Chapter Three
The Middleman, downstairs, opened Wendy's car door for her. He could see that she didn't appreciate the gesture. Her mouth was set in a hard line, gearing up for the Serious Talk that loomed ahead of them. The Middleman sat behind the wheel of their car. He mentally contrasted her sour look to the glowing, sated expression she'd worn only a few hours earlier. I did that. A foolish burst of affection and pride and nervousness. He tried to suppress it and go on with his job. "Dubbie."
"Rogue succubus," she said quickly, ticking things off on her fingers. "Stronger than both of us. Killing you. What else was I supposed to do ?"
"I don't question that shot, Dubbie," he said softly. "But you were prepared to kill her as well, even after she was incapacitated."
"I don't know what incapacitated is with one of those. I might have just been pissing her off," Wendy retorted. "I was playing to win. You've got another idea?"
"No." He sighed. "I don't want our new situation to adversely affect the job." If it did, he'd have to give her up. And apart from the difficulty of saying 'no' to Dubbie, he didn't want to. The feeling of comfort in his own body, the sense of rightness about their whole relationship... He'd lost that once, along with so much else. He didn't know if he had the courage to give it up again in cold blood. "You can't let what's between us now make you overprotective. Or afraid."
"Yeah." Wendy was staring at the glove compartment in front of her. With forced lightness, "It's no big deal."
"I don't mean that. You always were, always will be, tremendously important to me."
Her fists clenched. Something was clearly still upsetting her, but she didn't seem to want to discuss it. He used what he knew all too well was a rudimentary sense for detecting what women wanted, and decided to follow her lead. "You're right about the succubus," he said, glad for a topic he could discuss without reserve. "I wouldn't have had a wooden nickel's chance without you stepping in; she got inside my guard. All I'm saying is that the coup de grace would have been, well, overkill. Always keep our rules of engagement in mind – exactly as much force as the situation requires, no more. We can go over succubi attack patterns in the dojo later, if you like." He rubbed the side of his throat. "The subject does keep coming up."
Wendy took a breath. "That seems like a good idea to me," she said, in something much more like her normal tone of voice. Then she smiled a little. "But if you think a near-death experience is getting you out of visiting the art gallery, you can have another guess."
[*]
The familiar artistic environment seemed to ground Wendy, help her come back to herself after the stress of battle and emotion. He'd face far worse than homoerotic statuary to reach that goal. This gallery was in an old building downtown, all high patterned-tin ceilings and antique woodwork with pieces displayed on individual plinths and easels. She loyally went and admired her neighbor's ultra-modern 'objects' where the clerk at the desk could see her. "Most of this stuff is better than Joe's," she whispered. "Classy. I doubt he'll keep his spot for long."
The Middleman nodded slightly. "Should we look at these other things?" The fine arts weren't really his area, but he resolved to give each piece a fair chance.
"Okay." A pause. "But if I hear the words 'Thomas Kinkade' pass your lips, I'm taking the Middlemobile and leaving you stranded."
Wendy wandered off in her own direction in the small space. Studying artistic techniques good and bad, the Middleman guessed. She was surely getting more out of the gallery than he was. Nothing here had an Old West theme, which was his first thought. Only one piece, a tall narrow canvas about the size of two hardcover books, really caught his eye.
An Apollo-era LEM sitting on a flat lunar plain; the topography of the terrain most closely matched Apollo 14. The colors, in vacuum, were unnaturally bright and stark. The entire rest of the human race was above them and apart, on the Earth that shone straight overhead like a more colorful quarter-moon.
Wendy saw him stop and came over to join him. "Is this good?" the Middleman asked in a whisper. By her expression, he at least hadn't disgraced himself utterly as an art customer.
"If you like it, it's good. What do you like about it?" Wendy asked.
His eyes were fixed on the two tiny, stiff space suits at the corner of the LEM. "Look how alone they are."
She looked, thoughtfully, and smiled a little. "This will sell fast," Wendy whispered back. "If you want it, I'd grab it now."
[*]
Ida avoided them when they returned to HQ. The Middleman was careful with the acrylic painting. Wendy had shown him how to carry it without damaging it. "It needs a frame before long to prevent warping," she said. "But it'll be all right for a little while. Where do you want it?"
"My room," the Middleman said. "I've never shown you where I live, have I?"
"Not in what is about to be an entire year," Wendy agreed.
"Then I think it's time." He headed toward the stairs.
