[Hair] The Zorya (2/9)
Dec. 2nd, 2010 08:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eirenicalFinally got to sit down and HTML/edit Part 2. Enjoy!
Title: The Zorya
Fandom: Hair, the musical: 2009 Revival
Pairing: Berger/Claude/Sheila
Rating: PG-13 for some kissing, really very mild stuff, though... even for me.
Word Count: 62,317 Part 2: ~7200
Warnings: Slash (as always ^_^), angst
Disclaimer: Neither the musical nor the boys belong to me, if they did they'd be groping each other on sta--. *pause* *blinkblink* Huh. Look at that... they do. *eg* :D ((Hair was written by James Rado and Gerome Ragni with music by Galt MacDermot.))
Summary: Berger and Sheila are a broken triangle, desperately missing their third side. But is Claude well enough to fill his usual place? Only time will tell.
December 2, 2010: Yeah, nothing really to say... Happy second night of Chanukah, everyone!
Enjoy and please remember... comments and reviews are love!
The Morning Star
by Renee-chan
The trip to Flushing was made mostly in silence. Even Cheryl refrained from her usual shenanigans, sat quietly on Berger's lap. Sheila just stared out the window of the subway, eyes intently focused on whatever it was out there that had caught her attention. On some level, even though he'd been the one to suggest it, Berger couldn't believe that they were actually doing this. The last time he'd seen Claude's parents... Jesus, it had been that night so long ago when they'd found out that Jeanie was pregnant with little Claude. They'd been so innocent, then, so ignorant. How many things would he have done differently if he'd known then what was going to happen? He snorted. One thing for sure: he'd have tied Claude up, thrown him over his shoulder and dragged his ass to Canada kicking and screaming if that was what it took. Then again... if he'd done that, he wouldn't have Cheryl. Tucking his face against Cheryl's already unruly black curls, Berger took in a deep breath. He'd give almost anything to have spared Claude the pain he went through... but would he give up Cheryl? His arms tightened around her. G-d... he hoped he wouldn't have. Jesus. It was easy to see how Claude used to get himself tied up in so many knots just thinking.
As though sensing that he was starting to fray a little, Sheila reached out to take Berger's hand into hers. She started absently stroking her thumb over his knuckles as she stared out the window. It wasn't much, but it did ease the tension a little. This was starting to feel like they were heading into a battle of sorts... Oh, who was he kidding? It was a battle -- a battle for Claude -- and he couldn't help if he was distracted by nerves.
By the time they reached the station, Berger had managed to calm himself and followed quietly in Sheila's wake. When they reached the Bukowski residence, he stopped a few steps shy of the door and let Sheila step up to ring the doorbell. After the third ring with no answer, Berger was ready to leave Cheryl with Sheila and just climb in the window that he remembered as being Claude's, pack a bag of his clothes and leave. Sheila, however, had been spoiling for this fight for years and she wasn't letting go of the idea that easily. With a wicked grin on her face, she depressed the bell one more time... and then proceeded to lean on it. Out of deference for the seriousness of the situation, Berger buried his laughter in Cheryl's stomach. When Sheila overheard, she turned and lifted an eyebrow. Berger just smiled impishly back at her and mouthed the words, "I love you." She beamed at him, tossed her hair and turned back to leaning on the bell.
It didn't take more than a minute for the lights to go on in the front hallway and a harried voice to shout from within, "I'm coming, I'm coming! For goodness' sake, I'm coming!"
Sheila didn't let up off the bell, however, until the person opened the inner door. When she did, Sheila met the woman's eyes for a moment, then deliberately released the bell, "Oh good. I was starting to worry that you might not be home."
Mrs. Bukowski, to her credit, didn't immediately slam the door in their faces. She did, however, let out a gasp and say, "You. What are you doing here?"
Sheila offered her her sweetest smile and just said, "We'll be happy to tell you as soon as you let us in. It's November and it's cold and I don't want my daughter out here for an hour while we converse, if I have a say in the matter."
The two blondes stared each other down for another minute and finally Claude's mother sighed and slumped. Nodding mutely, she wrapped her robe tighter around herself, stepped back and motioned for them to enter. When she saw Berger, her eyes narrowed, but when she saw who he held in his arms, they softened and began to shine. Voice full of tears, she said, "She's beautiful... I remember when Claude was that small. He was so... so sweet as a baby..."
