exasperated sigh. "I suppose this will necessitate me taking my shirt off,
won't it?"
"You catch on quick, Sherlock. We wouldn't want to be disseminating faulty
information, now would we?"
"No, no. We couldn't have that. Not after we've worked so hard..." In one smooth
move, Alex pulled the t-shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor in front
of him. Jacob looked up at him from under the coffee table, where he had curled
up on top of a long-forgotten cat bed, and returned to sniffing at it intently.
Walter just stared for a moment, mentally drooling at the tight body exposed in
front of him. Long, lean muscle, brilliant colored ink, one golden hoop in each
tight, dark nipple. His hands itched to pull the rest of Alex's clothes off, run
his hands across Alex's warm skin, taste the younger man's sweat, make him
shudder, make him scream. But that...that would definitely frighten him. Better
to wait for him to make the first move.
"Turn around." Walter was trying to hide his shaky voice, but he knew Alex could
hear it. "Fred definitely said something about his back."
::I want to fuck you so hard that you forget your own name, and you beg me to
tell it to you::
"Back...hmm. I can do that." Alex turned himself around, crossed his legs,
leaned over the arm of the couch. Alex's tattoos were even more striking in the
partial light from the halogen lamp in the corner. A line of brightly hued
iguanas, tail to nose, were running from Alex's right shoulder disappearing into
his shorts right above his left hip. Walter's breath caught in his throat. All
that golden skin, painted vivid colors, warm and waiting for him, for his
touch...
::Control, Marine::
"Will those tattoos be suitable for the scientific process? Or do you need to
see the others as well, before you make your selection?" Alex was looking back
over his shoulder, green eyes alight, playing the game with a vengeance.
"I think they'll do just fine."
::This is not one night, boy. Don't imagine this will be over when we're both
sated. You're mine now. Mine::
Alex fought the urge to arch his back and squirm as gentle fingers stroked along
his shoulder blades, teasing the bumps of his spine, then following the tattoo
path down to his pelvis. When he felt the older man's teeth and lips nipping at
the crook of his neck, he gave up the fight. Fingers digging into the leather
arm of the couch, he thrashed his head back and forth and moaned.
The sound went straight to Walter's already rock-hard cock. Kissing and licking
in earnest now, not even trying to follow the tattoo, just tasting him, feeling
Alex shudder under him, back taut as a bow, muscles trembling. Slowly nibbling
down his spine, teeth nipping lightly—so lightly—at each vertebrae, hands
clenched into fists, willing himself to slow down, be gentle, not give in to the
atavistic urge to mark, to claim. Walter ran his hands down Alex's back, trying
to calm the shaking, dial everything down for a moment until Alex was breathing
regularly once again. Then, do it all over.
Walter was so far gone it took him a moment to realize that Alex was moaning
actual words.
"Please....oh, god.....please, Skinner....please...."
Another kiss, another lick of sweat-slick skin, another gentle stroke of
Walter's fingers along his side. "Please what, Alex?"
Trembling. "Please...want you so bad it hurts...please, Skinner..."
Walter pulled away, gently grasped Alex's shoulder, turning him around to face
the older man. Wild, feral green eyes met Walter's focused, intense brown eyes
and Walter could see the desire, the need inside.
::I want all of you, Alex. No more games, no more hiding. Everything you have to
give, mine. Understand?::
Alex put every bit of focus he had left into forming words. "You. Me. Bed. Now."
His muscles wouldn't work, or Alex would have grabbed Walter by the wrist and
dragged him towards the nearest bedroom. Alex was so far gone that Walt had to
help him up off the couch and steer him towards the master bedroom, stopping
every few steps to help Alex remove another article of his clothing.
Later, all Alex could remember was a blur of images and sensations—chest hair
rubbing up against his nipples, making him squirm and arch. Hot pulses of
electricity arcing from his hips to his toes, as the back of his knees were
thoroughly explored with tongue and lips. Teeth nipping along his inner thigh,
making him spread his legs even wider apart. Skinner's laughing voice calling
him Cat as those devil-inspired fingers found the most sensitive spots on his
body, as he keened and moaned. Fingers on him, cock inside him as he grabbed
onto the headboard for dear life and screamed and came for what felt like an
eternity.