He lived on the fifth level, counting from the ground floor, along a narrow corridor that might as well have held file rooms. No visible lock on the doorknob, but a glass plate above it with a human hand outline. "Put your hand there." When Wendy did, he took a small remote off his belt and punched a button. The door opened. "You're authorized now. But it would be polite to look over the door when you come up." A small row of colored lights, all unlit. "The red light is 'do not disturb.' I don't use it much."
"What would you use it for?" she blurted.
The Middleman didn't take offense. "Maybe," almost shyly, "that could change."
Wendy entered his room for the first time, looked around with her artist's eye, and crossed her arms. "Two words," she said. "Dorm furniture."
The Middleman tried to see it through her eyes. He'd never felt any dissatisfaction with this space. The room was fairly sizable, maybe fifteen by twenty, with a row of windows at the far end. A couch, small end tables, and a television were set up living-room style at the end near the entrance. Further in was his bed, another end table serving as a nightstand, a bookshelf for his books and DVDs and a little music. Closet door, bathroom door. How much room did one person need?
But she was right. The furniture had a hand-me-down quality associated with college and other first apartments. Battered headboard over the double bed, elderly couch, tube television.
"This is where you live?" Wendy asked. He nodded. "But it's not where the two of you lived."
Raveena. Wendy was clearly still sensitive about the comparison. He was suddenly glad he'd gotten rid of most of their shared belongings in his first grief. He couldn't imagine bringing Dubbie to a bed Raveena had used.
"We had a house," he said. "Until she was too sick. Then she was in the infirmary, downstairs – better there than a normal hospital. Not better enough for a cure, but at least more comfortable."
"I would have thought our mysterious bosses could cure anything," Wendy said. "It seems a little weird."
"Our infirmary is splendidly equipped for gunshot wounds and other traumatic injuries," the Middleman said. "For subtler problems – the equipment wasn't designed by, or for, human beings. We didn't realize that limitation ourselves until … until it mattered." He sighed. "After it was over, I couldn't stand to keep the things that we'd had together. I didn't put much thought into this place." He looked around again. Thought of the comfortable, colorful nest she and Lacey had achieved at their sublet with no more funds."Witness protection suite two is actually better, isn't it? I didn't think … I wouldn't expect you to spend much time here. Anyone to spend much time here." He certainly didn't.
"How long has it been since you lost her?" Wendy asked quietly.
"Four years, six months." Instantly; he didn't have to think about the figure.
Wendy took his hands. "You should still take better care of yourself. That couch goes back to Captain Sparks, doesn't it?"
He'd taken the old family couch for a makeshift, the first off-base apartment he furnished. The pebbly brown nap still had a few straggling red hairs woven in. "Yes. I'm sorry."
Wendy sighed. "I'm sure he was a very nice dog. Let's risk it." She sat down. The Middleman found a place beside her, not touching. She looked for a neutral topic, nodded toward the television. "Cowboy movies?" A player, for both discs and videotapes, rested on a shelf underneath it.
"And some music. Mostly country." He knew their tastes differed. "Sorry."
"I'm not trying to boss you around," Wendy said sympathetically. "That's out of line. But this makes me want to run out and buy you all new stuff. You deserve better." A thought occurred. "Have you got any money?"
He nodded. "More than you'd think. I haven't spent much pay lately."
Wendy visibly restrained herself from reciting four years, six months back at him. "You see why I worry."
A small smile. "I've taken care of myself this long, Dubbie."
Her eyes were still troubled. "Partners look after each other."
"I know my life has to change," he said carefully. "That was clear during the Fatboy Apocalypse. It's a new world." He laid an arm across the back of the couch, behind her but not touching her; the awkwardness made him feel sixteen. "I'm very happy you're one of the new chances that has come with it."
"I'm here for the whole game," Wendy said lightly.
She seemed receptive; when he leaned in closer her lips came to meet him. Her hands cradled the back of his head. He made a mental note to ask if the gel in his hair bothered her. She didn't complain right now, at least. He reveled in the warmth, the human contact. The contrast between this and the rest of his life for so long struck him like a physical blow.
He let the kiss end. Just because they were alone together in a room with a bed didn't have to lead to unbridled sex. Not every time, at least. Wendy made a low, contented noise and leaned her forehead against his. "Mmm. Nice."
He ventured a joke. "Glad I could help out, ma'am."
"I can't believe it took me this long to see you." Wendy nuzzled his cheek. "I have a question. If there's one apartment up here there must be two, right? Just like, two of everything in the locker room."
