Note from Author: In the interest of moving the story along, I'm writing a slightly shorter chapter than usual. Bless you all for reading! I so appreciate each and every one of you. *heart*
Caged: Reclamation
Chapter 27
Téa opened her eyes to look at him, at the ghost come to life, at this impossible man who pressed against her chest. She eyed the shorn hair, a scar on his scalp, a look so distinct from any memory of him that she questioned what she looked at. She gently pushed him away, a hand on his shoulder, to see his face again though he didn't look back at her, head staying down, because it simply could not be, could it? Maybe she's truly mad from grief, sick, delusional, willing him to be alive in her arms like a magic trick, an illusion she created.
"Todd?"
How is this possible?
And god, GOD, he lifted his eyes to her, and there he was, those beautiful stormy eyes gripping her. That sharp-featured face carrying his history, right in front of her. She huffed hard, her hands on his arms, "How?" on her lips. And still she wondered if he was merely a fiction. Still maybe putting him on the body of Mark. She glanced around the dim room, light coming only from the kitchen. She tore away from the bed and fumbled for the lamp switch, "God damn it," cursing as she searched beneath the lamp shade and finally it clicked and warm vanilla spilled onto him and he was scowling at her, ashamed perhaps for being alive, yes, yes, he was apologizing for being on her bed, in this room, in the light. As he should be, should be dead, she should make it so for what he did! She stood staring at him, speechless, breathing fast from the stress of it. From the disorientation of it.
How is this POSSIBLE?!
And then she heard his voice, his voice, "I know… um… this doesn't make sense."
She groaned and shut her eyes, back against the wall, a sound coming from her that seemed almost animal-like, the mewl soon coalescing into words, "No, no, can't be… can't possibly be… you're nothing but ashes… sand all over the table!" She yelled at the end there, tears bursting, eyes on him, her arm outstretched and pointing, all orange and yellow and green silk against the wall, "ASHES!" She yelled it again as she writhed with a mad range of emotions, anger, horror, fear, lost love, love crushed, devastating sorrow, a finger now pointing at him, her body shaking, her fingers curling into a fist.
"ASHES!"
And he moved quickly off the bed, guilty as charged, nothing but ash inside, out, a ghost desperately trying to be real, trying to be alive like he was always supposed to be, like he promised her back in La Habana. "I'm sorry," he said, "I'm sorry," over and over, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," and he grabbed her and she fought him, pounding him, punching him, increasingly restricted by his arms around her, a hug tightening around her, as he softly said, words like tropical rain, hitting her, warm and wet, "Téa, Téa, mí preciosa, mí vida… Delgado…"
"Ashes, nothing but ashes," she cried, settling now, caught in a breathless iron-like embrace, his back to the wall, a body she knew so well, a hold she knew so well. A scent to him now she had loved, male sweat, a muskiness marked forever by a heroin sweetness that weakened her, that spoke to every vulnerability he always tried to hide behind his meanness and anger and brooding silence from long ago. Todd inside of Blanco.
"My god," she moaned, "I don't understand."
He sighed heavily, not releasing her in any way, the two on the wall like a cocoon on a branch. "The bombing didn't kill me. I… uh…didn't wake for a long time… and uh… Téa…Delgado… I'm so sorry. I know… I uh…" His voice broke, he was on the verge of his own tears. "I hurt you—"
His voice, unmistakable, slid over her, more tropical rain, and she raised her eyes and caught his, absolutely seeing Todd Manning, Todd not Blanco, her Todd.
"I couldn't walk," he said, "I came as soon as I could."
A nightmare. It was all a nightmare. I'm awake. It wasn't real. It wasn't real. It. Wasn't. Real.
She weakened, her forehead pressed against his chest. She was on a precipice of falling further, of grabbing him to her, of holding him as tightly as he held her, the edge of screaming in relief, amazement, the miracle of it, the dream… kissing him, loving him… my god my god my god, is this real?!
Except…
"Hurt me?"
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he said, softly, tenderly.
And she pulled back from that ledge, pulled back hard, because the word enraged her. She growled, animal-like again, pushing at his chest, fighting the hold of her, "You didn't HURT me, Todd, you destroyed me, you ran a fucking sword through me! You BURNED me! Burned your entire family! Until WE were nothing but ASHES!"
He now let go and she stood inches from him. He knew this of course, he knew what he had done. Nothing could change the moment he decided to stay in that house until the clock ran out. He had made a choice. He had chosen death over his remaining children, even if Téa and Esperanza HAD been dead. The decision haunted him and now he had to find a way out of the consequences of that decision and had no idea how to do that.
