Falling To Pieces, Part 1.
Title: Falling To Pieces
Rating: NC-17
Authors: super-six-one corporal-king.
Summary: It’s an AU fic with a twist at the end that even made us stop and think...."what the flippin’ hell!?"
Disclaimer: None of this ever happened, nor do we insist that the events hold truth in writing them.
Long-winded notes: This is for the lovely vintage-belle for her drabble, but it is also a V-Day gift to all of you from us. You see, we wrote this eating the all the chocolate my boyfriend the Corporal’s hubby sent us and we felt guilty about being so selfish.
Chocolate and slash…and keeping it all to ourselves!? In the end, we decided we’d at least share the slash. Any mistakes you find are courtesy of the fact that there is no proper word processor on the communal laptops we use and were far too lazy to go back through. Anything obvious, feel free to point it out. We’ll simply chuck something at your head an’ tell you to screw off. : )
Now, please remember that this is an AU and a crossover that you may or may not pick up on, though we sincerely hope you do; if not, ask and we shall gladly tell. Kyle does the military, and Red is Scott, and the “twist” will be sending both us authors to hell. So stay open-minded for us, cuties! You’re in for a long, messed-up ride. ::smooches::
falling to pieces.
When a man has found something he really loves, he must always hang onto it, no matter what happens, whether it loves him or not. And if it finally kills him, he should be grateful for it, for having just had the chance. Because that’s the whole secret.
-Jack Malloy
It was a cold January morning, John Lennon was on the radio, and Kyle wasn’t feeling too bad as he pulled out the parking structure beneath his apartment complex. He turned onto the street with a smile playing at the corners of his lips because newspaper headlines weren’t too serious today, because Stone was watching Scooby Doo in Captain Planet pajamas, because nothing could dampen his mood with this concrete city as a winter sun rose above the cityscape and lit windowpanes in gold.
His cell was on silent while he drove deep into the heart of Manhattan, maneuvering his way around many a flock of business men marching off to work, around traffic jams and chirping police cruisers as freezing tourists wandered across the intersections with bewildered looks on their faces and cameras in their hands. Yes, right now, nothing could break him. Not the deep guffaws of talk show hosts, the fact that his truck was in desperate need of a maintenance check, or that he woke up with a crick in his back like a bullet had lodged itself into his vertebrae overnight.
Even as he walked up three flights of stairs because the elevator leading up to Dr. Sanders’ offices had broken again, thankfully, this time with no one occupying the lift. Even as Jeanette grinned her sun-bleached, Vaselined, falsifying grin at him while his initials blew across the sign-in sheet. None of it bothered him, not even her starry look Jeanette gave him as he made his way across the lobby floor, sidling up to Red, the only other in the room besides the doe-eyed broad ogling him behind the receptions counter.
“Hey there, Red,” Kyle quipped, reaching for last week’s dog-eared issue of the New Yorker on the coffee table before him. He sat down with the glossy magazine tight in his grip, feeling rather plain next to Red, looking handsome and stunningly picturesque in his green Army uniform. His dark blond hair was curled into a small comma that fell across his forehead, and his strong form matched that of Kyle’s, hunching down in the blue, cloth-covered chairs, legs splayed out beneath the glass table’s wire frame.
“Mornin’ Kyle.” Red smiled slightly, dark eyes flitting upwards. “Have a good weekend?”
“I should be asking you that. I hope they didn’t work you too hard upstate,” Kyle laughed, thumbing his way through the editorials and advertisements. “But yeah, good weekend. My kid was sick earlier in the week, couldn’t go to winter break daycare at all, but strangely enough, he’s feeling better just in time for our flight into Anaheim tomorrow morning….”
Red’s smile grew. “Now, ain’t that funny. Maria couldn’t get outa bed for Sunday school yesterday, she was so sick. Amazin’ enough, at the mention of our flight down to Orlando this afternoon seemed to cure her of all illnesses. Fever, the shakes, stutterin’ and pouts…all gone.”
“Damn kids,” Kyle replied, smirking.
“Got that right.” Red smothered a grin, the Los Angeles Times Calendar section forgotten in his lap. His voice then dropped low, Texan accent gravelly. “Ya know, for a while, I thought Jeanette mighta been into me, but I think she’s just ‘bout content starin’ at ya while ya wait, considerin’ they like to schedule us in on the same day every damn time.”
“The girl scares me, Red,” Kyle said, peering up off the page, catching her drop her head down, chestnut hair whipping behind the mahogany counter as a keyboard was assaulted with a sudden fury.
“Think she knows she’s fraternizin’ with the enemy?”
Kyle gave the Red Sox sticker pasted onto the back of her computer screen a long, hard look. The red baseball mug full of pens on the counter, the small banner donning the desk’s raise up to the narrow countertop, and the clay paperclip holder in the shape of Fenway. “Honestly?”
