Author's Note: some elements have been changed from canonical tradition. For example, Lucas Wolenczak graduated from Stanford with an M.S. in Artificial Intelligence, as well as a subject concentration in physics/mathematics. Why? Don't ask . . . you don't want to know the convoluted logic behind that idea! :) Some dates may appear suspiciously outside canon.
This is a "pre-seaQuest" story.
Copyright 1999 by SheriAnn
Away from Monsters
Part Five
Boredom was killing him.
He sat staring at the screen, wishing his mind would focus.
However, as usual, it wouldn't.
With an annoyed sigh, he looked over his program . . . and looked over it, and looked over it, and looked over it. Computer programming. With a mental snort, he wondered what on earth (or in hell, for that matter) could have possessed him to pursue computer programming. He knew he was good, but sometimes he truly wondered of his sanity.
Of course, Lucas had been wondering for quite some time now. If he'd been, say, a journalist, a businessman, or a police officer, he wouldn't routinely be expected to invent ingenious theories, create new and exciting devices, solve the unsolvable, hack into the supposedly unhackable, stop the latest seaQuest crisis, and calculate mass data: all before lunch.
It didn't help, either, that Bridger hovered at his side nearly twenty-hours a day now. If Lucas as much as frowned, even for one mini-second, Nathan went nearly insane. All because of two little slits in his wrists . . .
With yet another sigh, Lucas continued to stare at his screen. Perhaps if he turned his computer upside down and backwards, the programming code might inspire his otherwise dead brain into a blaze of curiosity.
But, then again, perhaps not.
Lucas stared at the numbers, the symbols swaggering before him. He'd stared at these very numbers before. In theory, artificial intelligence was a terrifyingly exciting field; in theory, though, the power of stars could also be harnessed and time travel was simple. Ha, ha. And he'd come so damnably close, too, to perfecting a vocorder system. His last test session had ran almost flawlessly, without error. Almost: however, Darwin's chirps and clicks had translated as complete gibberish. It'd been a lot of fun when Darwin's hoots blared across the speakers as "love enemy, hug starlight, swim fish, eat rock."
That'd been fun. He'd been on the receiving end of at least a score of "friendly" jokes for over two weeks, many of them involving involuntary baths of fish and dinner trays loaded with rocks. Being fifteen was hell on earth when surrounded by adults on a daily basis, but it became a truly hideous existence—an existential hell without reprieve—when the "adults" were less mature than he was.
At least they'd, rather sensibly, achieved a degree of diplomacy over his latest . . . mistake. He glanced at his wrists; his long sleeves carefully hid the heavy bandaging. He didn't think it fooled the crew, but it was better than having his wrists gawked at.
Speaking of gawking . . . after Lucas had at last escaped to his quarters, Captain Bridger refused to leave him alone. The man seemed quite happy to take up permanent residence in Lucas's quarters, even moving (this still shocked Lucas) several of his computer components and gadgets out of his room! Why on earth had the captain hauled away his equipment; did he think Lucas was going to blow himself up or something? Lucas had already flat-out denied—and rather energetically, he thought—that he'd try to kill himself again. He saw how stupid he'd been. But the captain still insisted on disappearing with over half his computer equipment. It was annoying: did no one believe him?
And who could guess where the captain had moved his stuff? The science lab? No, of course not: that would make too much sense. Lucas could, God forbid, actually use it if the captain left it there. The electronics room? No, again. Where Bridger had moved his stuff simply made no sense; it was preposterous. Mysteriously, Bridger had stashed five full boxes of Lucas's equipment in his own quarters: his own private, very neat, very polished captain's quarters! This worried Lucas considerably. Quite obviously, the captain was up to something . . . and Lucas always worried when the captain was up to something.
The mysterious transferal of his computer loot aside, not much had happened since his escape from medbay: not much, that is, except the continual spying. Bridger harassed him with his presence every ten minutes or so. Even "Brash Ben," his best friend and presumably his ally against the rest of the spying crew, shadowed Lucas's every movement . . . or, more accurately, stalked, since Ben wasn't particularly graceful. Katie, trying to be inconspicuous about her spying activities, lurked around Lucas's quarters, constantly "observing" the aquatubes in the hall or the metal grates in the floor. Lucas was tempted to tell her not to quit her day job to become a spy. She was worse than Ben; all she needed to complete the picture was a trenchcoat and dark sunglasses.
