November 16, 1998
Leaving New York felt like leaving a sleeping lover. Carlos slipped out under the cover of the chill November night, without even so much as a goodbye, and was relieved when the city did not move to stop him or demand answers.
If you were to ask him what he'd expected from that trip back to Washington D.C., Carlos couldn't have told you. He knew the experience of military training, of course, being loaded onto a cramped bus with twenty other sweaty, nervous men. He knew endless push-ups in the rain and being screamed at by drill instructors, red faces shining and spit flying. There was no bus, this time, just the quiet, muffled coo of surrounding conversations on a plane lit with racing stripe bulbs down a long aisle, a window seat, and his own thoughts to pass the time.
When Carlos stepped off the plane, down the narrow metal stairs and up the makeshift hallway that shuddered and shook with the wind, a man in a pair of blue jeans and a leather motorcycle jacket waited outside the rope barricades with a sign on white bristol board that just said "CARLOS". The man chomped a piece of gum, his attention distracted by his cell phone, against which his thumb tapped with quick, practiced precision. Carlos loitered until the flight emptied and the people scattered; some ran for the arms of waiting loved ones just beyond the gate, and some hustled with tunnel-vision focus to their next destination, carry-ons braced against tired shoulders and backs. Carlos approached the man, who didn't look up.
"Hey," Carlos said, "you taking any Carlos that applies, or you looking for a specific one?"
The man looked up at him. His gray eyes brightened, distracted from his distraction. "Oly… vera? Aloe-vera? Did I get it?"
"Olly-viera. But you got close." Carlos extended a hand. The man clapped his own into it and shook, tight and quick. "How you doing?"
"Hey buddy, Kevin Ryman. We woulda sent one of our office staff to get you, but we don't… have any of those. So I'm your tour guide for now. C'mon, I got a car outside."
Kevin's casual nature and conspicuous lack of pretense was a relief; Carlos was expecting men in three-piece suits, button-lipped and stoic, impenetrable. Kevin reminded him of the dudes in high school, the ones who smoked Marlboro Reds behind the gym and blasted hair metal from their shitty hand-me-down cars, down to the scent — a pointed, chemical mix of cigarette smoke, mint gum and cheap cologne. Kevin bundled the sign into a stiff crumple and dumped it into a nearby trash can as they walked.
"So we got a few things to cover upfront," Kevin said, triple-tasking; he was walking, texting on his phone, and holding a conversation, "first off, the guys know about your old gig."
Great. "That gonna be a problem?"
"Not gonna lie to you, probably," they approached the revolving metal grate of an escalator, and Kevin hopped on, his black canvas sneakers pinging against the metal. He shoved his phone in his jacket pocket, now focused on his guest. "That's a fresh wound, bud, and everyone's got a pound of flesh they wanna take out of your old bosses' ass — that's why they're here. You're probably gonna have to do some first aid to get 'em trust you. But you weren't a scientist, or a big-wig, or whatever, so it shouldn't be a death sentence. Just be cool and they'll be cool. Eventually."
"That mean you're cool?"
"Why wouldn't I be? Just be straight with me and I'll be straight with you. I've no problems with anybody, man."
Carlos let this information pass, unafraid; he was up for the challenge, charged with the confidence of a man who'd been on the positive side of social interactions his entire life. Getting people to trust him wasn't a problem. Never had been. "Okay. And what's the second thing?"
"We uh… don't really have an office yet," Kevin said, "just more of a… table?"
"That don't bother me. Table's an upgrade from some places I've been."
"Oh! Awesome. It's even got a space heater dude, you'll feel like you're at the Ritz."
As soon as Carlos' bags were collected from the wide, turning belts of a carousel on the bottom level of the airport, as soon as the front door hissed open with a dramatic sound of hydraulics, Kevin spit his gum in a trash can and shoved a hand in his pocket, fished out a pack of smokes. He offered one to Carlos, and when the larger man declined, Kevin lit the tip of his own with two practiced trick-swoops of a brass lighter. They circled over the rainy pavement, against a cold that swirled and danced and desperately wanted to be snow but seemed unable to commit, to where a red sportscar with rental tags was double-parked. It was the kind of car that made Carlos think of course this is what this dude drives, not unkindly. They ducked inside, shivering and rubbing their hands.
"You ready?" Kevin asked. "No goin' back now."
Carlos buckled his seat belt. "Always ready. Lets do it."
