Memento Amare

by G. D. Cox

  Get the goddamn duffel bag, you pathetic worm. Your husband needs you.

  In what feels like another heartbeat, he's inside Phelan's dimly lit room. The duffel bag dangles from his left hand as he stands at the foot of Phelan's bed and stares at the comatose, bandaged figure propped on one side by plump pillows and blanketed to the hips.

  A dimmed light two feet above the headboard illuminates a severely bruised and unrecognizable face resting on another plump pillow. There's a tube snaking past split lips that Clyde recognizes as a ventilator tube, taped to the blue-purple skin of the right cheek. More thinner tubes snake into contused forearms and a also severely bruised, bandaged chest at the collarbone. More contusions form blue-purple countries upon a taut map of waxen skin that wrap around a most familiar, treasured and broken body.

  There are ligature marks around a long, familiar neck, as if its possessor had been strangled with a noose. There are more ligature marks around brittle wrists. There are long and deep scratches blemishing an already scarred upper back and hunched shoulders, as if their possessor had been dragged across coarse cement like a leashed, rabid dog about to be shot dead. There are bruises in the shape of fingers on those contused arms, as if their possessor had been held down and struggled against his captors. More bandages bind the injured torso from the waist down, thicker than those around the chest.

  Clyde forgets to breathe until he has no choice but to suck in a harsh, shattered breath. Then another. Then another, shivering as he drops the duffel bag at the foot of the bed and then totters over to the armchair next to the bed.

  Oh god. Look at what those fucking bastards did to you, babe.

  Clyde succumbs like a smashed house of cards into the chair. He rubs the left side of his throbbing chest with his right hand, over the abysmal hollowness in it. He stares and stares at Phelan, at his handler, his best friend, his lover, his husband so broken and his brain just can't process it all. Even Rio Rancho wasn't as awful as this, gruesome as Phelan's wounds were. Phelan received helped within minutes of being stabbed. Phelan blacked out in even less time and was given painkillers and an assortment of other drugs as soon as possible along with Bertillon and his surgical team arriving a few hours later to save Phelan.

  But this ... what he's staring at now is the result of days of ghastly torture at the hands of Croenian terrorists who ultimately didn't care whether they killed their captive or not. This is the result of Phelan going into the battlefield without his shield, his partner, without his head and his heart fully in the game.

  This is the result of Clyde forsaking Phelan, of screwing around and drinking his ass off and fighting all the wrong people instead of being at Phelan's side where he's meant to be.

  Where he was meant to be.

  How can he possibly have that honor again, when he's seeing the end result of him shunning it and running away from it?

  Fuck, his vision is blurry and stinging again. He rests his left forearm on the raised guardrail, his hand hanging close to Phelan's right one on the bed. He wants so badly to hold Phelan's hand but there are all these tubes in the way and there are all those bruises and scratches and ... and how can Phelan possibly want him to touch him in any way again after this? He's lost that honor too. He doesn't deserve to touch Phelan in any way, he doesn't deserve Phelan -

  I love you, Clyde. I will always love you.

  He leans both elbows on the guardrail. He dips his head and presses both hands to his contorting face and fuck, there goes his goddamn eyes again, flooding and overflowing and never stopping. It feels like entire planets of oceans are trying to spill out of him in one shot and he's far too minuscule to contain even a pool. He's so pathetic. So fucking pathetic.

  There's no one else around to see when he reaches down with his left hand to gingerly clasp Phelan's right. Phelan's hand is dry and limp and colder than ice. It doesn't so much as twitch. He squeezes it as much as he dares to without causing Phelan more pain. He clings on to it and doesn't let go. He roughly swipes his face with his right hand from forehead to chin, and it dries his cheeks for a little while. All he can see now is the glint reflecting off their wedding rings on his finger.

  I'm sorry. I love you. I'm so sorry I left, babe. So sorry I hurt you. I love you so much.

  The pumping of the ventilator is the only response he receives.

  XXXVI.

  "I'M SO GLAD YOU DIDN't give up," Clyde whispers to Cole as they remain coiled around each other on the couch, the abscesses on their souls drained dry and finally healing, healing. "I'm so glad you've stayed."