Being alive, surviving, was not a fix in any way whatsoever. Which he had known. Which he had understood.
He gazed at her and something inside gave way and he found himself sliding down the wall, a hand flat on the plaster to slow the fall, down, down, down, a puppet with no support, a marionette who got dropped, slid until he sat, knees up, feeling her hate, her rightful, justified, deserved hate.
"You bastard! You fucking BASTARD!"
Maybe he should have stayed dead.
Maybe maybe maybe maybe…
"You blew up a house up with you in it! You didn't care about anything except those sick assholes but what about us? US?!"
He swallowed and rubbed his head and wanted to disappear, should have stayed hidden, should have let her continue her war that perhaps would give her the peace she needed. He almost laughed aloud, almost roared with laughter at his own arrogance. At Jed's naivety, at the ridiculous idea that somehow he could save her.
She paced now, cursing him, ranting at him, and he rested against the wall as she yelled, words running into each other that his brain couldn't untangle, unravel, decode… ratta-tat-tat… over and over, Spanish and English, and he couldn't stop the tears that rolled into his mouth, salty and historical, relentless and beyond his control.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly to Lucia and Reese and Starr and Jed because they were the ones who would have been left. Even to Rico and Viki and Raquel and Abram, too, because really, he forgot them. Because really… the cruelty of the bombing was that it had been a regression to the rapist in college who didn't believe he belonged in this world and didn't care who died, who lived, didn't care about the consequences of anything he did.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Téa sat on the bed, spent from her diatribe, looking at her broken undead husband. He had long stopped listening to her, long disappeared into whatever space he needed to disappear into. He kept saying I'm sorry, and she saw in the light the tears that matched hers. He was alive. And it began dawning on her what he had been telling her.
The bombing. He had been in the house. And he was in a coma probably for… months and months… and had to learn to walk and then had to come back here... how? Cross the border somewhere. A journey back home. Under the radar.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Numbness stilled her, deadened all feelings inside of her other than the persistent hate that had been keeping her on her feet for months like the staples in the ashes, hate that refused to burn away. She got up and then sank to her knees and he gazed back at her, eyes utterly empty, clearly resigned to the fate of revealing himself to her.
He shook his head a little and gave a small shrug. No words crossed his lips. They were trapped, stuck. Too many needed to roll out and his fucked-up brain rejected the effort and he could only plead with her with his eyes to just give him a chance to explain the inexplicable, the decision that he made because without her, he had lost his place in the world and reverted to a monster again, a monster he knew lived inside him but believed he could manage and how he lost all ability to make sense of anything.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, no strength anymore.
Téa reached to him and ran fingertips through the cut hair, across the new scar visible. She pulled her hand back like she touched acid and just sat now. The two stared at one another, two ghosts really, both cut off from who they'd been for a minute.
Because it was just a minute they had at one time? Just a minute where she didn't know about MK and he fairly skillfully pretended to be just a father, just a working man taking care of his family, recovering from the five years in prison.
It was just a minute of bliss.
Téa sniffed and eased backwards, crab-crawled until she rested against the bed. She stretched her legs, opening them so that her tippy toes touched the tips of his boots.
"So," she croaked, voice shredded by sheer agony, still questioning what her eyes told her. "How long have you been stateside? I assume Jed knows you're alive along with… Rolon? Mark? Who else?" Distance laced her words, a falsity to them. Words she created if she were to actually be in front of a risen dead man.
After a minute, he said, "Pedro."
She laughed in a bitter way, "Of course. Still beholden to him, are you? Trusting. Turning to him."
He looked away because the narrative remained trapped in his throat, the story of how he got here, Esperanza calling to him from the basement, the fluffy yellow bird singing to him poems from inside a cage, a cave's river he had floated in for months, the movie reels of his life that got stitched together in one seamless cinematic show that hid nothing anymore, sisters tending him, Jed finding him, and walks through a tropical forest that healed a broken heart and reset a life.
A saving by Pedro he still didn't understand. How he had no love for the old man.
Didn't matter. None of it would break through to where she could hear. Even if he could actually speak it out loud. None of it could explain the underlying decision to stay in the house. He rubbed his hair and pressed his head against the wall, eyes on her again. Silent.
"I need an explanation, Todd."
"For what part?"
She paused. There was much to sort through.
"How you survived."
