Chapter Text
I'm awake. As quiet as he is I’m always aware of his movements and I wake immediately when he does. Turning to look out the sliding glass doors I could see it's still dark. Yellow light from the street lamps casts a fading rectangle across the room to where a small alarm clock burnt the time into the air. I didn't need it but I bought one last night.
He is always up at four on the dot. I'm not surprised. In the four years since I’ve seen him this hasn't changed. It comforts me to know I'm not the only one insecure enough to wake up before dawn can creep over me like a backstabbing lover.
This dawn felt breathless with anticipation for the coming day. Or it could just be me. It's funny now that I let myself think about the past. I used to fantasize about this moment, when we’ll meet again. Is this what relief feels like? It’s inevitable, isn’t it?
I left Rainier University where people don't forget and most definitely don't forgive. I'll probably always be a fraud to them. An opportunistic – what was it he called me early on? Oh, yes – “neo-hippie witch-doctor punk”. And if that didn’t date him, I’m not sure what does.
When I'm alone and lonely I used to torture myself with “what-ifs”. The things I did, the things I gave up, the choices I made, and then I find myself wondering who, exactly, I was trying to save. We never got around to that point though. Too much, too soon, was my excuse. I’ve since stopped trying to come up with one for him.
I am horrified at how I’m using my psychology degree but mostly I’m just numb these days. I'm currently working at a gas station. I still remember the fear, the rage, that the world can blissfully go on without my involvement, without acknowledging my sacrifice. And I still couldn’t forgive myself anyway, letting it all go in the end.
Then it hit me. So?
My world ended.
The world doesn’t owe me anything. I certainly don’t owe it.
I got on with my life.
I can even say I’m content. No kidnappings, no worries about a phenomenally repressed man with overactive senses, no murderers, no white supremacists and certainly no obsessive former government agents who can’t take no for an answer. Just Mr. Mercedes Man on his way to his nine-to-five and his cheesy 8AM pick-up lines or if it’s the weekends, Mrs. Mayberry in her bright muumuu patiently waiting in the corner of the minimart for the 9AM bus ride to the Bingo hall.
My shift doesn't start for another two hours but I can't go back to sleep. Neither can I hear my new roommate walking around but then the sound of water crashing against plastic starts up across the hall and I flinch. The memories of that long, toned body, of the texture of his skin – even now I’m reminded of vanilla ice cream coated in honey – all of it slick behind the haze and steaming water came to me despite my thoughts of, “Pink elephants. Pink elephants and polka dotted panthers!”
I don’t want this and shame boils hotly in my stomach. I tried to think of my job with all of its little details. The memory exercises no longer worked, I can easily see the wide expanse of Jim’s back in my mind, his muscles shifting and bunching lazily as he rolled his head...
I don’t want these feelings. We were friends. And that was more than four years ago! I haven’t seen him since.
I sat up with a sigh. Better go see what's for breakfast instead.
-----
I didn’t bother wondering where or how Jim managed to get salmon and diligently followed the exacting directions. I kept the light off when I came back into the kitchen, looking for the tea kettle. I didn't want to see the sorry state of the appliances, the worn counter top or the bare, yellowed linoleum floor. The house is small and in a crowded, violent neighborhood but the rent is cheap. It helped that I didn't have to pay for garbage pickup, sewage, light, water or other utilities either. All of which were astronomically high this year and didn't look to be coming down in the next few decades.
The economy is not in recession but it's hard to tell with a look at the people shuffling down the street. History books often notes that recession, like war, would return. It is the downside of civilization, and for recessions it seemed to come at the end of a ten year cycle. Now that the decade is ending recession is settling in if it’s to be believed.
Another reason why I'm a gas station attendant. We're difficult to outsource and even in a tight economy during several ugly wars on the other side of the planet Americans still liked going places. Fast.
I looked out the kitchen window again. It's getting lighter. I could just make out the massive, overgrown hedge surrounding the property. I stopped and stared at the razor straight geometry it's been pruned into. That’s not right.
When I moved in the hedge sprawled, glorious and wild. The only way to get into the property was through the garage. The wall of greenery with its tangle of thin, gnarly new growth clawing skyward was like something out of a fairy tale. The sheer effort of hacking my way through, forming a surprisingly deep tunnel, to reach the street that gave the house its address was unbelievably satisfying.
