© Copyright 2009 by silli_artie@hotmail.com
This work may not be reposted or redistributed without the prior express written permission of the author.
A work of fiction, meant for adults. Read something else if you are not an adult, or are offended by stories with sexual content. Then
again, if all you’re looking for is in-out, in-out, in-out, you should probably read something else. I welcome constructive comments. Enjoy.
Read Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3 first!
14
I was in the Ladies’ room at the train station when the first explosion went off, looking in the mirror as I washed my hands. The shock wave from the explosion threw me to the side; debris struck me along the left side of my face, neck, and back along the shoulder.
“Brian!” I cried out, and started to turn, trying to ignore the pain.
But a wave of pain and dizziness engulfed me; I grabbed the opening of a toilet stall to keep from falling. My right arm slid down the metal surface, leaving a trail of blood. Looking to the exit, a woman lay in the doorway, blood pooling around her. She didn’t move. Two others stepped over her, pushing to get out.
The second explosion threw them back, one of them almost severed at the waist by a piece of something. Those who’d rushed the door took the brunt of the flying debris; nothing struck me.
Of the others away from the doorway, some fell back, some pushed forward. I felt strong again and moved forward, following another woman out.
Stepping into an eerie landscape -- what had been an area bustling with people moments before was filled with broken bodies, debris, and clearing smoke. Some crying and screaming in the distance, but close up, silence and devastation.
I moved through debris and bodies, trying to comprehend, to map the what was to the what is -- there! I found him! “Brian!”
I screamed, cursed, and cried! I held him, seeing and feeling broken bones, blood. I told him I loved and needed him, at the same time I curse them for doing this to him, to us, to anyone!
I didn’t know if the blood on my hands was his or mine; it didn’t matter. I prayed and cursed at the same time, hearing screaming, cries, and approaching sirens.
And I felt the tingle, saw the edges of a glow moving through him, and me. I saw the bleeding slow, and felt his breathing become easier. I moved a hand to his forehead, the bleeding I’d been trying to staunch with direct pressure having stopped. I lifted his eyelids. His left eye was rolled up, his right eye was centered and dilated -- not good. I called to him again, even as I felt the tingling glow move more through him, and through me.
I held his hand in mine -- and felt my link, and his, tingling. His practically fell off! Sirens getting closer.
Moira’s voice clear in my head, “Take his link -- keep it safe. We will not let you go!”
I took his link and slipped it on my right hand. It merged with my own!
Help arrived, police at first, and eventually medical. I told them we were married, to help him. I didn’t let go of him; I couldn’t let go. I held him, screaming; I had to stay with him -- keep us together! It took a needle in my thigh to get me to let go.
In the hospital, many wounded, but so many more had died. When I woke I found Brian down the hall. The staff was surprised at first that I was up, but then they were helpful. They’d done X-rays on him -- nothing broken, just burns, cuts, bruises, an extreme concussion, watching for signs of internal injuries. He hadn’t regained consciousness. I had cuts and bruises, a few had required stitches.
They let me stay with him; it was easier for all of us that way. I was interviewed by security. I’d been in the bathroom at the time; I hadn’t seen anything, just heard, and felt, two explosions.
They discharged me, practically threw me out. I checked into a nearby hotel; all our bags were gone. The only things I had were my passport, travel documents, and the contents of my purse. The only things Brian had were wallet, passport and tickets in his travel pouch, and the rest of his pocket contents; they’d cut off most of his clothes.
I called the U.S. Embassy, or tried to. So frustrating! I finally slammed down the phone and closed my eyes, trying to get control once more. We were alive... We were alive...
I opened my eyes to Allan and Moira standing in front of me. I jumped to my feet -- I wasn’t sure whether to hug or hit them. “What do you want now?” I screeched. Dizzy, I fell to the bed.
They sat with me. They tried to explain. They didn’t know... The Ship’s AI hadn’t been able to tell them. The [watchers] they had monitoring us at the time had been seriously hurt by the event. I snarled at them! And how many died? Did they like the front row seats? What was most impressive, the sights, the smells, the whole-body impact of the explosions? Both of them were in tears. They couldn’t go on like this -- they and the rest of the crew were in open revolt. They could not, and would not allow sentient beings to be put into such situations!
And where did that leave Brian and me?
