Mind Tripping
1
How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb
Downtime. Far from ideal, but sadly necessary.
And there's nothing quite like Dr. Strangelove to brighten up an impending apocalypse.
The movie starts playing on the next-to-antique TV set, flickering unevenly across the screen. The atmosphere is impeccable, at least.
Ted enters my room – I still have qualms about volunteering it for the occasion, but Parkman's apparently 'smells of fish… or something', and Ted's was rejected for obvious reasons - he stops to give the television a critical look. "Did you order this?" he inquires, a not-quite-subtle note of accusation underlining the words.
"It's a classic," I inform him.
He doesn't appear to be deeply humbled by that fact. "What next? Dawn of the Dead? Apocalypse Now?"
"We don't have time for that."
Actually, we don't exactly have time for this, either, but Parkman seemed to think a bit of bonding time would be a good way to spend the evening. I had better uses for my energy than arguing with him.
Speaking of Parkman, he comes in looking unusually energetic and carrying a six-pack of cheap beer and a bag of chips.
I reject the beer offer when it inevitably arrives – this is bad enough without alcohol.
"Designated driver."
"Sure," Parkman stretches the word out to produce a skeptical effect, withdrawing the beer and taking a seat.
Ted settles on the bed, removing his shoes and setting his sock-clad feet on the mattress.
I employ my most patient tone, "Ted-"
"What? You got a problem with my feet, Bennet?"
In the corner of my mind that still has an appreciation for the absurd – it's getting marginalized by the minute - I realize that this isn't a question you'd expect to hear from a man who'd caused a minor nuclear explosion in your house only a few days ago.
But, as a matter of fact, yes, I do have a bit of an issue with hygienically-challenged feet. Especially of the radioactive variety.
Before I get the chance to tell him that, Parkman gives me a quick look, frowns, then assumes his role as diplomatic attaché. "Uh, Ted, nothing personal, could you please just-"
Ted cuts him off, raising his hands, "Fine." He reaches for the discarded shoes. "Let's just watch the movie."
Crisis averted.
Impressive.
I wonder if Parkman has a special vocal frequency for speaking to perpetually-irritated radioactive people - like an advanced dog whistle. Might explain a thing or two.
Just watching the movie doesn't last long – not surprising, with Parkman in the mix.
It takes him a whole three minutes to launch a conversation. "So what's your name?"
"What?"
"People have more than just a last name," he says, uncharacteristically informative. "You know, usually."
"Interesting."
"Okay, let's try it this way - I'm Matt, this is Ted-" he gestures towards him, eliciting a properly dismayed headshake. I choose to ignore the pause he leaves for me to fill in. He doesn't seem keen on giving up, though. "And you are?"
I give the exact same response I gave my first grade teacher under startlingly similar circumstances.
"Bennet."
Ted snorts.
Parkman finally accepts defeat. "Great."
"Can we play musical chairs now?" Ted suggests cheerlessly.
Parkman sighs, "Sure."
This particular plan fails to come into action. What a let-down.
We surprisingly manage to get through a significant portion of the movie without any unusual disasters.
"So," Ted is the one to breach the comfort zone of silence this time, "Hana – she's pretty hot, right?"
"So are you, Ted," I reply for the sake of politeness.
He manages a harmonic combination of a sigh and a sniff.
"Come on, you've hung around with her for a while, right? Don't tell me you haven't thought about it?"
"I'm married."
"You're also a guy," he stops to consider the statement. "I think."
Parkman decides to step in and save the day again – right on time, too. "Well, yeah, she is. I mean, if you're into the whole," he pauses to come up with a suitable description ,"pissed off, blow-your-head-off-if-you-sneeze-the-wrong-way thing -" he stops – looks at Ted for a second, then makes a face which in Parkman-speak I believe translates into 'God, who am I talking to?'
Ted spends a moment in contemplative silence before speaking up again. "Think I have a chance… you know?"
I invoke my right to remain silent. It seems to be the least hazardous course of action.
Even Parkman seems to be having some trouble finding his way around that.