"You know, I like you," Kevin said, around his cigarette. They squealed away into the rainy November afternoon, and for not the first time even today, Carlos had no idea what the fuck was going to happen — but he felt better about fitting into whatever plans lie ahead.
They pulled up to the base after stopping for food, or what barely passed for it, burgers from some greasy fast food joint on the way. Kevin hadn't lied; while Carlos was expecting some grand, intimidating environment, the reality was not as overwhelming. They wound through stark, joyless brick-and-tile hallways, past young men and women in camouflage uniforms, and Kevin led him to a single, heavy metal door. He searched his key ring, came back with the right key after a few non-starts, and opened it with a creak. Inside was a hangar, empty and forgotten with its massive bay door closed, against one wall a circular metal table, ringed with benches. Five sets of eyes looked up from their work, watched the men in silence, leaning back, hands on their thighs, their conversation forgotten. A popular song buzzed in the background from a boom box on the floor, the notes overlaid by static that echoed into the stillness.
"Why do I get the feeling every single one of them wants to kick my ass?" Carlos asked.
"They probably do," Kevin shrugged, then called out, "Alright, listen up! This is the new guy. Don't be an asshole, he's cool."
"You tell the Captain he's here?" One of the men asked.
"Eh, he'll find out eventually," Kevin said, and sat down. "C'mon, park it, we got shit to do."
Carlos sat, under the weight of watchful eyes and silence. Kevin, perhaps also sensing the heavy foreboding, scratched his head and turned to Carlos.
"You got an idea of what they're gonna have you doing here?"
"Not sure, but I was EOD," Carlos said, "just gimme something that goes boom and I'll make it sing for you. Or make it shut up, if that's what you want."
Kevin smiled the creeping grin of someone who's done a good job and is just waiting for someone else to recognize it. "Heavy, huh? Fuck yeah. That makes shit a lot easier."
"…we have been needing one of those." Said one of the men — a blond kid — with reluctance.
"Here I am," Carlos said, spreading his hands. "The answer to your prayers."
"Well, Heavy," said one of the men on his other side; the man leaned down to where a large tupperware bumper sat, picked it up with a grunt, then slammed it down by Carlos. It was filled with microchips of varying sizes, plastic casings, stray colorful wires, tubes and switches. "Start by making these sing. They're all broken, and we don't have the money for new ones. Soldering iron and goggles're on the desk somewhere."
Carlos stared at the bumper, and the days— possibly weeks — of work within its plastic walls. "Sure," he said, "lemme go get 'em."
They spent the day working around the table, chatting over the boombox tuned to a nearby radio station; Kevin messed with one particularly stubborn pistol, its slide catching on something internal. The kid on the other side of the table didn't say much, standoffish in the way that someone adapts because its easier to deal with than natural shyness, but leaned to watch him, began to ask questions. Carlos hunkered over the microchips, melting their broken circuits back together under a magnifying glass rigged up on a moving arm. He stayed away from the conversation unless invited, and when he'd look up to speak, eyes would be watching him, then cut away.
Though the work was tedious and the atmosphere tense, something about these guys struck Carlos as decent. Thankful for a sense of direction, Carlos worked under the floating strains of AC/DC and Kevin's firearm lessons, and, surrounded by the rough camaraderie of men tilted toward a common purpose, felt more normal than he had in months.
January 4, 1999
The morning broke, cold and hard and white. Jill sat, her bare legs hung over the side of her bed, and watched the sunrise from the picture window. Yesterday was hard to remember, they way whirlwinds of emotions often were; she remembered in a vague way crying, feeling sorry for herself, the feeling of being lost. She'd given herself a day to acknowledge it and let it pass — more than it deserved.
Those emotions had been stuffed down for months under the impersonal strangle of duty, a feeling of something more important that had to be done, things that grabbed great handfuls of her hair and pointed her face at anything but her own circumstances. They'd circled her, banging at her windows and her doors, coming to her in dreams, when she was alone. Jill had boarded those windows, those doors, patched them with work and goals and anger, but the feelings eventually found their path of least resistance, leaking into cracks and breaks in her resolve. They found their way in.
Jill slid her backside off of the bed, slow at first, tentative. She touched a bare foot to the cold, smooth floor tiles. She tried to lean some weight on that foot and her leg shook, unsure. She took a breath in, pushed herself to a stand that wobbled and trembled; she swung her arms for balance that was hard-won, but won nonetheless. Step one was done.