Chapter Fourteen—Crimes Between Us
"And the crimes
295 North to Harbor Tunnel Thruway.
::You don't have to do this::
::Yes I do::
Harbor Tunnel Thruway becomes I-95 North. Follow until you get to the New Jersey
Turnpike.
::You don't have to do this::
::I need to know. It's been too long. Much too long::
Merge onto I-95 North.
::You don't have to do this::
::I can't live like this anymore. It's killing me::
Exit #16—Cedar Street, New Rochelle.
Monday morning safety, or at least the illusion thereof. Safety as much of an
illusion as everything else in Alex's life. Some days he wondered if anything in
his life, in his memories was actually real, or if he'd wake up one morning to
the smell of salt-tanged air and the aftertaste of sedatives in his mouth.
Bad 80's station on the truck radio. Dog asleep, head on his leg, snoring
quietly. Driving towards infinity. .
Or maybe driving towards the cliff, a green-eyed lemming in a beat up pickup
truck, bent on self destruction. No, not a lemming. A moth, throwing itself at
the flame. Waiting for the burn. Waiting for blessed oblivion.
He shook that thought off, mentally berated himself. He wasn't suicidal. Far
from it. At the moment, at least. How many moths went up against the flame
armed? His Sig resting in the waistband of his jeans. Backup 22 strapped to his
calf. Knife in his boot.
::We're here, we're terrified, and we're armed to the fucking teeth::
::Go team::
His cell phone vibrated against his hip. He thought about answering it, about
dislodging the dog asleep with his head on Alex's thigh, and reconsidered. If it
was important enough, whoever was calling would call back.
Fifteen minutes later, the phone vibrated again. Slowly, carefully, Alex slid
his hand into the pocket of his shorts, trying not to jostle Jacob the dog as he
extracted the palm-sized piece of black plastic. He checked the Caller ID
display, then smiled at the familiar 812 area code before he flipped the phone
open.
"Hey, Merlin."
"Hey yourself, Alex. I got your message. You still in D.C.?"
"At the moment, no. I'm on my way to New York. Got something I have to do in
Long Island, then I'll be heading back."
"Business or pleasure?"
Alex fought down a cold shiver and a sudden wave of nausea. "Neither. Just
something that needs to be done. If all goes according to plan, I'll only be in
the city for about an hour, then I'm turning around. I'm planning on being back
in DC by nightfall." Jacob twitched and whined on Alex's lap, chasing lions in
his dreams. "How does dinner sound, Merlin?"
"Sounds entirely too far off. You're starting to worry me, Alex. Sudden changes
of plans, mysterious meetings—I don't like the sound of it. Are you sure
you're all right?" Concern evident in his voice, and something else.
It had only been three weeks since Alex returned from his cross-country run from
the Colombian mob—his pilgrimage, as he called it. Since his return, Merlin
had been very careful, very solicitous of the younger man's moods and feelings,
careful to take things at Alex's speed, not pushing Alex to go farther or faster
than he was ready for. Alex thought it was sweet. Tomas and Dio thought Merlin
was in love.
"I'm fine. Really. I'm sorry I had to cancel our plans for this morning. I'll
make it up to you tonight—I promise."
"You'd better. I'll hold you to that, Alex—or maybe I'll just hold it against
you."
Alex laughed, trying to shake off the feeling of foreboding. "You can hold any
body part against me you like, big boy..."
"Alex Krycek, I'm hurt! Shocked! Offended even! I am not that type of boy. I do
NOT put out on the first date!" Trying for wounded dignity, but the laughter
detracted from the overall effect.
"Second date then? Nudge nudge wink wink? Say no more, say no more?"
More laughter. "I'm playing that one by ear, Alex. Whenever I feel I've been
wined and dined sufficiently, then MAYBE I'll let you take me to bed. Maybe.
Depends on how fickle I'm feeling on any particular evening. It's a girl's
prerogative, you know. "
"Hmm. I see. And would gifts help sway the fickle-meter in my favor, Merlin?"
"Oh, most definitely. Gifts are always appreciated—especially jewelry. The way
to a girl's heart is through precious metals and large stones."
"Silly me. I always thought the best way to a man's heart was between the third
and fourth rib."
