Memento Amare

by G. D. Cox

  "I wanna see! I wanna see, Uncle Clyde!"

  Victoria lets out a mellow laugh of amusement. Melina smiles beside her mom. Phelan smiles at him and oh, it's that smile that crinkles those big baby blues and makes Phelan's whole face glow.

  And that's how he ends up being this cute, little angel's babysitter while Fabry and Phelan go off somewhere for a private chat and Victoria and Melina go to the kitchen to finish the dinner preparations. He easily does backflips in an open area of the living room to Siobhan's delight. She claps her little, chunky hands and stomps her feet in excitement. When he flips onto his hands and just as easily walks around the room on them, Siobhan chases him from behind, squealing loudly as she does. He's cautious as he weaves between the beige, leather-bound couches and the minimalistic coffee table, enjoying the sensations of furry rugs and smooth oak floors against his hands.

  For a little while, although it's just for an audience of one, he feels like a star again. (Of course, Phelan - the complete and utter mushbag - says to him later that he has and will always be a star in those big baby blues.)

  The lovely dinner of lemon pasta with roasted shrimp, wine and a dessert of triple ginger souffle passes in a whirlwind of friendly conversation and laughter (and more squealing from Siobhan as she decimates a souffle and looks so damn cute while doing it). Victoria vehemently refuses to let Clyde and Phelan help her wash up and threatens to kick their asses if they even try (and Clyde is a hundred percent certain she can do it). Clyde ends up tucking Siobhan into bed a little later while her parents look on and man, if Rajah thought the GATF orientation week was tough, it's nothing compared to having Fabry and his wife watch him trying to handle their hyperactive, supremely adorable and totally undeniable kid ordering him to read one Christmas story after another.

  Phelan, the ass who just watched and didn't help him one bit, laughs at him about it when they're finally in the guest bedroom after more wine and chatting with Fabry and Victoria in the living room.

  "It's a rite of passage," Phelan says, his eyes still crinkled and warm. "And a sign of trust and acceptance from Nate and Vic. A tremendous one."

  "Yeah, I know," Clyde mutters, already naked on the king-sized bed, trying not to smile. "Victoria made you do it too, huh?"

  "Yes."

  "So ... Fabry may be the scariest muthafucker on this planet, but if Victoria is the boss around here, doesn't that make her the scariest fucker on the planet?"

  "No, it doesn't," Phelan replies with a straight face, stripping off his dark blue boxer-briefs and folding it. "It's Siobhan. The only human being in the world who can make Nate crawl around on all fours and smile while she rides him like a horse."

  Clyde cracks up big time at that. He slides down the bed's headboard to be spread-eagled on its teal sheets while guffawing at that hilarious image. Ah, he's never going to see his boss the same way ever again.

  The mirth only lasts until he and Phelan are ensconced under the blankets in the cozy darkness, lying on their sides and facing each other with inches of space between their faces.

  "Tell me what happened after you found Melissa Campbell," Phelan murmurs casually, like Phelan doesn't carve something out of his chest with those words.

  Sure, they've hashed out a lot of things since Phelan was discharged from the ICU and went home. He had his epic crying jag and spilling of his guts on their black, leather-bound couch while Phelan held him close. They've gone for multiple counseling sessions with Dr. Fisher at HQ by now, individually and as a couple. He knows, however, that all that was far from the end of it. It was far from everything Phelan wanted him to tell, and he only gets respites in between these big talks. Phelan will only ask for more when Phelan feels he's ready to talk again.

  He gets it. He really does. If hearing about all the shit that went down after he left New York is what Phelan wants, what Phelan needs, then that's what Phelan gets. No question.

  "The sun was setting, I think," Clyde says, cradling Phelan's lower jaw with his left hand, caressing the warm, smooth skin of Phelan's neck. "I cried so hard that I could barely see anything."

  Phelan says nothing with his mouth. Phelan says volumes with a large, callused hand that grasps his waist under the blankets and pulls him nearer so that their faces and chests are touching.

  "It took me a while to notice the black SUV behind my car," Clyde murmurs, shutting his eyes. "Took even longer to notice who it was who'd gotten out of it and was walking up to the car."

