Notes:
Here's something a little different again, but this time without a theme
or
head-splitting metaphors. A pure pointless fluff. ;)
Dedication:
Sandra, my saving grace, for her wonderfully heart-wrenching
story
"Appropriate" and for her complaints over my writing frenzy
period.
And
Vigil, for her broken heart over "the Ice Palace". ;)
***
Stars
were falling deep in the darkness
as
prayers rose softly, petals at dawn,
And
as I listened, your voice seemed so clear
so
calmly you were calling your god...
***
"Do
you believe in the Spirit of Christmas?"
Okay,
let me think. There has to be a reason I came to Logan's today,
even
though I was perfectly aware he was gonna babble about crap like 'the
Spirit
of Christmas'. There has to be a *very* good reason why I'm sitting
here
listening to this.
He
watches me from behind his very fine antique dinner table, well
decorated
with candles and the usual works. With a small--and yet another
antique--fork,
he plays around his share of strawberry cheesecake, his
everyday
run-of-the-mill culinary miracle at its best, and pretends as
if
he's not waiting for my answer.
And
just a second ago, I was digging in the same cheesecake with an
eager
appetite until his yet another question stopped me dead.
Yeah,
free food. The reason I'm here. Almost forgot.
"Let
see, the Spirit of Christmas..." I pretend to give it some thought
since
he's feeding me. Almost everything is forgivable when his food
is
present. "Well, if ever I find the three ghosts hanging out in my
room
on
Christmas Eve, I'll report."
He
opens his mouth as if to give me an elaborate reply with the all too
often
used 'that wasn't what I meant' statement, but he soon closes it
with
an 'ah' look. Good, he's learning fast.
And
we're back to eating in silence. Hopefully for more than one
minute
this time.
Christmas.
The day after tomorrow. Big freakin' deal.
I
think humans invent the most interesting ways to waste their time. I
mean,
even after the Pulse and all the poverty that's going on,
everyone's
so damn excited about this holiday-- it's driving me nuts. I just had
three
separate conversations with Kendra to uninvite me from this supposedly
big
party her on-and-off boyfriend is having. Original Cindy finally
scored
with what's-her-name, and although I'm very happy for her, I refuse to
be
the third wheel in the group. And even Jam Pony is going to have a
party,
but with Normal's sense of 'fun', I'd have more fun sinking into the
sewers
for the night.
So
no plan. My tradition is to spend Christmas alone, to see how
pathetic
and miserable life can get. Why not?
"What
are you doing this Christmas?" Exactly 20 seconds of tormenting
his
poor cake later, Logan asks again.
I
try not to clinch my teeth, for the sake of my unfinished cheesecake
and
the chocolate fudge that I know he's hiding in the freezer to surprise
me
later. Before I even think about it, a word rolls out from the tip of
my
tongue, "Work."
Oh,
did I just lie? Oops.
Guess
I really don't want to admit to him about my traditions. He
probably
has a list of things to do. Maybe visiting people on the streets or
something,
playing Santa. Knowing Logan, it's highly plausible. And
I'm
not really planning to join him as his field officer or as one of the
elves.
A
*bad* image of me in a green elf costume pops up in my mind. Yikes.
"Work,"
he looks at me as if I've grown a third eye, "You work on
Christmas?"
"There're
deliveries to be done even on Christmas." I shrug.
"Well,"
he puts down the fork, "Even so, it's Christmas! We're supposed
to
celebrate the day the Son of God was born."
He's
in a good mood today. Gee, this's gonna be fun. Not.
"You're
asking
me, a genetically enhanced human being, to actually believe in
mumbo-jumbo
like that?"
That
was supposed to shut him up, but now he has a look of intrigue on his face.
Great. "You don't believe in God?"
He
just has this incredible ability to irritate me with his seemingly innocent
questions and statements, like "When's your birthday?" or,
"He cares about you a lot. And I don't mean like a brother,"
or, "Do you believe in *freaking* God?"
Of
course not. What's the definition of God, anyway? If I'm to
believe that God is someone who made you, then my personal anti-Christ would
have too much power, and I'll drop dead from the roof of Logan's very high
penthouse before I start believing in *Lydecker*.
