Affinity: Part XIV

Alex paused in the lobby, hands on the stairwell banister. He resisted the urge to turn and see if someone in heels was following him, making those little aggravating slaps on the tile, because he knew it was him. The elevator shone out of the corner of his eye in the afternoon light, and he gritted his teeth before sprinting up the stairs. The considerably large number of stairs. If his shoes weren't extensions of his body it might have even hurt.
He easily walked up to his apartment door – 22-E – and felt the familiar swell of biomass travel down his spine, spreading to his head, fingers, toes…
In a few reality rippling seconds, where a middle aged woman stood, Alex Mercer appeared, blue eyes blinking as he appreciated the extra inches he had regained. And the lack of a rose colored Chanel suit. Taking someone else's appearance was an ability he had been reacquainted within the last weeks. It had been Desmond's idea – a safety concern, he said – and Dana had only made a joking comment about Desmond getting tired of his face; she wasn't too good at being a diplomat, as it turned out.
He decided he had made bigger sacrifices before, for other things. Smaller things. Years ago. Desmond could be as paranoid as he wanted to be, so long as he still trusted him.
Alex knocked on the door, and was greeted by Desmond a few moments later. He had his right hand on the door handle, and the left hanging down like a dead weight – it was usually like that, nowadays. Most of the hand – from the base of his fingers to the end of his wrist, was covered in white, scratchy gauze. That had happened about two weeks ago - fifteen days, technically, he thought.
After his… slip up he had Dana contact Dr. Ragland – a man that he hadn't seen in years. He had long since emigrated from New York to Philadelphia, and Alex wasn't quite sure if Ragland was willing to make the trip because of the Hippocratic Oath, or the fact that he had helped Alex in the past.
Maybe he was just curious as to who was so important that Alex Mercer needed to call in to ask a favor.
Desmond, for obvious reasons, didn't go to hospitals. Even with the help of fake papers and disguising accessories, the thought of actually walking into that sort of place made his eyes grow wide and his skin ashen. He got so anxious, nowadays. And even when Desmond reminded Alex again and again that it had nothing to do with him, the heavy sprain in his wrist and the bruised bones and slowly scarring cuts Alex saw whenever Desmond took off his bandages made him doubt those comforting words.
But now, instead of appearing out of the aperture with noted caution, Desmond just stood there with a welcome look on his face. In fact, he wasn't just smiling – he was looking ecstatic, practically vibrating with unshed energy.
"Did you change out here?" he asked, for once not seeming so concerned about the answer.
"Yes. Like always." Alex stepped through the threshold, the sunlight streaming through the open windows and staining the pale room a gentle shade of yellow. "You're up early."
"Had to be. I needed to take care of a few things. Well, two things."
"Uh-huh." Desmond wandered into the kitchen, and Alex followed. "…Like grocery shopping?" He stared down at a brown bag standing by itself on the kitchen counter.
"Hm? Oh, no." he moved forward and slid a glass bottle out of the bag with a rustle. "Found an awesome wine cellar down in Chelsea. Someone at the bar mentioned it last week." He handed the bottle off to Alex, who inspected it. The label was white and decorated in several scrawls of golden olive trees – matching the color of the glass. "You ever have Sauvignon Blanc?"
"Don't think I can even pronounce that. Besides, the only time I drank was when you served me back at Mkinley's… so, no." he handed the pale tinted bottle back to Desmond. "I figured you wouldn't drink wine."
"You just said you don't drink – how would you know anything about that?" he put the bottle back in the bag, rolling it up. "I drink whatever. But people tend to look at you funny if you pull out a shaker around three in the afternoon." He turned his head to the side, nodding towards the kitchen chair  - one of the only two that could actually fit in the room – and said, "Found that on sale. It's like my old one."
The thing in question was a white jacket. Alex walked over and picked it up. It was a thick pullover hoodie; red fabric decorated the inside in an effort to give it a unique mark. Admittedly, it did look like the signature garment Desmond had on during winter – plus or minus a zipper, at least. It must have been comfortable enough for Desmond to wear it every day. At least until those… men had more or less ripped it to shreds. Alex scowled at that thought.
"It's still summer," he supplied after a moment. He put the jacket back down. "Why do you need that?"