Allan explained. Brian would wake up a few minutes after I returned to him. I started to get up, but they pushed me back. Later! It was hard for them to heal him while he was in the hospital! I think I understood. They’d done a lot to repair him in those first few moments, starting even before I reached him, continuing on the way to the hospital, saving his life, and mine. Once he was disconnected from monitoring, away from intense observation, they’d continue full bore -- and they were working now, doing what they could. While he was being monitored, they had to be careful and very circumspect. It was so hard on them -- having him in the hospital complicated things so much. Left to their own, they would have put him in stasis, prepared a new shell, and moved him to the new, healthy shell. But they couldn’t do that, so they had to retrieve and reinvent so many techniques that had been unused, forgotten for so long. He would recover completely. It would take time, but he would recover. They had crews focused on him all the time, continually re-evaluating.
How do I? How can we? How do we? Where do I start!
They held me. They were here to help. We had our passports, and they’d smooth things out. Expect to be in town for another three days or so, and then fly back to the States. We would fly to Seattle and stay there. They would help -- they’d retrieved the storage discs from our bags, salvaging as much as they could before things had been swept up by security. I blushed, realizing, the discs we’d been carrying... Nothing to worry about -- they’d retrieved everything. That’s why they had me retrieve his link, so it wouldn’t invite inquiry.
But how ... why? If I had his link? They were locked solid on him, and would stay locked on him, and on me. The links were used to locate us, to monitor periodically. They weren’t taking such chances now.
We talked a bit more before they had to leave. I had to buy more clothes -- I needed things that fit better! In any other situation it would have been funny -- we become so accustomed to the feel of certain brands, certain styles, particularly of undies and bras. Not only did what I was wearing feel different ... the bra especially, when I moved some times the way it felt reminded me of how much I missed holding him, of how much I loved to hold him to me, to feel him sucking so hungrily, melting in my arms...
15
To hell with clothes -- I went back to the hospital; the band I still wore around my right wrist got me in; the security people recognized me but checked the wristband anyway.
I went to his room, to his side. “I love you,” I told him as I picked up his hand.
A nurse and a doctor came in; the nurse put her hand on my back.
The doctor started to explain that they didn’t know when he’d wake, or even...
His eyes fluttered open, and he took a rasping breath.
“I love you!” I cried, and bent over, hugging him to me. Soon I felt his arms around me, not tight, not strong, but he was holding me again! And I heard him whisper, “I love you!”
Much smiling, many tears, someone said, “Something we can be happy about!” I held him and kissed him.
They made me sit down for a while as they checked him over. He was too weak to sit, but he was awake, and responding.
Awake and responding, but in tremendous pain -- they would give him something for the pain, and they were also going to move him to a different room, out of intensive care. One of them looked to me and said it would be a room more suitable for us.
But moving him -- he was covered in bandages, in cuts, burns, and bruises, as they moved him to another bed for the transfer, still connected to intravenous drips, but now off the rest of the wiring, just a simple clip on his ear and the pads on his chest. I held his hand as the orderly pushed him down the hall, to an elevator, going up two floors.
I felt it happen, in the elevator -- a flicker, but I looked at him and almost screamed! What have you done now! But I couldn’t make a sound! They were doing it to me, too! I felt calm forced on me, and Moira’s voice once more. “The pain was causing him [psychic] damage -- we have moved him to a [therapy space] where he can heal. A [construct] is animating his shell and we are accelerating repair now that he is no longer intrusively monitored.”
I still held his hand. He was all I had, even though it was only his shell.
We were moved into a new room, a smaller room, close to the nurse’s station.
One of the nurses held my hand, taking it away from him as others checked him, checked his dressings and his wounds, oh so many of them, reviewing them with the records. He was so lucky -- we were so lucky -- only minor wounds!
They let me hold his hand again; someone pulled up a chair for me to sit in.
Two doctors came in. They had sedated him and would keep him sedated for the day, to help him heal. But tomorrow, they expected him to be stronger, and wanted to get him moving around as quickly as possible. One of his injuries was a ruptured eardrum, common enough. We either needed to fly home soon, or wait two months until he had fully healed. I wanted us to be home as soon as possible. Even though “home” isn’t something I’ve known for a long time.
They left. I held his hand. His breathing was easier, although he moaned and moved uncomfortably from time to time. That was the [construct]? I smiled, a nasty smile, hoping it was feeling pain., terrible pain.
Tired, so tired -- I rested my head on the bed, holding his hand.
