Man, I started this years ago. I spent all of last New Year's talking to Dust about it. the idea: Sean meets a guy who he thinks is the reincarnation of his dead wife. Fun, right? I thought so. I got bits and pieces.
Once
Sean Cassidy once battled a living island. He once served in the NYPD. He once took something that wasn't his. He once put "City Boy" by Herman Wouk down in disinterest. He once used to pick the mint from his mother's garden to dress the Sunday pork.
Now, Sean Cassidy is dreaming. Not that these things of the past are any less present. See, Sean Cassidy lives in the past. He manages to hide it most of the time; but in these private times he falls gently back, nestling into the warmth.
The warmth, particularly, of--
Sean Cassidy once was the King of the World. He ruled from an emerald throne in an emerald castle on an emerald isle. He was fair and just. He didn't know whether he had his people's love, and neither did he care, for he had the love of one woman, his queen; and so great was her love that it equaled thrice the love of the World. She sustained him, not only on her love, but also on her incomparable beauty. Indeed, wherever famine fell, his queen would carry herself on emerald lily fronds hence, and the whole of the people would rise up from their hunger, being fed on her beauty. As she did love them, did love him; so too did the World love her. She was perfect.
But this isn't a dream. It's a nightmare.
Sean Cassidy once was not a man; but a coward. He saw her great love and was dwarfed by it, and was ashamed. He fled in terror from his own smallness, abandoning his throne, his castle, his isle, and his unborn child-- in search of self-worth, a large-ness that would make him a suitable king for his queen. He travelled all over the world, helping where he could, sacrificing as much as possible, until one day, he heard her loneliness on the wind and realized his foolishness, and returned home to her.
But this isn't a dream. It's a nightmare.
The emerald had seeped from the ground, drawn deep into itself, in inanition. He made his way among the ruins, to their castle, which had also lost its emerald, and through the crumbling halls to the cobweb-strewn throne room. There, on the queen's throne, was a whisper of dust, in the faint outline of a beautiful, beautiful woman; as though all the liquid, the being had been drained from her, leaving only abandoned clay. But what could've done this to her? This was unheard of in their castle, because all things had had only to look at her, and were filled to spill with being.
And only then did Sean Cassidy understand, finally, that just as he had looked to her for sustenance, so too had she looked to him. That was his large-ness. That she loved him was his worth.
Sean Cassidy once understood too late.
And a whirlpool grew, there, in the throne room, pulling Sean Cassidy down down, in a dark, descending spiral. It led to an un-isle of grey, and the memory of emeralds did not exist there. He stayed there for a long while, until he was found by excavators in brightly painted hard hats, and they threw him a line, and he was able to climb back up into the throne room. And from this throne room, Sean Cassidy lived his life, carrying it with him always. In this faded-to-olive room, sharing the throne with a pile of dust. He forsook his large-ness. He went among these people wanting only to be small. Helping, but refusing to be needed. Willing to love, but not be loved.
And this is a nightmare.
But not Sean Cassidy's nightmare.
No.
Tonight Sean Cassidy is dreaming of the present. And it scares the hell out of him.
"MAEVE!!!!!"* * *
"Almost, but nae quite. Try it again."
The young woman reluctantly retrieves the pencil.
"C'mon, Sean. This is stupid."
"Jubilee . . "
"Okay, okay. I still say whoever invented imaginary numbers needs to be pamfed. Hard, between the eyes."
"Aye, Jubilee. Yeh're the poor, persecuted David; an' this problem is th' big, mean Goliath. Now let's see if yeh can fell it, shall we?"
Jubilee sighs heavily, and Sean smiles affectionately.
Making his way among the hunched figures of his students, bent over their trigonometry, he is reminded of his grade school, long ago.
Sean once thought his arithmetic teacher to be the most beautiful woman within earshot of the deep green sea.
