The Handshake
By Laura Schiller
Based on: A Long, Long Sleep
Copyright: Anna Sheehan
"Good evening, Otto," said Xavier Ronald Zellwegger, opening the apartment door and gesturing him inside.
Otto replied with a nod. The bouquet of red-and-white roses he was carrying made it somewhat awkward to squeeze through the door, and even more awkward to stand in the biscuit-colored hallway dripping rain over the floor.
"She's not ready yet," Xavier explained, with a brusque hand motion to what Otto assumed was Rose's bedroom. "She's picking her outfit. Said she'd be out in five minutes – which, knowing her, is more like half an hour."
Otto forced a smile. Of course Xavier had known Rose much longer than he had. Of course they both knew how anxious it still made her to be left to her own devices regarding fashion. A brief image of Rose in her underwear, whirling through her closet, flashed in his mind. He suppressed it sternly. The last thing Xavier needed was to see him blushing purple.
"Ah. Right. I'll go put these in water, shall I?"
Otto handed him the bouquet. He disappeared into the kitchen, came back carrying the flowers in a tall glass vase, and went into the living room to place them on the coffee table. Otto shuffled in after him, still not knowing what to say even if he were capable of human speech. He hardly knew this gruff, elderly man, and yet he had read his entire life story in Rose's mind. He knew how desperately Rose and Xavier had loved each other, how both their hearts had been broken by their separation; how long they had struggled to adjust to being guardian and protegée. And now here was Otto, blue-skinned, yellow-eyed and telepathic, coming to take Rose out on a date. No wonder Xavier found it hard to meet his eye.
"Good choice," said Xavier, touching a flower, his aged hands surprisingly gentle. "They suit her."
Otto nodded. Simple red, white, pink or yellow roses seemed too conventional for her, so he had chosen these: white at the tips, but crimson red in their hearts, like drops of blood on snow. Purity and passion; sweetness and rage. Just like Rose.
"You really care for her, don't you?"
Would I be here if I didin't? he wanted to snap, but biology and etiquette combined to silence him. Something in his eyes, however, must have hinted at his thoughts. Xavier cleared his throat and tucked his hands into the pockets of his tweed jacket.
"I suppose this is the part where I'm supposed to scare the living coit out of you," he rumbled. "When my kids started dating, that's exactly what I did. Being Guillory's second came in pretty handy. But no matter what it says in paper, Rose is certainly not my daughter. If I were to warn you about making her unhappy, well," he laughed dryly. "That would be pretty hypocritical of me, wouldn't it?"
Slowly, tentatively, Otto offered his hand – wanting to give the old gentleman some of the reassurance he seemed to need, but uncertain of his own ability to convey it, as his own feelings (love for Rose, white-hot anger on behalf of her suffering, sympathy for Xavier, embarrassment for the whole unnatural situation) were in serious disorder.
Xavier eyed the pale blue fingers for a long moment, then grasped them firmly. His hand was cool, dry, and brittle, every vein standing out in sharp relief. His bright green eyes met Otto's with grim determination.
If Rose's mind was a castle surrounded by a briar hedge, Xavier's mind was an attic: large, shadowy, and packed with decades' worth of memories. There was bright sunlight streaming out of windows, illuminating portraits, holoscreens, bookshelves and sofas, but there were many spaces where the light did not reach and the dust was thick enough to choke. There were wooden boxes open to show a clutter of curio, and other boxes nailed securely shut. Otto knew better than to stare too closely at any of them, much as he was tempted. He moved toward the brightest beam of light, which contained holograms of Rose: playing with her dog in the garden; holding Xavier in the light of a full moon; lit up by the glittering prism of her Young Master's Award; lying gaunt and pale in a hospital bed.
"We both know," thought Xavier, in a 'voice' even more dark and resonant than his physical one, "That love and pain are both more complicated than the stories make them sound. You and Rose might lose each other any time - " (Otto's heart protested, but he had to admit that the older man was right.) " – and both of you, and/or neither of you, might be to blame."
Some of the sealed boxes began to rattle, as if their contents strained to escape. Otto smelled remorse, sharp as formaldehyde, and heard the echo of human screams. Xavier silenced those thoughts by main force of will, bringing the full weight of his consciousness to bear upon Otto.
"You'll be good to her, won't you?"
Otto added his own array of images to the screen of Xavier's mind, letting him see the moment she had first asked Otto if they could belong to each other; their first touch; the briar hedge in all its fierce and fragile beauty; the moment they had faced the Plastine.
"I'd give my life for her, Sir."
"I know. You already have."
The idea of Rose shimmered between them like a rainbow, as did their emotions: love, admiration, sympathy and, ever so faintly, the bitter edge of jealousy toward each other.
"However, having said that," Xavier added.
Otto "heard" the click of a gun by his right ear: only a metaphor, of course, one which the old man had no intention of taking literally, but it still made Otto jump.
"If ever you deliberately hurt her, there will be hell to pay. Do you understand me?"
Otto pulled himself together, forming a reply as cool as steel.
"If ever I deliberately hurt her, I would deserve nothing less. With all due respect, Sir, it didn't take a threat to show me that."
"Good answer." The dim attic warmed and brightened, its shadows receding in Otto's wake. The gun vanished, Xavier's jealousy turning to respect.
"You're a strange young fellow all right, but your mind is sharp and your heart's in the right place. You've both suffered enough for anyone so young. Go on and be happy."
Xavier was smiling as he let go of Otto's hand.
"Hey, Otto!" chimed a feminine voice from the doorway. "I didn't hear you come in."
Otto's breath caught at the sight of Rose.
She wore a red dress, red as candy apples, which shimmered as she moved. It was modestly cut, as all her clothes were to hide the evidence of her stass fatigue, but in Otto's eyes, it did absolutely nothing to hide her beauty. Her light skin and golden hair glowed against the red.
"It's new," she said, blushing pink. "Um, what do you think?"
"Well – ahem – it's very nice," was Xavier's commentary. "Certainly not pastel."
"That's the idea." She smoothed her skirt with an anxious little laugh. "I just thought – well, I've worn enough pastels for a hundred years, so why not?"
Otto crossed the room, smiled at her with his eyes, and took her small, soft hand in his. "You look magnificent, Rose. Jacqueline Fitzroy wouldn't recognize you."
"She'd have a coronary," Rose replied. "Tell me I look 'cheap'. But I'm wearing it anyway, so there! Nice suit you're wearing, by the way."
"Better put on a jacket," Xavier interrupted them. "Or take your umbrella. It's raining out."
"Says the guy who used to spend all afternoon jumping into puddles," said Rose, rolling her eyes. "Of course I'll put on a jacket."
"Don't take that tone with me, young lady."
"Young? I've got twenty-two years on you, remember?"
The two old friends grinned at each other, breaking what little ice had been left in the room. Mind-reader or not, Otto doubted he would ever understand them; but with Rose touching his body, mind and soul, he also knew he did not need to.
"Have fun," Xavier told them sincerely, watching them leave the apartment hand in hand.