"Alex, you are twisted, perverted, and sick—I like that in a person. All right
- I'll forgive you for standing me up for breakfast, this once. Do it again, and
it will be a long, cold summer of blue balls for you, young man. I don't lift my
skirt for just anyone, you know. You have to know how to treat me right. "
"You keep talking about lifting skirts and precious stones, and I'll think
you're channeling Denise. By the way, how is she doing?"
"Good. She's had an eventful month—not quite as eventful as yours, but close.
I'll save that bit of gossip for this evening. Consider it a lure not to stand
me up a second time, Alex, since the lure of my luscious body wasn't sufficient
to keep you in the city this morning."
Grinning. "I'll call you the minute I get back in the city tonight, and we'll
get together—I promise. Oh, and Merlin?"
"Yes?"
Low voice. Deep. Serious. "I can't wait to see you. I've missed you."
"I can't wait to see you too, Alex." Click.
Alex leaned his head back on the headrest, savoring the warmth in his gut and
the fluttering feeling near his heart that he always got when he talked to
Merlin, letting the thoughts of Merlin distract him from the dread, the fear,
the inevitability of what he was driving towards.
As he drove through the light traffic of late Monday morning Long Island, Alex
calmed himself down. Centered himself. Found the quiet, still spot inside, like
Bobby had taught him. It worked, to a certain degree, at least as well as
anything did. While he was meditating, he pondered the moth. Wondered if it felt
fear when it flew into the flame, diving towards oblivion.
I'm not leaving, Walt, I'm just...
You're leaving
I have to do this. I have to. I can't keep living like this. It has to end,
Walter
I'm coming with you
No way in hell
Then at least tell me where you're going
I can't
Why the hell not?
Because you'd try to stop me
Exit 16, Cedar Street, New Rochelle.
Not what he had pictured.
The address was only a few miles from the Clinton's new house. Older
neighborhood, quiet, tree-lined street, less fashionable end of town. Huge oak
and maple trees in every yard, minivans in every driveway, well-manicured lawns.
Suburbia. The mundaneness of it made Alex's thoughts feel even more sinister.
The house itself was a huge Victorian, draped in the similar gaudy pink and
yellow hues as it's neighbors, painted lady style. Gingerbread cutouts, cupolas,
turrets. And a small sign by the front door, a copper plaque.
LC Enterprises.
::You don't have to do this::
::Yes I do. I can't live like this anymore::
One foot in front of the other.
The interior was quiet, professional, expensive. Light colored wood furniture
matching the paneling on the walls, tasteful original art, subtle hints of a
very pricey security system. Pretty young thing, wearing a suit so short it
would make Ally McBeal blush, sitting behind the desk, obviously hired because
she matched the decor. Another woman, older, less decorative, more professional,
leaning next to her, showing her something on the Blueberry Imac.
They both noticed him at the same moment.
"Can I help you?" Cute perky thing. Cute perky voice. He resisted the urge to
punch her cute perky nose, just to see how perky her blood looked. Or maybe she
wouldn't bleed at all...
"I'm here to see Luis Christien." Low voice, steel-shot. No expression. No room
for argument.
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No." Just a hint of a smile. No warmth, just a bad parody of friendliness.
"I'm afraid Mr. Christien won't be able to see you without an appointment. He's
much too..."
Four steps across the room, then Alex was leaning over the desk. Letting them
both look at him up close, see the dead places behind his eyes. See just how far
he had slipped, just how far he was from normal, from human right then.
"Oh,trust me. He'll see me. Just let him know Alex Krycek is here."
The older woman blinked, blinked again, recognition flashing across her face.
She had obviously heard his name before. Alex fought down another cold smile.
"Just have a seat, Mr. Krycek. I'll see if Mr. Christien is available to see
you." Patting the younger girl on the arm, ignoring her squeaking protests, she
turned and disappeared behind another polished wood door behind the desk.
"Luis, as we've discussed before, you're overinvested in certain portfolios. If
we can divest you of some of these stocks, it will free up a great deal of
liquid capital..."
Knock. Knock. Silence.
Knock. Knock.
Luis looked at his financial advisor, then at the clock, irritation evident on
his face. 11:37 AM Tuesday. He knew for a fact that he had no other appointments
before noon. This interruption was completely uncalled for, and totally
unacceptable. One of the strictest rules was that he was never to be interrupted
for anything short of the building burning down. Not like the meeting was
particularly important—Greenwald was his financial advisor, and completely at
Luis's beck and call. He would show up whenever Luis asked him to. It was the
principle of the thing, the concept. Rules are rules.