//"Sean, I need you to do me a favor."//
The telepathic voice interrupts Sean's train of thought, and he shakes his head, clearing it. Answering back as best he can, he pushes the thoughts to the front of his mind
//"I'm in th' middle of a class, Emma."//
Sean wonders if the impression he gets of Emma waving her hand dismissively is part of the static, or if she's transmitting it intentionally, for effect.
//"Yes, I know. I need something picked up in town. I'd go, but I'm waiting for a call."//
//"Emma, I'm in the mid-"//
//"I can take over the class while I wait for the call."//
Sensing his hesitancy, she continues brittlely.
//"Let's not forget who the more experienced teacher here is. Or to whom this school belongs."//
Sean once punched a friend in INTERPOL for pulling rank on him.
//"And this the woman who's askin' me t'do her a *favor*."//
He receives the telepathic equivalent of a sigh. *Now* she's doing it for effect.
//"You're right, Sean, you're always right, whatever. Are you going to go into town for me or not?"//
Sean sighs aloud, and Everett looks up questioningly.
"Children, Ms. Frost is gonnae oversee the rest of yer class."
Paige's concerned voice, "Is something wrong, sir?"
Sean once loved his Aunt Becca's little girl very much.
"Nae, lass, I'm merely runnin' an errand fer Emma."
"He'll be back shortly, children." Emma strides in, leaving the door open to expedite Sean's exit. "I need him to pick up a few things for me," she says, handing Sean a list. He eyes the list incredulously. "A *few* things?"
"Yes, well," she replies with a devilish grin, "I would go myself, but . . "
"Aye, aye," sighs Sean. "I'll try t'make it back by Christmas."
Emma turns to her students with a wary gaze, which they return dubiously.
"We'll leave the light on for you."
* * *
"I see, sir, and exactly what sort of garter are you looking for?"
Sean's cheeks burn a bright crimson as he curses his co-headmaster's name for the thousandth time since he arrived in this "specialty" store half an hour ago.
"I- I'm afraid I dinnae know."
The sales woman smiles indulgently, and prompts, "Is this for your wife, sir?"
Sean Cassidy was once the King of the World . . .
"NAE!"
Several shoppers and sales clerks turn to look at him, and he coughs apologetically.
"That is, nae. She's not my wife. She's a . . coworker."
Her smile turns knowing and suggestive. "I see, sir."
Sean begins to correct her, but the saleswoman cuts him off.
"You really don't need to worry about it, sir. One thing we promise our customers is absolute privacy and anonymity. What you say or do or . . admit to," she says, gesturing to the large shelves of various leather products, "does not travel past these walls."
"But . . " says Sean, trailing off, seeing no reason to argue the point. Better to get done quickly, and get out of here.
"Yes, well, then could yeh please help me find th' items on this list? I seem ta be havin' a bit o' trouble." He hands the list to the woman, who casts over it with expert eyes.
"Yes, sir, this shouldn't be any problem at all," she says as she strides off.
Sean settles down to wait on a bench, trying unsuccessfully to ignore his surroundings. Straight ahead of him, a woman is measuring the size of-- blushing, again, Sean casts his gaze down. At the rug. What an imaginative design . . and position.
Sean looks around him in desperation. Leathers to the left, lacies to the right.
Sean once . . well . .
He's got to get out of here. Spotting the saleswoman near the appliances, Sean runs over and clears his throat.
"Ma'am . . is there a pub anywhere near? Where I could maybe . . wait?"
She smiles sympathetically. "There's a restaurant just across the street, sir. If you'd like, you can wait there and we'll send someone to you when we've finished collecting the list.
"Um, yes. Thank you."
"Of course, Mr . . Frost."
"Eh."* * *
It's a pleasant enough place. Bright and friendly, smelling of spice and light.
Sean once had the world's best club sandwich in a place just like this.
But Sean simply isn't in the mood for that just now. He huffs down into a table, and a waiter approaches him. "What can I get for you, sir?"
"A whiskey, thank you."
The waiter blinks. "Nothing to eat, sir?"
