Waylon has been free-falling for centuries. It's only now he's hitting the ground.
Adrenaline only thrills him so much. It does nothing to staunch the horrible pain that spirals up his legs, and comes in hot blotches on his ribs and on the side of his face. His vision spins and comes in and out of focus, his hearing a blur of ocean, cupping the seas incoherencies, the whisper of footsteps hissing like steam.
Helpless. Helpless and trapped and it hurts –it hurts just to breathe. He manages an exhale, the breath coming like a stab wound, sobbed out of him, but despite it all Waylon can't think of a reason to stay still. The groom would have him –he'd be dead or under the blade and Miles has likely caught her. Miles has found Lisa and he's squeezing his heart out to her and she'll hate him and he'll drown without them.
There's not a chance he can walk. His ankle throbs, hot with pain to the extent that it has become alarmingly vague. Waylon does what he can –coughing out an agonised sob, he tries to find his arms and pull, clawing at the carpet, moving himself forward by just his arms.
He still cannot clearly hear, everything vague to him, nonsense, but in his helpless sight he can see a few hotel staff making their way towards him, parting a few of the crowd who look concerned but make no move towards Waylon to help him. He doesn't pay it any mind, still trying in vain to drag his body like a deadweight behind him, not even stopping when the bellhop, a kid of no more than eighteen or so, kneels besides him and talks.
In a blurry, wet vibration, Waylon deciphers the phrase, "Are you alright, sir?"
He tries to pull himself forward more, his breathing coming in lighter and less sufficient. It's no use –his arms are not strong enough and he ends up limp on the carpet, shaking his head, utterly breathless. He's far from okay, and that's despite whatever injuries he has sustained because Miles had probably told her everything and maybe he should have –maybe Waylon is traitorous and he doesn't deserve Lisa. God, don't they think he knows that? That he's undergone this hideous transformation and now he's cold and useless and pitiful?
One of the girls to his side rises, and he hears the word 'ambulance' vaguely, knowing that it's necessary, but unwilling to follow the path of least resistance. With great effort, making himself red in the face, he claws another few inches forward, rambling madly, "I –I have to find Lisa-..."
The words mean nothing to the bellhop, who puts a hand on Waylon's upper-back carefully and says, "We're going to get you some help."
He feels the carpet against his cheek, rough and uninviting. There's nothing else to be done, and all he can do is hope that Miles misses her, and Lisa can still think of him as she used to. He can only pray she remembers him as he was and not as he is –sorry, and broken, having no command on his own destiny.
Even when asked, "Where are you hurt?" He can't say for sure –feeling all over awful. His ankle has to be broken. Waylon's paranoia thrills and he wonders if he'll walk again, or if this if it. There's a burning on some of his lower ribs from the fall, bruises starting the bloom there like ink on paper, matched with smaller ones across the face.
It hurts everywhere. He groans, and tries to claw a little more forward, some vile hope still stirring him that if he just makes it, somehow, and tries to explain –but he is too weak and the exertion is unwelcome. There is no means of escape –no land mass in sight and the water is growing higher.
Overcome with horrible emotion, namely distress, but fear and hurt and worst of all love, he whimpers out, "I –I need to find-...Lisa-..."
And not twenty feet from him, hidden from his sight, Lisa is standing out on the sidewalk, watching the taxi she intended to take to the airport disappear in the blur of the city. She feels very lost –nothing to her name but the suitcase and her children, standing besides and in front of her, respectively. It's cold out, and she knows she should say something that will get Miles' bare feet from the icy ground but she cannot will words where there are none.
Lisa has held her silence for so long, like her very last vow, and if the strings on it come undone all of these things will spill out. She will not be able to reassemble herself. What is there she say –even if she could speak?
She can't. The words are treacherous, and the truth is so much worse than anything she would and ever could do to any of them. Suddenly breathless, she swallows, finding Miles more of a threat now then ever before, independent of hat he is. Lisa doesn't fear the Walrider –she fears the truth, and what it will do to her life. It feels as if she has just manages to put the pieces of things back together, pulling them all from the wreckage. And things are better, but they all are too weak and tired for more horror.
