Chapter 1, Part 4, Episode 10

Would you have killed him

“You saw what he did to Tug-of-War. To Pitch Black and Paine,” Alastair said quietly. It was now Justify Killing Vagabond Time. “And what he did to us. All of us. You, me, Danilo, Romeesha. He didn’t just highjack our lives. He hijacked us. Kidnapped us off to the desert and force us to fight him. Not to make us better, but to get him ready for whatever could be thrown at him. We were just steps…”

“Steeled.”

That didn’t make any sense. “What?”

“The man’s face. I figured it out. He was steeled.”

Alastair blinked. “We’re back at the drawing again?”

“He was steeled. It’s not over. When he defeated Vagabond. It was just the first step. You said it. ‘Just steps.’”

“You’re me freaking out, man.”

Finn hurriedly sketched in the man’s face. Eyes, nose, mouth, brows. Falling out of the air, rising up from the page, the man’s face materialized. Finn’s whole body was suddenly into the effort, as much as his mind already was. It was only, from Alastair’s perspective, a few strokes of the pencil, and yet there Finn was, leaning in close the surface of the paper, his eyes on fire, focused and alight. He was in the zone, where nothing and nobody, save artist and canvas, existed.

And then he stopped.

Finn always knew, creepily, when to finish. Still in Alastair’s arms, his body relaxed.

Alastair’s head tilted in wonder. It was spot on. Actually, it was uncanny. Vagabond and the…man, whom they only knew as “Unicorn.”

Finn inhaled, as if to speak.

Alastair was quiet. Something was coming.

“I would have killed him, too.”

The other man winced. For someone like Finn to come to a conclusion like that, the man who remembered with fresh guilt killing a bee for fun (he was convinced it was trying talking to him when he did that) as a child, it was a catastrophic step. Alastair hugged his love closer.

That night, they made an all-consuming love, frantic, as if they were trying to run away from something. Or gain something that had been lost, and the memory was so pure, so sweet and fresh, it was as if it—whatever “it” was—was still there. They reached out to each other, these two men, throwing down all the walls, all the shields, until no protection was left. They reached out, gave each other their fires and dreams, and for one universal moment, they were the gods of each other.

Later, when Finn wearily retired to the basement, Alastair followed, and lingered on the basement steps, out side the scorch zone. It took longer this time, but where it had not been before, suddenly there was a great orb of prismatic, opalescent light around the man, as scintillating as a mirrorball. It was beautiful. 

Chapter 1, Part 4, Episode 9

“Oof! Al!” And it was about then that Finn noticed the entire neighborhood was watching this little spat unfold. He laughed weakly. “I..uh. We…um. I…know him. Really!” Oh, I am going to be on the news… He picked up the stone-drunk surfer and hauled him bodily into his house, kicking the door shut.

It was very slow, the following morning. Alastair woke up and for the first hour wished he hadn’t. The shades had all been drawn, the fragments of pitcher cleaned up, the floor mopped. The smell of margaritas and ammonia lingered in the air.

“You’re up.”

Alastair jumped. Finn. “Fuck you.”

“I made some coffee.”

“Fuck your coffee.”

“And some eggs.”

“Fuck your eggs.”

“The dog died.”

“Fuck your do—stop that.”

“Just checking.”

Alastair took the coffee. He was naked still. Had been for a week of in-house drinking. At this stage of the game, he really, REALLY needed a shower. “Fuck your checking.” But he said it with a smirk. “You were here the whole night?”

“No.”

“You left me like that?”

Finn sighed. “I can’t sleep here.”

“Yeah. Got that. Prick.” No smirk there.

“I can’t sleep here because I’d burn your house down if I did.”

Alastair blinked blearily. His Mohawk leaned way over to one side like he was caught in a gale. “…what?”

“My…light-show. It’s not just lights,” Finn said. “Anything caught in it that can burn, does. Once I caught a lizard in it. I cooked the thing from the inside out. Almost instantly. I’ve set fire to trees, asphalt roads, carpets, you name it. Anything combustable.”

“People?”

“Never tried. Probably.”