Berger's eyes widened as, all of a sudden, Claude's mother buried her face in her hands and started to sob. He jerked his gaze over to Sheila, silently asking for advice. Sheila, no less moved by Mrs. Bukowski's tears than Berger, stepped over to the other woman and pulled her into a gentle embrace, murmuring soothing words into the fall of her hair. After a few minutes, the older woman finally calmed and stepped away, embarrassingly wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her robe. Wordlessly, Sheila held out a handkerchief. Mrs. Bukowski took it with a grateful smile, dabbed at her eyes with it, then blew her nose. That done, she took a deep breath and said, "I'm sorry. It's just... it doesn't seem like so long ago. And now..." A few more tears tracked down her cheeks, "Now... I just wish he was here."
Sheila sighed, clearly unwillingly to attack someone who was in such obvious pain, "Mrs. Bukowski... before we say anything more, is your husband at home?"
The older woman shook her head, "No, no he isn't. He's out with his coworkers, no doubt indulging in far more alcohol than is prudent. He does that most nights... he has for many years. Ever since..." She trailed off as she realized that neither of the people before her really needed her to finish that explanation. They understood all too well what would have driven Claude's father to drink.
Shaking her head at the situation, Sheila wrapped her arm around Mrs. Bukowski's shoulders and guided her into the kitchen. Once they were all seated at the kitchen table, Sheila gently asked, "Mrs. Bukowski... when was the last time you went to visit Claude?"
At that, the older woman's head jerked upwards, "You... how do you know about that?" When Sheila ducked her eyes away, Mrs. Bukowski reached out and grabbed her hands, once again demanding, "How do you know? I told you... I sent you that letter... How??"
Into the ensuing silence, Berger quietly said, "I ran into him." Mrs. Bukowski turned to look at him and he shifted uncomfortably, "It was the night Cheryl was born. He... he broke out of his room, got away from the orderlies... pretty much ran me down in the hallway. And since it seemed like I was reaching him that night when nothing else was, the doctor cleared me to come back. I've been visiting him every day since. Sheila found out a few months back and she's been visiting, too. That's it. No one else knows, yet. We didn't want to overwhelm him."
The older woman slumped, "And... how is he around you?"
"He... it's not easy, you know? He still has a pretty hard time of it." Berger paused a moment, pressed a gentle kiss to his daughter's forehead, "But he's getting better. He's talking, at least, and most of the time he's pretty aware of what's going on. He just... it's gonna take time, you know? It's not gonna happen overnight."
Mrs. Bukowski rose from the table, walked over to the stove and started fiddling with the tea kettle. Eventually, she filled it with water and set it to boil. She then turned back to face them, a terrible expression of grief on her face, "The last time we saw him was several months ago. It... it didn't go well. My husband started demanding to know how much longer we could expect this to go on. The doctor responded that there was no way to predict such a thing. My husband started yelling back, wanting to know what we were paying him for since he didn't seem to be making any progress. Claude reacted badly to all the heightened emotions. I could see it building -- it started the moment we walked into the room -- but I hadn't thought to warn anyone. The next thing I knew, he had his father pinned to the floor with his hands around his throat, trying to choke the life out him. Thank goodness the doctor was ready with a sedative or Claude might have done him real harm." Several more tears tracked unheeded down her face, "We haven't been back since. My husband refuses to go until Claude is himself again -- even if that never happens -- and he's forbidden me to go on my own. He claims it's too dangerous." Her voice dropped down into a whisper, "I think... I think if it were up to him, he'd have Claude thrown into an asylum and forget that we ever had a son." With those words, she bowed her head into her hands and again began to weep.
Wordlessly, Sheila held out her arms for Cheryl. Berger passed her over and got up to go to comfort the sobbing woman, "Hey, lady... it's gonna be OK." Wrapping his arms awkwardly around her, he let Claude's mother cry into his shoulder, "He really is getting better, more and more every day. In fact..." Berger caught Sheila's eyes long enough to get confirmation before continuing, "In fact, Dr. Howard released him from the hospital. We're going to be bringing him home tomorrow."
At that, Mrs. Bukowski's head jerked up off of Berger's shoulder and she stared at him open-mouthed, "H-home? He's... he's coming home?"
Sheila took that as her cue to rise and walk over. Berger stepped back from Claude's mother as she reached them. She wrapped an arm around Berger's waist and gently squeezed. She said, simply, "Not here, Mrs. Bukowski. Not to you. He's coming home with us."
