by Amy Lane
They both sighed. They were managing the life of a grown man around the reality he’d created for himself. It felt… odd, and a little wrong, and it didn’t sit well with either one of them.
But the alternative—they’d seen the medical scans of the alternative, and that was unacceptable.
“We’ll have him in to ask questions and have supervised visits in the afternoons.”
C.J. nodded and then caught Kate’s attention. “Kate, I’m going to take Anderson back to my quarters. He’s practically asleep there as he sits. You can watch him on the monitor, but really, the station is down for the night, and we want to get his internal clock online, at least while he’s here, okay?”
Kate nodded. “Will you let him come back before….” She shifted and looked uncomfortable. “You are going to delete us, aren’t you?”
C.J. looked startled. “No!” he told her, and the relief that flood her strong-boned face practically generated its own heat. “No. Why would we do that? You’re Anderson’s friends. That would just be cruel.”
Her smile was really lovely, and C.J. had a moment to think that Anderson must have loved someone with a strong face and a lovely smile, because he seemed to have invested a lot in Kate the hologram.
“Good,” she said. “I… I’m glad to be here. Uhm….” And there was that smile again. “Is there any way we could get some new vids in here, then? Some comedy ones? We’ve been watching the same shit forever.”
C.J. had to laugh. Who knew? Even holograms got bored.
HE WASN’T laughing the next morning.
He’d taken Anderson to his quarters and prepped the couch for him and then settled down to his console to do some work. He didn’t mind being Anderson’s de facto guardian, but he didn’t want to let Marshall down either.
He wasn’t surprised when Anderson woke up screaming silently less than twelve hours after the last time, and he was ready to rush in there and put his hands on the young man’s face and smooth his hair back and tell him that it was okay—someone was there.
He was unprepared for Anderson’s warmth in the dark, and the way he smelled spicy like C.J.’s soap, and like the chocolate pie that C.J. had bought for him after they’d left the shuttle, and like Chips, the gamma bird, who smelled like lavender and mint. (None of the residents in the Hermes system had any idea why, but it was one of the reasons the birds made such outstanding pets.)
Anderson took one of those deep, shuddering, post-sobbing breaths, and C.J. stayed there, crouched at his feet, hands on Anderson’s cheeks, for just a moment too long.
Anderson reached up and laced his fingers with C.J.’s, and C.J.’s breathing hitched. He really was a pretty kid—those pouty, full lips were so lush, and the dark brown eyes… mmm. C.J. looked at his own light green eyes in his coffee-cream skin every morning. Seeing the reverse contrast—dark brown eyes, pale skin—it was interesting, alluring, and so, so sexy.
Anderson dropped his chin then, so he could look out of those sexy eyes sideways, and C.J.’s heart sped up a little. Anderson knew it, too, the little shit. He knew he was pretty. He might have grown up alone, but he’d grown up with vids and pictures. He knew he was being cute. “I’m sorry I keep doing this,” he apologized. “It’s awfully kind of you to keep calming me down.”
C.J.’s sigh came from his toes. Anderson may have known he was being cute, but he was also being totally sincere. “I don’t like seeing people in pain,” he answered back with his own sincerity. “If I’d been good at that, I would have been like Cassidy, lots of degrees in medical science, instead of just the two in engineering.” And odds were, he thought with a little pang, he’d still be with Jensen, but it was nine years too late for that.
“Your sister just likes to be in charge,” Anderson said. “They get bossy that way.”
C.J. blinked. Interesting. “You had one of those?”
Anderson nodded and changed the angle of his chin so he wasn’t flirting anymore. “I had three, but one was older. She was….” He stopped. “I don’t have any words just yet. Is that okay?”
“Yeah,” C.J. told him, trying to reassure. He tried to move his hands, but Anderson captured them tighter and moved them to his knees.
“Do you like men, C.J.?” he asked, and C.J. felt himself blushing in the dark.
“I sort of play both sides,” he said, and now he was the one with his face turned away and his eyes looking front.
