They say that it's always darkest right before the dawn. I guess
that's a metaphor or something because it's hours before dawn and
sitting up here on the roof, looking out at the stars, I just
don't think the night sky could get any darker. Not that there's
no light in the sky. There are stars enough to wish on, more than
enough to conjure up meaning from the random patterns. This far
from civilization it seems that there are more stars than empty
sky sometimes. But all the stars burning in that vast uncaring
coldness just seem to make the darkness all the deeper.
The softest scuff, hardly a sound at all draws my attention to
the roofline. It's Alex. I barely hear the soft pad of his bare
feet as he clamors up from the balcony and crosses the roof
towards me. That's something that Alex has never lost. He still
has that facile grace; even hampered by his injuries, all these
years later he moves quieter than any man I've ever known. That
used to scare me.
"You're brooding again, Jeffrey," he says as he sits down beside
me. He's near soundless, nothing but the rustle of his blue jeans
betrays his presence.
Jeffrey... he only calls me that when he's serious, or
lecturing... "for your own good" and all that. . . Usually
it's Jeff, or Jeffy if he's being playful, and yeah that happens
sometimes. If he's ticked or frustrated it's just Spender, and
yeah that happens sometimes too.
"It's cold out here tonight," he adds.
There's a subtle note of criticism in his voice. He's right. I
shouldn't be out here in just jeans and a T-shirt. I catch cold
easily these days; get tired from little effort and my immune
system is pretty much a lay-about. After my Father's nearly
successful attempt at murder, I woke up here delirious from the
pain and infection. Alex nursed me back to a semblance of
wholeness if not health. It's a hard knock life.
"I'm fine," I say staring up at the stars. "It's not that cold."
I can hear his breathing pause for a moment. He knows I'm wrong,
but he keeps himself from telling me so. Instead he leans back
against the roof and uncurls his long legs, stretching like a
cat, all grace and poise. I turn to watch as he slips his hand
beneath his shirt and loosens the straps and buckles that remind
him again and again of what he's lost. I watch his hand, barely
visible under the faded cotton cloth. First is the top strap, the
one that has worn a hard callous across his chest, then the
middle buckle, and with the soft sigh of a man setting down a
burden, the lower buckle, just above his belt.
"Do you ever miss it Alex?" I ask and listen to the nighttime
chorus of insects, frogs and night birds. It's almost an alien
world to a city boy, born so close to the steel and glass canyons
of DC. It's a different life here in upstate Vermont; it's a
barely tamed, nearly wild place.
I look over as he turns to me, and I swear I can see the stars
reflected in his eyes.
"Nah," he says as he pulls his hand from his shirt and sticks it
out in front of him, wiggling his fingers. "I've got another."
I run the back of my hand over my mouth and try not to laugh.
Alex has an unexpected humor as dark as the night we're sharing.
"I meant the city, the hustle, the activity, the energy?"
"The noise, the pollution, the junkies, the derelicts, the
international conspiracies at the highest levels of government
and industry. Nope, don't miss that much at all," he replies.
There's a grim sort of mirth in his voice that I used to think
was bitterness.
I lean back as well, letting my shoulder brush his. I know he can
feel the contact through his prosthesis, but not the touch, just
the pressure of another body against his. There's some comfort in
human contact, however distant we strive to remain. The stars
slowly wheel and turn as we watch them without speaking for a
very long time. There's nothing but the night, with its sounds
and starlit shadows between us.
"Look," Alex says eventually, pointing off into the sky. "There's
Cassiopeia." His fingers trace a wide 'W' in the air, following
the constellation's dim pattern. I follow his hand as it slides
across the starry background pointing out another constellation.
"And there's the big Dipper, Ursa Major."
I close my eyes and lay there listening to his voice as he names
the constellations. Some of the names I remember, some I wonder
if he's making up. Eventually he falls back to silence, and I
finally ask the question I already know the answer to.
"You're leaving tomorrow aren't you?" I cringe at the petulance
of my own voice.
"I have to," he says and sighs. He sounds contrite, like a
husband explaining to his young wife why she can't join him for a
business trip. I almost expect him to add, "You'd just be bored."
I don't ask him what he does or where the money comes from,
though there always seem to be enough of it. Considering the size
of this old house, deep in the backwoods of Northern Vermont, I
figure he's got a lot of it.
He disappears for weeks at a time, no contact no messages, just a
vague admonition to stay around the house and "be careful." I've
decided not to ask who or what I'm supposed to be careful of. I
don't want to know what frightens Alex Krycek.