But
I know Logan's asking something more profound--as usual--and for
some
reason, I always answer him one way or the other. "Oh, I do
believe in
God.
I talk to him--her, whatever--on a daily basis, didn't you know? I
yell
at him a few times, and he yells back by kicking my butt with more
troubles.
Think we have a very respectable relationship."
He
instantly closes his mouth again. That should really shut him up
for
a while. Now, back to my cheesecake...
"Well,
then how did the Manticore folks spend Christmas?"
...he
*just* doesn't give up, does he?
I'm
fairly certain that he knows any Manticore related questions bring
out
flinches from me, but I think he's doing it so I can 'get over' those
darkly-dark
memories. Thank Freud for psychoanalysis.
"The
first time I saw the bad imitation of the supposedly fat-guy in a
ridiculous
red suit with a mountain belly and little annoying green
fellas,
I was thirteen, and I almost attacked him out of pure fright, believing
this
guy had to be one of the mutilation works by Lydecker. Does that
answer
your question?"
His
head quietly drops and he again starts to torture his cake.
"...Yes."
Was
I a little too strong? ...For cryin' out loud, I almost feel sorry
for
him now. I know he's asking all these because he genuinely wants to
know
more about me. Since he knows painfully well just how cooperative I am
with
revealing personal information, if he really wanted to know more about
Manticore,
he could've worked his miracle over the keyboard and get the
info
rather than going through me. Actually, I bet he knows more
about the
details
of the Manticore Project more than I do by now.
But
he has a thing about having a decent conversation with me. Which
is,
when I think about it, kinda nice; to my best recollection, there
hasn't
been a single man who wanted to have an actual *conversation* with me.
But then again, Logan isn't just any man. And with him, chatting about
'what's
for dinner' right away becomes a complicated issue equivalent of the
food
shortage crisis. Today's topic is Christmas, no less, and it's already
showing
a tendency to become a philosophical discussion about the
existence
of God.
I
sigh.
Putting
down the fork, I ask, "Okay, what's with these twenty
questions?
Wanna know what I think of Christmas? Honestly? What's the big deal?
Do we really need another false hope that some savior's gonna appear and
salvage us from damnation? I think personally you're more close to
being a savior than a little baby born 2020 years ago."
He
looks up, apparently glad that I started to talk, but as soon as the
word
'savior' comes out from my mouth, he's suddenly uncomfortable.
Geez,
modesty. Sometimes I wish he wasn't so saint-ish all the time.
He
doesn't think he's doing lots of people great favors by risking his
neck
with his Eyes Only thing. He doesn't even *think* he's really insanely
brave
to do the work he's doing. And it's not even false modesty.
Such
a Mr. Do-Right. Unlike his first impression of the manipulative rich
boy
with
nothing to do, he *is* really into this whole saving thing. He
cares, too.
God,
he's the embodiment of everything I'm annoyed by.
"Christmas
doesn't necessarily have to be about Christ," he says,
leaning
on the table, "It could be--"
"--about
'in this short brutal life, you have to seize any opportunity
you
can to celebrate'-- yadda, yadda, yadda. Got it, Logan."
He
grins. But the look on his face tips me off that there's something
on
his mind, and a battle's going on inside him whether to tell me.
"What?"
I ask. For some reason, I think he's gonna say something I
don't
wanna hear.
He
looks up, decided. "You can always spend it with me."
Oh.
'Kay,
so I'm dense. Should've known that was coming. Actually, I knew
the
whole Christmas related question bombardment had something to do with
'what's
your schedule for Christmas', but...
I
just wanted to avoid dealing with it.
He's
smiling the smile that always makes me want to give in to his
requests.
And there's that little glint in his eyes that makes me realize he's
incredibly
insecure. I'm always amazed whenever I'm able to refuse his
offer
when he's looking at me with the combination of the two.
"Busy."
I managed to surprise myself by sounding sincere. "Sorry, work
to
do."
For
a second, a look of disappointment passes through his face, but
with
a slight 'knew you'd say that' grin, he tries again. "Well, it's the
magical
time of the year. Any chance you'll change your mind later?"
The
neediness of his eyes... An unreasonable anger bubbles inside me.
