Work Text:
April 6, 1993
Now let’s assume that he’s part of pair 55.
Why 55?
It’s a numbers thing. Go with me for a moment.
It’s a numbers thing.
It’s a numbers thing.
Once, they were nothing to each other.
Once, he was free from this.
Twice, three times, five, he ignored how deeply and viscerally she sparked in him. There was no other option: she was thirteen, he was thirty-six. At best, it was a disaster. So: ignore, repress, every time.
Thirteen times. Twenty-one. Thirty-four. Nine-hundred-eighty-seven.
His mind has always noted numbers effortlessly. When certain milestones are passed, certain patterns come together, he files it away in case of later relevance. Some people might refer to it as a curse, this constant meta-processing of information, but he’s never seen it that way: it’s all he knows.
Even with her.
The eighth time she held his gaze a moment too long.
The fifth time he hugged her too tightly for the pretense of anything avuncular.
Twenty-first time he was struck by how gorgeous, how brilliant and stunningly beautiful, she was becoming.
Hundredth time his stomach fell as she moved. His heart ached as she smiled. His body flamed as he thought of her.
But he’s lost count.
He promises Eric they’re working on more specifics of why Lisa and Charlie were chosen, and then suggests a drink after work to celebrate the revelation. Eric nods. Good. The Biology head overhears and Eric invites him. Fine. A slight adjustment, but it doesn’t matter: his questions are ritual, routine.
The local inn has the only half-decent bar in Ellsworth, so the three meet there at 6. Scotch for Eric, rye for Chet, vodka soda for Jeff. Platitudes and small talk. And the second he sees an opportunity:
“So how’s Mary doing?” With a practiced innocuous head tilt, pull of his drink.
“I haven’t spoken to her recently,” Eric admits. Which, while a common answer, consistently baffles Chet: how he could have a daughter that impressive, brilliant, dazzling, and not feel every iota of pride…
“Mary?...” Jeff raises his eyebrows suggestively. An ex-wife, a mistress, dish, honey!
“My daughter,” Eric says in a low tone. “She’s at Yale.”
“Yale!” Jeff tips his glass in Eric’s direction. “Congratulations.”
“She did it all herself,” Chet cuts in, knowing full well his letter helped immeasurably. “She’s sharp as knives, our little Miss Crawford.”
Just referring to her, speaking about her, sends something dark and potent through his veins. He could try to ignore it, sometimes does – but the reality is that her name in conversation drives him addictively wild. Little Mary.
Eric’s brow is knitted, looking strangely at Chet. “Well, yes. Anyway. Haven’t spoken to her since the holidays. I assume she’s fine.”
“Ah,” Chet says with a shrug.
And that’s it.
The entire reason he asked for a drink.
The evening, without an excuse to talk about her, is now pointless. He tallies the number of separate times Eric sounds like he wants to talk about Becky; Jeff mentions his wife. Jeff’s almost comically adorable – and the thought flits through Chet’s mind: how the hell do you manage that? Finding and being with someone you still talk about like that after decades? Whatever magic hit Jeff banked a hard left when it came Chet’s way.
“So,” eventually, once the room has enough voices to cover specifics, “what’s the next step?”
“We wait,” Chet says, leaning back in his chair with calculated nonchalance. Shop talk: his thoughts slide from her. “Lisa’s due in two months – we’ll see what happens, keep an eye, go from there.”
“We have more than enough to keep us busy till then,” Eric interjects, elbows on the table. “We need to track those other couples you mentioned.”
Chet shrugs. Technically. But it won’t be his job to follow up, and he doesn’t really care. He knows Lisa and Charlie are special – the generations, the careful selection; that’s his territory. The other couples have no history or distinguishing characteristics. Until one of the RAs uncovers something interesting, it’s a wild goose chase. But Jeff looks excited, and Chet’s living vicariously through his cheerful little domestic picture, so he doesn’t bother shutting it down.
Eric and Jeff put together some kind of ridiculous tracking plan he’ll have to completely redo later, and when his second drink is done, Chet pleasantly excuses himself. “Long drive back to Bangor,” he quips.
