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All Hope of Repair, chapter 4
Fandom: Final Fantasy VI
Characters: Edgar/Locke
Word count: ~3500
Warnings: Strong language, angst continues apace, This Is The Part Where I Foolishly Attempted A Fight Scene
Notes: I got nothin'.
Haven't heard from you in a while. Is anything amiss? I understand, of course, that the demands on your time are many, and that discretion is paramount. I don't mean to add to your burdens by demanding a reply; rather, I'm writing to assure you that I stand ready as always to help out in any way I can. If the usual courier is unavailable, I'll happily speak with any person you see fit to send me, provided they have your password.
That said, if he is available — don't tell him this, but I'm starting to feel nostalgic for the days he would come in through the window and insult me in my own home. Tell me something, did you suggest that approach or is it his own invention?
And if you have the time, one thing more: is he all right?
Apparently it had gone down like this: someone had started pounding on Arvis's door late one night. He'd taken a discreet look out the window and seen only a caped figure, hammering away with slowly diminishing strength. The figure had taken a step back from the doorframe and peered upward — and Arvis was sure he couldn't have been seen, because it was dark inside, and yet — the figure had gone back to knocking on the door, saying loudly, in a foreign accent, "Help me! I've just been mugged and I have nowhere to go, please let me in!"
It could've been a trap, but then again, people did get mugged, and Arvis's sympathies weren't widely known. So he'd armed himself with a poker and opened the door.
The figure had stepped inside, composedly kicked the door shut behind him, and straightened, throwing back his hood.
("Was it the king?" said Locke. "You don't have to say anything. Just nod.")
The stranger, who definitely bore no resemblance to any of the faces on any currently circulating coinage, had spread his hands to show he was unarmed and said, "I can't stay long. We'll pretend you've given me directions to the inn and enough money for a night's stay — that would take, what, five minutes? Great. I have a message for our mutual friend." With ostentatious care he had reached into his cloak and pulled out a note. "Hold onto this until he's back in town, would you? I'll wait a few minutes and see myself out."
And that was the note Locke now held. "Yeah," he said, "this was for Banon."
"Oh." Arvis's brows drew together. "But he said 'mutual friend' — I didn't think he and Banon had even met. And the two of you have been thick as — pardon the expression — thick as thieves."
"That'd be the logical assumption, yeah. Bastard just tried to get too clever again."
"Is this a security problem?" said Arvis.
"Nah, you're fine." And then Locke thought about it, and the longer he thought about it, the angrier he got. "Well. It's only a problem insofar as I'm gonna kill that guy."
Locke stormed through the halls of the castle, blowing off the greetings of the staff members who recognized him, and threw open the door to the study. "You high-handed son of a bitch. What gives you the right?"
Edgar pushed back from the desk and stood up. "Mr. Cole. If you ever say anything about my mother again, you will not enjoy the repercussions. That said" — he stopped, sighed, and then smiled faintly — "welcome back."
Locke slugged him in the jaw.
Edgar rocked back, his eyes wide with surprise and pain. Then he shrugged and said, "Okay," and jabbed at Locke's throat. He was too slow; Locke hopped back out of range. And closed again, swinging for the side of Edgar's head. Edgar just barely got his left up in time to block the blow. He grappled both of Locke's arms and started forcing him back.
Locke kicked the inside of Edgar's right knee. He gasped, but didn't go down. So Locke took aim and did it again. Edgar's leg started to fold. His grip loosened. Locke jerked free and slammed a fist into his midsection. He crumpled into a kneel.
"That's all?" Locke snarled. Edgar came up fast and tackled him, and Locke's vision grayed out for an instant and then they were wrestling on the floor. He scrabbled on the rug until he got his feet under him, and with a violent surge, rolled them both over. Edgar ducked his head under Locke's arm and tried to twist free. Locke snatched at his collar. He twisted again and drove his shoulder up into Locke's chest. Locke wheezed and sagged forward, his weight bearing them both down. Edgar put a hand against the side of Locke's neck and shoved. Locke started to lose balance. Edgar had almost gotten out from underneath. Fuck that. Locke dug a thumb into Edgar's wrist until he let go, and centered himself over him again, and drew his arm back for another punch.
