Mr. Ferguson
Miles did not bother knocking. He let himself in with his spare key and walked into the familiar apartment. He found Waylon asleep on the couch wrapped up in a ridiculously huge orange blanket that dwarfed him in size. His unruly blond hair stuck out in odd angles. Miles started to unwrap his friend until he saw the black bruise forming around Waylon's left eye. Miles sighed miserably at the sight. He picked up his friend as gently as he could, still wrapped up in the blanket, and carried him slowly to the bedroom. Waylon was a few inches shorter than Miles, and much scrawnier, making it easy for Miles to handle his weight. Miles placed Waylon on the bed as gently as possible, then kicked off his shoes and crawled into bed beside his friend.
Waylon adjusted to the new position without waking up, snuggling up to the warm body that appeared beside him. Miles was so exhausted when he looked at the clock and saw that it was almost four in the morning. After the long drive, Miles easily fell asleep wrapped around his best friend.
The sound of Waylon's alarm clock woke the pair at eight in the morning. Waylon stirred in his blanket and pushed himself up on his elbows, staring around confused. He spotted Miles and a sleepy smile slowly spread across his bruised face. "Miles," he breathed.
"What happened this time, Park?" Miles whispered in the quiet of the bedroom. He slowly extended his hand and lightly touched the pads of his fingers to his friend's purple cheek. Even the feather light touch caused Waylon to wince visibly.
"Ugh, I feel so stupid," Waylon groaned, pulling the fluffy orange blanket over his head to cover his face. "I should not have called you," Waylon said, his voice muffled through layers of the blanket.
"Yes you should. You should always call me. Always," Miles said, trying to dig Waylon out of the blankets and only causing his friend to laugh and grip the blanket in place tighter. "Would you cut it out?" Miles laughed.
"You cut it out," Waylon said, pulling the blanket down for a moment to stick his tongue out at Miles before covering up again.
"Real mature, Park."
"Real mature, Park," Waylon parroted in a high pitched, mocking tone from under the blanket.
"As entertaining at this is, you really need to tell me what happened," Miles said, his tone turning more stern.
Waylon sighed and pulled back the blanket, laying on his back and staring at the bedroom ceiling. Miles rolled onto his side and propped his head up on his elbow, allowing him to gaze down at his friend.
"Eddie," Waylon sighed. "I'm just an idiot."
"No, you're not," Miles said, shaking his head. "None of this is your fault. That guy has anger issues and he was nothing but trouble from the start. You're better off without him."
"Without him?" Waylon asked, turning wide green eyes up at Miles. "I mean, I'm an idiot because I caused the bruise. It was my fault. I knew Eddie was in a bad mood and he asked me for some help and I ended up fucking it up really badly."
"What the hell kind of help did you fuck up?" Miles demanded.
"I was supposed to go out and pick up his medication. He's horrible when he's off his meds, you know that," Waylon said, as casual as if he were talking about the weather. "I got there and I picked up one prescription, but turns out it was just some new antidepressants his psychiatrist prescribed for him to try and not his usual medication he's been on for years. We both didn't notice until he was having horrible withdrawal side-effects. He lashed out, but he did not mean to hit me. The violent reaction, that's not his fault, I'm the one who messed up his medication."
Miles was listening with barely contained fury in his face. He absolutely hated that his friend was dating such a volatile, abusive asshole. "You forgot his medication, so you deserve to be hit in the face?"
"Don't say it like that, Miles," chided Waylon, pulling off the blanket and standing up. He staggered slowly over to a mirror in the bedroom and examined his face. "Ugh, it does look ugly huh?"
"Yeah, it looks like your boyfriend has been fucking beating you in the face. Oh, because he has," Miles said, an angry scowl on his face.
"Quit. It was an accident. That's not even why I called you," Waylon said, limping into the bathroom accessible from his bedroom and flicking on the light.
"Why did you call me then?" Miles asked, rolling back onto his back on the bed. He could hear the sink start up and when Waylon answered next he had a toothbrush in his mouth.
"Eddie left," Waylon said sadly through the tooth scrubbing.
Miles felt a leap of hope and joy within his chest. "He left. What do you mean?"
"He left," Waylon said with a mouth full of foam before spitting loudly into the sink. When he spoke again his words were clearer. "He felt so bad about his reaction that he left. I was a sobbing mess after he ran out and I have no idea where he went and he's ignoring all of my calls. That's why I called you."
"So let me get this straight," Miles said, sitting up in the bed and staring at the doorway into the bathroom even though Waylon was not visible. "You didn't call me crying because your boyfriend bruised your face to hell and back—you called me crying because he left and won't take your calls, after he bruised your face to hell and back?"
