Memento Amare

by G. D. Cox

"Funny guy. Next thing I know, you're gonna burst into a romantic sonnet about my sapphire eyes and Midas-touched hair and the perfect hillocks of my ass."

  "You can record it too, if you want."

  "You know, that's a pretty good idea."

  "Of course it is, sweetheart. I thought of it."

  "Funny guy. Such a funny guy."

  "So. Now that we've decided on that, can we both shut up now and go back to making love, my sapphire-eyed husband with Midas-touched hair and the perfect hillocks of an ass?"

  "Oh, babe, when did we ever stop?"

  XLVIII.

  THE DAY AFTER A SUCCESSFUL mission in Myanmar, Cole and Clyde go together to R&D at HQ to hear what head tech Intira Paowsong has to tell them about that damn Box. (Yes, it now has a capital letter thanks to the techs imaginatively naming it as such).

  "We were wrong about the Box's function to restore memories," Paowsong says, standing at a petite five feet in frameless glasses, a dark green blouse, black trousers and a white lab coat with her black, straight hair braided into a high bun. "We initially translated the code the Croenian scientists used as 'restoration' when it should have been 'bringing to light'."

  Cole and Clyde are standing opposite Paowsong with a white, polished, rectangular table between them in a secluded area of one of the many starkly lit and well-equipped laboratories of the R&D department. On the table between them, featureless apart from six small buttons and a circular hole with what appears to be a glass orb in it on its top side, is the Box.

  Cole glances down at the device, at this inconspicuous-looking, cursed thing that had caused him and Clyde so much agony.

  "It's an interrogation tool," Cole says, glancing at Paowsong next.

  Paowsong snaps her fingers and replies, "Exacto-mundo."

  Cole is in a tailored black suit with a striped gray-and-burgundy tie, his fingertips spread and pressed on the table top. Clyde is to Cole's left in his Long-Shot outfit (even more sleek, functional and aesthetically pleasing since being upgraded after the Croenia Clusterfuck as Clyde eloquently named it), his burly and bare arms crossed over his chest. They are a divine vision to behold, but Cole pointedly does not look at them. From the slight twitch of Clyde's lips, he's probably failed to do that. Twice, maybe. Three times, at most. (Hey, he has every right as Clyde's husband to ogle them if he wants, what with everyone in this damn skyscraper knowing they're married by now. And they still haven't publicly announced their plans yet for their vow renewal ceremony in two months' time for their upcoming wedding anniversary.)

  "According to Agent Dushku, the Croenian scientists were prepping him as a test rat for some experiment with the Box when you guys showed up and got him out. From their notes, we've confirmed that the Box was still a prototype," Paowsong says, patting one corner of the Box once with her right hand. "Even they weren't sure of all its capabilities yet, which is why its ability to block memories isn't in any of their notes."

  "So ... what, they were just gonna zap Dushku with this thing and ..." Clyde makes a skeptical expression by wrinkling his nose and shrugs his shoulders. "See what happened?"

  "That's what Agent Dushku said. That, and then chop him to bits and throw said bits into the Gyárfáz River for the catfishes to eat."

  Cole raises an eyebrow. Ah, yes, come to think of it, Dushku did mention that in his report. Something along the lines of 'the gray-eyed leader said to my face that he was going to throw my corpse into the river and let its vermin eat me in the dark.'

  Yes, Cole can still remember what that gray-eyed sonofabitch had sounded like when similar words were said to his face.

  "Remind me not to eat any catfish from Croenia. Like, ever," Clyde mutters to Cole, and Cole's lips quirk up in a tiny, amused smile.

  Paowsong lifts her frameless glasses higher up her flat nose by the hinges, also smiling. Then, with a more solemn face, she says, "So, the Box doesn't erase memories. It blocks memories from conscious recall, to the point that it's as if the memories aren't there at all."

  Clyde is pointedly not looking at the Box, gazing instead at Paowsong with an amiable expression. Cole can't blame Clyde one bit for not wanting to even acknowledge the Box's existence. He's impressed that Clyde hasn't already snatched the damn thing up and smashed it to smithereens on the floor (or he himself, for that matter).