Desmond cocked his head to the side, thinking. "I guess I don't. I just… like the style. Always liked wearing white. And… hoods." He shrugged helplessly under Alex's gaze. "I don't know. I like being impulsive? Besides, I know how bad New York is in the winter now; just trying to prep."
"In August?" Alex caught the subtext that maybe; just maybe, Desmond would still be around when winter hit Manhattan again.
Alex couldn't feel the cold like the humans in the city, but it still reached him, in a way. The chilling weather would appear, covering the city much like a blanket of snow for a good seven months. It would bite down, not relinquishing a hopeful day of reprise, of pale cobalt skies or white sunlight to filter down into the frosty air. Not anymore, at least. The temperance of the world's climate had quickly waned over the years, and New York Zero was not immune to the changes. Now winter stuck into you like a twisted, rusty nail, numbing but lingeringly painful, as citizens suffered under the never ending dread a cold, blue rut. Alex could imagine the streets lined with muddied gray slush – over packed stores; blasting, stiffening winds that froze you in place with their touch; and the influx of the ill commuters blinking miserably up at him with red, puffy eyes before sinking their faces back into their tissues and scarves – definitely not picturesque scenery. But then, in a few months time, Desmond could be there beside him – buried under coats and hats when they were outside, spooned against him in bed at night, wrapped up in each other's company, talking about the fast slew of holidays that they never bothered participating in and just being side by side somewhere, anywhere in the city – and Alex wanted to shake himself and say that nothing about that idea was guaranteed, and he shouldn't even be thinking into next week, let alone two, three months from now. No frostbitten noses and numb hands he would have to hold; no flashing lights and snowflakes hitting the window like fast travelling stars – none of that, he thought.
He would have reminded himself of this and pulled himself out of his dreaming – back into reality; but he didn't. He just really didn't want to think about any alternative time where he didn't have Desmond around.
Maybe the dependency bothered some people, but it could never bother him.
Glancing up at Desmond, he was handing him the paper bag. When Alex took it, he moved back, out of the kitchen and towards the door. "The other thing's outside."
"Outside?" Alex repeated, feeling his skin ripple once more as he prepared to leave the apartment again, still with half a mind on other things.
"In the garage across the street. Meet you there." He said, leaving without barely a glance backwards at Alex, nearly running down the hall in his haste.

xxxx

Alex admitted to never being able to fully appreciate certain human habits: For example, bathing was a necessity, but never a pleasure – he never looked forward to ending a long day by standing under a scalding stream of fluid that made his entire surface area twitch. And sleeping? Well, both he and Desmond knew that he would be better off if he never had a moment of unconsciousness again.
And of course there were those other things - Raising children, having pets… strange norms he could never completely grasp.
"…You got a motorcycle," Alex supplied dully, the voice of the body he was using sounding rather bored and low and scratchy. Modes of transportation – and those who had an obsession with them – were apparently yet another one of those things Alex Mercer couldn't quite get.
Sure, not everyone could outrun a sports car, and people needed to get somewhere quickly; plus, as far as Alex knew, he was the only one who could just kick off from the rooftops and start flying. But still, Desmond was cooing over the bike as if it was the last thing he had claim to in the world; hovering over it, taking away invisible specks of grime with the hem of his shirt. Alex had seen that affectionately doting behavior before, usually in places like Central Park.
Usually involving a group of Mothers playing show and tell with their newborn offspring.
Huh.
"It's a Kawasaki Ninja brand. I was shooting for a Fourth Generation – but I didn't even know they had the Third Gen on the market still." He flicked his eyes over to Alex's disguised form. "They stopped making these in '07."
"These?" Alex said, trying to throw himself into the conversation. Maybe he could learn something if Desmond slowed down enough. He glanced down at the bike. It had been made for long distance and speedy travel. It was low to the ground with a seat that would make one lean – not too far – forward, so that you would end up balancing most of your weight on the handlebars. The front and sides were laden with protective shelling; jutting out at acute angles like odd fabric cuts; the intent seemed less focused on aerodynamics and more towards the cool factor. Those bits of heavy duty plastic were shiny and glossy – the color of a Maraschino cherry.