After an eternity, she murmurs, "Was it obvious?"
"No." Miles sounds harsh to his own ears. Seeing her like this reminds Miles that they have all suffered –and to compare their miseries would be a game in which no winner would emerge, but only degrees of losing for the supporting players. And now Lisa is on the verge of tears before him and her children are cold and confused and it's all his fault.
He can't bring himself to be fully sympathetic or angry towards her, torn by the knowledge that she doesn't deserve to be hurt anymore but knowing her silence is only going to hurt Waylon.
"No, it wasn't-" He steps awkwardly forward, still barefoot on the icy sidewalk, wanting to comfort her with physical contact but knowing that Lisa probably doesn't like men touching her any longer. Worse still men that she doesn't trust, who are the ones that bring her to this state. "It wasn't –it's not like that." Gently, he coughs out his words. "I would never have known, if it wasn't for the-..."
Lisa isn't so easily beat. Despite how fragile she appears, it takes her seconds to compose herself and then her voice is hard again, tough against the elements. "Was it what I asked you?"
It's not –but Miles doesn't want to talk about how he woke from a vivid dream –a memory that the swarm had extracted from Jeremy. How he watched out of the other man's eyes as he threatened Lisa with the lives of her children, and watched her beg. How she sounded when he beat her to surrender and twisted one of her arms behind her back to pin her against a wooden coffee table. Lisa had cried silently, he remembers, but hadn't fought, knowing that every scratch and claw would have made it world's worse for Waylon.
But to hear that would break Lisa, so he says, "Yeah." His eyes drop to his feet. "And I'm –I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that."
Her eyes don't manage to find his, as if it's too much. Lisa hasn't spoken about it –hasn't let herself even think about it, and to suddenly feel absolved, or even close to understood is very strange. It's certain to her that saying anything will lead to tears, so she says nothing in the interests of her pride. Instead she nods, to be safe, still failing to look Miles in the eyes.
He's trying so hard to be gentle with her, feeling so terrible and responsible, of all things, for those memories. Miles has never raised a hand to hurt her, but Jeremy has and in the memory it's as good as. It feels real –that he's the one striking her, gripping her windpipe and squeezing, feeling the heat of her body too intimately. Of these sins he wants desperately to wash away, and they are not even his to be sorry for.
Out of nowhere, she whispers, "Please don't tell him."
Miles says nothing to that. Lisa is pulling him in a new direction, asking him to deceive Waylon, and he would wants to know. He would wants Miles to tell him, because the betrayal of surviving the flood only to have water in his lungs would be all the worse. And Miles couldn't do that –he couldn't watch the man rebuild his life only to have all of his work undone in a single confession.
His hesitance is as obvious as his silence is, and Lisa reaches out to touch his arm, gently. Her wedding ring glistens the way a knife does in moonlight. "Promise me."
He looks up at her eventually and finds his voice, ignoring the ways in which he recognises her. It proves difficult to find the words. Contrary to popular belief, Miles has never been good with words. He can tell the story how it is, or how he sees it.
But he can't lie.
"I'm not going to lie to him."At last, he says something. It sounds far harsher than he intends, and there's danger there, in demonstrating where his loyalties lie. Miles knows he'd do well not to get involved with Lisa, because it would only make any move he makes closer to Waylon all the more treacherous. It is some sort of betrayal to shake his head here and tell her. "If he asks me –I won't lie to him."
Lisa finds that hard to hear. It seems to wound her –and she winces, gritting out her words. "Why?" She murmurs. "Why does this matter to you?"
His instinct thrills to blurt out 'because I love him'. But even here and now Miles is smarter than to tell her that. At Lisa, his love is made afraid, certain that his attentions can never surmount the years and commitments she has made to Waylon. There are other reasons why this matters to him –that Lisa shouldn't have to shoulder this alone, and that it would break Waylon, and all of the foundations he is building his life on, to find out years from now.