Red shrugged. “I remember when I played ball in high school. Shit, the only girls that’d show up at the games were our moms.”
Kyle choked back on laughter at the officer’s deadpan tone, his solemn, remorseful eyes.
“Ain’t funny. I’d throw into the dirt and five three-hundred pound women’d lumber to their feet, cheerin’ me on.” Red shook his head sadly, pulling at the side stripes of his trousers, readjusting in his seat as Kyle visualized the scene painted out for him. “One time, Betty Lunsford, this girl I’d liked since primary, came to one a our games with her friends. It’s Saturday night, there’s a storm comin’ for sure, and here comes Betty, just watchin’ as I go up to bat. Hard down the center, broke the pitcher’s nose in two places.” Red grinned. “Sure, I may a lost Betty ‘coz a that, but I sure as fuck taught Gary Arnold not to tip my daddy’s fuckin’ cattle.”
“Jesus,” Kyle snorted, “You’re such a redneck.”
“Hey, Pinstripes, don’t ya forget where ya came from, now.”
Kyle smirked, nodded. Red smiled in return, and without a second glance, turned back to his newspaper, calloused fingers running over black print. And Kyle watched them both. Red and Jeannette. Red so quickly lost in an article Kyle would never find interesting himself, Jeannette split between whatever lay out on her computer screen and looking up over the counter for another fast look, another pinprick on the back of Kyle’s neck when he knew he was being watched.
Through the walls, the sounds of repairmen working on the elevator could be heard, as could the minute vibration of Kyle’s cell against his hip, tucked into his jacket pocket. He pulled it out briefly, checked the number and shoved it back into his pocket. His agent could wait, sit in his office and wring his hands and down brandy to Jeter’s picture on every major national magazine in print and wait. Because nothing would bother Kyle today. Red not looking him in the eye, the luggage he was to take to California having gone missing, and Dr. Sanders running fifteen minutes late. No, nothing would bother Kyle today.
*
Dr. Sanders called Kyle in only moments after Dr. Jackson accepted Red into his office. Kyle fought off a smirk as Dr. Jackson warmly commented on Red’s captains’ promotion, major pins shining by the lobby’s lights, Red discreetly rolling his eyes and looking much younger than his thirty-three-years-old. By that time, nine-twenty, the sunlight was finally beginning to reach the lobby floors through the venetian blinds, and the thermostat rattled pleasantly in its place beneath the window, warming the small room.
People began trickling in: soccer moms having dropped the kids off at the grandparents’ house for an appointment, a young couple gripping at each other’s hand, another uniform, and a UPS deliveryman giving Jeannette a hard time over a small package. When the petite secretary received the notice from Dr. Sanders’ office, signaling Kyle to head on back, she looked up to him with a pleading in her eyes, the deliveryman before her impatient and red-faced. Kyle only shrugged, walked towards the door being held open by a pretty woman dressed down in pink scrubs.
Walking down the taupe hallway, he felt calm, at peace within the walls where paintings in cheap frames hung. Sure, he could afford to see someone more upscale, but why, when Dr. Sanders gave him that affect, gave him that direction for weeks to come. The pretty nurse cut him loose before a familiar door, a gleaming white door with the brass numbers 117 nailed into it. He opened it into an airy office, intricate woodwork bringing out the overall darkness of the place. Books lined the shelves, and a single lamp illuminated the desk and the beige sofa opposite of the leather captains’ chair.
“Hello, Kyle,” Dr. Sanders said. “I’ll have to apologize for my being late. My daughter wasn’t feeling very good.”
The psychologist, unconventional and unorthodox but a psychologist nonetheless, was set at a mere five foot, but her friendly smile and bright eyes gave way for her warm being in spite of her short stature. She stood by the window overlooking the city at a forth-four view, her outline against concrete buildings and skyscrapers not quite slim, but curvy and desirable by any sane man’s standards. Eloise Sanders gave back what the world gave to her, dedicating her life to both her family and the people of the city looking for a cure from a thought, a memory, an incident. She asked questions and expected answers.
And that was what kept Kyle coming back. Yes, he could definitely afford to see someone with more experience, in an office building where the elevator worked and the heating systems didn’t sound like a Vietnam War audioclip. Yes, he could sit in a stuffy office before a stiff in a perfectly proportioned suit scribbling down notes as he spilled out some childhood secret.
But it wasn’t as if that did Jeter any good. Nearly screwed up his entire career because of those executive monsters that ate up things like what passed the shortstop’s lips the previous week. Kyle didn’t need that, didn’t need that all. Especially after the divorce, the last thing he needed was to bring the attention on himself over the murder of his sister’s goldfish in the fifth grade or something.
“Hey, Dr. Sanders,” Kyle finally replied. “How’re you?”
“I’m doing fine, Kyle. And you? Did you enjoy the holidays?”