Jill lifted her right foot, placed it in front of her. Then the other, until the wall across the room was in front of her, and she leaned against it for breath. She walked to the door, her steps more sure and unafraid as she took them, and turned the door's long, silver knob, pulled it open. She walked in her gown, drafty and thin, down the hall, until a broad wooden desk came into view. Behind it two women in boxy paper scrubs chatted, laughed, drank out of plastic tumblers emblazoned with monograms. A few nurse's aides in polos and khakis — the women who brought and collected Jill's lunch trays, she realized — joined the conversation, spoke in Southern twangs about topics Jill wasn't close enough to hear.
One of the nurses behind the desk spotted Jill and jumped into action, sidled out from behind the desk.
"Here, baby, let me help," the nurse approached Jill with her hands outstretched.
"I'm fine," Jill said, "I can walk. I need some exercise."
"Is she supposed to be up yet?" Mumbled one of the women in the polos; another shrugged, eyes wide.
The nurse still seated picked up the phone receiver, and spoke to someone in a strange breed of clinical ambivalence, her eyes on Jill.
"At least let me walk with you," the nurse beside her said. "I need some more coffee, anyway. You want some coffee?"
Jill opened her mouth to refuse the offer, but the magic word gave her pause. "Coffee… does sound pretty good."
"Yeah? Let's go get some. I can show you where."
They walked through the facility, the nurse watchful, tensed and ready for a tumble that never came. They walked past rooms obscured by closed curtains on circular runners in the ceiling, past doors that said Laboratory — Authorized Employees Only and places that warned of no entry without hazmat suits. The cafeteria was far but the muscles of Jill's legs ached with a thankful, progressive strength. They poured themselves paper cups of coffee and walked back, the nurse's thick-soled sneakers squeaking against the floor over the subdued patter of Jill's bare feet.
Outside of Jill's closed door waited the familiar figure of Dr. Behara, ever present in his crisp white lab coat and dress pants. Jill wondered when the man ever slept — if he did.
"Doctor," Jill said, "good morning."
"It certainly is," he smiled, and gestured for her to enter the room first. "After you. Thank you, nurse."
Jill sipped her coffee as she entered, took a slow, careful seat on the edge of her bed. The doctor turned on the back row of lights, dim and milky, and closed the door. He pulled up a chair and sat across from Jill, his legs crossed.
"Your dedication is impressive."
"I might have been told that before."
The doctor laughed. "I'm sure you have."
Jill swallowed her coffee, bitter and hot and life-giving. "Do you have anything medical to discuss with me, or is this the good cop part of your routine?"
"I don't fault you your suspicion — I understand it will take some time to establish a sense of trust between us."
Jill noted this as front-runner for understatement of the century, but said nothing.
"Medical, yes, among many other things. We have much to discuss."
"Sounds serious."
"Very much so. Clearly, we are not to the point quite yet where we can clear you for field work. But — your recovery has been nothing short of a medical anomaly, and we'd like some further time to study you."
"And if I say no?"
Doctor Behara fixed Jill with a look that was steady, and, she thought, a touch desperate. He sat back, looked over his shoulder, and then leaned, locked the door from the inside. He pulled his chair close to her.
"I'll be missed soon, so I must make this quick. You are our first case of full recovery from the T-virus. I know who you are and where you're from. The United States government is in the preliminary stages of suing to disband Umbrella, but the evidence is thin — destroyed. You are the FBC's only evidence that the T-virus existed, let alone what it could do to a human body, let alone that it was connected to Umbrella. Everything else is gone, along with Raccoon City."
It dawned on Jill with gradual, eventual clarity. "Ah. You couldn't keep me awake, because I could deny the medical treatment you were using to collect the evidence." It was smart. Immoral — highly illegal — but smart, in a twisted sort of way.
"It's up to you, ultimately," Dr. Behara said, "but I implore you to stay nearby. In the city, if you can, but preferably, here. This might be the only shot we get at them."
Jill considered this, her lips over the rim of her coffee cup against the steam.
"We — I — have a contact we need you to speak to. She has information, journalistic connections, she says, first-hand footage, but an interview with a survivor of both incidents could be what blows the case wide open, and actually take it to tri—"
"I'll do it." Jill interrupted.
