Rhiannon Lee (rhiannon_lee) wrote in low_tide, @ 2009-11-27 01:32:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | rhiannon lee, whistler |
The Guilty Party
July 2007 (in the Low Tide 'verse)
Detroit, Michigan
"I think you're missing the point, Caller--"
"Maybe if people stopped armchair-quarterbacking our President and second-guessing his decisions, the conflict overseas would be going a lot better."
"So you agree with torture?"
"I didn't say that."
"What are you saying, then?"
There was only so much NPR a man could take.
Whistler squelched the satellite radio signal (he was tempted to rip the contraption from the dashboard of his Impala, but -- wisely? -- opted for the less violent option of the 'off' button) as he brought his car onto the pavement leading to the 'motel no-tell' parking lot.
He'd had enough. The Agent never considered himself a wise man, just experienced. He'd lived through much more than left- and right-wing talk show hosts verbosely commented on. He'd seen war, death, love, depression, boom times.
While floating voices would attempt to influence your opinions on right and wrong, Whistler had lived them. He'd made game-altering, life-changing movements based on everything he'd lived through.
And he'd never doubted. Not until a week ago.
The hatted man found his reserved parking space, idling the engine a moment before twisting the key and turning off the motor. He exhaled deeply.
A cloud of exhaust clogged the air around his tailpipe. The pollution wafted over to Rhiannon, who had serious doubts the Impala was still road legal. She picked herself up and dusted off the back of her pants. After two hours of waiting on the curb, her ass was sore and her tank top was soaked in sweat. The fact that he hadn’t gotten out of his car yet and cracked a joke meant he didn’t know she was there… Had probably forgotten she was going to meet him when he got back.
She walked through the narrow space between automobiles and knocked on his window. Rhiannon pantomimed rolling it down. “It’s a good thing you’re here. I just ran out of cigarettes.”
Whatever space his mind wandered to evaporated with the tapping. The hatted man gave his best friend a look that said 'I never should've given you your first cigarette' before opening the car door, accidentally banging the metal against her shin. "Sorry," he offered meekly.
Whistler shimmied out of the Impala into the sweltering atmosphere that was summer in Michigan, undoing a few buttons from his shirt. Despite appearances, his car worked well enough to offer unconditional air conditioning. In this weather, his car was an oasis. He shook out his soft pack of Sevens and offered the brunette a cigarette before lighting one himself. "You been hearing scientists talk about global warming? Ten years ago I'd have called 'em crackpots."
“Yeah well, you like the beach. Wait long enough and it’ll come to us.” Okay, not really, but whatever. Rhiannon stuck the cigarette between her lips and poked around in his back seat, digging past fast food bags and plastic bottles for his suitcase. She hauled it out set it on the blacktop, which needed paving. Here and there, cracks splintered it, looking like fault lines of old earthquakes. Weeds took advantage and took root.
She straightened and looked at him. A wisp of smoke curled into the thick summer air while Rhiannon’s eyes took in his clothing wrinkles. “You look haggard," she said and tapped her ashes. "What’d you do, drive nonstop?”
"Not if I see it first." He'd always said, if the day came for the Agent to retire, it would be on a beachside property. It was almost a joke. Given his longevity and usefulness to the Order of things, hanging up his hat seemed a long way off.
Then.
Whistler took a drag from his cigarette and glanced at the suitcase. He debated whether to move indoors and unpack. "Slept for two hours just inside the North Dakota state line," he replied. "Any good war stories while I was gone?"
"Absolutely nothing," Rhiannon said.
Since he wasn't making a move for the door, she leaned against the Impala. The sun shone brightly off another person's windshield. Rhiannon untangled sunglasses from her hair and put them on, which took things down a notch. "Well, that's a lie," she said. "I got drunk and broke up with my boyfriend again. So that's... kind-of war-like." She made a face. "Only it wasn't just the alcohol. I've been meaning to do it anyway."
She adjusted the strap of her tank top. "How was um..." The exact city escaped her. "Shit. Seattle?"
"Tacoma," he corrected. "It was--" How to describe the event without imparting too much detail. "Not run-of-the-mill." Hopefully she wouldn't dig further.