“…wow.”

“And I can’t control it.”

Alastair shook his head. “You’re controlling it now, dickwad.”

Finn wobbled his head. “I can’t control it all the time, I mean. It’s…it’s my body’s natural state. When I fall asleep, it turns on. I can turn it off when I am awake, but not when I am asleep. Or unconscious. Or dead drunk.”

“That’s why you never drink?”

“That’s why I never drink too much.”

“So that’s why you never stay the night.”

“I’d fry your body the minute I konked out. I can’t let that happen. I’ve tried everything. Directive dreaming. Hypnosis. Yoga. Nothing works. As soon as I fall asleep, the magic begins.” Finn snapped his fingers for effect.

“…wow,” Alastair mumbled, wincing. Then he remembered something. “That thing in your basement. That’s your bed.”

“Yes.”

“Made out of cement?”

“Yes.”

“Because cement doesn’t burn.” But it scorches.

“You win the prize!”

“Don’t shout.”

“Oops.”

“How far out does it go?”

“The field? About ten feet. All directions. Perfect sphere. Even through walls and floors.”

“That’s why your basement is so deep.”

“It took me ages to find a place with that deep a basement.”

“What about when you were growing up?”

“Slept outside in the summer. Never had to worry about mosquitoes. In the winter, I was in an adobe hut with a very tall ceiling.” Finn was quiet. “Now. You.”

Alastair, hung over as he was, didn’t even argue. “I was around 13, I guess. Blew up a lamp. Same day as I got my first boner. That’s how I remember. But I’ve always been able to do shit like that. Wasn’t until puberty that I got like what I am now. Powerful, I mean.”

“Mm. Radios and computers always got weird around me as a kid.”

“Mm.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“Some sort of magnetism shit,” Alastair muttered. “Compasses and magnets go gnarly when I fire something off. But who cares? I blow shit to pieces.”

Finn was quiet again. “You tried to hit me last night.”

“I know. You had it coming.”

“And the neighbors are probably wondering what the hell happened. I’m really surprised they didn’t call the police.”

“Eh. Think you’re the first guy I’ve sworn at on my doorstep naked?”

“…I guess not.”

“Yeah,” Alastair snapped. He sipped the coffee. It was very, very black. “I guess I should have told you I knew who you were. But if it was the first thing outta my mouth, you’da done what you did and throw me out.”

“Probably.”

“I didn’t want that to happen.”

Finn nodded.

“’Cuz I’m in love with you.”

Chapter 1, Part 4, Episode 8

It was the first time Alastair had ever mentioned that he knew. “Yeah. Know all about it. There. Now you’re listening,” Alastair reached into his pocket. “I’m going to give you something. Tell me what it is.” He jammed a small…something…in the artist’s hands. “Now. What is that.”

Finn, furious, looked down. “…it’s a…ping-pong ball.”

“Very good. In all that stupidity there is actually some intelligence.”

Now Finn was just plain pissed off. “You have 5 seconds. 5—“

Alastair took the ping-pong ball, threw it with one hand; with the other, unleashed a beam of firework-like energy that looked as if he held a Roman candle up his sleeve. It hit the ping-pong ball, which flashed, and with a deep, sharp sound—like a glacier cracking—the ball exploded with a loud bang.

Finn didn’t even get to the “R” in “four.” He got as far as “foh.”

“Anything with more mass than a ping-pong ball and I do some real damage,” Alastair said off-handedly. “Shapnel.”

            Finn just stared at the cloud of ping-pong-ball dust hanging in the air. If it weren’t for the fact they were connected to him, his eyes would have fallen out of his head.

            “Now,” the punk-surfer said, doing his best Grandmother Abercrombie voice, “you can get mad it me for not telling you I could do that. You can get mad at me for knowing who you are and what you can do and never saying so. But it’s not like you were ever forthcoming, and the minute I stumbled across a clue, you threw me out.”

“You knew who I was?”

Alastair rolled his eyes. “Here we go.”

“And that’s why you came up to me? That time on the beach?”