"Well," he begins, treading on a razor's edge, "there's the whole saving the world business, but after that," he shrugs, "sure, why not?"
"You're just saying that."
"No, no I'm not." Parkman is about as efficient a liar as Claire was at the age of three. "I mean, did you see that look she was giving you? There was definitely something there."
Ted doesn't look especially convinced. "I think she's more into Bennet." He has a way of saying my name and making it sound like a combination of an insult and a foreign life form. It's fascinating, really. "Go figure, huh?"
Parkman's gaze darts uncomfortably between me and Ted, and he finally gives a noncommittal, "Yeah."
Well, the maturity level in the room has definitely taken a considerable leap forward.
I'd suggest Truth or Dare, but that's probably not the best idea with a telepath and a radioactive man in the mix.
On the television screen, the cheerfully apocalyptic final montage begins to play. Ted stares at it in a nearly hypnotic trance.
"Right," he stands up abruptly. "That's it. I'm going to bed."
Well.
Maybe I should've let Parkman pick the movie.
2
Stress Relief
Ted leaves for his room – that's real nice of him, abandoning me like that.
Somehow, radioactivity doesn't seem nearly as dangerous as being left in the same room with Bennet. Two days is hardly enough time to get used to the guy – Hell, I'm not sure even two years would be enough.
But I did want to talk to him, and this is as good a chance as any, I guess.
Right now he just seems happy ignoring me while he tries to get the TV to turn off – it's putting up a good fight, forcing him to make the long walk to turn if off.
"So this Walker System-" I get up, put my hands in my pockets, "how does it work, exactly?"
He gives me a sideway glance, "I've already told you everything I know."
"You've told us…" I look for the best word and come up with, "nothing."
"Well, they haven't told me much, either. I'm middle management, remember?"
Great. He'll never let that go.
"If you're hiding something," I stop, recalling how useless threats tend to be on him. "It's just that - I don't wanna be surprised, that's all."
And surprises happen pretty damn often around him.
"You're going to have to trust me."
Trust – easy for him to say.
"Yeah, like I have a choice."
And just like that, the atmosphere in the room changes, temperature dropping into a dangerously arctic zone.
That was clearly the wrong thing to say.
"Of course you have a choice, Parkman," I sure have his undivided attention now, and I can't say that's such a good thing. It's like someone set him on fire, but the slow-burning, even more dangerous kind. No, actually – it's more like liquid nitrogen when I think about it – same fume effect, but with instant frostbite.
"You can go back to your wife right now, pretend everything is just fine," he pauses, and for an absurd moment, I wonder - does he practice those speeches of his, or do they just come naturally? Probably both. "You might get a few days, maybe even a few weeks - but soon enough, they'll get to you. And turn you into their little telepathic genuine pig. And after that, they'll take your baby-"
Son of a -
Blood rushes to my face, hands clenching into fists.
"Okay, that's enough."
"Is it?" He takes a step forward, leaning into his favorite intimidation spot – also known as my personal space, "Because I'm not sure it's getting through to you."
"No, I get it. You're not doing me a favor. I'm here because you need me."
"You're doing yourself a favor," he retorts coldly – that's a really mild word for it too - you could probably build an igloo city using the ice in his voice. "Do you have any idea what they'd do to you? To your family? Do you want details?"
That's it.
I've just about had it with this – with him.
I grab him by the shirt, pushing him back into the wall.
At least this is familiar, not the surreal rollercoaster of the last few days.
"Are you enjoying this?" I get in his space, see how he likes it. "Is that what it is? Some kind of-" I search his face, then try his head for an answer – get nothing – big surprise there, "sick game to you?"
This finally gets a human reaction out him – for a split second there, he actually looks hurt.
It doesn't last, and his response comes with his usual unnerving calm.
"Who do you think I am?"
Great, the million dollar question, just about.
"I have no idea, Bennet, I really don't." What an understatement. "You used to work for them. Abducting people, doing those – experiments. What kind of person does that?" I don't think, just keep going, "They didn't make you do it. It was your choice - your own personal playground."
I stop dead the moment I realize what I've just said.
