by Tommi Hayes
Oh god damn. It's a feeling that reflects and echoes through me as I stare at him. I stumble to my feet, and stagger out of there, into the corridor. “Shut up," I say thickly, going past, refusing to look at him. “Shut up, shut up. You don't know anything."
It's a break from procedure, and a break from procedure is always going to excite attention from Jeff and his security minions. I'll be picked up on the cameras. And sure enough, in minutes they're on me. No–Jeff is, too cautious to have the whole horde descend. This is unprecedented. They'll all be on the alert though, ready to spring into action.
"Problem there, sir?" he asks, cautious. He's a smart guy. Fat, shiny-skinned, looks like a drinker. Cultivates the image of a washed-up boozer, because it renders potential aggressors unguarded.
I'm scrubbing my hands over my face as he asks, leaning up against the wall, one leg drawn up to support me there. I feel young and stupid. I've never lost control of a case before, of a subject. And I haven't now, I vow. I'll fix this.
“Don't worry, Jeff," I say tiredly. "He's a tough nut to crack, and that's all. Gave you guys some trouble on the way, didn't he?"
"You could say that, sir," he coughs, reluctant. "But you have it in hand?"
I stand straight, square my shoulders. "He won't know what hit him," I say, manufacturing good cheer, to cover utter panic. "Once more unto the breach, Jeff. I'm going in."
I know he looks worried as I go back into the rec room, watches me as I close the door. But there's nothing he can do. This isn't his problem, and not his type of problem. Not my normal type either.
This creature is straining against his bonds as I walk back in, still not quite steady. Not trying to escape. No, trying to see me clear, to get a better view. To get closer. To me.
Which would be fine, and par for the course. Although even by normal standards, he's extremely fervent about it. The trouble is... he's not the only one. As I get closer, as I come further into the room, I have to physically hold myself back. Back, from running to kneel by his side. Rest my head against him. Climb up onto the couch with him and...
I'm much too close to hyperventilating. What the fuck has he done to me? Equally important, how the fuck do I fix it? I'm trembling.
“Darling," he says, eager, low, breathy. “Darling love. Come here, come to me, tell me who you are and-" His voice is soft and dark, butterscotch and caramel, it's–
There's a vase on the small table by me, and I throw it. Not at him, but close enough to shut him up. And I walk, with a wobble in it, back to the tubular chair. In it, I breathe deep and I try to think, do my best to ignore his adoring eyes on me.
I have a job to do, is the first thing that comes to mind. (The second, in all honesty. The first is, oh, I would like to do that, I would like to lie down with you and–)
But, no. I don't do that. I don't even go sit beside him, loose his bonds and pet him a little. Even though by this point it's what I probably would normally do. Better, much better, to keep my distance. Get the job done, get some progress made, get this show on the road. This is going to be a hard couple of months. Surely it won't all be like this? This thing has to wear off. At least when I work out what went wrong, what the hell this is.
First things first, I think. Follow the sequence, ignore his yearning, the small smile on his face as he focuses on me totally. “Tell me your name, at least, please, I need to know it." His tone is coaxing, not harsh, melts me from the inside out, and I'm perhaps all the more brutal because of that.
“Shut up," I snap, exasperated. “Don't even speak to me. I'm trying to work. Shut your mouth, for God's sake."
He silences immediately, and there's something tragic in his eyes. I feel like the world's biggest asshole, and I shut that down immediately too. I can't be soft about this. Any softness should be feigned, completely synthetic. I'm a tool of the State, not here for love and kisses and soft soothing of anyone's bruised feelings. I do get a moment's silence out of him. But that's all. "What are you working at?" he asks, soft, insistent. Still pushing it, with the hint of a smile, trying to pull me in.
It seizes me up, because I'm not. There's the assignment, step by step to work through, and all I'm doing is sitting clinging to this chair and freaking out.
This is the way you have a breakdown. This is the way you lose effectiveness as an operative. Lose effectiveness as an operative, and you're no further use to the State. And I really hate to think what happens then, although I probably have a fair idea just guessing at it.
I breathe deep, and pull some paperwork off the desk by my chair. "I'm an induction agent for a government department, and I'm assessing you for a position with us. I just need to ask you a few questions, and we can get through the first stage of the induction."
He stares at me, still bound, still beautiful, and his brows are drawn together. I can see he's trying to concentrate on the weirdness of the situation. Sorting through mangled memories, thinking about bites and emergency room admission and being interrogated by someone who hurt him–preprocessing isn't subtle or refined–and what amounts to kidnap. Now some crazy guy tells him he's being recruited into a secret government department. (Via kidnapping, and he's tied up in a strange place.) He'd be within his rights to tell me to get the fuck out, to laugh in my face at the thought of co-operation. And to start screaming about human rights abuses, and what an asshole I and my confederates are.
He could. But he doesn't, because he never was going to. See, that's why you make them love you first of all. Then they can't afford to antagonize you. It's the last thing they want to do.
