by Witt, L. A.
“Thank God,” I whispered. “Now we just wait and see if it was worth it.”
Three Months Later
Over the top of a magazine I wasn’t reading, I watched that plastic diver rocking back and forth, trying to reach the bubbling treasure chest like it had the first time I’d come here with Alex.
Here we were again, waiting for the doctor to call him back so we could find out if the surgery had been successful.
Alex didn’t bother trying to read a magazine. He was more nervous now than he’d been before the surgery. He fidgeted. Tapped his fingers. Took a few deep breaths. Played with his wedding band. Stared at the ceiling, the fish tank, the wall.
I put a hand on his knee. “You okay?”
He nodded and rested his hand on top of mine, but didn’t say anything. I didn’t push the issue. He’d been going out of his mind for the last few months, and it all came down to today. This appointment. Here. Now. Any fucking minute. He’d commented the other night that it was like a cross between watching the ball drop over Times Square and watching the last few seconds run out on a doomsday clock.
There was nothing I could say to settle his nerves, so I just continued watching the plastic diver and trying to read this magazine that was of absolutely no interest. Anything to keep from showing him how nervous I was.
I tried to stay optimistic. His recovery had been encouraging, and the pain from the surgery itself was minimal now. He still had some minor twinges and aches in his back, plenty more in his neck, but all things considered, it wasn’t bad. The worst side effect had been a sharp pain in his right foot. Apparently the surgeon had nicked a nerve during the procedure, and it’d left Alex feeling like he had a nail in his foot whenever he walked. After a few weeks, though, the pain had diminished. He wasn’t quite ready to dance on the bar yet, and it was only recently that he’d let me give him a foot massage, but it was much better.
Physically, he’d done well, but emotionally, he was a wreck. He needed to shift. Badly. Knowing that the only thing keeping him from doing so was the doctor’s order had driven him crazy. The more his body recovered, the more he ached to, at the very least, find out if he could shift.
Over the last few weeks, it had been painfully obvious when he was uncomfortable in his own skin, and sometimes I wondered how I’d ever not known what was going on. He avoided his own reflection. He barely spoke. Physical contact made him shudder. The depression was palpable, and it could last for days. Long, long days when there was nothing I could do for him except remind him I was here.
At least the long weekend we’d spent in Canada two weeks ago had been a bright spot for him. Pity shifters couldn’t get married in the States without demonstrating, prior to the marriage license being approved, that they were presently capable of shifting to the opposite gender of their spouse. Oh, well. We were married now. Once he regained the ability to shift, it would be legal in this country.
Alex and I had debated for weeks about which house to keep and which to sell, and he’d finally insisted on cutting his loose.
“Too many memories I don’t feel like holding on to,” he’d said. “And it’ll be a shorter commute for both of us.”
A shorter commute to his night job, anyway. Moving in with me had added about fifteen minutes to his drive to the office, but as soon as the house was sold, he had his two weeks’ notice written and ready to turn in. The sooner the better, as far as I was concerned. He didn’t need any more of that stress.
It was just as well we were living in my place now, since one bedroom wasn’t going to be enough anymore. Alex’s petition for custody of Sam had been denied at first, but he’d appealed it and gotten a second hearing. The judge was hesitant, but after Alex agreed to regular therapy sessions to deal with his depression, as well as completely giving up the booze, custody had been granted.
The therapy turned out to be very helpful, too. Having Sam around was even better. For both of them. Giving up the booze wasn’t easy, but when temptation almost got the best of him, all Alex had to do was remember what was at stake, and he’d realize he didn’t want a drink after all. Working in a bar didn’t help, but he couldn’t drink on the job anyway, and even his therapist eventually agreed that the Welcome Mat’s environment was good for him.
“Alex?” Dr. Rowland’s voice—female today—turned both our heads. She gestured with her file folder. “Come on back.”
We both rose. Alex habitually tested his right foot before putting weight on it.
“How’s that foot?” she asked as we approached. “Any more pain?”
“Not recently, no,” Alex said. “Habit, I guess. I keep expecting it to hurt.”
“Understandable.” She led us back to an exam room.
Alex sat on the table, and Dr. Rowland ran him through a quick battery of tests, checking reflexes, mobility, and feeling.
“Any pain?” she asked. “Tingling? Numbness?”
“My back still gets a little sore, but it’s better.”
Dr. Rowland nodded. “Good, good.” She perused Alex’s chart, then took a seat on the black fake-leather stool. “Everything appears to have healed just fine, and I think we’re well out of the woods for any complications that would be exacerbated by a shift.” She smiled. “I see no reason to suggest you can’t attempt a shift now.” Her expression turned serious. “I’d prefer to have you do it here, with me in the room, just in case there’s a problem. Assuming you’re comfortable with that?”
“Yeah, that’s fine,” Alex said.
“Fair warning,” she said. “Sometimes it takes a few tries. Even if you can’t shift immediately, it might just be your system remembering what to do.”
Alex nodded. He glanced at me, back at her, then at the floor. Exhaling slowly, he ran a hand through his hair. His other fingers tapped rapidly beside him on the exam table, his ring clicking on the metal edge.