They waited as she looked back and forth between them, eyes confused. Eventually, however, they landed on Berger and widened. In a voice gone soft with surprise, she said, "I always wondered... He... he talked so much about his best friend, 'Berger.' He talked about you as much as he did about his girlfriend... perhaps even more. I wondered, but I never really thought..."
Berger gave Sheila one last squeeze, then stepped over to take Mrs. Bukowski's hands in his, "I know it's not what any mother wants for her son. I know it's not the usual road. But I can promised you this, if nothing else..." Once he had her full attention, he said quietly, earnestly, "I love your son, Mrs. Bukowski." His voice roughened with emotion, but stayed strong, "Losing him once almost killed me. Losing him again would finish me off, I'm sure. So, you have my word that I'm going to do whatever it takes to keep him safe, to make him whole, again. I need him too much to do anything else."
Claude's mother stared at him for several minutes, blue eyes boring into earnest green. Berger just continued to hold her gaze, willing her to understand, to open herself to the possibility that her son could be happy in such a nontraditional relationship. It didn't take long. Her eyes slowly filled with tears and before Berger really understood what she was doing, she'd leaned up on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his cheek, "I shouldn't... I know I shouldn't... but I believe you." Swallowing hard, she turned away from him to deal with the kettle, efficiently preparing the tea pot and pouring the hot water in to allow it to steep. Still facing the counter, hands shaking where they rested on its surface, she whispered harshly, "His father can't know. He... I don't know what he'd do, but I don't think it would be anything good."
Berger snorted, "And what could he do? I'd dare him to even try anything."
Before Mrs. Bukowski could answer, Sheila put a hand on Berger's arm, gravely shook her head, "Banana-Berger, he could do plenty." At Berger's confused look, she elaborated, "There are laws against it... two men having a relationship. He could get you both arrested."
Berger's jaw dropped and he crossed his arms defensively over his chest, "Well that's a good, old-fashioned bummer, man. What the hell? It's just love. It's not any different than you and me. In the sixties we were all doing it."
Wrapping an arm around the younger man, Sheila gently rubbed his back, "I know that, love. You don't need to convince me, but that doesn't change the reality of what is. The laws were there then, too -- we just broke so many laws back then that we didn't care about breaking one more."
Berger subsided, took Cheryl back from Sheila and stepped away from the two women. Sheila sighed softly as he did so, grateful, as always, that Cheryl's mere presence could calm her father. She hadn't mentioned this before, to any of the Tribe, because she hadn't cared. She agreed that the laws were stupid, that they needed to be changed, but the Tribe had done so many things that were illegal as a protest against similarly ridiculous laws that she had figured they all knew and that this was more of the same. But now... now it mattered. She didn't want to do anything that could get Claude hurt and his mother knew his father better than either of them. If she thought he would report them, if she thought that he would do something to cause them harm... Sheila would believe it. Stepping up next to Claude's mother, she covered the other woman's hand with her own, "We won't say anything. You have our word. Neither of us would do anything to hurt Claude. OK?"
The older woman nodded, pulled her hand away to pour the tea, "I appreciate your discretion." By the time she had all three tea cups delivered to the kitchen table, she'd regained some of her equilibrium. As they all sat down, she said, "I also appreciate you coming all this way to tell me about Claude, but... is that really why you've come?"
At that query, Sheila looked over at Berger. He was the one who'd been so insistent, so she thought that he would be the best one to explain. Blowing one last raspberry against Cheryl's neck, Berger looked up, "It... it's going to sound stupid to you." Seeing nothing but calm acceptance and patience, however, in the older woman's gaze, he sighed, "We came to get Claude's clothes and things... if you still have them." At Mrs. Bukowski's confused expression, he explained, "We thought it would be better for him to have his own clothes back, instead of coming home in those same damned hospital sweats he's been living in for the last year and a half."
Seeing Claude's mother still hesitant, Sheila put a hand on Berger's arm and patted him softly. Turning back to Mrs. Bukowski, she added the piece that she knew Berger wouldn't... that she knew Berger couldn't, "And with Cheryl in the picture, now... we really can't afford to buy him a whole new wardrobe, even at the thrift stores."
At those words, Mrs. Bukowski's eyes widened, "Oh... of course. I didn't even think..." Flustered, she played with her tea cup, turning it one way, then back the other. Finally, she nodded to herself and rose from the table, "Excuse me for a moment." Without another word, she left them sitting alone in her kitchen with those three untouched and rapidly cooling cups of tea.
