Solving For Another X
by Miriam HeddyCharles was encouraging, naturally, and though a week ago Larry quite honestly had no intention of asking Megan out on anything that might remotely be considered a date, his intentions seemed, finally, to be entirely irrelevant, as Charles and Amita had so helpfully made themselves scarce, and, alone with Megan, he'd found himself putting forward the proposal, expecting that she would say yes, of course, if only out of courtesy. They were friends, and he valued her friendship, and that was enough--more than enough--and anything more than enough was, by definition, too much.
Though she was quite beautiful in the candlelight, and he enjoyed himself, he had to admit, despite his reservations, or perhaps because of them--Ethiopian being a far better choice than Italian, especially as the restaurant mimicked European conventions to the point of candlelight and silverware. Charles' input in his choice of dining venue had been most helpful, and he was delighted to find his dilemma had caused Charles to momentarily set aside both the case and his moping about Susan (or was it Amita this week? Or perhaps some combination of them both, transformed into an idealized woman Charles would, naturally, come to conclude hovered just out of reach, tantalizing but inaccessible, and therefore that much more highly prized.)
Women were, he'd always found, interesting, perplexing creatures... some more than others, of course. And he had many female friends. He'd always enjoyed talking with Margaret, for instance, though of course they'd spent much of their time discussing Charles' homework problems, as well as his non-academic problems, on which subject Larry always felt far less helpful. On some level, dinner with Megan was very much like that, though now Charles' homework was quite a bit more challenging--and even he was sometimes out of his depths in attempting to make sense of it.
In any case, it was easier to discourse with Megan without that undercurrent of hostility he always felt at the FBI, with the constant, usually unspoken implication that he really didn't belong there, and was, at most, indulged only because Don had brought Charles on, and he had merely arrived in tow, on hand, as a kind of intellectual accessory to the brothers Eppes, rather than a person in his own right who might just have something to contribute--something that Megan, at least, seemed to recognize.
Not that he was at all resentful given that the work was interesting, and were it not for Charles bringing him along he would, most likely, be spending his afternoons and evenings, not to say also his mornings, either in his office, alone, or attending to the infinite daily tasks of teaching and research--both valuable and engaging, but nothing like this. No... in point of fact, neither teaching nor research ever led to a woman smiling at him with quite that expression--quite that strange, inexplicably indulgent smile that Megan had graced him with over dinner when he was saying things that really didn't merit it.
Charles never smiled at him like that. Though Charles would have pointed out that when Larry was in high school, Megan not only wouldn't have sat at his table but would have been unable to reach the table without assistance, and if she'd sat there, it would almost certainly have been in a high chair, and the mess would have been quite literal.
The same was true of Charles, of course. Sensitive--yes, he was sensitive on that point.
Not that he wanted to be young again, no. To live through that once was more than enough. And children killing other children--that was a tragedy on many levels, including the selfish fact that it made him feel out of step with the world. He had no idea how he'd survived his own adolescence, and very little idea how he even managed today, except incrementally, one challenge at a time, as each one presented itself.
"So how did it go?" Charles asked, leaning in too close, challenging him with his directness, and Larry pursed his lips and frowned, wondering if it was worth pointing out to Charles that he really did prefer not to discuss such things in quite that tone. Though it was his own fault, having done so once before, and that indiscretion on the matter of Laurel really didn't leave him with much of a leg to stand on at this point.
"It was fine, Charles."
"So you'll be seeing her again?"
"Today, in fact, when I accompany you to deliver this information to Don."
"I meant on a date," Charles clarified, and Larry nodded, knowing that's what Charles had meant, of course.
"Yes, I suppose so."
"So you asked her out on another date?"
"Charles, did I ever ask you to disclose the precise nature of your relationship with Susan Berry, either the first time or this second, when she left rather abruptly after what appeared to be a resumption of your relationship?"
Charles drew back, looking bewildered, possibly hurt. "No."
"And why do you think that is?"
"Because you--"
"Because I find that the less I know about your dalliances, the less I find I care about them."
"Dalliances?"
"Affairs. Encounters. Trysts."
"Trysts," Charles repeated, and Larry wondered again why it was that so many otherwise intelligent people knew so few words.