He was surprised at the wry twist to Anderson’s mouth. “Everyone seems to,” he said enigmatically, and C.J. shrugged.
“Hermes is sort of an open-minded place, all three planets. No crazy religious sects, no scary politics. You work your job, you contribute to the community, and you get enough credits to play. You feel like hibernating in your cave all day, and they feed you and ignore you. I’ve seen some of the footage of old Earth. I’d rather live here.”
Anderson smiled then. “Good,” he said. “Good. I’m glad I don’t have to worry about that. I was told….”
“By who?”
Anderson shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about him, okay? He’s not a nice person. I would rather just… just sit here.” He smiled prettily, the way C.J. had smiled at Jensen.
“Okay, Anderson,” C.J. said softly, a shiver of foreboding creeping up his spine. “We don’t have to talk about him. That’s fair. What do you want to talk about?”
Anderson’s smile was soft and sweet. “Tell me about you,” he said with such utter guilelessness that C.J. found he had no choice.
He sat up then, moved to the corner of the couch, and Anderson simply lay down, as he had the night before, and rested his head in C.J.’s lap. C.J. found himself talking about planetside and growing up. His parents were still alive, and he and Cass and Marshall found themselves shanghaied into family dinners whenever they were downside. And in the quiet dark, as he ran his fingers through this pretty kid’s hair, he found himself confessing that he loved doing that. He loved going out in his dad’s catamaran on the great blue lake that broke up one of the eight continents below, and he loved hiking through the purple forests of the Amethyst continent with his father. He also had fun explaining to Anderson that someone really must have had a sense of humor when they arrived to colonize, because there was also Emerald, Garnet, Sapphire, Diamond, Ruby, Opal, and Pearl.
“It could have been a lot worse,” he said philosophically. “All of the major land masses and cities on Hermes-Beta are named after flowers. I swear to God, I’ve got a cousin who lives in Fuchsia.” Anderson’s quiet laughter against C.J.’s knees did nothing to relieve the intimacy of the moment.
“C.J.?” Anderson said after a pause.
C.J.’s hand didn’t stop stroking his hair. “Yeah?”
“How crazy am I?”
C.J. swallowed hard, and his hand stilled and rested on Anderson’s shoulder. “I’m afraid the vote’s still out on that one, baby,” he said truthfully.
“Why won’t you let me sleep in my shuttle?”
Oh God. “Because he was hurting you.”
“What if I deserved it?”
C.J. scrubbed his face with his hands. “What on Earth could you have done to deserve that?”
“I was weak,” Anderson whispered. “I was weak when I needed to be strong, and selfish when I needed to give, and that’s why—”
“Stop it!” C.J. snapped, his voice over-loud in the quiet dark. Chips rustled in his cage and then hummed softly and musically in his sleep. God love all gamma birds—C.J. certainly loved his. “You lived, Anderson. You lived, and you kept your colony alive in your records, and you weren’t squatting in a pile of feces eating your own hair, which is pretty much what we all expected when your ship made contact with us, okay? Everything else, man, that’s details. That’s trajectory calculations and rocket fuel. The main picture is that you lived. That’s a win right there. You are strong because you lived.”
Anderson nodded and didn’t say anything else. C.J. would have thought he was as
leep, but the knee of C.J.’s spiffy, non-regulation coveralls with the little holo-sparkles all over them was becoming wet and briny, and quiet sobs shook Anderson’s shoulders well into the night.
Chapter 9
Late for the Launch
THE doc was back from her visit planetside, and she came knocking on C.J.’s door first thing in the morning. C.J. awoke from his spot on the couch, hazy and bleary-eyed, and he and Anderson bumped heads as Anderson sat up to let him up.
They looked at each other for a moment, sleepy and vulnerable, and C.J. felt Anderson’s breath—ripe from sleep—hit his cheek in a hot burst. He actually startled like an infant when the pounding on the door came again.
“Coming!” he muttered as he stumbled over to hit the door seal.
Michelle Leighton was a stocky, no-nonsense fifty-ish woman with a sturdy smile and a comforting aura. “Hear we’ve got some long-term space weakness to start pounding out. Are we ready to get our ass worked, kid?”