  "After four months of experimentation, we discovered that the most effective way to unblock those memories is for the affected person to receive a powerful, genuine hit of emotion that overrides the mental conditioning."

  "Genuine, huh?" Clyde says.

  Cole feels Clyde's eyes focus on him. He turns his head to return Clyde's gaze and oh, Clyde isn't bothering to hide the warmth in those big, beautiful blue eyes at all.

  "Yes. It has to be genuine. And that emotion has to be closely associated with the blocked memories." Paowsong glances at Clyde then at Cole with genial, dark brown eyes (probably at them staring at each other like lovesick idiots). "I assume, Agent Cole, that you had discovered this particular approach as well and successfully snapped Agent Barnett-Cole out of his memory loss with it."

  "In my case, it was purely by accident," Cole replies, thinking about that recorded voice message erased from existence now.

  He sees the corners of Clyde's lips quirk up at Paowsong's casual mention of his married surname. He thinks, Clyde got that quirk from me. His lips quirk up too.

  "It is a rather effective means of hiding vital information from the enemy in the event of capture. Well, if those Croenian terrorists had figured it out first, anyway," Paowsong says, and Cole and Clyde turn to face her and look at her again. "You can't reveal what you believe you don't know, although the information's still there."

  Clyde rubs at his chin with the pad of his thumb. There's a slight furrow to his brow when he asks, "Okay, so ... how does the thing know what to target?"

  "Ah, that took us a while to figure out," Paowsong answers with a wider smile, her round face lighting up. "But it turned out to be so simple: the targeted person just has to be mentally focused on a specific subject."

  Clyde's eyebrows shoot up, and he says, "You mean as in, the person just thinks really hard about something in particular, and that's what the Box goes for, just like that."

  "Yes." Paowsong presses the tips of her forefingers to her temples. "Not only that, the more intense the focus is on that specific subject, the more compelled the target would be to disclose memories of it."

  Something goes ping in Cole's mind.

  "Either that, or ... the more intense that focus is on that specific subject, the more blocked it becomes from the target's conscious recall," Cole says.

  "Yes, depending on the Box's function setting." Paowsong nods, then pats the Box on one corner again. "We've improved it a lot and added a ton of failsafes since we got it in our hands. Much more stable and safe now, guys. I wouldn't put it out here otherwise."

  Clyde glances down at the Box for the first time.

  "So what you're saying is," Clyde says, gazing down at the device, "I had to be thinking really, really hard about something in order for this thing to work on me as effectively as it did."

  "Something," Cole murmurs, turning his head to gaze at Clyde once more with fond and crinkled eyes.

  Clyde doesn't look back at him, but Clyde doesn't have to. The rosy flush that spreads across Clyde's face is more than enough a reaction for him.

  "That's right, Agent Barnett-Cole," Paowsong drawls, grinning at them both. "Something, or someone."

  When they leave R&D, Cole lets Clyde exit the sliding double doors first. They comfortably walk side by side down the linoleum hallway to the elevators, having done this so many times in the years since they became GATF handler and asset. Their hands brush now and then, and there's no doubt whatsoever in Cole that Clyde is meant to be there at his side.

  When the elevator arrives, they enter it together and stand side by side in it. They gaze forward as the doors slide shut in front of them. Cole feels
Clyde's warm, callused hand rubbing against his left hand. He weaves their fingers together in an almost unbreakable grasp. He can feel Clyde's fingers stroking the smooth curve of his wedding ring.

  They're still gazing forward when Cole nonchalantly says, "So. You were thinking of me, hm?"

  "Yes, sir," Clyde replies as nonchalantly, and even without glancing at his husband, Cole knows that Clyde's struggling as much as he is to not smile. "When I was kicking down that door, I was thinking about you in a top hat and your birthday suit and how fine you were gonna look on our dark red sheets when I sucked your cock down my throat."

  In his Italian leather shoes, Cole's toes curl in. Cole tightens his fingers around Clyde's.

  "Now what kind of thoughts are those to have about your handler while on a mission, hm?" he asks deadpan, still staring forward at the shut elevator doors.

  "The kind of thoughts a man can't help having about his husband he's fucking crazy about and can never get enough of, sir," Clyde rasps, and god, after all these years, Cole still can't quite believe that this fascinating, unique, gorgeous man is his.

