bits that never took root.
You were stung by a scorpion when you were six. You don't remember much about it-- a flutter of impressions, something chocolate-brown falling off of your hand, onto the ground, the sensation of something white-hot reaching up through your arm to your shoulders and shaking, terrible pain, falling, your sister saying, "what the hell, Mom, what's."
Looking down, Hank removes his glasses slowly. Bobby waits for the sign-- him shuttering his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose-- which will mean he's searching his vast storehouse of words for those which will hurt his misguided friend the least. But the sign doesn't come; instead, Hank sits silent, gaze falling over the worn arm of his chair, and then speaks in a soft voice.
"'There is an affection so unusual, so touching, so belonging to the circumstances in which it has been nurtured, that it can have few parallels.'"
Bobby releases a breath slowly. Half-smiles nervously at his friend. "Guess it would kind of ruin the mood if I asked what that's from."
Hank returns the smile, even adds in a hint of teasing. "I suppose that would depend on what mood you're going for, Robert."
Bobby lets out a snort of laughter, relieved. "Oh, I dunno," he says. "Something light and summery. What do you have in purple?"
Hank laughs. "Purple?"
"Or, y'know," Bobby grins shyly, "Blue."
Hank settles back in his chair, his smile softening into gentle regard. Bobby's own face-- heaven knows what it reflects-- but he stands, taking a half-step forward. He leans in to the recliner, towards Hank's still face, and then pulls back slightly.
"I. I'm coming in."
Hank chuckles. "I know."
I never
meant to do
whatever it was that
welded you to outside me.
"Don't get caught alone."
That's the first thing Hank ever said to me. Okay, so he actually said, "Don't get caught alone in the john, kid," but I do feel pretty shitty, and I think it applies. I feel alone now. There's a weird sense of quiet around me. Stillness. Numbness.
Then, a tiny something breaks into the hollow echo of my voice inside my head.
"--obby? Do you know wh-- --pened to you? Can y-- --ee? Bobby?"
A swollen and bruised tongue lifts heavily in a parched, scraping mouth. "Hhhankh?"
"Yes, Bobby, it's-- --ou understand wh-- saying to you?"
For some reason, my eyes aren't responding to orders. I can't, anything, straight.
"Hank . . " I push out again, " . . sound funny . . leg hurts."
"Bobby, listen." That's him, alright. He sounds scared. Not in a panicky, obvious way-- but in that Hank I'm-a-doctor-I-see-this-all-the-time-oh-that's-my-best-friend kind of way. "You've been badly injured-- do you rememeber what happened?"
Do I? Do I remember anything?
"Party of Five . . cancelled."
A quick breath of laughter. "Besides that, Bobby. Do you remember what happened to you?"
I move my head to shake no, and a blinding-- if I could open my eyes-- pain seizes the left side of my body. Suddenly, Hank's warm, soft-furred hand is catching the side of my face, gentling the shocking pain-- not banishing it. "Lie still, Bobby. I couldn't give you anything but a local until you regained consciousness, but I'm feeding you something now to kill the feeling." I think, no, no killing. Can't think straight. The world is already thick. "I need you to lie still while it takes effect. And I need you to stay awake, Bobby. Stay awake for me."
I can't nod my head, and I don't have the energy to force the "anything you say, Hank," out of my mouth, so I figure I'll just do as I'm told and hope that's enough.
Two o'clock in the morning, a mantra singing through my brain.
I can still get four hours sleep.
It's funny the thoughts, the boogie men, that occur to you when every thought means a moment less sleep, and every boogie man grabs a limb and pulls.
One thing that you learn being a hero is that there are no good guys. Or perhaps I should say that there are no bad guys-- which means the same and sounds infinitely less cynical.
There are no bad guys. Every villain has some reason and misunderstanding in his or her own mind that makes what she or he does alright. And those who have no reasons have no conscience-- and that is its own form of suffering.
As for the heroes . . we all do what we can. But there are no good guys. We have our own reasons and misunderstandings-- we move and shake and stomp, just as everyone else does. We exist and destroy and adore and.
Bobby never used to say fuck. Now he says it often. Not in the way of, "that fucking Subaru cut me off," or "I don't give a fuck who wins the Olympics"-- but always, "I fucked Remy," and "I *fucked* Pete," and "Remy and Pete fucked," and so on. He says it so casually, and he never had before. Before he and Remy began sleeping together.
Fucking, Dr.McCoy. Before he and Remy started fucking.
I remind myself that there are no bad guys, push the image out of my mind, refocus on the topic at hand. Bobby's talking about Ororo's new dress. Bobby has always talked around things.
"--asks me about it, all: fashion, ask the gay guy, ask the gay guy! Even though, y'know, there I am. Polo shirt and cords."
I cock an eyebrow at him, and he understands that I'm not buying any of this, because he ducks his head. "I think you have a superb fashion sense, Robert."
"That's because we always go clothes shopping together. Or, y'know." He shrugs and looks up at the ceiling indifferently. "We used to."
Ohh, low blow, Bobby.
There's a school of neurological thought, supports the notion that everything we do is biologically motivated, and that our tender subconcious minds come up with reasons for us to have done whatever we did after the fact. That would be nice, wouldn't it? To know exactly why you did what you did-- because it was what you're body was telling you to do, and nothing more than that, and you didn't have any choice. I should send a note to Logan.
Dear runt, body made me do it. Love, Sabretooth.
The guy's brown hair fell into his face, with the slight light from the window sifting through it, and he looked ridiculously young. He *was* young, of course, they all were-- but he looked like he must've years ago, like a little scared kid curled up in the barrio. Jono sat on the edge of the bed, and Angelo looked sideways at him.
"This was a bad idea," he said. But his tone wasn't embarassed or shy. It was tired.
the scary, over-eager guest you brought to bed.
There's a time of night when everybody wants a cigarette. It's comes between eleven and two, when you look up from whatever you're doing and notice you can't hear anybody talking. You want to slip something into your mouth, exhale air cleaner than what you inhaled.
It doesn't really matter if you've never smoked in your life, doesn't matter if you eat health food and jog six miles every day, doesn't matter how many friends and relations you've lost to cancer. You're a product of your culture, and every night you feel the instinctive pull to light something on fire and put smoke in your body.
Even though the moment doesn't last long, it's a stretch of minute that we all share-- which is appropriate, because if there's one thing that the human race should have in common, every night, it's poison.
But, Remy, see. He lives alot of night. He smokes more.
um. thanks, Al.