Edgar said, "Watch out for the —" right as Locke's elbow clipped the desk and his whole forearm went numb. Fuck. He couldn't pin this guy one-handed. He braced himself for —
Edgar wasn't getting up. Between gasps for breath he said, mildly, "Well, my friend. It's safe to say we are not wrestlers."
The room felt small now. The sound of labored breathing seemed to fill it wall to wall. "You wanna call the guards?" said Locke. It was over.
Edgar stared at the ceiling. "I trust you." He sighed. "And I probably needed the wake-up call. What if I get invited on another boat?"
"They're done with boats."
He did not meet Locke's eyes. "Metaphorically speaking."
Locke abruptly realized that he was sitting on top of Edgar, staring down as he lay there with a split lip and his hair all mussed and his pulse visible in his throat, and since they weren't fighting anymore, there was no good reason for this.
Unfortunately, the bad reason was pretty fucking compelling. Locke dragged in a breath, and — it was too much to hope that Edgar hadn't noticed how it shook. Dammit. He got up, stiffly cautious, and retreated a safe distance. Back to the edge of the room before he lost the will to move away. He was too tired to stay as pissed off as he should be, and fuck knew why, but he had never stopped wanting to kiss this idiot and touch his hair and feel those arms around him again, and — Locke hadn't had enough sex with dudes to have a clear preference who did what to whom, but he bet he could at least figure out how to suck a dick. He'd had it done to him enough times —
You can't think about Rachel that way.
Edgar climbed to his feet, slightly favoring his right leg. Locke stood motionless and silent and felt his eyes going unfocused.
Edgar said, "Do you think she wants you to suffer?"
Startled, Locke snapped, "What the hell do you know?"
"You get that look when you're thinking about her." He held up a placating hand. "No judgment. I'm just wondering. If you wake her up again and tell her you were miserable this whole time, does that do her any good? Will that make her happy?" Locke didn't answer. "You'd know better than I would, obviously. Maybe she's the vengeful type. Maybe she'd expect penance. It's none of my business if so, but… as a friend, I would want better for you."
"Better like you?"
"Ha. No. I can't offer you anything. We might be a fun diversion, but you wouldn't like the constraints."
Did that mean he'd actually thought about it?
It didn't matter. "She wasn't — she isn't —" He was never sure which one to use, wavering between "it's your fault she's gone" and "don't you dare give up on her," and whichever one he picked on any given day he would kick himself for it. "She was never like that. She's perfect."
"All due respect," Edgar said, "but I doubt that." Locke considered hitting him again. "If someone was perfect, how would you know what to love?"
She had a chipped eyetooth and her handwriting was so awful they'd had to give up exchanging love notes on day three. She talked quietly but then got mad if you didn't hear her; if you asked her to repeat herself she'd just huff and say "never mind" in the most passive-aggressive way, like, screw you for wanting to hang on her every word if you didn't have the hearing of a bat. He adored her. He had from the start.
"I don't want to stop missing her. I don't want to lose sight of — if I bring her back and she doesn't want me anymore, that's fine, I know I fucked up, I'd deserve it — but it's her decision."
"So you've pinned your hopes on the chance that a dead woman will set you free."
"No. All I'm hoping for is — that I get to fix this. Put everything back where it should be. That'd be enough."
Silence. And then the sound of four short footsteps, and then Edgar hugged him.
For those first shocked seconds Locke tried not to relax into it too much, but — would she begrudge him this? If there was no one there to hold her, did he have to go without, too? Could he ever be forgiven?
It was too complicated. He was so tired. It had been so long.
With a sensation that wasn't quite guilt but a strong suspicion he'd feel guilty later, he stopped fighting it and sagged into the embrace. Edgar started rubbing his back — but then abruptly froze, as if worried that was too intimate. Too tender for the pretense that they were just normal guys and normal friends and it didn't mean anything if they'd swapped spit that one time. Locke's stomach twisted. Maybe he was right.
"Still friends?" said Edgar, gamely trying to transform the gesture into the more standard chummy back-slap.
Locke swallowed. "Yeah."
"No hard feelings?"
And then Locke remembered why he'd come here in the first place, and raised his head from Edgar's shoulder, and said, "Wait, speak for yourself, asshole. Where do you get off saying shit about me to Banon? Are you trying to undermine me with the Returners, or what?" He shoved Edgar away. "And I'm not a courier, what the hell —"
"Hey, hey, simmer down. It's okay." Edgar smiled. "Banon was never going to see that letter."