“Actually, I came up to you because you were so tall, and the closer I got, hot. And that funky beard of yours. It wasn’t until I was a foot from your face that I recognized you,” Alastair replied. “But I woulda done you even if you weren’t Light-Show Boy.” He paused. “I just wouldn’t have kept you around as along as I did.”

“It’s not a light show.”

“No shit.”

Finn looked at him. Clearly he was thinking about it. “I have to set up.”

“You do that.”

Alastair spent the week fuming. At Finn. At himself. He didn’t even surf, which was a clarion call to his friends that something was wrong. He didn’t answer the door or phone. He did, however, drink himself silly on margaritas. And it was when he was lit up to the tip of his Mohawk that he heard a loud banging on the door.

“Fuck off!”

“It’s me! It’s Finn.”

“Fuck the bloody hell off!”

“Will you open the door? Please?”

“This is me imiday…imitatee…being you!”

“I don’t get drunk.”

The loud crash of the pitcher (margaritas) against the door let Finn know what Alastair thought of that. Also the storm of epithets that would have split the Red Sea. “Look, OK, I’m sorry. You freaked me out.”

“You threw me out!”

Arg, this was not going to work. “Yes! Yes I did! But look at it from my perspective! I didn’t know you knew who I was! It was a perfect logical reaction!”

“Fuckyouasshleohe!...hole!”

“You must really be plastered.”

“Yep! Feels great! Icanshoutatashehails!”

“’Assholes.’”

“Them too!”

“Open the door before I fry it off.” He actually couldn’t do that…

            Like a true Abercrombie, the threat of property damage actually did the trick. He threw open the door, naked as a jaybird, cursed the air blue, took a swing at Finn, missed by a mile, hit the door jam, cursed some more, and promptly fainted into Finn’s arms. It took all of 5 seconds.

Chapter 1, Part 4, Episode 7

And was on the phone all of 5 minutes of stepping out the door.

Message.

Message.

Message.

Nuts, Alastair thought. He tried going back the next day, but the door was locked, the curtains drawn, and there was no sign of life. Before the police were called, the man kicked the dirt, swore until the paint peeled, and left.

That, it seemed, was that, but Alastair was an Abercrombie, and when he wanted something, defeat didn’t even cross his mind. He did, however, have to form a different battle plan.

In the time they had been dating, Finn spilled the beans enough for Alastair to have some idea of the man’s schedule, and when the New York comic convention came up, Alastair was the first one on the plane.

“You gotta be kidding,” one of his friends said at the plan. The initial plan.

“What?” Alastair asked, huffy.

“You’re just going to show up in the middle of a comic convention and plead your case? After following him across the country? Stalker!”

“It’s romantic!”

“It’s freaky!”

Alastair fumed. “Shut up.”

“Stop being Abercrombie and start being Al.”

Bitch. “Fine. What would you do?”

It was stalker-y; just showing up and declaring undying love like a…well, a stalker. So Alastair ditched the idea of having an audience. It wasn’t hard sneaking into the Jacob Javits Center through the loading bays. He got there as the con was being set up, and with his muscled build and phantasmagoria of ink, Alastair easily passed himself off as a construction worker for one of the crews. (And like this wasn’t sooooooo stalker) He even helped set up a pavilion. No one recognized him as the world’s premier surfer. Which left him a little pissed.

He finally spotted Finn. He was setting up his paints, and what looked like a mini-studio-slash-watch the painter paint thingee.

“We’re talking,” Alastair growled, sweeping by Finn, taking the bigger man by the arm and all but throwing him through a side exit. The only way Alastair pulled it off was because Finn, although so much bigger, was in complete shock. “Alastair? What are you doing here? Let me go, you damn stalker!”

“Shut up.”

They were in one of the side corridors that riddled the building.

“What are you doing here? You followed me? Get your hands off me before I—“

“Go all light-showy on me?” Alastair finished.

That shut him up.