“Good.” Kyle smiled politely, took a seat and waited for the sixty-four-thousand dollar question. It came.
“How are things with your wife having been gone? How’s your son taking it?”
“Best as could be expected, I guess,” he muttered. “It’s been different…waking up alone….”
“I know the divorce is a few months old, but have you gotten used to the feeling yet?”
“I’m used to the idea, yes.”
“Have you found anyone special?”
Kyle scoffed. “Between making sure my kid doesn’t go to school wearing his Halloween costume and training with the team, I don’t have time to even glance at a woman.”
“I assume you try to make time for your friends, correct?” Dr. Sanders asked, sitting down.
“Like I said,” he reiterated, “I don’t have much time to spare, but sure, when I get the chance I’ll go out with a couple of guys, drink some beers, watch some football.”
“How were your friends throughout the divorce? Did they offer support, maybe advice if they’d been through it as well?”
“I didn’t tell too many of the guys on the team; they just kind of figured it out on their own once they found out I’d have Stone with me a lot more of the time. Mike knew from the beginning what happened between my wife and me. He’s always sort of been there for all of us when shit goes flying.” Kyle laughed bitterly. “Last week’s events would be a prime example of what I mean.”
“Which brings us to our next point. A divorce can break a man, but what happens when his life’s been exposed on the front cover of every major publishing network in the country?” Dr. Sanders swiveled in her captains’ chair, fingers dug into her full cheeks in the form of a steeple. “How’s the team treating Derek?”
Kyle’s brow furrowed. He knew it’d come to this, but didn’t know it’d come so soon. “Personally, it’s his business. It was his business to share, and it’s sad that it came to a head like this, but it happens. I don’t see him any different. Still an all-around good guy, always up there trying his hardest, helping the new guys fit in. For a couple of days, Alex treated him like shit. Didn’t talk to him, refused to change out around him in the locker room. But then, he came in on Tuesday, made amends and things’re back to normal between them.” Kyle grinned, sadistic. “We think Cynthia might have beaten him into apologies.”
Dr. Sanders smiled. “Have you ever considered talking to Derek? It seems you two have more in common than you might’ve originally thought.”
His grin faltered slightly at the possible implications in her words.
“Not like that, Kyle!” She laughed, a sound that drowned out the loud ticks of the grandfather clock nestled tightly between two overflowing bookshelves. “Not that kind of talk. Maybe you could say something inspirational, something that lets him know he’s not the only ballplayer uncomfortable with his bisexuality.”
“Not only am I not uncomfortable with my sexual preferences, thank you very much, I’m about as inspirational as a beer label.”
“If you weren’t uncomfortable, then why did you come to me saying you were?”
“That’s not the reason I-”
“You’re not the only man who’s ever come to our offices dealing with the effects of a confusing sexuality. Red, for instance.”
The very second the words tumbled from Dr. Sanders’ lips, she cringed; her hand clasped over her mouth, smearing her light lip rouge. Kyle leaned into the high-backed sofa cushions, stunned. “Red? Army Red? The same Red I’ve known for a year or so now?”
“Kyle…”
“Shit, Dr. Sanders, I never would’ve guessed. Really.”
Dr. Sanders slid her tortoise-shell pincez off and pinched the bridge of her freckle-specked nose. It did little relieve the forthcoming pressure building up in her temples, Farnsworth’s shocked face, wide hazel eyes and parted lips, only sharpening the seriousness of her slip. “Kyle, keep this under your hat.”
“Right. Don’t ask, don’t tell. I get it,” the pitcher said, looking eager to leave; his gaze flitted to the door.
“He’s no sports star, and he won’t get a star’s gentle treatment if someone’s to find out. He’ll lose his job, his pension,” Dr. Sanders explained.
“I’m no idiot.”
Kyle stood up, straightening his coat. He gave a sympathetic smile and fled the office, moving rather gracefully for a man of his size. Dr. Sanders glanced up at the clock and saw they’d only been forty minutes into the appointment and she didn’t want to know why Kyle left. In the sixth months that Kyle had been a patient, and she still couldn’t figure out how the man thought, or if he even did. Considering he was a man, he probably didn’t.
*
He found Red between the second and third floors, sitting on a cold concrete step with an unfiltered cigarette clenched between his teeth, a slick black Zippo in his hand. His cap had been thrown rather haphazardly to the side, his hair mussed in the process. For a fucking Ranger, Red looked pathetic. Staring into the dimness of a web of steel entangled within thick concrete walls, cigarette in the corner of his mouth but unlit, knees tucked up to his broad chest, the form of a football player having just lost the chance for victory.
“They’re shippin’ me out, ya know,” came Red’s steady, hoarse voice.