"But Arvis —"
"Arvis did exactly what I expected him to do. I made it as clear as possible that you were the recipient without actually saying your name."
"Wait, I was supposed to —"
"To think you'd accidentally intercepted a message to Banon, yes. Give Arvis my apologies, by the way. He wasn't in on it."
Locke bristled. "But why would you —"
"It got you here, didn't it? If I'd written to you directly, you wouldn't have showed up." He looked so damn pleased with himself. Locke didn't think — he just fucking decked him.
After a moment he got up again, holding the side of his face, but otherwise unruffled. "Realistically, though, you wouldn't have. Admit it. Was I supposed to say, 'hey, buddy, how's it going? Nothing much happening over here, just pining away?' That wouldn't have worked, right?"
Realistically, no. But Edgar's tone said "let's just get back to wisecracks as soon as possible." So Locke was supposed to blow the question off somehow. He tried to make a snappy retort, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He had nothing. But that had been a joke, right? The pining? Edgar of all people should not know how to pine. All he could think was, "Why'd you go to the trouble?"
An expression crossed Edgar's face that Locke had never seen there before. But it was gone too quickly to identify, and then he turned away and started messing with stuff on his desk. "I think I might be greedy," he said, contemplating a paperweight. A series of shiny metal gears encased in a lump of glass. The pieces looked too clean and sharp to have ever been part of any working machine. "Once something comes into my orbit, I don't like to let go. I just think, 'this is mine now. I'm responsible for this.'" He shook his head ruefully. "It's not a very helpful way to think about people."
Shit, Locke thought, You actually missed me. But Edgar had said as much in that damn letter. It had just come off too oily to be sincere.
This guy didn't have a lot of friends, did he?
Into Locke's uneasy silence, Edgar said airily, "So, are we on for September?"
Locke blinked. "September?"
"If you want to play hard to get, be assured, I can lay the guilt on a lot thicker than that. I have no shame." He set the paperweight down. "The last time we spoke, you threatened me with a pubcrawl. Ring any bells?"
The last time they'd spoken. Was that how they were gonna frame it? Like it had just been a conversation, and then Locke had gone away only by coincidence. And now incidentally he was back. Edgar had said that night that they didn't need to discuss it — why? Did he want to forget it? Whose pride was he trying to spare, Locke's or his own?
And now Edgar looked him dead in the eyes and said nothing. Waiting. With his best unreadable politician face on. Fuck, did he have to do that now? Locke could really have used some idea what was going on in his head for once. But he didn't give away anything.
"Maybe," Locke said, faltering, "maybe it'd be a good idea to... talk. Like — sort this shit out."
"Okay."
"Except I don't know how."
"Me, neither." Still perfectly stone-faced, even though that should've been a pretty big admission. Stupid inscrutable jackass.
Locke forged on. There was nothing else to do. "Should we try?"
"After you," said Edgar, with a smile too tightly controlled to be as mocking as intended.
"No, no," said Locke, biting down a nervous laugh (what the hell was there to laugh about?), "you first, I insist."
"Oh, dear, looks like we're at an impasse." His voice had a weird edge. "Should we flip a coin?"
"Edgar."
"Fine, fine, me first. Noblesse oblige, or whatever." He rolled his eyes. "Let's start with the obvious. I care about you. Okay?"
Was that obvious? Maybe so. Hearing it outright still left a weird ringing in his ears. Even if it was true, and obvious, you didn't say stuff like that, and you didn't make other people — ruling dignitaries! — say it either. He wished he'd never started this. He couldn't just say "never mind" now, not after making Edgar show his throat like that — there wasn't any way out. He'd fucked this up big-time.
He said, "But... as a friend, right?" and thought, Oh good. Now I've fucked it up worse.
Edgar gave him a long, hard look. "I try to be pragmatic," he said. "Nothing else is on the table, so why waste any thought on it? Counterfactuals don't keep the lights on."
Counterfactuals like that water wheel he'd spoken of all those months ago. Like a house by a river, and living there alone in peace, just making stuff for people. Taking machines apart and putting them together. Fixing things.
"You're lying," said Locke.
"Dissembling, maybe. There's a difference."
"Shut up, nerd."