The moment she was gone Berger grabbed at Sheila's hand and hissed urgently at her, "What the hell did you go and tell her that for? It's none of her business!"
Sheila sighed and patted his hand with her free one, "Banana-Berger, it's OK." Before he could protest that it wasn't, she put a finger against his lips, "Just listen for a minute, all right?" When he subsided, she continued, "Berger, she's Claude's mother. She wants to be there for him, but she can't be. She wants to help him, but she can't make herself go against his father's wishes. She needs a reason, an excuse, to do it. She needs to feel needed. OK, baby?"
Berger stewed over that for a moment, expression still stormy. Eventually, he sat back in his seat and grumped, "I still don't think you should have said it."
Recognizing that as Berger's grudging acceptance, Sheila just smiled, "OK, Banana-Berger. Maybe I shouldn't have."
When Mrs. Bukowski finally returned to the kitchen, she was carrying a decent-sized suitcase and a smaller travel bag. She placed the suitcase on the ground, the travel bag on the table between Berger and Sheila. Clearing her throat, she said, "Claude's father wanted to get rid of everything. He said that when Claude returned home..." Her voice caught momentarily, but she continued, "He said that the Army would have put a stop to this nonsense, that Claude would have no need of costumes to go out in public... that we'd buy him new clothes, more appropriate clothes. He told me to dispose of it all. I... I packed everything up and told him I'd done it." The smile on her face was sad but proud, "I didn't. I tucked it away in the attic because I knew... I knew that when Claude did come home, he would want it." Leaning over, she put a hand on the bag that was on the table, "I... I don't know what most of these things are, why he thought they were important. Some of them..." She shook her head, "It doesn't matter. They were things he kept, some from school, some from other places. Some of them he displayed openly, others he kept hidden in boxes at the bottom of his closet. Either way... I think he'd want them all. And if not, he can throw them away himself."
Sheila took Mrs. Bukowski's hands in hers and rose to her feet. Blue eyes met blue in perfect understanding and Sheila enveloped her in a tight hug, "Thank you... thank you so much, Mrs. Bukowski. I'm sure Claude will be grateful."
When they stepped away from each other, they shared a smile. Mrs. Bukowski then cleared her throat, "There... there is one more thing. The last thing I want is to offend either of you, but I need to make this offer." Quietly, she held out a check. It was written from her personal account and totaled $2000.
Seeing Berger about to all but roar in protest, Sheila briskly planted her foot on his instep. While he cursed under his breath and tried to bend over to grab his foot while simultaneously trying not to drop Cheryl, Sheila pushed Mrs. Bukowski's hand away, "We can't take this. You know we can't."
But Mrs. Bukowski wouldn't budge. With steel in her voice and fire in her eyes, she said, "It isn't meant for you. It's for my son. Like everything else I've given you tonight, if he doesn't want it, he can dispose of it."
Sheila met those eyes for another minute, gauging the depth of her intent. Deep in those eyes, she could clearly read the question: What if it was your child? Finally, she solemnly nodded, reached out and took the check, "We'll leave it to Claude to decide." Smiling softly and speaking over Berger's hissed protests, she added impertinently, "And if he does decide that he wants to cash it, I'll make damned sure he calls to say 'Thank you.'"
That last startled a laugh out of Claude's mother. Eyes twinkling, she stepped back, "Please, see that he does. It... It will be good to hear his voice, again."
The rest of the visit was pleasant, more so than Berger had dared hope it would be. Mrs. Bukowski emptied out the tea mugs and with a conspirational wink, pulled out a box of cocoa powder from the back of the cabinet and made hot chocolate for them instead. They shared the drink in happy communion, all nearly giddy with the knowledge that Claude was coming home tomorrow. Berger hadn't expected it, but he found himself almost liking Claude's mother... and pitying her. It couldn't be easy for her, trapped here with Claude's father and his bitterness, his unwillingness to change. He couldn't do anything about that, but maybe... Clearing his throat, he made her an offer, "I... I can't make any promises, Mrs. Bukowski, but I'll talk to Claude. I'll see... I'll see if I can get him to agree to talk to you, maybe to see you. You'd be welcome at our place, just so you know. OK?"
The older woman's smile was brilliant and lit up the room like a small star. And the minute Berger saw it, he knew where Claude had gotten his own smile from because this one warmed him, too. She reached across the table to grip his hand and said simply, "Thank you."