On top of all that, a horrible malaise had descended upon Lucas; he didn't want to do a single thing for a single person, including his himself. Lucas had yet to steal back his equipment; instead, he'd merely sat staring fixedly at his computer screen, pondering computers, physics, oceanography, dolphins, women, captains, and anything else that happened to drift into his mind. The thought of someone (namely one Captain Bridger) messing with his treasured hoard of tools and whatchamajigs sent chills through his very spine. However, the thought of carting several loads of tools and whatchamajigs all the way from the captain's quarters to his own made his head spin. His knees still wobbled with weakness, his breath still gasped painfully from his lungs, and his head—yow, the worst!—still throbbed in tune to some invisible miscreant's hammering upon his skull. Now wasn't the best time for lugging boxes around.
Finally, after a moment of last-ditch concentration, Lucas decided he was hungry: no, starving. And he certainly wasn't getting anywhere on his vocorder project. So, with a sigh, Lucas tromped out of his room and to the Mess. Maybe some food would put his mind in order . . . or at least keep him from falling face forward on his desk in exhaustion.
*****
Thirty minutes later, Lucas sat in the noisy Mess wryly reflecting that, perhaps, coming to the Mess hadn't been the greatest of ideas after all. As usual, the food was dehydrated and tasteless: not too surprising considering how long it'd probably sat on the seaQuest's shelves. He suspected their food supplies would outlive humanity itself. Making a face, he even pushed his slice of double-double-chocolate fudge cake away. Today, it tasted like freeze-dried cardboard covered with powdered and processed icing.
But there was a better reason Lucas wished he'd remained safely hidden in his quarters. Everyone was staring at him. They watched him like hawks! Lord, they were terrible. If he so much as looked at his knife, he was immediately endangered with mass hysteria. He knew they were worried; he even appreciated the concern, but this was ridiculous! Lucas swore that if he even sneezed wrong, every crewmember within a half-mile radius would swarm around him like a plague of locusts.
So, with a sigh, Lucas rose from his comfortable chair, watching the many pairs of eyes watching him, and marched out of the Mess.
Lucas headed back to his quarters.
What he saw there sent him reeling.
All of his treasured possessions—his ancient computer discs, his computer chips, his scopes, his wires, his slides, his cables, his vials, even his books—were completely gone. Vanished. And this was after Bridger had already swiped several boxes worth of his stuff! In their place was Captain Bridger, who sat on Lucas's rumpled mess of a bed with a completely comfortable smile on his face. Staring at Bridger's impish smile, Lucas sourly reflected that at least the captain hadn't walked off with the bed clothing.
Slowly, Lucas walked into his cramped quarters, glancing at his bare desk, his bare cabinets, his bare bookshelves. What was going on here? His nerves tingling anxiously, Lucas wondered—not for the first time that day, and certainly not for the last (or so Lucas suspected)—what devious plot was twinkling in Bridger's equally devious mind.
"Well, I was wondering when you'd be back," Bridger began in a suspiciously happy, cheerful voice, one which stretched Lucas's already strained nerves further. "Things have changed in your quarters. You can actually see the floor now."
Glancing at the floor, Lucas decided that the captain did have a point. Right now, he could probably reach his bunk to strangle Bridger with relative ease. "Sir . . ."
The infuriating grin widened. "I suppose you're wondering why I'm here." The captain crossed his arms, leaning back in Lucas's bunk as if it were his own.
Smug, Lucas thought with a snort. Smug as a Cheshire Cat. "Yeah . . . and why all my stuff isn't . . ."
"You know, Lucas, if you cleaned a little now and then, you would've saved me at least an hour or two . . ."
With a grunt, Lucas stomped over to his bunk and crashed down beside the captain with a loud thump. He sighed. "All right, sir, what's all this about?" Drawing his legs up to his chest and circling them gingerly with his bandaged wrists, he tucked his chin between his knees. He gave Bridger his best dirty look. "You're up to something . . . and I have a bad feeling I'm not going to like it one bit."
