Cheap, flimsy card slipping under Remy's bedroom door. Heart-shaped, tacky. Pepe LePeu leering from behind the roses in his outstretched hands. Big balloony lettering: "Sacre bleu! I love you!" And the carefully scrawled signature on the back: "Be my valentine. Bobby."
Hank: You know what a palindrome is. It's a word or groups of words which would make the same sounds if the letters were arranged in an opposite order.
Bobby: Oh. Like "dad".
Hank: Yes.
Bobby: Oh "moom".
Hank: . . Well, I don't think "moom" is an actual word, Robert. But, yes, like that.
There's a school of neurological thought, supports the notion that everything we do is biologically motivated, and that our tender subconscious 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.
"I think Woody Harrelson is sexy."
Remy's head rolled on the pillow until Bobby could see light reflected in his dark eyes, in the dark room. He said, "I think Tiki Barber is sexy."
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. Doesn't 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.
Bobby sank deeply into the dusty, tattered couch and silently laughed at the fact that while the discovery of AIDS hadn't had any effect on the street price of a blowjob, the national inflation had. The black-haired head in his lap bobbed, and he fisted his hand there, tilting his hips quietly up.
"unh."
"Robbie, man--" said St.John, walking into the room with three beers. "Shouldn't you save that for the customers? What'd you promise for this one?"
Bobby drew his tongue across his bottom lip. "Gimme one of those. I gotta cover his shift Tuesday night." St.John set the beers down on the table and popped one open for Bobby, handed it to him.
"Yeh? You got a date, 'Berto?" he asked. The man on his knees in front of the couch started to pull his head away, to answer, but Bobby tightened his hand in protest.
"Yeah, he does. With that guy. ohh. The southern belle."
"Oh, we met him. He's cute. A little on the putzy side, but--"
Bobby's head fell back against the back cushion. "Sin, hey. Shut up. I'm concentrating."
St.John grinned. "You're a professional, Robs, you're supposed to be able t'do this under any conditions. This is, hey." He took a deep swig from his drink. "This is like, in that Kevin Costner Robin Hood movie, where the little boy is shooting the bow an' arrow, and Robin Hood is saying t'him, you've got to be able to shoot under all kinds of distraction. So the boy shoots, and Robin distracts him, and his aim is all off. Y'remember that?"
Bobby shot him a glare and licked his bottom lip again. St.John laughed and sat down his beer-- came over to sit beside the other man. "Whatcha thinkin' about, Rahhhhbeee?" he whispered playfully.
Bobby's eyes closed. "Fuck off, man."
St.John set his hand lightly on Bobby's thigh. "You've got to be able to shoot under all kinds of distraction, mate." Bobby batted his hand away, and St.John giggled and returned it. "I bet I know who you're thinking about. That _special someone_, right? That speeeeecial summmm--" Bobby grabbed his wrist roughly.
"Y'know, your skanky voice is kinda ruining the illusion that I'm _not_ in this shithole, okay? So stuff it."
He began to pump his hips faster, and when he said "it" his mouth stayed open.
"Stuff it?" St.John asked. "You want me to stuff it? _Stuff_ _it_? Baby?" Mimicking Bobby's short, harsh breaths. "Stuff it?"
"MotherFUCKER," Bobby said, shoving Roberto away from him. Roberto caught himself with one hand, wiped his mouth with the other. He said, "You better hope he's still gonna take my shift, Jinny, or your ass is mine."
"His ass is yours anyway," Bobby snorted, fastening his pants, still hard. "Don't worry, I'll cover you Tuesday. --you still owe me half a blowjob."
Roberto grinned and nodded. "You're my hero, man."
"Yeah, man." He punched the still giggling St.John in the arm, and took a long drink from his beer. "I'm a hero."
[I had every intention of following this up with, like, Remy is going to accounting school. He sometimes visits the local prostitute strip because he's lonely and shy, and tends to trip over his own feet when talking to real people. Fortunately, I was completely unable to wrap my mind around that.
Oh, and-- interesting thing. I wrote this bit after reading Em's traumatizing _Stay the Night_, right? And not two days later, I discovered _so, this_ by Synchronik, who wrote that story for the same reason-- and not only does everything happen on a Tuesday night, one of the prostitutes is named Bobby. Kismet? oh, I think so.]
It lacked late into the year, the year that lightning struck the church spire and sent it splintering. Otis Gibson said that both things were undeniable signs of the impending Apocalypse. "And thou wilt not be able to tell season from season," he said, pulling the mug of dark coffee to his mouth and casting another meaningful glance across the counter at Tess Lewis, who shook her head.
"I can tell the seasons well enough. And Kent and the boys are out fixin' the church right now. --Which they wouldn't be able to do if it was snowin'."
"And there will be disbelievers . . " He craned his neck to see beyond the counter to the woman's stove. "How're those eggs comin'?"
"They're done," she said, handing him a plate. "You see signs everywhere."
He took a big bite of his breakfast, chewed and swallowed it, before he answered. "You mark my words, Miss Tess. It's the beginning of the end."