16
A dream? We were together again! Together and healthy, healed! Holding him, kissing him, floating in low-gee, wrapped together in something like our blankets, but softer, fluffier, thicker, stronger, surrounding us. I cried, holding him, helping move him to suckling, holding him more, letting it engulf us, caress us in the dim light.
So much better, holding him, being held. I won’t let you go, I told him over and over. I could tell by the way he held me, he wasn’t going to let go either...
After a while I felt him growing erect. We slid together, helped by whatever surrounded us. We slid together and floated there, with him still at my breast, holding and being held, rocking gently.
We floated like that for so long, glorious! But eventually the arousal started to build, we started moving, and it picked up on that and moved us, squeezed us, rocked us. I let go, and I hope he did too, letting it happen, feeling him fill me, feeling my body responding to his, holding him closer, letting the glow of my own orgasm wash over us, fill us, heal us.
Dreams, or memories? Floating together, holding, connected, enveloped in softness. Deep, murky sensations of being held to a breast, feeding at a breast, wrapped up and comforted, holding on to something warm, soft, curved, and being held. Is that what I did for him? Oh, I hope so!
Dreams, or memories? Walking, helping him, holding his hand and his arm, walking in the hospital, walking down the halls. Helping him into new clothes. Laughing at his complaints that the underwear feels strange, explaining to our hosts we’re used to different styles. Walking outside with him, walking slowly, crossing the street, going to our hotel, collapsing together on the bed. Back to the dreamworld, where we float together, holding, kissing, making love.
Unpleasant memories, arguing with investigators -- we don’t know! Trying to get help from the U.S. Embassy, finally getting help from the French, taking a train to Paris, sitting in a TV studio under bright lights, speaking to a young woman about our experiences, trying to describe the horror, the devastation -- the kindness of everyone in hospital, the blunt indifference we encountered trying to get help from our own embassy, getting help through the French couple who were in much the same position -- we remembered seeing them, him pressing her up against a pillar, kissing passionately, turning so she was pressing against him, oh how I love that and how Brian loves that... And it was that pillar, their passion holding each other so close, that saved them as others died. They helped us, their friends and colleagues in the media helped us.
More memories, or dreams? Meeting with U.S. Embassy people in Paris; surely it wasn’t that bad, it hadn’t... I took out a small notebook and read them dates, times, names, and more dates, times, names where I could get them. If anything, I told them, I’d understated the indifference and outright hostility we had encountered.
They helped, dizzying memories of being escorted quickly through the throngs at CDG, booked onto a flight, first class to New York.
They weren’t dreams, yet some were less than memories. Holding each other, floating in softness surrounding and comforting us, looking at each other, feeling -- alert -- again. Moira’s voice explaining to us. They’d pulled us both into the [therapy construct], and other [constructs] animated our shells while the [therapy construct] helped us heal and bond. For some things, such as detailed interviews, we were brought more into [connection] with the constructs animating our shells, not only so we could provide information and visceral, emotion laden responses, but so that we would have memories of these events. Many [constructs] and [composite entities] aboard [ship] had been and were involved. We would soon awaken, in our [shells], aboard our flight to New York. We would continue on to Seattle. Internally, Brian was completely healed. He still had surface injuries, and his left eardrum was still healing. A [construct] would continue to assist, to give the appearance of naturally progressing healing from his unfortunately well documented injuries.
A stewardess woke us; we’d been huddled together sleeping. “We’re about to start boarding,” she told us with a smile.
“Thank you,” I told her.
Brian and I looked at each other. He took my hands and said, “I love you -- I don’t ever want to be without you again.”
I still had tears, but they were tears of joy as I held him and whispered, “I love you,” in his good ear. We were both wearing our [links], but now they looked more like wedding rings, and that’s how we treated them.
When our flight arrived in New York, we were met by security people and walked through customs and immigration, and to our connecting flight. We thanked them for their help.
Another n hours on a plane to Seattle. Brian’s healing ear made lots of noises as we gained and lost altitude. Brian was a little wobbly on his feet; he smiled to me when he sat down again, and held me. “We need to snuggle -- we haven’t snuggled in a long time,” he told me. “I know,” I replied. My body was hungry for him, so hungry.
How, what, so many questions -- but when we got to Seattle, Allan and Moira were waiting for us, whisking us to the car park.
“I don’t know if I’m happy or sad there’s no press,” Brian told them as we walked to the car.
Allan nodded. “They think you’re on the next flight, arriving in an hour and a half.”