  His lips and tongue continue to move as he speaks, but in his mind he is also hurtling back in time to that deserted road in Denver, as Fabry gets out of the SUV silent as a mountain cat on the prowl and shuts the door with nothing more than a heavy click. He doesn't hear the grass crunching beneath Fabry's boots as Fabry walks up to the driver's side of his car in the fiery light of the setting sun.

  He's still staring forward through the windshield with damp, sore eyes when Fabry stops next to the driver's door. He stares and stares and he doesn't turn his head to the window. He can see part of Fabry's torso and hips in the side-view mirror. Fabry isn't wearing his infamous long, black leather coat. Fabry's in a black t-shirt and black tactical pants.

  He can feel Fabry's gaze on him through the window, like the charring breath of a fire-breathing dragon. He knows what a fucking mess he looks like right now with his red, swollen eyes and the wet trails and snot on his face.

  He stares forward. He winds down the window.

  "If you're here to shoot me, sir," he somehow manages to rasp, seeing nothing but big blobs of colors that sting his eyes, "I'd rather do the job myself."

  Fabry says nothing.

  Clyde sniffs once. He wipes off the drying dampness from his upper lip with the back of his left hand. He stares blindly through the windshield.

  "Phelan's dead," he also rasps. "Isn't he?"

  Fabry says nothing for a long time. It feels long enough that that colossal iceberg is back with a vengeance and crushing Clyde's insides again. He's regretting not taking his guns with him. He's thinking about how he'll just open his mouth and stick one of their barrels into it and make sure to aim at the back of his throat so he'll blow out the brain stem after he pulls the trigger -

  "No, he isn't. Not yet."

  Clyde blinks. Then he blinks again. Fabry's words are like stones sinking into the molasses his brain's become from shock and misery.

  "No?" he croaks.

  "No," Fabry says, and it's with a voice edged with steel and blistering as fire. "So cut it out with the melodramatic bullshit going on in your head. And get the fuck outta the car."

  Clyde finally turns his head to look out the window at Fabry. He stares up with wide eyes, with tear tracks still drying on his unshaven, pallid face.

  "Phelan's been kidnapped. He's been in Croenia for the past three days, captive to the same fuckers who made that goddamn box."

  "Croenia," Clyde repeats, his voice emotionless.

  "We've narrowed down his location to a bunker in one of the southern provinces. A team's preparing to head out on the Ark right now." Fabry pauses. When he speaks again, his voice is rounded by softness, just the tiniest bit. "Phelan needs you. Now get the fuck outta the car and come back with me to HQ."

  Fabry doesn't wait for his response. Fabry pivots and strides back to the SUV, expecting Clyde to obey without question.

  "And I did," Clyde murmurs here and now in the cozy darkness of a guest bedroom in Fabry's home, lying still while Phelan caresses his lower back and listens quietly. "I just stopped thinking the moment Fabry gave me that order. Got out of the car with my duffel bag, got into the SUV with him, and we went straight to Denver International and jetted back to NYC."

  In the darkness, hidden from Phelan's sight, Clyde's throat bobs in a painful swallow.

  "When my memories of you started coming back," he rasps, "I had the most fucking horrible feeling that something bad was gonna go down. It was like ... I knew something really bad had happened to you. It sounds crazy,
I know, but I just knew I had to get to you." He bites his lower lip and this, Phelan feels. Phelan rubs his lower back with stronger strokes as he whispers, "Before it was too late."

  Phelan tangles their legs together under the blankets. He presses his face closer to Phelan's and spreads his fingers across the dark curls of his husband's chest, over that old three-inch, bumpy scar that had once been a ghastly, blood-gushing wound in a fetid alley in Rio Rancho.

  "You got to me in time," Phelan murmurs. "You saved me, Clyde. Again."

  Clyde slides his arms around Phelan's torso. His hands graze Phelan's lower back, graze the antler-like scars disfiguring it for life.

  "I'm sorry," he whispers for probably the thousandth time.

  Phelan simply presses those soft yet masculine, dark pink lips to his, lighting him up inside even in the dark with endless forgiveness. Phelan's here. Phelan's still here and alive and well, and that's the best Christmas gift he could have hoped for.