"Do
I look like I'm selling matches here? Light a match, then comes a family
having
a wonderful meal, the second one, then comes a beautiful Christmas tree with
cute little ornaments and *gifts*? Sorry, Logan. I don't do
tragedies."
And
any person in their right mind knows that this's gonna end up either like a
Shakespearean play--where everyone ends up totally dead--or non-Disney-ized
fairy tales.
I
don't do tragedies, really.
I
stand up, flinging the napkin on the table.
"Max?"
He looks up, thoroughly confused and startled by my decidedly
abrupt
behavior.
"What's wrong?"
"Gotta
go," I say, walking--more like running--out from the dinner room.
I
need to get out. I can't do this. Can't stay in the same room
with him.
I
can't meet his expectant glances anymore.
"Wait,"
his soft voice calls out from behind me, and my hand that's
been
reaching to grab the doorknob stops in the midair. How did he get here
so
quick? Got a new wheelchair with a jet-thruster or something? He
never
lets his crippledness stop him from doing anything.
At
least not from trying to save me.
"I'm
sorry," he says softly, almost inaudible.
That
almost breaks my heart. I have to grab the doorknob so damn
tightly
just to stop myself from turning to him.
It's
not you, Logan. It's always me.
I
can't tell him.
As
I open the door and walk out, I don't look back.
***
Elsewhere
a snowfall, the first in the winter
covered
the ground as the bells filled the air
You
in your robes sang, calling, calling, calling him
in
your heart, in your soul, did you find peace there?
***
A
simple walk on the streets isn't like what it used to be anymore.
Granted,
it's close to Christmas, and with the prospect of a "White
Christmas"
hinted from the snow that's been crazily falling for days
now,
even the poorest sector of the city seems to be decorated with bunches
of
lagged green and red stuffs. Some gold, if people got enough time to
scavenge
for holiday-ish materials. So the street gives vibes that are
a
bit different from the usual depressing ones, but depressing is
depressing
and people are just the same as before.
They
pass by, going about their own businesses, not minding the crap
that's
going on in this world, not even thinking twice about how incredibly
absurd
things are in this country. Powerful bastards get more powerful,
the
meek
and weak ones get even more pathetic. But still, people are still
blissfully
unaware of the things that're happening. Actually, wait,
maybe
it's the purposeful and voluntary amnesia that they suffer from.
Denial
also works wonders, because they see nothing and hear nothing, fighting
never an option to them, because, well, that'd be pretty dumb of you to
try
to fight the world.
Those
people never bothered me before, because I was one of them.
They
do now.
He's
awakened me from the idyllic sleep called ignorance.
Not
that I didn't *know* how crappy things were, but to actually *see*
and
be able to do something about it now is a strange excitement and joy
which
I really, really don't like. I gotta curse him for waking me up, since
all
I want is to go back to the damn sleep so badly. To be unaware again,
to
not
give a damn about anything but the search for my siblings....
But
I know. He couldn't have 'awakened' me if I didn't have that soft
spot
to actually care in me.
If
it weren't for him, though, I'd have lived my merry life, going
about
my
business,
not minding anything else. I sorely blame the change of my
mind
on Logan. And once awakened, I can't go back to being one of the
zombies,
walking and moving, but never really *knowing* the truth.
He...saved
me.
Damn
him for that.
The
heavy snow slowly becomes light flurries now, but the snow's still
inches
thick on the ground. I like smashing snow. All so fluffy, and
all
so...white. Gives me this tremendous sense of self-satisfaction just
like
throwing punches does, but there's no punching bag, so this gotta do.
The
word 'coward' comes circling back to my head, so I flatten the snow
a
bit more. Bouncing up and down to flatten the snow becomes smashing,
and
smashing becomes kicking.
Damn
him.
He
*saved* me.
Not
that I have problems with that. He's up for saving *everybody*,
and
I'm just a dot in the huge picture.
But
here's the thing; he wants me to be something more.
Logan.
He trusts me with his life. If it's his life that needs saving,
all right, I'll gladly do it. I confess that much. I'm so far gone now
that I won't even blink to jump into trouble if it could help Logan.