Chapter 1, Part 4, Episode 6

Finnegan Ulysses Cavanaugh was one of the biggest bundles of contradictions Alastair ever met. Alastair was a rebel, pure and simple and perhaps, stereotypically. He blew up at the smallest things, and had a short, but noticeable, rap sheet for the occasional brawl. He was never one for conversation or dialogue. “Red” was a little more complex. He poured his passions into his paints so much so that the man himself was left positively demure. And yet, he never wore clothes unless he had to, and pretty much had sex whenever he wanted to. The nudity could be partially explained away because he was so messy when he painted, but the man lived in a constant sexual buzz. Sometimes, out of the blue, he’d eye Alastair and murmur, “You have something I want.”

And, oh boy!, did he get it.

But there was still a bit of a mystery around the man. First of all, he never stayed the night. The very idea made him cagey. Secondly—it was mundane, but just a little…weird—Finn never invited anyone to, or even hinted he had, a home of any sort. Of course, he had to have one...somewhere. Where did he run off to, when he wouldn’t spend the night? Where else did he store all his canvases? His mountains of painting supplies? Where did he paint when it rained? Where did he keep his pick-up truck? Where did he keep his clothes—when he wore them?

Alastair even intentionally got himself plastered one night to trick Finn into taking him to his mysterious abode. It didn’t work. He found himself in a hotel, no sign of Finn. So much for bright ideas. But that only made things weirder. Not that Alastair was a romantic by any stretch—he never owned a candle, for fuck’s sake—but it was nice to wake up in your man’s arms.

So finally, about three months in, Alastair finally asked, “Why don’t we ever go back to your place?”

Finn went as red as his hair.

“Yeah,” Alastair continued. “You know, a place with four walls and a roof? The place you keep all your stuff?”

“Ha,” Finn replied.

It was a disaster area. Alastair finally got bitchy and put his foot down, demanding to know if not why Finn took off every night, where he took off to. It was a logical argument; Finn couldn’t counter it. Now that he saw it however, Alastair could perfectly understand, if bewilderingly so, why Finn never took anybody to his place.

Canvases were everywhere, the place reeked of turpentine, paints—old, new, and being used—were scattered as if he had thrown them in a fit. Piles of clothes, canvas heaped in the corners. There were gouges in the drywall, clearly inflicted by the sharp a corner of a painting. Drawing pads were practically to the ceiling. The walls were positively psychedelic. It seemed it was on them that Finn experimented with colors and shades. This wasn’t a home. It was a warehouse. Nice neighborhood—Finn lived in San Francisco in the Castro—but his place looked like a bomb had hit. An art-bomb.

“I, uh, cleaned up.”

Good lord, this was the “clean version?” Alastair was agape. He was by no means a neat freak, but was immaculate by comparison. Finn was practically a hoarder.

Finally, the man had a fault.

And in that oblivious manner of many artists, Finn simply didn’t see anything all that wrong with it. In fact, he took Alastair on a pride-filled grand tour. One room was for painting, another for drying (“Oils take a long time”), another was clear some sort of “stage” when he was drawing off a model. One tiny room, a den, really, had his computer, fax, and scanner. And more canvas. Another room just accumulated “stuff." The two rooms that seemed mildly orderly was the kitchen and bathroom (the latter of which, funnily enough, was actually Martha-Stewart perfect. There is an exception to every rule…)

But then the weirdness came back. There was no bedroom. Well, to be extact, no bed. Or futon. Or hammock. Did he sleep on the floor? There wasn’t even a sleeping bag.

Alastair knew “cagey” when he saw it, and clearly Finn was hiding something. And it probably had to do something with the basement that Alastair slipped into when Finn was taking a piss.

Not many things stop Alastair Abercrombie in his tracks, but man-o-man, this did the trick. Except for a space heater, the room was absolutely barren. Oddly, it was actually rather deep. The concrete floor was a good 12 feet below the ceiling. But what rendered Alastair speechless was the odd, contoured cement slab in the middle of the room. And the huge scorch mark around it, a perfect circle. Maybe 10 feet in diameter.

“I’d like you to leave now.”

The surfer nearly had a heart attack. He turned to see Finn looking at him, his face frozen, the walls up, the affection dead.

“I—“

“Leave.”

Alastair made a hasty exit.