(no subject)
Their room is just too quiet and empty with Coreen gone, so Squirrel has put Evan in his sling and taken him to go meet Stanley's two litters of kits. Their mothers are, as he had expected, healthy (and attractive, as far as squirrels go--not a taste he himself has, but he knows what squirrels look for in mates) but not very bright. They aren't much for conversation, and just watch Squirrel warily as he inspects their babies.
The kits have potential, at least.
He still doesn't want to go inside afterward, though, so he climbs more leisurely, moving from branch to branch and tree to tree until he comes to one particular tree, one particular branch near the lake, and there he settles with Evan--not so far out on the branch as he had once been, but with his back against the trunk.
It seems to him that on the one hand, she would laugh at the memory of that particular branch, while at the same time being worried that he has Evan up that high--but the ground-born never truly understand those who were born to climb. It seems to him also that he can hear her--her nervous laughter, her calling to him, "Joe, he's a little young to be climbing trees like that--"
"That's quite a baby you've got there," says a voice instead, from a nearby branch--a male voice, amused, with a lazy Texan drawl.
The speaker is a tall, lanky blond man in his late twenties, dressed in an Army Air Force uniform, hat at an appropriately jaunty angle. He is lounging on a tree branch, cigarette in hand, as though it were the most natural place in the world to be.
"Thanks," Squirrel says. "If you could not smoke around him..."
"More doctors prefer these than any other brand," the airman says with a smile, but puts the cigarette out, tucking the rest of it into his shirt pocket for later.
"I'm sure they do," Squirrel says. "Nice day for tree-climbing, though."
"It's gonna rain later," the airman says. "But you've got some time yet."
"Rain, you think?" He scritches Evan behind one ear. "It looks fine to me, at most a little cloudy."
"Trust me," the airman says. "I mean, I am you. Or you're me. You're a later version."
"So you're the one," Squirrel says.
"Flight Lieutenant Joe Breckenridge, US Army Air Force," he says, offering a lazy salute.
"I'm Joe too," Squirrel says, "or Ryu if you prefer."
"Joe," the airman says. "You're American, same as I am. I don't know what we've gotten up to in the years between us--but then you wouldn't know either. Chocolate?" He offers a small candy bar.
"Thanks," Squirrel says, taking it and putting it in his pocket. "So... what brings you here today?"
"You. Well, you and the baby. I wanted to see him." He smiles.
Squirrel pulls back the edge of the sling so the airman can get a better look; the airman climbs easily onto the same branch, and reaches to touch one of Evan's ears.
"He's smaller than I expected," the airman says softly.
"That's how I felt too," Squirrel says, "when I first saw him. But he'll grow."
"He'll have to," the airman says. "He's got some big shoes to fill."
Squirrel looks down at his own bare feet. "Do you have any kids?"
The airman snorts; the sudden sound startles Evan awake. "Son, I've got a sweetheart back home, but we'll never get married."
"Why not?"
"Everything's in limbo," the airman explains. "I got shot down--I think. My squadron had a climactic battle with the Japanese Beetle and his allies, but it never ended. Or ended all of a sudden. It's probably still going on, and we'll never know who won."
"If I'm you," Squirrel says, "then you--then we--survived, right? But I know the Beetle too, so--"
"Neither of us won," he shrugs. "I think it was heading toward a victory for him--my plane got hit, and was going down--but we'll never know, like I said."
"Huh," Squirrel says.
"You just keep fighting him," the airman says. "It's all you can do."
"Why do we have to keep fighting, though? Nobody ever wins, not for long. Win a battle, but the war's still a draw. It's always a draw."
"Don't even start me on war, son," the airman says. "You've got no idea."
"Sorry," Squirrel says.
"Don't worry about it. Oh, and while I'm here, take these--you'll need 'em." He holds out a pair of wooden drumsticks.
"What will I need them for?" Squirrel asks, puzzled, but reaches to take them anyway.
"Hitting things, maybe?" suggests another voice, from a branch a bit above and behind him.
The airman is gone, but the drumsticks remain. Squirrel shifts on the branch to get a better look at the new speaker--another tall blond man, but this one with a deep tan, and dressed in jeans, a flannel shirt and cowboy boots. His lounging is just as casual as the airman's, but his expression is far less friendly, more like a caged animal.
"I guess," Squirrel says, as he stows the drumsticks in a pocket of his cargo shorts, as best as they will fit. He holds Evan and the sling closer, protectively, as he settles back down again.
"So he's born," the man says. "Good. We'll need him."
"Need him for what? And who's 'we'? Are you me too?"
"No," the man says. "You're me. There's a difference."
"If you want to get technical," Squirrel shrugs.
The man stares at him in what seems like disgust. "Look at you," he says. "Why should you be the one to get it all? You're a watered-down joke, not good, not evil, not anything. You're a freak, but you get the girl, the kid. Why?"
"I think I've earned it--"
"Doing what? Being on TV, being in the circus? Oh, I've seen what you've been up to. You're nothing."
"I've done a hell of a lot for the environment--"
"Politician. You don't have the courage to put it all on the line. You wouldn't last a day in my world, for all that muscle."
"Lucky for me I'm not in your world," Squirrel says. "And lucky for you you're not in mine, or I'd kick your ass, alternate-me or not."