Rhiannon took an active interest in the Agent's work life. Might've had something to do with him showing up a few years ago outside the 7-11, proudly announcing the brunette's 'destiny'. (After she hurled a slushie at his car.) What he wouldn't readily admit was how much he enjoyed sharing his life with her. For the first time in decades, he had a true friend, someone who trusted and believed in him, just as he had her. Friendship begun over a melting syrupy drink and a vampire staking. Lesser bonds were forged with much less.
He stripped off his coat and flung it on the roof of his car. Another inhale of burning tobacco. "Never liked that guy anyway," he muttered, indicating the now ex-boyfriend. "Always had the icky feeling you two did it on my bed when I wasn't lookin'."
"Wrong guy." She winked.
Anyway, if this was like the two times previous, she'd get stupid and take him back. At least his was familiar bullshit. Plus, he already knew her big secret and he stayed out of the way, which was easier than telling thin lies to a new boyfriend.
"So," Rhiannon lifted her shoulders, "Entertain me. What goes bump in the night in Tacoma? Unless it's a dirty story, in which case you can feel free to stay thin on the details." The sleeve of his coat tickled her neck. She reached back and knocked it aside, having no clue why Whistler wore layers and button-down shirts in the dead of July. Attempts to put him in jeans and a t-shirt always bombed.
"New Slayer. Vamp nest in a mausoleum. Your typical. She was all of 14, this one. Family had a sense of humor, named her Mercy." His lips were thin with the comment. "Her Watcher had been called away up north, Vancouver I think. So I babysat. Tried to teach her a few things. Took her on patrol."
Whistler paused as the cigarette continued to burn, an extension of his mood.
Unimpressed, Rhiannon raised an eyebrow. "Sounds run-of-the-mill to me." Unless it was a nest of dozens. That'd be tough for an experienced Slayer. "God, I hate mausoleums. They're dark and there's only one way out, so if you get cornered, it's a bitch." An old beer cap rested near her shoe. Car tires had flattened it, but the ruffled edge and coloring made it easy to identify. She nudged it and wondered if it was one of theirs. Probably something she flicked at Whistler.
"Wait." She frowned. "Why are you using past tense? She was all of fourteen?"
The Agent rubbed his palm against his forehead, unaware of the burning embers of the cigarette that threatened to excite his hat. "Because the intel was wrong. It wasn't supposed to be a nest, just a squatter." He lowered his hand and remembered the cancer stick. He took another drag.
"Like cheer camp. You start 'em off easy. Figured, cornered vamp, new Slayer. What could go wrong?" And it all went wrong. Whistler sucked again on the cigarette, willing the carcinogens into his body, not that they would have any cancerous effect. "I even went in with a stake, as back-up."
"You ought to go in with an AK-47 as a back-up," Rhiannon teased. Even as she made fun of him, she dropped her cigarette and tried to make him feel better about the intel. "Maybe it was a squatter having a housewarming party." She scrubbed her boot over the ashes to put it out, though the heat coming off the pavement felt warm enough to re-ignite it. "Either way, you haven't answered my question. What's the deal, she get an eyeful of the bad side of slaying and quit?"
Whistler shook his head. He found it hard to meet her brown eyes; Rhiannon had the ability to see through him, know what he was thinking, how he felt. But he also couldn't hide this from her. The brunette deserved to know.
"She -- Mercy -- was handling it pretty well. Reminded me a little o' you, actually, Rhi. It was comin' natural. Did a runnin' back-flip off a wall and pinned down one of the vamps." The Agent took one last taste of the cigarette before dropping it to the pavement. When the weeds threatened to ignite, he stomped it out with his shoe. "But she got grabbed by two and I rushed in to help. Got knocked back, charged back in, stake first.
"I missed the vamp."
"Hey..." Rhiannon reached over and roughly knuckled the underside of his chin, trying to make him look up. "Cut the shit, okay? What happened?" She was getting that burn in her stomach, the one that came when people delayed bad news. It was better to get the wind knocked out of her than have acid eat a hole in her insides.
He didn't struggle. Whistler looked Rhiannon square in the eyes. So she could see the pain.