She wiped her hands on her apron and opened her mouth to say, "November is never the beginnin' of anything, Otis."-- but the door to her establishment opened then, and she set the words down on the counter with a heavy thump of her hand. "Oh," she said to the man in the doorway. "Can I help you?"
"Yeah," the man answered, stepping in. "I'd like some coffee, and some meat, if ya got it." Tess looked behind her, at her stove, and then at Otis, who was watching the stranger take a seat. "I've got some ham. Or chicken, maybe, if you like."
"Ham's fine."
Tess nodded and set some coffee in front of the man-- glanced at Otis again and then went out back to the smokehouse.
The man took a drink from the mug and said, without looking up. "This is Ivy, North Carolina."
Otis frowned. "Forks of Ivy is the name of this town, sir. My name is Otis Gibson. I'm the judge."
One corner of the stranger's mouth lifted, still looking down at the coffee in his gloved hand. He said, "What're you the judge of, Otis Gibson?"
Otis opened his mouth to respond, but Tess bustled back in with her hands full of smoked ham, and she said, "Do you expect to be havin' more than four cuts, sir?" and the man shook his head. Tess nodded and put the meat on a skillet to heat. Tess asked, "How are your eggs, Judge Gibson?" and Otis answered, "They're good, Miss Lewis, thank you,"-- and they were both looking at the stranger.
A few minutes later, Tess set a plate of ham in front of the man along with a fork and a knife, and cleared her throat. "There you go, sir." The man raised his gaze from the table to her face and said, "Thank you, Miss Lewis," and she felt the skin of her cheeks heat. "oh," she said.
"May I have some more coffee?" Tess frowned in confusion and then looked over at the judge. "Oh. Oh, of course, Otis."
"So tell us, stranger," he said, while Tess refilled his mug, "What brings you to Forks of Ivy?"
The man slid his knife smoothly through the meat, bringing the piece to his mouth and chewing slowly. Otis thought he wasn't going to answer, but the man eventually said, "Mountain mile west of here."
"Creed Mountain?" Tess asked with surprise. Otis' frowned deepened. "What business would you have on Creed Mountain?" he asked. And then-- "Are you a lawman? Are you after one of the Creed boys?"
At that, the man raised his head to Otis, and Otis thought, "oh." The man said, "Why would a lawman be after Creed?"
"Otis," Tess said reproachfully. "You got no right to suggest such a thing. There's no reason why the law would be after any of the Creeds." She took the empty plate from the stranger and filled it with another cut.
Otis said, "You don't know that, Tess." The stranger said, "Creeds?"
Tess said, to the stranger, pouring him more coffee, "The Creed family has lived on that mountain for going on fifty years. I've only ever met the youngest, but I hear he's the spirit and image of his father. And his brothers. Looks just like them."
The stranger half-grinned and nodded, then, and said, "Right."
Tess turned to Otis. "And that boy was in town just last week buying rope and flour, and he didn't seem like any type that'd have trouble with the law. He's just, not sociable."
"You mark my words," Otis said, shaking his head. "He's one of the bad ones."
The man gave a short laugh at that, which startled the other two, and he stood up. "I'll have to remember that. And I'll be havin' the rest of that meat t'go, Tess."
Otis said, "I would truly recommend you not to go up there, sir. The snow could come any day now."
The stranger took the ham and slipped it into a small bag at his waist. He looked at Otis and said, "I can do snow," and Tess blushed again and then the man left.
After a few moments, Otis shook his head and spoke. "I believe you're right, Tess. I see signs everywhere."
"No, no, Otis," Tess said, touching the high collar of her dress. "That was definitely a sign of something."
I keep getting this scene in my head of Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi playing badminton. You can imagine Jedi Knights playing playing badminton. The rackets are just hilts; the net part is made up of glowing Force energy. And they're wearing pleated tennis skirts in Jedi-brown.
So, yeah, he's waiting.
He's waited alot in his life. He used to wait on the bus for school. He used to wait for Hank's signal in the Danger Room before going ahead with that under-the-bar thing. He used to wait for CBS to bring back Due South. Suffice it to say he's done alot of waiting. Waiting is nothing new.
Now, however, Bobby Drake is pressed against a wall by one warm palm, staring into a pair of casual red eyes, waiting to breathe, and that *is* new.
"This isn't a story. It's a wet dream. And it's an alien wet dream, because they're all fucking alien dreams, aren't they."
"We were back in Tunguska, in the tight wet cell, except when the guards came they were babbling mismatched English words instead of speaking Russian, and the long dark hallway led to the den of my Aunt Sophie's summer house. And they marched me in there and made me sit on the sofa, and one of them took a crocheted pillow and put it under one of my knees."
"And then one of the guards said something like 'chow croon olive marker' and took one corner of the room and ripped it, straight down, like paper. And then all the guards each took pieces of the room and ripped them away until it was a completely different room, made of metal. It was-- I guess, it was a spaceship."