Edgar spread his hands wide. "Fine. I'll shut up. Now it's your turn to tell me something."
Locke's mouth went dry. "Like what?"
"Up to you. You're the one who wanted to talk."
"You brought me here."
"Yeah, but who said anything about talking? I'd be content to leave it at a weird sexually charged fistfight that goes unacknowledged for the rest of our natural lives. You know. Like men."
Locke snorted a laugh. "As you do."
"Really normal stuff."
And all of a sudden —
It just felt stupid to keep being cagey. It didn't make sense to be uncomfortable. This was Edgar. The guy was an idiot; he didn't have room to judge, even if he had the inclination. Locke had busted his lip open and he'd just gotten back up and resumed throwing off dumb quips and plotting and scheming, and — wait, "sexually charged?" Had that been a come-on? Was he doing that now?
You kinda had to love him. The total fucking buffoon.
"You're my best friend since Rachel," said Locke. "And that's — I don't like thinking that so much has happened since she died. It kinda fucks me up to think that this is the world after her, and I have to keep living in it." He tried not to think about what he was saying, and tried not to listen to it. If he heard himself, he would want to stop. "If I care about someone else, that's admitting that she's getting farther away. If I let someone else into the place where she used to be, that means she's not there anymore." He scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. "So. That's why I freaked out on you back there. And then I figured you'd be pissed that I was leading you on, so..."
"The thought never crossed my mind."
"Seriously?" said Locke, with a little extra stab of remorse. It'd be easier if Edgar would just get mad.
"Seriously. If anything, I was worried I'd missed some signal that you weren't ready. Maybe I pushed you too hard."
"No," Locke said quickly, "I wanted to. I just didn't — want to want to. If that makes sense."
Edgar nodded, pensive. "Do you want to want to want to? I find that's the critical point."
Locke spent a few seconds trying to sort that out, then gave up. "Okay, if that's a serious question, I'm gonna need you to word it a less stupid way."
Edgar gave him a fleeting grin, but then sobered again. "The thing that's holding you back from pursuing what you want. Do you want it gone, or do you want to keep it?"
For a sudden dizzying moment Locke could see through all the layers of abstraction. Under all the philosophical trappings, the real heart of the question was: Do you, now or sometime in the future, want to bone?
He blinked. Made himself focus. "The thing holding me back is... Rachel. I can't —"
Edgar said, skeptically, "Is it really her, or is it —" Then he caught himself. "Sorry. Given my... uh, totally blatant ulterior motives, I don't have the standing to debate this. I just — if it affects your thinking at all, please know that I'm still your friend regardless. Nothing that's happened has put a dent in my esteem for you." A pause. His expression turned ironic, and he raised a hand to feel gingerly at his jaw, which Locke winced to notice was beginning to darken with bruise. "Although, if you've put a dent in my face, the women of the world may never forgive you."
That was the signal: We're done being serious. Back to dumb bullshit, starting now. Locke was relieved, mostly. But a part of him still sorta wanted... No. Forget it. He sighed. "Well, you've got until September to make yourself presentable again. I know that's an uphill battle. But try your best not to embarrass me this time."
Edgar looked startled, and then slowly lowered his hand from his face, and smiled. Fuck, Locke thought, feeling something constrict in his throat, I've got it bad. This dork was beaming at him, in genuine relief and pleasure, and Locke kinda wanted to live here now. Build a house in this moment and come back to it between adventures. "I look forward to it," Edgar said warmly, and Locke thought, How is he allowed to do that?
"You say that now," he said, and to his credit his voice only faltered a little, "but we're gonna do so many shots you'll pray for death."
Edgar laughed. "And that's your idea of an incentive? You think that will convince me to go anywhere with you?"
"Works, doesn't it?"
"Of course. But only because you and I are afflicted with complementary forms of stupidity. I'm just cautioning you against any broader application."
Who the hell else would I be asking, Locke thought, but didn't say. He couldn't put a name to what he wanted, and he wouldn't be able to handle it if he got it. But he could handle the wanting. He swallowed, and rode it out, and smiled back. This was okay. They'd be okay.
They fixed plans for the third week of September, and shook on it, and Edgar held on a little longer than was strictly proper and clasped Locke's forearm in his free hand, and Locke felt it down to the soles of his feet.
But it wasn't bad. He thought he could learn to take it for what it was. For the first time since Jidoor he started to relax.