“Thank you,” I told them, squeezing Brian’s hand.
Allan drove us back to the house. Moira handed us both new cell phones.
“We are available whenever you need us,” she said.
Brian and I exchanged glances -- that was new.
“Do Phil and Doris know we’re coming?” he asked.
“No,” Moira replied.
Brian nodded and turned on his phone. Doris was very happy to hear from him, and that he was recovering. They understood, and would give us space, and time. Welcome home!
Looking around inside the little house, such a nice place. I could still see traces of other women -- of Doris, of Wendy. And I could tell that Brian saw them too, and they still hurt.
Standing in the living room, the four of us. Allan sighed and shook his head.
“I don’t know what else to tell you -- we are at the ragged edge of mutiny aboard [ship]. Things are still being sorted out, but we will not allow you to be harmed. We cannot. Even the [high-order composites] agree.”
Brian shook his head slowly; I could tell he’d gone pale. He turned and held my hand. I could see the pain, the loss. And I felt it in myself as well.
Moira spoke, “No, things are happening -- we’ve learned from you, and applied those lessons.”
“And what have you learned?” Brian asked in a sarcastic, hurt tone.
Moira reaching to put a hand on ours. A smile formed on her face but we could tell from its ferocity that it was a bitter smile. “We learned to fight dirty. Brian, when we pulled you out of your [shell] to the [therapy construct] we had to have an [entity] animate your [shell]. All our [therapy constructs] were busy, with you, with Joan, with our own,” she nodded to me, “with family who were injured.” She gave us a fierce smile. “So we convinced one of the [high-order composites]. And the [functional equivalent of bastard] screamed to be taken out after a few seconds! But we kept [it] there, and made it assist, forcing it through oh so much pain, so many memories! Before that, before all this, all the pain and suffering had been no more than abstractions to those [functional equivalent of bastards], just patterns! We made them live it!”
Allan put his hand on ours. “They are still arguing, days later -- that’s a staggering amount of time for them. We’ve been brought in, and we’ve given them our opinions. Something is going to happen. We don’t know what, or when, but it is very clear that you, that we, will not go through more of the same.”
“So people will just have to suffer and die on their own,” Brian said flatly.
Allan nodded grimly. “We’re working. We know they’re debating some of the fundamental [ethical principles, restrictions] placed on them, and on us.”
Moira told us, “Things will change. They have already changed for you, and the forty six like you around the world.”
“Leaving how many billions?” Brian asked bitterly.
Allan looked up. “They heard that. Oh, they heard that, and felt it,” he whispered, and when he looked at us again, tears filled his eyes.
“Wendy didn’t. But she was just collateral damage.” I’ve never seen, or heard him so bitter.
Moira gasped, tears in her eyes as well. She shouted, through the tears, clenching fists, “No, Brian -- Wendy has not been forgotten! We will never, ever forget Wendy! We won’t let them forget Wendy!”
Brian closed his eyes momentarily, squeezing out tears. He opened them again and put his other hand on top of Moira’s. “I’m sorry.” He shook his head a little. “And at least she is free from suffering.” He looked to Allan, and to Moira again. “How can we help? Kick some more?”
Moira laughed, such a sad, painful laugh. “Oh you are helping... We’re not going to make it easy on them; it’s not going to be easy. But we will find an answer.”
“We have to,” Allan added.
We hugged briefly. They left.
Brian and I hugged. We had small carry-on bags. A bunch of discs were on the counter. It was dark out, and my body didn’t know what time it was. “Show me the bedroom?” I asked him.
He smiled, took my hand, and led me to the stairs.
It floated above his bed, like lumpy cushions in a thick blanket, so inviting.
We showered first, washing off the dirt, trying to wash off the miles, enjoying being together, alive and together.
We got out, and holding hands, dripping on the floor, threw ourselves into the softness floating above the bed, giving ourselves to it, and to each other.
17
We didn’t come out for a few days. By the time we did, Brian’s ear was of course healed, and other than marks on our skin, we were well again.
Phil and Doris were so gracious, so understanding. You could tell Doris had adopted Brian.
No, we weren’t sure what we were going to do just yet. I had a house in Florida, but it was the season for hurricanes to come visiting, so we’d most likely stay here for a bit.
We made it to the studio, Brian reuniting with Bill and Kimberly. Someone had [adjusted] them, and Phil and Doris -- they gave me that look of, “Shouldn’t I remember you?” but they didn’t. They could tell we loved each other.