Or to find out just a few months from now when one of his children has cold eyes or darker hair and it's already too late.
Everything but the last thing is survivable, Miles knows. But that would be Waylon's last. It would break him in an irreparable way –cracking the hull of his vessel and leaving him to take on water. To sink to the bottom of the dark briney.
Lisa asks him why he couldn't lie, and Miles has to be honest with her. "Because he trusts me."
The danger is still there, the threat only a few words away. Lisa pays them no mind. She brings in the child to her left so he's pressed against her thigh slightly, and she sighs. "What if he doesn't ask you?"
"Then I guess I won't say anything." He shrugs. Christ, he can no longer feel his feet, the ice causing him to feel inert to the sharp patches or gravel that grate at the skin there. Sighing, he jams his fists by his side and sighs. "It's not my business to tell him. It's yours."
She shudders at that, and practically whimpers. "How could I?" Wounded, she looks up at him. "He's finally –finally getting better-..how could I undo all of that work, just to make myself feel better?"
"It's not supposed to make you feel better." He steps forward, incredulous at her response. "You –you're supposed to be honest with him anyway!"
Lisa doesn't have to shout back. He knows what she'll say, because he scolds himself with the same sentiment. How can he preach to her about how to treat her husband? Does he think he knows Waylon now, biblically, in any kind of depth, because they have the same fears, and saw the same horrors? Lisa knows her husband better –she has loved him through seven years and two children, nearly three now, and he can expect nothing but resentment from her as he stands on his soapbox.
Desperate to be listened to somehow, Miles does the worst thing he can. He looks down at her children and into her eyes and says, "He deserves to know if that's even his kid-"
"Stop it!"
In a single moment, she goes from still to yelling, her voice pushed to the point of breaking with every dagger of emotion that comes feeling for her. And Lisa's not angry –she's devastated, a traitorous fat tear having emerged to spill like slander down her face. God, she's not being defensive; she's afraid. It's only now that Miles notices how she's trembling, not at the windchill but at her terrible fear that Miles is right.
It's awful to hear her suck in an overwhelmed breath and heave out more words, "Just –just stop it!"
Miles had heard her beg like that before. The memory surfaces to the top of his mind and he can see her looking at up at him (Jeremy), already on her knees, winded, beaten enough to sob out, "I –I'll do anything. P-please-..."
He draws back, knowing that it isn't fair to hurt Lisa, but knowing their collective silences only make the future worse. There's no way to tell if his accusation is being confirmed or denied, and even though Miles isn't the gentlest person in the world, he knows to back off, and let Lisa speak in her own time.
Still crying, she looks up at him, and shakes her head furiously. "God," She blurts out, "You think I'd do that to him? To myself?"
It's upsetting her children to see her like this. It's upsetting enough for Miles, so he doesn't despise the young boys for their notable distress, and how the taller one tightens his grip on his mother's leg.
Lisa is strong though, for them. He knows –he knows better even than Waylon that the world has been asked of Lisa and she has given more than that, for flimsy promises of safety and security. She kneels in the ice before them and tightens the scarves around their necks, making sure they are warm enough.
"It's alright." She says, very gently, the hurt carefully bleached out of her tone. "It's alright. Mommy's just being silly. Let's go home." She rises, shakily, and holds her children's hands before treading off down the street. There is no last look –no reminiscing or even a last warning. It's bravery on her part. There's no guarantee he won't tell Waylon, explicitly, but how could he say anything? Is there even anything to say?
Lisa is true to her word, and she gets the next taxi, grateful for the clean, warm interior, and the refuge from the accusations. She doesn't know what to make of Miles, far too upset to draw any conclusion. All Lisa is left o think about is how careless she has been. Christ, she has been so careful, and she promised herself she wouldn't talk about it, and wouldn't worry him with it and now that Miles knows she wonders if she will ever rest again.
