A Fearful Symmetry 9

He is drunk, too drunk to be seeing her. But he's not sure how he got this drunk, and he doesn't want to be around anyone else when he's like this—she is the only one he can trust. The thought makes him weak at the knees; he has known it for months now, but he has never acknowledged it.

Trust! What is wrong with him? Trust is for normal people, who only have to worry about their next payment, not the next time the cops will find their house. Trust is for the weak.

But maybe he is weak. After all, he can't stop coming here, and he knows he shouldn't. For one thing, it's never a good idea to return somewhere on a regular basis; she's told him he's getting predictable, and if she's noticed it, the Genecops might too. For another, he's losing business; he spends all night and sometimes part of the day here, drawing on her light to charge his tired mind. He cannot pretend indifference anymore: he knows that he can't look at that face much longer without kissing it. There would be nothing really wrong with that, and there's the catch, isn't it? He hates the part of him that has no problem with hurting her.

He wants to love her, dammit! He wants their relationship to be as pure as the driven snow, lies awake not for fear of a nightmare but for fear that he will dream of her coming to him because he doesn't want to think of her that way.

He remembers a story someone read to him when he was little, about a knight who loved a princess. The knight didn't do anything about it; he loved her in a courtly way and showed his love by serving her. He'd always thought that was crap, but now he sort of understands. She will only stay the way she was if he serves her, if he treats her like the fragilest glass. He has helped her too many times; now he's addicted as any of the junkies he services. That graveyard stunt… sheesh. He tries to brush the thought from his mind; he liked the way she looked at him—like he was a decent person, like there was some part of him worth liking—too much.

He's not a decent person. He's a man who corrodes for a living, who takes a bright life and rusts it until it crumbles in his fingers and he can't squeeze any more money out of it. He has no ideals; he has no dreams save that one. Why would she ever care?

When she lets him in, she pretends to be angry, though he can tell she's really relieved, like she wanted a distraction. She puts her hands on her hips and frowns at him. "What are you doing here?" He knows she disapproves of his lifestyle; she could lecture him about the evils of alcohol until the sun comes back. But he can see the distracted pleasure in her eyes—from that stupid smile, no doubt. He couldn't help that smile, and it made her happy, so maybe it's not as bad as he thought.

He spreads his hands. "I was—" He has the usual sauve reply on his tongue, but something in her face stops him. He is too drunk to be talking to her—he wants to… to… He drops to one knee in front of her. "What do you want, Shi?"

She steps back as though she's been slapped. He has never called her by her name, not once in their whole… whatever-the-hell-this-is. Her eyes have gone very wide, and he has the horrible feeling that he's just done something very wrong. Her mouth opens, but she doesn't speak; she swallows hard and looks at him like she's never seen him before.

"Shilo?" he asks. His voice is… softer than he's used to. It's strange, but he doesn't think it's bad. It's been a long time since any part of him was soft. "What is it?"

She blinks a few times, clasping her hands over her collarbones. She still looks shocked, but not so much like she might hit him or scream anymore. "You're drunk," she whispers finally. "You should go lie down."

He wants to take her hand, wants to pull her against him. But even this drunk—so drunk that her suggestion of a rest sounds lovely—he can't break that silent law between them. No touch. Never touch her, even if it's just because some stupid part of him is sure she will shatter, just as sure as it is that stones sink in water.

It's mostly his rule anyway, so he'd better stick to it.

He sighs and gets to his feet. "Yeah, kid, you're right." She seems relieved that he has returned to his usual nickname, although she does not come any closer to him. He pauses for a moment, the desire to touch her so strong it hurts a little, but then he just tugs on a strand of her wig to straighten it as he passes.

O-o-O-o-O

He can see in her eyes that she wants to know. Even the other recognizes it: in his cold way, he sees more clearly than Nathan sometimes. She wants to see us, the other tells him, its voice like fingernails digging into his shoulder. She wants to know us.

She doesn't want to know you, Nathan thinks back, disgusted with himself for even replying. His medication is supposed to keep him from hearing his other self, but… well, he's been busy, and he hasn't had time to experiment with dosage strengths. Never mind that the other seems a lot more interested in Marni than killing people now. Nathan doesn't know if that's good or bad, but at least he's stopped dreaming about her heart's blood dripping from his fingers. She just wants to know what I'm hiding with Rotti.

His fingers clench on the wall. Damn that man. Damn him! Why can't he just let Nathan be? Nathan is very grateful that Rotti has given him the job and the apartment (not to mention all the booze), but he knows it's all just a bribe. At least Rotti has realized he can't threaten Nathan. Nathan has nothing to lose except his soul, and going along with Rotti would toss that right out the window.

After all, he got into this job to help people, didn't he? And repossessing organs is about as far from that idea as he could get. Never mind that it makes good business sense, the other sneered in his head.

We could never tell Marni that! Nathan snaps. Aren't we already hiding enough from her? The other quiets, considering this. After a moment, Nathan feels something like assent, and the other retreats into a corner of Nathan's mind.

Nathan sighs, leaning his head against the cool glass of one of his many windows. He never uses them for any other purpose; he's concerned with the living, not the dead, and there's nothing down there with a pulse.

Marni will be here soon. He's long since moved in, but she keeps coming anyway. He suspects that it's more for want of his company than insomnia, but he's not about to complain; he loves her. He loves her so much that it keeps him awake at night long after she leaves, staring at the ceiling and trying to banish her from his mind. Nothing can ever happen between them—but oh…

There is a gentle knock at the door, and Nathan tries to clear his mind. She will see his worries in his face, and that would be their undoing.