"Come in."
Lianne, his secretary, slid quietly into the room, taking up as little space as
possible with her body. Wringing her hands. Agitated. It was painfully obvious
to Luis that she had been seriously torn between interrupting her boss and
passing along the information that had to be very important.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Christien. I didn't mean to interrupt, but I didn't know what
else to do. He just showed up and demanded to see you, even though he didn't
have an appointment. He insisted that you would see him, even after I explained
that you don't make exceptions to the rules. Christine tried to tell him..."
Luis interrupted her oxygen-starved rambling with the ease of long practice. "
Breathe, Lianne. Did you happen to get his name?"
Inhale. Exhale. A few seconds of silence. "Yes, sir. That's why I'm in here, why
I didn't just ask him to leave or call security. He said his name was Alex
Krycek." Inhale. Exhale. "I remembered you mentioning that he was someone you
had met during your vacation last summer..."
Luis froze, for just an instant, then relaxed, a grin playing across his face,
scary light behind coffee colored eyes. "It's OK, Lianne. You did the right
thing, letting me know he was here. Please escort Alex back into the greenhouse,
and let him know that I'll be out in a few minutes. See if he wants anything to
eat or drink."
"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer me to take him to the conference room?" Lianne
looked confused. Standard operating procedure was that all guests waited in the
elegant conference room, instead of the much more casual
greenhouse/breakroom/aviary. In that office, standard operating procedure was
always adhered to, come hell or high water.
He shook his head. "Greenhouse. If you took him back to the conference room,
he'd have to pass by the metal detectors. Trust me on this one—Alex is most
definitely carrying a gun on him right now." Luis ignored the shocked look on
his secretary's face. "Oh, and Lianne—be extra polite with Alex. He's
definitely on edge right now, and I'd hate to have to replace you if he shoots
you." Turning back to his financial advisor, silently dismissing Lianne. "Can we
reschedule this meeting for tomorrow? I have some time at 8:30..."
Room filled with plants—some hanging from planters attached to the ceiling,
others in pots on tables, still more sitting on the floor in clusters. Tall
plants. Short plants. One wall entirely of glass, letting in a maximum of light.
Sunshine everywhere through the glass wall and the skylight, falling on the
casual groupings of tables and chairs, on the microwave and refrigerator tucked
away in a corner, on the enormous fishtank taking up the place of honor in the
middle of the room, filled with a multicolored plethora of tropical fish.
Alex sat on the table nearest the tank, watching the fish, watching the only
door into or out of the room through the reflection on the tank, and let his
thoughts empty.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Let it go.
Find the empty place, the hollow place.
Find the calm.
Find the center.
Breathe in the center.
Let it fill you, fingertips to toes.
Let the center fill you.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Luis stood right outside the door, out of Alex's line of sight, and waited.
Invisible. Voyeuristic. Breathing in the scent of his Kitten. It had been months
since Luis had been close enough to what was his to do this, to savor Alex's
scent—the unique combination of leather and cordite, sweat and fear and need
and desire...
And another man.
Not Tomas. He knew Tomas's scent almost as intimately as he knew Alex's. This
was a stranger, touching his Kitten.
Luis arched his eyebrows, smiled coldly. So his Kitten had finally found another
playmate, besides Tomas. Luis never understood why Alex and Tomas had never been
lovers before they arrived at the island, before Luis claimed them, made Alex
and Tomas his. They were so beautiful together, so obviously right for each
other. It was obvious. He expected that afterwards, they would find consolation
in each other, find solace like he had taught them.
He shrugged the thought away, dismissing it. Tomas and Dio were a long-standing
couple, and now Alex had someone new. He knew that this would happen eventually.
He never expected his beautiful green-eyed Kitten to be celibate forever. Luis
was fine with the reality that Alex had a new lover. He would simply have to
meet this man, introduce him to the fundamental truths of the situation, make
sure that he knew that, at the end of the day, Alex belonged to Luis. He had had
that conversation months ago with Dio.
With that thought, Luis smiled, pushed open the door and stepped into the
sun-drenched room.
"Hello, Alex. It's been a while."
Luis could smell Alex's fear, feel Alex's heart rate spike from across the room,
but Alex didn't say anything, didn't acknowledge the other man's presence.