  The elevator doors are opening onto the bustling lobby of the first floor when Cole says as nonchalantly, "You're still holding my hand."

  They're both aware of how many other agents are around to see their hands linked together this way. They're aware of how Clyde's former public reputation of being a straight, unmarried man has been blown up beyond all hope of retrieval after the Croenia Clusterfuck, after news of Clyde wearing Cole's wedding ring spread like wildfire through HQ. They're aware of how their combined reputation as the GATF's most outstanding and terrifying handler-asset pairing in the agency, still at the very top of the game, may never quite be the same again.

  Cole doesn't give a fuck. He doesn't give a fuck because even when bad shit happens to good people for no reason, even when it's no one's fault, there are still good things that happen. There are still good people who stop and catch the bad guys they can, who continue to do their goddamn best to be good all their lives even when they're hurting. He doesn't give a single fuck because his Happily Ever After is still holding his hand, his Happily Ever After that he found and then lost and then earned back.

  Clyde glances at him with mischievous, twinkling eyes. He's so ready for Clyde to try yanking his hand away from his. He tightens his fingers even more around Clyde's and he smiles when Clyde laughs. He smiles when Clyde playfully yanks at his hand and he doesn't let go, not even once as they stride across the lobby in full view of everyone in it.

  Clyde is strong enough that he can break away from Cole if he wants to, Cole knows that. But Clyde won't. After everything they've been through, Clyde still chose him, of all the billions of people on this planet. Him.

  And Cole, the second scariest muthafucker on said planet who now laughs aloud at his beloved husband sticking out a pink tongue at him, knows that too.

  XLIX.

  SOMETIMES, COLE CAN tell that Clyde is thinking about the young woman he'd paid to give him a blowjob in the rented car on the way to Denver, just by glancing at Clyde. He knows Clyde will get a twinge in his chest every time Clyde does think about her, like a large, steel needle that pierces his aorta and makes him slowly hemorrhage. Make him slowly bleed with guilt, with self-hatred. He knows because Clyde will always tell him later, as if that guilt won't let Clyde rest until Clyde's confessed that he was thinking about someone with whom he'd had any kind of sexual contact during their months of separation.

  (They've been dealing with this through their regular couple counseling sessions with Dr. Fisher, but he knows it's going to take a long time for Clyde to no longer associate sex with penitence for circumstances that were never Clyde's fault.)

  "I wonder if she's found whatever it was she was looking for," Clyde murmurs to him one afternoon while they bask in its waning sunlight on their bed. "I hope she did. That she will, if she hasn't."

  It's a sweltering day and they've done away with their t-shirts. They still have sweatpants on. Clyde has tucked his head under Cole's chin. Clyde's ear is pressed to his scarred chest dusted with curls slowly going gray. He has his right arm around Clyde's loose shoulders and his left arm around Clyde's waist. He inscribes motifs of love along Clyde's right shoulder with languid motions and regardful fingertips. He breathes easy, his eyes half shut from drowsiness.

  "What was it that she was looking for, you think?" he asks quietly.

  Clyde contemplates on the question for some time. Cole feels his husband's hand caressing his naked flank with a lazy, hypnotic rhythm. Then, Clyde slides both arms around and under him in an embrace and kisses him on that dip between his collarbones. He tightens his arms around Clyde too, knowing what Clyde will say.

  "For this," Clyde rasps, pressing an ear to Cole's chest to listen once more to his enduring heart beat on. "For what we've got."

  L.

  PA AND MA PASS AWAY within days of each other.

  Cole is fifty-four years old and Clyde forty-eight when it happens, having just returned to NYC from a mission in Kuala Lumpur. They find out about Pa's passing from Nate in Nate's extensive and grandiose office at HQ, sitting side by side in those twin armchairs in front of Nate's desk. At first Cole thinks it's a cruel joke and that Nate's expressionless face is going to crack into a smirk. That Nate will tell him it isn't true, that Pa can't be dead.

  Nate's face remains expressionless. Nate tells him that Ma had called his office when she couldn't reach Cole and Clyde who were still on the other side of the planet, and informed Ms. Jackson about Pa going to sleep and never waking up. Nate's heavy-lidded, brown eyes gleam with sympathy and sorrow. Nate has met Pa so many times. They've celebrated so many Christmases together. Pa had once told Nate that Nate was like a third son to him.