"They moved, so damned fast. Pushed her in front of me." Whistler swallowed. "The stake was in my hands and it -- I staked Mercy. I killed her."
"You--"
Rhiannon's brain short-circuited. It took a minute to look away. When she did, her eyes searched out the middle of his chest, where Whistler would've needed to strike with so much accuracy to kill a Slayer. They were built to survive injury. Only a direct hit to the heart or an artery would've taken her out. What were the chances he would rush at the wrong instant, miss the vamps, have too much momentum, and hit the girl instead? But it was true. Whistler fucked around a lot, but not about death and not about a Slayer. Not about a girl who reminded him of Rhiannon.
She wet her lips, not knowing how to process it, or which reaction to go with. Her best friend was hurting, but a Slayer was dead. Should she tell him he had no business being there? That he didn't have the reaction time for it? Should she yell because he went into a fight when she wasn't there to protect him? No, he already hated himself. She should say she was sorry it happened, find a way to make it okay again.
"Whistler." She took a breath. "They would've killed her. Maybe they would've turned her."
"And maybe if I'd have checked it out first, or stood back, or--. Christ, only knows, Rhi! But I killed her." The intensity of his pain balled into his fists. He needed an outlet and none was to be found. Not from the bottle of Jack Daniels he'd downed afterwards, or from the evidence of five speeding tickets from Washington to Michigan. "Me. The one who had no business being in a fight. I know it, and you know it."
His arm swung backwards and hit the Impala door. It left a tiny dent. "And you know what's worse? What the fucking capper of it is? That tiny part of my brain, the one that's been doing this job longer than I care to admit. The voice that says 'It's part of the job. It happens'. But I can't fuckin' accept that. Because the entire drive back I kept thinkin', what if it was you? What if I got you killed, Rhi? You're my best damned friend and it'd kill me if that was you with a piece of wood in your chest. Should I care less that it was Mercy? Because she wasn't you?"
"Of course not." At a loss, Rhiannon wrapped a hand around her elbow and squeezed.
The enormity of it ached, a black hole opening up, promising to swallow everything. It was going to get worse. Even though the Powers sent him there. Even though it could've happened to anybody. Even though the girl knew the risk of slaying was dying and took it anyway. He would hate himself. He was already torn over being sent to help call them, stuck between pride and guilt. It was the biggest of all cosmic fuck you's to lead a girl to possible death and execute it himself.
She made herself look at him. "It wasn't me. But if it was, I'd forgive you. You were trying to save her life. You did what a decent, brave person does. You risked your life to try and save hers. It just wasn't meant to be saved."
There was a redness to his eyes now, as he held back tears. Once they started, Whistler feared, they would never stop. Not that he couldn't show emotion, especially to Rhiannon, but the roiling mass of regret and pain would swallow him whole.
"I can't ask you that," he finally muttered. "Forgiveness. I told her family, you know. After I'd set fire inside the mausoleum. I went to them. Her mom was devastated, the father threatened to kill me. I kinda wish he'd tried."
The Agent flexed his hand, then rubbed it against his leg. "I've done shit before, Rhi. Stuff I'm not proud of. This is just another in a long list.
"I'm toxic to be around." The words spilled out without filter. "You'd be better off without me. Safer."
"Whistler, no." Maybe she'd waited too long to reach. Alarmed, Rhiannon pushed off the car. She took his hands and laced her fingers into his, just so they'd be harder to peel apart. Then she clasped all four hands together. "You're not toxic. People make mistakes. Terrible things happen all the time, but any deed's worth forgiving if a person truly regrets it, especially if it's an accident. You say that to me all the time."
She studied his hands. "You'll take a break. Then you'll forgive yourself and push past it. You're no good to the world if you just wallow and waste your talents. That doesn't help anybody, least of all her." She was channeling him and she knew it. Repeating his lessons about redemption and doing the work that mattered.
Every time he'd imparted that knowledge on another, he'd felt the weight of the words. But here, now -- as Whistler heard it echoed back to him -- the words felt hollow. Maybe he was too hard on himself; perhaps he'd just lived too long and seen too much.