The silver pipes that took up the space past the covering looked like a small orchestra of horns lined up; all pretty and polished and ready to make noise. Even the leather of the seat seemed to shine, along with the bright helmet sitting neatly on top of it; one of the two accessories Desmond wasted no time in getting. The last frivolous detail to end the picture happened to be a small lockbox fashioned on the back, right above the license plate. It wasn't much – it could hold maybe a backpack if it wasn't too full and you spent a few minutes stuffing it inside, but it would easily fit, say, the wine bottle. To prove the point, Desmond unlocked the compartment and stored the little bag inside, before stepping back again to get lost in the – apparent - mix of efficient machinery and beautiful art.
The entire thing gleamed, and the new smell of leather mixed with the tint of gasoline that clung in the air. Alex supposed it was nice: New, operational, that sort of thing – but he was still left staring at Desmond's wide eyes and excited, almost spasming movements as if there had to have been something else there - something he couldn't see – that was making the other man lose his voice and stare in unadulterated awe.
"It's an EX-250 F. I mean, the most widespread model. The engine displacement's 248ccs."
"Is that good?"
"That's great. It can go zero to sixty in less than six seconds."
"…Um, miles to the gallon?"
"Forty-eight at cruising speed. I mean, man." He dropped down onto his knees, touching his fingers to the twinkling metal of the bike's side and underbelly. Alex could see the newly dyed blonde tips of his hair from where he was standing, but that was about it. "Even back a few years ago in the shitty economy, these were ten thousand. But now the down payment on this was barely eight hundred."
"How much all together?"
"Little over three grand… Their company filed for bankruptcy two weeks ago and, well… they're selling what they can. Just like everyone else." Instead of smiling at the motorcycle he turned his head up to Alex. "I haven't had to pay rent in a while, so – thanks. I didn't have to worry about skipping meals to get this."
"Are you sure this is just a guilty pleasure?" Alex asked as Desmond got up, reaching for the polished red helmet – which had, up until that point, taken up staring at some of the supportive concrete pillars of the parking garage. "And not say, some weird fetish you haven't told me about?" Alex caught a grin directed at him before Desmond pulled the helmet over his head, flipping the black visor down.
"Nah, if I was into that I'd buy some old Cadillac or something." His muffled voice called out. He swung a leg over the machine without even really looking – as if he and the bike had already been together for years. "Even with the kickstand up you can't get much of a rhythm going."
Alex snorted. "I'm guessing you want to take this out for a spin with Dana later?"
"Later? We have to go now. Who knows, maybe I could beat you in a race on the way to her place."
"Sure." Alex moved so he was at the side of Desmond's bike. "Just don't take too long or else I'll think you went off on a cross country road trip. Something along those lines." He slowly began to mold back into his default form.
"I always wanted to find myself," Desmond said with a mocking fondness; one too many Life Story Spills at the bar, Alex guessed. He looked down, patting his chest. "Oh. Wait. I'm right here. I guess that identity crisis will have to wait." He twisted in his seat and wriggled a bit as the engine roared into life, a minute cloud of gasoline rising into the air. Alex leant forward and touched his arm gently.
"What?" Desmond shouted through the piercing mechanical purr.
Alex leaned forward and kissed the opaque blackness of Desmond's visor. "See you at Dana's," he said in an almost beckoning way. I'll get there first, he was saying, and Desmond pressed on the gas that much harder; hands – both hands - rolling across the handlebars as he started forward with a hard, testing nudge before he went all the way and sped off; down, down, down the aisles of parked cars before taking a sharp right and disappearing. The sound carried for a little while longer, and then he was out, somewhere on the street, heading North.
Alex stared around the open building and spotted a small car, far at the end of the row and facing one of the many open, glassless windows of the place. He eased himself forward, back bending down as he rushed, ran, sprinted, and propelled himself up off the hard ground and over the car. For a few seconds he flew; getting closer and closer to the ground below. The long fall was quick to anyone but him – since he had gotten used to almost parachuting down when he leapt – if only to save on construction repairs and federal grief, and that precious biomass he had stored. A few people pointed him out as he landed and went off in a dash again; location known, objective echoing in his head:
Beat Desmond Miles.
The goal wasn't serious, but he still fled past cars and pedestrians as if something more important than bragging rights hung in the balance.