Don't know just how it happened and don't as hell expect myself to
understand it. It just happened and I gave up fighting after it's
become glaringly obvious when his back landed him in the hospital. I
had to come back like a boomerang. Think I'm conditioned to him
like that Pavlov's dog. Hear a bell and the dog salivates. In my
case, an image of Logan, then boom, gotta be at his side. It's done.
I'm totally done for.
There
once were the good days with no attachments, no regrets, no
worries,
no
responsibilities, no anything. Now they're stuck on me like sticky
rice.
...Never
come up with food metaphors because--the chocolate fudge.
Damn.
Completely forgot about that one.
He...he's
like that. The chocolate fudge. Once taste its bittersweet flavor,
then you're addicted for lifetime. The trust, the neediness, all those
emotions showing through his eyes are incredibly addictive. As much as
I'm treacherously glad for his needs of me, I'm all too aware of the truth
that cuts me like a knife.
He
wants me to be the savior of mankind, his angel, his saving grace.
I
can't save anyone when I can't even save myself.
...Okay,
I'm officially pathetic. What am I doing? I'm brooding,
which
ticks off the warning mark on my little notebook. Guess I need my
session
again, a snowy day on top of Space Needle. It's a beautiful place to
be.
Alone, lonely, solitary. I used to go there to watch if my bros
and
sis
were there somewhere in between the cobwebs of the lights, searching
for
me as I am for them. Nowadays, though, the only thing I feel is
that I'm
just
a blob on a canvas, so little, so powerless to protect...
...him.
I
can't save him when I'm this scared.
Even
knowing all that, I still want to be with him.
And
that scares me even more.
...All
right. *Definitely* in need of the session now. Can't take this
emotional crap a sec longer.
I
stop making a fit out of the ground with all the smashing and
kicking,
and begin to make a step forward to the 'Needle.
"Hey,
you," someone calls out from behind me.
I
know that voice, don't I?
Logan.
Oh,
crap.
I
have to close my eyes briefly. What the *hell* is he doing here?
Why
is he here on the streets after the curfew?
Of
course; he followed me.
Yeah,
forgot again. He just doesn't give up.
I'm
not ready to turn to him just yet. I can imagine him at the end of
the
street, standing, uh, no, sitting on the wheelchair beside the streetlight,
the snowflakes slowly falling on his brown coat and on his dark blond hair.
He'd be staring at me with his always serious blue eyes, unsure how I'd
react. If just imagining him leaves me out of breath, then what would
actually *seeing* him do to me?
Only
after I muster up the courage to face him, I turn around.
...only
to be greeted with a ball of snow squarely on my face.
"Oops."
He's exactly how I imagined him to be a few seconds second
ago,
except the smirk on his face. "Sorry."
Sooooorrrrrrrrry?
Did he just say SOOOOORRRRRRRY?
"You
know." I tilt my head, and try to wipe the half-melted snow away
with
some grace, which, in this situation, I have less than what Sketchy
usually
has. "This just means war."
He
shrugs with a grin, his gloved hands holding two apple-sized
snowballs.
He's a fine picture of causality.
...Which
is enough to make me lunge forward to gather as much snow as I
can,
and start to discharge the hurriedly produced snowballs.
"Hey,
no use of superpowers against the wee little mortals, remember?"
he
complains, at the same time maneuvering through the thick blanket of
snow
with his specially equipped wheelchair and hiding behind the pole
rapidly.
What did do? Chained the wheels or something?
"Newsflash.
Life ain't fair."
There's
no answer. Suddenly everything seems so quiet without any
movement
behind the streetlight pole. I see the edge of his wheelchair,
and
his
immobile legs, but nothing more.
I
panic, the image of Logan in the hospital suddenly popping up in my
mind.
"Log--"
...and
a few more snowballs meet their unfortunate end on my jacket, on
my
new pants, and on my face again.
Now,
seriously, this means war.
I
can hear his low pleasant chuckle, and I can also very well imagine his eyes
glittering with amusement, with his lips curled at the corners. And as
much as I'm mad and incredulous at him, I'm also relieved, and his soft
laughter sounds like angel's singing to my ears.
"That's
real mature, Logan. Real mature." Sarcasm and irritation
drip
from
my voice.