After that, they said their goodbyes, wrapped a sleeping Cheryl in her coat, picked up Claude's belongings and left to go back to Manhattan. They still had a lot to do before tomorrow, but Berger secretly didn't care. Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough. He was done with waiting.
Pace to the corner. Pause. Stare at the clock. Curse. Pace back to the other corner. Pause. Curse some more. Pace halfway back across the room. Stop at the window. Check the angle of the sun. Compare it to the clock. Clench your hand. Drive it into the wall beside the window. Curse over the now bruised knuckles.
Dr. Howard sighed from his vantage point on the bed, "Claude. It's only 8:57. It's the tail end of rush hour. Besides, they said they would be here this morning -- they never said they would be here immediately when the hospital opened at eight. Calm down."
Claude turned to face the doctor, bit off a growl. He closed his eyes, took in a deep breath, then through clenched teeth said, "I know all this. It's just..." Making a frustrated noise, he buried his hands deep into his hair and gave it a sharp tug, "Freedom is so close I can almost taste it. Patience is surely a virtue, Doctor... but right now it isn't one of mine."
At the wry tone of Claude's voice, Dr. Howard shook his head and let out a small laugh, "You know, son... were I in your situation, I don't know that I would be fairing any better."
At the obvious empathy in the doctor's voice, Claude finally managed to let go of some of the tension. He walked over to the bed, sat down gingerly, as far away from Dr. Howard as space would allow. Dr. Howard merely raised an eyebrow and said dryly, "I think we're past the point when you need to fear me pouncing on you with a syringe full of haloperidol, you know."
Claude let out a small huff of a laugh and shook his head, "Old habits die hard, Dr. Howard. A year plus of mistrust is hard to unlearn."
Dr. Howard nodded, understanding in his eyes, "I do wish you'd started talking to me earlier. I'd like to think I could have assuaged some of that mistrust."
Claude sighed, raised a hand to rub at his temples, "I wasn't ready before now. I'm still not ready. But I want to get out of here and if talking to you is what it takes," he shrugged, "Then I'll talk to you."
"I certainly don't want to push the issue, Claude. That doesn't help anyone," Dr. Howard then pulled a card out of his pocket, "Look, son... I feel as though I have a vested interest in you and your success, but I'm not so proud as to think that I'm the only one who can help you readjust. Obviously your friends have accomplished even more than I have. I just want you to know that I am available if you need to talk and I would appreciate it if you would at least check in every now and then, let me know how you're doing, all right?" He then handed over the card.
Claude read the card, frowned, read it again. When he looked up to meet Dr. Howard's steady gaze, it was with a quirked eyebrow, "This isn't the hospital address."
Dr. Howard nodded, "You're right. I have a private office outside the hospital. The number I've written below it is my home telephone number. In my limited experience with people in your situation, problems never arise conveniently in the hours between nine and five. I want you to be able to reach me if you need help."
Claude stared at him for a minute, searching his eyes for any sign of deception, insincerity. He found none. There was only honest concern. Eventually, Claude raised his hand, held it out to the doctor. Dr. Howard smiled, gently clasped that offered hand and shook it. There were no words, no promises that Claude didn't believe he could keep, no threats, no ultimatums, just help offered and warily accepted. And into that moment of peace and camaraderie came the strident tones of the hospital intercom paging Dr. Howard. Claude was off the bed and pressed into the corner with the first shrill tone. Dr. Howard winced, met Claude's momentarily wild-eyed gaze, then sighed and shook his head, "I know. You'll work on it. I'll go see what they want."
It took Claude almost another five minutes to convince his adrenaline-locked body to leave the haven of the corner. It didn't go willingly, Claude was just glad it went at all. Most days he coped with unexpected noises just fine -- OK, that wasn't really true, but at least most days he was better at coping with unexpected noises -- but today... today he was just a little too on edge. He didn't have any extra attention to spare for little details like that, no padding left to cushion his over-anxious psyche. Damn it, where was Berger?
At exactly 9:13, Berger, Sheila and Cheryl finally arrived. Claude met them at the door, tried to push them back out into the hallway to discourage them staying any longer. At Sheila's frown he winced, explained quietly, "Look, can we just go? We can socialize outside. I just... I want to get the hell out of here."
Berger placed a gentle, steadying hand at the small of his back, gave it a small rub, "Easy there, Claudio. We'll have you out of here soon, there's just one small thing we have to take care of first."