"For what? For speaking the truth?"
"For being insulting."
"For speaking the truth," the man repeats. "But you don't want to hear it."
"Why is it," Squirrel asks, "that all you other Squirrels all look human, anyway? Is that new with me, the ears and tail and all?"
The man gives an irritated sigh, and his appearance changes. Gone is the Western-casual clothing, replaced by a much less covering bit of feathers, beads and porcupine quills. He can see a faint outline of a tattoo on the man's suddenly-much-fuzzier left arm, and yes--there are the ears, the tail, the claws. The man's build has changed, too, much more like Squirrel's own.
"Shapeshifting," the man says. "Ever heard of it?"
"So you're the one," Squirrel says, scratching himself behind the ear, feeling a bit like a broken record.
"Who slept with your girlfriend," the man finishes. "I'd apologize for breaking the bed, but I'm not sorry."
"Look, it's one thing to do it, if she's willing, but to come here and brag to me about it--"
"Who's bragging? She only did it for you, because she knew we were the same, and she wanted us to be happy. But you're the one she loves, not me. You don't know how lucky you are."
"I know I'm lucky," Squirrel says. "I know I got a lot going for me."
"But you don't appreciate it."
"I do! It's just that--well, I'm new to all this. We only met what, not even four months ago? In less than four months I've gone from single guy to practically married and with a baby. It's a big adjustment to make, and it hasn't exactly come at the best of times."
"You weren't happy before, were you?"
"I was, kinda," Squirrel says. "Least I thought I was. Sure, it would've been nice to have somebody--"
"Which you do now."
"I do, yeah."
"A woman who loves you, who'd do anything for you. Who likes you the way you are, who puts up with the weirdness of our situation, who doesn't mind the fact that she can't live in her own world anymore on account of her mutant lover and son--would you be willing to give up your world for her? No."
"I couldn't," Squirrel says, with an annoyed flick of his tail. "We'd get hunted down, stuck in a lab--"
"How do you think we spent the '50s? Been there, done that. It's not the point. Shapeshifting--oh, right, you've forgotten what you come from, or maybe you're just too stupid."
"I'd be happy to learn."
"Some other time. We got bigger problems right now." A pause, while he studies Squirrel. "Do you love her?"
"Sometimes," he answers, quietly, honestly.
"Only sometimes?"
"Sometimes I think I kinda hate her, a little."
"Jealous of her, you mean."
"It's so easy for her," Squirrel says, looking down at Evan. "She's got no problems making friends, talking to people. She hasn't had to go through life being treated like a freak--"
"If you weren't holding a baby I'd knock you out of this tree," the man interrupts. "Yeah, she's had it real easy--abusive family, drug addiction, demonic possession, having her heart stolen. Walk in the park compared to a happy life in the circus, at least one loving and supportive parent, fame and fortune on TV. Wrong answer. Try again."
Squirrel starts to speak, but is interrupted again before he can get a single word out.
"And no, you can't claim her world being more stable than yours. She's giving that up for you, remember?"
Squirrel slouches back against the trunk of the tree, and rubs Evan's back gently.
"Love and hate are always mixed together, anyway," the man says. "Spend enough time with someone and you'll want to hit them when they start in on the same damn story that wasn't that funny the first three hundred times you heard it--but when they're gone, you'll even miss those stupid little stories. Trust me on that."
"We haven't gotten that far yet," Squirrel says. "We barely know anything about each other. Whenever we start talking about things like that, it seems it almost always leads to a fight."
"You think she's gonna leave you, don't you," the man says. "You're right, she is--but if you drive her away one second before she'd leave on her own, you're a bigger idiot than I thought."
"So you can see the future, huh?"
"Just the present, but that's a lot more than most people ever get."
"I just--get tired, you know? Of people acting like everything I do in relation to her is wrong, like I'm not good enough for her."
"They're right. You're not. Just look at you, and at her--a sweet girl, and a lazy circus freak. But the other side of the same coin is, she's not good enough for you either. You're part god, and she's--what, Canadian?"
"She looks good in a hockey jersey," Squirrel points out.
"I'll bet she does," the man says, and a long moment of silence follows during which, presumably, each of them is picturing it.
After the silence has stretched halfway to awkwardness, the man continues. "The point is, kid, you've got it better than most. You've got a chance--look at the lieutenant. The printer got bombed out, so he'll never know whether he's alive or dead. Look at the version of us in the '50s--or as I like to call him, 'Twitchy.' Hell, look at me. Divorced, rarely get to see my kid 'cause the ex-wife's afraid of me. You've got nothing on any of us, so buck up and deal with it."
"I'm sorry," Squirrel says, not knowing what else to say. "If it helps, you can always come by and see Evan--it's not the same, I know, but I'm sure Coreen wouldn't mind."
The man stares at him, and then his gaze flicks to the baby. "My son's name was Evan," he says quietly.
"So was my father's," Squirrel says.
The man reaches a hand out toward Evan, rests it on top of his head. Evan squirms a little, sleepily, but soon settles down again.
"You'd better get him in out of the rain," the man says eventually.
"But it's not--" Squirrel looks up at the canopy of green leaves above him, and listens.
There is no sound but the faint patter of the first small raindrops on the leaves.
And when he looks back down, the man is gone.