"Me? Up to something? You have a lot of room to talk, Mr. Bandages-Around-the-Wrists," Bridger said with a snort. Seeing Lucas's expression darken, Bridger carefully patted Lucas's knee. "Sorry, that was uncalled for, Lucas. I didn't mean it."
After a moment of silence, Lucas finally rolled his eyes and asked, "So? What's up?"
As if this were the very question Bridger had been waiting to hear his whole life, the captain grinned. He clapped a hand to Lucas's knee, thumping the lad's poor kneecap like he was made of granite instead of bruised and aching flesh. Lucas winced. "What's up? I'll tell you what's up. You're going to move for awhile."
Silence: intense, startling silence. Hearing these words—the one word "move" sending chills of panic through his heart—Lucas felt every drop of blood drain from his face. Wide blue eyes staring at Bridger, Lucas wondered if, dear God above, he'd been wrong to trust his captain. He'd somehow believed the man when he told him he'd never, never send him home, send him away from the seaQuest. Had he been so disastrously wrong?
He swallowed hard. This wasn't happening. It wasn't.
Bridger suddenly seemed to realize his mistake, for he grabbed Lucas's trembling hands and shook his own head, almost violently. He forced the boy to look at him. "No, Lucas," Nathan began, his own hands trembling. "I'm not sending you away. I'm sorry. That was probably the worst way I could've said that to you."
As Lucas stared at him, blue eyes frightened, terrified, Nathan again shook his head. "I always seem to hurt you, Lucas, with what I say; I'm so sorry for this because I never, never mean to. What I meant to say was this: you're going to move from your own quarters to mine for awhile. We'll be roommates. You're not moving off the seaQuest, Lucas, just in with me."
A moment later, color very slowly returned to Lucas's whitened cheeks. The trembling stopped. He just looked confused. "With you, sir? What do you mean?"
"You'll be staying with me for a little, that's all." Bridger shrugged his shoulders as if this were the simplest statement in the world.
Lucas bit at a fingernail, eyeing it suspiciously. He finally asked, "But why?"
Bridger inhaled deeply. "Because I want to keep an eye on you." Bridger leaned forward as Lucas's frown deepened. "You've just been through hell—in fact, you've been through hell for a long time—and I don't want to see you hurt yourself again. I don't want you alone, especially at night, when I know you have nightmares."
He paused, curious to see if Lucas would acknowledge his nightmares. Nathan knew for a fact that Lucas had them; he'd heard, several times as he passed by late at night on his way to or from the bridge, a soft cry coming from behind Lucas's door. When this happened, he'd always checked in on the young man, never completely waking him, but always carefully shaking him enough to disrupt the nightmares. And this well before he'd even known of Lucas's . . . father.
Lucas flinched at the word "nightmares," looking at Bridger sharply; he swallowed hard, seeing only kindness and intense compassion in those eyes. Slowly, he asked, "How'd you know? About—them—I mean?"
Bridger placed a comforting arm around Lucas's shoulders, then smiled gently. "I've heard you a few times, Lucas—not actually screaming, but hurting: usually a cry or moan of pain." He saw Lucas's eyes widen, somewhat frightened at this revelation. Carefully, he tightened his embrace. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, kiddo. After what I now know, I'm surprised you weren't screaming your lungs out. I would've been."
Bridger could feel Lucas's muscles slowly relax, and he smiled inwardly as Lucas quietly laid his head upon his shoulder. Lucas then said softly, startling Bridger with his openness, "In my nightmares, captain, I can never . . . escape. He—he's always there; even the good dreams become twisted by his . . . presence. I run, and run, and run . . . but he's always, always there." Lucas ran an absent hand along his throat, over a tiny, almost invisible scar. Without question, Bridger knew where the scar came from: the tracheotomy. He tightened his hug, gently taking Lucas's hand into his own. The teen's fingers trembled ever so slightly. "Even here, on the seaQuest, I always feel he's here. Just outside of my vision. This . . . this fear that he'll somehow wind up on the seaQuest—ends up in my dreams."
Nathan asked, "Do you always see him here now? Since you've been on the seaQuest?"