The doctor blinked. "I… well… that would be…" his smile was relieved, "a huge help. Massive, in fact."
"That's me — helpful. Is that it?"
The doctor stood up, and seemed to remember himself, halfway to the door. "There is something else."
Jill glanced up at him, uninterested, until it caught her eye — a slip of yellow paper, a telephone number written between its lines.
"I wasn't sure how appropriate this would have been. Keep in mind I don't have any sort of judgment, and it's none of my business. But… I made a deal. You should know that he… they very much wanted you to have this, and I wasn't supposed to give it to you. That's all I can say."
Jill had seen drug deals go down with less tension, less nervousness. She looked at the paper, accepted it with tentative confusion, then called to the doctor as he left.
"Who is this?"
"It's… someone who cares about your wellbeing very much, and tried to protect you at possible cost to themselves. If that indicates a single person in your mind, then… that's most likely who you're thinking of." He smiled, awkward, on his way out the door. "I can say no more. Good day, Miss Valentine."
There were many people that fit that first description — Chris, intrepid and emotional, or perhaps Barry, with his warm, paternal nature and his chugging laugh. There were a cast of people who had cared for her, protected her, even tried to guide her, each for their own reasons. But only one returned, over and over again, cropped up exactly when he was needed, devoid of ulterior motive. Jill became aware of her own hope as one does when a coin is flipped into the air, and what one really wants becomes clear, given the opportunity for random chance to take it away.
The feeling wasn't a surprise, but it was new in its purity, its intensity, its sudden eventuality.
She decided to call that night and make sure.
January 4, 1999
Somewhere far away, beers were emptied and refilled as loud rock music blared over a jukebox. The room was choked with thick coils of cigarette smoke, the rowdy whoops and cheers of the bar's patrons, and the chalky clatter of pool balls being hit into nets with drunken disregard of accuracy or rules.
"Alright, square up," Kevin said, and pulled up his pants by the thighs, "you're about to get your world rocked."
Carlos leaned his face on his hand. "Well? Get to rockin', big daddy. You've been stallin' for like ten minutes now."
"HEY!" Kevin yelled, held up a hand. "You can't rush genius. Don't distract me."
"Just throw the fuckin' dart, chicken."
"Bawk bawk, bitch!" Kevin let it fly. It thumped against the board, buried deep in nowheresville halfway between the bullseye and the silvery edge of the board itself. "Alright, warm up shot. This is the real one."
Carlos' phone rumbled in his pocket, the intense vibration adamant against the bone of his hip. Carlos dug it out, and checked the number displayed on the glowing rectangle of its face; it was a number he didn't recognize. Work, maybe. He sighed, and hit the end button. The Captain promised them Friday nights to Monday mornings off, every weekend shoreside, and it was an allowance Carlos was prepared to exploit to its fullest. The phone rang again as soon as he'd hung up, before it was replaced in his pocket, and he looked at it with a strange breed of annoyance.
"Some asshole's blowin' me up, I gotta go take this. I'll be back." Carlos said, and stood up.
"Sure, run away. I'd be emasculated too by all this raw, unadulterated accuracy!" Another dart hit the board, further away this time. "Shit!"
Carlos shrugged his jacket on, heavy black wool, then turned to squeeze himself towards the door through the crowd of people, tall glasses of beer and liquor brandished in cheers and toasts. As soon as he opened the door, the sub-zero temperatures slapped at his face and stung at his skin, and a graceless swirl of snow blew in the door. Carlos huddled under his jacket for warmth, trudged along the cement sidewalk that was only half-shoveled, leaned against the wall next to a group of drunk people engaged in loud conversation. His boots sunk into the snow, through the thin crust of ice settled on top, and he hit the "accept call" button, braced for a conflict.
"Yeah, this is Carlos."
There was silence; he could hear breath, on the other line. He furrowed his brows and looked at the phone.
"Hello?"
"Carlos, it's… it's me." The voice was female, strong and distinct. There was a note of hesitation in that voice, and she cleared her throat, a soft sound, away from the receiver.
Carlos' heart jumped at the exact second his brain implored restraint; the two forces collided somewhere in the middle, left him hopeful and nervous in equal parts. There were a few women who could have called like this, could have suggested he knew who "me" was, even after the passage of time had worked its ambivalent amnesiac dance. He tried to pretend he didn't know the voice, if only to keep his own still. But he did.