"Trysts," Larry said again, liking the hard sound of it, and the sibilance. "Your infrequent, awkward pursuits of the opposite sex which somehow do sometimes end in fucking around."
Charles held up a hand and backed up a step, still standing too close. "Whoah. Where the hell did that come from?"
Larry himself was too close. He did realize that. Even so, he considered just coming out with it--just confessing all to Charles. It would be embarrassing, he was sure, and perhaps a disclosure of that sort would signal the end of their relationship. Nevertheless, there was a certain joy to be had in considering just turning to Charles, just turning to him and putting a hand on his shoulder, or one hand on each shoulder, and drawing him closer, so that he could be sure he had Charles' full attention, and saying....
Nothing. The words were obvious enough--the dross of a thousand badly written romance novels, words one man didn't--and couldn't--say to another under these circumstances, when Charles quite clearly had no interest in him as an object of his affections beyond that of platonic friendship--something Charles was, in fact, more than willing to set aside in favor of pursuing romance.
Though Susan was in England, now, and Amita was close enough that Charles would almost certainly either drive her away for good or attain her only to (he was sure) be disappointed when she turned out to be something less than Charles might have imagined--someone human and imperfect and nothing at all like what Charles seemed to imagine a woman should be. Larry sometimes wondered if Charles realized that even his own mother had been a human being--not simply mortal but also imperfect, prone to frailties quite a bit more profound than cancer. One day, Charles would grow up and discover that, and when he did... Larry would not say a word.
"From the heart, Charles, from the heart. And may I also add that I may well see Megan again, or I may not. At the moment, Megan and I are friends, and sometimes friends share a meal, as you well know, having shared one with me on occasion. And as we are friends, and out of respect for that fact, and in the hopes that you and I might continue to maintain this friendship, I would appreciate if you speculated privately on my affairs, or, better still, not at all."
The pages of the book on the desk, pressed open, were smooth and cool beneath his palms. It was a comforting sensation, grounding, knowing that, were he to look down, it would be at a discussion of heat and light light years away. Things that were distant in time and space could still be felt--could still affect the here and now, even if those effects were imperceptible to the naked eye. There were always repercussions to even the smallest event.
"Wait--this is about Susan?"
Larry shut the book without looking at it, or Charles. The cover was a bit rougher under his fingers, pebbled leather. He didn't respond, having already said as much--too much.
"This is about Susan." Charles transformed the shocked interrogative to an uncertain declarative, and Larry hoped that meant this was a conversation Charles could manage to conclude entirely on his own, as Larry really had somewhere else to be.
"I have to go to the library," he said, the destination picked by the book in his hand, possibly a library book, possibly one he could return, though it might well be one from his own collection. There were always more books.
"I still need that one," Charles protested, and Larry set the book back down on the desk again and this time, looking at the desk, found that there was (as there always was) another book that could be returned. And with it, he headed to the door, or tried to, though Charles stopped him before he reached it, standing between Larry and his exit. The shortest distance was always a straight line, though he could always go around. Charles frequently diverted him from the ideal path. "And you can't leave until you explain what your problem is," Charles demanded, as if unaware that Larry had already told him.
He imagined putting his hand on Charles' shoulder, drawing him close, pushing him away, throwing the book at him, throwing him down to the floor, giving up and saying it out loud. But he didn't--and probably never would, because there were rules that stood between them--as sure and solid and immutable as the laws of the Cosmos--and he was not confident enough that he understood those rules well enough to risk learning what might happen if he were to challenge them.
Behind him, he heard Charles sigh, and then call out, "That one's mine, too, Larry. Larry? It's not a library book! I own that one. I helped write it. Larry?"
Safely in the hallway, he stopped and looked down at the book in his hand, seeing that Charles was right, of course.
Larry nodded to himself and put the book in his bag, hoping he'd remember it later, feeling the comforting weight of it swinging against his side as he walked, a piece of Charles' life and work. Nothing was where it should be anymore, and he took some comfort in that, too, in carrying a piece of Charles with him, leaving other pieces of himself behind in trade--energy and matter, matter and energy--and somewhere billions of light years away, two black holes were inevitably going to collide, and when they did... well, it would be something.
—FIN—
© 2006
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