After a moment, Lucas shook his head. "No. Some of my nightmares are set back at home. I try to run, but he surprises me, like he did most of the time. But the dreams when he's here, on the seaQuest . . ." Lucas shuddered. "When I see him here, it's as if he invades my—my safety zone. Those are the worst dreams. He hurts the people I care for, usually because they're trying to help me, and then—then he strangles me."
Lucas paused, inhaling sharply; he then glanced at Bridger, who was staring at him in open shock. With a tired, strained attempt at a smile, Lucas shrugged his tense shoulders. "They're never pleasant dreams. But seeing him on this ship, when I feel safe—at least from him if not from natural disasters and enemy ships . . . I usually wake up terrified from those dreams."
After a long exhalation of charged, furious breath, Bridger nodded, gently squeezing Lucas against him. Lord, if he ever saw Lucas's "father" . . . God help him, but Bridger thought he'd kill the man . . . the monster. Any monster that could hurt any child—any monster that could produce these types of nightmares in a fifteen year-old boy—deserved to be hand-fed to a python. He then looked at Lucas, thinking him the bravest young man he'd ever met. Officers of the UEO encountered enemies and often fought for their lives . . . but Lucas, a child, had been fighting, both awake and asleep, for years now.
"Lucas, damn . . . I wish I could take these nightmares away. I wish I could just erase all memory of them. I wish I could make it so they never, never came back." Bridger sighed in anguish. "But . . . I can't. I feel helpless because I can't do any of this. I can only take you into my arms when they strike; I can only share the pain with you, if you'll let me. But I can never remove them . . . and I wish to heaven I could."
He paused. "That's why I'm moving you in with me, Lucas: so I can help you when you need it. So I can help you when you hurt."
"But, sir," Lucas paused uncertainly, unsure what his objections were in the first place. He then realized what the main problem was in Bridger's plan: "Sir, you can't be there for me always. You can't watch over me forever, twenty-four hours a day. And you shouldn't have to. It's not right: not to you, not to this ship, not to this crew. You can't hold everyone's hand. You're the captain, sir! And the captain shouldn't be forced into sharing his quarters with a bratty crewmember just because that crewmember has—has bad dreams! Or . . ." Lucas's voice trailed off, and he refused to look at the captain. "Or because that crew member is stupid enough to try to kill himself."
Bridger was silent a moment, trying both to counter Lucas's argument and to understand why he argued over this at all. Did Lucas truly not want to stay with him? Or was it something else, something he—being forty-nine years old—couldn't even begin to comprehend? "Lucas," he began slowly, carefully, knowing all too well that Lucas was tremendously sensitive to each word spoken. "Lucas, what you did was not stupid."
Bridger stopped short, seeing Lucas stare at him with those wide blue eyes; no, condoning attempted suicide wasn't wise either. "No, what I mean to say, in my halting way, is this: what you did was stupid, but you weren't stupid for doing it. You acted out of pain, out of a nightmarish hell. That isn't idiocy, but the act of someone trying desperately to relieve the pain, no matter what. The act itself—trying to take your own life to ease the pain—wasn't wise, but pain sometimes forces us to act in ways we normally wouldn't."
Bridger sighed heavily, smiling slightly. He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, if any of that made sense to you, I'm amazed. I have no idea what I just said."
He saw a shy smile cross Lucas's face, and he, too, smiled. "Well, Lucas, as to your being another crewmember—a 'bratty' one at that, as I recall your exact wording—you are an essential part of this crew. There can be no doubt that this crew would likely blow itself up or something if you didn't help us through our computer problems and scientific conundrums. You're a central crewmember to this ship. The seaQuest would hurt without you.
"However," he paused, carefully enunciating each syllable of the word. "However, you're more than a simple crew member. I know you avoid this issue like the plague, Lucas, but you are still fifteen; you're by no means the norm for this crew."
He looked at Lucas; Lucas looked at him.
Suddenly, the captain grinned. He pointed at Lucas's computer, one of the few pieces of "equipment" still sitting in the boy's room. The Hyper-Reality Gloves were still nestled against the computer, wires dangling everywhere. "You see, Lucas, no other crew member on the seaQuest has a set of those gloves to battle dragons with. When a rescue mission is in progress, unless your skills are crucial, we never send you. You're not ready for that type of exercise. You, Lucas, are fifteen; that, outside of your IQ, sets you apart from the rest of the crew. That means that you have a different set of codes to operate on. It doesn't mean, as I know you know, that you 'get away with things.' It simply means that you're a minor; as a minor, we must be more lenient. We also must protect you more: from enemies, from things you're not ready to deal with, from danger, and—when possible—from pain.