  "I'm so glad you didn't give up too," he whispers into the warm, frail and drying skin beneath Clyde's half-shut eyes becoming more blue than red once more. "I'm so glad that you came back, and that you're mine forever."

  XXXVII.

  "HE'S BEEN TERRORIZING the nurses, you know," Don says to Cole while sitting at his bedside in the armchair that first Nate then Clyde had kept vigil over him for the past two weeks. Don's lips are curled up in an amused smirk, his dark brown eyes twinkling. "I don't think there's a single soul in this building anymore that doesn't know you're the husband of Agent Clyde Barnett AKA Long-Shot. Least of all the nurses who tried to give you a sponge bath. The keyword being tried."

  Cole, propped up on his back with his veins still glutted with fantastic painkillers, gazes back at the other agent with genial eyes at half-mast and croaks, "Barnett-Cole."

  "Right. Barnett-Cole," Don murmurs. "So whose idea was it to do the hyphen thing?"

  "Mine."

  Don's smirk grows. The bruise that had swelled up his left cheek days ago is now gone.

  "Of course it was."

  Don's smile has a little more teeth this time.

  "Don. I'm not going to apologize."

  Don shrugs both shoulders and settles more comfortably in the armchair, crossing one leg over the other.

  "Hey, look. No one's mad about that, okay?" Don rolls his eyes. "Okay, maybe Rajah, but his beef is with Clyde, not you."

  "I'm still not going to apologize," Cole rasps, wishing for the hundredth time that the rope burns around his neck would just vanish already and let him speak properly. "Clyde and I agreed on it after a lot of consideration. It wasn't easy for either of us."

  "Hey." Don raises both hands in the air with palms out. There is no ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. "I get it. I do. I mean, I didn't tell anyone about Susan until I'd been an agent for, what, four years? Four years."

  Cole lets out a noncommittal sound.

  Don lowers his hands to the armrests of his seat. They gaze silently at each other with amiable eyes for a few seconds.

  Then, Cole says, "Stop stalling and tell me."

  Don rolls his eyes again. It makes the agent look decades younger than his actual age of forty-four.

  "Jesus, you are kinda masochistic and sadistic, anyone tell you that? You've been making everybody report to you. Word has it you even made Fabry sing for you." Don lets out a huff that almost sounds affectionate. "You really wanna hear about Clyde finding you in the bunker and going loco?"

  Cole stares at the other man with a deadpan face. Don lasts a mere three seconds before rubbing his eyes with the fingers of his right hand and muttering, "Okay, okay. You asked for it."

  D0n sits straighter and clears his throat. He makes a show of tugging the lapels of his navy blue suit jacket. He looks Cole in the eye as he says with that mellifluous, baritone voice, "I was the first guy to find him with you in that cell."

  Cole says nothing and gazes on at the other agent.

  Don lets out a low sigh.

  "That cell? It looked like something straight out of one of those horror gore movies. There were these steel hooks hanging down from the ceiling. Like those hooks butchers use to hang racks of meat. There was just one light bulb and lemme tell you, I'm glad the light didn't let me look too closely at all the dark crap spattering the walls."

  Don scratches at his right eyebrow with a thumb. Then he lo
wers his hand to the armrest again.

  "Clyde was kneeling on the floor. His back was facing me, and his head was down. He had you in his arms and I couldn't see you at first. Just your legs. He was just ... totally still. Totally quiet. For a moment I thought Clyde was hurt too. That he'd done something stupid and -" Don purses his lips. "I went inside the cell and walked around him and ... shit, you were ... you looked fucking terrible. And that's me understating it. Your whole face was a mass of bruises. I couldn't even tell it was you, if it wasn't for Clyde holding on to you like he did. You were covered in blood and you were pale like a corpse. You looked like you were already dead."

  Cole still says nothing. He doesn't recall seeing Don in that cell. Just Clyde. Just Clyde, embracing him with those strong, muscular arms. Crying and begging him not to leave as he shut his eyes and said goodbye with them.

