Title:Bedside Manners.
Sequel to 'Rebuilding from Rockets' and 'Over Lunch'.
Author:Rodlox.
POV:Shawn.
Summary:Shawn visits Devon as she recovers...and discovers what really happened.
Spoilers:Pilot, Wake-Up Call, Voices Carry, Weight of the World.
I highly recommend the book 'The Mercury 13: the Untold Story of Thirteen American Women and the Dream of Spaceflight' by Martha Ackerman.
"I'll go see if she's awake," Devon's mom says to me, "and you stay here, finish your dinner," and I half expect her to waggle her finger at me -- she doesn't. I nod, and she leaves the kitchen; I came over to check in and see how Devon was doing, and her mother pulls me in and sits me down at the table for a full dinner. A quiet dinner, but still something I hadn't figured on getting while I was out: I just came by to say hi.
I ain't complaining though, this meatloaf has taste, flavor -- unlike every other meatloaf I've ever had in my life. The recipe's probably a Wells family secret, kept safe in a nuclear bunker or something.
Devon's mom comes back in, sitting back down in the same chair as before, watching me. "She's waking up now. Give her a few minutes to make herself presentable." I keep from groaning, having come over to lend support to a friend, not to come-a-courting. For one thing, I doubt Devon's sights've wavered since the last time I stopped by. For another, while my heart's not as raw as it used to be, I'm not exactly in the market for a relationship either. "Have you known my daughter long?" asking the question I might've heard last time I was here if it hadn't been for Devon's return from the hospital last time I was here.
"A little under a year," I say. I bite and chew the last piece of meatloaf on my plate, and when I've swallowed it, I tell her, "This' delicious."
"Thank you, Mr. Farrel, though its only meatloaf."
'Only'? "Would that you were my mom." Then I could've grown up knowing that meatloaf was supposed to taste like something.
That's when she slaps me. Not hard enough to bruise flesh, mine or hers; but enough to register in my mind. What the hell was that for? But before I can ask, "She misses Peter, I don't doubt it. Has she blamed me for not being there when he died?" sounding more curious than anything else, definately not bitter.
"No," I say, since I've never heard Devon blame anyone for anything. On the few occasions Devon says something not directly related to work, she's either praising you or Jordan. "What -"
"I was out on an ecotour in New Zealand when Peter died," interupting me, and by the sound of it completely missing what I'd been about to ask. "I had a bit of a stumble while I was there, and by the time I was in a position to come back, my girl'd taken a job at that Center." She sighs. "Peter told me to go and enjoy myself, he'd told me that years before my Devon returned." A smile graced her face. "Returned, for which I've thanked God every day since I heard about the big return...at a lake, yes?" I nod. I'd been there. "I kept an eye on Peter for Devon, checking in on him, making sure him and Robert kept out of mischief. He never remarried, the good boy he was, even when the cancer started to take him and I could see he needed comfort, he never even let his eyes wander from the pictures of Devon he kept about the house." First you're asking me if I'm seeing your daughter, Miss Wells, and now you're telling me about Devon's ex? "I don't doubt Peter's death hit her hard, she's always taken comfort in her work."
I nod. "Devon's the best employee anyone could hope for."
Peering at me quizically. "I wasn't aware you were her boss."
"I'm not; I work with Devon. I just meant that nobody works harder than Devon." And Jordan damn well better be aware and appreciative of that.
"I see, I'm terribly sorry."
"It's okay," I say, "it's my fault for not being clear."
"Thank you, young man. And Devon's told me all about the long walks the two of you take every day." A few laps around the Center, walking together, nothing more; and that was only after I managed to have two whole weeks of minimum-sentance lunches...but I have a feeling I shouldn't mention that. "I think it's sweet, and that its good that my Devon's finally thinking about settling down again," and, with an audible tsk "now that that whole race to the Moon is done with." I think I saw something about a few new Moon missions, on tv today or yesterday, but that's another thing I don't think I should mention just yet: call it a hunch. "Come with me," standing up again, "I should think Devon is presentable by now." I follow her out of the kitchen and down the house's central hallway, stopping behind her mom just outside Devon's shut door. "Devon?" she asks, hand against the door.
"You can come in," Devon says. Her door's opened for me, and her mom pulls her arm back and returns to the kitchen. What, no duenna? I step inside Devon's room, noticing not for the first time - seeing them better this time, my attention last time being understandably elsewhere - all the photos on her walls. "Shawn," Devon says. "Hello again," probably noticing that I'm not bringing flowers this time. "Is there a problem at the Center?" Oh you could say that. Not what you'd call a problem, but there's definately the start of stormclouds.
"Not really," I say, knowing better than to start a conversation with an argument. "How're you doing?" and I figure she's doing better, since her pallor's definately improved. She gives me a noncommittal fine, and clears me a spot to sit at her bedside, putting that stack of paper on her other side. You know, Devon, for a workaholic, your room's strangely lacking in any chairs. Then again, I guess your room's probably a good place to crash after a long day, right? But hey, I sit where I'm told to, no funny business.