I prepare myself for the backlash, expecting to get punched for this, or worse.
He just stares at me, blankly.
No words, no thoughts - nothing. Just… blank.
Shit.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-" be a complete and total asshole, for one, "just, it's been kinda rough, you know, the last couple of days, and I haven't talked to Jan in –" God, feels like forever now, "she must be worried sick, I don't know what she's thinking – probably thinks I got myself killed somehow, which isn't all that far from-" Okay, I'm rambling. "Look, I really didn't mean anything-"
Parkman.
"What?"
I only register the fact that he didn't say it out loud a few moments later. His head-voice is different, never noticed that before – cooler, more direct, more… focused.
Strange – it's usually the other way around.
But with Bennet – well, let's just say I wouldn't be surprised to find out he invented Opposite Day.
It's okay.
I glance up – the floor was looking pretty interesting these last few moments - catch the look he's giving me – disturbingly enough, it looks almost like concern.
I nod – that's really mostly just a way to keep my head moving, because it's somehow significantly harder to meet his eyes when he's like that than when he's being his usual cryptic, hardass self.
"Yeah."
You can let go of me now.
"Right." I take my hands off him, give an uncomfortable laugh. "Sorry."
It's probably a good time to reconnect with reality – it's getting kind of hot in here, and breathing has grown heavier, not just mine – it's like we've just ran a marathon or something - and we're really… close. Something weird and disorienting about the whole thing.
Claustrophobic, really – must be the hotel room, almost like in some Hitchcock movie, closing in –
Vertigo, that's the word.
Every bit of sense I have left is telling me to back away now, just go and get some sleep, before it gets even – stranger.
Seems like recently I haven't been all that great at listening to sense.
And speaking of listening…
"You're thinking in Japanese again."
"That's good to know."
I wish I could think in Japanese right about now – well actually, I wish I could think, period. Would be a nice change of pace.
This is getting too physical to allow a decent thought process.
I mean, there's close, and then there's this.
Looks like he's starting to acknowledge that, too.
"Parkman, do you really think this is a good-"
The last word melts into my head at the exact moment I lean in, tilt my head, close my eyes -
…idea
No. No I don't think it's a good idea.
But right now I don't have the mental energy to figure out just how bad an idea it is.
He barely responds at first – parts his lips a little a few moments later -
This is… not what I expected.
Don't know what I expected, exactly – something more… metallic, I guess. Like kissing the Terminator, maybe. Not that I've ever wanted to kiss the Terminator.
But this – this is almost normal.
Warm, salty, bit of sweat caught under his lip -
But none of the clutter my mind is happy to provide can disguise one nagging thought -
This isn't just some freak accident.
I've wanted to do this for some time now.
I open my eyes, pull my head back – we really shouldn't be doing this – whatever this is.
He just looks at me with that unsettling intensity – the kind that makes you feel a particularly tasty rodent under a hawk's inspection. A hawk in horn-rimmed glasses.
Jesus.
Maybe I should've thought this through a bit better.
"Um," I manage to stammer out. "That was-"
He raises an eyebrow.
Whatever I was about to say – not sure what that was – gets wiped out when he brings his hand to the back oh my head, pulls me closer –
And everything spins out of control.
Too late for regrets.
…Yeah.
So much for normal.
3
Mental
"You know, the whole point of mind-reading - isn't that you can order me around with your thoughts."
No?
My mistake.
He gives me a pointed glare.
I'm not ordering anything, just suggesting.
"Right. Same difference."
Not really-
"Okay, if all you're gonna do is nitpick-"
Actually, I have other things on my mind.
I run my fingers through his hair – not a very time consuming activity, all things considered - hook my leg over his -
He's being a tad on the frantic side - probably trying to think about this as little as possible – it's a noble effort, but it won't do him any good.
It just doesn't work like that.
Parkman, slow down, this isn't a race.
He does slow down – to the point of stopping, as a matter of fact.
"Look, I've done this before. I don't need a," he pauses, drawing an exasperated breath, "mental manual."
"This?"
I find that a bit hard to believe.
"Well – not this this – sex."
