"Nutter with a goat," Jason told him, earning a laugh. "Plus a Felthrais demon, a group of art majors trying to conjure something with a cursed Thrysus, a couple of false alarms, and someone dealing pot laced with henbane."
They settled into their usual table in the lounge, and Rowan insisted on getting their drinks himself. After knowing each other ten years, they knew each other's habits as well as their own, which was making it very hard for Jason not to ask point-blank what was going on.
Something was certainly different. Rowan seemed more relaxed, but moreover, his energy had changed ever so slightly. True, he changed all the time—right now his eyes were a deep, shadowed green, and shoots of grey and paler brown had appeared in his hair as the leaves and grass outside dried out—but this was more subtle, as if something in him had started to open.
When he returned to the table, Jason caught the scent again, elemental and undeniable: sex. A woman…human…vegetarian…today.
God, it was true.
"One coffee black, one regular," Rowan said, setting the first cup down in front of Jason. Seeing the expression on Jason's face, his eyes grew concerned. "Are you all right?"
"What? No, I mean, yes, I'm fine. Just tired. Are…how are you?"
"Pretty well, actually," he answered. "I feel like I haven't seen you in weeks."
"You barely have. You've been hard to find lately." Jason tried to keep the accusatory note out of his voice. "Been having a torrid secret affair?"
Was he imagining it, or did Rowan look the tiniest bit guilty at that? "You know me," he said with a laugh. "I don't really do torrid."
Not torrid…but secret, now, that was fair game, apparently. "How's the inhibitor coming?"
Rowan started talking about his work with Frog, which was one subject Jason had no clue about, but wasn't really expected to; there was some technology in this place that was simply beyond even an immortal's grasp. As the Elf spoke, Jason watched him, ostensibly paying attention, but really watching his mouth, his hands around his coffee mug, the way he leaned forward when he was talking about something important, the way he tucked his hair absently behind one pointed ear.
How long had it been, now, that this had gone on? Years, but how many? Five? Longer? Perhaps the Elf had had him that first moment, when Jason had stood in front of him that horrible night and gently taken the gun from his hand. He knew that Rowan didn't remember it was Jason who found him, who half-carried him to the stretcher, and who sat by him until he lost consciousness. He might not even remember any of that night, and Jason hoped profoundly that he didn't for his own sake. It was hard to connect that pitiful wraith of a creature with the grace and beauty before him now.
In the end, it didn't matter. This Elf, the one who knew he liked his coffee black and who could sense emotions so deeply buried in people that years of therapy couldn't bring them out, had no idea, no idea at all.
And now he was fucking that girl.
The thought occurred to Jason that if he wanted to, he could put a stop to it. A trainee and trainer sleeping together was, to put it mildly, a conflict of interest. There was no one else to train Sara’s gifts, so he was well within his rights to demand that they stop or be fired. He wondered if either of them had thought, or cared, about such consequences to their behavior.
Of course, there was no way he’d do such a thing. Unless he saw a legitimate reason beyond his own jealousy he wasn’t going to ruin Sara’s career over it, and as long as Rowan was happy…at least there was someone willing to make him happy, someone who wasn’t afraid…he couldn’t stand in the way.
“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” Rowan said, startling him back to the room. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. I’m just…” He met the Elf’s eyes again, and again considered just lowering his shields and letting him see. “I think I might need to head off to bed pretty soon. I skipped out on my reports tonight so I’m going to have to get up early.”
“Again?” Rowan clucked his tongue in disapproval. “You don’t get enough rest, young man. I know you love your job, but you shouldn’t let it kill you.”
He smiled. “Of all the things that might kill me, overwork isn’t on the list.”
Rowan took a drink of his coffee and said, “Even after all this time you’re still impossible to read, did you know that?”
“Yes. I learned the hard way not to let anything show.”
“That means that there’s still a lot about you I don’t know, and wish I did.”
“So ask me.”
Something odd crossed Rowan’s face, something almost yearning, but he shook it off and shook his head. “Maybe when you’re not fall-down exhausted, or maybe when we’re both fall-down drunk. But maybe you could tell me, if there’s a simple answer, why you’re so blocked off?”
Jason stared into his cup. “It’s not a simple answer, but the short version is…love.”
There was a soft smile in Rowan’s voice. “It’s hard to imagine you in love.”
“Is it?” He determinedly avoided looking the Elf in the eye. “I guess that means I’m doing something right.” He was thankful for his coffee cup, which gave him something to do with his hands. “Besides, there’s plenty I don’t know about you either. You have three centuries’ worth of history on me.”
“Not much to tell,” Rowan told him—and now it was his turn to look uncomfortable. “Life wasn’t much of an adventure before it went to hell.”
“Tell me about it.” Jason chuckled in spite of himself. “It’s a damn shame the only way to lead a fascinating life is to invite tragedy as well as adventure.”