Claude met Berger's eyes, a plea in his own. What could there possibly be left to take care of? The paperwork had all been completed yesterday. All that remained was to sign him out at the desk. Unless... Maybe they wanted to lay down ground rules. Maybe... Oh, G-d, maybe they'd changed their minds. Maybe they didn't want him, after all. Maybe they were just here to tell him that he'd have to find somewhere else to live. Oh G-d. As panic started to quicken his breathing and grey the edges of his vision, he was only dimly aware of Berger pulling him into a tight embrace and talking softly into his ear. After another few minutes, the haze finally started clearing and he could make out some of Berger's words...
"...gotta stop doing this. Jesus, Claudio, we're not abandoning you. If you haven't figured that out by now, you're a bigger idiot than I am... and that's saying a lot. You--"
Claude broke into that soft tirade with an exhausted chuckle, "You're not an idiot."
Berger leaned back, met Claude's eyes with a raised eyebrow, "Not gonna defend your own intelligence?"
Claude shrugged, "No. Apparently, I am an idiot."
Berger rolled his eyes, "Yeah, you sure are. Nothing ever changes, huh? Next time just fuckin' ask the question before you go and tie yourself up in knots, OK?" Leaving one hand against the small of Claude's back, he lifted the other and started ticking off points, "I love you. Sheila loves you. Cheryl practically thinks you hung the fucking moon. You're coming home with us. You belong with us." Lowering his hand, he met Claude's eyes squarely, "There's just one minor detail we need to take care of before we get you out of here. That's all. OK? Still with me?"
Taking a deep breath, Claude nodded, "Yeah. Yeah, Banana-Berger... I'm with you."
"Good," with a firm nod, Berger pushed Claude back into the room and closed the door behind them all. He then reached out a hand for the bundle Sheila was carrying in her free hand. He plopped it down on the bed and started pulling things out: underwear, socks, belt, jeans, shirt, shoes. He then turned to Claude and quirked an eyebrow.
Claude swallowed hard, walked over to the bed to start fingering the items laid out on it. He picked up the belt, ran gentle fingers over it with a look of awe on his face, "You... you bought me new clothes?" In the entirety of the last night as he lay awake counting down the minutes until his release, he hadn't even considered anything past the idea of leaving. He hadn't considered that he had no clothes, no personal effects, nothing that didn't belong to the hospital except those few things he had still had on him when the Army had first dropped him off here. It had been so long since his appearance actually mattered that he hadn't given it even a second's thought, but this... He turned to look at Sheila, knowing she would give him honesty about this even if Berger wouldn't. With an undertone of accusation, he asked, "How much money did you spend on me?"
Sheila gave him a soft, understanding smile and shook her head, "You're not running up a tab, Claude. You're family. If you need something, we'll take care of it." Seeing that he was anything but mollified by that explanation, she sighed softly, "Not as much as you're obviously thinking, Claude. We bought you new underwear and socks, but the rest..." She stepped forward, raised a gentle hand to press against his cheek, "The rest of this is your old clothing. Your mother kept it all. After a little... discussion... she was eager to help." At the clear disbelief in Claude's eyes, Sheila gave his cheek a small tap, "She's your mother, Claude. She loves you. She wants what's best for you, even if that's us. And she kept everything. You won't be wanting for clothing anytime soon."
Claude's breath caught. He hadn't even considered... he'd thought that when his parents stopped coming around, they'd mutually decided to wash their hands of him. He should have known, should have realized, that that wouldn't be the case. Lifting the white shirt in his hands, he pressed his face into it, inhaled deeply. There it was, the faintest teasing hint of lavender. And wrapped around that smell came a memory. He'd been young, maybe five or six, and his mother had been packing away their summer clothes in trunks in the attic. Within each trunk, she placed a lovingly wrapped packet of dried lavender. When he'd asked her why, she just gave him a soft kiss on the top of the head and smiled. He remembered that smile... so brilliant and so warm. She smiled like that often in those days, so bright and happy. He used to do every stupid thing he could think of just to make her smile like that. She didn't... she didn't smile like that much anymore.
At the next change of the season, as she pulled out the summer clothes and this time packed away the winter clothes, she again tucked fresh packets of dried lavender into the trunks and he again asked her why. This time, she answered that she liked the rush of that smell when she opened the trunks every season. He watched this go on for three more years, six more changings of the season and finally, when he was nine, he'd asked her, "But, Mother... why lavender?"