Kyle nodded even though he didn’t know, forgot Red couldn’t see for Kyle remained at the flight landing, ten or so steps above him. “I’m sorry,” was all Kyle could offer. Yeah, he knew where soldiers got shipped off to die, knew what it was like through articles and news reports and weekly radio addresses, knew why Red kept it in Dr. Jackson’s office and in the stairwell, well out of the lobby and far out of their conversations. He got that.
“I guess 2nd’s gonna get their chance to shine,” Red said simply, shrugging, flicking his lighter and lighting up. “I’ve been waitin’ my whole goddamn life for this. For war. Sounds pretty fuckin’ awful, don’t it?”
“Nah,” Kyle muttered. He made the short trip down the stairs and sat down a couple steps below Red’s shined dress shoes. “Christ, when I was a kid, I dreamed about three things. Baseball, sex, and becoming the next Rambo. Jumping out of planes and throwing grenades and all that shit. Never occurred to me that you guys actually get to do all that stuff until it was way too late.”
The sheer sincerity of Kyle’s words struck a cord and Red laughed an honest laugh, expression dark and raw within his silky cloud of smoke. He offered the slightly crumpled pack to Kyle, who obligingly slid one from the carton. Red lit it quickly, Kyle face to face with a skull and crossbones as the Zippo flipped open.
“Ain’t never too late, Farnsworth,” Red commented, slipping the lighter into his field jacket.
“Don’t convince me, Red.”
“Never.”
“I’m happy right where I am without a bullet up my ass.”
“That’s what they all say at first,” Red shot back quickly, and his earlier demeanor disappeared in the haze. He slid his feet down a step and leaned back, elbows resting on a step behind him, body stretched out over the worn stairs. To Kyle, he looked…cool. Lounging out on the steps in full uniform, brooding, and smoking his death with the taste of tobacco in his mouth. And for a moment, Kyle felt a pang of jealousy to feel that fear of a potential end, but it faded fast.
“When’re you leaving, huh?
Again, Red shrugged. “I’m goin’ on a seventy-two hour call-up. I’m still gonna take Maria down to Orlando, get a good day in at Disneyworld. Take her to my sister-in-law’s and drive in to Georgia.”
“How’s she doing, your sister-in-law?”
“She’s never gotten over my wife’s death, I don’t think. Can’t get past the fact that my wife was pregnant with our son when she died….That she was drunk when it happened. Carrie don’t know how to take things. Some people just can’t.”
“What about you?”
“Does me good not to think ‘bout it.”
Kyle took a drag of his cigarette, looked pensively over the lingering glow at Red, eyes tracing his profile. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t hafta be.” Red smothered a yawn behind a wrist. “’Sides, shit happens, it’s been near four years, and I’ve moved on.”
“Realist.”
Red thought for a moment, head cocked to the side, cigarette smoldering near his lips. “You could say that, I guess.”
The Army officer fell silent, stubbing out his smoke before lighting another in record time. Wanted his death by toxicity, and he wanted it fast. Kyle made no move to ask for another so Red didn’t offer, wasn’t going to offer. Goddamned ballplayers didn’t need to smoke, he thought darkly. Which only brought on another thought. Here he was, a fucking Army major, trying to wallow in his own misery for a good year before a few months’ vacation time in the desert, and here came Farnsworth, butting into his business and asking questions and trying to be his friend.
Never before had anyone outside the service tried to be his friend (with the exception of his wife’s family friends), and he couldn’t blame them for not wanting to associate with him. So he held one of the highest military honors to his name, so he fought three wars, so he was the distraught widower of his first true love…none of it meant a shit because they knew he was a killer. They knew he had twenty-nine confirmed kills, forty or fifty when Africa was brought up into the oh-so-beautiful picture. He knew Kyle didn’t know who he was, knew that if the ballplayer knew, there was no way he’d be sitting in a stairwell, smoking and enjoying the other’s company with a smirk on his face.
And there he was, Kyle Farnsworth, a pitcher for the goddamn fucking Yankees, pretty well-known, pretty well-off, and trying to hang around an Army Ranger, a high-ranking ghost with blood on his hands that would never come off. Why the hell would Kyle extent his friendship to him, a basic assassin for governmental hire, the guy only a handful of people knew, living on secrets and checks signed in politicians’ blood, and trying his damndest to keep his profile quiet in a loud city?
Didn’t help that Farnsworth was fucking gorgeous, didn’t help at all. Didn’t help that Kyle’s hand was resting on his leg, hot through the heavy fabric of his wool trousers, or that the aftertaste of nicotine on Red’s tongue was growing thicker by the second, flecks of tobacco on the insides of his cheeks. Red could think of million places he should be; packing up for the trip, gassing up the Jeep, paying the cleaners for his suits for chrissakes, but none of that gave him that pitted feel in his stomach, like he’d been shot. There was no reason for him to be hanging around the building rather than walking the four blocks up to the offices, convincing another couple of kids to sign their lives over to the Army.
“Jesus.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Kyle said plainly and made his move.