Waylon's frowning face popped into view to glare at Miles. "If you're not going to be any help you can leave right now."
"That's the thanks I get for driving here from fucking Leadville at two in the morning?"
"You drove here from Leadville?" Waylon's voice asked from the bathroom. "I thought you were back in town, otherwise I never would have expected you to come."
"Of course I would come," Miles interjected.
"I tried to wait up but I guess I fell asleep, since you took longer than the two minutes I was expecting," Waylon explained. When he walked back into view he was wearing a clean shirt and khaki pants instead of his cozy pajamas.
"Where are you going?" Miles asked, staring up at his friend.
"Work?"
"You can't go to work, you look like the you lost a boxing match," Miles said. Waylon rolled his eyes and walked slowly toward his closet. "Wait, you're limping?"
"That was my fault too," Waylon said, digging through his closet until he found a brown belt. "I tried to stop Eddie by putting my foot in the door, but he had already slammed it before he realized. I don't think he even knows he hurt my foot. And it was not that bad honestly, I think it's just bruised."
Miles stood up and grabbed both of Waylon's arms, causing his friend to pause in the act of buckling his belt. Miles gripped tighter until Waylon met his eyes. "Park, this is a bad situation. You should stay away from Eddie until he's back on his medications and in a better state of mind. I understand he has issues, but that doesn't mean you have to bear the brunt of those issues."
Waylon sighed and tsked softly. "We've been over this before Miles. I'm with Eddie now, and I am happy."
"Are you?!" Miles practically yelled in Waylon's face.
"Yes," the smaller man snapped back, jerking his body out of Miles' grip and limping into the main area leaving Miles standing alone in the bedroom in his same wrinkled clothes. Miles had no choice but to stalk after his friend, scowling. "I take it things did not go well with your Leadville seduction then?"
"Wha...Why does that even matter?"
"Because Miles," said Waylon, fidgeting with the coffee maker. "If you had someone else in your life, you wouldn't be here right now trying to convince me to leave Eddie for your own selfish reasons."
"My own...my own selfish reasons? Are you fucking kidding me?" Miles felt ready to explode and it was a dangerous way for him to feel considering his lack of sleep and stressful evening the night before. "You have a goddamn black eye and a limp after your boyfriend's latest temper tantrum and you think I want you to leave him so I can fuck you again? Quit flattering yourself Park, it wasn't that good."
"You're having your own tantrum right now. Get the hell out, Miles," Waylon snapped from the kitchen, the coffee maker behind him gurgling to life. "I thought I could trust you and that you were my friend, but you're just over here being a jackass per usual."
Miles stared at the ground, clenching his fists as he considered what to do next.
"What happened to you anyways, Miles?" Waylon asked, some of the anger leaving his voice. "You used to be nicer. It seemed like you were finally getting happier."
I used to have you, Miles thought. The realization made him only feel more depressed. "I'm sorry Park. I just care about you. "
Waylon considered his friend for a moment, pausing to find two coffee mugs. The gesture was an unspoken acceptance of Miles' apology. "I care about you, too. I'm here for you."
"I suspect Eddie is hiding out with his crew, afraid I am going to press charges or something ridiculous..." Waylon said.
"...yeah, ridiculous..." Miles said, shaking his head.
"It was not his fault. Don't worry about me," Waylon said, handing Miles a full mug of black coffee.
Miles took a long gulp of the scalding hot, bitter liquid. "Can't you just call off of work?" Miles coughed slightly at the rough feeling of the hot coffee.
"Uh, hello? I already put in my two week notice. I can't risk damaging relations with the bank. What if this new job is a bust and I need to go back there? I can't risk a bad reference or a burnt bridge. No, I won't miss any days until my two weeks are completed," Waylon said, milling about the kitchen making toast while waiting for his coffee to cool. The blond added a huge portion of milk to his own drink, as well as two generous spoonfuls of sugar. "Sorry this is so far out of your way."
"It's done now," Miles muttered, wondering how Billy was feeling that morning. Did the Walrider really keep hangovers and headaches away? Everyone in America would want one...
"How's the investigation going?" Waylon asked, eating some toast.
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Miles said, punctuating the sentence with a sip of coffee.
"Okay I have to run to work. Let yourself out. Hey, do you think you'll stick around for a while? Maybe we could have dinner together?"
"I would like that," Miles said quietly. Waylon gathered up his work satchel and winter gear before leaning in to give Miles a peck on the cheek, though the reporter turned at the last minute allowing their lips to meet.
Waylon chuckled and shook his head. "Cute Miles," he deadpanned. "See you tonight. Can you call me if you see Eddie show up here?"
"Sure," Miles grumbled as his friend walked out the door.
