Title: Declaration
Spoilers: Anything up to "Hail and Farewell" is fair game.
Chapter 10
-----
Clay's living room is a mess. His empty wine glass is lying on the floor, shattered. There are bloody tissues in the trash can, and a half-melted ice pack is lying on the floor. The table is littered with an empty pizza box and the remnants of Beef Lo Mein… Ordinarily, Clay is meticulously neat. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was grabbed by some nefarious enemy.
But since I know he was with Gunny last night, I'm guessing I missed some bizarre male-bonding ritual.
Letting out a breath, I drop my purse by the door and wander around the townhouse to see what other damage the guys did last night. When I enter the kitchen, I'm practically blown out of the room by the smell of liquor. Clay's been drinking a lot, but there's no way they could've drank that much. And Gunny…well, I know he had a minor problem with alcohol himself the first time he quit the Marines, but still…
Just then, I hear the sound of the door being opened followed by loud, boisterous laughter.
I walk into the living room, hands on my hips. I'm determined to look as fierce as possible, but when I see Clay and Gunny, all pretense of anger disappears. The guys are disheveled messes—Clay has a black eye, Gunny has a split lip, and both of them look like they slept in their clothes.
When Clay sees me, he smiles guiltily and says, "Hi, honey. I'm home."
"Was there a rebel coup last night?" I ask, walking over to survey Clay's black eye.
Clay plasters on his most charming smile. "My work is classified, Sarah."
"Nice try," I say, scowling. Then I let my face soften. Pressing on Clay's shiner, I half-smile, "I guess I should see the other guy, huh?"
"Well actually," Clay laughs self-consciously, "Victor's the 'other guy.'"
I glance at Gunny, who grins, seeming more than little pleased with himself.
Letting out a breath, I shake my head, resigned. I should be mad, but I just can't. Beating each other senseless? Definitely a male-bonding thing.
Clay licks his lips self-consciously and gazes around the room. "We meant to get this cleaned up, but…we got hungry."
I gesture to the empty take-out boxes, and biting my lip to stifle my laughter, I ask, "After all that?"
"We worked up an appetite, ma'am," Gunny informs me.
"You two want to tell me what happened?" I ask.
I gather by Clay's lack of eye contact that he doesn't. Instead of answering me, he and Gunny busy themselves scooping up the debris from last night's "festivities."
"I told Kershaw I'm taking a couple of weeks off," Clay says conversationally.
"That'll last until something goes wrong somewhere in the world," I say.
Clay stops what he's doing and gazes at me. "You're turning into a cynic," he says. There's no rancor in his voice; he's just making an observation.
"I guess I am."
The three of us quietly return the living room to its former glory. Gunny is trying his best to fade into the back ground, but every now and then, I see him glance furtively at Clay.
Finally, Clay pulls himself to his feet and dusts off his pants. "Guess what," he says, "I decided to stop drinking."
"Really?" I say, trying to sound casual rather than elated.
"Yeah. The hangovers were murder anyway."
"I remember."
Clay crosses his arms. "Your hangovers or mine?"
"Both, actually," I say honestly. "Be glad you didn't know me when I was drinking."
"How about you?" Clay asks Gunny, "What kind of drunk were you?"
Gunny furrows his brow. "Well," he says after a moment, "I honestly don't remember. Which is problematic."
Clay nods, biting his lip.
After a moment of silence, Gunny says, "I think I'm going to go home and crash. Ma'am," he nods. Then he walks over to Clay and pats him on the shoulder, "Call if you need me."
As Gunny opens the door, Clay calls out, "Vic?"
Gunny stops and looks back at Clay.
Clay lets out a breath and licks his bottom lip. "I still say you hit like a girl."
Grinning, Gunny disappears out the door.
After a little while, Clay turns to me. "That's one of the reasons I appreciate Victor. He's not afraid to knock me on my ass." Clay frowns, and then says, "Well, there are a lot of people who are willing to knock me on my ass. But Victor's the only one who will help me get up afterward."
I put my arm around Clay's waist. "Are you all right?"
"No. Not really."
I'm a little surprised by Clay's honesty. Usually, he's claims to be perpetually "fine." Taking Clay's hand, I lead him over to the now-clean couch. "Why don't you tell me about it," I nudge.
Clay runs his fingers through his hair. He hesitates for a moment, and then begins, "I was always the Golden Boy of the CIA. From the beginning, that's the way it was. I moved up the ranks so fast." He glances at me. "After I met you and Rabb, some people thought I was losing perspective."
"Why?"
"I always did the pragmatic thing before Rabb got a hold of me." Clay cocks his head at me. "It ironic, don't you think? Rabb's turned me into a bleeding heart, and he's the one who can't form an emotional connection."
"Clayton," I sigh.
"Sure, he can bond with a dying Vietnam vet or a group of orphans he's never going to see again, but his friends?"
"Clay."
"Sorry." Clay lays his head back on the couch. "In any case, everyone was waiting for me to fail. To let my friendship with Rabb get me into serious trouble. And it did."
"And you got sent to South America."
"Yeah." Clay takes my hand. "I did the right thing giving Rabb that tape. But I don't know…I don't know. I just couldn't get my confidence back."
"But you got back into the loop."
"Yeah," he says, "After Paraguay."
Clay is silent for a while. I decide not to push him. I hate it when people push me about what happened with Sadik, so I'm trying to give Clay the time to find the words for himself. When Clay's ready, he'll open up.
I hope.
"I almost got us both killed, Sarah," he finally says. He's staring at the floor, his hand still in mine.
"Clay," I say, "There's always a risk."
He sits up. "Yes, Sarah, there is. But I wasn't a hundred percent, and I knew I wasn't. If it hadn't been for you and Vic and Harm, I would've died out there. You probably would've died."
"How many times have you saved our lives?" I ask. "Clay, you're good at what you do, but you're not perfect. You can't except to be."
"That's what Victor says," Clay laughs derisively, "Well, we're just lucky that Victor's got nine lives and Harm quit the Navy in a huff."
"Clay," I say, putting my hands on Clay's shoulders, "What happened in Paraguay wasn't your fault."
Pulling me into his arms, Clay says, "It feels like it was."
"You can't blame yourself."
Clay burrows his head into the crook of my neck. "Sarah," he says, his voice shaking, "It has to be somebody's fault. If not, then it just happened."
I don't follow his logic at first. Lifting his head off my neck, I take his face in my hands. "Honey, what do you mean?"
"I was…Sadik…there has to be a reason it happened." He pitches a silk throw pillow across the room. "I don't know what I'm saying."
"What?" I ask, stroking his hair, "You think what happened to you was some kind of karmic payback?"
Clay puts rubs his eyes. "There has to be a reason it happened," he repeats, practically choking his words.
Standing up, Clay snatches a book of Impressionist art off his coffee table and hurls it across the room. "Sarah, I was tortured," he says, "He tortured me." Suddenly, Clay's knees buckle and he hits the ground. Sobbing, he repeats, "He tortured me."
I sit down on the floor and wrap my arms around Clay. "I know, baby," I say, "I know."