I'm not aware of opening the French doors until the cool air washed over me. It pebbled my skin, ruffling my hair and I shivered. Everything smelled like freshly turned dirt, of dead vegetations, pungent and gritty on the air. I looked down at the lush carpet of grass my toes were curling in. The cut was so fresh I can almost feel the sheared edges atop every blade. It smelled indescribably green, clearing my head.
A deliberate rustling sound behind me gave me a heads up. I didn’t turn around. “Did you do all of this?”
“Yes,” Jim replied.
I struggled to breath and inhaled the sweet air deeply, evenly. I don’t like change, especially when it was done without my permission to my belongings. Logic pointed out that I don’t own the property. I squashed it down to just another voice in my head.
Knowing didn’t make the feeling of invasion any less relevant to me. It's an accusation I didn’t mask, “Why?”
Speaking is no longer painful for him but I couldn’t think about that right now. I couldn’t think about how angry or scared and confused I was when I found out he was injured. Now it's rage. Rage so sulfurous and thick it oozed through me with all the destruction of a pyroclastic flow.
“It’s a hazard.” Jim is safety-minded that way. His tone said, “Idiot.”
“What do you care?!” Was going to be my response but I'm awake enough at this point for my social filter, and arguably much more important sense of self-preservation, to kick in.
The shrubbery is too dense, growing untamed as it did. It offered too much cover in case of an attack. Jim thinks like a man under constant siege. The thought dampened my anger for a few seconds.
Is that why he searched me out after all these years? Did this have anything to do with why he was injured? Did I want to know? To get caught up again in his world?
Coward that I am, I retreated to a safer topic, “Is the bathroom free?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll leave breakfast to you then.”
Jim isn’t directly behind me when I went back into the house. Dressed in dark slacks and a long sleeve T, I almost ran into him where he stood so still in the dark kitchen. Edging past him I caught the familiar frown knitting those straight brows together but I rounded the corner, escaping into the hallway, before he could decide on what to say.
-----
I turned off the shower. I think the skin on my back was washed down the drain with the water and stray hair. I rub the towel vigorously over it all anyway. I then put in some extra time in font of the mirror, messed with my hair. Picked at it, shoved it around, side to side and then behind my ear. Wouldn't stay.
Now burnished red over several shades of brown where the sun had lightened it during last Summer spent volunteering at a nature camp, it is subtly alien. Not quite mine. Short, thick and crinkling, it curled against my scalp, and I still do double-takes when I walk past any reflective surface. At least I no longer have to think about all the hair products I had to use in the past. They were getting just as expensive as toilet paper.
A knock on the bathroom door startled me into nearly swallowing my tongue while brushing my teeth. Once I was done coughing it back up I hollered, “Yeah?" I tried not to let my guilt at taking over the bathroom color the word too loudly.
Jim’s voice hummed through the laminated door, "I was wondering if you're going into work today?"
“Depends on my mood,” I was about to reply but something about his tone made me chuck it in favor of, "In about an hour, yeah. What’s up?"
"Will you sit and have breakfast with me? I'd like to talk.”
Jim's volunteering to talk. For a second I stared blankly at my toothbrush. This can't be good. But I haven’t had company for breakfast since leaving Cascade. I miss it. “Sure.”
“The salmon will be ready in fifteen minutes.”
“Thanks.”
-----
In the living room Jim stood in front of the house's one redeeming feature; its floor-to-ceiling picture window which took up one entire wall. It looked out onto a newly manicured lawn. He turned and nailed me to the floor with those blue, blue eyes. Despite our similar eye color his seemed armored in frost. Not that I blame him, or anyone, for that matter.
“Let’s start over,” I said, running my hand through my hair. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
There were no lights on in the house but there is just enough from the street lamps for me to see the smile ghosting over lips. It's like being punched. Suddenly it was almost a decade ago and I was being introduced to Cascade Police Department's Major Crime Unit's Captain Simon Banks as Detective James Joseph Ellison’s ride along.
And our shared secret was damned funny and sad and crazy and awesome all at the same time. Maybe nostalgia hadn’t painted everything in roses and it really had been like that. Maybe I’m the one who forgot what really mattered.