Miles sipped his coffee and snooped around Waylon's apartment. The magnetic letters on the fridge spelled out "eddie luvs way nd poo." There was a framed picture of Eddie Gluskin glaring at the camera while Waylon smiled happily from within Eddie's choking grip around his neck. Miles knew he was jealous of anyone who got to hold Waylon, but there was more to it. He disliked the relationship because he wanted Waylon safe and happy, even if it wasn't with him. Miles felt disquieted in his heart as long as Waylon defended his abusive relationship. Miles chose to stay in Waylon's life rather than abandon him for his poor choice in men. But it hurt to watch.
Miles eventually left Waylon's apartment and walked over to his own. They lived in the same complex. It was how they had originally met and developed their friendship the previous year. Miles walked inside his own apartment and stared blankly at the mess. He rarely bothered to clean. Laundry was a monthly affair. He had left his suitcase and belongings in Leadville, but Miles decided to take a few different sweaters back with him to diversify his wardrobe. He took a shower, thankful to have all his own soaps present, and even shaved his face.
Billy was always clean shaven. Did he prefer his men to have beards or not? Hmm. Miles fired off a text message to Billy's phone number.
Do you like beards?
He continued milling about the apartment, tidying up (slightly) and opening his laptop to do some work. If he wanted funds deposited into his bank account that Friday, Miles needed to ensure that all of his required posts were done satisfactorily. After he made some posts, Miles pulled up the document he had started regarding the Murkoff lead. He considered adding in the part about Billy being the host for the Walrider and Wernicke somehow being the longest lived human on earth, but something stopped him.
Billy was a good grandson. He was kind, caring, responsible...if Murkoff got hold of him, they would turn him into a science experiment. Still, whatever those tendrils were, and if they really could keep headaches away, maybe that was something that could benefit mankind. Something he definitely was not comfortable handing over to Murkoff.
Then again, Miles had gone to Leadville looking for a story, and he had found the story that could change his entire life. If he was able to expose Murkoff and end them once and for all, he would be able to write whatever he wanted and be a respected journalist. He would finally get recognition and money. Would Waylon choose him then? Miles shook the intrusive thought out of his head.
Since he was in town, Miles decided it was past time he paid a visit to his favorite dickhole in the entire universe. Miles drove his jeep and parked in an empty spot clearly marked "Employee of the Month." Miles strode through the double glass doors like he was strutting down a runway in his ordinary jeans and black sweater. He rode the express elevator to the executive floor and walked confidently up to the secretary's desk.
"Excuse me," the twenty something brunette asked, giving a frightened deer-in-headlights look. "Do you have an appointment?"
"Yes. Tell Mr. Blaire that Mr. Ferguson is here to visit," Miles said.
"Can I get a first name?" the receptionist asked.
"Turd," said Miles, taking one of the open seats and reaching for a magazine. Within a minute he heard the young woman talking into the intercom.
"Mr. Blaire, there is a Mr. Turd Ferguson here to see you," the secretary whispered into the intercom on her desk. "He said he has an appointment."
"Send Mr. Upshur in, Miss Pond," the answering response blared over the speaker.
"Um," Ms. Pond stood up behind her desk and looked uncomfortably at Miles. "Mr. Ferguson? Mr. Upshur? Mr. Blaire will see you now."
Miles flashed a roguish grin at the young lady as he walked down the hall and directly into the double doors at the end of the hall. "Jer," announced Miles with false exuberance. "So great to see you. I suppose."
"Mr. Upshur. To what do I owe the displeasure?" asked Jeremy Blaire wearing his black suit with his black hair slicked back in place and dead blue eyes devoid of any emotion.
"I just came to chat Jer. What's up? Anything new? That secretary looks new. Nice tits," said Miles.
"Did you just come here to irritate me, Mr. Upshur? Or do you have some new accusation?" asked Blaire, his expression never changing from its false politeness. "Going to write a story about how Murkoff gave too much money to charity last Winter? Possibly you are upset that the patients of Mount Massive aren't allowed to walk freely to town and eat double helpings of dessert?"
"Not one for small talk. I like that about you Jer. I'm actually here to ask you about Project Walrider," said Miles.
"Project what?" Jeremy asked, raising a polished black eyebrow.
"PROJECT WALRIDER," Miles cupped his hands and yelled. "Didn't realize you were hard of hearing. Side-effect of always having your head up your own ass? Project Walrider? Remember? Murkoff was trying to produce human nanite factories a few decades back using the research of Rudolf Wernicke? Surely that name rings a bell. He's dead right, no chance he's alive?"