"I don't know a 'me'," he said, "you'll have to be more specific or I'm hangin' up."
"It's… it's me. Jill," she said, and laughed, a humorless shake of nerves. He thought she sounded relieved, maybe. "It's really good to hear your voice."
In truth, Carlos had thought of what he'd say if this moment had come to pass. Was I just not important enough to even say goodbye to before you fucked off? and Look I know why you did it, can we still be friends?, any other number of responses that spanned the gamut from offended on behalf of one's wounded pride to the extension of an olive branch. In an ultimate appeal to the tepid waters of good sense, he'd decided that a week was not enough time to decide she'd deserved any of those reactions, or that'd he'd deserved an explanation.
Carlos settled on nothing, lacking the clarity to formulate a response, the warm plastic of the phone held against his face. Should he be mad? Should he be grateful? Should he ask what he did, apologize?
What could he do?
"Are you there?" She asked.
The snow swirled in great blowing loops around the waxy yellow light of the lamppost outside. Jill tangled her fingers in the coiled pigtail cord of the phone as the silence continued. She thought about sitting down in one of the prickly upholstered chairs that faced the window, but thought she'd rather stand. Standing sounded good, as if the act of relaxing would put her at a disadvantage.
"Hey." Carlos said, the bass-drum kick of his voice subdued behind the quiet rush of a breath being released. "Gimme a minute."
There was no stupid joke, no nickname, no real conviction at all. Jill was alone with the muffled sounds of crunching snow under his feet, the puff of his breath against the phone, the high-pitched ding of a car door alarm. That door shut, and the drunken chatter was gone from the other line, now a ghost on the edge of her hearing, in some other world beyond the silence that hung between them for a few more, stretching moments.
Finally, Carlos spoke.
"Fuck, I'm so glad you're okay." There was a softness to his voice, a vulnerability that she thought she may have heard before, but couldn't place where or when.
"Can we talk?" Jill said. "In person, I mean."
"You sure you wanna do that?" Carlos' tone was doubtful.
Jill struggled; he was reacting in a strange way that confused her, in hesitation and sobriety that seemed wrong for the circumstances. His lightness of spirit, bright and indomitable, was quieted now, muffled and shut away like a thing to be protected.
"Do you?" Jill asked.
Carlos laughed, an unexpected noise, thick with warmth. "Can't answer a question with a question. Right?"
"Have I ever told you that you're infuriating?" The smile in her voice gave her away; the silence on the other end of the line felt almost companionable, like she could somehow hear him smiling, too. She felt the crest of something important that had been missing, returning in fits and stumbles, being dug out of the cold dirt in pieces to be reassembled. "Of course I do — if you're still nearby."
"Uh—yeah. Yeah… wait, you wanna do it now?" Then, "You sure?"
"Well, it is cold outside," Jill said, an attempt to downplay the eagerness in her own suggestion, laying down the red carpet for plausible deniability to make its way through, should it be needed. "In case you waited to, you know, wait…"
"I can do now," Carlos said, "just tell me where."
Jill turned then, for reasons she couldn't place, to the empty hospital room. Chris' duffel bag — zipped up, proper, and forgotten, parked against the wall — attracted her attention, and her gaze lingered on it for a long, considering beat.
"I think there's a park by the hospital where I'm staying, where I can get off to for a while."
"Hospital?" He repeated; it was low and thoughtful, like it could have been a question for either of them.
"I'll tell you all about it when I see you," Jill said, and gave him the directions. "I'll see you in a bit?"
"Yeah," Carlos said, finally, "yeah. I'll see you."
He hung up, and Jill held the phone receiver to her mouth, alone with the snow and the beeping dial tone.
The hospital was a pain in the ass to find — Carlos was expecting something larger, more conspicuous — maybe a mirrored Emergency Room with an ambulance bay, lit stark like a beacon against the pressing night, or even directional signs outside. What he found in the dark and snow at the address provided was a squat brick compound with a barren parking lot, visible only because of the lonely pools of its floodlights against the frozen pavement. He circled it, and eventually spotted a nearby Elementary School flying a canvas banner with little stick-figure kids on it, forgotten and empty under the moonlight. There was a jungle gym, a sprawling wooden thing that looked like a pirate ship, and a swing set. A woman in a heavy coat was sitting on one of the swings, dangling back and forth, pushing herself with a foot while she waited, her breath puffing into frigid cartoon bubbles. Carlos stopped, looked over his shoulder, and parallel-parked his car in a practiced, precise maneuver into a lucky space across the street.