Characters: Edgar/Locke
Word count: ~3500
Warnings: Strong language, angst continues apace, This Is The Part Where I Foolishly Attempted A Fight Scene
Notes: I got nothin'.
Haven't heard from you in a while. Is anything amiss? I understand, of course, that the demands on your time are many, and that discretion is paramount. I don't mean to add to your burdens by demanding a reply; rather, I'm writing to assure you that I stand ready as always to help out in any way I can. If the usual courier is unavailable, I'll happily speak with any person you see fit to send me, provided they have your password.
That said, if he is available — don't tell him this, but I'm starting to feel nostalgic for the days he would come in through the window and insult me in my own home. Tell me something, did you suggest that approach or is it his own invention?
And if you have the time, one thing more: is he all right?
Apparently it had gone down like this: someone had started pounding on Arvis's door late one night. He'd taken a discreet look out the window and seen only a caped figure, hammering away with slowly diminishing strength. The figure had taken a step back from the doorframe and peered upward — and Arvis was sure he couldn't have been seen, because it was dark inside, and yet — the figure had gone back to knocking on the door, saying loudly, in a foreign accent, "Help me! I've just been mugged and I have nowhere to go, please let me in!"
It could've been a trap, but then again, people did get mugged, and Arvis's sympathies weren't widely known. So he'd armed himself with a poker and opened the door.
The figure had stepped inside, composedly kicked the door shut behind him, and straightened, throwing back his hood.
("Was it the king?" said Locke. "You don't have to say anything. Just nod.")
The stranger, who definitely bore no resemblance to any of the faces on any currently circulating coinage, had spread his hands to show he was unarmed and said, "I can't stay long. We'll pretend you've given me directions to the inn and enough money for a night's stay — that would take, what, five minutes? Great. I have a message for our mutual friend." With ostentatious care he had reached into his cloak and pulled out a note. "Hold onto this until he's back in town, would you? I'll wait a few minutes and see myself out."
And that was the note Locke now held. "Yeah," he said, "this was for Banon."
"Oh." Arvis's brows drew together. "But he said 'mutual friend' — I didn't think he and Banon had even met. And the two of you have been thick as — pardon the expression — thick as thieves."
"That'd be the logical assumption, yeah. Bastard just tried to get too clever again."
"Is this a security problem?" said Arvis.
"Nah, you're fine." And then Locke thought about it, and the longer he thought about it, the angrier he got. "Well. It's only a problem insofar as I'm gonna kill that guy."
Locke stormed through the halls of the castle, blowing off the greetings of the staff members who recognized him, and threw open the door to the study. "You high-handed son of a bitch. What gives you the right?"
Edgar pushed back from the desk and stood up. "Mr. Cole. If you ever say anything about my mother again, you will not enjoy the repercussions. That said" — he stopped, sighed, and then smiled faintly — "welcome back."
Locke slugged him in the jaw.
Edgar rocked back, his eyes wide with surprise and pain. Then he shrugged and said, "Okay," and jabbed at Locke's throat. He was too slow; Locke hopped back out of range. And closed again, swinging for the side of Edgar's head. Edgar just barely got his left up in time to block the blow. He grappled both of Locke's arms and started forcing him back.
Locke kicked the inside of Edgar's right knee. He gasped, but didn't go down. So Locke took aim and did it again. Edgar's leg started to fold. His grip loosened. Locke jerked free and slammed a fist into his midsection. He crumpled into a kneel.
"That's all?" Locke snarled. Edgar came up fast and tackled him, and Locke's vision grayed out for an instant and then they were wrestling on the floor. He scrabbled on the rug until he got his feet under him, and with a violent surge, rolled them both over. Edgar ducked his head under Locke's arm and tried to twist free. Locke snatched at his collar. He twisted again and drove his shoulder up into Locke's chest. Locke wheezed and sagged forward, his weight bearing them both down. Edgar put a hand against the side of Locke's neck and shoved. Locke started to lose balance. Edgar had almost gotten out from underneath. Fuck that. Locke dug a thumb into Edgar's wrist until he let go, and centered himself over him again, and drew his arm back for another punch.