"There is another one. And it's yours by right, if you want it." The thought of Wendy moving into HQ, even part time, was half ecstatic and half troubling. He couldn't decide why at first. "Dubbie, your mental flexibility – your ability to engage with the world both as a Middleman and in your civilian life – is one of your great strengths. I don't want to impose any kind of expectation..."
"Show me," she said, sitting up.
The next door, at the end of the hall, had an identical palm reader over the doorknob. Again, he set it to open to Wendy's hand. "Here we are."
The same room, completely empty and kept dust-free by Interrodroid. Only the doors to the closet and bathroom were on the left side, looking from the entrance, instead of the right. Too, this room was at the corner of the building. The right-hand wall as well as the back wall had a row of windows. Wendy stepped a little further into the room. "This is nicer. You should have taken this one." She waved at the extra windows. "There's north light. I could actually paint here." That piece of enthusiasm sounded genuine. Why did he have the feeling she'd have manufactured some whether she felt it or not?
"Dubbie. Wendy." The formality got her attention. "You don't have to move in because we're together. You don't need to become more like me; you're magnificent as you are. If anything, I need to learn from you."
Wendy looked troubled. All he could think about was that somehow what they'd done, what he'd done, had made her unsure of herself. But he saw her tamp the emotion back down. "I'm nothing special." Before he could argue, Wendy wrapped her arms around his neck and stood on tiptoe to kiss him.
As hints went, it was hard to miss. His arms went around her in return. Her light weight would be easy to lift but he bent down to meet her instead. His good resolutions were wavering. "Your room," Wendy said, in a tone that was almost an order.
He wanted to, with a hunger as intense as physical pain. But his instincts were screaming at him. He got his lips free. "This is a lot for me to take in, Dubbie. Yesterday... last night … twelve hours ago I'd never thought seriously that we could be together. Five hours. Now," he nodded at the room in general, "you're considering real estate. Let's take this a little slower."
Wendy hadn't let go of his shoulders. "Isn't it a little late to go slow?" she asked, archly.
He'd been trained to memorize a crime scene in a fraction of a second. He'd had many times that to learn the look of her face in ecstasy, the feel of her bare skin. The Middleman's cheeks felt hot but he went on, "I don't think so. You're too important to me, both personally and for the job, to give any less than my best."
She let go suddenly, went to a window. "I didn't ask for your best," Wendy said tightly, not looking at him. "I didn't ask at all – threw myself at your head is more like it. I guess that makes me pretty cheap."
"Dubbie." When he followed her to the windows she stiffened.
"Don't, okay? Just don't."
He moved around her, seeking eye contact; she turned again. "Wendy?"
"It's nothing."
"Hammer of Peter Cushing, Dubbie, even I'm not that bad at emotional and contextual cues. Tell me what's wrong."
She dragged the back of her hand across her eyes and nose. "I'm not going to tie you down, okay? Don't go all guilty at me. I can deal with being just a partner and, and..." Her voice cut off while she could still control it.
"And?" She couldn't have confused him more if she'd sprouted wings.
She turned. Bit out two hot, bitter words, "Third place."
The Middleman stared. She gave him a furious look and ticked off fingers again. "Raveena Rao. Lacey Thornfield." When the third finger came up, her hand shook. "Consolation prize." He tried to capture the hand; she shook him off. "Don't you dare feel sorry for me!"
"I won't. I don't. Dubbie ..." She made a ferocious keep-away gesture, turned to face out the window.
He only had words, to make things right, and words had always been a clumsy tool for him. "I know my romantic history has been all too much in mind lately," he said. "That can't be easy for you, so close to … today. Lacey. I don't apologize for having feelings for her. You know how she deserves it – you love her more than I ever did. But it was still a mistake. Not because of who she is, because of who I am. We would have made each other miserable in the end."
Still facing away, Wendy held up her index finger. Raveena. "Raveena is not a rival to you," he said.
"Yeah?" Wendy turned on him, eyes blazing. "You lost her and you hired me. You put me in her job. In her clothes." The uniform jacket Wendy had worn until two months ago. "She was your true love, you wanted to die to be with her, and instead you got me." Choking, "I even look like her, a little. Perfectly understandable mixup." Pain crossed her face. "And I promised myself I was never, ever going to ask for more than you were willing to give."
A quiet sob. When he put his hand on her shoulder, she punched him. He barely diverted the surprise blow in time.
"Don't touch me. Don't look at me," Wendy said thickly. "It feels like you love me when you do that. But that's a lie. And you know the worst part? Part of me doesn't care." A choked, bitter sound. "Yes, you are that hot. I did you, I'd do you again, even knowing who you really see when you close your eyes." She slouched, looking down at her own boots.