Sean thinks for a moment. "Alright, then. Make it two whiskeys."
Smiling wanely, the waiter suggests, "Um . . maybe, sir, you'd be more comfortable at the bar." He points to a dim corner. "Over there."
Sean eyes the waiter, and then the corner, and then the bright smiles around him.
"Aye. That I would."
He makes his way to the bar and takes a stool. The bartender looks up at him questioningly and Sean motions to the whiskey bottle. The ice clinks prettily as the glass slides across the counter to him. He takes a gulp and the whiskey goes down roughly.
A sex shop. Even here in the shadows, Sean's cheeks burn. He can imagine the fair laugh that Emma is most likely getting out of this. This'll teach him to do her a favor. The woman delibertaly sent him out here, knowing it would-- But that's not fair, really.
Emma and a couple of porn videos aren't enough to drive Sean to liquor in the dark.
For the last week, the dreams have haunted him. Five nights, and every one the same.
A rich pasture. Surrounded by flowers of every ilk and color, and-- beyond that, in the distance-- a structure of some kind, a castle.
It's a dream of passion. Something sweet and wild, desperate, with someone whose form he can't make out. The joining is new and strange, but the sense of completion
is something he wholly recognizes.
Afterwards, spent, he gazes down at his faceless lover. There, the forms coalesce and the fog lifts, and the form is *her* form and the face is *her* face and the field around them is barren and grey. The cold body in his arms looks up at him with hollow eye sockets and begins to laugh.
Five nights, and every one the same. Sean awakens in his bed screaming, her name on his lips.
"Another drink, please." The bartender complies.
Doesn't matter, he thinks. Push it away. Burn of poison in his mouth down to his gut, flitting up to the pathways of his mind and shorting out the circuits. Some irrepressible-- not for lack of trying-- part of himself summons memories of long ago, of some same bar and some same glass clutched in white-knuckled fingers.
Sean once found a life of crime (madness/self-destruction) in that bar, that night. Right after his wife. Died.
It's just a dream, a nightmare. A dream made harder to ignore by a co-headmaster who amuses herself by sending him into the sexually explicit lion's den with a porkchop and a list tied around his neck-- but just the twisting subconscious of a dethroned . . some . . whatever. Doesn't matter. What he needs, as he finishes the glass, is to just not think about it. He needs to forget about it. Move on.
"So what are you waiting for?"
Sean's head shoots up at the bartender's voice. "What?"
He smiles and nods at Sean's wrist. "You keep checking your watch, like you're waiting for something."
"Oh," Sean blinks. "Aye. I'm just bidin' time here fer a bit."
"Until . . ?"
"Until I leave," he says, shortly. He regrets his tone when the bartender's mouth tightens. No reason for someone else to pay for his moodiness, just for some harmless curiosity.
"I'm sorry," Sean says, smiling, "I've been out o' sorts today. I'm waitin' on some . . shoppin' . . t'be completed."
The bartender grins again. "Eh, yeah, we get a bunch of those in here. Which shop are you waiting on?"
"The . . bakery."
"Figlio's, on the corner?"
". . Aye."
"Well, no wonder you're not having anything to eat-- you're in for a treat." The bartender's voice is friendly, his smile is open and charming. He looks ready for a conversation. Sean looks down at his drink and sighs. "Have you ever bought from there before?"
"Nae."
"No? Are you from around here?"
"Nae originally, but I've been here fer a few years."
"Oh?"
"Aye. I teach at a boardin' school just outside of the city."
"What do you teach?"
Sean smiles ruefully. "Eh. Well, a wee bit o' everythin'."
"Everything? Like wh-"
"What about yeh?" Sean cuts in. "From around here?"
"No . . I moved here from Puerto Rico a few years ago to do my graduate work at Berkely."
"Yeh're a student?" Sean's voice is surprised. He takes a new look at the man behind the bar. Latino, mid- to late-twenties, healthy, dark skin, dark hair. Green eyes.