Edgar said, "Watch out for the —" right as Locke's elbow clipped the desk and his whole forearm went numb. Fuck. He couldn't pin this guy one-handed. He braced himself for —
Edgar wasn't getting up. Between gasps for breath he said, mildly, "Well, my friend. It's safe to say we are not wrestlers."
The room felt small now. The sound of labored breathing seemed to fill it wall to wall. "You wanna call the guards?" said Locke. It was over.
Edgar stared at the ceiling. "I trust you." He sighed. "And I probably needed the wake-up call. What if I get invited on another boat?"
"They're done with boats."
He did not meet Locke's eyes. "Metaphorically speaking."
Locke abruptly realized that he was sitting on top of Edgar, staring down as he lay there with a split lip and his hair all mussed and his pulse visible in his throat, and since they weren't fighting anymore, there was no good reason for this.
Unfortunately, the bad reason was pretty fucking compelling. Locke dragged in a breath, and — it was too much to hope that Edgar hadn't noticed how it shook. Dammit. He got up, stiffly cautious, and retreated a safe distance. Back to the edge of the room before he lost the will to move away. He was too tired to stay as pissed off as he should be, and fuck knew why, but he had never stopped wanting to kiss this idiot and touch his hair and feel those arms around him again, and — Locke hadn't had enough sex with dudes to have a clear preference who did what to whom, but he bet he could at least figure out how to suck a dick. He'd had it done to him enough times —
You can't think about Rachel that way.
Edgar climbed to his feet, slightly favoring his right leg. Locke stood motionless and silent and felt his eyes going unfocused.
Edgar said, "Do you think she wants you to suffer?"
Startled, Locke snapped, "What the hell do you know?"
"You get that look when you're thinking about her." He held up a placating hand. "No judgment. I'm just wondering. If you wake her up again and tell her you were miserable this whole time, does that do her any good? Will that make her happy?" Locke didn't answer. "You'd know better than I would, obviously. Maybe she's the vengeful type. Maybe she'd expect penance. It's none of my business if so, but… as a friend, I would want better for you."
"Better like you?"
"Ha. No. I can't offer you anything. We might be a fun diversion, but you wouldn't like the constraints."
Did that mean he'd actually thought about it?
It didn't matter. "She wasn't — she isn't —" He was never sure which one to use, wavering between "it's your fault she's gone" and "don't you dare give up on her," and whichever one he picked on any given day he would kick himself for it. "She was never like that. She's perfect."
"All due respect," Edgar said, "but I doubt that." Locke considered hitting him again. "If someone was perfect, how would you know what to love?"
She had a chipped eyetooth and her handwriting was so awful they'd had to give up exchanging love notes on day three. She talked quietly but then got mad if you didn't hear her; if you asked her to repeat herself she'd just huff and say "never mind" in the most passive-aggressive way, like, screw you for wanting to hang on her every word if you didn't have the hearing of a bat. He adored her. He had from the start.
"I don't want to stop missing her. I don't want to lose sight of — if I bring her back and she doesn't want me anymore, that's fine, I know I fucked up, I'd deserve it — but it's her decision."
"So you've pinned your hopes on the chance that a dead woman will set you free."
"No. All I'm hoping for is — that I get to fix this. Put everything back where it should be. That'd be enough."
Silence. And then the sound of four short footsteps, and then Edgar hugged him.
For those first shocked seconds Locke tried not to relax into it too much, but — would she begrudge him this? If there was no one there to hold her, did he have to go without, too? Could he ever be forgiven?
It was too complicated. He was so tired. It had been so long.
With a sensation that wasn't quite guilt but a strong suspicion he'd feel guilty later, he stopped fighting it and sagged into the embrace. Edgar started rubbing his back — but then abruptly froze, as if worried that was too intimate. Too tender for the pretense that they were just normal guys and normal friends and it didn't mean anything if they'd swapped spit that one time. Locke's stomach twisted. Maybe he was right.
"Still friends?" said Edgar, gamely trying to transform the gesture into the more standard chummy back-slap.
Locke swallowed. "Yeah."
"No hard feelings?"
And then Locke remembered why he'd come here in the first place, and raised his head from Edgar's shoulder, and said, "Wait, speak for yourself, asshole. Where do you get off saying shit about me to Banon? Are you trying to undermine me with the Returners, or what?" He shoved Edgar away. "And I'm not a courier, what the hell —"
"Hey, hey, simmer down. It's okay." Edgar smiled. "Banon was never going to see that letter."