"I'm surprised to see you here. Very surprised."
Alex slowly turned away from the fishtank, faced the other man.
His captor.
His rapist.
His nemesis.
Alex had to fight hard to keep the calm, keep in the center, when looking at the
man who had plagued his nightmares.
The panic was threatening to drown him again.
Dressed in an obviously expensive Italian pinstriped suit, Luis was even larger
than Alex remembered—easily six foot four, with broader shoulders and more
muscular than Walter. Luis was larger, stronger and faster than Alex, a fact he
enjoyed proving to the younger man again and again during his captivity.
::Fight me as hard as you want, Kitten. We both know I'll win::
Let the center fill you.
Breathe.
Luis just watched his Kitten, studying him. This was very different than their
previous encounters—on the island, at the hospital, in the bar a few weeks
earlier. No hysterics. No violent rages. Alex's face was an unreadable mask, and
his eyes—normally showing every emotion, every thought—were silent. Almost
calm.
"Why did you come here, Kitten?"
Alex breathed through his body's instinctive reaction to that name, through the
fight-or-flight instinct that was propelling him to run.
Breathe
Just breathe.
"I want some answers." Flat. Emotionless. Cold.
Luis arched an eyebrow, trying to figure out the very unfamiliar situation. This
was not what he expected. This was not the Alex he knew so well. He wasn't
expecting Alex to come to him at all, much less like this. Tomas—that was
another story. Luis knew Tomas would come to him voluntarily, just as Luis knew
the sun would rise the next morning. He already had a few contingencies in place
for the first time that Tomas's curiosity and need drew him to this house, drew
him back to Luis's side. If Luis's experience held true, Tomas would make his
first visit before winter hit. Alex, as always, was another story. It would take
several years and Tomas's direct involvement to bring Alex back into the fold.
Alex would need to be run to ground, dragged exhausted and most likely injured
back to where he belonged, with them. He would not accept the reality of his
situation any other way.
But this visit—this was something else. Something else entirely. Luis wasn't
entirely sure what the something was.
Luis didn't like not knowing.
"All right." Luis walked over to the table closest to Alex, pulled out a chair,
and nonchalantly sat down, well inside Alex's personal space, almost close
enough to touch. Alex didn't flinch, didn't respond to his closeness. "Ask your
questions."
"What deal did you cut with the Colombians?" Voice as unreadable as his face, as
his eyes. Mechanical voice. No inflection. No emotion.
Luis looked at the fishtank, back at the younger man, surprise flickering in his
eyes. He had gone to some length to make certain that Alex didn't and wouldn't
find out about the Colombians, about Luis's involvement in the threat to his
life.
"What do you know about the Colombians?"
"Enough." Biting off the word.
"You weren't supposed to know anything about them. How did you find out? Who
told you?"
"I'm asking the questions here." Voice razor blades and steel, hands tightly
gripping the edge of the table, just a few inches from his gun. No room for
argument.
Luis chuckled quietly. One point for Kitten. "All right, Alex. I'll play your
game. I gave the Colombians exactly what they wanted—a body that matched the
blood samples they had previously obtained. Granted, the blood samples weren't
yours, but then again neither was the body. It's amazing what a few large
denomination bills in the proper hands can accomplish."
"Why?" No curiosity in that voice. Just more metal.
Coffee-brown eyes locked onto emerald green. Luis let his voice drop a register,
grow cold. "You already know the answer to that one, Kitten. They wanted you
dead, and I couldn't allow that. I'm the only one who's allowed to kill you."
Alex's heart stopped beating for just a moment, as all the blood in his veins
froze. Luis was absolutely, completely serious.
He was eventually planning on killing Alex.
He wondered, for just a second, if that had been Luis's plan all along.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
Luis just kept looking at him, smiling a cold, cruel smile, well aware of the
effect his words were having on Alex's heart rate. "Was that all your
questions?"
"Not even close." Alex was impressed at how steady and calm his voice sounded.
Unlike his hands, which were persisting in shaking, even though he was gripping
the table hard enough for his knuckles to turn white. "What was behind that
little..outburst at the bar a couple of months ago?"
It took Luis a moment to backtrack, understand what bar, when. " I see that got
your attention, Kitten. It was a bit more spur of the moment than I usually am,
yes, but it had the desired effect."