The ride to the airport is quiet. James watches out of the window while Colin drowses on her lap, curled into her. It's nowhere near private enough to cry, and she won't. Not here. Not yet. Instead, she strokes down Colin's back and tries to imagine good news. She tries to imagine leaving Leadville, maybe going back to Cali or out west somewhere nice and remote with plenty of room for the boys, and a garden for them to play in.
He'll come home, she knows. He'll come home and they will get what they have suffered for –what they have so rightly won.
She would let herself become even more idyllic, but is interrupted by the vibration of her phone, and the sounds of it ringing. It wakes Colin up with a start, and he grumbles into her thigh, curling closer, unwilling to face the world yet.
She feels the same resistance but knows she has to answer anyway, preparing herself momentarily to iron out the shake in her voice, knowing that she will have to make it through the conversation without thinking about what Miles had said. Without breaking down.
"Mrs Park?"
How can two words have such a hold over her? Lisa tenses, swallowing, unfamiliar with the voice but in no position to let it get the better of her. "Mrs Park, I'm afraid your husband has had an incident."
It's more likely that it's the word 'accient' but Lisa can't quite make it out and at any rate, it causes alarm bells to ring in her ears nonetheless. She leans forward suddenly, her joints seizing at sharp angles as if she is preparing herself to be knocked down.
"What –what kind of accident?" She hears herself ask with a terrible urgency. "Is he going to be alright?"
The children look startled, more so by her tone than anything else. They don't understand the words –they are too young to understand, and Lisa knows because when she thought him mad, or dead, they still asked when he was coming home. And Lisa can't stall the anymore. She can't lie to them.
The silence is unbearably tense when an answer doesn't come right away, and of course Lisa's imagination is that much worse. She leans forward, pressing the phone to her ear more firmly as her other hand rests on the highest point of her stomach.
"He's going to be perfectly fine, Mrs Park. Your husband has fractured his ankle, and likely bruised a few ribs, but he'll be fine."
Fine. Fine. God's bread, Lisa hates that word. She hates how little it implies. And it's a lie to say it, either of circumstance or omission because Lisa has been using that same word these past three months, and it covers all of her tears and her loneliness and waking suddenly in the night. To say Waylon is fine merely suggests he's alive. No more, no less.
She says nothing, allowing the anonymous voice on the other end of the line to continue. "It's policy to inform you –and Mister Park was quite insistent."
At that, Lisa has to smile. It's strange, eve with the terrible notion of being hurt, at least it reveals that he still warns her, and looks to her in the face of adversity. Nodding, mostly to herself, she says, "I understand. Is it -..."
A glance at the time shows that she'll barely make the flight on time as it is. She knows, truthfully, that there's no way she has the resources or the energy or money to go back for him, to be at his bedside for comfort. There's no sense in asking –she knows it's impossible to see him, as he is now. Yet, the question sticks in her throat.
Lisa settles. She is used to it by now. "Is it possible for me to speak to him?"
There's a slight shuffle at the other side of the line –more fool Lisa as her hopes soar when the voice on the other end hesitates, no rejection worming through. "Mister Park was very agitated when we brought him in, so he has been given a shot of lorazepam. He might not be much up to speaking at the moment."
Without an inch for argument, she says, "That's not a problem."
Her tone indicates how serious she is because for once he is not argued with. It's one of the only mercies of the day, because for a second she hears nothing, and then after that, breathing that sounds more like sighing.
His voice is like steam to her, a light whisper, dreamlike and strange when he finally speaks. "Have you seen Lisa?" He near-murmurs, even quieter than he is usually. "I –I need to...I need her..."
"I'm here." She says, comforted to hear him. So much so that she leans back in her seat. Immediately, Colin crawls to where he was lying before, and her hand goes down to play with his hair again. "I'm here. It's going to be okay."
Waylon makes a noise of concern, and then breathes, "I think I'm hurt, Leese." He yawns. "I think I –I think I hurt my foot."
"You did." She tells him, with patience. "Are you okay now?"
He yawns again, mewling slightly, and Lisa wishes she could hear it clearer, better, in any other context. She tries to imagine that he's waking up besides her but the taxi jolts and it ruins the authenticity of her illusion. "M'okay." Waylon murmurs. "I'm hungry, Leese. I don't think I should make dinner tonight."