"But Arvis —"
"Arvis did exactly what I expected him to do. I made it as clear as possible that you were the recipient without actually saying your name."
"Wait, I was supposed to —"
"To think you'd accidentally intercepted a message to Banon, yes. Give Arvis my apologies, by the way. He wasn't in on it."
Locke bristled. "But why would you —"
"It got you here, didn't it? If I'd written to you directly, you wouldn't have showed up." He looked so damn pleased with himself. Locke didn't think — he just fucking decked him.
After a moment he got up again, holding the side of his face, but otherwise unruffled. "Realistically, though, you wouldn't have. Admit it. Was I supposed to say, 'hey, buddy, how's it going? Nothing much happening over here, just pining away?' That wouldn't have worked, right?"
Realistically, no. But Edgar's tone said "let's just get back to wisecracks as soon as possible." So Locke was supposed to blow the question off somehow. He tried to make a snappy retort, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He had nothing. But that had been a joke, right? The pining? Edgar of all people should not know how to pine. All he could think was, "Why'd you go to the trouble?"
An expression crossed Edgar's face that Locke had never seen there before. But it was gone too quickly to identify, and then he turned away and started messing with stuff on his desk. "I think I might be greedy," he said, contemplating a paperweight. A series of shiny metal gears encased in a lump of glass. The pieces looked too clean and sharp to have ever been part of any working machine. "Once something comes into my orbit, I don't like to let go. I just think, 'this is mine now. I'm responsible for this.'" He shook his head ruefully. "It's not a very helpful way to think about people."
Shit, Locke thought, You actually missed me. But Edgar had said as much in that damn letter. It had just come off too oily to be sincere.
This guy didn't have a lot of friends, did he?
Into Locke's uneasy silence, Edgar said airily, "So, are we on for September?"
Locke blinked. "September?"
"If you want to play hard to get, be assured, I can lay the guilt on a lot thicker than that. I have no shame." He set the paperweight down. "The last time we spoke, you threatened me with a pubcrawl. Ring any bells?"
The last time they'd spoken. Was that how they were gonna frame it? Like it had just been a conversation, and then Locke had gone away only by coincidence. And now incidentally he was back. Edgar had said that night that they didn't need to discuss it — why? Did he want to forget it? Whose pride was he trying to spare, Locke's or his own?
And now Edgar looked him dead in the eyes and said nothing. Waiting. With his best unreadable politician face on. Fuck, did he have to do that now? Locke could really have used some idea what was going on in his head for once. But he didn't give away anything.
"Maybe," Locke said, faltering, "maybe it'd be a good idea to... talk. Like — sort this shit out."
"Okay."
"Except I don't know how."
"Me, neither." Still perfectly stone-faced, even though that should've been a pretty big admission. Stupid inscrutable jackass.
Locke forged on. There was nothing else to do. "Should we try?"
"After you," said Edgar, with a smile too tightly controlled to be as mocking as intended.
"No, no," said Locke, biting down a nervous laugh (what the hell was there to laugh about?), "you first, I insist."
"Oh, dear, looks like we're at an impasse." His voice had a weird edge. "Should we flip a coin?"
"Edgar."
"Fine, fine, me first. Noblesse oblige, or whatever." He rolled his eyes. "Let's start with the obvious. I care about you. Okay?"
Was that obvious? Maybe so. Hearing it outright still left a weird ringing in his ears. Even if it was true, and obvious, you didn't say stuff like that, and you didn't make other people — ruling dignitaries! — say it either. He wished he'd never started this. He couldn't just say "never mind" now, not after making Edgar show his throat like that — there wasn't any way out. He'd fucked this up big-time.
He said, "But... as a friend, right?" and thought, Oh good. Now I've fucked it up worse.
Edgar gave him a long, hard look. "I try to be pragmatic," he said. "Nothing else is on the table, so why waste any thought on it? Counterfactuals don't keep the lights on."
Counterfactuals like that water wheel he'd spoken of all those months ago. Like a house by a river, and living there alone in peace, just making stuff for people. Taking machines apart and putting them together. Fixing things.
"You're lying," said Locke.
"Dissembling, maybe. There's a difference."
"Shut up, nerd."
Edgar spread his hands wide. "Fine. I'll shut up. Now it's your turn to tell me something."