“Amen to that. And we’re not exactly in a line of work that encourages peace and quiet. We’re all mad as March hares, doing this.”
“Absolutely.” Jason held up his cup. “To the lunacy that saves our sanity.”
They both laughed and toasted with the dregs of their coffee; then Rowan all but shoved him out of his chair and toward his quarters. “Go to bed,” he insisted. “Save the world from goat-fuckers tomorrow.”
On an impulse, as they parted, Jason reached out and caught Rowan’s hand, squeezed it, and let go. “Good night.”
“Good night,” was the reply, but as he glanced back he saw Rowan standing there in the hallway, staring at his own hand as if he’d never seen it before.
Jason ran his badge through the scanner on his door, and it swung open, allowing a blast of loud music to nearly knock him backwards, along with the musty sweat-socks smell of marijuana.
He groaned. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Beck.”
His sister, draped over the couch with her big black boots propped up on the coffee table, held up the joint in her hand without looking up from the magazine she was reading. “Want some?”
“If you’re going to break the law couldn’t you do it in your own damn room?” he asked, shutting the door behind him. As he walked by he pushed her feet off the table, and she made a face at him. He went over and turned the stereo volume down to half of where it had been; his head was pounding already.
“Oh, like anyone’s going to arrest one of us.” She let the joint go out and stuck it in her jacket pocket, blowing a smoke ring at him. “You really should take up some vices, you know. Besides unrequited love, that is. A little THC would probably loosen that stick up your ass.” Her gaze became critical as she looked him over. “You look like shit, bubba. Have you even fed tonight?”
“Before I went on shift. What are you doing here? I really need to go to bed.”
“Two things. One, I came to raid your music. You said I could come get the new Aimee Mann, remember?” She held up a thumb drive. “I also nabbed the Screaming Mimis—we’re doing a cover of ‘Suck This’ and I wanted to give the bass a listen. Two, I worked that bug out of the fight simulator. There was a problem with the harmonizer on the second projector. I figured you’d be later than this, though, so I was gonna finish up with the stereo and leave you a note about the other
thing. What are you doing back, anyway? Usually you and Elf-boy are off for hours doing…whatever it is you do.”
“I’m tired, Beck,” he snapped. “And all we do is talk.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Bitchy much?”
He flopped onto the chair across from her. “He’s sleeping with Sara.”
Beck gave him a long blink. “You’re shitting me.”
“No.”
“Wow, he’s obviously unclear on the concept of ‘celibate,’” she said. “I’m so gonna kick her ass on Monday.”
“Don’t you dare,” he said firmly. “She hasn’t done anything wrong, Beck. They’re adults, and it’s not like…it’s not like anything’s going to happen with me and him anyway.”
“Yeah, because you’re a chickenshit,” she told him, shaking her head. “How many times have I told you just to ask him out? And that if you waited too long, this was going to happen eventually? I mean, yeah, he’s got a messed up past, but it’s been twelve years. That’s a long time to go without sex, especially for a guy.” She sat forward, dropping her above-it-all front for a moment. “He’d be lucky to have you, you know. You’re awesome. And I’m not just saying that because we shot out of the same vagina.”
He smiled. “Thanks, I think.”
“Look…I know you’ve got romance issues. I know what you’ve been through. I was there, remember? I just don’t think it’s good for you to stay so shut down forever. If it was anyone else I wouldn’t be so pushy—“
“The hell you say,” he cut in.
“—but this is Rowan we’re talking about. Don’t you think he’d be worth taking a leap?”
Jason ran a hand through his hair. “You’re not allowed to be smarter than me.”
She grinned impishly. “So don’t be such a moron. Look, I’ve got Sara for a weapons session on Monday. I’ll see if I can find out what’s going on, how serious this is. Who knows? If it’s just shagging, you’ve still got a shot. Besides, she’s a human. One way or another eventually she’ll be out of the picture.”
“I thought you liked Sara.”
“I do. She’s cool, for a tree-hugging vegetarian and all that.” Beck stood, walked over, and kissed him on the forehead. “But I like you more. You’re the only person here half as badass as I am.”
“True,” he agreed, kissing her cheek. “Get out of here, wench. Let me sleep.”
“Fine, fine. But we’re going to get you into that Elf’s pants one way or another.” She tousled his hair, winked, and headed for the door. “’Night, bubba.”
“Good night.”
Alone, finally, he switched off the stereo and stripped off his clothes, crawling into bed with a sigh. His mind was full of conflicting thoughts and feelings, but over the decades he had taught himself how to clear them away and coax his restless heart into sleep.
He let his eyes rest on the music stand across the room, and on the gleaming wood of the violin that lay there. Slowly, note by note, he drew music into his mind, as if his hands were on the instrument, the sounds only he could hear replacing thought by thought. The piece was old and had no name—it was the first he had ever learned, and over time he had embellished it, adding new layers of melody and meaning as each new heartbreak gave him more to work with. If pain was the true medium of art, after 150 years he was a virtuoso.