Sean once tended his uncle's bar while going to school in order to buy a color tv for the house.
"Yeah. Art and art history. I'm just working here until I can pay off my student loan. I volunteer down at the gallery. They've promised me a showing in the next few months."
"The gallery over on--"
"Excuse me, Mr. Frost." Sean spins in his seat at the unexpected voice behind him-- which belongs to a man, smiling politely, with a full shopping bag. A full sex shop shopping bag.
"Saints preserve," grumbles Sean, "I would've come'n gotten it myself."
"So you are Mr. Frost?"
Sean grimaces. "Whatever. How much do I owe yeh?"
"Oh, don't worry about that, sir. We'll put it on your usual tab."
From behind him, the bartender-- student, artist, Puerto Rican-- asks, "Usual tab? I thought you'd never-" He cranes his neck to see into the bag, and Sean jerks to cover it. Spilling, of course, several of the contents out onto the bar. Erotic soaps, lace garter.
The color of Sean's face matches the red label on the bottle of strawberry lubricant now displayed on the countertop.
The bartender cocks an eyebrow. "Bakery, eh?"
"Ech," Sean holds up his empty glass. "More."
The man refills his whiskey, grinning. After a few moments of silence, he asks, "Mr. Frost, right? Like the movie."
Sean shakes his head, grimacing. "Nae." He extends his hand. "Cassidy. Sean Cassidy." The bartender takes the offered hand and smiles lightly. "Emmanuel Escondrijo." Not a familiar name, but the way he says it makes Sean feel as though he's heard it before.
"Right, then-- you were tellin' me about--"
* * *
"Excusing me for saying, sir-- Sean-- but I don't think you're in any condition to drive."
"Ech. Nae, I s'pose no'."
"How far outside the city are you?"
"Y'mean now?"
"No, where you live. Your boarding school."
"Ah. Snow Valley."
"Damn. You're not going to get a taxi to take you that far." He looks out into the lighted city street, down at the pavement, and then up to Sean's face. "Listen. My apartment is only a block from here . . . you could stay there."
"Dinnae be ridiculous. I can find m'way home jus' fine. I'll fly."
"Um. Yeah. Well, just for tonight, let's stay down here on the ground and walk to my apartment."
"But I--"
"No, now, come on."
"I don't usually do this. I mean, if I took in every guy at the bar that wasn't fit to get home, I'd have to build on an extra bedroom so *I* would have some place to stay."
"Why did ye then? With me, I mean."
"I'm not sure. It . . " He smiles that shy smile again that looks like tenative delight. "It feels like I know you, somehow. Like I don't want to think about you out somewhere freezing your ass off."
"Well, that's kind o' yeh . . "
"Emmanuel."
"What?"
"Emmanuel. My name. You sounded like you were trying to remember my name. "
"I want to thank yeh for this, Mm."
He runs still in shock, looks sharply up at the other man, frozen with the name on his lips. Emmanuel looks at him questioningly.
"--Man. Manuel."
Sean once--
No. There is no once to go with this; there is no precedent. There is not.Sean's still features as he regards the painting are at greatest odds with the feverish race of the thoughts within. Because it's a picture of her.
It's just like the image from his dream-- *her* image, red hair spilling around milky white skin, the smallest pink smear of a smile. And no eyes. Where there should be green eyes, there is only white canvas. Of course. He looks up at Man, standing beside him with a shy half-smile, emerald gaze watching him for a reaction.
Of course. Sean knows where her eyes have gone.
Sean once found an eternity in those eyes.
"It's not finished yet," Man says, "obviously. I always paint the eyes last."
Sean shakes his head and whispers, "It's beautiful, Man. Just the way it is." Man's smile grows bright. "Thank you, Sean."
"Sean! You-! You ought to have called. The children were worried."
"Sorry about that, Emma. Got tied up'n somethin'."
Her mouth curves in a suggestive smile.