  "I said Clyde's name and he didn't answer. I knelt down and looked at his face and ..." Don touches the tips of his forefinger and third finger to his right temple, then flicks his fingers out and away from his temple. "He was gone, man. His eyes were open but there was nobody at home anymore. At least, nobody called Clyde Barnett or Long-Shot. I said his name again and I told him the medics were coming and that you were gonna be all right. He didn't say a word. Didn't look at me. He just handed you over to me gentle as can be, like he didn't hear me. Like he thought you were really dead. Walked out of the cell, just like that. The medics showed up minutes later with Dushku and Kusanagi."

  Don props his chin up on the back of his right hand, elbow on the armrest. He purses his lips again.

  "By the time we got you out and back to the Ark, Clyde was going back to the bunker on his own. He had that prototype carbine - you know, the one R&D was testing at the firing range and scared the living fuck out of everybody at the demo? - and pistols and magazines and grenades and who knows what else. Nobody was about to get in his way. Except Fabry. Fabry said something to him and then ..." Don waves his right hand. "There he went, back inside the bunker without a glance back at us. He went all fucking Rambo on steroids. Seriously. Rambo himself would have shat his pants if he was there and he had to face Clyde then."

  Don shakes his head with an expression of amazement.

  "Clyde's solo Rambo show felt like it took forever. It was more like eight minutes or so. I know, I timed it." Don taps the transparent surface of the silver watch on his left wrist. "We could hear the grenades going off from inside the Ark. While you were being treated in the medical bay, some of us were on the bridge and glued to the windows watching smoke rising out of the bunker, wondering when the whole place was gonna blow. Fabry was standing in front of the monitors and watching the video feeds from the cameras outside of the Ark.

  "We knew Clyde was coming back when the explosions finally stopped and Fabry left the bridge. I watched the monitors and saw Clyde strolling back like it was just a nice walk in the damn park or something. Jesus, he was drenched in blood. His eyes were about the only things you could see on his face, and they were wide and white and they were like ... a berserker's eyes."

  Don shakes his head again, this time with an expression that's a mixture of amazement and fear.

  "You should have seen him, Phelan. You know me. You've known me for fifteen years, you know what I've seen and been through and he ... holy shit. He was one scary muthafucker that day. He was dragging that creepy, gray-eyed bastard on the ground behind him by the neck and that guy was just ... he was laughing even while Clyde was practically choking him. Yeah, he was laughing like seeing all his terrorist pals getting killed by this scary muthafucker was the funniest shit he'd ever seen in his life. I think he lost his mind when Clyde went after him."

  Cole still says nothing, certainly nothing about Gray-Eyes. Don may not know what happened to Gray-Eyes, but he does. Clyde had told him in a whisper in this very room when they were alone, while Clyde was tucked into his side under the blankets. In the curtained dimness, Clyde had let him kiss the bruised and split knuckles that avenged his suffering.

  "Fabry took the gray-eyed bastard from Clyde down to the holding cells. Carter, Malik and I left the bridge and went to the medical bay, and we were just in time to see Clyde go in, blood-bathed and all. I knew more bad shit was going to go down when Blackmore started yelling at Clyde to get out and get cleaned up and Clyde refused to go. The three of us figured we had to drag Clyde out so he wouldn't get in the way while Blackmore and his team were treating you."

  Don lets out a long, heavy sigh.

  "Then you flatlined. Clyde just ... lost it. He was already fighting the three of us and yelling your name but when they started shocking you, he just lost it. He kept trying to run to you and we -" Don throws his hands up in the air and then lets them drop to his lap. "We had no choice, man. We carried him out while he kept trying to beat the crap out of us. He was just yelling nonsense by then and tried to claw out Carter's eyes and he even tried to bite me at one point."

  Don rubs his eyes with the pads of his fingers.

  "Then Malik just had to try taking off Clyde's ring when we finally got him to the showers and we were stripping him down. That was when Clyde pretty much went insane and tried to strangle Malik with both hands against the wall. He got me in the face with an elbow. Carter got him in a chokehold and made him black out. After that, we hosed him down and we carried him to the bunks. I dressed him up and got him into one of the bunks, and I sat with him until he woke up."

  Many minutes pass in a dense silence before Cole can bring himself to say something.