"And that protection, Lucas," Bridger paused, leaning towards Lucas and squeezing one hand carefully, "that protection extends to my taking you into my quarters when you're suffering very bad nightmares. It extends to my watching over you after you've tried to take your own life. It extends to my sitting here with someone I care for very much when he needs me. Even when he doesn't realize how much he needs help."
Bridger glanced at Lucas's wrists, then said gently, "Lucas, I'll always be here if and when you need me. But now—now, you need me more than you understand. You are very frightened, very confused by what's just happened. Lord knows I would be. Don't fight me; I want to help you, and this is the only way I know I can help you. This is the only way I'll know you're okay. This is the only way I'll know you're not hammered by nightmares. You've been alone in this too long; let me help. Please."
Bridger paused, glancing away; he sensed Lucas watching him, could almost feel the question rising to the surface in the boy's mind. So, slowly, Nathan answered the unspoken why? His voice was soft, reminiscent, as he studied his weathered hands. "We haven't ever talked about this, but I think perhaps we should've a long time ago. I just . . . didn't know how to talk to you about it." Nathan sighed heavily, looking at Lucas and seeing nothing but openness in his eyes. He smiled, patting Lucas's knee lightly, careful this time not to tap too hard.
Nathan inhaled deeply, then plunged right into what he felt to be very turbulent territory. "Lucas, Robert was listed MIA when he was only a few years older than yourself. Right after that, I promised . . ." Nathan paused, inhaling deeply as he searched for the right words. "I promised Carol I'd stay out of the military. I even quit designing the seaQuest. That's when we moved to the island. And then . . . well, you know this. Carol caught a fever, and then she was gone before we could even get anyone in to look at her.
"I know you've probably heard this from Kristin, but I think you should hear it from me." There was a moment of silence. Bridger stared at his hands. "This was a few years ago, Lucas, but those years seem like a lifetime. When they died, it was like . . . something in me died. Like something went up in flames beside them.
"And it did, in a way. I—" For a moment, Nathan seemed to struggle for words. Finally, he said, "I turned to something I'd never used: alcohol. However, thankfully, I soon discovered that nothing short of a hangover could be found in a bottle. I tried other amusements. I even tried to draft a few new specs for the seaQuest. I guess I wanted to keep my mind off what was lost in the past by focusing on what could be gained in the future. That didn't help, though; even the design work was useless for me at the time, so I stopped doing it before long. The problem was simple: I wasn't working with human beings. I was isolated. I worked on my little island, but I never actually spoke with another human being. I'd look outside from my window, and I'd see . . . emptiness."
In pain, Nathan looked at Lucas's pale face, at his concerned eyes. He then felt Lucas squeeze his hand, providing for him the comfort that Nathan was supposed to be giving Lucas. He chuckled softly, inwardly; it was ironic, but that often seemed to be how their relationship went. Nathan would enter Lucas's quarters, planning to cheer him up or offer emotional support on the latest vocorder disaster, and he'd find himself being cheered up or supported by Lucas.
"The emptiness I was seeing was what I'd become: an empty shell of a person. An empty person incapable of helping himself, much less others. The great, grand Captain Bridger had deteriorated into nothingness. If I were still on that island, Lucas," he continued softly, eyes looking into the past, "I'd probably be dead now. Or as close to dead as one can be who still breathes."
Slowly, hesitantly, Lucas asked, "You defined your life by them, didn't you, sir? By Robert and Carol, I mean. And by your job as captain. These things, taken as a whole, gave your life meaning, perhaps?"
Surprised, Nathan stared at Lucas, then shook his head. How long had it taken Nathan to figure that one out? Years? Nathan nodded, smiling slightly as he ruffled Lucas's hair. "You understand it perfectly. I did define myself through them—and through my job." He met Lucas's eyes painfully. "I thought I could be the perfect husband, father, and captain all bundled in one. I thought I could do everything."