But I'm going about this all wrong. I've been shaken up until I don't know if I'm on my head or my heels. I need to keep him sweet, just like he wants to do with me. And there's a first step to that, that I haven't even taken.
I'm a touch wary as I go sit beside him, running a finger round my collar because I'm sweating. Here in my beautiful brand-new made-to-measure, my silk shirt, done up to the nines and feeling grimy and crumpled, because panic and events have overtaken me. He doesn't appear to mind, though, not a bit. Rolls over and stretches, a better position to gaze at me. They do that. He has more intelligence remaining in his eyes than usual, though. Generally there's something dog-like, as well as adoring, in their expressions.
"All right," he says softly. "But if I answer all of your questions, would you answer some of mine?"
Fat chance, I think. Or, fat chance for a straight answer, at least. But I smile at him, cautious. It's hard to be this close. It's sending a warm hum all over the surface of my skin. Does he even know what he's done to me? “Sure thing," is what I say, though. "Now, I'm going to release your bonds, get you untied, okay?" I'm wary, more than usual. Not of him hurting me or escaping. They never want to do that, not by this point.
I'm afraid to touch him, that's what it is. Afraid of myself, touching him.
I don't think I give myself away, though. I keep my face impassive as I loose his bonds, as he sighs and stretches and smiles up at me, making it easy, entirely co-operative. And when I'm done he's up and seated by me fast, faster than can possibly be comfortable even with the onset of wolf regenerative powers and resilience. Perhaps even his were nature has not begun to assert itself, which can only mean his aches and pains are intolerable, incapacitating at this point. But I guess you prioritise. When you want something very badly, and it's right there within your reach.
He stretches all the same, rubs his neck, scratches his scalp. I can feel his body warmth, smell him, feel the flood of warm feeling pouring out of him towards me. It's horrible, I can't take it, I'm terrified. So I tell myself, but I stay right where I am. What is the next thing to do? I have a sequence, I have a routine, and I cling to it like it's a raft and I'm drowning. It's true, I am.
He's edging up closer to me even as I think it–trying to be subtle about it–but I push back, sit further back on the couch, shove his bonds and ties off the cushions. Flat back against the cushions, I stretch one arm out along th
e tops, behind him. And then I meet his eye, and smile, full wattage, bright and affectionate.
It's not as if I even need to say anything. He's too quick to even be aware of. He's so quick, I know without looking that he's afraid a request might be denied, that he's better off to presume and hope he's not slapped down. Quick as light he's pushed back too, up and back so my arm rests on his shoulder. And his head trembles towards mine, seeking eye contact but not quite daring it, tentative. It shifts on his neck. He's deliberating putting his head on my shoulder, testing the waters for my reaction.
I put a hand to his head, and I push him down, and he lets out a real gusty exhale as he nuzzles in. This is procedure, this is okay. After an aberration, after leaving the script for ten minutes or so, at least I'm back on track. This is where I get them while I take inventory in their minds, all the while asking pointless questions that cover some of the same ground. Pointless, because it's not what comes out of their mouths that gives me the answers I'm looking for. The questions are to soothe them, not to enlighten me. They keep them occupied, while I shuffle around the cupboards up there.
What do you remember? The bite, how did it happen? What was your attacker like? Did you know him? Her? What happened in the hospital? Would you describe yourself as an angry person? Have you ever been involved in violence? Have you planned any violent attacks? How would you describe your political persuasions? These are the questions, some of them, that I run through as I look for the real answers, the true answers, more directly. From the source.
Not that he'd lie to me, even about the most sensitive points, where I'm prodding on the real essentials of what's a relevant addition to his file, something to put on my to-do list. (My to-delete list.) His most precious and cherished secrets are mine to sift through, not only in his head but out of his mouth and into my keeping. He has no secrets from me. Not now.
And I make inventory in his head, while cocking half an ear to his rambling answers to my questions. These are interspersed by the straying of his hands, closer and closer. His body rotates, increases, slowly, all the time, the surface area of body contact with mine. He dares the odd caress, while gabbing all the most intimate and trivial and sensitive portions of his life and thoughts out, in a heedless waterfall.
And what do I feel, as he does it? It should be a steady warmth, a controllable fondness that's self-generated, that enables me to do the things I do and still keep company with him. But, instead, what I feel is terror. I know I'll never be able to let him go, never. So quick, right now, abrupt and reasonless. An hour ago, two, my life, what was it? And now it's transformed. I shove my hand in his hair, lock my fingers in it. And he likes it. He pushes in further, with a heavy sigh. What am I going to do?