Anderson literally peered at her from over C.J.’s shoulder, and when C.J. turned around, there was that big-eyed look again and those lips so very close to his own.
“You’ll be fine,” C.J. reassured him with a smile. “Michelle’s awesome. I broke my arm two years ago, and she barely hurt me at all when it healed.”
“Ha, ha, C.J.,” Michelle said dryly. “You were so out of it I could have danced the cha-cha on your ’nards in stiletto heels and it wouldn’t have hurt.” She directed a kind look at Anderson. “I’m a big believer in lots of good drugs when any pain is involved. Don’t worry, kid, we’re just going to talk vitamins and workout regimens and maybe another pass with the sonic wand to make sure everything is all smooth. Can you handle that?”
Anderson looked at C.J. again, and C.J. found his hand with a minimum of fumbling and gave it a squeeze. “Yeah, sure,” Anderson said softly. “I need to go change into my coveralls again, okay?”
C.J. winced. “Anderson, hey, Anderson, how about you raid my drawers, okay? We’re about the same size. Find something you like, and we’ll run the coveralls through laundry, okay?”
Anderson brightened and turned to C.J. with one of those blinding grins. “Really? Because I love your clothes. I’d love to wear something different… excellent!”
C.J. chuckled and watched him disappear into the bedroom, then turned around to find that Michelle was looking at him soberly.
“This,” she said with deliberation, “is not a good idea.”
C.J. winced. “I’m just being friendly,” he muttered, moving into the kitchenette to get Anderson something to eat. “He just needs a buddy, you know? I’m not going to take advantage.”
Michelle grunted. “I didn’t think you would, C.J. It’s not him I’m worried about!”
C.J. sighed. “I know, I know, there’s all sorts of damage and shit, but he just needs a friend.”
Michelle shook her head. “Well, you enjoy that ‘friendship’, C.J., because when you get attached to him and he can’t return it, you’re going to be devastated.”
C.J. popped some toast in and got Anderson a glass of fruit juice and then felt ready for the cavalier shrug. “I know better,” he said, and Michelle sighed and flopped onto his couch.
“Can I have a cup of that?” she asked. “Because if I’m going to have to listen to you bullshit yourself, I need something to make it go down easy.”
“Michelle? He trusts me. If I’m the first actual live person he’s known since he was a kid, I’m not going to dodge out on him now. Get off my fucking back, okay?”
Michelle sighed. “Great. I still need some fruit juice, C.J., but now I’m gonna season it with tears.”
They heard the bathing recycler start up, and C.J. looked distractedly around the little kitchen. Everything was cooking. Nothing was ready.
“Michelle, I’m meeting my sister in two hours to see how this kid’s life got destroyed. Is there any way we could pretend this conversation didn’t happen?”
“Do I get my fruit juice?”
“Yeah, you get your fucking fruit juice.”
“Then I won’t even say ‘I told you so’ when you completely self-destruct.”
C.J. tried a smile, but he’d barely slept, and the memory of Anderson’s big dark eyes—with a fringe of long dark lashes as well—kept making the breath stop in his chest. “Michelle, have you ever known me not to land on my feet?”
“Yeah,” she said, taking the fruit juice from him with a nod of gratitude. “Once. I spent six hours operating on your arm so you could hand me a goddamned cup of fruit juice.” She shook her head. “This kid’s history has so many built-in landmines here, C.J., I don’t know if putting you back together is going to be as easy.”
The toast popped and C.J. tended to it. He asked about Michelle’s mother, who’d been ill planetside, and she rolled her eyes at him. He ignored her, and by the time Anderson came out, looking hidden in C.J.’s clothes, which (contrary to C.J.’s predictions) didn’t fit him at all, C.J. had a little plate to dish up, and he sat Anderson down and made him eat it.
Before they left, he pressed a credit disc into Anderson’s hand.