Locke's mouth went dry. "Like what?"
"Up to you. You're the one who wanted to talk."
"You brought me here."
"Yeah, but who said anything about talking? I'd be content to leave it at a weird sexually charged fistfight that goes unacknowledged for the rest of our natural lives. You know. Like men."
Locke snorted a laugh. "As you do."
"Really normal stuff."
And all of a sudden —
It just felt stupid to keep being cagey. It didn't make sense to be uncomfortable. This was Edgar. The guy was an idiot; he didn't have room to judge, even if he had the inclination. Locke had busted his lip open and he'd just gotten back up and resumed throwing off dumb quips and plotting and scheming, and — wait, "sexually charged?" Had that been a come-on? Was he doing that now?
You kinda had to love him. The total fucking buffoon.
"You're my best friend since Rachel," said Locke. "And that's — I don't like thinking that so much has happened since she died. It kinda fucks me up to think that this is the world after her, and I have to keep living in it." He tried not to think about what he was saying, and tried not to listen to it. If he heard himself, he would want to stop. "If I care about someone else, that's admitting that she's getting farther away. If I let someone else into the place where she used to be, that means she's not there anymore." He scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. "So. That's why I freaked out on you back there. And then I figured you'd be pissed that I was leading you on, so..."
"The thought never crossed my mind."
"Seriously?" said Locke, with a little extra stab of remorse. It'd be easier if Edgar would just get mad.
"Seriously. If anything, I was worried I'd missed some signal that you weren't ready. Maybe I pushed you too hard."
"No," Locke said quickly, "I wanted to. I just didn't — want to want to. If that makes sense."
Edgar nodded, pensive. "Do you want to want to want to? I find that's the critical point."
Locke spent a few seconds trying to sort that out, then gave up. "Okay, if that's a serious question, I'm gonna need you to word it a less stupid way."
Edgar gave him a fleeting grin, but then sobered again. "The thing that's holding you back from pursuing what you want. Do you want it gone, or do you want to keep it?"
For a sudden dizzying moment Locke could see through all the layers of abstraction. Under all the philosophical trappings, the real heart of the question was: Do you, now or sometime in the future, want to bone?
He blinked. Made himself focus. "The thing holding me back is... Rachel. I can't —"
Edgar said, skeptically, "Is it really her, or is it —" Then he caught himself. "Sorry. Given my... uh, totally blatant ulterior motives, I don't have the standing to debate this. I just — if it affects your thinking at all, please know that I'm still your friend regardless. Nothing that's happened has put a dent in my esteem for you." A pause. His expression turned ironic, and he raised a hand to feel gingerly at his jaw, which Locke winced to notice was beginning to darken with bruise. "Although, if you've put a dent in my face, the women of the world may never forgive you."
That was the signal: We're done being serious. Back to dumb bullshit, starting now. Locke was relieved, mostly. But a part of him still sorta wanted... No. Forget it. He sighed. "Well, you've got until September to make yourself presentable again. I know that's an uphill battle. But try your best not to embarrass me this time."
Edgar looked startled, and then slowly lowered his hand from his face, and smiled. Fuck, Locke thought, feeling something constrict in his throat, I've got it bad. This dork was beaming at him, in genuine relief and pleasure, and Locke kinda wanted to live here now. Build a house in this moment and come back to it between adventures. "I look forward to it," Edgar said warmly, and Locke thought, How is he allowed to do that?
"You say that now," he said, and to his credit his voice only faltered a little, "but we're gonna do so many shots you'll pray for death."
Edgar laughed. "And that's your idea of an incentive? You think that will convince me to go anywhere with you?"
"Works, doesn't it?"
"Of course. But only because you and I are afflicted with complementary forms of stupidity. I'm just cautioning you against any broader application."
Who the hell else would I be asking, Locke thought, but didn't say. He couldn't put a name to what he wanted, and he wouldn't be able to handle it if he got it. But he could handle the wanting. He swallowed, and rode it out, and smiled back. This was okay. They'd be okay.
They fixed plans for the third week of September, and shook on it, and Edgar held on a little longer than was strictly proper and clasped Locke's forearm in his free hand, and Locke felt it down to the soles of his feet.
But it wasn't bad. He thought he could learn to take it for what it was. For the first time since Jidoor he started to relax.