*
Falling To Pieces, Part 2.
Rating: NC-17
Authors: super-six-one corporal-king.
Summary: It’s an AU fic with a twist at the end that even made us stop and think...."what the flippin’ hell!?"
Disclaimer: None of this ever happened, nor do we insist that the events hold truth in writing them.
Long-winded notes: This is for the lovely vintage-belle for her drabble, but it is also a V-Day gift to all of you from us. You see, we wrote this eating the all the chocolate my boyfriend the Corporal’s hubby sent us and we felt guilty about being so selfish.
Chocolate and slash…and keeping it all to ourselves!? In the end, we decided we’d at least share the slash. Any mistakes you find are courtesy of the fact that there is no proper word processor on the communal laptops we use and were far too lazy to go back through. Anything obvious, feel free to point it out. We’ll simply chuck something at your head an’ tell you to screw off. : )
Now, please remember that this is an AU and a crossover that you may or may not pick up on, though we sincerely hope you do; if not, ask and we shall gladly tell. Kyle does the military, and Red is Scott, and the “twist” will be sending both us authors to hell. So stay open-minded for us, cuties! You’re in for a long, messed-up ride. ::smooches::
falling to pieces.
When a man has found something he really loves, he must always hang onto it, no matter what happens, whether it loves him or not. And if it finally kills him, he should be grateful for it, for having just had the chance. Because that’s the whole secret.
-Jack Malloy
It was a cold January morning, John Lennon was on the radio, and Kyle wasn’t feeling too bad as he pulled out the parking structure beneath his apartment complex. He turned onto the street with a smile playing at the corners of his lips because newspaper headlines weren’t too serious today, because Stone was watching Scooby Doo in Captain Planet pajamas, because nothing could dampen his mood with this concrete city as a winter sun rose above the cityscape and lit windowpanes in gold.
His cell was on silent while he drove deep into the heart of Manhattan, maneuvering his way around many a flock of business men marching off to work, around traffic jams and chirping police cruisers as freezing tourists wandered across the intersections with bewildered looks on their faces and cameras in their hands. Yes, right now, nothing could break him. Not the deep guffaws of talk show hosts, the fact that his truck was in desperate need of a maintenance check, or that he woke up with a crick in his back like a bullet had lodged itself into his vertebrae overnight.
Even as he walked up three flights of stairs because the elevator leading up to Dr. Sanders’ offices had broken again, thankfully, this time with no one occupying the lift. Even as Jeanette grinned her sun-bleached, Vaselined, falsifying grin at him while his initials blew across the sign-in sheet. None of it bothered him, not even her starry look Jeanette gave him as he made his way across the lobby floor, sidling up to Red, the only other in the room besides the doe-eyed broad ogling him behind the receptions counter.
“Hey there, Red,” Kyle quipped, reaching for last week’s dog-eared issue of the New Yorker on the coffee table before him. He sat down with the glossy magazine tight in his grip, feeling rather plain next to Red, looking handsome and stunningly picturesque in his green Army uniform. His dark blond hair was curled into a small comma that fell across his forehead, and his strong form matched that of Kyle’s, hunching down in the blue, cloth-covered chairs, legs splayed out beneath the glass table’s wire frame.
“Mornin’ Kyle.” Red smiled slightly, dark eyes flitting upwards. “Have a good weekend?”
“I should be asking you that. I hope they didn’t work you too hard upstate,” Kyle laughed, thumbing his way through the editorials and advertisements. “But yeah, good weekend. My kid was sick earlier in the week, couldn’t go to winter break daycare at all, but strangely enough, he’s feeling better just in time for our flight into Anaheim tomorrow morning….”
Red’s smile grew. “Now, ain’t that funny. Maria couldn’t get outa bed for Sunday school yesterday, she was so sick. Amazin’ enough, at the mention of our flight down to Orlando this afternoon seemed to cure her of all illnesses. Fever, the shakes, stutterin’ and pouts…all gone.”
“Damn kids,” Kyle replied, smirking.
“Got that right.” Red smothered a grin, the Los Angeles Times Calendar section forgotten in his lap. His voice then dropped low, Texan accent gravelly. “Ya know, for a while, I thought Jeanette mighta been into me, but I think she’s just ‘bout content starin’ at ya while ya wait, considerin’ they like to schedule us in on the same day every damn time.”
“The girl scares me, Red,” Kyle said, peering up off the page, catching her drop her head down, chestnut hair whipping behind the mahogany counter as a keyboard was assaulted with a sudden fury.
“Think she knows she’s fraternizin’ with the enemy?”
Kyle gave the Red Sox sticker pasted onto the back of her computer screen a long, hard look. The red baseball mug full of pens on the counter, the small banner donning the desk’s raise up to the narrow countertop, and the clay paperclip holder in the shape of Fenway. “Honestly?”