He breathed and closed his eyes and focused on simple words, single words to convince his brain to let him talk. "Pedro… um… saved me." He started to build on that, explain how someone found him in the rubble and told Pedro who transported him to Baracoa but the words disappeared again. He hit his head against the wall in frustration and tightened his lips, his hand up and rubbing his face. Mad now. Aggravated now. He dug into his pocket and pulled out the small burner phone and clicked on Jed's number and showed her.
"Call.. him," he said sharply.
She looked at the number. Jed's number. "I don't want to talk to him. He obviously knew and said nothing to me. Just another bastard Manning, bound and determined to ruin me."
"Delgado, stop! I'm… uh… I have… trouble… fuck!"
Téa's eyes drifted to the scar on his head, and watched him press his lips in a way she hadn't seen him do before, an unfamiliar expression, a new habit. Stared at the scar again. Then back at him. "What's wrong with you?"
She said it coldly, without love, and it stabbed into him. It was so very deserving.
"Too much... to say," he rasped, tears in his eyes, "choking me. Call him."
She took the phone from him. Stared at it. At Jed's number. She tapped the screen a couple more times then looked back at him. Showed him the number of the phone itself. "You called me," she said. "Two or three times."
He nodded again, "Yeah." The stress eased a little. "I wanted to hear your voice."
She felt an ache in her chest, an echo of before, of ages ago, a sorrow for him, for his hurts. Love. Oh god, eternal love, boundless love, mí amor, mí corazón… her breathing sped up, a gasp in her throat…
No, no, no, shut it down. Bury it. End it. Stop.
And it did. Her body chilled again, heart slowed. Because in the end, he eradicated her. Her life. Everything she believed in. Didn't he? Nothing but ashes. A killer. How could she love her murderer?
She dialed Jed's number and had to control her uncontrollable anger, maybe unfair, but there it was anyway. And GOD when Jed answered, clearly seeing a call coming from his father's cell phone because there wasn't a cautious or unknowing "Hello," no, no, he jumped on the call, the love he had for his father pouring across the airwaves.
"Hey, fuck! Rolon told me you sent everyone home and it's just you at HQ… Pops are ya' crazy?!"
"Oh he's anything but crazy," Téa said coolly. Controlled after all.
She hit the speaker button and lowered the cell, looking at Todd who waited for a response, the seconds rolling by until they both heard a sputtering, "Oh shit."
"Your father is here and he says he has too much to say and—"
"It's called aphasia, Moms." Jed huffed, nearly groaned, but then pulled himself together and got serious, "and though he is improved, I notice that when shit gets intense he shuts down. The words don't come. He can't find the words. It's hardly noticeable most of the time. It's a leftover gift from the bombing."
Téa eyed Todd who clearly gave up trying to talk. He gazed at her, holding her with his light eyes full of darkness. She hissed at Jed, "You found him in Cuba, didn't you?"
"Yep."
"And you… you didn't tell me. You found your dead father alive and kept it to yourself."
"Yeah I did because you aren't yourself, haven't been yourself, and in case you forgot, there's a fucking possibility the FBI wants him and until THAT shit is cleared up I took it upon myself to not SAY shit, yeah?"
When she looked back at the ghost, he now seemed to be studying her, evaluating her. Eyes slightly narrowed, breathing slowed to a gentle undetectable rate. Head tilted slightly.
"I'm absolutely myself, Jedediah," she spat.
"No, you're not. Most days I don't even recognize you."
Téa took a breath, a sigh. "Whatever, fine. I still am looking at your father and I have no idea how I'm supposed to feel." She said the words, unable to tear away from Todd.
"It's a fucking miracle, Moms. He didn't die. He's right in front of you. Immortal, ya know? You can stop grieving him and start thinking about how to help him, how to really bring him home. YOU can come home."
Todd hunched at that, head down, humbled, doubtful. Hard to see it as a miracle when so much hellish fire burned next to him. Awww kid. You beautiful boy. I don't deserve that kind of love, that kind of forgiveness. He didn't dare think of his other children who didn't know. Who still grieved. Fighting imaginary enemies in the forest behind the house. Téa though… she fought real enemies.
What did he expect her to do now?
She hung up, the rest of the conversation lost to him. "I can talk," he said in a hushed tone, "just gotta take it slow."
It was Téa's turn to sink into quiet. Then in a low voice, a deadness to it, she asked, "Are you really here, or are you a figment of my imagination?"
