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“And, by extrapolating this data set while keeping in mind Boyler’s Law…” Professor Whistler continued his lecture while pacing the room, his awkward, stiff gait now a familiar (if still thought provoking) sight for the few students spread haphazardly throughout the lecture hall. He underlined the answer several times for emphasis, arching an eyebrow at his students, most of whom were staring blankly into space with pencils drooping from their fingers.
“I would do well to remind you that effective notes are a core element of a successful student’s—”
He stopped abruptly, the halt in speech rousing a few of his dozing pupils, who followed his gaze to the back of the room. Standing in front of the entrance was a tall, silver-haired man in a suit. At his side stood a large Belgian Malinoise, ears perked and lithe body poised for attack, although his wagging tail suggested that he might not be quite as threatening as he first appeared.
The man, however—he was threatening. His stare was rooted solely on the professor, and a long, intense silence befell the hall as the two seemed to evaluate each other, communicating without words, without movement.
After a moment, the professor shook himself of the trance, owlish eyes flicking back up to the man at odd intervals as he crossed the room to reach the blank chalkboard on the other side.
“As I was saying, Boyler’s Law introduces us to the principal of extrapolation, in a form that allows us to quantify—”
None of the students were paying any attention to him now, watching as the man and the dog strode silently to Professor Whistler’s office, opened the door, and walked in.
Professor Whistler ground to a halt again, staring at the door in what appeared to be a moment of hesitance, before dropping the slab of chalk in his hand back onto the tray.
“Take a few minutes and rewrite these notes,” he told the class, working his way hastily to his office. “And when you’re finished feel free to start reading the next chapter.”
The class watched him cross the room and enter his office.
The door closed with a slam.
“…Well, that was weird,” The olive skinned girl near the front of the class said, leaning back in her chair.
“Beyond weird,” The redhead behind her agreed. “I don’t think Professor Whistler’s ever just gotten up and left a class before.”
“I don’t think anyone’s ever just walked into his office before,” A boy to their left added.
“Who was that, do you think?” The redhead asked. “He looked kind of like a cop.”
“No way; he’s definitely an army man.”
“Seriously?” Another boy walked over to join them, placing his bag on an empty chair. “What makes you so sure?”
She rolled her eyes, as though it were obvious. “The posture’s a dead giveaway; my dad and brother are in the service, I would know. Plus, did you see the way he just walked in like that, like he owned the place? Definitely military.”
“He could be retired,” The redhead suggested. “Don’t a lot of former army men turn into cops?”
“Maybe they just know each other,” the second boy suggested.
“Of course they know each other,” the first girl snorted. “No way Professor Whistler would just leave in the middle of class to meet with some random cop.”
“Maybe he’s being investigated for something,” the boy suggested.
“Like what, boring his students to death?” the redhead asked.
“Or maybe they work together,” the first girl said, leaning forward. “Y’know, like secret service, undercover stuff? This could be Professor Whistler’s cover job.”
“Nope, you’ve got it all wrong.” A third girl with thick brown hair and glasses sat down beside them, shaking her head. “I mean, sure, Tall Dark and Mysterious is probably CIA or something, but Whistler? He was just an IT guy, guaranteed.”
“And what are you, Psychology Major?” The first girl asked.
She smiled. “Creative Writing, actually.”
“Whatever, so what’s your theory?” The redhead prodded.
“Okay, here’s how it went down: Harold Whistler definitely worked for the government, but only as a computer programmer—simple stuff, for him, just something to do and cash to pay the bills while he worked on his Masters’ for teaching. Never did any field work; he just wasn’t built for that sort of thing. Not that he didn’t have a healthy—ahem—respect for those who were, i.e. our surprise visitor.
“Then there was an attack; an explosion a couple of years ago that devastated the government agency, kept secret of course from the public, so as not to cause a panic.”
“No, it happened in 2001, and they were working in tower 7 during the attack,” one of the boy’s added.
The girl nodded profusely. “Right, that’s exactly what happened. He was on his way out after the explosion—evacuate and regroup, just like any emergency situation. His handler would call him when it was time. But then he saw him—one of the programmer’s trapped under a fallen beam, barely conscious. His instincts couldn’t just let him leave the guy, so he pulled him out of the wreckage and got him out of there.
“They holed up in a motel for a few days. There was no Intel, no one to contact, until someone contacted him first. They couldn’t rely on the news, so they had to wait it out until the government got it together enough to find their missing agents. It was grueling; Harold was in and out of consciousness the whole time. All Secret Agent Man could do was stitch the worst of his wounds up with an emergency med kit, but if they didn’t get help fast, he’d be a goner.