"Do tell."
"Woman . . ," Sean glares, "If ye didnae teach better Calculus than I do, I'd have yer hide."
"Hah! I'm sure you would. But you *did* get everything on the list, of course?"
"I did, witch. They put it on yer tab."
"Fabulous. I don't suppose you took the opportunity to . . sample the wares?"
"Ye dinnae teach Calculus *that* bloody well . . "
"Oh, you're no fun at all. Alright, what *were* you tied up with, then?"
He mutters vaguely, "Somebody needed my help." Which is true, in a sense, kind of.
She smirks. "Ah, heroic feats. You're getting a little old for that, aren't you, Sean? What was it this time-- toppling drug empires or rescuing kittens from trees?"
"Nae, nothin' like that," he says shortly. When he doesn't continue, Emma gestures impatiently.
"Well? What was it?"
"Just . . somebody who needed help gettin' home."
She raises an immaculatly arched eyebrow. "I see. And this getting home lasted all night?" Then her face spreads into a teasing smile. "Or was it what you and somebody did when you got there?"
All over again, Sean feels his face go hot. He brushes her off with a wave of his hand. "Enough. I have t'change clothes before classes-- I don't have time t'stand around and listen t'yer madness."
As he walks away, her teasing voice follows him. "Of course, Sean. Wouldn't want to expose the children to any telltale stains."
Sean is walking. Walking and walking and-- finally-- finding himself standing at the bottom of great stone steps that lead up to the Peditent gallery. Where Man works. Standing and staring up and feeling daft. But going in.
He enters the building through large glass doors and looks around the large empty lobby. What now?
"Alright," he mutters-- to whomever. Subconscious, divinity, psychosis, destiny. "I'm here. I'm here in th'place where he works, I've come. So if there's somethin' ye want me t'do, ye better--"
"Sean?"
Sean whips around at the familiar-- familiar-- voice to find the object of his thoughts leaning out of a doorway and looking pleasantly confused.
"What are you doing here?"
"Sean . . I was wondering if you . . might like to get some coffee with me." He spreads his hands in apology. "I, don't usually do this. "
"So, um." Sean's hand rests again the woodgrain of Man's apartment door. Man coughs and says, "Well."
His eyes raise suddenly, meeting Sean's. Green, green eyes-- so familiar, so known to him.
They begin to move inward at the same time, heads tilting in equal opposite degrees, lips parting at a perfect ratio-- as though this is a dance they have performed flawlessly a thousand times before, and when their mouths meet, it is the most natural thing in the world.
"You mustn't forget that you're currently living with two and a half telepaths, Sean. If you think you can keep this mystery woman a secret, you're--"
He can't help it. Really. This whole thing has shaken him up, weakened his shields. What flits to the surface of his mind at her chance words is there and unguarded, and Emma's jaw drops like a stone. Sean feels his stomach sink.
Her lips part and close several time before they begin to hint upward in what becomes a colossal Cheshire Cat grin. Sean steels himself.
"I . . don't . . believe it," she says slowly, for effect. "Sean Cassidy-- Sergeant Straightlace, Captain Vanilla, the Mr. Rogers of the mutant world-- is dating a *man*?"
"I-"
Emma cuts him off by raising her hand. "No, no, don't speak. Let me just soak this up for a minute."
Sean rolls his eyes. "Ye dinnae--"
"And here I thought you had just changed colognes, Sean, when, in fact . . " She looks impossibly delighted now. Sean glares pointedly at the floor, blushing, but looks up sharply when Emma gasps.
"Wait," she says, her eyes widening, "You . . you met him at the sex shop! Oh, god, Sean!" She is seized by a fit of laughter. "Oh, Sean, I've been so *wrong* about you. Imagine all the things we'll have to talk about now! All the accessories we can share!"
Sean bites his lip at that. "It's nae like that," he grinds out.
Wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, Emma quiets, but doesn't remove the teasing smile. "Oh, well, please do tell me what it *is* like, Sean. Tell Emma all about it."