Memories flowed in with the music: memories of strong hands on his shoulders, the heat of a mouth covering his own, the flash of a bow as it danced over the strings. So long ago…the song had its own life now, and it was all he had left of its creator. That, and the violin itself, one of the only two constant companions in his world. As long as he lived, and whoever he might be unfortunate enough to love, there would always be that place in him that ached, an ache that only music could soothe.
With a sigh, Shadow Agent 7 closed his eyes and followed the memory, down and down into the darkness, into rest, into a peace beyond the reach of moonlight, and sunlight, and sorrow.
Since You Asked…
I did it because it sounded fun, okay? Does there always have to be some deep dark secret? I'm an open book. What you see is what you get.
Okay, so most people don't know I want to fuck Jeff Goldblum. But that's not the point.
He told me what happened, and showed me the holes in his neck. I thought he'd lost his mind at first. I'd seen him in love before—god, when we were human he was always falling head over heels for stable boys, butlers, even a ditch digger. I hated watching it. I knew what was going to happen every time: someone found out, and we ended up on the street again, with the boy of the day denying everything, saying he'd been seduced. Try being Irish and queer in the 1800s. It's about as much fun as being Irish and female in the 1800s. Truly epic in its suckage.
So until he showed me the holes and the mirror, I didn't believe him about Duvalier. But seeing them together after that it was obvious. It was love, for real this time. Kind of nauseating. I'm not much of a romantic, myself. Skip the roses and give me a pair of nipple clamps.
He smiled so much back then. I remember him practicing Mozart, thinking, yeah, this is how it's supposed to be. I had a bad feeling about it, but what could I do? All our lives he took care of me. I would have ended up in a whorehouse if it weren't for him. I had to let him be happy, even just for a little while.
"I'm scared," he said one night. "I don't know if I can live like this."
Yeah. My brother, scared. It doesn't happen often. I asked him, "What are the rules? What has to change?" and he told me everything Duvalier had told him.
No sunlight, ever again. Ten seconds and we burn. No mirrors. No real food. No turning into bats, no coffins, the garlic thing is bullshit and so is the crucifix thing. We get some pretty awesome benefits: super strength, super hearing and sight and smell and even taste, super-speed healing. We never age. We're hard to kill. Sunlight, fire, stakes, decapitation, that's pretty much it. When you consider how many ways there are to kill a human, that's not bad.
I don't miss the sun. No, I really don't. I look awful with a tan anyway. I think. It's been a while.
I know we're supposed to mope and brood and wish we were still human. Right. You know what being human is? Dying all the time. Every minute of every day, your body dies, one cell at a time. Mine doesn't. I'm a constant. Beck's Constant, like in chemistry. B equals forever, divided by leather. An ass like this deserves immortality.
He broods, of course, but the truth is he loves it too. If we'd stayed human we would have probably died of cholera, or he'd have gotten the Clap from one of his stable boys and left me all alone.
That's what it was, if you really want to know. We're a set. Me without him doesn't make any sense and vice versa. We're Scully and Mulder, only without the sexual tension. My brother's hot shit and all, but no thank you. This isn't Happy Hour in Appalachia.
I told him, "There's no way you're doing this without me. No way." And he hugged me—an honest to god hug. That's how I knew it was the right decision.
Regrets? None. Zero. At least, not for me. I wish I could have stopped what happened, and I wish he could be a little more like he used to be, back when he let people in. I promised I wouldn't interfere with Rowan. I promised. But you know all those bad feelings I got with all those other guys? When I think about those two, I get nothing but a big fat "YES!"
But bless him, he's just not that bright. One of these days he's going to get over himself and go for it. It'll be nice to see him smile again. But in the meantime somebody's got to keep an eye on him, and that's my job. Save the world, shoot the bad guys, and take care of my big dumb brother. That's what family does.
Jesus Christ, I'm Irish.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go drink my dinner then show this New Age granola chick how the big girls play. You know, without shooting herself in the foot this time?
Yeah, I'm still laughing about that.
Learning to Aim
The annoying thing about working for an organization like the S
A, which has about 100 employees who all live together, is that word gets around. If you sneeze in your own shower at 8am, by 8:15 at least five people will ask how your cold is.
And if you shoot yourself in the foot, well, fuck it all. You’re doomed.
“I’m telling you,” I said, step-thumping over to the chair and sitting down, “she said it wasn’t loaded.”
SA-7 was a consummate professional, but his eyes glinted. Apparently schadenfreude is as popular among the undead as the living. “And you didn’t double-check.”
“Why would Beck lie to me?”
“That’s not the point,” he replied sharply. “It wasn’t a can of spray cheese, Sara, it was a .45. When you’re handling something that can kill you, you double check. You check the bullets, you check the safety, and you don’t point it at anything you don’t want to see dead. Including your foot. You could have blown it off completely.”
The Agency, Volume I Page 14