He didn't know why he laughed. Maybe it was days and days of feeling unreal, a ghost refusing to go to the light, maybe days and days of just asking "what the fuck?" every five minutes to everything. Maybe just so much unreality since he woke up. "You tell me!" He laughed and laughed and he couldn't stop, tears now, a hand on his mouth, leaning over drunkenly. He caught his breath and now was on his side, an elbow holding him up. He looked at her—she wasn't feeling his mirth, sitting quietly. "Am I real, Delgado? Why don't you touch me? Hit me more. Taste me. Then… tell me. 'Cause I sure as fuck… don't really know."
Téa breathed in deep and slow, eyes glued to him. He had quit laughing, tears again in his eyes.
"I see you," she said. "I hear you, I smell you… but I don't know either. Maybe I am completely insane."
They didn't talk for a long time, long minutes stretching, before Todd pulled himself up off the floor. He wandered the bedroom, its simple set-up, an antique mahogany bed luxuriously dressed in all white, an armoire just as dark, lamps on matching bedside tables. No pictures. No knickknacks. The open closet door revealed cedar shelves and a few sets of clothes and high-heeled shoes. All new. Nothing he recognized from before. He left the room and stood just outside the doorway, taking in the small kitchen, the living area. Large windows opening to black emptiness. A style equally as utilitarian as the Pedro Moreno cottages with an antique touch. A wine bottle on a coffee table. What might have been a sparkly crystal wine glass lay in pieces near the window. He turned and saw the ashes on the table. He moved closer and saw a box with his name on it.
In another time, maybe before Marty had entered his life, seeing his own name on a tombstone or urn might have been disconcerting but now, after Ireland, it seemed… well… kind of expected. He stood looking over the ashes on the table, seeing staples to the side. Strange. Wondered who this was. Didn't really care. Felt the heat of Téa's rage in her dumping of the box here.
He turned and went to the couch and sat, head in his hands. No idea what to do. He really was in a bind, yeah? He had to admit, he thought maybe she would melt into him, relieved as he had been.
Fucking idiot.
He heard Téa come out of the bedroom to sit in a chair opposite. Raised his head to look at her. Found only questions and hate in her searing brown eyes.
"Why did you stay in the house?"
He darted away from her, couldn't look at her. Shook his head. "Thought you died. I lost my mind."
"You had living children who loved you."
Shook his head. The silence crept back and they stayed that way for long minutes. A clock ticked.
"After I woke up," he said, his voice weighted, soft, "when I learned you didn't… die… that Esperanza survived… the relief was so… big… I couldn't hold it, couldn't feel it in a… whole way. It came in waves because you were still gone, not with me. When I saw you here… that relief was… big again. I love you, Delgado—"
"Don't. No, no, no. You're not real to me. I don't feel relief. I feel nothing."
He leaned back and nodded. Eyes hard on hers. "What do you want me to do?"
No answer.
He noticed a pack of cigarettes on the table. His brand. Odd. He couldn't quite understand why they were there. Years of them flashed before him, Blanco snapping to life like a flame inside of him.
She lies, brother, let the hate burn out, brother.
Eyes back up. She had curled up on the seat, her smallness large to him, that same breakable quality she usually hid clear, shining. Her hair hung limply, a sadness in her face, her eyes. She had been broken by him. Utterly. Beyond anything he'd ever done before. No number of sorries could heal this. He knew it well. That hate feeding her now was a newborn baby in comparison to his hate.
He reached for the Camel cigarettes, taking one. Reached for the lighter. Lit up. Sat back roughly and enjoyed the smoke. "New habit, Delgado?" He understood what was happening. Shock. Her own embrace of a monster within. He watched her as he took in the taste and felt the burn. Thinking on next steps. Wondered if she'd call the authorities. What would he do? Run, jump out the window, use the gun that rested in the holster at his side?
Bam bam bam fuck you up like fucking cops and robbers, running like a dog into an endless night.
His phone buzzed for the nth time, the silence so thorough he could hear it even with his one bad ear, and he got up. Found the phone by her bed. Answered it with the cigarette hanging off his lip. His other hand caressed the gun, still imagining the cops coming after him.
"Pops! Why aren't you answering your phone?!"
"Where are you?"
"I'm outside… I didn't—I wasn't— fuck!"
"It's fine. She didn't shoot me. You can go home."
"I told you to wait. Why didn't you wait?"
"Couldn't."
"Oh Dad, why don't you ever listen?"
"She… um… didn't take it well."
"I told you. She ain't herself."
