by Tommi Hayes
"I love your hair," Raj says softly, and he doesn't sound quite as angry. Never mind my hair, do you still love me, is what I know better than to say, leave unsaid. He can probably deduce it even from what's visible of my face. “Did you really not know? That I... I'm not the right kind of person, is that right? I shouldn't be here at all. They shouldn't have recruited me."
He has the nub of it, close enough. And hearing it summed up so succinctly is enough to light the fire of anger in me. On his behalf, and even on mine. I didn't, after all, sign up for this. Dabbling my fingers in the minds of others, a little light rearranging the furniture, yes, pehaps. With people who deserved it, though. Wolves with no qualms about passing on the bite to unwilling recipients, activists with violent tendencies and concrete plans to bring to bloody fruition.
Not upstanding citizens, who were unlucky enough to embody exactly what the Section was looking for, in leaders and organisers for its Wolf Unit.
The anger's enough to stiffen my spine, to get me to raise my head and face him. It also reminds me there's more than one reason why I'm angry. That more than one of us has some explaining to do. His brown eyes are bright, and not as soft as usual, for all his fingers in my hair, playing with it, tugging a little. I put my hand, over his hand, in my hair, and still it. "You're not, you're right. They shouldn't. And I didn't know, love, I didn't. But I do now."
And then I narrow my eyes, and lean in close enough that it could be for a kiss, and certain sure normally it would be. "And I know a few other things too, Raj. I know you've been holding out on me. I think a few explanations are due, don't you?"
No more's necessary, surely. And sure enough he makes no attempt to dissemble. Fuck's sake, there's even a cheeky glint in his eye, that replaces utterly the adoring gaze I normally expect there. (I put it there, why wouldn't I find it there?) "Clever, wasn't it?" he says, and is that a drawl, damn it, is that a drawl?
And I'm flabbergasted. "Clever, you say. Clever...!" He seems almost distracted from his righteous indignation, his uneasy, shifting anger, by the admirability of his new trick. Like a child inviting admiration for a card trick or proficiency with a football. Like a dog that's learnt to sit up and beg, and expects its tummy scratched and a yummy treat for the trouble, and the feat itself.
But more than curiosity, or at least as much, I want to know this one thing. How did he do it? "Are you... a telepath, then?" I ask, misgiving. He isn't, he isn't, he can't be. Nothing showed up, not on any sweep or scan, I would have known. Unless he's latent, or weak enough that latching onto my own power was the only means he'd ever had of manifesting... No,no, even then I would have surely known.
And his gaze navigates mine slyly, which means... what? "I've been trying from the beginning," he says, slight smile tugging at his dear sweet mouth. Well, that's no surprise. They all do that. Because it's romantic, the great fools. They all fail, too. That's the norm. What the hell is my love doing, succeeding?
"And succeeding, from the beginning?" I ask. The light outside the car is beginning to dim, and I'm suddenly aware of security, lodged outside the pseudo-corporate headquarters they're ostensibly guarding. We're in full view, we're conspicuous. Why on earth would we be lingering here so long? Attention is the last thing we need. To crop up as unusual, or interesting, or behaving strangely. Anything that might cause them to investigate further, to discuss us, to ask questions. I let my eyes skim over them discreetly. Discretion, discretion, it's everything. They're not obviously watching us, no. We're not even in their eyeline. They are if anything disgustingly lax. What, if anything, are they receiving their generous Section salaries for? But I'm not risking my judgement of our level of safety, of obscurity, on a mere visual check. So I take a recce of their minds, too. Perhaps a less cautious one than I might have attempted, before this afternoon, because after all, we seemed to get away with it with Amisa. But then, up until today I wouldn't have risked it at all. The potential consequences were too great.
But now, now we're already at risk, and one more is the risk that might save us (or damn us). And now, in any case, it's a question of we, and if I'm protecting Raj as well as myself there's damn all choice involved in the matter. I am careful. Any foolhardy incaution is unconscious. But it's there, I feel it, the 'hell with it' feeling. I am changed, and it's Raj who's changing me.
And in any case, it's fine. There's not the faintest tick of awareness of our presence, our oddness, our long and convoluted conversation, in these guys' minds. The one is thinking of his girlfriend's snatch. The other, of the sandwich he's going to order. I should get them fired, if I cared. But their incompetent inattention is very handy for us, and I won't. “Drive," I say, and eye the cap Raj is still dangling. "I don't know what you did with my driver, but if you're going to wear his monkey suit then you might as well get us out of here. Drive. And tell me."
I don't know where he's heading, because I'm focusing on what he's saying. I love and hate the slight smirk on his face, when he turns away to the steering wheel, starts the engine, and begins. “There was something there, not quite from the beginning but quick, in a day or two. I couldn't get through, but there was a little give, you know? Like your mind was going to give it up, just not right away necessarily." He moves off, and we're slipping out of this side-street. The guards don't even blink, never mind look.
"Nice," I say wryly, and flop back against the back seat, the plush leather squeaking in welcome. "And you punched your way through my telepathic virginity when?"