"I want to believe that..." his voice trailed off. His hands in hers, warmth. Love that could only come from a friend who never wavered in their faith of the other. "But not today."
"Jesus, give yourself time to breathe, Whistler!" Rhiannon felt the old fear surfacing and held on tighter. He wanted to skip town. He wanted to check out of the motel that sheltered him so many times over four years and fall off the map. But this time, he'd stay away from her, out of reach. That wasn't acceptable, because she needed him. Things got knocked off kilter when he wasn't around. She felt like a compass that couldn't find north. "How could you even look at me and say you're bad? It's stupid. You know how miserable I was before. How bad I wanted this, even before I knew it existed. You gave it to me."
Whistler couldn't breathe, aside from shallow gulps. No strong intake of air. He was deflated. "No one's takin' it away from ya, Rhi," he offered. "You've been Called and you've got Destiny, two things to hold on tight and never let go of. I was only meant to put ya on the path, not get in your way. And that's what I'm doin' right now. I stay here, I'm gonna drag you down. You'll be more worried about me than about yourself, and it'll likely get ya hurt or worse."
He hands slowly slipped their bonds. "Ya gotta let go of me."
What ought to have been grief on behalf of her friend became fear, and since she wasn't comfortable showing that, or pleading with him, she twisted it into ugly anger instead. "This is bullshit!" Rhiannon used her empty hands to shove on his chest. She pushed her fingers into her hair and backed off a step. "You know what, no, this is a great idea. Do to me exactly what you think you should've done to her. Leave me to fend for myself. That way, every time life inevitably sucks, you can thank god you weren't around. That way, you won't have to blame yourself for it."
His despondency slipped away as Whistler became a mirror to Rhiannon's anger. "Right, because you need me to hold your hand every step of the way!" Where the brunette took a step back, the Agent shuffled forward, invading her personal space. "Chosen one! Fights against the darkness, but needs a fuckin' half-demon to hold her hand because she's afraid of the light. Never comfortable in your own skin, so you've gotta wear others' to make you feel complete."
Another step forward. "You may be fuckin' special, Rhiannon Lee, but the world doesn't revolve around you. I'm not a satellite alright? I'm not here to bounce your radio signals off of. It's not my job to make sure the girl from the 7-11 doesn't end up with another loser boyfriend, or to remind her that she's stronger on the inside than she feels."
Whistler wanted to strike out at her, make Rhiannon feel his pain. "I've been doin' this fuckin' job way too long, and it always bites me in the ass. And when I'm askin' for a bit of space, your biggest concern is who's gonna take care of you."
Rhiannon recoiled. "Get out of my face!" She put a palm over Whistler's and knocked him back a couple paces. She shook her head. "You don't want space. You want to disappear! That way, nobody can interrupt the pity party, which, by the way, is taking the easy way out." She jabbed a thumb at her chest. "But here I come and try to throw a spoke in the wheel, and you act like it makes me a selfish freak of nature. Guess what? People need each other all the time. They're called families. But I guess being a Chosen one, I shouldn't need one."
Inside, she knew it was just Whistler's desperation speaking. He was looking for an escape, yeah, but he also thought it was right to go. Pride was a bitch of a thing to swallow, especially now that he'd made her out to be some kind of self-centered, co-dependent child. She wanted to tell him to fuck right on off. But that was exactly what he wanted. "Fine. Go. Take a long, lonely vacation and think about what you've done. But you're not getting rid of me that easily. Wherever you turn up, one of these days, I'm going to figure it out."
His words were lies. Whistler knew it, and Rhiannon saw past them. But neither could confess to the truth.
When the Slayer spoke of family, the word cut deeper than any knife. He hadn't anything closely resembling that in decades. She was closer to him, knew him so intimately, more than the small clan he grew up with. Was that why he insisted on pushing her away?
The silence was thicker than the pollution that hung overhead. Slowly, the Agent grabbed his suitcase and, opening the car door, tossed it on the back seat. He turned back to his friend.
"Take care of yourself," he muttered.
"Yeah." Rhiannon backed in the direction of the curb. "God forbid I ask anybody to help."