He let the feeling stay – the idea that maybe doing this sort of thing with Desmond was the only thing he ever did with his powers. No Outbreak or Cross or Greene or Heller or Blackwatch or anything – there was Nothing here, in this moment, just like in his dream – but here, he was happy. Here he did not hurt. Here he was content to not remember anything and only look forward, as if life was just a one-way street he moved down at a blinding pace. He liked that idea, this concept Desmond had given to him – the reality Desmond had graciously saved him from.
At a particularly high jump from a congested sidewalk and onto a lamp post, his hood flew off, and the sun reached out and touched his head with hot yellow fingers.
In that moment, summer was eternal.

xxxx

Dana huffed into the telephone, and remembered that editors could not actually read minds. "But you said, you said that you would publish those two articles on Abstergo. I have the contract – I have the paycheck!" she couldn't count the times she had almost let a cuss slip – she had meant to kick the habit, quite a few times, actually, just because it wasn't all that professional or appealing to call a client a bitch in front of your boss… but goddamnit did she want to punch something. In the face.
"We realize that, Ms. Mercer…" the woman on the other line was typing away. She probably had her on speaker so she could check up on Facebook and eat some stupid low-fat, low-carb, low-calorie yogurt that was meant to taste like chocolate mousse. She sounded like that anyway. Like she was bored; like she deserved to get punched in the face. She continued her jaded monologue, unaware of Dana's building anger towards her. "However, our lawyers found a loophole in that we are not allowed to print works that may be taken as offensive to certain clientele."
"What clientele do you have? It's a… it's a gossip magazine – what does it matter?"
"Many readers buy medication and products from the Abstergo Corporation," she said evenly. Dana was attempting to give the woman the Evil Eye over the phone.
"I'm sure a lot of them work for the U.S. government, too - but you had no problems printing those articles I wrote about them last month."
"Oh, that was you?"
"…I'm one of your regular authors."
The statement was quickly hand waved. Dana imagined the woman miming the action and falling out of her seat. "We have decided to let you keep the entirety of the check we mailed to you – however, we most likely will not be needing your services in the future."
"…You're firing me. From a freelance position."
"We are, in a way. We're sorry for the inconvenience, Ms. Mercer. We hope that-" Dana hung up, and hurled the little plastic phone onto the couch. It bounced against the cushions, safe from the potential fall, but it didn't pack the same punch as watching it break might have.
"God fucking damnit," she hissed, fingers pressing into her eyes. She had been trying to clean up the apartment when she got that call. Now she wanted nothing more than to go a few rounds with a punching bag and take a nap. But her sheets were in the wash. And she didn't have a gym membership. And Alex wasn't there. "God fucking damnit," she said again, not sure what else to do in light of the shitty, shitty twenty minutes she was having at the moment.
Somewhere by her apartment door, the bell trilled along; someone was downstairs, wanting to be let in.
"Go away," she said, but they couldn't hear her, and the persistent ringing was making her head rattle.
"You should probably answer that," Alex said, slipping through the half open window in Dana's main room. "It's probably Desmond."
She didn't move. "This is kind of a bad time. I was cleaning, and then I got fired. From a freelance job." She looked down. "Also, I'm kind of still wearing my pajamas." She stretched the blue flannel of her pants and dragged herself to her feet.
"Desmond brought wine. And a motorcycle."
Dana pursed her lips. The buzzing was still going on behind her.
"Alright, fine. I'll go let him in…"

xxxx

"You know, you've been nursing that one glass for half an hour, Desmond," Dana said, leaning over the couch, second drink now depleted in her hand.
"You drink wine for the flavor," he said, giving her an aside glance. "Not so you can pass out on the floor as soon as possible. Like you seem to be trying to."
"I had a rough day."
"The days not even over yet."
"Yeah, shit. Don't remind me." She reached for the bottle.
"…Besides, I leave for work at five – bars are kind of strict when it comes to not visibly acting like an alcoholic." Alex glanced from the news station displayed on the television screen to the two people sitting on the sofa next to him.
"My job doesn't box me in, Desmond." Dana shot back.
"Didn't you say that one of the magazines you send articles to let you go and blacklisted you today? Yeah, my bar doesn't do that."