He
quips, "Who says anything about being mature?"
And
there come a few more large snowballs my way.
This
time, I quickly hide behind a scanty tree beside me. Not much of
a
cover, but something's better than nothin'. Gotta admit, he has a good
aim,
able to throw the 'balls at me from the awkward hiding position with
alarming
precision. All those muscle trainings are for some use, I
see.
And...
I *cannot* believe this. I can jump from the top of the
building
without a blink and disable about ten men in a second, but hitting
Logan
in the wheelchair with a snowball is suddenly the hardest task I've ever
encountered.
I think Lydecker would be seriously pissed if he found
out.
Not that I care, but for a second, I can picture myself telling him,
"Think
your genetically enhanced killing machine's totally malfunctioning,
Don.
Its heart grew ten times its size like that Grinch dude."
No
kidding.
After
a few exchanges of all missed snow cannons, Logan shouts, "You
know,
this could go on forever."
Ah-ha.
Negotiation and relaxation tactic. I think he's forgetting
he's
dealing with a military mastermind here. "Whatcha suggesting?"
"Don't
know. A truce, maybe?"
Like
I'm gonna believe *that*. "Sounds good to me."
After
a short pause his husky voice yells out, "How about I count to
three,
and we both come out, hands up?"
I'm
sure this is the most idiotic thing I've ever done (C'mon, a truce
for
snow fight?), but it's still oddly exciting, and my heart beats faster
than
it has in any crunch situations. "Sure."
"One...two..."
Get
ready. Since he'd have one or two tricks up his sleeve, I better
take
the initiative. Attack first without letting down my defense.
"Three!"
As
soon as I rush out from my hiding place, I slide toward him with an
enormous
snowball I managed to sculpt, and throw it like it's a smoke
bomb
we used to use in training.
It
flies straight into his face, steady and fast, and it's definitely
unavoidable.
And
scores, of course. Ha, ha, ha.
The
wheelchair that's been moving toward me stops dead in its track.
Logan
shakes his head wildly, and the snow tumbles from his face. The
expression
on his face is beyond comical.
I
feel ridiculously happy, a definitely rare emotion in this town.
He
takes off his glasses and wipes them with his sleeve. "Well,
that's
a
very interesting version of 'truce'."
"Come
on, Logan. There're no rules in a snow fight! Only the winner makes the
rules!" I walk to him and tease him in a childlike frivolity, my
hands on the wheelchair's handles and leaning dangerously close to him.
I'm so proud of myself at this point, I don't care how silly this whole
thing is.
"Oh,
is that so?" he questions solemnly, looking at me with a grave
look.
Then suddenly, a snowball appears from nowhere--actually, from behind
his
wheelchair, damn--and smashes against my face.
Again.
I've
had enough.
So
I do what any self-respecting girl would do. I proceed to tackle
him
to the ground.
And
a second later, he's under me, blinking behind his glasses clouded
with
white fog and breathing heavily.
Under
me. My annoying brain notices--under me.
Again.
"Surrender?"
I ask breathlessly. It's good to know even when I'm at
this
close proximity with him, I'm still in control of my voice. Certainly
the
other parts of me are spinning out of control, too aware of his body
that's
beneath mine.
"Guess
I should," he says, his voice shaky and face red from the cold.
"Good."
I should move, but not a single function of my body is
listening
to me at this moment. Just like the last time we ended up in this
position.
I
can smell him. A faint scent of musk, soft and subtle, and even
through
the cold air we're breathing, it lingers in my mind, spreading like a
drop
of perfume in the bathtub until all I breathe is him.
Oh,
get a grip, Max.
He
looks up, half hesitantly meeting up my gaze. The playfulness in
his
eyes is gone now as he asks softly, "You okay?"
And
that breaks the spell.
"Yeah."
The sudden rush I felt from the snow fight disappears as
quickly
as it appeared, and my body calms down immediately. "Couldn't be
better."
I
try to straighten up, remembering the reason I was wandering around
the
street on a very cold snowy day--to avoid situations precisely like
this
one.
He
doesn't move. He only watches me. "You're still
angry," he says
in
his matter-of-fact tone that I hate.