He paused, eyes now watching nothing as they stared at the aquatubes: stared into a past he did not like to contemplate. Finally, he continued, "Lucas, I was a complete idiot. I never gave any of them the time they needed; I just kind of sprawled my time over who got to me first and left it at that."
Nathan sighed, running a distracted hand through his hair. "I didn't give Carol the time she deserved—I'd sit and read the newspaper and look over my notes for work when we were out for dinner. I'd get up early on shore leave so I could see my friends. I rarely took her to the theater." Nathan looked over at Lucas, catching his eyes quickly. "I blew it with her. When you get a girl, kiddo, don't do what I did. Make her your first priority, not your job. Never let yourself fall into the habit of making your family just that: an old habit, something you expect always to be there."
He paused, then, slowly, began what was most difficult for him to discuss: Robert. "My son and I—Lord, we never should've existed in the same family. We couldn't talk for thirty minutes without arguing. Usually, it was over stupid things: homework, girls, the laundry . . . whatever. He hated everything I loved. He hated the sciences and engineering. He hated poetry and philosophy. He hated oceanography and drama. I think he joined the military because he couldn't think of anything else to do."
Nathan inhaled deeply. "What made me go practically insane after their deaths was this: I not only cheated Carol of a husband who was at least spiritually present when he was physically present, but I also cheated my son of a father. I never knew my son, Lucas . . . and not knowing my son left a permanent hole in me. I never spent time with my own son. I took it for granted that he'd outlive me, that he'd always be there when I had the time for him. When he wasn't, when he was gone before I could blink my eyes, it nearly destroyed me.
"Losing them both forced me to look around myself. To really, truly see where I was: to see who I was. I stayed hidden on a deserted island because of what I saw; I saw nothing; I saw emptiness; I saw someone who had no friends, no connections, no possibilities for a future. What I saw, when I truly looked at myself, scared the hell out of me. I was a zero, a cipher."
He looked at Lucas, wondering what he would see there; if he'd expected contempt or anger, though, it wasn't there. Lucas's eyes were wide, concerned, pained. The concern he saw in Lucas's eyes pushed Nathan onward. "I was still a mess when Bill Noyce dropped in on my island. We argued, we discussed, we argued some more . . . the long and short of it is that I finally gave in to Bill's proposal. I decided to visit the seaQuest. My ship. I figured it would be a quickly in, quickly out tour. I was wrong."
A small smile flickered at the corners of the captain's mouth. "Noyce, of course, tricked me. I ended up staying on my 'tour' for about four days. Most dangerously, I also met some real human beings." Nathan paused, again looking at Lucas. He refused to let the teen look away. "But, of course, I also met someone who basically tore my heart right out of my chest and twisted it. That, if you haven't yet guessed, was you, Lucas." Lucas looked completely surprised, brows arching slightly as he outright stared at Bridger.
Nathan laughed, lightly pinching Lucas's arm. "Lord, I remember the first time I met you; you were, if you'll pardon me, as bratty a conceited genius as I could imagine, thoroughly fenced in by barbed-wire emotional barriers no one could cross. I respected your abilities with no reservations, but I didn't know how to take you; you were an absolute mystery to me . . . and the rest of the crew, as I soon discovered.
"But I started to think of your age . . . and the very nasty fact that you'd obviously been dumped on this submarine by your parents. Then Stark came along, and we had to fight to keep the boat afloat. I spent a great deal of time working with you on the computers and scientific equipment as we tried patching one theory together after another. Your barriers somewhat dropped, Lucas, as we spent time together."
Nathan was silent a moment, inhaling deeply. "Lucas, you were one of the main reasons I decided to stay on the seaQuest. I saw someone who wasn't understood at all by a crew that I didn't think would have the time or patience to understand him; I saw that a military life could actually harm you if some degree of friendship wasn't included. Frankly, Lucas, I saw someone who was hurting so badly inside that he barricaded himself behind barriers on top of barriers to protect himself. I also saw a brilliant mind being asked to invent and compute too quickly.
"Lucas, I saw someone who needed and wanted help, but didn't know how to ask for it. And I—for the first time in many years—wanted to give that help. Lucas . . . you made me human again. You touched me the way no one had been able to. In some ways, Lucas, you're closer to me than Robert was. I loved him dearly, but we never understood each other. I never could've told him what I just told you.