“Something wrong?” the doctor asked.
Alex’s gaze flicked back and forth from me to her. “Right now, it’s possible.” He swallowed. “I might be able to shift. I just need to hold on to that hope for a few more minutes before I find out for sure.”
“Take your time,” the doctor said. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Alex looked at me, eyebrows raised in a silent plea for reassurance. I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile, and he returned it.
Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. I watched, my heart pounding in my chest as I hoped and prayed he’d—
“Fuck!” Alex’s spine straightened, and he gasped.
Dr. Rowland and I both jumped to our feet. She caught Alex’s arm and steadied him. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” He rolled his shoulders and tilted his head to stretch his neck. “I tried to shift once with the implants in, and it, I don’t know, shocked me or something.” He laughed softly, his cheeks coloring slightly. “Guess I expected it to happen again.”
The doctor and I both returned to our seats.
“How many times did you try it with the implants?” she asked.
“Once.” Alex shuddered. “That was more than enough, trust me.”
“I’m sure,” she said with a slight grimace. “I’ve heard it’s not pleasant, and always advise shifters with implants to not even try.”
“Duly noted,” he said, chuckling. “Okay, trying again.”
Alex closed his eyes. His brow furrowed slightly, and with every passing second that his features remained sharp and solid, my heart pounded harder and harder.
Please, please . . .
He exhaled and his shoulders fell. My heart sank.
“I don’t feel anything at all,” he said, his voice flat. He gestured at his neck. “That . . . tingle. You know what I’m talking about, right?”
Dr. Rowland nodded. “Of course. Nothing?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Try it again,” she said softly. “Your body may just need to remember how to shift.”
He tried again.
And again. And again.
After half a dozen tries, he sighed. “So how many times do I try it before I call it a day and accept that I’m static?”
“As many times as you need to.”
“Maybe the question should be, how many times do I beat my head against a brick wall before I decide it’s enough of a headache?”
“Depends on when you’re ready to accept life as a static.”
Alex set his jaw. “I don’t think I’m quite ready for that yet.”
“Couldn’t hurt to keep trying, then,” she said, her voice gentle. “Sometimes it just takes a little time. And you could be focusing too hard. You know as well as I do how much tension can interfere.”
“True.” Alex rolled his shoulders a few times. “Okay. I’ll try it a few more times and see what happens.”
He closed his eyes.
I closed my own eyes. I couldn’t watch him any more than I could watch my own clasped fingers blanching as they dug into the backs of my hands.
Please, God, please . . .
Someone released a long breath. Beside me, Dr. Rowland’s chair made a soft creak. With my heart in my throat, I opened my eyes.
And I stared.
At her.
Alex looked at her hands, turning them again and again. Her ring, which was a little loose now, caught the light as she reached up to touch her own face. She ran her fingers along her jaw, then through her long hair. Then she looked down at herself. Her T-shirt hung loosely over her narrower shoulders, and the front of her shirt showed the gentle swell of her breasts.
Our eyes met, and when I smiled, so did she.
Carefully, putting one foot down, then the other, and all the while holding onto the exam table in case her legs didn’t hold her up, she stepped down.
“How do you feel?” Dr. Rowland asked, grinning.
“I feel . . .” Alex paused, and oh my God, I’d missed that smile. That genuine, heartfelt smile. “Like a woman.”
I got up, and as soon as I was on my feet, she threw her arms around me. I kissed her, but then we just held on to each other. I closed my eyes, breathing in her scent as she buried her face against my neck. The only relief I had ever felt that surpassed this was when the nurse had come to tell me Alex had made it through the surgery. This, holding Alex in my arms and knowing she finally had her life back, was a very, very close second.
Alex drew back. “Damon, you’re not crying, are you?”
“No.” I sniffed and quickly wiped my eyes. “No, I’m not crying.”
“Yes, you are,” she said. “You’re not supposed to cry, damn it.”
“Why not? Because I’m the guy?”
“No, because you’re making me cry.” She wiped her eyes, and we both laughed as I pulled her to me again.
After a moment, she broke the embrace and turned to hug Dr. Rowland.
“Thank you so much,” she whispered. “For everything.”
“You’re welcome, Alex.” When Alex released her, Dr. Rowland continued. “I do want to run you through some quick tests before I let you go. Just to make sure you’re completely in the clear.”
Alex nodded and sat on the exam table again.
“Before you do that,” I said. “Alex, you want to surprise Sam? Or should I tell him?”
“Tell him. He’s probably not paying attention in class anyway.”
“Well, he did say he wanted to know as soon as you did, so . . .” I held up my phone. “Smile.”
She smiled, striking a typically ridiculous Alex pose, and I snapped a picture of her. While Dr. Rowland ran her through some simple tests, making sure her balance and response to stimuli were normal, I typed Look who’s back beneath the picture. Then I sent it off to Sam.
Look who was back indeed. I couldn’t stop grinning as I watched Alex. Test after test—squeezing the doctor’s fingers, pushing her hands apart, pushing them together—verified that she had no lingering damage, no loss of sensation, no loss of movement. Aside from the minor pain she still experienced, she had a clean bill of health.