“It’s Marshall’s money. It’s my work account. Make Michelle take you to the employee services ring and buy some clothes. There’s a couple of shops there, spend as much money as you want, and get whatever you want, you hear?”
Anderson’s face went blank, and C.J. could tell he was processing the information slowly, afraid to actually verbalize what it really meant. When the entire room brightened from that blinding smile, C.J. knew he got it.
“Can we burn the jumpsuits?” he asked excitedly, and C.J. grinned back.
“We can put them in the recycler, how’s that?”
“I might save one to burn for when I finally get planetside. Will you help me make a bonfire?”
“Absolutely!” He meant it. He really did. As that knowledge landed uncomfortably on his shoulders, Michelle looked at him with a pained, sympathetic expression.
“Bye, C.J.,” she said wearily. “I’ll try to have him back by the end of your shift.”
“He’s not a prisoner,” C.J. said, although the idea of Anderson, here, in his quarters, when he got back was so very… warm. “Anderson, try not to get lost, because that could be really disorienting, but come back whenever you please. You can leave the clothes here if you like and go exploring on your own, but….”
Anderson was shaking his head, and he reached out the hand that wasn’t holding the disc to squeeze C.J.’s hand as it gestured. “End of your shift, C.J. I won’t make you worry. I promise.”
“Thank you,” he said, his heart in his throat, and then Anderson blushed and ducked his head.
“C.J., could you… I mean… I need a favor.”
It was embarrassing how badly he wanted to do Anderson a favor. “Yeah, sure, what do you need? Sizes, a guide, a gamma bird of your very own, what?”
Behind Anderson’s shoulder, Michelle’s expression turned dry, but Anderson himself was abruptly very sober. “In my quarters… in my room, really, there’s a last little memory cache. It’s… you’ll see it. You can download that to public record if you want, but… I’d really like that back, if it’s okay.”
C.J. swallowed. God, he’d lived in that ship for ten years, and they weren’t letting him back on. The weight of that decision, of Anderson’s easy understanding of it, seemed to press him a little deeper into the brown and tan carpet.
“Yeah, not a problem, if I have to wrestle my sister to do it.”
Anderson’s smile wasn’t blinding and whole. It was little and broken, but he gave it anyway, obviously just to please C.J., and then he gestured for the doctor, a courteous gesture, probably learned as a child, and he followed Michelle through the door.
The seal went whoosh as it closed, and C.J. flopped exhaustedly onto his couch.
By the seven moons of Ariadne-Omega, what did he think he was doing?
CASSIE asked him the exact same
question, only in a different context.
“Jesus Christ, Cyril, it’s the boy’s quarters. What in the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Her voice was shrill as it came in from the bridge outside the house, and he had a moment to think that maybe he could do his work from the holodeck to get away from her.
“He’s a grown man, Cassidy, and he made a perfectly reasonable request. Now hang on a minute, he said….” You’ll know it when you see it.
Anderson’s—and, presumably, Alpha’s, although no one had yet seen the elusive Alpha—room was… masculine. The work desk was made of the same red-tinted wood, as was the end table. The walls were painted that bright, sunny yellow, but with the darker furniture, the dark green and brown rug, and the real and utilitarian obviously makeshift cot, the whole thing felt… male. Not perky and young, but male. C.J. looked around and thought that maybe Anderson really did like C.J.’s living room, and then he saw it.
He swallowed before walking around the cot to the end table and picking it up.
It had been jimmied to sit propped up—there was a plastic piece of cannibalized ship furniture duct-taped to the back of it—and basically, it was a child’s electronic school tablet, the kind that held their homework and their journals and the textbooks they were using and whatever else a pre-university kid could need.
This one had been set on a permanent photomontage, and as C.J. held it, heart pounding painful, singular beats in his chest, it showed him the very last bit of data that had yet to be downloaded into the station.
The main picture showed a family. Mom had fair hair, much like her son’s, and green eyes. She was smiling spontaneously at her husband, as though he’d said something when the digital image had been taken that made her laugh, and even blushing a little—she was happy. Dad was fair too and had brown eyes very much like his son’s.