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Acknowledgements: Thank you so much, Julia V, for comments, suggestions and corrections. May cyber goodies rain down upon you for many generations!
"What's the matter, Eeyore?"
"Nothing, Christopher Robin. Nothing important. I suppose you haven't seen a house or a what not anywhere about?"
"What sort of house?"
"Just a house."
"Who lives there?"
"I do. At least I thought I did. But I suppose I don’t. After all, we can't all have houses."
The House at Pooh Corner; A. A. Milne
Thick cigarette smoke is choking the artificial light, diffusing it, casting darker shadows in already murky corners, making it hard to see. The music is loud, thumping; a primitive beat that calls to some ancient genetic code deep within. A good thing, this recognition of the inner primitive man, since the sounds crossing your lips aren't distinguishable as words so much as grunts.
Being understood doesn't matter anyway; the bartender can't hear over the blaring music. All you need to know is that he will turn to you soon, you will nod and a glass of single malt scotch, neat -- make that a double, thank you -- will suddenly appear. As if to prove a point this magic happens like clockwork and drink nine, or is it ten -- possibly eleven -- is set in front of you.
The driving need to place yourself outside the realm of his reality, before you did something crazy -- like maybe telling him how you really felt about him -- is what chased you out of Denver. And what prompted you to loan yourself out on this mind-numbing undercover job. So it's him you have to thank for finding yourself in this unfamiliar city, with its unfamiliar faces. The fact that there is an actual case is secondary. There is no concern for the case, or anything else. You care only about the scotch.
In the past four hours this bar, with this bar stool and accommodating bartender -- keep the liquor flowing, Joe -- have become your best friends and now, damn but you are drunk. As goals go, it's not a bad one; drink, get drunk, fall down and forget. The order in which these things happen doesn't matter, as long as they do.
You've been pissed before -- that's the English boarding school coming out; why the English would use a word associated with the baser needs of man for falling down drunk, you can't remember -- but you can't ever remember being this drunk without being passed out. Which is fine considering you can't remember much of anything right now, so maybe you have been this drunk and still stood. Somehow you doubt it.
You've forgotten how to talk, forgotten how to walk...which would be a hell of sight if you tried, considering you can't even stand.
Your own name has become a distant memory, time is a lost concept and you have no clue as to where this lovely bar is located, or how you got here. There should be pride in meeting most of your drunken goals. Instead, there is only emptiness, because no matter how hard you've been trying, you can't forget what brought you to this particular juncture.
This specific performance, of the ongoing danse macabre that is your life, started as a frisson of fear, a subtle unsettling of feeling. Some elusive something that kept your mind going back to your partner. It solidified into a gut wrenching ache the moment the phone rang. The way your hand shook when you picked up the receiver three weeks ago, should have clued you in. And when the doctor asked for you by name, you fate was sealed. The nightmare followed.
You know there will be no forgetting the look on his face when he told you -- in his oh-so-calm way -- how the case went wrong and how there was now the threat of deadly repercussions. He was so scared, sitting on that exam table, yet when you moved to comfort him, he pushed you away and turned to Chris Larabee. And you now know there is no way you will ever forget the anger rushing through your veins at his dismissal. Or how bitter the betrayal felt-
Right buddy, who the hell do you think you are kidding? You still feel his betrayal, burning another hole in your soul.
And so, while everybody around you is rushing around, trying to keep a hold on some piece of mind, here you sit, pissing drunk, remembering the one thing you want to forget.
Him.
Pathetic.
~ 7 ~ < : > ~ < : > ~ 7 ~ You once had dreams, now they're obsessions. Your hopes became needs, tangible things that you are now too scared, or too stupid, to do anything about. You like to believe that you're where you want to be, and who you want to be, and doing what you always said you would, and yet you know it's not true. If you are any of those things, it's because of him. Only him.
Without him by your side, without his belief in you, you are nothing.
The inner argument begins again, with the same old lines you've said to yourself a million times. You have no right to feel this way... It's not like you owe him more...
Just because he was the first to reach out...the first to show he cared...the first to make you believe...the first to break through you defenses...the first to make you see that what he offered was true and good...
Yeah, and he proved it, extremely well this time, by pulling away from your touch. Then *that* thought whispers again. You know, the one that just won't go away, always the same desperate question.
Did he, your partner...your so-called best friend, actually consent to having sex with a psychotic suspect?
The insidious voice in your head, the one that you have been diligently trying to drown, sneers at your use of language, because that's not really what you want to know, you God-damned wuss.
Did he FUCK Mr. Insane Serial Killer Cyrus Poplar?
Yep, that's what you REALLY want to know.
Did he cry out in abandon when that sick bastard pounded him with his cock? Did Poplar make him come before he and his goons beat the shit out of him? Or did they beat the shit out of him while he came...?
No, that's not the right one either...
Tears that always seem to be close to surface these days, well up again. It isn't about sex, not that you wouldn't like to have sex with him, you would, immensely. But sex is only the tip of the iceberg. What you really want to know is WHY?
Why is Chris -- the fucking boss no less! -- more appealing than you? What about the relationship the two of you were supposed to have going? All the nights of words and caresses taunt you now, laughing at your misery.
'Lets take it slow, Ez.'
'We have all the time in the world, Ez.'
'This is the first thing I've done right, Ez. I want it to be perfect with us.'Why...why...why... Oh fuck, how pathetic, but WHY did you believe his explanations for fending off your advances? Why didn't you see the con? How could you believe? When did you become such a fool?