Whatever it is they've given him is making him nonsensical. He sounds on the edge of sleep, and while it's terribly pleasant, it's not all that comforting. When he comes to, after no doubt drowsing, he'll be devastated to be impaired again. He had been so happy to be able to walk again –to let the injury heal, as if he himself healed with it as an individual, the memory fading with the scar. Won't this bring it all back to him? Won't this be square one again?
"Are you tired, sweetheart?" Despite all of that, she keeps her words warm and simple, already knowing the answer as he murmurs.
"Mm." Waylon sighs. "Keep –you keep talking to me, Leese. Keep saying words."
Like what? Lisa improvises. "I love you." She begins with. "And I'm going to hate being away from you, but I'll come down as soon as I can. I promise." On the other side of the line, Waylon makes a noise of pleasure, and it assures her into continuing. "We'll get out of Leadville. We will, and then we can have the place we always wanted."
James is looking at her now, his little legs swinging, unhappy with stasis, and it reminds her of what they both really want. "Let's never come back to New York." She says. "We can go somewhere quiet, and it'll just be the four-...the five of us."
The sudden thought is too hard and intrusive. It brings back Miles' accusation, and though she knows it's impossible, and there's no way, and it's unfounded and untrue it sparks something in her mind, a tiny thought that grows from a doubt to a suspicion to a jealousy. And it makes her start to tremble again, and she knows she has to keep talking so words worm out of her lips that are too explicit and dangerous. They burn to exit her mouth.
"I love you, Way. Forever and ever. You –you know that, don't you? I'll –I'm always going to love you." She is staring at James' eyes now, and they are more hers than his, but it's the suggestion of him in the boy's gaze that destroys her, and then she' whispering. "Nothing's ever going to change that, is it?"
"Nothing." Weakly, Waylon parrots her. "I'm so tired, babe." He murmurs. "So tired."
It's difficult to let go. She knows that best of them all, but a firmer hand won't serve her any better here. "Sleep, then." Eventually, she nods to the words. "Get some rest."
"Mm." He sighs o her once more, and then blearily manages, "Foreverandever, Leese-...foreveran'..."
Forever. Lisa will hold up her end of the bargain, she thinks. There are few things Waylon could do that she wouldn't forgive. And he would forgive her, wouldn't he? If –if it came to it, and he found out..?
Eventually, the line dies, most likely because Waylon succumbs to sleep, or maybe the battery dies. There might be a thousand reasons, and none of them would matter to her now. Not i the face of 'forever'. It seems strange to need to hear it, but knowing he loves her, assured by the patience and resilience of his affection, the ride is so much easier.
In the end, Lisa catches her flight, with the children in tow, and Miles catches his death, standing out in the cold –dressed, this time, smoking out on the icy sidewalk. It's sunset now, a late afternoon, the sun still fighting off lethargy, but it's a losing battle, and it will sink to the bottom of the ocean, only to persist in rising tomorrow, just as the snow will melt and the ice will turn to dirty water, only for it to flood and freeze again at some unprovoked time of year.
He makes a point not to think of anything in particular as he finished the cigarette, making plain observations in his head about the city –the way it feels and smells to him. The way it still doesn't feel at all like home.
That's more to do with him than the place. Before the great flood –before Miles ever set foot in that place, he was so much more adaptable. He didn't mind going anywhere or talking to anyone, because he could manage it. Once, he felt young, energised by the challenge of the day, the odd waltz of prying information out of people, and the endless open road to drive. Now, living exhausts him –even smiling makes his face ache.
New York will never be home to him –the exhausting momentum of the place unstoppable. But Waylon –he's inviting, and he gives Miles joy, and energy. He is the only reason Miles has to smile, and even then it feels painless. It's not a side-effect of the drugs anymore. He's thinking he knew all along it was love.