"And what desired effect would that be?" Just a hint of contempt in that voice.
Luis smiled, something almost warm showing behind his eyes. " It made you run
like a scared jackrabbit. It got you out of the bar, and away from the man I was
going to meet there less than fifteen minutes later. It would have been a bit
awkward, explaining your presence to the brother-in-law of a Colombian drug lord
when I was in the process of negotiating the delivery of your corpse. It had
taken me several weeks to convince them that you had died several years earlier.
Your presence in the bar, alive and well, would have been hard to explain."
One slow breath, then another. "So that wasn't another kidnapping attempt?"
A slow chuckle. As smart as Alex was, he still didn't understand who he was
dealing with. "Kitten, if I wanted you in my possession, you would have been
long before that night. I've been keeping tabs on you since you returned to
Chicago. If you or Tomas had tried to disappear, you wouldn't have gotten far
without my knowledge. The GPS trackers on your bike and his auto would have
placed you within two city blocks, no matter where you were hiding. At least,
until you took a cross-country jaunt in your old truck, instead of Tomas's Range
Rover, like I expected. That did make it a tad more difficult for me to track
your movements, but nothing that I couldn't overcome."
Alex recoiled like he had been slapped. "You... you put a GPS tag... on my
motorcycle?"
"Guilty as charged."
The fury, the rage was building up inside Alex, pressure behind his eyes so
great he felt like his head was about to explode. The voices inside him were
screaming, adding to the deafening din.
He wanted to grab Luis, hit him, pummel him to a bloody pulp. He wanted to find
an outward target for all that rage, all that fear, all those nameless faceless
emotions that were threatening to drown him.
"What else? What else did you do to keep tabs on us?"
A casual wave of Luis's hand. "Nothing major. It wasn't like I had you two under
constant surveillance or anything. There were a few people keeping an eye on you
here and there, discretely. Mainly tracking your movements, and also making
certain that neither you or Tomas did anything particularly stupid. And before
you ask, no, I didn't plant listening devices in your house, no matter what you
think you saw or heard. That delusion was purely the product of your illness,
Kitten." Slow smile, remembering something sweet. "Though, once you were in the
hospital, I did come by to visit you."
Alex shook his head. It was hard to hear over the din inside his skull. "You're
lying. There is no way in hell Tomas or Dio would have let you within ten feet
of me while I was there. They were watching for you, and you never showed up."
Small smile playing across the corners of Luis' mouth. "You don't remember it,
do you, Kitten? That's all right. It was only a day or two after you arrived,
and you were quite thoroughly sedated at the time. I made certain of that. It
was almost like the old times. And as for Dio standing guard... well, your friend
really needs to keep a closer eye on his coffee cup. He made it entirely too
easy to slip a few drops of something in there, and then Dio took a little nap.
And you—you look like an angel when you're asleep, Alex. Makes it hard for me
to resist touching you."
Alex was holding onto his tenuous calm by a thread, barely resisting the urge to
hit, to hurt. "You son-of-a-bitch." Snarling, teeth bared.
Luis' eyes were gleaming with malicious mirth, thoroughly enjoying Alex's
discomfort. "Once again, guilty as charged. You know me too well, Alex. One
might even say biblically. Were there any other questions, Kitten?"
"Only one." Fingernails digging bloody crescents into his palms, that spike of
pain helping him stay in the present, keeping him from being lost in flashbacks.
"You let Tomas and I walk off that island. You could have stopped us. You
didn't. Why?"
Luis arched an eyebrow and looked at the younger man sitting across from him,
surprised once again. Then he started to laugh.
"One of these years I need to learn to stop underestimating you, Kitten. You
seem to have a gift for realizing things that I would rather you not know about.
I figure it will take me about seventy—five years or so to remember that.
You're absolutely right—I did let you leave."
"Why?"
Luis took a deep breath, sighed, ran his fingers through his long brown hair.
For a moment he looked almost...human. "Fundamental law of nature you'd be wise
not to forget, Kitten—bad things always happen at the absolutely worst
possible time. Consider it Murphy's Law with teeth and talons. Someone that I
once trusted, and cared about very deeply, was attempting a hostile takeover of
my company when he knew that I was otherwise occupied and out of the state.
I was well and truly stuck.
If I stayed on the island, I would lose a company that I had built from scratch
over more years than I care to count.