"I should hope so."
He stops just short of rolling his eyes, "Ha ha. Very funny."
This can go on for a while.
I pull him into a kiss – a rather effective method of conflict resolution.
"Wait –" he pulls away, apparently remembering something. He moves to take his ring off.
I close my hand over his wrist.
"Don't."
He furrows his brow, letting further agitation build up.
"Why not?"
I wish there was an easy answer. I give him the most straightforward one.
"You're still married."
"What, you think I don't know that?"
I turn my gaze to the ceiling – there are unspoken rules, he needs to realize that.
"It can be easy to forget."
Just trust me Parkman.
He sighs.
"Fine."
We get back on track, managing a few chat-free minutes before he interrupts again.
"You're thinking - way too much for sex."
"You're saying 'sex' way too much for sex."
"Okay, you know what," he raises his hands, "this isn't-"
I move my hand to the inside of his thigh. Casually move it upwards, brushing fingertips against skin.
"Isn't what, Parkman?"
"Uh," he gives a distracted headshake, "nothing."
Thought as much.
There're a lot of things this is - it's wrong, for one, that's fairly obvious - but the kind of wrong you can very easily grow accustomed to.
Especially here. Now.
It slips through the carefully drawn lines of morality, of normality – of reality, even.
That's not a justification. It's just how it is.
I shift weight so I'm on top of him, find a spot at the nape of his neck –
It's a lot of things – a release we've both needed for a long time, an itch – more of an ache, really - that demanded to be scratched… annoying. But not necessarily in a bad way.
The pace picks up and threads of thought become too senseless and jumbled for even the most expert telepath – no offense, but Parkman doesn't quite answer that description – to tread through.
It's a lot of things -
And we don't have the time or luxury to worry about what it isn't.
4
Open Mike Night
"You shot your partner."
I feel like slapping myself the moment I blurt out the words – been happening a lot recently.
I brace myself for his response - it arrives after a slight delay, but sharp as ever.
"Is that supposed to be pillow talk, Parkman?"
"Sorry. Just," I don't have an excuse, might as well just be direct about it, "you were thinking-"
"I know what I was thinking."
"Okay."
So much for that line of conversation, then. Or any line of conversation.
Note to self – try to shut up more often. Might do you some good.
The uncomfortable silence lasts a while – it's a default state with us, really.
Being comfortable around Bennet can't be a good sign, anyway.
"I thought-" he closes his eyes, taking a long breath before speaking again. "I thought I was doing the right thing."
There isn't much I can say to that – I know he's telling the truth, but somehow I doubt he needs me to confirm it.
And really, this is awkward enough without my help.
Instead, I spend a few moments watching him.
He looks different without the glasses – I try to figure out what it is, exactly.
Sort of like the Superman effect, but in reverse. The lines on his face are more pronounced, and he seems more tired, actually uncertain.
He's more like an actual person this way, instead of a long lost member of the Men in Black.
It's weird.
"You were right, it was my choice."
It takes me a second to make it past the me-being-right part – it's more than a little surprising, considering.
"Yeah, but you didn't know-"
"No," he cuts me off on a strangely soft, but still authoritative note, "I didn't. But that doesn't make it better." He gives a bitter half-smirk. "Does make me considerably more stupid, though."
"I-" I shake my head, "I think stupid is one of the last words I'd use to describe you, Bennet."
"Really." I notice a hint of a genuinely amused smile. "What words would you use?"
I take a moment to think about it.
"Scheming son of a bitch works alright. And smug bastard is an old favorite of mine."
I actually get a chuckle out of him – now there's an accomplishment.
"Those aren't bad," he admits.
"Yeah, I like them."
Another bout of silence arrives. I resist the instinctive urge to peek into his mind – seems more that just rude, at the moment.
"Is he dead?" I must've lost the recent mental note. "Your partner?"
"No," he frowns, his tone flat, factual. "I don't think so. But he was, for the last seven years."
Thanks to me.
It's a quiet thought, I barely make it out – can't be something too close to the surface. It's a contrast to his voice – rough around the edges, soaked with gloomy emotion - guilt.