His mind gets stuck on Waylon alot, like a dart to a board, like a bullet deep in the body, terrified of blood. It's what he's thinking about when the black car that took him from hospital, terribly anonymous, pulls up to the curb, and he wonders if it's good news.
He envisions a suit stepping out onto the ice and saying 'Mister Upshur' in that strained tone, promising home, telling him 'it's all over'. A suit does step out, to come around and open the door to the backseat. And for all that thrills in Miles for his desires to be met, there is no happy ending.
They pull Waylon out, and he's limp, eyelids stuttering in a blink that wants to remain shut. He looks about stuck together with glue and stitches, a crisp white cast on an ankle so recently freed, too reminiscent of a shackle. One of the men helping him has crutched under his arm and they help to lean Waylon in, slowly, slowly.
Panic rises in him first, followed quickly by compassion. There's a not a thing he can do right here or now, knowing his help will be rejected, knowing that they will see exactly how he feels and what he is, and the prospect is so scary that he doesn't dare to intervene. He watches them help Waylon into the elevator, and Waylon is too out of it to protest.
Miles doesn't know what happened; but he intends to find out.
And then, later, hours later, he keeps true to his word, at Waylon's door with nothing but an apology. He knocks, and finds it open, entering anyway, steeping out into the kitchen area that he once inhabited, recognising the pictures that used to haunt him but now fade into the back of his perception.
He treads softly, too softly, down the hall to Waylon's room where the door breathes a slice of air. It opens soundlessly, and he makes a point of keeping all of his movements silent as he comes around the bed, having found Waylon lying half-under his sheets, drowsing.
Waking him suddenly would be a terrible mistake, and so Miles settles for perching on the mattress, slipping his shoes off onto the carpet and moving his body so that he's lying besides Waylon. He wants to make up for lost time –for having woken alone that very morning, despite Waylon's promise to stay.
Miles lies on his side for a while and stares at Waylon as he drowses, a little too fitful to be real sleep or rest. They could there for hours, but it feels irrelevant to Miles, as if the passage of time exists only outside of this bedroom, and as long as he is there, watching silently, Waylon does not seem to age or weary before his eyes.
At some point, Waylon rolls onto his side, unable to lift his cast leg just yet. He blinks into he pillow wearily, and when his eyes fix on Miles, his gaze softens.
"Are you –are you real?" Miles nods to him, wordlessly. It seems to ease the worry in Waylon's eyes, and he nods to himself, breathing out. "But you ran..." He mumbles, sleepily. "You wanted –to tell her everything..."
Mile drowns, but tries to clear up the confusion between them succinctly. "I didn't tell Lisa anything about us, Park. I mean –there's nothing to tell."
There's hurt in his voice, and if Waylon were lucid he would know that, and he'd respond in kind, wanting Miles but too terrified to betray any one person in particular so in his inertia he betrays them both.
That's fine by Miles –he's used to it. Moving in closer, he says, "I'm sorry about your leg." Because he really is.
Waylon is still peering up at him, too tenderly, it makes it hard to maintain eye contact. "I'm –I'm scared that they're never gonna let me leave." He murmurs into Miles' shoulder. "I'm gonna be stuck here forever, aren't I?"
How terrified he sounds, not just from the drowsiness alone, but from real fear. They both have lives to get back to, but Waylon's is far more pressing, and important. It seems the cruellest of all fates to keep him here, when they all know he has come so far, and he's anything but crazy.
As if to reassure him, Miles finds his hand in the dark and squeezes it. "It won't be so bad." He murmurs. "I'll stay with you."
Struck by that, Waylon swallows, and he looks up at Mile, frowning like he doesn't understand. But he understands perfectly. The word isn't his to say, far too private and out of context, and yet, Waylon feels the urge to, so he asks, "You'll stay with me?"
Miles nods.
"Forever?"
It's still pitch black and it is far too intimate when he nods again. "Forever."
Four fingers feel strange to Waylon.
It's the last thought in his head before sleep, but the strangeness is welcoming. He keeps holding onto Miles' hand.
Nothing in the world could convince him to let go.