Red shrugged. “I remember when I played ball in high school. Shit, the only girls that’d show up at the games were our moms.”
Kyle choked back on laughter at the officer’s deadpan tone, his solemn, remorseful eyes.
“Ain’t funny. I’d throw into the dirt and five three-hundred pound women’d lumber to their feet, cheerin’ me on.” Red shook his head sadly, pulling at the side stripes of his trousers, readjusting in his seat as Kyle visualized the scene painted out for him. “One time, Betty Lunsford, this girl I’d liked since primary, came to one a our games with her friends. It’s Saturday night, there’s a storm comin’ for sure, and here comes Betty, just watchin’ as I go up to bat. Hard down the center, broke the pitcher’s nose in two places.” Red grinned. “Sure, I may a lost Betty ‘coz a that, but I sure as fuck taught Gary Arnold not to tip my daddy’s fuckin’ cattle.”
“Jesus,” Kyle snorted, “You’re such a redneck.”
“Hey, Pinstripes, don’t ya forget where ya came from, now.”
Kyle smirked, nodded. Red smiled in return, and without a second glance, turned back to his newspaper, calloused fingers running over black print. And Kyle watched them both. Red and Jeannette. Red so quickly lost in an article Kyle would never find interesting himself, Jeannette split between whatever lay out on her computer screen and looking up over the counter for another fast look, another pinprick on the back of Kyle’s neck when he knew he was being watched.
Through the walls, the sounds of repairmen working on the elevator could be heard, as could the minute vibration of Kyle’s cell against his hip, tucked into his jacket pocket. He pulled it out briefly, checked the number and shoved it back into his pocket. His agent could wait, sit in his office and wring his hands and down brandy to Jeter’s picture on every major national magazine in print and wait. Because nothing would bother Kyle today. Red not looking him in the eye, the luggage he was to take to California having gone missing, and Dr. Sanders running fifteen minutes late. No, nothing would bother Kyle today.
*
Dr. Sanders called Kyle in only moments after Dr. Jackson accepted Red into his office. Kyle fought off a smirk as Dr. Jackson warmly commented on Red’s captains’ promotion, major pins shining by the lobby’s lights, Red discreetly rolling his eyes and looking much younger than his thirty-three-years-old. By that time, nine-twenty, the sunlight was finally beginning to reach the lobby floors through the venetian blinds, and the thermostat rattled pleasantly in its place beneath the window, warming the small room.
People began trickling in: soccer moms having dropped the kids off at the grandparents’ house for an appointment, a young couple gripping at each other’s hand, another uniform, and a UPS deliveryman giving Jeannette a hard time over a small package. When the petite secretary received the notice from Dr. Sanders’ office, signaling Kyle to head on back, she looked up to him with a pleading in her eyes, the deliveryman before her impatient and red-faced. Kyle only shrugged, walked towards the door being held open by a pretty woman dressed down in pink scrubs.
Walking down the taupe hallway, he felt calm, at peace within the walls where paintings in cheap frames hung. Sure, he could afford to see someone more upscale, but why, when Dr. Sanders gave him that affect, gave him that direction for weeks to come. The pretty nurse cut him loose before a familiar door, a gleaming white door with the brass numbers 117 nailed into it. He opened it into an airy office, intricate woodwork bringing out the overall darkness of the place. Books lined the shelves, and a single lamp illuminated the desk and the beige sofa opposite of the leather captains’ chair.
“Hello, Kyle,” Dr. Sanders said. “I’ll have to apologize for my being late. My daughter wasn’t feeling very good.”
The psychologist, unconventional and unorthodox but a psychologist nonetheless, was set at a mere five foot, but her friendly smile and bright eyes gave way for her warm being in spite of her short stature. She stood by the window overlooking the city at a forth-four view, her outline against concrete buildings and skyscrapers not quite slim, but curvy and desirable by any sane man’s standards. Eloise Sanders gave back what the world gave to her, dedicating her life to both her family and the people of the city looking for a cure from a thought, a memory, an incident. She asked questions and expected answers.
And that was what kept Kyle coming back. Yes, he could definitely afford to see someone with more experience, in an office building where the elevator worked and the heating systems didn’t sound like a Vietnam War audioclip. Yes, he could sit in a stuffy office before a stiff in a perfectly proportioned suit scribbling down notes as he spilled out some childhood secret.
But it wasn’t as if that did Jeter any good. Nearly screwed up his entire career because of those executive monsters that ate up things like what passed the shortstop’s lips the previous week. Kyle didn’t need that, didn’t need that all. Especially after the divorce, the last thing he needed was to bring the attention on himself over the murder of his sister’s goldfish in the fifth grade or something.
“Hey, Dr. Sanders,” Kyle finally replied. “How’re you?”
“I’m doing fine, Kyle. And you? Did you enjoy the holidays?”
“Good.” Kyle smiled politely, took a seat and waited for the sixty-four-thousand dollar question. It came.