"Um." Alex wasn't totally sold on the idea that Desmond and his sister were joking. He glanced around the apartment – every surface area was covered with… stuff. Except for about a square foot of the coffee table, where Dana had shoved off a pile of books to make room for the drinks. Dust had settled much like the summer pollen had outside – the windows and curtains were tossed wide open, flooding in the white light of another hot day, but there was still the shuffling scent of mold and accumulated age passing through the air – Alex was sure only he noticed it.
Speaking of things only he was noticing, he could hear sirens.
He rose from the couch, making wide strides over winter coats and trashed shoes and piles of CDs, labeled in Dana's handwriting with dates and titles such as; "99% Trending Scandals" or "Wall Street Notes #23" or even "2009 Lice Infestation – possible causes". He leaned out the window and saw a small fleet of flashing lights down on the ground: Three police cars and four fire trucks, all heading East. A rush of wind came up from that direction, and carried along the floral aromas of summer and the typical city scents. And, somewhere within all of that, there was the smell of smoke.
"What is it?" Desmond asked, turning to look as Alex bent over the window frame, glaring out like a caged bird. Dana turned her attention to him, as well.
"…Think there's a fire. Somewhere close by; I can smell it, but I can't see the flames." He slowly straightened up and took an unwilling step back.
"Well, go then." Dana prompted. "If you want to."
He cast a look at both of them; inquisitive. "You don't mind?"
"Why would we mind? You're helping people – that's like a doctor refusing to help somebody choking because he's at a dinner party." Dana blinked. "Or something. Whatever. Just go, Alex. We'll be waiting for you when you get back," She smiled at him; one of those big, proud smiles she shot out at her friends every once in a while. Her pale face and red lips made her look like a doll in that instant, but her eyes gleamed brightly – she was proud of him.
Alex only broke eye contact with her when Desmond stood up from the couch and wandered over.
"You said you were waiting for an epiphany," Desmond said. His smile was tinier; his movements subtle.
"Guess I just needed you," Alex muttered. Dana made a face and turned back to the TV; Alex ignored it.
"No, you need to get shoved out the window, now. We can wait – fires don't." The smile went away, and Alex made a move to turn around when Desmond reached behind Alex's head and pulled his hood up over his face. "Protecting your secret identity," he whispered, before pulling the other close for a quick, searing kiss good-bye.
"I'll be right back," Alex said, already halfway out the window. Desmond waved his bandaged hand.
"I'll be here."
Alex let go of the building and plummeted towards the Earth.

xxxx

"I am so sorry you had to see that," Desmond said sarcastically, walking back over to the couch. He found his glass and took a quick drink; the bitter flavor of the wine made his tongue crinkle and his throat get all bubbly – the flavor lingered on his lips long after the heat of Alex's mouth had faded.
"Yeah, yeah. If I had a boyfriend I would make out with him in front of you guys, but I don't think Alex could take that."
"Probably not." Desmond put the drink down, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and sank back into the couch. "And we do not make out. Not when you're around, at least."
"You sure?"
"Oh, that was a kiss. Trust me; I don't think you could handle anything more than that." Dana stuck a finger in her mouth and made a gagging noise; rolling her eyes up to the ceiling at the same time. Desmond smirked and watched Dana settle back into a normal expression before she turned back towards the news. Desmond tried to take in the clutter of Dana's apartment, instead – it was probably a lot less depressing. Catching a splash of red, he glared at a space under the coffee table and leaned forward, pulling out a bright shoebox. He read the side of it; "Photos?" he asked, turning towards Dana.
She shrugged. "Well I'm not exactly into scrapbooking or any of that stupid shit." Desmond slowly took the cover off and glanced inside; there were three stacks of glossy pictures, and when Dana didn't say anything, he gingerly picked up one of the bundles and began to flip through them. "They're mostly college stuff – parties, games…" she blinked. "Wait," Desmond looked up and gave her the collection of photos. She quickly flipped through a few of them. "Yeah, this one's okay." She grabbed the box, putting it on her side of the couch and out of Desmond's reach. "Just… yeah, just those."
"Have a good time at NYU?" Desmond said dully, taking the apparent 'safe' stack back.
"There are pictures in this box that could ruin my career in journalism," she said; she didn't sound particularly embarrassed at the fact. "…You know, more than just being an investigative journalist."