Sean sighs. He doesn't want to talk about this-- least of all to Emma-- but she's right, there's no way to not talk about it, so he continues. "I didnae meet him at the sex shop. I met him at the restaurant across the street-- he's a bartender. And. Well, I had a wee bit t'drink . . "
"Ah, one of those . . " Emma nods understandingly. "Nothing wrong with that, as long as you--" She stops and her gaze becomes serious. "You *did* use protection, didn't you, Sean?"
"Nae, I-"
Emma stands up with a whoosh, almost upending her chair. "You didn't?! Are you insane?? You pick up some strange man in a bar and you--"
Sean cuts her off with a wave of his hand. "Emma, calm down! We've nae consummated anythin' yet."
"Oh." She settles back down into her chair, and her brow creases in confusion. "Then why did you . . ?"
Sean shrugs. "I was in no shape t'drive home, so he let me sleep on his couch."
"So you didn't . . ?" She seems disappointed.
"Nae."
"Yet."
"What?"
The teasing glint comes back into her eyes. "You said 'yet'. You haven't consummated anything yet. Implying that you *are* going to do so."
"Emma . . "
"You have a plan, don't you? A whole scenario worked out. Run it by me, I might be able to help."
"Emma, STOP IT! It's nae like that. It's not-- sexual."
"Not sexual? Oh, you *are* in denial. Tell me, Sean, what is it, if it's not sexual? Brotherly love? Or maybe it's gratitude-- if so, that must have been one comfortable damn couch. Or, perhaps--"
He still can't help it. It's there, in him, and he doesn't have the strength to hide from her right now. Her speech cuts off, her mouth opens again, as before-- but all hint of jest bleeds slowly from her face. She raises a hand to her shocked lips.
"You think that . . Oh. Oh, Sean, no . . " And then her hand is on his arm, pleading. He pulls away from her roughly.
"I've told ye countless times t'stay out o' my head, woman."
"Sean, listen to me," her voice is urgent. "Whoever this man is, you can't think . . that he's . . "
"Emma, I dinnae want t'hear about it. Yeh dinnae understand."
"I understand . . that you grieve over your dead wife, Sean."
"This is NAE about that."
"Maeve-- wasn't that her name?"
Sean rears back, the sound of the name in the open air burning him. "Ye're treadin' on dangerous ground, Emma . . "
"Yes, Maeve. Maeve was your wife, Sean, and you miss Maeve. And--
"Emma, stop it!"
"I understand that--"
"No--"
"Maeve was--"
"NO!! Ye dinnae understand a BLEEDIN' THING!! Ye couldnae possibly!! This is about somethin' *stronger* than death and grief! It's about miracles an' bein' given a second chance-- it's about LOVE . . . and yeh wouldn't know a goddamn thing about that!"
Her face goes blank, and her outstretched hand falls limply to her side. When she speaks, her voice is flat.
"Yes. Yes, you're right. I couldn't possibly understand anything about that. You go suck some cock, Sean."
And she strides out of the room, the door slamming silently shut behind her.
He shouldn't have said those things.
Emma was only trying to help.
It's bleeding cold up here.
These are the thoughts running through Sean's head as the chill wind and muffled starlight sift through the night sky. Along with
Maybe she's right.
and, of course,
Once, once, once.
He's up here because he deserves to be. After Emma left, Sean remained in the room until the lack of echoes that he thought ought to be there drove him from it. He came up here. To the cold, wet, lonely roof. Not to brood, he tells himself, as others come-- but because Emma deserves to have free run of the house and not run into him, and he is feeling much too unsteady to go out. So. He's sitting here.
"So."
The voice is short behind him, impatient. Sean sighs.
"Jubilee."
She lowers herself to the piece of shingle beside him and huffs. "Yeah, Sean, we know who I am and why I'm up here. Let's try you." Sean grins, in spite of himself.