“How are things with your wife having been gone? How’s your son taking it?”
“Best as could be expected, I guess,” he muttered. “It’s been different…waking up alone….”
“I know the divorce is a few months old, but have you gotten used to the feeling yet?”
“I’m used to the idea, yes.”
“Have you found anyone special?”
Kyle scoffed. “Between making sure my kid doesn’t go to school wearing his Halloween costume and training with the team, I don’t have time to even glance at a woman.”
“I assume you try to make time for your friends, correct?” Dr. Sanders asked, sitting down.
“Like I said,” he reiterated, “I don’t have much time to spare, but sure, when I get the chance I’ll go out with a couple of guys, drink some beers, watch some football.”
“How were your friends throughout the divorce? Did they offer support, maybe advice if they’d been through it as well?”
“I didn’t tell too many of the guys on the team; they just kind of figured it out on their own once they found out I’d have Stone with me a lot more of the time. Mike knew from the beginning what happened between my wife and me. He’s always sort of been there for all of us when shit goes flying.” Kyle laughed bitterly. “Last week’s events would be a prime example of what I mean.”
“Which brings us to our next point. A divorce can break a man, but what happens when his life’s been exposed on the front cover of every major publishing network in the country?” Dr. Sanders swiveled in her captains’ chair, fingers dug into her full cheeks in the form of a steeple. “How’s the team treating Derek?”
Kyle’s brow furrowed. He knew it’d come to this, but didn’t know it’d come so soon. “Personally, it’s his business. It was his business to share, and it’s sad that it came to a head like this, but it happens. I don’t see him any different. Still an all-around good guy, always up there trying his hardest, helping the new guys fit in. For a couple of days, Alex treated him like shit. Didn’t talk to him, refused to change out around him in the locker room. But then, he came in on Tuesday, made amends and things’re back to normal between them.” Kyle grinned, sadistic. “We think Cynthia might have beaten him into apologies.”
Dr. Sanders smiled. “Have you ever considered talking to Derek? It seems you two have more in common than you might’ve originally thought.”
His grin faltered slightly at the possible implications in her words.
“Not like that, Kyle!” She laughed, a sound that drowned out the loud ticks of the grandfather clock nestled tightly between two overflowing bookshelves. “Not that kind of talk. Maybe you could say something inspirational, something that lets him know he’s not the only ballplayer uncomfortable with his bisexuality.”
“Not only am I not uncomfortable with my sexual preferences, thank you very much, I’m about as inspirational as a beer label.”
“If you weren’t uncomfortable, then why did you come to me saying you were?”
“That’s not the reason I-”
“You’re not the only man who’s ever come to our offices dealing with the effects of a confusing sexuality. Red, for instance.”
The very second the words tumbled from Dr. Sanders’ lips, she cringed; her hand clasped over her mouth, smearing her light lip rouge. Kyle leaned into the high-backed sofa cushions, stunned. “Red? Army Red? The same Red I’ve known for a year or so now?”
“Kyle…”
“Shit, Dr. Sanders, I never would’ve guessed. Really.”
Dr. Sanders slid her tortoise-shell pincez off and pinched the bridge of her freckle-specked nose. It did little relieve the forthcoming pressure building up in her temples, Farnsworth’s shocked face, wide hazel eyes and parted lips, only sharpening the seriousness of her slip. “Kyle, keep this under your hat.”
“Right. Don’t ask, don’t tell. I get it,” the pitcher said, looking eager to leave; his gaze flitted to the door.
“He’s no sports star, and he won’t get a star’s gentle treatment if someone’s to find out. He’ll lose his job, his pension,” Dr. Sanders explained.
“I’m no idiot.”
Kyle stood up, straightening his coat. He gave a sympathetic smile and fled the office, moving rather gracefully for a man of his size. Dr. Sanders glanced up at the clock and saw they’d only been forty minutes into the appointment and she didn’t want to know why Kyle left. In the sixth months that Kyle had been a patient, and she still couldn’t figure out how the man thought, or if he even did. Considering he was a man, he probably didn’t.
*
He found Red between the second and third floors, sitting on a cold concrete step with an unfiltered cigarette clenched between his teeth, a slick black Zippo in his hand. His cap had been thrown rather haphazardly to the side, his hair mussed in the process. For a fucking Ranger, Red looked pathetic. Staring into the dimness of a web of steel entangled within thick concrete walls, cigarette in the corner of his mouth but unlit, knees tucked up to his broad chest, the form of a football player having just lost the chance for victory.
“They’re shippin’ me out, ya know,” came Red’s steady, hoarse voice.
Kyle nodded even though he didn’t know, forgot Red couldn’t see for Kyle remained at the flight landing, ten or so steps above him. “I’m sorry,” was all Kyle could offer. Yeah, he knew where soldiers got shipped off to die, knew what it was like through articles and news reports and weekly radio addresses, knew why Red kept it in Dr. Jackson’s office and in the stairwell, well out of the lobby and far out of their conversations. He got that.