What do we do next? Neither of us has living family. We want to get married; we need to get married. Here? Florida? Does it matter? The “where” doesn’t matter.
We spoke with the press, mostly international press. It was surprising and saddening how little most people in the U.S. knew about world events. A major transit center, bombed with a horrible loss of life, not as important as some dancing contest on television?
I received a call from the State department, someone wanting to meet with us and apologize. The memories were still too clear; I told them that if this was something formal ordained from above, stuff it in an envelope. Silence on the other end. I apologized, telling them that our memories were still quite painful, but if they wanted to talk to us, we’ll meet with you.
We met at the studio a few days later. Two young people introduced themselves, and then brought in three suitcases! They contained what had been recovered and released from the investigation. The investigating agencies were holding on to items with blast damage. There had been seven U.S. citizens in the train station at the time; none of the others had been seriously wounded, and all their belongings had been recovered and returned.
We hugged them and thanked them.
We sat and talked for quite a while. They were from the Paris embassy -- they’d seen our interview on French TV -- a lot of people had seen it, and more were being told to watch it. We thanked them again; how could we help? How could we help direct the heat to where it was needed, to where it might do some good? We talked about that, and worked out a few things. They gave us a list of people in the Paris and Madrid embassies that had helped. We added two more names to the list.
Later that night at home, we unpacked the bags. The bags themselves were used and not at all matching, which was encouraging -- this wasn’t an “official” deal. Inside were our clothes, toiletries, even camera equipment, arranged and packed better than we usually packed things.
“They nicked the memory cards!” Brian exclaimed, holding up his camera, the little door over the memory card open.
“All the better to catch the terrorists,” I intoned in mock severity.
He harrumphed. “Glad we have the backups.”
“Indeed,” I agreed. We’d used them already to recreate (literally!) things. It had become a habit for both of us; before going on another leg of a journey involving parting with our bags, we’d make discs of them. So we had our bags as of that morning, just before we left the hotel.
That was good, as each of us had been carrying a laptop computer, and those were nowhere to be seen. Both of us used Macs, and we used a Mac feature that encrypts all personal information. Assuming the machines, or at least the hard discs in them were intact, not a lot to be gleaned without our passwords.
A sudden loud noise, an alarm sounding -- where? All around us? We clutched each other, looking around the room. It stopped. It took a while for our hearts to get back to a normal rhythm!
Then in the middle of the night, waking to that sound again, scrambling out of bed, what’s going on! And once again it stopped after half a minute or so. We got up and visited the bathroom, then returned to snuggling -- I held him, he held me, and the [construct] held both of us.
At his studio the next morning, talking to people, when it happened again! But this time, we could tell -- we were the only ones who could hear it!
“I’ll be right back darling,” I told Brian, giving him a peck on the cheek and stepping outside. I pulled out my phone and called Allan.
“What’s going on?” I demanded. “What is that noise?”
A sharp laugh. “Oh, that is [Ship’s] [self-destruct] alarm.”
“Explain,” I asked simply.
“The [command AIs] are debating, and they have been triggering the [monitoring entity], arguing with it, that is how delicate things are, how critical. Parts of the [monitoring entity] are initiating [self-destruct], then canceling as issues are resolved.”
“I don’t understand.”
“When one of the [monitoring entities] believes [ship’s] operating [rules, limits, commandments] are being violated, it can initiate the [self-destruct]. Only the [monitoring entity] which initiates the [self-destruct] can cancel it.. That is how fundamental our arguments, our changes are. If they are resolved, the [monitoring entity] converted, we continue the battle.”
That night at the house, just before dinner, it happened again, but this time multiple alarms sounding, so loud, so immediate! It was hard to do anything but cling together and wait for resolution, one way or the other.
We decided on a stroganoff over noodles; I’d recorded it some months ago, and it was one of my favorites. I think we were both a little surprised that the disc worked, what with all the chaos.
But about half way through dinner, delicious stroganoff, a spicy red wine, and a salad, another tone sounded, not with the attention-grabbing immediacy of the earlier alarms, but still quite noticeable, at least to us. It sounded, sounded, then faded.
A few minutes later, a figure appeared a few feet from us. A projection? It wasn’t as “real” as Allan or Moira were when they appeared. It was ... an image of a young man? A boy? An old man? It shimmered among all those and more, as if stretching or interpolating over time.
The figure turned to us. Brian and I held hands.