"But, Lucas, I want it--I need--it to be both ways. You need to feel comfortable talking to me; you need to know that I'm always here for you. Always. Even if you just need a sounding board for a new program, come talk to me.
"I can't completely take away the pain, kiddo, but I may be able to ease it. Just let me. You healed the pain in my heart, Lucas. Let me do the same for you." He watched as Lucas studied him carefully, his young eyes watching Nathan's every expression, every move; then, slowly, Lucas smiled.
Nathan returned the smile, again ruffling Lucas's hair for what must have been the fourth time that day. He then asked slowly, careful not to push too quickly, "So, I need a translator, kiddo. That little smile you just gave me . . . does it mean, 'Lord, what a fool?' Or does it mean, 'Maybe I can give the old geezer a chance,' or does it mean something entirely different?"
Suddenly, Lucas grinned. "What? You expect a translation? Aren't teenagers supposed to be impossible to talk to?" Hearing Bridger growl, Lucas relented. He gave Nathan an encouraging smile as he carefully stood up and stretched. "It means several things, actually, captain. It means, first and foremost," he paused, looking directly at Nathan, shyly meeting his gaze, "that I'm grateful you shared your past with me. I—I know the memories were painful, sir. Thank you. It means a lot to me, sir."
He looked away quickly, then, his mood suddenly changing as he looked at his bare walls, he again grinned. He looked back at Nathan. "Second, I guess it means I'll come barge in on your space for awhile . . . though I'm not certain you know just what you're getting into on that one. I make a lousy roommate, especially since my room's about as close to personified chaos as it gets.
"Third . . ." Lucas positively grinned evilly at this, a wicked gleam in his eyes. Nathan groaned inwardly at this look; Krieg would've been proud of the boy. "There is, of course, the matter of music . . . I was wondering if you'd mind my bringing a few discs?"
Oh, great . . . now his teenage spirit kicks in! Nathan could see it now: walking into his quarters after a bridge shift and finding Lucas blasting his music, probably in tune to an imaginary guitar. "No, of course not . . . as long as I get to see a few of the titles first." Maybe he could just veto anything that didn't read Beethoven or Chopin.
Lucas smiled, sitting quietly in his desk chair, legs straddling the sides and chin propped on the headrest. He picked at a loose string on the chair, somewhat pensive. Finally, after a moment of silence, he met Nathan's eyes. He bit his lower lip, then, with evident difficulty, stumbling over several words, each syllable seeming to be dragged from his lips, he said, "I—I will try to . . . tell you when things start to . . . bother me." He sighed, miserable; after a second's contemplation, he started over, "I will try, sir, but it won't be easy. Understand that it's not you . . . it's me. I haven't been able to speak of . . . things . . . for a very long time."
He again paused, unable to put into words what he meant by "things": broken bones, pain, misery, fear, anguish. He reconsidered momentarily, then said, "No, actually, I've never been able to talk of . . . things . . . to anyone. It's hard to do so, sir. Very hard." He looked away, then, suddenly frightened, looked back up at Nathan. "Sir . . . I can't even talk about . . . what I mean! I go around . . . things . . . in circles . . ."
Nathan smiled slightly, shaking his head. "No, don't worry over it. You don't need to. Neither of us can expect the pain to go away in a week's time." He looked at the distraught features, at the pained eyes. "You've already told me a great deal. And Lucas, I know, Lord I know, it's difficult for you to talk about. You've told me there are 'things' you can't talk about. You've told me there's pain. We've started, and well, too."
He tapped Lucas's shoulder. "We can't force it; we can't push it to the point where you're frightened. The only schedule here is you. You know when you're ready to talk about something, and you know when you're not. I just need to learn to recognize the signs, too. The last thing I mean to do is scare you so much that I put you right back in medbay. Do you understand me, Lucas? Don't push this; when you are ready to, talk to me, but not before."
Slowly, Lucas nodded. This was something he wasn't used to: someone understanding not only his pain, his hesitation, but also his need for time. If they could make it work, if they could talk about "things" when he was ready to talk about them, then perhaps . . . perhaps he would be able to bury the monsters. To put away the monsters forever.
He hoped so.