God.
Does he even know it's there?
"If I could do things differently-" he drifts off, leaving the sentence hanging. "Doesn't matter. There's no point wasting energy on things we can't change." He pulls his shoulders in a lazy shrug, putting an ironic drawl into the words, "We don't always end up what we wanna be."
"Yeah, tell me about it."
He turns his head to me, raising an eyebrow.
"Why? What did you want to be?"
Great. Didn't really need the spotlight, but thanks.
"Well, you know, this isn't exactly what I pictured myself doing," that definitely includes having this… heart to heart, or whatever it is. "I don't know. Making detective, maybe. Being a somebody for a change." Some things just aren't meant to be, I guess. "Would've been nice, anyway."
He offers an impassive gaze.
"You're a good guy, Parkman," he says earnestly. "You don't need to be more than that."
…Okay then.
"You're being nice, Bennet," I break it to him as gently as I can. "That's kind of disturbing."
He studies me for a while, expression on the deadpan side, with only a slight upward tilt to his lips.
"Sorry," he sounds deeply apologetic. "Won't happen again."
5
Won't Get Fooled Again
Parkman, get your hand away from the radio.
He withdraws, giving me an offended look and muttering something under his breath. I'm pretty sure the words 'control' and 'freak' make cameo appearances.
"What was that?"
"Nothing."
Good.
I glance at the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of Ted practicing miniature explosions on the tips of his fingers.
"Ted, are you sure you should be doing that?"
I receive a sour look in return.
"I'm cold. And bored."
"And that's a reason to expose us all to a possibly deadly dose of radiation?"
"Yeah, it is."
Why did I even bother asking?
The road stretches ahead under the pretense of endlessness, dusty in a properly Western style.
Parkman speaks up, determined to ruin the idyllic nature of the moment.
"Does it start with a 'J'?"
"Excuse me?"
"Your name. Does it start with a 'J'?"
He's really desperate, isn't he?
There's something vaguely comforting in that knowledge.
"I don't think so."
"Don't think – what's that supposed to mean?"
"I mean what I say," I reply.
"But you don't say what you mean," the sentence completion arrives from the radioactively decaying backseat.
Nice to know we're on the same page.
Parkman isn't deterred in the least.
"Andrew?"
"No."
"Marvin?"
"No."
"Steven?"
"…No."
"I bet it's a hippie name. Something really embarrassing," he glances backwards, looking for confirmation from Ted. "Like Rainbow. Or River," he points his finger at me, "Big Black Rock."
At least he's being creative. Broadening his horizons. That's something.
"Well, that sounds more Native American, really."
"Rumpelstiltskin."
"That's the one."
He slumps in his seat.
Looks like the brainstorming session is over.
Too bad – I was just starting to enjoy it.
"So," he drums his fingers over the glove compartment – doubtlessly preparing another inane conversation attempt. "Who's your favorite superhero?"
Inane might've been too gentle a word.
"I don't know. I'm not really into the whole," I pause when I notice Parkman doing his amazingly unsubtle telepathy face – I really ought to teach him to stop being so obvious about it, "…comics thing."
I wait for it – doesn't take long.
"Professor X?" He gives a bark of intelligence-deprived laughter, "I can't believe it. That's your favorite superhero?"
I take an inward sigh.
Why did I bring him along again?
"You're a geek, Bennet. But hey, he's a telepath, right? That means –"
I'm not prepared to have this conversation.
"Who's yours?" I interrupt his doubtlessly fascinating speech.
"Easy. Catwoman." I suppress the sudden urge to push him out of the car. "Feline fatale."
Oh, please.
"You didn't ask which one looks best in latex."
"Definitely not Professor X," he retorts. "And actually, I like her for her personality."
"Obviously."
He looks over his shoulder, "How about you, Ted?"
"Jean Grey," he replies without much hesitation. His voice grows quieter for the next words, "I've always liked redheads."
After that, he turns to stare out of the window.
Melancholic silence spreads throughout the car interior.
I figure a bit of music can't hurt.