I get on with the job. He's murmuring about the attack. "–and so I was running down past Harbani's, the hardware place, it was early, I took the chance to get out for a run early while the streets are quiet, the college gym is never quiet, and I heard it from miles away. Honey, tell me your name. Can I put my hand here? Can I hold your hand? You're writing, I'm sorry, I'm sorry baby. The panting was like a dog but the sound of it running, it was like a goddamn baby elephant, so big, and it was on me before I knew, just out of nowhere, pretty scary–"
There's nothing here. It's no issue at first, no big deal. I sift and parse and file, I pass through department after department with not a solid result, stave after stave, row after row. To have one section clean of sedition or even disgruntlement is no issue. People can compartmentalize their feelings, their opinions. Whole blocks of their selves and personas can have nothing to do with their political opinions, their relation to the public good, the community. Large parts of our self aren't about our relation to the macrocosm, the greater organism. Much of what I have to wade through is irrelevant or trivial, mundane or light-weight. Feelings about ice-cream, second kiss, issues with a creepy uncle, sporting history, a passion for light opera or Icelandic landscapes.
But still. The passion of rebellion, of hatred and purpose, it is painted in colours of fire. It stands out. Normally it makes the job quick, easy. I search and search and search, there's nothing. This... this Rajan, this perfect specimen, this handsome straight-backed dark-eyed charmer, this darling... is just that. His life isn't all smooth and easy and clear. But it's all... straight and good. Love of family, closeness to friends, involvement in community. And it's innocent involvement. Digging old ladies' gardens, volunteering with differently abled kids. A stainless academic record, a mind not quite first-rate academically but still good, a warm heart, affectionate. At the university, a leader, in sport, in non-seditious student organisations, in charitable endeavours. An exceptional intern.
The closest thing to darkness is loss. He has barely any family any more, something I missed skipping through his regular real-world file. I shuffle through what's presented as papers, actual files in my mind's eye, as my mind peeks at his mind. It's three-dee visual form, for my quicker comprehension, convenient. Parents and two siblings, gone in an air crash in his mid-teens, an aunt and uncle, childless, in a car accident. He's been more than unfortunate. Any remaining relatives are elderly enough to be no support, financial or emotional. And he's kept people at a distance since. He's friendly, yet never that friendly. Not friendly enough to risk further loss.
But he's clean, squeaky clean, and I'm more disturbed (proud) as I search quicker and quicker. He's cuddling me by this point, wrapped around me, and my face is up close to the healing bite on his neck. There's the faint stink of wolf saliva coming off it. It's subtle, but once you know it, you recognise it. It's difficult to get off, and will linger a while until the wound's properly healed. It's not enough to put me off, though. I can't think of anything that would be.
I'm getting desperate (and he's getting amorous, hot breath, tight arms) and then, it's there. And thank God, because I've never had a perfectly innocent one before. Not a mistake, an honest error by my superiors, that would land me with the knowledge that I'm grooming a conscript, a good man, for the life of an indentured soldier, fighting and killing. And that in addition to the werewolf curse he'll be bearing forever already.
(I could take that up with my superiors, with Amisa, should it ever come to pass. I doubt how well they'd listen or heed me. It would be inconvenient. They detest inconvenience.)
But no, I'm saved from that, this time at least. A small dark growth in a small dark corner, full of intent and rage. There's a long quiet plotting, a careful periodic liaison with useful contacts. And in between, long fallow periods of willed forgetfulness, a sleeper existence he allows himself to enjoy.
Well, thank God. At least there's a reason for me to be here that can be justified. At least I'm doing someone some good, sometime. I do what I'm here to do. I rip it out and vaporize it, and replace it as necessary with a comforting vagueness, and a strong positive orientation to authority–beneficial authority, like the State.
Poor bastard, my poor love.
And I give what's left of him a scan, the small crannies and corners I haven't yet got to, and there's... nothing. No, he's clean, barring that nasty little outcrop of free thought and violence. He's made over. There'll be no further trouble to anyone.
And I've made a truly good man of him, or mutilated him, depending on how you choose to see it. And I could weep with it, the pity of it, but where's the point in that?
I rub my cheek over his hair, where his head rests on my shoulder. ”My name is Izak," I say, and he grabs a hold of my hand at the confidence, and smiles. Oh, he has no idea. I'm too smooth with my work for them ever to feel a thing. God damn it. Now I can enjoy him, of course. We've at least a couple of months together, before I have to wave goodbye beyond the odd call, a text or an over-night encounter.
God, fuck, great. The end's in the beginning, of course. I take him by the hand and lead him to the bedroom, because why not make him happy for a little while, what harm can it do? He grabs my hand tighter as we go, grabs it two-handed and smiles at me s
weetly, the sweetest. “My name is Rajan," is what he has to say to me.
"I know, love," I say back, as he brushes up as we walk, grasps me tighter. "Oh, I know."
***
He trembles, his hand trembles in mine, when I lead the way in there and he sees the bed, the half-drawn curtains. There's even a slight whimper out of his mouth. Not a wolf whimper, mind you, purely human. And his eyes go to mine as he circles around me, still holding on, like we're dancing. (We are dancing.) There's a shy smile on his face. But the next second he surprises me with boldness.