"Now you sound like one of our patients at Mount Massive, Mr. Upshur," grinned Mr. Blaire. "Rudolf Wernicke has been dead for over a decade. He was already over the age of one hundred when he died. If he were still alive, why, he would be the oldest living man in history."
"I know, right?" Miles grinned. "That would make be an awesome story. You know what else would be awesome? What if Project Walrider was actually a success? What are the odds that say, Murkoff resurrected this old project and set up base around Mount Massive conducting unethical experimentation? The kind of practice that was supposed to have been stamped out before Murkoff even came to Colorado. I bet proof of such a thing would be worth a small fortune—to you, the the national media, to the government. I don't suppose you have proof hanging around in that pretty new asylum you guys bought? If you have nothing to hide, surely I could just take a look?"
Jeremy Blaire laughed, and it reminded Miles of a snake hissing at a creature that was certain to be devoured. "Mr. Upshur, if you had verifiable proof that Project Walrider was a success, you could name your price. We would put it on the shelf next to the proof of the Abominable Snowman, Bigfoot and Nessie. Because it's impossible. Rudolf Wernicke has been dead for over a decade and the project was ended because it was unsuccessful. Forget how you learned all that information, why on earth would you come in here and ask such a ludicrous question?"
"So coy, I love it. Look, Mount Massive was not some personal attack as I originally deluded myself into believing. I won't stop Jer. I won't stop until you assholes are exposed for the monsters you are," Miles said, gray eyes glaring across the executive desk. "You may block me from walking in the front door of the asylum, but we both know I have no problem coming in the back door. I'll find a way to break you down."
Jeremy hummed to himself. "Is this still about Walker?" Miles inhaled sharply at the name. Blaire shook his head sadly, giving a dramatic sigh. "I wish I had better news for you Mr. Upshur, but Walker is a lost cause. He's attending group therapy. He has a private therapist. He is on an impressive collection of drugs...even electric shock therapy." Miles grunted at the last part. "Despite all our best efforts, he is still growing sicker. I know you witnessed much of his breakdown, but trust me, it has gotten worse. He's required to wear a unique mouthpiece to stop him from chewing away his own lips. He was restrained from harming himself...but he continued to chew away at his own lips and cheeks," sighed Jeremy Blaire. "Such a sick individual. It's lucky Mount Massive Asylum had some openings. And it's lucky that Murkoff took over that struggling facility, to ensure that patients, like Mr. Walker, receive the best care available."
Miles glared at Blaire with barely contained rage. "Wernicke thought that insane patients could be potential hosts for the Walrider Project. You are still using his research. That's why you wanted Mount Massive Asylum."
Jeremy Blaire laughed, and it was a false sounding reverberation deep within his chest. "Mr. Wernicke is dead, and so is his research. Mount Massive was acquired as part of our charity initiative. We want to make a difference, Mr. Upshur." Jeremy moved his right hand to his left chest, where theoretically he would have had a heart.
"Fuck you, Jer," Miles spat across the executive desk. "I know what I know. I could bring you guys down. What's it worth to you to keep it under wraps, dickwad?"
"Like I said, if you had proof of the impossible, you could name your price, Mr. Upshur," said Blaire, his false crocodile smile back on his face. "Now, I do hope you'll excuse me. But I have meetings with people that actually offer something to this organization, instead of a reporter with an inflated ego believing he can prove that aliens really exist."
"The truth is out there," Miles said, smiling as he stood up and let himself out of the office. Jeremy Blaire was paid for his unflappable poker face. He knew more than he let on about Project Walrider. The fact that he had insisted so many times that the project was dead caused Miles' reporter-sense to flair. Maybe Jer had let slip more than intending by defending the project too fiercely.
Miles went back to his apartment to consider what he knew about he situation. Wernicke was not dead but rather had faked his death to protect Billy once he became the host for Project Walrider. What makes someone a good host? Why Billy? If it was really over ten years ago the boy would have only been around eleven years old. What was a child doing involved in some kind of experimental research in the first place? If Miles could expose Project Walrider to the media with proof that they were still researching it using non-consenting mental patients, he could save the patients suffering and pain. He would gain recognition as a reporter. And possibly he could bring enough bad press to Murkoff that they would shut down permanently or move off of US soil. Now, that would be a win for Miles.
But what about Billy? What would happen to the sweet young man if he was discovered to be housing that monster? Surely he would become a human guinea pig. Is that what Wernicke had sought to prevent by dragging the poor kid out to the middle of nowhere?
Miles' phone vibrated indicating a message and he was actually hoping it was Billy with the verdict on whether he liked beards or not, but it was from Waylon.
I'm bringing home phad thai, you bring the beer. Thank you for helping me today!
A kissy face smiley ended the message.
It's a date, he replied.