  Christmas day itself is hot and sunny at a temperature of 80°F, alleviated by air-conditioning throughout Fabry's entire house. In Chicago and NYC, the weather now will be a chilly 29°F to 40°F, with lots of rainfall or snow. Clyde is quite satisfied to not have to suffer such cold for a change, free to roam the first floor of the house while he pushes Siobhan around in a three-wheel chopper trike with pedals. He distracts Fabry and Victoria with their antics while Phelan sneaks gifts for the Fabry family under the Christmas tree.

  Christmas dinner is a glorious feast of sorrel and cauliflower soup, honey and cinnamon-basted roasted turkey with cornbread and mushroom stuffing, Christmas rice (and who knew there's such a thing?), crab and shrimp pastelles, cinnamon walnut sponge cake with orange rum syrup and of course, Christmas eggnog. Clyde has never tasted such cuisine before. He devours it with as much relish as he does Chinese and Italian cuisines to Victoria's visible approval. Siobhan is seated next to him at the round dinner table and so, Clyde also has the first-time experience of being enthusiastically spoon-fed delectable food by his boss' three-year-old daughter. (How freaking unbelievably adorable is this kid, really?)

  The opening of presents is his favorite part of the day (and unsurprisingly, Siobhan's too). Siobhan receives a cool, orange-and-blue pair of kidnoculars and a gigantic tub of toy dinosaurs from her parents. From Phelan and Clyde, she receives a bright blue, tulle ball gown with a sparkling, silver wand that has her galloping around the living room like a squealing hamster on hamster-nip. Melina receives a set of fantasy novels that has her hugging her parents tight, and wow, it's really something for Clyde to see Fabry's scarred, intimidating face soften like that while he hugs his older daughter back. Melina receives another set of fantasy novels from Phelan and Clyde - apparently, all four books complete the collection - and they get a tight hug each from her too. They're such sweet kids.

  While the girls are distracted, the adults pass each other their respective presents. Fabry gets a shared gift from both of them, a black leather jacket with silver zips that brings an appeased gleam to Fabry's eyes. Victoria also gets a shared gift of a very comfortable, hooded cotton terry robe that brings that warm, wide smile to her face. In return, Fabry hands them ... a key and a folded piece of white paper.

  Phelan, who's sitting next to Clyde on one of the beige, leather-bound couches, seems to recognize what the key's for and gives Fabry a wide-eyed look as he grasps said key in his right hand.

  "Nate -"

  Fabry holds up one hand and says, "Phelan, if Vic and I aren't there, it's just sitting there empty. Like I said yesterday, you and Clyde are free to go there whenever you want." He lowers his hand back to his lap and curls up his lips in a slight smile. "You are the reason we have a holiday house in Bora Bora, after all, the way you went on and on about how nice it was."

  Clyde gives Phelan a glance of pleasant surprise. Phelan gazes back at him and oh, oh, there's that flush starting from the forehead down to the neck, the one that says to Clyde, oops, you've just found out about some big mushy thing I'm planning.

  "For real?" he says as a grin spreads across his face, as Phelan flushes even more. "Bora Bora for our fourth anniversary? You want that?"

  "Yes," Phelan replies, smiling that soft, closed-lipped smile that he adores.

  Fabry (thankfully) ends the sentimental moment with an eye roll and a growled, "Bunch of saps."

  Victoria chuckles and smacks her husband on his bicep without an ounce of fear. Phelan squints and raises both eyebrows at Fabry, which is still the closest that Phelan will ever come to rolling his eyes.

  "That is for you," Fabry then says to Clyde, nodding at the piece of paper now in Clyde's hand.

  Clyde unfolds it to see R&D's stark, black header logo at the top and below that, a date and time, and a printed list of ... prototype weapons. Clyde's eyes go round as he reads the names of each item. Holy shit, these are the latest pistols, carbines and tactical knives that R&D have been developing (and raving about to Clyde whenever he visits the department for his Long-Shot outfit mods and hangs out with the techs). Holy shit, there's even a bow and arrows on the list. He'd said ages ago that he wanted a tactical, foldable bow and quiver of explosive arrows as a joke. He didn't think they would actually take him seriously!

  "Be at the firing range on the stated day and time. You're the first in line to test them all out. If they pass your inspection, you can choose up to three weapons for yourself."

  Clyde gapes at his boss, the scariest muthafucker on the planet who also happens to be wearing a red-and-white Christmas sweater with dancing reindeer and snowflakes on it. (Holy shit, Fabry does know that other colors exist.)