"Run into Emma, didyeh?"
Jubilee snorts. "Ya could say that, yeah. More like stood still while she ran into me. Then ran past me. Whadja do this time?"
"This time? Are yeh insinuating that I do this all th'time?"
"Uhn-uh, Irish. Don't change the subject. Spill it."
Sean sighs again.
"There's nothing t'spill, I'm afraid, lass. I said something to Emma that I shouldn't ha' said."
"Such as?"
"I cannae really go into it, Jubilee."
"You called her a slut-puppy, didn't ya?"
Sean starts. "No! I wouldnae ever say such a--!" But Sean goes over his own earlier words in his mind.
You don't understand. You couldn't possibly. It's about LOVE.
"Aye, Jubilee. I suppose I did."
Her voice is calm and without judgment. "Why?"
"She said . . some things that I didnae want t'hear."
"Like?"
"Jubilee . . " Sean moves to rise, but Jubilee's solid tug on his arm draws him back down.
"Look, Sean, your best bet here was Emma, but ya already screwed that up. Your runner-up would probably be Paige, but considerin' the issue, that'd be more trouble than it's worth-- so if you want somebody to talk to about yer boyfriend, it's gonna hafta be me."
Sean runs very still. "How--? Did Emma . . ?"
Jubilee shrugs. "Nah, Frosty's not talkin' to anybody. But I'm a Dodger, y'know? I'm all over the place. I followed ya into town last Wednesday, saw you two walking together and go into a cafe."
"Jubilee . . that hardly means . . "
"Am I wrong?"
Sean answers listlessly, " . . No."
"Okay, then," Jubilee nods, satisfied. "So, like I said-- spill."
"Jubilee . . ye . . I . . "
She sighs. "Yer not gonna be any use, are ya? Gotta lead you everywhere. Okay, then . . for starts, what's his name?"
"His name?"
"Jeez, Sean."
Sean blinks. "I'm sorry, Jubilee, but this is a wee bit surreal."
She looks a little insulted. "Why?"
"Well, yeh're my student . . " he begins sheepishly.
"Yeah," she replies, "And you're straight. So, for right now, let's just be two people on a cold-ass roof. Except, I'll be a person with a term paper due tomorrow, and you be a person with a boyfriend."
The small Asian-faced girl regards Sean with a perfect look of indifference and determination-- an expression stolen direct from the face of her mentor.
Sean once lost two hundred dollars in a poker game against that expression.
He smiles. "Alright."
"Good. So what's his name?"
Sean grins shyly-- not so much because he himself is shy, but because it is an expression, a feeling, that he equates with his . . Jubilee called him his boyfriend.
"Saints preserve."
"His name is Saints Preserve?"
Sean laughs and shakes his head. "Nae. His name is Man."
Jubilee smirks. "'Man?' Jeez, when you do something, you do it all the way . . "
"It's," Sean ducks his head, embarassed, "It's short for Emmanuel."
Her smirk widens. "Ooh, a Latin lover . . "
Sean stiffens up at that. "Jubilee, I don't--"
"No, no," she shakes her head apologetically, "You're right. That's too much, sorry. Just . . tell me why Emma got upset-- what she said that made you say whatever you said."
Sighing, he looks into the sky for a moment. There is a calmness in and around him now that wasn't present before. Must have something to do with the stars.
"Jubilee, do ye know anything about my wife?"
Her brow wrinkles in confusion. "Yer . . ?" Then it lifts in suprise. "Oh. Yeah. Yeah, yer wife. She's . . yeah."
"Aye. She's dead."
Jubilee is careful to drain her voice of anything that sounds like sympathy. "Yeah."
The breeze dies down a little, rocking back and forth in the trees and chimney shoots.
"She died while I was away. There was. Well, yeh know the story." Jubilee nods.
"Well. There's also." There's no sharp breath or trailing off or any visible sign of pain in him as his breath dies, unfinished. Sean sits for a long moment, and then says, quietly, calmly, "I cannae talk about this, Jubilee."