The smile she gave him then was different, but no less bright. This one also held a hint of pride. This time when she raised a hand to his cheek, she gave him a real answer, "Did you know, Claude, that flowers talk?" His mouth had dropped open and he'd shaken his head forcefully. Her smile had turned playful and she'd laughed, "Well, they do. If you give a girl a red rose -- and someday, I'm sure you will -- that rose will tell her that you love her." She pulled him down to sit on her lap and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, "And if someone you love dies, you might lay forget-me-nots on their grave to tell them that you love them and you will cherish the memories they've left behind. Do you understand?"
He'd sat there with his head tucked beneath her chin, in awe that his mother knew this whole other language that he hadn't even known existed. He nodded, wanting to hear more, wanting to understand it all. Because if he could... then he could have this with her. He could have an entire secret language to share with his mother that his father wouldn't understand, "So, what does the lavender mean?"
She gently rocked him in her lap, pressed another kiss to the top of his head. She then softly began to speak, "Lavender is a special flower. It stands for purity, for silence, for luck... and for devotion. It was the flower I carried at my wedding, the flower my mother carried at hers and my mother's mother before her. I suppose, in a way, it's the signature of the women of my family."
And something about that moment, sitting with his ear pressed against her chest listening to the equally soothing tones of the beat of her heart and her soft voice, learning this new, incredible language... it had felt almost mystical. And he'd heard something in her voice then, something that he'd never heard before: a touch of wistful sadness. And with a child's leaping insight, he'd understood. His mother... his grandmother... his great-grandmother... and on and on and on back to the beginning, had carried these flowers at their weddings... and his mother had no daughter to pass that tradition on to. He sat up in her lap, steadily met her eyes and said, "I won't forget, Mom. I won't forget what the lavender means. And when I have a daughter, I'll make sure she carries it at her wedding, too. I promise."
She'd started to cry then -- happy tears, she would later tell him -- and pulled him into a tight embrace. Ever since that day, lavender had held a special meaning for him. It was her scent, his mother's scent, and it meant that she would always, always love him... no matter what. He should never have forgotten that. And he wouldn't... not ever again.
Lifting his head from the shirt, he was surprised to see a small spot of dampness left behind. Then again... that made sense, too. Berger's hand was again resting on the small of his back -- he recognized the warmth -- and the other man's voice raised in gentle query, "Claudio...?"
Claude cleared his throat, gave Berger and Sheila a slightly shaky smile and husked out, "I'm OK. It's just... that smell. The lavender." At the twinned pair of curious looks they shot him, he just shook his head, "I'll... I'll tell you someday, just not now, OK? Suffice it to say, it carries a really strong sense memory along with it." At their looks of gentle understanding, he gathered up his clothes and fled into the bathroom to get changed.
It was strange, in a way. It had been four years since he'd last worn normal, civilian clothing. It felt wrong, somehow, to be wearing it, now. It felt as though at any minute, someone would break down the door and demand to know why he was camouflaging himself as someone normal. But no one did. He dressed slowly, savoring the feel of every article of clothing as he pulled it on -- the almost velvety feel of one of his most worn pairs of jeans as he slid them up his legs, the soft, stretched out cotton of his favorite white, embroidered shirt. It was only when he straightened that he found the first problem. He'd clearly lost some weight since he'd left for Viet Nam. As he quickly threaded the belt through the loops of his jeans, he fought down a blush. He'd lost a lot of weight. The jeans were too big. They were too big by several inches. Hopefully Sheila and Berger wouldn't notice. They didn't need to feel like they had to buy him new jeans, not when they were already giving him so much... No. That was what a belt was for and he'd just have to concentrate on putting some weight back on to fill them back out. Then it wouldn't be an issue.
He perched on the toilet seat to pull on his socks and his old scuffed up leather shoes. Only then did he stand up and turn to look in the mirror. And it was almost as though he was looking at a stranger. The man before him, he looked just like that naïve, innocent boy that had left for Viet Nam all those years ago. He looked just like him... except for his eyes. Those eyes were haunted, wary... bruised. Those eyes were damaged. They didn't fit, made him feel like the entire body below those eyes was a costume he'd put on to fit in with the rest of society. Those eyes made him feel disconnected.