"I know. Let me… uh… I'll uh…figure it out. It's ok. Don't worry, yeah?"
"Is she ok? Are you?"
"Nobody is ok but… we're still breathing."
They exchanged I love yous and Todd had to sit for a minute staring at the cell phone after they hung up, at hearing the ease of love, the truth in it, the fullness. His chest tightened with the enormity of Jed at his side, after so much. It gave him the slightest bit of hope. He could see Téa in the darkness of the living room. Her face wasn't entirely blank but rather… perplexed. She needed time to work out this new reality. He wished he still held her in this bed, still had her in his arms. He thought of Rico suddenly, his occasional hate. How Todd had to hold him until the hate receded back into its sea.
Another love hating him, somewhere.
He nodded to himself, yeah, if she couldn't be held until the hate left, then maybe she needed what Jed had gotten. Time. They did have that provided she didn't call Bo or Juarez. Which she didn't seem to be doing. That's something. While he couldn't fix things simply by being alive or by… loving her… couldn't fix her… there were still other things to fix.
Blanco still could be useful to the Queen of Method Makers aka reformulated MK. He still had the power of knowledge. He knew these people, knew their weaknesses and strengths. Knew the dynamics of the gangs in the region. Knew why things were so askew. He could still help. And in that time, maybe she'd find the usefulness of Todd again. He didn't dare wish for love, couldn't wish for it. But to be… forgiven… or… tolerated?
Maybe. I don't know.
The cigarette had burned down and he moved to the kitchen and dumped the butt into the sink. He turned and walked back to the couch. Sat and returned Téa's disbelieving gaze.
"I'll stay as your bodyguard, masked… nobody needs to know. Let me help you get rid of… um… Los Muertos. Don't think of me… as myself… but as a consultant. When things improve… then you decide what I should do. Stay dead or come home. You… decide. Because Téa… without you… without you wanting me here… for the kids… or whatever, there is no point to… um… disrupting their lives again. Just no goddamn point."
She said nothing. Staring at him, all feelings meshed together, all looking like… well… hate.
Fuck.
With a sniff, he stood up and waited a moment, looking at her a moment, then he walked out the door, shutting it quietly behind him.
Téa got up after the silence became permanent, after his absence was certain, and picked up the iPad. Clicked through the cameras, following him down the stairs. He had grabbed the mask off her bed and put it back on. Once downstairs, he took up his watch again. Sitting on the throne, one leg out, the other bent. Legs spread in his usual way. An elbow on the arm. Lounging and watching. A king at the door of the kingdom.
She ran her fingers down the screen, caressing the picture. Her heart sped up, a panic of him dying, that she could stop the bombing, a repeat nightmare of being held back from a burning building, screaming, crying, a dream she easily recalled. She breathed as a sob built up, no, no, please dear god, please tell me this is not my imagination… he's not dead… he's not dead…mi amor, mí vida…
But then she shut things down hard again, the fear subsiding. The worry. No relief in sight. She sank into herself and a cool hate took the place of all that desperation. I hate you. I hate what you did to us. She should go home. She should see Lucia and give her her gift.
Yes.
In thirty minutes, she showered, refreshed, dressed in jeans and a tank top, reset her hair and makeup, let go of the fantasy that Todd had come home. It was after ten and the party probably ended or was in the process of ending, final goodbyes and all that. Crying kids, worn out maybe. She grabbed her purse and left. She walked down the stairs, down the flights, and when she got to the lobby said, "Drive me. I'm going home."
Todd eyed her as she stood waiting for him. He dug into his pocket for the keys to the SUV. "Yes, ma'am," he rasped. "Mark… at your service."
She ignored the quip.
They drove in silence and after a few minutes, he began to absorb the trip they were on, that they were headed to their house, their home, that the children were there, Viki was there. That perhaps his Téa was doing this as a metaphorical sword through his heart. He glanced at the rear view mirror and found her eyes. She glared at him.
Yeah, a fucking sword. Okay, he thought, you wanna play games? Wanna fight in the forest?
You got it.
He said nothing the rest of the way, though he did wonder with a sharp sickness in his gut the closer they got to their beautiful house with the wrap-around porch, the pain in his belly where the sword impaled him, how the next hours would go. He couldn't resist revealing himself to Téa… could he resist just as uselessly with his children? Did he even have the strength to stand by in silence as Téa turned the sword and tore at his insides?
He had to find the strength.
She needed him to.
Fucking hell.
To be continued…