"Don't
be ridiculous," I snap. My face becomes rigid, and I can even
feel
my jaw clenching. "Better get you back to the 'chair before you
get
frostbite."
"If
you don't explain it to me, I won't be able to fix it."
I
sit up, refusing to meet his gaze. "Fix what?"
His
voice is calm, almost serene. "Whatever it is that made you
angry."
God.
I suddenly remember asking him once if he always comes on strong
with
expensive gifts, surprise late-night visits, over-the-top flatteries....but
really, those things I can handle. It's his eyes that I can't.
His so damn hopeful eyes that need me too much.
"What
do you expect of me?" I'm just too damn wary to be careful with
words
anymore. "I don't do emotional comfort stuff. That's not me.
It's
like
when Lydecker made us, he turned on the switch for a gene called
Emotional
Unavailability or something. So I can't."
If
I could, I'd've comforted Zack when I read that particularly
unwelcome
emotion in his eyes, the way he touched my hair, and the way he
caressed
it. If I was good with the emotional saving thing, I'd have said
something
to make him feel better.
But
I just...flinched.
Even
with the sacrifice he made for me, that's all Zack's getting from
me.
A flinch. I'm sorry, but that's all I can give. Damn him for
asking
for
more.
Damn
Logan for asking for more.
And
it doesn't matter that this time, I *want* to give more to him.
Because,
I can't.
His
eyes are confused, and lost. "Can't what?"
"--I
can't, alright?! I can't be all the things you want me to be.
I'm not an angel. Not like you." I look away.
"I'm no one's savior."
Coward.
The
truth is, I'm afraid.
The
last time in the hospital, it was so close--I almost lost him. Things
never scared me when I had nothing to lose, and therefore nothing to be
afraid of. Now I have something to lose, and that scares the hell out
of me.
I'm
afraid I can't protect him, and be all the things he wants me to be.
All
I can hear is his soft breath. There's an inscrutable expression
on
his face. A rare one, because by now I know almost always what he's
thinking.
Okkkay.
This is turning out to be just about the worst night yet.
Think
'Gotta blaze' is in order. I try to stand up, unable to bear his gaze
upon
my face.
But
then, his hand abruptly reaches out to grab my arm, and I lose my
momentum,
the vain attempt to stand up only making me lose my footing
in
the snow.
Therefore,
according to the laws of gravity, I fall flat on my face,
ending
up on his chest.
...This
just *had* to end up like this, didn't it? *Seriously*
resembling
the past 'Logan is under me' episode here.
Suddenly
I realize I'm feeling his chin tucked under my hair, that he's
inhaling
my scent over and over, just like I am his. I can feel his
breaths
blowing softly on my ear, both a tickle and a caress. He
wraps
his arms around me then, tightly embracing me just as hard just as
softly.
And
I'm totally paralyzed.
"But
Max," he whispers, "you already saved me. You already
did."
God.
And
there's something hot welling up in my eyes.
"I'm
just..." Nothing more comes out from my mouth except my ragged breath.
Scared,
I want to say. I'm so scared out of my wits that I might lose him
somehow.
If I just...stop caring, maybe, if my heart stops beating, then maybe, maybe
this will stop.
Tried,
but didn't work. Came back like a boomerang, remember?
"Me
too," he answers, somehow reading my mind. His voice's rattled
from
cold, his body dangerously trembling. But in his voice, there's the
truth.
"But that won't stop me from trying."
Logan,
my saving grace. And my powerful weakness. Just why exactly did
I let this happen?
I
didn't let it happen. I fought hard and ferociously, but I ended up
here.
My
arms are around him, clinging to him, hard. The snow melts around us as the
warmth we radiate touch it. But I'm not cold.
His
voice is husky, "Want some chocolate fudge?"
Unexpected
laughter breaks out in me, and I giggle like a teenage girl.
"Yeah...chocolate
fudge sounds...yum."
And
at least for this moment, when he's murmuring my name over and over
into
my hair so softly, I know that all is right with the world.
Because
as long as I'm with him, I am saved.
"Merry
Christmas," I whisper, "Merry Christmas, Logan."
***
In
your heart, in your soul,
did
you find peace there?
***
<END>
Yay!
Merry Christmas, everybody! ;)