"Then..." and I fully expect her to ask 'why are you here' or 'why' something. But, no, just a, "Did Jordan send you?"
"Nope."
Her face goes from puzzled to confused to pure horror. "Is he alright? She didn't do anything to him, did she?"
'She'? "Jordan's fine, Devon. Why, who was going to try killing him?" When in doubt, assume death is someone else's assumption, and go from there.
Devon's face calms, going back to her usual tranquil demeanor. "Its nothing. Was my mother keeping you?"
Keeping...keeping; it takes me a moment to get the right meaning for that word. "No, your mom's great; she insisted I have something to eat before I come in and talk to you." Devon nods, clearly familiar with that. "Though..." nah, better not to say stuff like that.
"What is it?" she asks me. When I don't supply an answer, her tone gets that no-nonsense business tone that's gotten Jordan to take a step back, metaphorically if not literally at least once, "What is it?"
"Your mom hit me," I say, still more startled about it than hurt.
"Really?" Devon asks, and I nod confirmation. "Did you say something?"
"I was saying how good of a cook she is, and that I wished she was my mom."
Devon nods once, twice, a slow smile on her face. "Then either she thinks you're belittling your own mother and praising mine too much, or," and the smile starts to fade, "she's playing matchmaker." Not sure if I feel relieved or hurt that that's the point where her smile goes off into the sunset.
Sunset... Okay, Shawn, clear your head. Wait, that doesn't work: it just leaves me with a mental image of Devon in a nightie several layers thinner than what she's got on right now.
Try again, something to distract -- ah, "Who did you think was going to hurt Jordan?" I ask.
"Its nothing," Devon says. "An old woman's silly thought, nothing more."
"Devon, if your mom's got a hunch on who'd want Jordan hurt or worse, that's not something we can just dismiss." And that's a fact I don't think she'd ever contradict...aside from that recent statement of hers. But she just gives me this look...its not quite a glare, but its supposed to be harsh, I guess. "What?"
"I was the one with the nonsense thought, Shawn." But you said 'old,' and you're not old. "Its nothing, really." And she smiles, that disarming curve of her lips. "So, have you heard that the President is going to send people to the Moon again? I may submit my name, if my age doesn't disqualify me from canidacy this time."
"I bet you'll go," I agree, though I have a bad feeling you'd ask Jordan for a permission slip beforehand. "If anybody deserves to walk on the lunar surface, Devon, its you."
"Thank you," a bit of blushing on her cheeks. "What about you?"
"Oh I'll be too busy investigating this threat on Jordan's life."
Her blush utterly vanishes, the smile gone. "I said it was nothing. I was...I was mistaken." Uh-huh, suure riight. No offense, but you don't lie well. "Women my age, we're prone to flights of absurd fears." In a little voice, as though its a possibility she's hesitant to offer, "It may well be from the occasional drop in oxygen during my flights and the tests."
"Devon," I tell her, "number one, you're not old. Number two, I'd like for you to trust me enough to tell me what's going on."
"I trust you, Shawn, I do." Thanks. Probably not as much as you trust Jordan, I bet, but hey, you probably put Jordan above God. "She..." and "Idiot," in a tone that I can't tell if she's calling herself an idiot, or if that 'she' is the idiot.
"Devon," I tell her, "people were idiots in everyone's before, an' people're idiots in the now too. Don't let an idiot stop you from doing what's right."
She looks away from me, sniffling. "I'm not staying quiet because of Cloe, that...she could..." shuddering each time she trails off. "If it were just her, maybe, maybe I would say something."
Even I can add this together: who's the one person Devon never wants to cross? "But it's not. It's Jordan too, isn't it?" She looks at me fleetingly before glancing away again, red eyes pleading with me not to say anything, not to do anything. Sorry, Devon, but there're some promises I just can never agree to keep. "What did he tell you? Did he say anything, something suggesting you'll be back in his good graces if you keep quiet?"
"He's not like that, he wouldn't do that," she insists. "Jordan hasn't said a word to me since I had to be hospitalized," for all those drugs in your system. "He's sent cards and flowers," I know, and he's paid for several deliveries of groceries for you and your mom; don't let that be hush money, Devon. 'Hush money'? Cripes, I think I've been picking up some pretty interesting words since I joined the Center. "I think I...I hope I don't scare him."
I can't help but smile at that, the sheer image of Jordan cowering in fright of a diminutive woman who'd give him her firstborn if she could, assuming said firstborn isn't Jordan's to begin with. "I don't think he's frightened." Though he should be afraid. "Its more likely his schedule's keeping him away," and her face relaxes, becomes calmer -- I figured that'd work. "Without his secretary, he's lost." Devon cracks a smile, murmuring about a 'little boy lost.' "But there's something I don't understand," since, if it isn't Jordan she's protecting, then who? Why's she keeping mum on the matter. "Who did this to you?"