“Finally, a call.
“ ‘I’ve got wounded,’ he says, after confirming that this contact is his handler. ‘One of the programmers. He got caught under a beam during the attack; I tried to stitch him up, but he needs a hospital.’
“ ‘Who is it?’ the handler asks, and he can practically see the teasing half smile. ‘Not the one with the blue eyes you’ve been ogling the past few days?’
“ ‘Does it matter?’ he replies, darkly.
“Two hours later a helicopter lands in the motel parking lot and they’re air lifted to the nearest hospital, with Silver Fox holding Harold’s clammy hand, whispering to him, ‘you’ll be all right. Everything’s going to be alright. I’ve got you now.’
“A few weeks later, Harold wakes up to a pounding headache and Mr. Mysterious asleep on a hospital chair at his bedside.
“ ‘How bad is the damage?’ he asks, once the other man awakens. His hip is shattered, left leg butchered, there’s no way he’s going to avoid a limp—”
“Nice tie in,” whispers one of the boys.
“—he’s going to need quite a few more surgeries before he’s out of the hospital, and his life will never be the same again. But he’s alive: thanks to one man.
“ ‘Thank you,’ he says, but his rescuer simply shrugs him off with a coy smile.
“ ‘Any time, Harold,’ he replies.
“He visits Harold in the hospital every day for the next month. The physical therapy is borderline torture, and Harold has to go through wheelchairs, walkers, and receives a fused spine and replaced hip before all is said and done, but he never feels helpless or alone, with the agent around. Afterward, when he drops Harold off at home, Harold looks up at him, with big, round eyes mirroring the agent’s own surprisingly peaceful expression.
“ ‘Would you like to have a drink, sometime?’ Harold asks, and he smiles, as though he’s been waiting all month to hear those words.
“They begin to spend time together regularly, discussing work—the parts that aren’t classified—eating out, enjoying each other’s company. There’s an air of politeness always around them, but it’s nice having someone to talk to. Someone to confide in.
“Then the agent disappears for almost two months, and one late night shows up on Harold’s doorstep, shirt bloodied, hair mussed, right arm in a sling; he falls into the apartment, Harold scrambling to help him to the couch, searching for any open wounds he can patch up frantically.
“ ‘What happened? Are you alright? I thought I’d never see you again! I was so worried, I thought you were—’
“He is silenced by dry lips on his, a touch so gentle, yet so desperate, from a man who inches from death realized that all that was keeping him alive, all that had kept him strong through the torture, through the pain, was a computer programmer in lower Manhattan named Harold Whistler.
“They kiss, passionately, trying to convey the meaning behind every stolen glance—”
“This is getting ridiculous,” the redhead said. The boy beside her waved her into silence.
“—they kiss, passionately, trying to convey the meaning behind every stolen glance, every restless night dreaming about the other.
“ ‘I don’t want to lose you,’ he whispers to Harold, after they separate for a much needed breath of air.
“ ‘Don’t go back,’ Harold begs, clinging to his shirt like a drowning man. ‘Stay with me; be with me.’
“ ‘I can’t, Harold,’ he replies, ruefully. Lovingly. ‘It’s my job to protect people; people like you. I have to do my job, to keep you safe, so I can go to sleep knowing you’re sleeping soundly at home because of me. But I want to have this, whenever we can; I won’t ask you to wait for me, but every time I have a spare moment, I’ll find you—if you want me to.’
“And Harold would never say so aloud, because he knows he would be fought at every word, but he couldn’t imagine trying to be with anyone else; he waits each night, alone in the dark, lying in bed with the dream of his lover beside him, kissing him, holding him. And he hopes that tomorrow, when he awakens, his love will be back, to prove that neither of them have forgotten.”
The door to Professor Whistler’s office door squeaked open, and the lecture hall fell silent. Professor Whistler stepped out of the room, the man following behind him silently. The professor escorted him to the exit, not taking note of the state of his classroom until the man had left, with a single, parting glance, gone into the mist. He turned around, and did a double take when he discovered that his entire twelve-member class had clustered to the front of the room, and were peering at him suspiciously.
“…Class is over. The period ended six minutes ago. I suggest studying your material; there will be a pop quiz next week, so be prepared.”
He returned to his office. The students gathered their things, whispering animatedly to each other.
“So, what about the dog?” One student finally asked.
“The dog?” The girl smiled. “The dog is a promise, never to leave without saying goodbye again.”
The students looked up to see Professor Whistler exit his office once more, with a laptop bag around his shoulders and a Belgian Malinoise following dutifully behind.