Nothing but the truth would do her justice, or give her any comfort. "I will always love Raveena," the Middleman said. "She made me who I am. She deserved love, and I was happy to give it. But she's gone." Wendy was listening, at least, but he couldn't judge the effect this was having.
"Gone where time has no meaning or relevance. Yes, for a long time I behaved as if she was waiting for me. Maybe even impatient. But I was wrong. The dead need nothing from us, except to be remembered. I can remember what was, and still love someone else. I can love you."
"You've never said you do," Wendy said without looking at him. "You're too honest for that."
"I haven't?" But he knew she was being accurate. "I love you as my partner. As my friend, unlikely as that seemed at first. As the woman who saved my life this morning. The deepest kind of love … I don't know if that's here yet. I'm very bad at defining feelings. But I feel there's a real chance, if you let there be. If you want there to be. For my part, I would... would like that very much."
She stood a little straighter, at least. She turned, met his eyes.
"Let me date you, Wendy Watson," the Middleman said. "Just for a while. Let things grow between us, the way we've never let them grow. And we'll see what happens. If I'm wrong, if I can't give you what you deserve, I promise to say so."
Wendy gave a crooked sort-of-smile. "You don't do anything small, do you?"
"You're too important for small stakes."
She looked thoughtful."You said once, our lives are intertwined. Even before the sexing."
"I remember saying it. Wasn't I right?"
Wendy laid her hand over his, so lightly he could barely feel her. "So. Boss. What do I do now?"
He wanted to hold her. But making her rely on him for emotional support contradicted everything he'd just said. There was no way forward for them, except an equal partnership. "It was hard for me, too. When Raveena and I first got together. We'd been partners, as Middlemen, for over two years before we admitted how we felt for each other. I can't say it didn't interfere with the chain of command … I've told you I had problems with authority. It took us time to find the balance, between the personal and the mission."
"But worth it?" Wendy asked.
He wrapped his hands around hers. "Very much so."
"You're always going to miss her," Wendy said flatly.
"I am. But I've decided to carry on with my life. New world, new chances," the Middleman repeated. "Trust me and see. More importantly, trust yourself."
"So … you're not the one to ask, what am I going to do." Wendy stood up straighter. "Unless we get another red ball today, I should go home. Reconnect with Lace. She's got to know about this mess with Tyler, he's her friend too." A more ordinary expression of concern crossed her face. "I'm out of clean laundry. We're out of milk. Stuff like that. As Lacey's new age friends would say, I've got to ground and center. I haven't been out of arm's reach of you since..." Her cheeks colored.
He couldn't help smiling a little. "Since five or six hours before that. I think your idea is a sound one, Dubbie. Find your balance. Then decide where I fit into your life. I'll be here."
"You're always here. How does that go with the advice to have a normal life?
"Badly," he admitted. "But, one thing at a time."
Wendy watched the Middleman's face – she was really seeing him now, not her own fears – and stretched up for another kiss. Lighter this time, less urgent, but with a matching decrease in desperation. "If I decompress, you should too," she said. "A movie. A walk. Whatever it is you do. Make up something."
He ran his hands over her shoulders, and let go. "Take good care of my partner for me."
[*]
When she was gone, he wandered back to his own room. The space did seem smaller, without Dubbie there. Drab. The new painting was a splash of, if not color, liveliness. A hint of the outside world he'd all but ignored, except when it was in mortal danger.
He sat down on the side of the bed. When he first began sleeping here, while Raveena was dying, the prospect of loss had made it too painful for him to keep her picture on display. The loss itself, when it came, was worse. At times, going through the wilderness of grief, he hadn't been able to look at her without breaking down. He opened an otherwise-empty drawer in the bedside table, took out a picture in a plain wooden frame.
"You were right," he said quietly. "You generally are."
You'll make a wonderful Middleman, Raveena's ghost had said, after the battle, when he had a moment to introduce her to Wendy. But she'd communicated more than that, under Wendy's nose. A fond, exasperated look that his experienced eye recognized as Clarence, you fool.
His heart had been full of Lacey, at the time. He'd thought that Raveena misinterpreted the situation between him and Wendy; if he hadn't been facing the imminent prospect of the afterlife himself he would have said something. Now, he smiled slightly at the still image.
"Maybe the right kind of fool, finally," he said. "Rest well. I love you."
Author's note: The painting in question is "Moonwalkers" by David Lee Anderson, on display at his web site.