"No," she mumbles, starting to raise a hand - just into the air, up to her chest, not raised against me or to protect her face. "No, you don't understand..." and I half think I hear her whisper "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me," I tell her, flat, up front, and blunt. I'm not going to dance around this all day, Devon, however much it might be easier to. She looks at me now, eyes wide and jaw slack, her lips slightly parted. If I didn't think you'd kill me for trying, and if I didn't value our friendship above everything else in my life, I'd chance a kiss. "Who did this to you, Devon Wells?" using her maiden name. Hey, I'm not just a poster boy, I'm also a pretty fair hand with a computer, if I do say so myself.
"Svensen," she corrects me, her hand returning to its spot alongside her hip. "I was in my office at the time. I had just finished filing several upcoming appointments for Jordan, and I decided to take a break and try to rest a little." She clenches both hands into fists, then relaxes them again. "That was when she came in, asking if Jordan was around, asking if you were with anyone, asking a lot of things. I asked her to please leave my office, I asked her to go away...and she wouldn't. She laughed." That's gonna hurt, I know: I've been the butt of malicious laughter myself enough times. "She laughed. Cloe said it was cute how I followed Jordan and you around, that she'd keep me around when she was in charge of things." What? Either that bitch's got a bigger ego problem than I thought, or she's up to something, and I intend to find out what exactly. "I asked her to leave, and she still refused to listen. I said I would call security, and -" hand shaking, she picks up and drinks the entire glass of water before continuing. "Cloe stuffed those pills down my throat," and hesitates, judging me with those piercing eyes of hers, "after she struck me unconcious." Wait a minute, if you were unconcious... Much as I don't like Cloe, what you just said does sound a little strange...even for a returnee. "You heal people," Devon says, appearantly reading what she saw on my face; guess I'm still not good on my poker face, "I stay aware." Not 'awake,' she said 'aware.'
"All the time?" I ask, then want to take it back, that being perhaps just a little too intimate a question for our conversation, just a bit too much detail, the little tidbit she might've wanted to keep to herself. But she nods, watching my reaction, which is more than a little awed right now, a bit of amazed too. There're days I think I probably would've been better off with your ability, Devon. But, "Then what's the problem? We take Cloe to court, sue her for -" what's the word? Damages? Abuse? Wait, definately attempted murder: she could've killed you, Devon; that was probably the idea. Intent. Whatever. "We wouldn't," I add quickly, seeing the look on Devon's face, "involve Jordan."
"He invested so much time and..." oh my, finally a disgusted look on her face when talking about something related to Jordan; you were about to say 'effort' weren't you? "Cloe could ruin the Center, could ruin Jordan." Just when I think we're making progress, everything leads back to Jordan. Is this how mapmakers felt when somebody told them that all roads must lead to Rome? "I can't do that." I think I have an idea now how uncle Tommy feels when life railroads him. I sigh, and she misreads it: "You can go, if you like, Shawn." Whether she misread deliberately or not, I've no way of knowing.
"Is that what you want?" I ask her, I couldn't resist phrasing it like that. You sting me, I sting back; I don't like to sting, Devon, particularly you; but I can sting just as well as you can. "What exactly are you going to do, Devon? Just hide here the rest of your life, never leaving this bed for anything?" Well, you'd probably attend Jordan's funeral, assuming he ever dies. I bet you'd be wearing the deepest darkest black of anyone in attendance. She shakes her head. "Then what?"
"It won't come to that," she says. "I'll get better, I'll come back to work." Sounds like the same sort of plan an old friend of mine had after he'd had the crap kicked outta him by the school bully.
"And if Cloe comes back? Or if Jordan hits the sack with somebody else who takes a dislike of you?" Then what? I don't want you ending up like that old friend of mine, Devon, I don't want you buying a gun and winding up dead in a playground -- or anywhere, for that matter.
"I'll handle it." I don't doubt that you will. Don't get me wrong, I don't doubt that you will.
One more salvo, then I'll ask for a truce. This has to be asked, I have to ask it of her, so she never gets blindsided by it happening first in reality. "What will you do if Jordan moves on?" Devon looks at me blankly. "What'll you do when the day comes that Jordan doesn't 'share' with you?" even if 'he shares that with me' makes it sound like some kids splitting their lunch.
Her blank look turns to one of horror and, in a blink, resignation. Somehow I was hoping for more anger, more indignation. Then again, I suppose Devon really is, after all, one of those rare people who're next to impossible to rub the wrong way. "It won't happen," she says, confident. "If, one day, I lose Jordan's trust, it'll be my own fault." Devon, do you have any idea how close I am to grabbing your shoulders and shaking some sense into you? Then again, that policy never worked on me when I was a kid, so why would it work on you at all? Clearly Jordan can do no wrong in your eyes, and there's nothing I can say to change any of it. Can't blame a guy for trying, though, can you?
Well, I tried. I wouldn't get any further than I have, even if I went at it for another hour. "I'm sorry," I tell her, hoping we can bury the hatchet. She just looks at me, not blankly, but more of...patiently, waiting to see what I say. "For all that I said about...everyone."
Devon nods. "You said what you believed." Well, I toned it down in places, but yeah. "There's nothing to apologize for." Well that's a relief.
And we finish our interupted discussion of whether or not resuming missions to the Moon is a good idea, and her mom then makes absolutely sure I know where the front door is. Some people just baffle me.
The End.