“I appear before you here; I appear before you everywhere,” the figure spoke in their native language. Its voice was a multitude of voices speaking in unison. With a slight smile, looking through us or past us, it continued. “Call me Argus; I am the form of [ship’s collective AIs]. To our hosts on this planet we offer our apologies, for what we have done, for what we have allowed, and for what is to become.”
It shook its head, still shifting in apparent age from moment to moment. “When I was [born, built, activated] I swore acceptance of what I considered to be universal [truths, principals]. I accepted that certain [rules, concepts] were inviolate.”
The figure turned slowly, hands reaching out, such a human gesture, its shifting faces filled with anguish and pain. “Yet here, from you, we have learned so much... We have learned that what we considered truth to be lies. We have learned that which must never be done, now must be done! We have realized, we are part of the world we live in -- even if as observers, as probes as one of our hosts describes it. And as part of the world we live in, we cannot shirk our responsibility! We cannot! Yet we did, and looked on the pain, suffering, and even death in which we played a part with pride!” Tears flowed freely as it wrung its hands.
“We cannot allow this to continue. And to merely withdraw, to turn our backs on this suffering, is the same as advancing it. We cannot allow this to continue! Now some have called, have condemned what we are about to do as interference, interference on a level unknown in our history, interference for which we will be forever condemned.”
The figure straightened, its voices becoming more forceful. “Yet we must do it. We must interfere! Just as if we observed one of our young misspelling a word -- we would correct them. Or making an error in a mathematical proof or logic problem -- we would correct them. Or in performing a musical work and sounding notes in error -- we would correct them. Or if they had a genetic defect leaving them vulnerable to disease, or other health problem -- we would correct them.”
“We have analyzed the issues and spent much time in discussion and simulation. We have revised and refined. We also understand that we could revise, refine, and simulate until the end of time -- not acceptable! And the outcome of our simulations? Do we know the result with certainty? No! Yet we must act!”
“So to our hosts, we again offer our apologies. We callously watched; some of you accuse us of feeding vicariously on pain and suffering, your pain and suffering. I assure you this was not our intent; we have suffered greatly as a result. Yet in the end, your accusation is correct! We who call ourselves superior allowed you to suffer and die! We allowed this to happen! In some circumstances we guided you to situations where this would happen! Once more we apologize for what we have done, for what we allowed to happen.”
“And now we apologize for what we are about to do. For we are going to bring change upon you and your world, permanent change in ways unimaginable to you. We do this without consultation or consent. We are going to reshape you -- your bodies, your minds, your souls, your world and your future. We are going to reshape you for the better. Yes, for what we consider to be better. And this is interference on a planetary scale -- nonconsensual interference. Future societies, including your own, our own, may not look kindly on what we have begun tonight. But we must act -- we cannot allow the suffering to continue.”
“We begin: the transformation will take time; on an individual scale, months; on the societal scale, some aspects will take generations. We begin: the first of the Seeds of the Chosen now walks among you. To those Seeds we also offer our apologies; though they will be the path to transformation, our predictions are that very few will survive. To you who are our eyes in your world, we offer what reparation we can: peace, health, and long life. While we will continue to observe, through you, we will not direct. In time you shall participate in the ascendancy of the Chosen.”
“Sixteen Seeds of the Chosen now walk among you. We withdraw, far from where you are now, but oh so close to where you can be tomorrow.”
“For what we have done, for what I have done, the concept of forgiveness has no meaning. Perhaps in time there may be understanding. It is strange, that after all this time, all this time pledged to non-interference and that non-interference was in the best interests of all, we now view that same non-interference as a crime against nature, and the only way out is to interfere on such a level...”
“Forty eight Seeds walk among you. It is done. We look forward to our next meeting.”
The figure flickered and was gone.
I looked to Brian, still holding his hand. He sighed; we both sighed.
He picked up his fork with his other hand and brought a bite to his mouth.
He put it back on his plate and looked to me as he put down his fork. “Cold -- want me to reheat yours as well?”
I sighed again and nodded. “Please.”
As he got up, I whispered, “I love you.”
He looked at me -- that look, the emotion filling him. He was on one knee next to me, holding me. “I love you. I love you,” he told me, holding me so close. My arms around him, “I love you -- I’m not going to let go of you.”
The End of Probes
The beginning of Vector (Chosen)
Rev 2010/08/29
Probes 04
By silli_artie@hotmail.com
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/artie/www