The sounds between them are night sounds, and quiet breathing, and then Jubilee speaks in a voice matching Sean's.
"My parents died four years ago. Actually, it'll be five years in August. The 21st." Her mouth twists minutely. "At 4:30."
"I used to have this really long hair, see. Mom was all about long hair, she'd fuss over it for, like, hours. That whole one-hundred-strokes-a-night brushing thing-- she did that with me. Alot of times it was irritatin'-- y'know, I never wanted to sit still for that long-- but she'd talk to me, tell me stories, talk about her day, or sing, or whatever." She pauses for a moment, smiling slightly, and continues.
"When they died. I mean. I came home from the mall and there were policemen on the front porch, and they told me about the accident . . and through the whole thing, it was just kind of-- like I was still on my way home from the mall. Like that never ended, and the pavement and birdshit around my skates were permanently burned into my eyes, and I was always on that street, and if I could just get myself to take that left, there, and come around to the back of the house instead, then I would never meet up with the cops out front and my folks wouldn't be dead. And, y'know. For months."
Sean doesn't realize he's been holding his breath until it releases in a sound much harsher than he would've liked to hear. Jubilee doesn't seem to notice, staring distantly into the dark, mouth locked in a glare. He expects her to shake her head tightly and say, 'I can't talk about this, Sean'.
Instead, after a moment, she shrugs lightly.
"And, y'know, the hair . . I wouldn't let anybody touch it. Nobody was brushing my hair and singin' to me and telling me anything except my mom-- and there wasn't much of that. So, it got bad, y'know? Knotted and tangled and gross-- like I was this wild kid runnin' around. So. The state-care people, they cut it while I was asleep. I woke up, and, y'know, I hadn't had short hair since I was a baby . . and I cried. I mean, more than that-- I cried for a long, long time. And after that I was just kinda real quiet. It didn't bother me, from then on, to have my hair messed with. I mean, it did in that back-off-prissy way, but not in a . . you're-not-my-mom way."
She sighs, and then chuckles. "I forgot what point I was makin', Seanster." She glances at him sidelong. "But that's kinda it, right there. 'Snot always about making points. Sometimes it's just talking, just doin' what you're doin' right now-- and not livin' up to something or honoring somebody's memory. Just this or just that or just him."
Just him.
Through the whole thing . . that never ended . . burned into my eyes . . I was always . . if I could just get myself . . dead . . it got bad . . I mean, more than that. For a long, long time. Real quiet. Sometimes it's just . . somebody's memory.
Just him.
"So, y'know, Sean--" Jubilee's voice, still beside him. "If you wanna give me an extension on tomorrow's paper-- y'know, that would be really cool of you. Seein' as how."
Sean turns to Jubilee's hopeful face, smiles, pulls her close and presses a kiss against her cropped hair. "Aye, it would. But you know ye've had three weeks to work on that paper, an' not just tonight. Get inside now. That paper's due at noon."
Jubilee rolls her eyes, but ruffles Sean's hair affectionately. "Gah. Try'n help a guy out . . "
"Sean."
He looks up from his coffee, across the late-nite diner table, into green. "Mm?"
Man sighs and cocks his head. "Is something wrong? You've been kind of distracted all night." Shrugs and smiles. "Morning. Whatever."
"I'm sorry." Sean shakes his head-- stretches his hand across the distance, Man takes it. "I've been reading papers on the French Revolution all day. I'm all filled wi' guillotines an' dangling participles."
"Oh. Ow."
Sean grins. "Aye.""Let's try and get your mind off of that, then. They're showing Legend at the theatre on the corner . . " Man smiles, and Sean looks down at the table and says,
"There're some things we need to talk about."
Man's face pulls back a little and he frowns. "Okay."
"I have a." says Sean.
After a moment, Man says, "Hey."
Sean looks up, blinking into olive eyes. "Hey."