He gives a sharp little huff of laughter, but doesn't quibble the term. His hair from the back is so beautiful. There's a greenish copper glint here and there, in amongst the crow-blackness and shine. It must be the Irish in him coming out, though aesthetically the Indian is dominant in most ways, the regularity of feature, the straight-backed beauty. “The day before yesterday, when you were sleeping. I was just testing. You didn't seem to mind, I think your sleeping mind knew, it let me a little way but no further."
My sleeping mind is evidently a goddamned traitor, then. Who recognises Raj as no threat, as an ally, a lover, a trusted confidante. How unsettling, because I am myself consciously in no way ready to make those concessions, those admissions. I think. "And since then?" I ask. “Today?"
He takes a turn, smiles at space. At the crossing he's lackadaisical, patient as the little old lady crosses. We could be followed, the thought crosses my mind. We could be tailed, the dogs of the Section onto us. But no, surely. I am the watcher, the guardian, the sniffer dog of the Section, along with the rest. We are the trusties. Or I am. It's hysterical.
"A little bit yesterday," he allows. His soft voice is a caress. He's pleading for mercy, for amusement and understanding. He's been a naughty boy and he wants to get away with it. And he's pretty confident of doing so, I can tell perfectly well by the tone. "You were otherwise occupied, in the shower."
Yes, god damn it, I had indeed been otherwise occupied. Leaning up against the shower tiles, with Raj on his knees in front of me. We were doing about what you might expect, or he was. Hell, yes, I am supposed to be the expert and experienced seducer here. The entire point of my salaried and intimate services is supposed to be me keeping the subject pacified, controlled, equanimious and sated, partly through the application of sexual graces and favours that keep him in a loved-up pleasurable haze.
Well, what of it? Raj likes sucking me off. If he likes it then that does the job adequately as far as I'm concerned, and as far as he's concerned too. He's skilled at the job, brilliantly naturally talented, gives it his all and can scramble my wits with the efficiency of a hungry python combined with an industrial drain cleaner. And apparently it doesn't even take up all of his mental processing power while he's at it. Just mine. It certainly, evidently, used up every single bit of processing power I had and then some, enough even to fuck up my ability to detect when my brain was being tampered with. The sly fucker, the devil, the completely out of control test subject. Who is supposed to be in a loved-up da
ze, suggestible, my little toy. What happened to that? What's happened to me, to us?
Is there dismay on my face? I suppose there must be, because Raj's gaze flips once, twice to the mirror, and his voice gets soothing, calming. Like I'm a child, like I'm an invalid, or someone with an uncertain temper, who can't be relied upon not to flip out at any given moment. Just as if I'm the subject here, him the handler. My God, god damn it. "I didn't mean any harm, Iz." (Oh, of course he has a pet name for me already. How long has it been, less than four weeks? Maybe four weeks including the induction, of fucking on and in every available everywhere. Of long morning cuddles that ease into slow breakfasts and feeding each other brioches, doing the crossword, sight-seeing in my own city like goddamn tourists. Of being followed around by my new puppy, keeping him safe and company when the pull of the wolf is strong, and he has to go run in the specified compounds. Of keeping him goddamn pacified and maintaining his transition to wolf and to Section piece of property, until it's goddamn certain that he's stabilised and not going to revert, not going to go rogue on us.
As if, considering the raw material involved. But the important point is, I don't need to be pacified like a child (whatever I'm feeling like.) I need answers, that's what. "No, I'm sure you didn't," I say, which I am, pretty much. I glare out the window. Pedestrians and commercial block buildings and the upscale shopping zone, all the innocents the Section protects in the service of the State, with their telepath Psy Unit and their special force Wolf Unit and their flexible guidelines.
All the innocents they could select and frame and re-mould, searching for the perfect weapons for the perfect units. (What did I ever do myself, to deserve this? Teaching undergrads, running on human feet in the hills, drinking a little much on weekends, the odd civil little screw with a colleague at an academic conference. My delightful sedate prematurely middle-aged life, I liked it fine. And then catapulted into this, turned into an espionage agent homme fatal with a lethal gift and a blanket permission to deform minds as I see fit. I attracted their attention, that was all. I didn't conceal my ability with sufficient care. I'll never belong to myself again, either.)
Poor me, poor poor me, that's what I'm thinking. And poor Raj, too. "I know you didn't," I repeat, softening a bit. "What did you actually do, though, Raj? Come on," I say, and I let my voice tease a bit. Let him know that, although yes as sure as hell he is in trouble, that it could be worse. That he just needs to confide in me.
He's smiling and relaxed, and he spills his guts. "I just wanted to see if I could do it again, yesterday. And you were having a nice time..." Yes, I certainly was. If there was an Olympic event for cock-sucking then Raj would be a shoo-in for a medal, and maybe the highest stand on the podium at that. "I poked around a little, but not..." His brows crease, and he takes the turn at the intersection and it's dicey when the asshole in the limo cuts him up, but it's not that that's wrinkling up his brow. "I didn't look deep. I was careful. I didn't want to upset you. And I had other things on my mind."
"Other things between those pretty lips of yours," I comment, and he grins, shy, sly.