If I left...
I spent several sleepless nights considering my options. Bringing you back here
to New York City so I could take care of the problem was absolutely out of the
question. You were unpredictable, violent, and just barely starting to accept
your situation and deal with it. I could handle that in a very controlled
environment, like the island, where there were serious constraints on your
options and the damage you could do. That was the reason I chose the island for
your new home, for the first step in getting you used to your new life. Granted,
even I hadn't considered that you would try to burn the place to the ground, but
I had underestimated your... creativity. It would have been at least a year,
more likely eighteen months, before I would have been willing to take you back
to civilization for more than a few hours at a time. You had—and still have -
a hell of a lot of growing up and retraining to do.
Tomas, on the other hand, was much farther along the process than you were. If
things had been different, if it had just been Tomas and I instead of the three
of us, I would have taken him back to Manhattan with me in a heartbeat. A few
pharmaceutical controls, some tempting rewards, and he would have been just
fine. Better than fine. You see, I had a handle on Tomas—on his needs, on his
buttons, on what makes him tick. You, Kitten, are a completely different story."
Alex felt the blood draining out of his body, as Luis's words started to sink
in. "You would have taken Tomas with you and left me there?"
"That, Kitten, is exactly why I didn't do it. I may not have known you inside
and out, like Tomas, but even I could see that one coming. I knew if I took
Tomas away, you would have stopped at nothing to get him back. You would have
moved heaven and earth to save him from my evil clutches. It would have been
messy, and bloody, and attracted the attention of the local constabulary.
Not that that would necessarily be such a bad thing to have you following us,
trying to get Tomas back. Under different circumstances, it would be very useful
to have Tomas as bait, to lure you back where you belong, get you back where you
need to be. But these were not those circumstances. I couldn't focus on doing
what I needed to do to save my company while trying to keep you and Tomas apart.
I needed to spend 100% of my time and energy on undoing the damage
my...friend...had done to my company. You and Tomas had to be second priority
for a while.
So, I took the path of least resistance, and let you both go, knowing that
eventually you would come back on your own."
"You're wrong." Voice shaky. " I will never come back t o you voluntarily.
Never."
"You haven't figured it out yet, have you, Kitten?" No warmth behind the gleam
in his coffee-colored eyes. "Eventually, you'll come back to where you belong.
Not this week, not this month, maybe not this year. But you will. And when you
do, I'll be here. I have what you need, Alex. You probably haven't even figured
out what it is, or how badly you need it. That will happen with time, and I have
all the time in the world. So do you."
Breathe.
Just breathe.
Alex had to get out of that room, out of that house. The walls were too tight,
the ceiling too low. Luis was too close. Not enough oxygen. He couldn't breathe.
Amused laughter behind him, as he valiantly tried not to throw up, tried not to
show just how out of control he was at that moment.
Heart jackhammering in his chest, black dots swimming in front of his eyes, he
pushed past Luis, through the door, past the room with the light colored wood,
and out on the street. It took an amazing amount of energy for Alex just to keep
moving, keep putting one foot in front of the other. Escape.
His truck was just a few yards up, parked by the side of the quiet residential
street. It looked terribly out of place, a beat-up ten year old pickup truck
with a dog making happy baying noises in the front street, in the land of
Lexuses and expensive minivans. Alex leaned against the trunk of a large tree
someone had conveniently planted in the front yard, tried to force his heartbeat
to slow down to something less than imminent stroke rate, force his breathing to
even out, force the dots swimming in front of his eyes to go away. Fainting
here, being unconscious and vulnerable in front of Luis, would not be good.
Words still echoing loudly in his ears.
::You look like an angel when you're asleep, Alex. Makes it hard for me to
resist touching you::
::I'm the only one who's allowed to kill you::
This trip had been a bad idea, a very bad idea.
He wasn't strong enough to face Luis and come out unscathed. He never would be
strong enough. He needed to get away, to go back to the safety of his truck, the
safety of the endless anonymous highways, running. Running for his life. Because
he knew right then, in the clarity of a lightning bolt, that he would nevertruly
be safe, never be free from Luis and the island and his pain. The pain would
never stop, until it killed him.
Unless he killed himself first.
Just for a second, he seriously considered it.
Then he put the thought away in the little metal box in the back of his head,
along with the rest of the things he refused to think about. Closed it. Locked
it. Shut the door.