Carlos didn't get out immediately. He took a deep breath, and though his music was still on, he wasn't listening. He stared forward at the forest green Jeep in front of him, its dark shell dashed through with a single faded bumper sticker which implored him to vote for Clinton/Gore '92. It didn't normally occur to Carlos to plan what he'd say in situations where emotions were involved; he'd lived his life around the opposite sex in a certain kind of lighthearted improvisation, a tactic which had always worked for him. So when this time when he got the impression he should cook up something — something to lead in with, some kind of ice breaker, some sort of plan, he stopped himself.
"Fuck it," Carlos said, pushed himself out of the car, slammed the door. He jammed his big hands into the pockets of his jacket, just over his stomach, and checked both ways across the street before crossing it. When he got close to the figure on the swing, a familiar face turned to him, then away, then back to him in a rapid double-take; Jill's blue-grey eyes hovered somewhere over his.
"What?" Carlos said, turned and looked around.
"Your hair…" Jill strangled, in disbelief. "It's so short."
Carlos ran his hand back and forth over the top of his head. His hair had grown long enough to be shaped up and styled with the blessing of some product and a lot of patience, growing up and away in piles of thick, stubborn curls the color of a raven's wing. "Courtesy of Uncle Sam. Believe me, feels weirder than it looks."
"It doesn't look weird," she said. Carlos took a seat on one of the swings a foot or so to her side.
"They didn't shave your head. This is bullshit."
"Yours was prettier than mine, too," she said, "all shiny and curly. I think cutting hair like that is against the Geneva Convention."
Carlos shook his head, smiled but didn't look at her. He leaned over, hands clasped between knees spread wide, and watched the cars drift to a stop at the intersection across the street, their headlights a soft, pale yellow blare against the dark and the swirling, thick flutters of snow. People wandered by in their jackets and scarves and hats, clutching collars shut against the cold. The snow fell thick and fast, into fat blankets of soundlessness that insulated the world, made everything feel just a little more close, a little more quiet. A black van slowed to a stop at the red light, its siding reflecting the glow from the lampposts, then was on its way again.
"So," he said, "you said you wanted to talk to me. 'Bout what?"
"I was so sure I knew what. But now that we're here…" Jill trailed off, "I'm sorry. About the time. And the — the helicopter… thing."
Carlos knew it would come up, but not that she would be the one to broach it. It must be really bothering her if so much time later, she still felt the need to apologize.
"Forget about it. We both got tired and weird." He paused, rocked on his heels, then added, "And I'm sorry for… you know, the arm thing."
When Jill spoke, it was the hesitant, lilting cadence of words being carefully chosen. "I guess everything that's happened puts those things in perspective, as little as they seem at the time."
"Well, consider yourself officially forgiven. Don't stress about that stuff." It wasn't hard to forgive. He'd forgiven her the moment she'd said it. That, however, was his secret to keep. "That all you wanted to talk about?"
"That depends," She didn't look up from where her toe had dug the divot in the snow. "How deep do you want to get?"
"Well — we're here. Deep as you have to, I guess."
"I need to ask you something."
Her newfound hesitance was at clashing odds with her flaming surety; the Jill he'd known insisted, objected, parked her tiny body dead-center of your frame and said No, fuck you, this is how we're doing things. Follow along or get the hell out of the way. Asking for permission wasn't something he'd assumed she'd made a habit of, and it gave him pause.
Carlos didn't respond, just looked at her. Jill took this gesture as the invitation it was, and spoke again.
"Why did you give me the vaccine, instead of saving it? I keep turning it over and over in my head, trying to figure it out. Were those your orders?"
There it was. The Big One, The Million Dollar Question, Final Jeopardy. Yes, Alec, What Is "I Still Can't Fuckin' Tell You, It Just Seemed Like a Good Idea At the Time"?
Carlos leaned back. "Not an order. By that point, we had nobody to take orders from."
"I guess I just don't understand why. Can you tell me?"
It occurred to Carlos that they were looking at two completely different situations; he would always have the reliefs and shadows of things he'd done to deliver her to safety, of running against time's cruel marching indifference, of stopping every twenty minutes to make sure she hadn't died against his back, that the smell of his hair and the sweat on his neck weren't the last things she'd felt. He'd been chasing those ghosts away for months, but she was just now realizing their existence, learning their names. Catching up.
