"Murdock?" Richter's gently insistent voice pulls me back to reality from wherever my mind had left to. Wonder where it's been... The tulips in the front garden? I remember thinking of them. But where did I go from there? Other flowers? Or more generally to other plants? Trees, maybe. Trees are nice, they're fascinating in a way. They grow real big, and there's –
"Murdock."
"Oh, uh... Where was I?"
"We were talking about your weekend vacation. You were about to tell me what you were doing."
I wasn't, and we both know it. "What an ungainly attempt at tricking me into something, Doc. Really, I'm disappointed in you."
"It never hurts to try, does it?"
Oh, sometimes it does. Sometimes only just trying already hurts. I think sometimes it can even kill.
"Murdock?"
"I'm not sure, Doc. I think you're wrong there. Some things mustn't be even tried."
"Like what?" he immediately sinks his hook into my little statement. He's pretty good at that.
"Oh, just this and that," I answer lightly, flailing my hand, but the lightness just doesn't ring true. The weekend with Face still weighs heavily on my mind.
"I told you, whatever you did to the limo..."
"I know," I interrupt him. This man is unbelievable. I trashed his limo, and I mean I really trashed it - alright, so it was the army who did the actual trashing, but I was the one who put the limo in harm's way, so I might as well have shot the car up myself.
Yet he forgives me. Tells me he's got good insurance. And hey, he really should be more circumspect about who he gives access to his car. So maybe it's basically his own fault. – Plus, I suspect that me saving his life last year has something to do with it as well. It's hard to hold a grudge against somebody who saved your life.
"So, if it's not the limo-disaster, then what is it?"
"Just a little under the weather, is all."
"You know you can always talk to me. About everything."
"You mean about things like how I fancy another man, and get all crazy about how I could get him into my bed?"
"Is that it?"
I don't know, because my heart just stopped, and with it my brain. I didn't just say that, did I? No, I didn't. I couldn't. It was for nobody to know. If the guys don't know, then nobody else needs to know. Nobody else deserves to. Oh shit, I'm so screwed.
"I take it, this man is not returning your feelings?"
I feel hysterical laughter swelling up, and for about ten minutes I do nothing but laugh until I cry, and cry for real.
My heart turns into a tiny, black lump in a too tight chest, it beats against all logic, and hurts with every single beat. The air I draw in burns my lungs, and doesn't hold enough oxygen, yet I miraculously don't suffocate. My stomach crumples. I'm shaking with cramps. My eyes sting, because I've lost the ability to blink. Sobs fill the room. Mine.
It's a regular breakdown like I haven't had in years, but despite that – or because of it – it feels damn good to let it out. Three years; I've been suffering for three years now. Never saying a word, never touching, never even really watching. I've done nothing but dream for three years, and every now and then Face had unknowingly given me new fuel to feed my dreams. It's not his fault, but he's had me starving in front of the banquet.
There's a hand on my shoulder.
"He doesn't know," I manage to say.
"You might try and tell him," he suggests.
"No. He'd never understand. He'd stop liking me, and him liking me is all I have. I won't give that up."
"He might surprise you."
"Him? Never! He's the archetypal heterosexual. He sees homosexuality as something unnatural, an anomaly. Not that I'm not crazy enough already, but he still hopes I'll overcome that one day. But you don't just overcome your sexual orientation."
Richter gently rubs my shoulder. It feels good. Body contact, warm and reassuring. "Unfortunately," he says in a soft voice, "there's no medicine for broken hearts. All I can offer you is my shoulder to cry on when it gets too hard to take."
I don't know where I take the strength from, but I smile. "I know, Doc."
TBC