"I didn't see anything... sensitive." And his hands flex on the wheel, knuckles suddenly white, for good reason. We both know, now, just how sensitive Section confidential information can get. How risky it could be to know even a little about it, or to be brought to the Section's attention in the first place. "I wasn't looking for anything you were hiding. I just wanted to be... close. To be close to you, Iz." And there's a flush on his cheeks as he says it, the flush of tender truth, not of a liar.
I lean my head back against black leather, roll it around a little, close my eyes. We're so fucked, so fucked, so fucked. "And what about today?" I ask, and he flushes some more. Well he might, I think, well he might. Rather harder, today's interesting incidents, to explain, than a wistful attempt to cuddle up mentally closer to your honey.
I don't know where he's taking us, don't care right now, but we're off the freeway and into the hills after ten minutes of tense pinging silence. And the spot we're in is wild lone free, as far as I'm taking notice. Green and sparse and flat only on the road, wooded hills and bodies of water. He's fixed on the road ahead, and talks steady and calm, like he thinks that's going to appease me, keep me sweet. That's the point we've reached, so suddenly. That he's keeping me sweet, pacifying me.
"You left the hotel in a hurry," he says, and there's something in his voice that suggests to me that I'm supposed to take that as grievance and justification in one. "You didn't explain where you were going." Nor is he explaining where we're going. I'm trusting him to keep me safe, to take me for a ride I'll enjoy. Can he not do the same for me?
"I told you I had to go into Section," I point out. I crack the window. The sun's gone in, and there's a breeze out there and some dark clouds over the moor. It feels good, better than it should to feel the chill blasting through the car. Blasting me sane, perhaps. We should run on back to the city, to the hotel. To the Section. There's no escaping the Section or the State, so what point to make fruitless runs like this out into the wilds, looking for a taste of the freedom we won't get?
I get a growl in return. It's mostly a human growl. But there's a little bit of the wolf in it too. More and more I hear that from him. He's settling into his wolf identity, and it scares me. The change, and how he's changed. “That's all you told me. And you hate those people. You hate your job."
These are things I've never told him. They're things he doesn't even need to know. "How do you know that?" I ask, dumb as rocks.
He snorts. And we pull up on a grassy verge, leading down to a valley. "I'm a wolf, baby. Now. I know all kinds of things about your mood, about what you're feeling. I don't have to be a telepath for that." Which is true. It was really a dumb question. It's like he can rob me of ten I.Q. points just by turning to me with those dark eyes, just by smiling.
And he puts his head on his hands, down on the wheel, and continues to talk at me, muffled. "You hate them, and you're afraid of them, and what kind of a person would I be if I didn't protect you from that? If I didn't go with you, when you were going into that place and anything could have happened. You were alone and anything could have happened, they could have taken you and sent someone else to babysit me and I would never have known what happened to you!"
He's a wolf, of course. He's unimaginably strong, now, and he was strong to start with, as a human. Psychologically, as well as all other ways, he has incredible resilience. Which the points he's making at the moment appear to be punching through right now, because I wasn't even aware that a werewolf was capable of having a panic attack. He's having something resembling one pretty closely, however, curling over himself and his big brown hands flexing on the wheel.
So I climb right over the seats and shuffle up onto my knees on the passenger seat next to him, and when I reach out, he's already pushing his head into my chest and grabbing onto me aggressively. I can feel, minutely, the pulsing of his bone structure, his musculature under my hands, pressed up hard against my chest. I feel how he's working to hold it in, his breathing a succession of raw pants. He succeeds. But then he's strong, so much stronger than me in more ways than one.
But me, I feel flat and raw and broken, without anything to offer him to save us both. "Why do you care?" I ask. "You don't even really know me." It's true enough. I made him love me, there's nothing that's real about his feelings, however they feel to him. Eventually he'll cotton on to that. "You were stupid to follow me in there. Incredibly stupid." Now I'm angry. "You could have got the both of us detected. Do you have any idea what the Section would do with a rogue psy-operative, a rogue wolf? And then you had to go and scan Amisa? Just the cherry on top of the cake, that. Do you even understand how crazy that was? Why did it even god-damn occur to you to do that?"
But he doesn't let me go as he drags his head up, face wet, to look me up close in the face. Eye to eye, nose to nose with a wolf who's a little angry himself. I'm not dumb enough not to be worried. "I
z. You're scared of those people. And you're smart, and you're strong, and you're still scared of them. You're not dumb enough to feel that way for no reason. And that means that they're not good people. Who are in charge of your damn life, and mine. Do you really think it was a bad idea to scope her out and check up on what kind of a shady character she is? Especially considering what we actually found? Would you have preferred never to have known about this shit?"
For a moment I seriously consider the question, because I guess he expects a definitive no, but I'm not too sure about that, honestly. Mostly I wonder who the hell this person is, and how I ever expected to exert the least control over him. And this is the subdued, love-enforced version of Raj. Christ knows what he was like before I whammied him with enforced brain synchronization and all my little tricks of ersatz love. A leader of men, they identified him as. It doesn't seem to cover the half of it.