“I guess 2nd’s gonna get their chance to shine,” Red said simply, shrugging, flicking his lighter and lighting up. “I’ve been waitin’ my whole goddamn life for this. For war. Sounds pretty fuckin’ awful, don’t it?”
“Nah,” Kyle muttered. He made the short trip down the stairs and sat down a couple steps below Red’s shined dress shoes. “Christ, when I was a kid, I dreamed about three things. Baseball, sex, and becoming the next Rambo. Jumping out of planes and throwing grenades and all that shit. Never occurred to me that you guys actually get to do all that stuff until it was way too late.”
The sheer sincerity of Kyle’s words struck a cord and Red laughed an honest laugh, expression dark and raw within his silky cloud of smoke. He offered the slightly crumpled pack to Kyle, who obligingly slid one from the carton. Red lit it quickly, Kyle face to face with a skull and crossbones as the Zippo flipped open.
“Ain’t never too late, Farnsworth,” Red commented, slipping the lighter into his field jacket.
“Don’t convince me, Red.”
“Never.”
“I’m happy right where I am without a bullet up my ass.”
“That’s what they all say at first,” Red shot back quickly, and his earlier demeanor disappeared in the haze. He slid his feet down a step and leaned back, elbows resting on a step behind him, body stretched out over the worn stairs. To Kyle, he looked…cool. Lounging out on the steps in full uniform, brooding, and smoking his death with the taste of tobacco in his mouth. And for a moment, Kyle felt a pang of jealousy to feel that fear of a potential end, but it faded fast.
“When’re you leaving, huh?
Again, Red shrugged. “I’m goin’ on a seventy-two hour call-up. I’m still gonna take Maria down to Orlando, get a good day in at Disneyworld. Take her to my sister-in-law’s and drive in to Georgia.”
“How’s she doing, your sister-in-law?”
“She’s never gotten over my wife’s death, I don’t think. Can’t get past the fact that my wife was pregnant with our son when she died….That she was drunk when it happened. Carrie don’t know how to take things. Some people just can’t.”
“What about you?”
“Does me good not to think ‘bout it.”
Kyle took a drag of his cigarette, looked pensively over the lingering glow at Red, eyes tracing his profile. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t hafta be.” Red smothered a yawn behind a wrist. “’Sides, shit happens, it’s been near four years, and I’ve moved on.”
“Realist.”
Red thought for a moment, head cocked to the side, cigarette smoldering near his lips. “You could say that, I guess.”
The Army officer fell silent, stubbing out his smoke before lighting another in record time. Wanted his death by toxicity, and he wanted it fast. Kyle made no move to ask for another so Red didn’t offer, wasn’t going to offer. Goddamned ballplayers didn’t need to smoke, he thought darkly. Which only brought on another thought. Here he was, a fucking Army major, trying to wallow in his own misery for a good year before a few months’ vacation time in the desert, and here came Farnsworth, butting into his business and asking questions and trying to be his friend.
Never before had anyone outside the service tried to be his friend (with the exception of his wife’s family friends), and he couldn’t blame them for not wanting to associate with him. So he held one of the highest military honors to his name, so he fought three wars, so he was the distraught widower of his first true love…none of it meant a shit because they knew he was a killer. They knew he had twenty-nine confirmed kills, forty or fifty when Africa was brought up into the oh-so-beautiful picture. He knew Kyle didn’t know who he was, knew that if the ballplayer knew, there was no way he’d be sitting in a stairwell, smoking and enjoying the other’s company with a smirk on his face.
And there he was, Kyle Farnsworth, a pitcher for the goddamn fucking Yankees, pretty well-known, pretty well-off, and trying to hang around an Army Ranger, a high-ranking ghost with blood on his hands that would never come off. Why the hell would Kyle extent his friendship to him, a basic assassin for governmental hire, the guy only a handful of people knew, living on secrets and checks signed in politicians’ blood, and trying his damndest to keep his profile quiet in a loud city?
Didn’t help that Farnsworth was fucking gorgeous, didn’t help at all. Didn’t help that Kyle’s hand was resting on his leg, hot through the heavy fabric of his wool trousers, or that the aftertaste of nicotine on Red’s tongue was growing thicker by the second, flecks of tobacco on the insides of his cheeks. Red could think of million places he should be; packing up for the trip, gassing up the Jeep, paying the cleaners for his suits for chrissakes, but none of that gave him that pitted feel in his stomach, like he’d been shot. There was no reason for him to be hanging around the building rather than walking the four blocks up to the offices, convincing another couple of kids to sign their lives over to the Army.
“Jesus.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Kyle said plainly and made his move.
*
Falling To Pieces, Part 2.