Questions twirl and tumble, circling like a wheel gone crazy. Who needs a dream? Who needs ambition? You give it all up in a second, if only -
If only what? If only he would agree to be by your side forever? If only you could stop concealing, not only love, but all other feelings. Your intentions were noble. But trying to take comfort from good intentions has left you lonely, bitter and drunk.
~ 7 ~ < : > ~ < : > ~ 7 ~ The Bar Keep walks by, snagging your attention, just in time to keep you from becoming suicidal, as you get completely caught up in your maudlin thoughts. Barely remembering your impossible goal for the evening, you nod and put your hand out, waiting to catch the next drink.
Nothing happens.
Sitting in a confused haze, you nod at the man behind the bar again and he shakes his head slowly. Something is definitely wrong. There should be a glass in your hand and there isn't.
It doesn't register how stupid you must look, to be staring at your hand so expectantly. But the little gnome that lives in your brain knows. He files the scene away, knowing he will be able to pull it out at random and throw it at you, leaving you confused, while at the same time filling you with a red hot shame. You'll once again curse the so-called gift of a photographic memory. It has never mixed well with alcohol.
In the midst of soul puking, a questioning voice manages to cut through the pounding music, somehow registering in your brain. Sultry -- undeniably familiar -- getting closer and closer. And you just know someone is headed your way.
Being sociable is not an option at this point. Even if you wanted to, you don't remember how, so you put a scowl on your face. Hopefully it's the ugly one that usually keeps people away.
"Nice try, but you're too young to look like that." A voice, soft, husky, wonderful is right next to your ear, so close that you can actually feel the speaker's breath and smell the mint of his gum. "Sister Mary Benedictine, my third grade teacher, used to give us that look, and she had to have been at least sixty."
Turning your head toward the voice is a rotten error of judgment.
The room fills with a kaleidoscope of bright chaotic lights and pain shoots through your head, causing nausea to clench at your stomach. And there's absolutely nothing you can do when your body starts to slide from the stool. Closing your eyes, and praying that everything will stop spinning when you hit the ground is your only hope of salvation.
Hands reach around your chest and steady you, managing to keep you upright. Well, semi upright anyway. Words are being spoken to you, and you grunt to show you at least heard, even if you don't quite understand. But you don't open your eyes, because in the dark, the world soon slows to only slightly tilting.
It's misleading though, this tease of balance, making you feel it's safe to open your tired lids.
For most of your life blue has always just been plain ordinary blue. Now after the fortuitous meeting of a certain agent, one who has become a permanent presence in your life, blue has taken on a new meaning, especially a one-of-a-kind vibrant electric blue. It now means peace and comfort, excitement and anticipation; it means him.
Or it would mean him in normal circumstances, but right now it just means your drunker than you thought. So you do what anyone would in your position, blink and rub your offending orbs.
Only to find that blinking does nothing to clear up what you're sure has got to an alcohol-induced hallucination, because what you're seeing couldn't be possible.
You know for a fact that the particular unique shade of eye color in front of you belongs only to your unforgettable partner. The same partner who basically told you to take a flying leap three weeks ago, which of course brought on feelings of worthlessness, hence bringing on your visit to this...well, to where ever it is you are...which led to your sitting here, trying to forget him-
Going down this road again is not a good thing. You shut your eyes once more with a groan and lay your head down on the bar top.
"Vin?" The word is out of your mouth before you can stop it.
"In the flesh."
Without a doubt you want to open your eyes again, just to prove to yourself that what you thought you saw and heard couldn't be possible. But fear stops you.
And then suddenly you remember the bartender.
"You think you could flag him down?" At least that's what you hope you are saying, as you point in the general direction the bartender had been.
"No, I think you've had enough for the evening. I've got a car out front."
The answer proves that you've managed to make the consonants and vowels merge correctly, it's just not the answer you were looking for.
You'd like to say more; protest against the question you heard in his voice, grumble about the unfairness of life, but it's obvious from the rush of air that the speaker has left your side, not interested in what would have come out of your mouth.
Which is a relief of sorts.
It means he wasn't really here at all.
But if that's a relief, why does the thought fill you with pain?
The dark universe behind your closed eyes spins again and suddenly the idea of leaving this place is more than appealing. Deciding to rest your head -- the scratched and grooved oak wood of the bar feels cool against your forehead -- while waiting to gather the energy to move, sounds like such a good idea, you do it. Getting your head back up might prove to be a problem, but you'll worry about that later.
Better yet, you'll worry about all of it tomorrow.
Or you would, but you'd only be fooling yourself. You know it's really all just a lesson in futility, because honestly, tomorrow won't be any different than today. Drunk or sober, you'll still feel the same sense of uselessness.
You'll still be the same scared boy, trying to love a man who could never love you back.
The sounds around you start to dim, which in light of how drunk you are, could only spell one thing. Not a moment too soon, the voice -- his voice -- is back, penetrating your brain.
"I've got you, Ez. I won't let go. You're not gonna remember this later, but I'll never let you go again. And I'll remind you, for as long as it takes."
Arms lift and hold you with undeniable strength, just as consciousness takes its last bow, and even though you know you should fight against it, you think maybe, just maybe, it might be all right. Because honestly, it doesn't matter how hopeless it all feels right now.
You wouldn't want to be anywhere else.
~end~