Semblance of Eden 20 ~ Unforgiven
It's almost dawn by the time I stumble back to Legato's room. I feel like shit, and I must look almost as bad. There are deep shadows cut under my eyes, and my skin feels loose around my skull.
I haven't even gotten a chance to clean the blood off. It's everywhere; it's even in my hair.
Though he takes him a long time to come when I knock, I can tell when I see him standing there in the doorway that it's not because he was asleep.
"Marlowe's dead," I say. My voice sounds like the world's quietest chainsaw.
"I know," he replies. And what I can't figure out is why his doesn't sound much better. It's dark in his room; all the lights are out, and the shutters are pulled tight as if in anticipation of the sunrise that is to come. "I suppose you'll be glad to have your room back."
My mouth comes open, as if to speak. But I don't know what I want to say, and so I just moan softly. It's like the sound most everyone makes before they topple over from sunstroke. I'm going to faint, I think. And that would almost make it better. At least then, I wouldn't be standing here in the hallway, staring at him like some kind of lovesick idiot, with him barring the way to the only place I want to be right now.
In the end, he doesn't make me say anything. It must be some grievous oversight, or part of a horrible sadistic game he's playing. But he's actually stepping aside so I can come in. He's closing the door behind us and turning the key in the lock.
And I'm just standing there in the middle of the room with my back to him, and my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth like a piece of rotten meat.
"How long has it been?" I say finally. "Hours, I guess. It took him that long just to finally die. Nick went out to get some morphine, but after all the shooting, no one would open up. So I gave the kid what was left of my laudanum, and then we just cleaned out the bar and fed him whiskey when he wasn't screaming and eventually he passed out. And then it was over. So I came here to tell you."
"I was aware."
"I guess so." I don't move to leave. All I can think, is that I don't want to leave him. But something must be wrong, something must be haywire in my head, because when those words go through my mind the emphasis is all wrong. Like he's the one who's alone right now.
"He is not pleased," Legato says at last.
When he talks like that, there's only one person he could mean.
"He already knows?"
"He knows many things. Even from far away, he sees many things."
"What's he going to do?"
"Nothing, to you. It is I who has displeased him. He doesn't expect any better from you."
I wonder if Marlowe is still the topic of conversation here. I wonder if Legato's voice really did tremble a little just then, or if it was only my imagination.
I turn around slow, taking little shuffling steps like when you're trying to get closed to a skittish dog. Maybe the light's a little different from this angle, because I can see now how exhausted his eyes are, how he's bent over a little at the waist like he's in pain. Are there bruises there on his ribs, maybe? Did Knives somehow reach out, across all those miles, all those untold vistas of sand and stars, just to hurt him? To seize him by those thoughts they always share, and shake him like a doll?
While we were downstairs, trying to get Marlowe to hurry up and give up the ghost, was he up here throwing himself around his shitty rented room? And though his lips never moved, did his eyes plead for mercy from an attacker who wasn't even there to see?
I don't want to think about it. But I do. And when I see him like that, even if it is just in my imagination, it's like I'm suddenly standing outside it all. Like I'm looking down impartially on him and on all of us.
We don't know how ridiculous we look from way up there.
That's why I start to laugh. Just staring at him across the dark room, my shoulders shaking with laughter. He doesn't say anything, but the corners of his lips slump, as if he's too tired to keep them up anymore. He's giving me this awful look, like I just sucker punched him and stole his wallet.
I don't think I want to watch this.
I wrap my arms around his waist, and he flinches as if my body's made of fire, or ice. At first, I think he's going to pull away, and I wonder if I'm brave enough to hold on to him. His muscles are all wound tight against me, and his heart is hammering in his chest. I lean my forehead against his shoulder and I can feel his pulse going a million miles an hour. For some reason, that calms me down.
"You don't like to be touched," I say. I don't know exactly when I stopped laughing, but I feel very serious now. Very grave, indeed.
"Neither do you."
"I guess you're right," I have to admit. "Not like this."
He exhales in a long, shuddering sigh, and tilts his head back a little so his chin rests on my hair. His hands settle on my hips. And I think, how easy it would be for him to clasp them at the small of my back. How easy it would be for him to push me away.
"You saved my life earlier," I say. "I completely forgot until now. Do you want me to thank you? Or should we forget it ever happened?"
"Neither, for the moment."
My ear must be in just the right place. I can feel his voice vibrating in his throat like the purr of a cat. I try to hold very still. I try not to move at all.
"You could have done it quicker," I tell him quietly. "You didn't have to make him suffer. He was just a man doing his job."
"That's not what you were thinking when he had his gun pointed at you."
"Did you do it for me?" I whisper. I close my eyes. Maybe because it makes that easier to believe. Maybe just because I feel kind of comfortable here.
He doesn't answer.
"I'm glad, if you did. I can't die now, Legato. There are still things I want to do. Not a lot, I guess. But some."
"Of course you do," he says, and he extracts himself from my arms. I let him go, because I think it'll be good enough to know he was there, even if it was just for a moment.
But I'm regretting it already.
"We should be safe here for a little while longer," I say. I'm not telling Legato, or anyone in particular. I'm just kind of laying it all out for myself to see. "He won't send another squad after us so soon. He's too smart for that. But you can bet he's already got some pros going over the combat data, and he's going to have a better strategy next time."
"Who are you talking about?"
"We should get some rest now, while we still can. He's not going to let us draw him out into the open. We'll have to go in after him, but if we do it soon he might not have all the holes boarded up yet."
"He sounds like a man of means," Legato says quietly. When I look toward him, he's already turned away from me. "A man of many talents."
I turn away, too. And I fling my coat to the floor and unbuckle my gunbelts and put them on the table next to the bed. I drop down, and I pull off my boots, but I'm too tired for the rest. Even the blood that's all over my jeans doesn't bother me much anymore. It's entirely dry now. I lay down, facing the wall, and I listen to him move around the room behind me. The way his steps fall is so entirely his own that I know I could never mistake him for another man. Never, in a hundred years.
"Just do me one favor," I say. "And I'll never ask you for anything else."
"Yes?"
"Just kill him yourself. Or, if it comes to that, let him be the one to kill you."
He's quiet for a time. I don't even hear him moving anymore. In that silence, my throat clenches tight, and I feel heat rising behind my cheeks. I'm going to cry, I think, disbelieving it even then. I already am crying. My shoulders are shaking, and my breath is coming in little shuddering gasps. By the time I realize what's going on, it's already too late to hide it from him. I don't think I would have been able to do a very good job of it anyway.
And I know what he's going to do. He's going to ask me why, in that aloof disinterested way he has of asking things like that. Mildly curious and clinical, like he's just a scientist with me under his microscope. If he does that, I think, then it'll be easy to stop loving him. Just like that, I'll do it.
He doesn't say anything right away, though. And after a minute, I feel the mattress sink slightly under his weight. When he sits beside me, I'm so startled that a sob chokes in my throat and comes out sounding like a moan.
"That's what you want?"
He touches my cheek with the tips of his fingers. His skin is very smooth and very cold, like granite.
"That's all I want," I whisper, and then the mattress depresses again. The springs creak, a tired sound, and very old, as he stretches out beside me. He's not touching me, but he's very close. My back is to him, but he's facing me, and I can feel his breath on the back of my neck.
His arm goes around my waist, and I think about how awkward he is. Like a boy who's trying for the first time to accommodate someone else in his bed. It makes me smile, and I'm glad he can't see. He might think I'm laughing at him again.
"I'll do what I can," he says quietly. "Now, shut up and go to sleep."
Mercifully, I do.