That same smile appeared again when adrenaline made me temporarily insane after knocking several bad guys out with a fire hose. How hyped up I was. I thought I was invincible and even demanded to go on more dangerous assignments with him. “I’m good, did you see that, Jim? I can totally handle it, man!” I cringed, the echo of my words and Jim’s surprisingly tactful head shake was both a treasured memory and a squirming embarrassment, usually picked over whenever I needed a reminder of my hubris.
My fingers kept combing through what’s left of my hair.
“When did you cut it?”
I dropped my hand, “About a week ago.” Too soon for old habits to die.
I stood in Jim’s silence while becoming lost in the past again. I never knew when he moved but he's now less than an arm’s length away and getting closer. Surprise forced me solidly into the present and I backed into the dusty darkness of the hallway. I could see his pale eyes tracking my retreat.
He stopped just before entering the shadows. “Do you think I’ll hurt you?”
I didn’t reply, caught by the low murmur of his voice. I didn’t want to interrupt him, greedy as I am to hear him again after so long. Even after everything, even if it is all accusations and anger, I could live with it until he leaves again.
“Can you forgive me?”
I frowned, is this about the landscaping or that press conference so long ago? I wanted to say, “I followed you around, annoying you until you gave in, shouldn't I be asking for your forgiveness?” or “What about you forgiving me for destroying your life when you've already got it handled, Jim?” but honesty won out; “I don’t know.”
He took one step towards me. I took two back.
The kitchen timer screamed and I fell into a defensive crouch, adrenaline snapping along my nerves. The odd buzzing-ringing sound turned off with the same abruptness as it started.
“I’ll serve,” Jim said but I could barely hear him over the hard, thudding beats of my heart. I didn’t answer and he didn’t wait for one. When I heard the patio doors open I forced myself to get up.
After a few minutes I managed to follow without too much fuss.
The fish is perfect, moist and filling.
We ate in silence.
I am washing the dishes and Jim is drying them when he spoke again, “Thanks for taking me in.”
Jim was like listening to an old favorite movie, one I can quote and act too in perfect sync, making my chest tighten and throat hurt from the good memories. This reenactment will never be the same as it once was. I nodded without agreeing. “What did you want to talk about?”
“Us.”
I nearly threw the dishes at him. I thought of saying something cute, an irreverent reflex against caring too much and getting hurt again. But I didn’t because the sullen pain burning in me still did.
“I’m sorry I blamed you. I'm sorry I lied to protect myself and left you hanging. I'm sorry. Chief-” My automatic protest strangled to death without a sound in the face of his apology or maybe it was the raised hand, though possibly it's just hearing the old nickname. “Chief, Naomi had no right to go in to our home and touch our belongings. Your privacy was violated just as mine were-”
“N-”
“She used her privileges as a mother, believing she knows what’s best, instead of trusting you as one adult to another. Did you ever let yourself truly forgive her?”
“N-nothing to f-forgive.” I felt light-headed, queasy, as if the ground is subtly tilting and I can’t find my balance no matter which way I moved. “It’s my fault.” Is that rasping sound my voice? “Naomi-”
“-realizes she was wrong. She’s been trying to contact you and finally called me for help. I've made peace with her.”
“Is that your excuse, Jim?” The knowledge made me bite off each word, grinding them between my teeth.
Jim continued drying the dishes with economic wipes. “If you need one.”
“If I ne-” I clenched my teeth together, arms stiff and palms gripping the counter's edge with a white-knuckled grip. My life, my name, my home, all gone, and this is what I get? I have to ignore this, just ignore it for now. Taking a deep breath, I managed an almost civil, “How are your senses?”
“Blair,” he said, reaching for me.
This time I swung. He dodged and I followed with a left jab towards his throat. Jim is still fast and managed to twist out of the way but my right knee met his side from the opposite direction. He doubled over. Except I knew he could have blocked that move and frustrated, I backed away.
“Freebie,” Jim gasped.
“Fuck you,” I replied.
“Feel better now?”
“No.”
We found the kitchen table at the same time. I sat down heavily. Jim sat more carefully, grimacing with an arm pressed to his side and folded over his stomach.
The sun is higher now, flooding the house with soft light and heating the air. The kitchen window faced East and I sat with my back to it, watching as he zoned on the dust floating in the sunlight.