“Thank you again,” Alex said to Dr. Rowland, and they shared another brief hug.
“You’re welcome,” Dr. Rowland said. “I’m glad we were able to get you back to normal.”
Normal. Now wasn’t that a term whose definition had changed significantly for me in the last few months? Then again, what hadn’t changed in my world in the last few months? Goddamn, what a ride. It was hard to believe it had been less than half a year since this whole thing had started. So much had happened, so much had changed, and it had all been leading up to today.
So this is what a moment of truth feels like.
The click of the door brought me out of my thoughts, and I realized Alex and I were alone again.
Our eyes met, and she smiled. “Ready to go home?”
“You better believe it.” I put my arms around her and kissed her forehead. “I’m so glad this worked out.”
“Me, too.” She rested her head on my shoulder. “I swear to God, now that it’s all over, I could go home and sleep for a month.”
Stroking her hair, I said, “You’re not the only one.”
She raised her head and met my eyes. “I can’t even begin to tell you how much it means to me that you stuck by me through all of this.”
“I told you, babe.” I sniffed sharply. “You’re going to have to try harder than that to get rid of me.”
Alex laughed and stood on her toes to kiss me.
“Why don’t we get out of here?” I murmured against her lips. “Now that you have your life back, I could think of better places to spend it than in a doctor’s office.”
“Good point.” She grinned. “You know, we still have a few hours between now and when Sam gets home from school.”
“Hmm, so we do. What do you think we should do with it?”
“I have a few ideas.” She kissed me lightly. “The question is, which Alex are you in the mood for?”
“Whichever Alex is in the mood for me.” I pulled her closer. “But something tells me you might feel like spending a little time in this body for a change.”
“Oh, God, yes. You never know, though.” She winked. “Play your cards right, and one of these days you might get an evening with a little of both Alexes.”
Trying to sound serious, I said, “So does that qualify as a threesome, or—”
She smacked my arm playfully. “Oh, shut up.”
I put up my hands and batted my eyes. “What? It’s a valid question, isn’t it?”
“I suppose I walked into it, didn’t I?”
“Ya think?”
She raised an eyebrow and tried to scowl. “You want to sleep on the sofa tonight?”
“Please. You wouldn’t make me sleep on the couch.”
Fighting a losing battle against a grin, she said, “Wouldn’t I?”
“No.” I ran my fingers through her long hair. “You wouldn’t.”
“Prove it.”
A hand under her shirt. A lingering kiss behind her ear. A whisper of what I planned to do to her if she’d please let me join her in bed.
Alex whimpered.
And I was safe from the couch for another night.
The End.
So . . . Static.
In the three years since I wrote this book, I’ve had numerous people ask me where it came from. After a few dozen gay and hetero erotic romance titles, what in the world possessed me to write transgender science fiction?
The short answer? I had to.
It all began a few years ago when another author, M. Jules Aedin, befriended me. We spent a lot of time instant messaging, and eventually worked together as author and editor. Somewhere in the middle of all of that, over a fairly short period of time in late 2010, Jules educated me on all things gender. I knew as much as the next person about it (in other words, nothing), but after a few months, my brain was suddenly full of this entire new world of human identity.
I needed to do something with that inf
ormation. There was just so much, and I didn’t know what to make of it. It shouldn’t have been a surprise when my method of processing everything became “write about it.” In fact, I didn’t even realize that’s what I was doing until after the fact.
In early 2011, I wanted to write about shapeshifters. I hadn’t played in that particular genre, and it was intriguing, but I wanted to do something different. So as I often do, I was brainstorming while I drove, and the thought process went something like this:
Werewolves? It’s been done.
Were-frogs? Possibility.
Were-worms? Probably not.
What if a shapeshifter could shift into anything?
What if a shapeshifter could turn into another person?
What if they could shift genders?
And I almost ran off the road.
By the time I reached the restaurant where I’d planned to do some writing, I had everything: Characters. Title. Plot. It all just . . . happened. Of course writing it was more of a challenge than that, but the foundation pretty much dropped out of the sky and demanded I drop everything and write it at once.
What followed were three of the most difficult weeks in my writing career. Some books just grab on and won’t let go, demanding my full attention every hour of every day. That’s a good thing, of course, but it’s stressful too, and this one was particularly so for two reasons. One, because the story was ripping my guts out at every turn. This was uncharted emotional territory for me, and Alex—the shapeshifter who’d lost his ability to take his female form—was so, so real to me that it was painful to process a lot of the things he was feeling and thinking.
The other reason this book was particularly difficult was that I was afraid of getting the gender issues wrong. Of accidentally using an offensive stereotype, or inadvertently making some horrifically inaccurate assumption. At the time, I typically used one or two beta readers for each book. For Static, I recruited nine, all of them identifying as genderqueer of some variety (transgendered, genderfluid, third gender, etc.). To my tremendous relief, all of them gave the book a thumbs up, not to mention loads of feedback.