"And then the extraterrestrials, they came forward and one of them pointed at me, and then down at the empty candy dish on Aunt Sophie's coffee table. The ranks parted and Krycek was shoved over to the sofa, and he said 'shy mean turquoise' to the guard, angrily, and he dropped a piece of candy into the candy dish."
"One of those little caramel squares, or something. I don't really remember."
"Knock, knock."
"Who's there?"
"Mutant."
"Mutant who?"
There is silence, and then a chuckle muffled through the woodgrain door.
"I dunno, I can't think of anything. Just let me in."
Hank grins and shuts the book in front of him. Moves from the desk to the door, opens it. The man is standing there in his Counting Crows t-shirt and sweats, socks and smile.
Hank thinks, hee. Bobby.
In a weird way, the noise and smoke and flashing lights of the bar aren't that big a change. Just like the fights and tits and the survival haze. In some other, realer way-- they're a fucking a-bomb change. Like sometimes a woman will pass by-- or a bald guy, with no eyefuck-- and I won't understand what's going on.
And then I remember. Free.
I remember all of it-- the whole deal that went down, with Schillinger and the feds and deals cut. Reduced sentence. A whole new life started, except not really a new life. A new situation, with new rules, with the same paranoias and kneejerk responses. Same hiccupy reaction to wide, open spaces.
I remember the skitz from the last time, when I was released from Lardner. Except, that was only a few years-- only took a few weeks to get over. This is thirteen years-- and I've been out for almost six months, and ain't nothing getting over anything. Maybe I have more to get over this time.
Whatever.
I slide through the crowd, like I never been more comfortable, scanning for-- that.
Young girl-- cropped and dyed hair, pretend tough, leaning against the bar, chatting it up with some guy twice her age. Tight pants (cute ass) and a beat-up green t-shirt. I saunter up behind her, with a tap on her shoulder.
"Hey, sweetie. Why don't you tell me how old you are."
She turns around, her shock red hair falling into her face, and gives me a long, measuring look.
"Fuck off."
I laugh. "Where'd a little girl like you learn to talk like that?"
She smirks and turns back to her friend-- I grab her arm. "Hey," I say, pulling out the official club logo that identifies me as a bouncer, "You're gonna hafta show me some ID that convinces me you're twenty-one or older, or get outta here."
She jerks away from me. "I'm with the band, asshole. We're playing tonight. I'm *allowed* to be here."
"Fine, sweetie. Let's see the pass."
She huffs and opens her tote bag, grumbling, "Stop calling me 'sweetie'." I smirk and look down at the band pass in her hand. "Sure thing, Hol--"
She frowns when I freeze, stop short. "It's real. It's a real pass-- I'm with the band. Just ask the--"
I look up at her. Lungs force air. "Your name is Holly Beecher?"
Some of her tough girl attitude dilutes in confusion. "Yeah," she says hesitantly. "Why?"
I look at her newly. Rounded face, sharp blue gaze, twisting expressive mouth. Goddamned worn-out t-shirt. I shake my head. "Nothin'. I know your dad. Knew your dad."
"My dad?" she asks blankly.
"Yeah." I jerk my head. "Toby Beecher, right?"
"Oh. Yeah." Her brow knits. "How do you know my dad?"
A snort of laughter escapes me. Let me count the ways. I shrug. "Long time ago." I move to walk away, but the girl-- Holly-- catches my arm. "Prison, right? You went to prison with him."
I pull out of her grasp gently and grin. "You sayin' I look like a jailbird?"
She smiles quickly, cursory, asks again, "Am I right?" I give a short nod. She asks, "What's your name?"
"Nothin'," I say. "Look. Don't tell your dad ya saw me, okay?"
Her eyes do a quick blue roil from curious to suspicious that I recognize as her daddy's. And I oughta know-- nobody saw suspicion on Toby Beecher's face more than me. "Why? What are you going to do?"
"Nah," I shake my head. "'S'nothing like that. I just don't think it's a blast from the past he'd be happy about." The suspicion doesn't disappear, but it changes. She moves in, crowding me, her voice lowers threateningly.
"Are you the reason he has those dreams?"
I rear back, kinda. The first answer in my mouth is NO-- but, really, who the fuck knows? Maybe I am. Maybe, all these years later, Toby has nightmares about me. There'd sure as hell be plenty to fill them with. Snap crackle pop.
I answer, "Don't know. Hope not."
It satisfies her. She nods. "Alright. What's your name? I won't tell him." I grin.
"Busmalis. Agammemnon Busmalis."
"Oh, fuck you. That's so made up."
"No way. That's my name. They used to call me the Mole."
"How Dick Tracy." Her head cocks in, god, a dead-on for Toby's contemplative pout. She says, "If you won't tell me your name, I'll just ask somebody else who knows you. I told you I wouldn't tell Dad."
'Dad'. "Fine. Chris Keller."
She puts out her hand, I take it. "Pleased to meet you, Chris. Now, what I meant to say was-- I won't tell him I saw you if you tell me about it." I drop her hand. "'It'?"
"Yeah," she nods. "About prison."
"Sweetie," I say, shrugging. "Ain't anything you want to hear about."