'-I'm in your head
Like the CIA or the FBI
You'll never get close, never take me ali-'
I switch stations abruptly.
"Oh, come on," Parkman protests – naturally. "You don't like Queen? Everybody likes Queen."
I have nothing against Queen, and everything against this particular song.
"I'm not sure your statistics are accurate."
"Is there any music you do like?"
"Yes."
'Ain't got no cash, ain't got no style Ain't got no gal to make you smile
Don't worry, be –'
I detect an orange glow reflecting in the mirror –
Right.
Switch.
'A Little Respect', 'Sex Bomb' and something that sounds like a chainsaw orchestra each get vetoed in turn.
'It's the final count-'
"No," this comes as a chorus. Glad we could agree on something.
I sigh and turn the radio off.
"This isn't going to work."
"There's a CD here," Parkman suggests, ever-helpful. "No label."
That means we have to trust in the taste of the unfortunate individual whose car we stole.
It's as good a bet as any.
I push it in.
'We'll be fighting in the streets With our children at our feet And the morals that they worship will be gone-'
That's a good song.
It becomes drastically worse when Parkman decides to sing along – quietly enough at first, and at least he has the decency to look suitably embarrassed by his own behavior, but as the tempo picks up, he gathers the courage to be more vocal about it.
"The change, it had to come, we knew it all along," he makes a guitar-playing motion and I don't know what to do except shake my head in disbelief.
It's a well known fact that stupidity is infectious – I think it's proportionally amplified when apocalyptic events are involved.
Okay.
What the hell.
"I'll tip my hat to the new constitution, take a bow for the new revolution," it's not as strange as I thought it would be.
And it doesn't even feel especially surreal when Ted pitches in –
"Pick up my guitar and play, just like yesterday, then I'll get on my knees and pray…"
We don't get fooled again.
The Company won't know what hit them.
6
A Farewell to Radioactive Men
He's different with Claire. Completely different.
Like all the bulletproof layers get peeled off, and it's just him.
Kinda amazing, really.
I look away when I realize I've been staring.
"So," Ted shifts from foot to foot. "Have a good time with Bennet. And, uh, try not to die."
That might not be so easy.
"You too, Ted. Take care of yourself."
He nods uncertainly.
"Been fun, Parkman." He raises his brow, mouth taking on a slightly crooked shape, "In a weird, messed up, not-really-fun kinda way."
That's… a pretty good description.
I let out a chuckle. At least it's a trip I won't be forgetting anytime soon. "Yeah."
"So…" He extends his hand, looking distinctly unsure about the whole thing. "Guess this is it, then."
I take his hand – no, that won't do, not after all the shit we've been through together - and pull him into a hug.
He doesn't explode.
That's good.
Instead, we exchange the traditional back pats – now with fifty percent more awkwardness.
I let go when I see Bennet approaching – he raises an amused eyebrow for a moment before going into action-mode.
"Alright. We need to go."
They shake hands, and Ted even lets Bennet give him a quick pat on the shoulder.
We've come a long way, haven't we?
We should've invented a secret group handshake or something. Would've been a good way to wrap this whole thing up.
"Good luck Ted," is the last thing I manage to say to him.
He gives his barely-a-smile.
"When have I ever had luck?"
And I realize I don't have an answer for him.
7
Morale Boost
Parkman looks a little nervous.
"This is it," I tell him. "Odds are, we won't make it out of there alive."
He gives me an acidic sideway glance.
"You shouldn't do pep talks. Doesn't play to your strengths."
"I'm just saying - we might not make it."
"Great. Thanks," he shakes his head dejectedly, "that really helps."
"My pleasure."
The quiet before the storm.
As far as clichés go, this one is pretty accurate.
Unless you're facing said storm with Matt Parkman by your side.
"You know," he begins, "if you weren't such a bastard I could," he seems to be battling the words, "probably like you."
Interesting.
I like you too, Parkman.
…I hope he didn't catch that.
"Let's go."
8
Fallout
God, what a headache.
Not just a headache – more of an everything-ache.
I try to make sense of the surroundings; it all seems like one big blur – is this Hell?