I remember the first time he left. I'd been out of bed and moving
around for a few weeks, I was a bit stronger, and the worst of
the pain and fatigue had subsided. Alex had insisted that I'd
never leave my sick bed if I didn't do it then. "It's now or
never Jeffrey." I remember him saying. He told me from experience
that it would only get harder the longer I lay there. I almost
didn't listen.
The first few days were horrific; I couldn't sit up without a
wave of nausea. I quickly learned what morning sickness must feel
like. You don't know vertigo till you've spent a few months
horizontal. With nurse Alex's help however, I managed to struggle
to my feet for a few seconds. Within a week I was walking short
distances, if only to my sick room chair and back. I don't know
which of us was happier.
He took his first of many business trips two weeks later. I don't
know if he still works for my Father. Hell, I don't even know if
the murderous bastard is still alive. I hope not. If he's not
dead he will be and I'll be charged with patricide.
My Mother is still alive, I'm certain, despite what Kersh told
me, though she remains an enigma, even to me. I know she's back
out there somewhere in that starry cold vastness. Yeah, I believe
her now, I believe a lot of things I never thought possible, and
reject a lot I once thought were clear hard truth. A dissolving
alien and a bullet to the gut can reorient your belief systems in
a hurry.
Wherever my Mother is, I suspect she's happier now.
But back to Alex and me; back to this fine cold starry night. I'd
like to say that we parted that first time on good terms, that it
was simple and clean, it wasn't. I was standing at the kitchen
stove scrambling eggs; it's about the only thing I know how to
cook. His kitchen, his stove, his eggs. I was even dressed in
his castoffs. Jeans that slung low on my hips, kept in place by
one of Alex's belts, pierced with extra holes, and cinched tight.
One of his T-shirts, the blue one with a goofy big-eyed alien on
it, flashing a peace sign, practically swallowed me. I looked
like a scarecrow, a tall lanky boy caught in his father's
clothes. Apparently Alex liked what he saw.
I heard him enter through the garage door, into the mudroom. I
listened as he shucked his boots and coat and then dumped a load
of split logs into the tinderbox next to the old river-stone
fireplace in the living room.
I turned back to the stove and continued stirring. Like I said,
scrambled eggs are about only thing I know how to cook, and I
wasn't going to mess these up. It was a struggle but I was
determined to finish what I started. I was going to prove I
wasn't a total invalid. Even if it was just scrambled eggs and
toast, it was proof enough.
I was about to offer Alex breakfast when his arm folded around
me, and before I could react, his body pressed hard against mine.
It was amazing how strong he felt, with a good-sized hint of
danger. I suddenly felt vulnerable, weak and a little scared. I
had a sickening realization of my own fragility, bolstered by my
own frailness next to Alex's sturdiness. He could physically hurt
me, so easily and in so many ways.
When his hand slid under my shirt and his lips found the base of
my neck I realized that hurting me wasn't at all what Alex had in
mind. I guess it shouldn't have come as such a surprise. I'd
known about Alex's casual bisexuality for a long while. It wasn't
something he'd ever hidden or been anything but up front about.
But somehow I never considered myself as part of that equation.
Yeah I can be a little naive, even gullible, my father and my
former partner Diana Fowley proved that well enough. There'll be
two deaths on my head if I ever get the chance.
"Alex please," I said with rising desperation. He was so strong,
with a rangy-muscled arm that seemed to loop and drape around me
like a python. I was suddenly aware, and afraid, of how easily he
could take what he wanted — by force if he had to. "This isn't... I'm not..."
I stammered wildly, while struggling weakly in
his grasp. My heart fluttered in my chest like a caged wild bird.
He released me with a jerk and sprang back wide-eyed and leopard-
like.
"I... I'm sorry." he blurted out. He looked almost stricken
with embarrassment, all poise gone. He stammered out another
apology and stepped back. He bumped into the kitchen table and
nearly sent himself toppling over a chair.
"It's okay Alex," I said as I turned my attention back to
breakfast. "It was nothing, forget about it," I added, trying to
convince myself almost as much as him.
He was silent for a moment, and then spoke in a rush. He was
going away he said. It was urgent, important and sudden. I cut
the heat to the eggs and turned, only to find him gone. I moved
as quickly as I could to the front window of the house, his car
was already gone. Like I said, he's a smooth mover. So, I sat at
the table, eating a double order of eggs, and toast and pondering
what it meant. I didn't see Alex again for nearly three weeks.
We picked up again where we left off. Alex playing nursemaid and
task master both.
"It'll be summer soon," he says, pulling me back to the present.
"You'll be stronger then."
I'll be stronger, yes that's true. And what do I do then? Alex
saved my life. No that's wrong, Alex has given me life. What do I
do? How do I say no?
"Yes, summer," I murmur in the cold night air, "I'll be stronger
then."
End
Wistful
by Drovar
Part I