"Hm." He moved through the photographs with idle interest, like he was slowly counting out a deck of cards. Dana turned her attention back to the TV, only turning back towards Desmond when he spoke up with comments like, "When did you have long hair?" or "Is this Jill and Theresa?" or even, "Wait, you got arrested? And someone took a picture of that?"
"It was a protesting thing." Dana explained at that. "Happens more than you'd think."
Desmond sucked his teeth and kept looking.
About twenty minutes since finding the box, he was working through the last few images and stopped.
He put down the rest of the pile, barely holding the one singular photo – the one that made him pause – with the tips of his fingers.
Finally he said; "…Is this Alex?" Dana straightened from her lazy position and looked over. Desmond didn't move to hand over the picture, wasn't moving at all, so she had to crane her neck.
"…Yes."
Desmond exhaled slowly and nodded; making the smallest degrees of motion with his neck. He leaned forward, getting as close as he could to the picture before he went cross-eyed.
The picture was taken in the fall – probably in a park, or maybe on some unspecified campus. Skeleton-like trees jutted out at the background, red and orange leaves surrounding the two people in the print as if they were on fire. In the foreground, taking up most of the image was Alex Mercer – tan, and younger, and obviously human – holding a young blonde woman with side swept hair. She looked beautiful. They both did, in a way: Hands intertwined, heads and bodies poised just so, as if it was the product of a photo shoot – as if a hundred samples were taken, and this one was picked because it looked right: Clean; professional; crisp.
"He looks so…dead." Desmond supplied. His voice was full of some melancholy tone. He kept on staring at the picture, long after he had run out of things to see.
"He was dead to a lot of people," Dana whispered.
"When was this –"
"Seven years ago. I took the picture. They had been dating a year and that was the only time I ever saw them together. One of the only times I ever saw Alex."
"Who was she?"
Dana hesitated for a moment. Desmond didn't demand an answer, but there was a great intensity in his voice that she had never heard before – he hadn't even looked at her during their conversation.
"Her name was Karen Parker," she finally admitted. "She worked in Gentek, too. She had connections to Blackwatch when the Outbreak started."
"Was she a spy?"
"She tried to kill Alex – our Alex - she knew what he was long before he did. She might have even felt bad for him, but sympathy kind of does shit when there's a gun being pointed at you from all sides." Dana exhaled and went back to her more comfortable spot on the couch. "At any rate, I never got the chance to interview her, if that's what you're asking."
"Where is she now?"
Dana shot a glance towards the door. "Don't know." There was the unsaid fact that Alex would, though.
"He just…" Desmond finally put the picture down at the edge of the coffee table. Still staring, still searching for something. "That's who he was?" The slicked back hair and tan skin and pale, dull eyes stared back at him. The woman, the clothes – the staged, constrictive world the man had displayed in that one tiny picture – none of that was real. "…Can't be real."
"It was." Dana insisted.  Desmond still wasn't moving. A few more moments passed, with only the small murmurings coming from the TV staving off total silence. "…You can keep it, if you want," she said. Then Desmond turned to her.
"Why would I want a picture of him?" he seemed offended. He quickly grabbed the rest of the photos and crammed the one that had obsessed his mind into the middle of the stack; hiding it. He offered them back to Dana, finally, so that she could put them back in the box.
Dana reached out her hand, still wary, wondering why Desmond was acting – acting like her fucking brother in one of his moods, of all things – but Desmond nudged his hand forward again and she took the bundle, putting it back where it belonged. "Why would I want the picture of a monster?" Desmond said under his breath; he cast his lingering gaze over to the window.
"When do you think Alex will come back?"
"You can go, if you want," Dana said politely. Desmond seemed a bit… off, all of the sudden. "Go for a ride, maybe." Desmond turned back to Dana and seemed to remember where he was; he settled down in a more natural position on the couch, as if nothing had happened at all.
"I promised Alex I'd wait for him," he said gently, in a way that made Dana's chest tighten a bit; hearing the attachment there. "And usually my word means shit, but for him, I mean everything I say." The fingers of his bandaged hand twitched a bit, and Dana was going to speak up – ask him how his hand was doing – but he suddenly reached for the remote lounging on the table and turned up the volume on the TV.
The conversation was over.