"Did you really think dying was a good idea?"
Well, Bennet's here, so the theory stands.
But it looks more like a hospital, I gotta admit.
I turn my head – ow – to see him seated in a chair by the bed, with his usual calmer-than-a-rock expression.
His arm is in a sling, but that's not much of a comfort considering my whole upper body feels like it should be in one.
"Yeah. It had its appeal."
"I see."
I was worried, Parkman.
Oh – oh man.
I can't believe I just heard that.
For a guy who's stuck in a hospital bed after what must've been an encounter with a giant paper shredder – I bet Primatech manufactures those - I gotta say I'm feeling pretty damn good.
"You were worried?"
He frowns. "I didn't say that."
"You were thinking it."
"I think your ability is malfunctioning."
"Yeah," I decide to let him save some of his dignity, "that's gotta be it."
"So - that was good work in there." Okay, so now he's just talking to cover up for his slipup – really, I can tell. Been there, done that. "With the porn."
"…With the porn," I repeat numbly.
"The security guard," he elaborates. "Did you read that or –"
"Just a lucky guess," I interrupt him. "Well, not that lucky, really. I mean, nature of man, right?"
"Well, actually, I did have a similar problem once, with this magazine-"
Okay. This is starting to get a little scary.
"I'm not sure I'm comfortable discussing porn with you, Bennet."
"That's too bad," his tone is the exact opposite of 'too bad'. It's almost cheerful.
Son of a bitch.
He did that on purpose. I know he did.
"I called Janice," he restarts the conversation.
"What-" I try to prop myself up on my elbows, but end up sinking further into the mattress. "What did you tell her?"
"That you're a stubborn idiot." Yeah, great - she knows that already. "And a hero," he adds as an afterthought.
"Really?"
"Really."
I hope I'm not blushing or anything.
"Uh, thanks."
God, I'm really an idiot, I haven't even asked him -
"Your family-"
"They're alright," he smiles – a normal smile, not the smug bastard one.
"Good. And the dog –" can't forget the dog – I suddenly remember the grotesque amount of dog pictures in his house. "Mr." it was a really weird name, what was it… "Uh-"
"Mr. Muggles is just fine."
Who the hell would name a dog Mr. Muggles, anyway?
What am I thinking? It's Bennet.
"That's a relief."
"Well, Sandra is the dog person, I'm not much of a-"
I catch a stray thought.
"Who used to call you a puppy?"
He blinks.
"What?"
"Was it your partner?"
He just glares at me, mouth slightly open – almost ready to catch flies.
Oh, gotcha.
This is shaping up to be the best day I've had in a long time now.
"Partners are hell," I throw him a sympathetic bone. Not sure if that's the sort of lingo he'd appreciate at the moment, though.
He regards me coolly.
"Tell me about it."
I'll have plenty more chances to rub it in, so I just leave it at that.
There's one other thing…
"Ted," I begin – well, it's not a sentence that needs completing, really.
He lowers his gaze.
"Yeah."
There's nothing else to say.
9
Loose Ends
As far as strange and unusual adventures go, this one's always had a very limited timeframe.
And it's about to expire.
It's different now - less hurried, less distracted - it's real. Painted with our strange breed of understanding, with shared experience and loss.
There are no more excuses, no extenuating circumstances – it's just what it is.
And that's alright.
Sharing a bed with Parkman means one more thing - sleep isn't much of an option.
"So what do you want to do?" he asks, gaze directed at the ceiling.
That's a very general question.
"When I grow up?"
"Yeah," he gives a single chuckle. "I mean - what now? Back to… 'just a paper salesman'?"
"I've always liked that job description," it has just the right classic ring to it. "But I'm not sure the Thompson incident would look good on my resume."
"That could be a problem," he admits.
"I haven't been unemployed in," I pause to do the math, collect recollections, "fifteen years."
"You get used to it," he assures with a bashful half-smile, half-smirk. "And I'm sure you'll find something."
"Yeah, I think I will." Even more likely, something will find me. "How about you?"