"Yeah. Y'know, I thought about this some, but I always go back and forth between never havin' an answer, one of those clean ones that make sense or sound good when I try to explain it — or I've got too many to make sense. Guess it just felt like the right thing to do." For want of something to fidget with, Carlos pushed his feet against the ground. The swing rocked back in a shallow, low arc, its chain creaking against the anchors overhead. "And, because… I guess…" he fought with this part, and dismissed it, "It's stupid. It'd probably sound stupid."
"Dumber than 'I know what a radio is'?"
Carlos laughed at that, a sudden rush that forced itself out, his first real rib-scraping belly laugh in months. She was looking at him, fighting back a smile, and he scratched his forehead with his thumbnail when it died down. "Alright, alright. It… it just felt like… like people needed you. You know? That you weren't done. That's why."
"Were you one of them?" A halting, unsure sentence, as if she was forcing herself to ask a question she maybe didn't want the answer to. "One of those people?"
Carlos looked to her, fully prepared to let loose some harmless, smooth lie, one that was true enough to not have to recant if pressed but also untrue enough to save face. For years from that moment, her face in that instant — fair and pretty, framed with soft chestnut hair, her lips and cheeks dark pink from the cold, her eyes on him and only him, so earnest in their request for the truth — burned into his memory like heat lightning. It was the moment he realized he wasn't able to lie to her, even through omission; not because she'd catch him, but because she wouldn't, and he wanted to give her more than that. More credit, more honesty, more honor, more.
"Maybe," he said, then, "is that weird?"
Something in her face changed, just then. It was an expression more delicate than he'd expected, downcast batting eyelashes and a small smile, one that didn't seem at odds with her grit, but complemented its pieces. It formed a more full picture of her, a luxury outside of places where that grit was necessary.
"I don't think so." She said, "If it is, then I think we're both weird."
Carlos laughed, pushed the swing again, moving a foot or so back and forth. "You ever expect to have this conversation with someone you knew for a week?"
"Time doesn't bother me anymore. It's a bad judge of character."
"So now it's my turn," Carlos said, stopping himself against the frozen dirt, "you said you wanted to apologize about the time. So… why'd you call now?"
"I didn't feel safe." Her expression was guarded, as if expecting him to laugh at her.
"What, someone giving you a hard time?" It was a stupid question, of course — of all the women in the world, she was the least likely to need intercession if someone was giving her a hard time. But it came out of him all the same, immediate, like a reflex.
"No," Jill said, "what I mean is — I woke up, and you weren't there. It felt like I was on my own, and it was… it was scary. Scarier than anything else. I'm used to fighting, or running, or hiding, but you can't fight that. You just have to be alone with it. And I didn't want to be alone."
She didn't want to be alone. "It's been three months," he said, more quietly, more seriously than he intended. "Why'd you leave?"
A quiet expression of realization, intermingled with dread, washed over her face.
"It's cool," Carlos said, took her silence as an answer, "you don't gotta… if it's too personal, I get it. I shouldn't have asked."
"I didn't," Jill said, "I've been here. They had me under, to do surgery, and… they didn't tell you…?"
Carlos shook his head. "They told me that you were worse off than I was, but… that's it. I waited, but—"
Jill stood, then, the long zipper on the front of her jacket sounding with a sharp, metallic noise. He watched her shrug off the jacket, place it on the swing, step in front of him. She pulled up the sleeves on her sweater, knit thick and warm in white yarn, in a yank. She turned her palms to the sky before him, as if offering them to be handcuffed.
"You don't gotta—" he stammered.
"Look." She said. Then, "Look."
Carlos looked. At first he didn't see the scars, but once one caught the light they all appeared in a glimmer, long and straight and pale. They ran straight from the crook of Jill's elbow to her wrist, branching to trail down the inside of each individual finger. He thought they looked a bit like the joints on a puppet or a doll, articulated lines where movement should be.
Without realizing it, Carlos stood, and his hands were under the delicate lines of her arms, under her wrists, supporting their weight while he tilted them in the light, examining the glossy scar tissue. Her arms were pale as a spirit against the dark fabric of his gloves; the pad of his thumb touched one of the scars, running down its length, a brushing caress that was tentative, as if afraid to break it open.
"I don't have an explanation," she said, "I'm still trying to find it, myself. But… I've got these. That has to count for something."
