LOVE
THIRTEEN
Wil was awake – watching John sleep – when the little blue light began to flash on the wide leather strap encircling his wrist.
She had learned quite early on in their relationship that really the only time she ever got to see him stationary was while he slept. Otherwise John Hart was always shifting, always in motion: his body, his hands, his eyes, his smile…
So she'd become a bit of a voyeur although it was actually no deep, dark secret. He'd caught her at it plenty of times. "What are you staring at?" John had once asked after awakening and opening his eyes only to discover he was staring directly into hers.
"I'm watching you sleep," she'd smiled serenely. "I love watching you sleep; you're beautiful when you sleep." He'd reached out, pulled her into him, and kissed her, fully realizing, of course, her answer had been a non-answer, a ruse, a diversion, carefully stated and arranged in order to encourage him to think of something else entirely (that something being sex). In that attempt at misdirection she'd been successful, and in reality it bothered John not at all to wake up and find her watching him. In fact he rather enjoyed the idea of it… Like so many things about her, it excited him.
It truth, it was the quietness, the serenity and the absence of his normal frenetic level of activity which she found so dear in his slumbering face, his slumbering form. Although by no means could he be described as innocent, John Hart slept with the innocence of a child – his face almost angelic in its sweetness. His breath slow, his hands relaxed, his occasional sighs softly lyrical: it calmed her to watch him.
It turned out to be extremely fortuitous for such John-watching that he seemed to require more sleep than she, at least under normal conditions. When the shit was hitting the fan (or when it was something more arousing in which they were involved) he could go without as easily as she, but in general she frequently found herself awake while he was not and, like now, tranquilly gazing at his face in peaceful repose.
She most assuredly needed that tranquility because earlier, after they'd finished their lovemaking and he'd fallen deeply asleep, Wil had come to realize she could even hear his dreams – although they were far muddier than the sharp, distinct, highly explicit thoughts he was transmitting to her when he was awake. The dreams were vague – roiling, confusing, full of shadowy, sometimes spooky, images and sounds. They shook her to her core. And for the record, to be more precise, it was not the content of the dreams per se she found disturbing, but rather their fuzziness – their lack of clarity. They left her feeling discontented, uncomfortable, unbalanced.
Finally his dreams quieted and her lover simply, silently slept. As she watched his chest move gently up and down she revisited their recent "unproductive speculation" conversation and the theories she'd reluctantly put forth as to her strange and worrisome condition. And worrisome was the correct word for it – she had no idea how to answer his more-than-reasonable question as to what they were going to do about this rather serious new wrinkle in their relationship
None of the theories she'd espoused had felt right, but there was nothing else that worked any better.
"Grasshopper?" she said soundlessly as she closed her eyes.
"Yes, Teacher?"
"Do you understand what has happened to me?"
"No, Teacher, unfortunately I do not. Nor is there anything I'm finding in the Time Lord database that matches what you are experiencing."
"Why am I not surprised?"
"I suspect because you realize you are a unique case, Teacher?"
"Well, that's putting it nicely. Thank you, Grasshopper!"
"You're welcome, Teacher."
"Care to speculate?"
"Beyond what you have already conjectured?"
"Yes, Grasshopper, beyond my previously expressed theories."
"As you wish, Teacher. There are of course many hypotheses one would say occupy the realm of the impossible…"
"You can skip those for now."
"Yes, I thought I might. Falling more into the realm of the probable, there is the possibility that the Orolo did something to you, whether purposefully or not, when you were lying unconscious in their hospital. As per your wishes I did not monitor you constantly…"
"And I thank you for that."
"You're welcome, Teacher. Still, it is theoretically plausible…"
"Do you not think that is a bit paranoid, Grasshopper?"
"Yes, yes it may seem paranoid, Teacher, but it would also seem that perhaps one of my jobs is to be paranoid on your behalf, since you keep getting yourself into trouble which could have been easily avoided if sufficient thought and care had been taken…"
"Oi! That's harsh!"
"You asked me to speculate, Teacher."
"Yes I did, but the Orolo? Crade? I find that far more impossible than possible. Let's lose the paranoia. Anything else?"
"Yes, Teacher."
"Well, what is it?"
"That the Gnel damaged you more than we know."
"What do you mean?"
"You suffered brain trauma, Teacher. There are many documented cases of psychological changes resulting from such injuries. Is it too impossible to believe this might have happened to you? That perhaps the damage you sustained resulted in such an alteration?
"You mean I got my head banged up so now I can hear John Hart's thoughts?"
"We do not know that your ability is limited to only John Hart. Need I remind you there are no other organic sentient life forms within thousands of light years?"
"Ah, this is true!"
"And Teacher, as I mentioned earlier, you are a unique case."
"Who knows? Another bump on the head and I might be able to bend spoons with my mind?"
"Indeed, Teacher."
"Poor John!"
"Why is that?"
"One lover who's immortal and another who's telepathic. He might get an inferiority complex."
"Knowing Captain Hart, that seems unlikely."
She smiled inwardly, opened her eyes and looked at him. That's when she noticed the flashing blue light on his wristband. She leaned over and gently touched his shoulder, "John, wake up."
He was awake and alert in a nanosecond, "What is it?"
She lightly ran her fingers down his arm to his wrist. "The flashing blue light," she whispered.
Wil was not prepared for the deluge of loud, discordant thoughts which followed, especially on the heels of the quiet, consoling conversation she'd just been having with her ship. They were complicated, intense, highly charged thoughts. But not only that – there was an absolutely astonishing amount of ambivalence in them as well. Clinical ambivalence. Freudian ambivalence. She tried to hide her surprise.
"John?" she said.
"What?"
"We have to go."
"Yes, I fucking know," was his shockingly hostile response.
And so she came to realize that yes indeed he did know they had to go. But he wasn't happy about it. No… he was not happy about it at all.
-00-
"Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies."
Aristotle