Jared walks out of the hospital's secure exit and crosses the short distance in the ground floor parking lot to the light on Wolfe Street. The spindly, naked trees lining the sidewalk do nothing to stop the brisk wind.
That last patient's comment about being grateful for his awakening … rankled. Jared's awakening had been … unpleasant shit ... and he didn't appreciate the reminder, even if it was unintentional and buried in genuine gratitude.
Gabe's probably checking out the latest news on Typhoon Haiyan; he likes to keep track of the combat and disaster relief superhero missions. From the start, Jared knew that he'd disappoint Gabe. He'd never intended to remove the protective mind control and join the combat track. Gabe was a decent handler and he hoped that he was a decent superhero, even if what they wanted out of life didn't match. Gabe just took their roles of handler and superhero way too seriously at first. It was only after his daughter was born that he'd loosened up a bit and they'd grown closer. Now Jared's happy to play uncle and backup diaper changer. Strange how things changed.
What's taking him so long?
To keep their cover identities safe, Jared doesn't visit his family in person … that hasn't bothered him as much as he thought it would. And, of course, he wouldn't want to draw attention to his brother, who still works in Texarkana Region and wouldn't give up his practice to go into witness protection. Gabe and Jeannie are pretty much his family now. Come to think of it, not getting laid in years hasn't bothered him as much as he thought it would either. It's more mentally disturbing for his dysfunctional identity cloak to convince his mind that his body is not his body, but that's baggage for a different maudlin rumination session.
Gabe pulls up to the curb in Jared's deep blue 2004 Mini Cooper and gets out. A black woolly hat and scarf covers all but the front edge and top of Gabe's side-parted black hair and tidy, short beard.
"Hey," Jared says.
Gabe makes a disgustingly flirty face and drags out Jared's cover identity's name as he speaks, "Samantha, how were the appointments?" There is a downside to Gabe loosening up. The guy never stops saying shit like this. He knows Jared's not a woman under the identity cloak, but the cloak works on him.
"Good," Jared answers as he adjusts the seat for his legs. At 6'4," he often feels that the world of human stuff is sized for shorter people.
"Doctor Goldin was amazing like always. The last patient was really grateful." Jared looks at Gabe. "So, what have you got for me?"
Gabe puts on a super-smug face. "I have Raechelle, your favorite massage therapist booked for a short session—"
"Sweet!" Like Gabe would book anyone else, she's—
"Two of your assigned mentees, Madison and Sumon, are coming for dinner and their weekly check-in, and I have your appointments for tomorrow scheduled. A Mr. Henrickson. Cosmetic baldness. He cancelled with late notice yesterday and asked to reschedule, an emergency at the FBI."
"Squeeze him in, he's a good guy. Any news on the typhoon?" Jared asks politely, to show an interest.
"Good and bad. Command is mobilizing a mission. A supervillain has the Vice-President of the Philippines under mind-control."
"How did that happen?!"
Gabe's grimace is audible in his voice. "Not cleared for mission information."
"Huh." Insane. Glad I didn't go the combat route.
"The advance team for the disaster relief mission, probably they found out. Justice is leading the team and she's—" Gabe draws his hand in the air for emphasis. "—a beautiful woman."
Beautiful has nothing to do with it.
"Right," Jared says shortly. He'd noticed the sexism that pervaded Hollywood; it was hard not to. It rankles now because he has skin in the game. The medical field isn't as bad in absolute terms ... but it's even worse because people's lives are on the line.
They crawl down West 36th Street and Jared backs into a rear-in, angle parking spot in the mini town center. Baltimore's bright gray concrete streets and two- and three-story brick buildings remind him of the wide, open streets of his home town of San Antonio, with less sun and less green and a lot more brick. The city looks old in a picturesque way.
The afternoon is surprisingly bright and cheerful under the overcast sky; the light reflecting off the wet concrete makes the day brilliant. They walk in silence to the bodywork clinic.
Raechelle always asks what he feels like and Jared asks for thai massage; it's easier to avoid stray thoughts when he needs to pay attention to what's going on. She isn't his type, but any woman is starting to look good and Jared wants to avoid an embarrassing moment, even if he trusts her to smooth it over with her charm. Gabe gets on his phone. They have better conversations when it's deep tissue or hot stone massage, but Jared needs the focus.
And she has amazing focus. And a firm, kind, self-assured touch. The mind-warping effects of his identity cloak don't bother her. He has a hard time touching his own body much less looking at it and touching it at the same time. She's hands on with him and never has a problem. He'd never asked her about it. During the session doesn't feel like the right time and after the session he's too mellow to want to break the mood.
Today, the short session leaves him wanting. The warm-up is fast: one circuit on the ropes and fabric and against the wall, and then she has him on half foam-rollers to position him for some twists and hip stretches. The pec and shoulder releases seated and lying down are amazing, but he can't relax into it. The nerve in his arm won't stop burning and forearms rolls make it worse instead of better. She stops rolling his arm, but just tells him to let it rest. At the end of the session, he gets up from final relaxation pose and helps her put the foam rollers and mats away.
When she's half looking away, he asks her. "Why doesn't it bother you, my identity cloak?"
"Oh, sweetie. I look at you, the person you are. Man or woman, or your body type, it doesn't matter to me," Raechelle says.
Huh.
"Thanks," Jared says. Something to think about.
She looks at him. "Come in tomorrow, I'll check your arm."
Gabe jumps in. "I'll schedule it. We can make it early tomorrow morning, And late."
"Yeah, thanks guys," Jared says.
They stop by McCabe's for takeout. Jared would have ordered a martini except that Gabe's standing right next to him and would be concerned, like he would if Jared wanted to drink a soda, or a coffee, or eat a piece of candy - not that he'd pick candy. This calls for liquor. He wants to not care. There's no good time to find out that part of the crazy shit he's gone through comes from his own unconscious sexist or racist associations.