In a rush, the fist curled around the core of hurt that masqueraded as anger in Carlos' chest released with no real telegraph. Its fire simply trailed onto the cold January wind in a puff of smoke, buried under the piling snow, its heat now cooled under the weight of understanding, of honesty.
"I'm sorry, too." He said, holding her wrists in his hands. She moved first, rushed him, rocked onto the balls of her feet and pulled him by his neck into a hug. He squeezed her against him as tight as he could, slender and soft and warm, afraid that upon release she'd disappear into a flutter of ashes or maybe snowflakes, a dream cooked up by a brain still helplessly trapped in the throes of heartbreak and mourning. She pulled away and his fingers, thick and strong, trailed against the sides of her waist.
"Now a hug?" He said, "You sure you're feelin' better?"
Jill pushed him. "Moment ruiner. Chronic moment ruiner. Stop laughing at me."
"Not laughing. Just… startin' to get the impression you might like havin' me around, after all. I was startin' to think maybe you didn't."
"I suppose you're okay." Then, "You're not all bad… all the time."
"Well, compared to 'fuck you, I know what a radio is', I'll take what I can get."
Jill crinkled her nose, and collected her jacket. "…I'm never living that down, huh?"
"Nope. Stayin' right in the pocket."
They exchanged a look and then broke down into a spate of conspiratorial giggles. It might have been the first time he really saw her smile, not a smirk that wanted to be a smile but just couldn't get there, but smile without the grainy, overexposed filters of fatigue and tension. She had dimples, shallow little divots that pulled against cheeks that rounded with it, and her front teeth curved inwards just a bit.
"I missed you, you know." Carlos said. "A lot."
Carlos expected a rebuke, sharp and firm, some kind of about-face that would slap the taste out of his mouth, tell him he was wrong. None came.
"I missed you too." She said, and lingered where she stood. "And… just to correct the record. I didn't mind it."
Carlos raised his eyebrows. "Hm?"
"I actually sort of liked the arm thing. You smell way better now, though."
Carlos' brain didn't so much as recoil as readjust. He watched her as if waiting for further clarification, some declaration of a joke, but she just met his gaze, her blue eyes calm and unafraid. When he settled upon the right thing to say, his phone rang, rumbling against his hip, a sudden bzzzzzzt-bzzzzzt, zapping into the night air. They both sighed in a grimacing sort of way, born of intimate familiarity with bad timing.
"Work?" She asked.
Carlos checked the number on the glowing display. "Work. I gotta take this one."
They walked together in silence, over crunching, glittering snow to the sidewalk, where their paths branched.
"It was good to see you," Carlos said, "thanks for callin'. I mean it. I really needed this." He gestured to his car with a jab of his thumb. "Give you a ride back?"
Jill shook her head. "I need the exercise. It's not far."
"Okay. Be careful." Carlos turned to walk away, but didn't get far when her voice stopped him.
"You still owe me dinner, you know," Jill called to him. "You promised. 'As soon as we get this bird on the ground'. Remember?"
"Now that you mention it," Carlos said, pulled back one foot from where it dangled over the curb, and then turned around. "I do seem to remember some talk of… Japanese food?"
"Good memory."
Carlos shrugged, as if to say, What can I say? I'm good. "You should call me again when you're hungry."
Jill took the invitation for what it was, and smiled, with a flutter of lashes. "We'll see." She ducked her head into the collar of her coat, and was gone, down the street. Carlos watched her retreating form, his phone still buzzing in his hand like an angry insect. He hit the green "accept" button, and took the call.
"Heavy!" Kevin cried into the receiver, over the crushing squall of Def Leppard and the hooting of partygoers. "What the fuck, man, you okay? You left to take a call and you were just gone. You get arrested?"
"More than good," Carlos said, "I had a friend who needed my help, but I think I'm gonna head home and sleep."
"Wait, hold up. You telling me you left for a booty call?"
Carlos paused. "Uh… I mean-maybe?"
"Hm," Kevin said, "okay, that makes a lot more sense."
Kevin hung up and Carlos looked at his phone, let out a frosted puff of laughter. As he approached his car, his hands shoved into his pockets against the cold, he felt a sense of coming together, a sense of symmetry. He had a lot to think about, but at least now the thinking was in his favor.
Carlos wasn't paying attention when the black van circled the street again, and then took off into the night.