  "I expect a report on every weapon," Fabry also says, very much the director of the GATF in this moment despite his ridiculous sweater, and Clyde salutes him with his free hand and says with all due respect, "Sir, yes, sir."

  Then he turns around on the couch and plants a noisy kiss on Phelan's warm, smile-bunched cheek, just because he can.

  Later in the day, Clyde is back on that couch, sipping more delicious eggnog and quietly watching Phelan cuddle Siobhan who's dressed in her new tulle ball-gown and waving around her magic wand. He smiles to himself as Phelan graciously carries her around the fabulous Christmas tree and she taps her wand on random decorations and squeals, "Puff!" with each one.

  Fabry also has a mug of rich, chilled eggnog as he sits next to Clyde on the couch with three feet of space between them. Clyde is still watching Phelan and Siobhan when he says, "Hey, Fabry."

  He turns his head to gaze at Fabry when he feels Fabry's heavy-lidded, piercing eyes focus on him. Fabry's visage is inscrutable.

  "I never really got to say thanks," he murmurs, looking the other man in the eye. "Even for yelling at me in the ICU."

  He can tell Fabry knows exactly what he's talking about from the way one end of Fabry's lips arch up in a smirk. It's not an unkind one. He's sincere about being thankful for Fabry confronting him in the vacant private room opposite Phelan's in the ICU at HQ, for Fabry's deliberate decision to only unload his own frustrations on Clyde when he knew Clyde was capable of handling it. Somehow Fabry knew that he needed to unload too, to be pushed hard enough that he vented as much of his rage and sorrow as he could by hurling that wooden armchair onto the floor.

  (Well, okay, the two nurses who raced to the room didn't appreciate it as much, but neither of them had intervened. They were too scared of Fabry and him to even step inside, much less tell them off for the ruckus.)

  "Even before we left Denver, I knew that when we found Phelan and got him back, you two dumbasses were going to be all right."

  Clyde takes a long sip of his eggnog. He stares down at the creamy, sweetened beverage and grips his mug with both hands.

  "Why?"

  "Before you got out of the car, you were already wearing your wedding ring on your finger."

  Fabry is saying a shit ton of things with that one sentence. Things like: over three years ago, I saw the two of you vow to stand together
in the face of all adversity, to love and accept each other, no matter what may come. Things like: loyalty like that doesn't come easy and I know that. Things like: Phelan is one of the oldest and best friends I'll ever have, and if there's a guy I want to have his Happily Ever After, it's him.

  Clyde hears all that loud and clear. He raises his eyes to watch Phelan and Siobhan again, to see Phelan smiling at her while she taps the wand on his forehead and exclaims, "Puff! Now you're mine too, Uncle Boots!"

  He stares at Phelan's handsome face. He stares openly and he doesn't care that Fabry can see him doing so. He considers a future where Phelan isn't in it. He considers marching into battle without Phelan at his side. He considers never again hearing Phelan talking to him via his earpiece or his comm pad or in person where he can wrap his arms around Phelan and bury his face in the warm smoothness of Phelan's neck. He considers a world where Phelan no longer exists, where only a Phelan-shaped void is left within him, growing and growing until it's all there is of him.

  For this man, I will lay down my life. For this man I love and will always love.

  Phelan glances at him with those large, crinkled, bright blue eyes. He gazes back with crinkled eyes of his own, his hands steady around his mug of eggnog, his breaths slow and deep, his belly full and his chest brimming with something so sweet, so very sweet.

  Yeah, they'll be all right, one way or another. They'll always be all right as long as they're together.

  XLII.

  DR. FISHER CALLS THEM triggers.

  "They're very personal. They'll hit fast and hard sometimes," she tells Cole during his second solo therapy session in her calming, ambient-lit, dusky purple-walled office at HQ. "And in the unlikeliest of moments and situations."

  Sitting on a blue-green, chenille couch with matching, black-striped throw pillows, Cole gazes at her in her dark brown pantsuit, silver well-coiffed hair, reassuring expression, and thinks about Clyde. He envisions the pull of a pistol's trigger. He envisions a bullet spiraling out of its barrel, zooming towards Clyde's skull.