Half an hour later, he’s home. His house isn’t what anyone would call modest, and it's way too big for one person. His Pasadena penthouse had been a better fit for him – lavish, but contained; not this sprawling display of his private-sector investments. Maybe he's just waiting for someone to fill it.
“Waiting,” he says to his empty house, dropping his keys on the hall sideboard. Second time, out loud, of the night. Christ he can’t wait for that baby to pop out. Something’s gotta happen – he imagines, as he privately does sometimes, that the aliens must be feeling the same sense of anticipation. “This one’s for you, then,” Chet makes his right hand into a gun and points it at the sky, hanging his coat and heading to his den.
His CD collection is sophisticated at best, schizophrenic at worst – but the appeal of music, with its keeping and breaking of patterns, crosses all genres. He has a guy at the local record store who keeps him supplied with the latest in eclectic, and tonight, standard won’t cut it.
The rock blares loud enough for him to hear it in the kitchen, opening the fridge to see what leftovers look appealing. He enjoys cooking, though – as with most things – it gets tedious when it’s for one. Pasta in a Tupperware. Fine. This is his life, weeknights, after all. Alone.
Leaning against the counter, he flips through The Economist while he waits for the microwave beep.
But when it beeps he doesn’t move.
He’s mesmerized, looking at the room, and wondering what it would be like if she was there.
Fantasy is such a loaded word. At the start, he’ll admit, a lot of it did have those connotations – hell, even now, the potential of her naked body ain’t far off. But he’s not picturing her bent over the counter – not tonight. Tonight, he's imagining her pressed up against him while he cooks her something expensive, wagyu or bluefin, telling him about her day as he wraps her up in his arms, eating dinner and talking about – about...
He almost blushes with embarrassment; somehow these kinds of inane, domestic thoughts are worse than the depraved ones, because the reality is: he doesn’t really know her anymore.
Oh, he used to. Time was they’d talk once a week, she asking for advice and he dispensing hard-won experience, long distance phone calls about science and school and whatever, right up until she turned 18. Then things…changed. Obviously they changed – he wants to scoff – because he’d been waiting, has he always just been waiting? And nothing came of it. Maybe he should have started something. Maybe he read the signals wrong. But either way: she retreated, became quiet, pulled back. The pretense of mentorship collapsed.
And these days, he’s lucky to get a second hand “fine” from Eric.
He could call her. It’s probably on him at this point. But, he exhales slowly, to what end, Wakeman? They’ve barely had contact for five years, haven’t seen each other in four. She got into Yale and sent him a thank-you note for his letter; when she moved to New Haven, he moved to Ellsworth and wrote her back to let her know he was on the east coast. She said nothing. It never went further. That he can’t stop thinking about her has to be one-sided perversion. If he could stop it – god. It infuriates him that he can’t, that he lacks the mental control to shift away from feeling her this persistently.
What music do you listen to? The familiar trail of questions starts. What are you researching right now? Are you happy? What are you reading? Are you publishing? Do you sleep through the night? What are your dreams; who do you want to become? Do you mostly wear pants or skirts? How long would it take me to take them off? Have you come with a man before? How long would it take you to come if I had you? What would you want?
The magazine is crumpled in his hands.
He swallows and puts in on the counter beside him, smoothing the pages.
Takes the pasta from the microwave and sits at the table.
There are 5 empty chairs around the table. Music in 4/4 time. And an infinite stream of questions rolls through him, none of which he can ask.
Hand over his fork, he wonders what would happen if he called. An exchange of polite niceties, it’s so nice to hear from you Uncle Chet, how are things? And if he slipped and asked are you seeing someone? If when, surprised, she answered why do you ask? – he would freeze. Just wondering.
Just wondering if I could close the distance and the years between us. Eliminate the pretense. Take you to bed. Taste you.
He coughs, pulling himself from reverie; licks his lips. God –
– and rests his forehead in his hand, closing his eyes in frustration. He feels dehydrated, depleted. He’s been waiting for years.
When is this going to end?