  Clyde looks absolutely stricken, face gone colorless, eyes stark and disbelieving. Cole senses Clyde's right hand grip his left hand tight, so tight. He senses Clyde's eyes flit to his face and stay there. Cole stares at Nate and says nothing. He can't speak. He can't breathe. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what to think, what to feel.

  He has to get home to Ma. Ma needs him and Clyde.

  Nate accompanies them to Chicago without hesitation or protest. Clyde grips Cole's hand as often as possible throughout the car rides and flight, but he doesn't feel it. He doesn't feel anything. Nate drives them to the single family, A-framed house on its serene, tree-lined street in Lincoln Square in a black SUV with tinted windows. He sits behind Nate with Clyde to his right, with Clyde holding onto his right hand and stroking the back of his cold, numb fingers with a thumb.

  There are many cars parked on both sides of the street when they arrive. They belong to his parents' church friends who have been looking out for her and taking care of so many necessary arrangements for Pa's wake and funeral. Phyllis and John Mortimer, his parents' closest friends, are already there, greeting him and Clyde at the door with condolatory words and reddened eyes. They both receive a hug from Phyllis, a firm handshake and a shoulder squeeze from John.

  Ma is in the living room, surrounded by more friends and relatives. Cole sees two of Ma's cousins sitting with her on the couch. He sees a few of Pa's younger cousins from Nevada but not Uncle Ben or Aunt Karen or any of his cousins. He doesn't care that they're not here. They're only family by spilled blood and the only family he cares about is already in this room with him.

  Cole's eyes are dry when he goes to Ma and holds her tight while she sobs into his black suit jacket. Clyde weeps silently for both of them, blinking glistening, blue eyes rapidly turning red when Ma turns to him. Nate is a six-foot-two, silent bastion of strength and support behind them, accepting a still crying Ma's hug with low, benevolent words of condolences.

  Pa's already been laid into the coffin. Pa's in his finest navy blue suit and red tie and leather shoes, his thinning white hair neatly combed. He looks like he's only sleeping peacefully. Like he's going to wake up any moment now and look at Cole with those crinkled,
blue eyes just like his and say, welcome home, son.

  It's been confirmed that Pa died of a heart attack in his sleep. Never knew what hit him. Never felt any pain. He shut his eyes for the last time seeing Ma and feeling Ma lying beside him under the covers in their bed upstairs. He shut his eyes for the last time knowing he'd been loved and had lived a long, good life with the love of his life at his side.

  I love you, son. I knew you would be great. I still believe in you. Always will.

  I know, Pa. I love you too.

  He'd called Pa before he and Clyde left for Kuala Lumpur. He and Clyde got to talk to Pa for one last time. He didn't say goodbye and neither did Pa. They never did. He will always have those words as his final memory of his father who'd loved him even before he was born and never stopped, even now.

  Cole stands next to Pa's open casket for a very long time with Clyde at his side.

  He doesn't remember much after Clyde gently leads him upstairs together with Ma. He doesn't remember where Nate goes or if Nate follows them up. What he does remember is sitting on the side of the bed in his parents' bedroom as Ma settles and tries to sleep with that vast, empty space next to her. He remembers Ma touching his bristly cheek with her fingers. He remembers Ma holding his hand on the covers.

  "My son," she murmurs. "My boy."

  "Try and get some sleep, Ma," he says, and he doesn't know what he sounds like.

  Clyde is standing behind him, resting one hand on his right shoulder. He knows that Clyde is looking at Ma too with that soft, closed-lipped smile.

  "I love you, Phelan," she murmurs, her eyes red and swollen and yet warm and shining, her lips curved up in an affectionate smile. "You know that, don't you?"

  "Yes, Ma. I know. I love you, too."

  "And you, Clyde. I love you. You're my boy too."

  "I know, Ma," Clyde says, and his voice is raspier than usual. "I love ya, too."

  "Don't you worry about me," Ma murmurs to both of them, her fragile eyelids fluttering shut, her white hair spread on the pillow. "I'll be seeing your father before you know it."