"Uh, I don't know. Another part-time job, I guess – one with less window tossing would be good." He draws an impressively long breath, "Gotta prepare for the baby."
"Believe me, Parkman, that's not the sort of thing you can prepare for."
His face takes on a visage of mild alarm.
"It'll be fine," I append, "just try not to panic."
I don't think that's helping much, but he'll get over it.
It takes him a couple of minutes to regain his relentless chattiness. "Maybe we could team up again," he suggests, "someday."
Bennet and Parkman Crime Fighting Duo.
"Yeah," he catches it without much effort, "– could be Parkman and Bennet, you know - sounds better that way."
Sure it does.
"Maybe," I've heard worse ideas, at any rate, "but I think your wife needs you a little more right now."
He nods.
And while we're on the subject…
I can live with a lot of things. But he needs his clear distinctions – his blacks and whites.
Grayscale doesn't suit him.
It'd change him, not for the better, and that's one thing I don't need on my conscience.
"Matt," I begin slowly, and he turns to me, startled by the first name basis, "we can't do this any–"
"I know," he cuts me off.
"Good."
That went smoother than I expected.
He keeps his gaze on me, forming a frown.
"You know - you're a good guy too, Bennet."
That's a nice sentiment, but very naïve.
I close my eyes -
Gunfire and blood and a disturbingly sanitary smell – I tune it all out. I've had enough practice at it.
"No, Parkman," I reach for a smile – not sure if I'm quite getting there, "I'm not."
I'm comfortable with morally gray.
10
Leaving on a Jet Plane
The airport is crowded, almost suffocating – I don't mind, feels nice, actually.
The sticky smell of sweat and a mixture of bad colognes and worse perfumes -
Well, it stinks, but it's familiar. Ordinary.
Normal.
Now there's a word that's been missing from my life lately.
"So what's it like?" It's a stupid question, but it needs asking, "Having kids?"
"A bit like having an electric drill applied directly to your brain," he answers without hesitation, lips tugging into a half-smile. "But it's worth it."
"Sounds good."
We stop by the gate.
No handshakes. No radioactive hugs.
This isn't goodbye - not really.
"Well. We'll always have," I try to think of a suitable location-
"The Burnt Toast Diner," he helps out.
Not sure if it has the right ring to it, but it works.
"Right, that."
"I'm sure we'll cross paths again," he says with absolute confidence, "probably sooner rather than later."
Somehow, I don't doubt that at all.
This whole… destiny thing has been pretty relentless lately, and I don't think it'll be giving us a break anytime soon.
Still, I could really use a vacation.
And maybe a slice of normality, too.
But first -
"You know, if we have a son, we could name him after-"
"I'm not telling you my name, Parkman."
Well, it was worth a shot.
We barely have any time left, and the real questions start surfacing, tugging some unpleasant emotions into the mix.
Doesn't feel right, looking to him for answers – but it's not like I have much of a choice.
"What do I do? Lie to her?"
"You don't have to lie," he pauses, apparently calculating his next words, "but you should at least try to make the truth sounds a bit better."
Yeah, that's a great piece of advice.
I think he notices my skepticism, because his expression grows simultaneously sterner and more sympathetic, and he takes a step closer, putting his hand on my shoulder.
"You love her. That's all that matters." It's his most direct tone - carries the kind of conviction you just can't argue with. "The rest," he removes his hand, gesturing indistinctly before letting it drop, "you deal with it."
"Just like that."
"Just like that," he repeats in a tranquil drawl.
"That's a very," what's the term I'm looking for here… "liberal viewpoint."
"It's called being realistic, Parkman," he corrects, though I'm not exactly sold on his definition of 'realistic'. "You should try it."
He turns to leave, not waiting for my answer.
"And what?" I call after him. "Forget this ever happened?"
I realize that I'm raising my voice in the middle of a crowded area and promptly shut up.
I'm not sure if he's even planning to respond, but then he stops for a moment, looking back over his shoulder – smiles.
His thought is carried calmly and steadily across the distance, via good old Smug-Express.
Good luck with that.
Oh -
Son of a bitch.