  "I didn't know," he whispers.

  Don's dark brown eyes are crinkled and compassionate.

  "Lemme guess. He didn't tell you about all this."

  "No."

  "Yeah. I figured Clyde wouldn't have. I doubt he even remembers much of it. He clocked out, man, from the moment he found you until he woke up in that bunk."

  Cole swallows hard even as he holds Don's gaze.

  "He's not a murderer, Don," he rasps. "He's ... he's killed. But he's not a murderer."

  Don's eyes are still compassionate.

  "I know. People can do things they never thought they could or would when they're out of their mind with pain and grief, I know."

  Many more minutes of silence, now an easy one, pass while they gaze at each other with amiable eyes once more. Then Don huffs out an almost noiseless laugh, smiling slightly.

  "Scariest muthafucker I ever saw, Phelan, and that's counting Fabry," Don murmurs, reaching across and over the lowered guardrail to pat him once on his left forearm that's resting on the blankets. "I'm just damn glad he loves you."

  XXXVIII.

  THE ARCING SPATTERS of sordid blood across the two-way mirror yank Clyde back to reality.

  He stares at them with blank eyes and a blank face. He knows that beyond that two-way mirror, Fabry is staring back at him and seeing him tainted with Croenian terrorist blood. He can hear the gray-eyed fucker gasping sporadically and wetly in the background through a nose that isn't really a nose anymore. Not after what he's done to it, along with the rest of the fucker's ugly, corpse-like face.

  He can still hear echoes of his enraged howling. Maybe it's just in his head. He can still feel his knuckles battering flesh and bones, splitting and breaking them, and maybe that's just in his head too. Maybe everything that's happened since he returned from Croenia the first time - before he lost all his memories of Phelan, before he lost Phelan - is all just in his head.

  He just has to wake up. He just has to wake up and find himself in that king-sized bed with its ornate, wooden headboard, find himself next to Phelan who's awakened too and is smiling at him with those big, blue eyes like a crush of diamonds, and everything will be okay.

  Wake up, babe. Wake up now.

  Don't let me go.

  He stares down at his blood-steeped hands and forearms as the door of the interrogation room opens with a beeping sound. Fabry strides in silently, tall and broad-shouldered and hulking like he was th
e very first time Clyde met him in a similar interrogation room here in HQ. Fabry stands in front of him and waits until he raises his head to look Fabry in the eye.

  "Are you listening to me, Agent Barnett-Cole?"

  Fabry gazes down at him with those heavy-lidded, brown, piercing eyes. He stares back with wide, blank ones. His blood-steeped hands twitch and then go motionless at his sides. He's still numb. He still feels absolutely disconnected from the rest of the world. Hollowed out and lost.

  "Yes, sir," he croaks, locking his knees in place, squaring his shoulders and stiffening his spine.

  "Clean yourself up," Fabry says with that voice that's edged with steel and yet rounded with softness. "Go back to him."

  Fabry says nothing else, his scarred face stone-cold and soulless, but Clyde now knows and will always know that Fabry is anything but those things.

  Clyde turns away from Fabry. He turns his back on the gray-eyed Croenian terrorist sprawled unconscious and bloody on the floor. He totters to the open door and doesn't glance back, knowing that Fabry will mete out whatever more punishment is necessary upon the fucking bastard who'd dared to harm his handler, his beloved best friend and husband, his everything.

  By the time Fabry is through, the gray-eyed bastard will be utterly erased, as if he never existed.

  XXXIX.

  INFECTIONS CONQUER Cole's already taxed body, rendering him mute and limp and barely able to breathe without the aid of a ventilator tube snaking down his throat to deliver oxygen directly to his lungs. He feels arctic cold and sun hot in turns. He feels like he's been slumbering for an eternity, drugged up to the eyeballs with a cocktail of medications. It's tempting to let go and tumble into the darkness.

  He slips in and out of a gray, misty ether instead. He hears familiar, benevolent voices speak to him from very far away. He feels different hands carefully touch or briefly hold his own. At one point, he feels the tube in his throat being dragged out. He doesn't cough or even twitch. The tube is replaced by a nasal cannula that snakes across his face and behind his ears.