One foot in front of the other.
Let the minutiae pull him along, sweep him forward in the undertow. Walk to the
truck. Open the door. Grab Jacob's collar with one hand, quickly grope around on
the passenger seat for the leash with the other hand. Attach the leash to the
collar. Get licked in the face a couple of times. Let Jacob out of the truck to
do his business against a nearby tree, or fence, or some solid vertical object.
Watch Jacob as he intently sniffs every blade of grass, every signpost for
possible threats.
Done it a million times. Done it in a pouring rainstorm, and in his sleep,
literally. One more won't hurt. Even if his teeth were rattling and his hands
were shaking so hard he could barely fasten the leash.
Just like every other time.
Until Jacob started to growl.
It was an unnatural sound, a snarl torn from a hell-beast. It made all the hair
on Alex's arms stand on end, made his heart rate—already too rapid -
accelerate again. It went deep into some primitive portion of his lizard brain,
and started the creature that lived there howling and gibbering about strangers
and gathering the tribe.
Alex looked up from the tree where he was leaning heavily.
This wasn't his dog.
His dog didn't let loose with snarls and growls that would frighten the dead.
His dog didn't bare it's fangs ferociously, threatening to tear the object of
its attention limb from limb.
His dog wasn't reverting back to its original lion-killer alter ego.
There were no lions in New Rochelle, New York.
This fact wasn't slowing Jacob down one bit. He was throwing his body at the end
of the leash as hard as he could, snarling and barking, frothing at the mouth,
powerful jaws snapping with enough force to shatter bone. Alex was bracing his
entire body against the onslaught, hoping his 190 pounds was enough to block the
attack of 75 pounds of furious canine.
Alex followed the line of the leash, pulled taut, past the ferocious his- not
his—dog at the end, until he saw the target of Jacob's fury.
Luis.
Luis was standing stock-still, just outside the range of those flashing jaws,
just outside the limit of the leash. There was an expression on his face that
Alex had never seen before, not during the entire two months of his captivity.
Fear.
The fear-scent was coming off Luis in waves, as he stared at the snarling dog,
straining at the end of the leash, desperate to attack Luis. Bite him. Kill him.
The picture almost made Alex smile.
Alex was yelling over the frenzied barking of the hell-beast. "Luis, stay away
from me and mine. Or the next time I see you, Jacob won't be on a leash." Pause
for a moment, watching the expression on Luis's face change to terror for just a
split second. "Jacob, come. Now."
The dog growled again, low in his chest, looking back and forth from Alex to
Luis, from his master to the threat. He pulled again at the end of the lead,
made one last lunge with snapping jaws, before Alex yanked him backwards hard
enough to knock the sturdy dog off balance.
"Jacob. Come. Now." Voice a matching snarl, eyes never leaving Luis. Slowly,
reluctantly, Jacob turned and moved toward his master, towards the open
passenger side door of the truck.
Back in the truck, burning rubber and breaking several local ordinances, pulling
out of that quiet residential street as fast as humanly possible.
Driving back to the highway, to Washington D.C.
To the arms of people who would protect him, like Jacob was protecting him.
Towards the people who loved him.
Towards the sunlight.
"So priketh hem Nature in hir corages Thanne longen folk to goon on
pilgrimages..."
scraping through my head 'til I don't want to sleep anymore."
—Nine Inch Nails "Something I Can Never Have"
Chapter Eight—Favorite Dreams Of You
ill someone please remind me why I am traipsing through a cemetery—a
cemetery I broke into, mind you—at a quarter to way too fucking late at night?
Oh, I forgot. I'm here because Alex asked me to. Grr.
Just a fading, fucking reminder of who I
used to be."
—Nine Inch Nails
Nothing's turning out the way I planned.
Hey pig—
There's a lot of things I hoped you could help me understand.
What am I supposed to do?
I lost my shit because of you."
—Nine Inch Nails, "Piggy"
until finally there is nothing left
one more casualty"
—Tori Amos, "Silent All These Years"
and talk about the weather."
—Tears for Fears, "Head over Heels"
my burden
at your door."
—Stained "Outside"
between us
grow deeper..."
—Dave Matthews Band, "Ants Marching"
Prologue, lines 11 and 12 Chaucer's Canterbury Tales