Shivering slightly with the force of that feeling, Claude made himself look away from the mirror, made himself walk to the bathroom door and pull it open. And before he even had a chance to note Berger or Sheila's reactions, a happy squeal and two tiny hands grabbing at the leg of his jeans drew his attention downward. Strange thoughts immediately pushed to the background, Claude bent down to lift Cheryl into his arms. Once there, she pressed her head against his shoulder and let out a happy little, "Muh-muh-muh-muh-muh."
Claude just laughed, "Sweetheart, if you think I'm 'Mama,' then we are going to have a lot to set you straight about."
She looked up, met his eyes with a beaming smile and, with a smirking laugh, agreed, "Muh-muh-muh!"
He turned to look at Sheila, eyebrow raised. Sheila, however, was no help. She was trying to hide her giggles behind her hand -- unsuccessfully, Claude noted -- and could only shake her head in response. Berger took pity on him and walked over to clap a hand against his shoulder, "Don't worry about it, Claudio. Lately, I've been 'Mama,' too. So has her stuffed dog, for that matter. It's nothing personal."
They met each other's eyes for a moment, held gazes for another, then finally both started to laugh. And suddenly... it wasn't so hard. He wasn't disconnected. He was connected in the most real, most important way possible. Cheryl might not be his by birth, but Berger had made it very clear that he expected Claude to think of her as his in every other way. He... he had a daughter. Somehow, in the midst of the wreckage his life had become, he had a daughter. Pulling her close, he pressed a gentle kiss to the side of her neck. She giggled and patted his head, tangled her fingers in his hair. This precious little girl... his daughter... she was his connection: her, her father and her mother. Looking up at Berger and Sheila, he gave them what he suspected was a ridiculously sappy grin and said, "Now, can we get the hell out of here?"
They had him bundled up into his coat and out of that hospital as fast as they could possibly manage it.
Berger and Sheila had had a serious debate earlier that morning over how to get Claude home from the hospital. Normally they walked and took the subway, but Berger was afraid that even such a routine activity might be overwhelming to Claude at this point. Sheila, on the other hand, thought it was exactly what he would need: to get back out into life and experience it. Throw the baby in the water and see if he can swim, so to speak. The reality of the matter, though, was that cabs were expensive, subway tokens were not. In the end, they'd decided to leave it up to Claude. The subway was only three long city blocks away and rush hour was over by now. If he could handle the walk to the subway, then they'd go the rest of the way as usual. If not, they'd hail a cab and just deal with it.
Right off the bat, Berger was sure they were in trouble. They stepped outside of the hospital and Claude's eyes immediately flared wide and he backed up under the overhang. It took a little coaxing on Berger's part, but they eventually got him to start walking. His eyes were flashing so quickly from thing to thing to thing that it actually made Berger a little dizzy. By the time they were halfway to the subway station, Claude's eyes were starting to look a little glazed.
Berger caught Sheila's eyes and shook his head. She sighed, but nodded hers. Before they could say anything, however, Claude's irritated voice husked out, "I'm not a child, so if you're not tall enough to trade those glances over my head where I can't see them, don't bother."
Sheila immediately moved to comfort him, "Claude, we just don't want to overwhelm you on your first day out of the hospital. There's going to be time for you to reacclimatize to the city. You don't have to do it all today. It's too much. You've done well so far. Now, let us hail a cab to get us the rest of the way."
For just a moment, it looked like he might agree, then he shook his head and resumed walking. Sheila cursed under her breath. Those long legs of his could eat a lot of ground very quickly when he was so minded. And he was clearly so minded, now. Berger immediately raced to catch up, leaving her puffing along behind them carrying Cheryl. Damn it. She'd forgotten about that, about how easily he and Berger could leave her in the dust when they wanted to. It took her almost a block to catch up to them.
Once Sheila had caught up, Claude turned to look at them both, "I know you don't want me to worry about money, but I'm not a fool, Sheila. You're still in school and Berger has a part time job, but I'm sure that money is barely enough to cover the three of you, much less me too... and I don't have anything to contribute. I don't have a job. I didn't even finish high school, for fuck's sake." Turning away, he buried his hands in his hair, "I'm not going to let you throw away what little money you have on taxis when we have a perfectly valid mode of transport that costs a fraction of that less than a block away." When Sheila opened her mouth to retort, he ran right over her, "I won't let you. OK? I'll be fine. I'll be fine. I'll be--" He abruptly cut off the words and cursed under his breath. Deliberately releasing his hair, he straightened up and squared his shoulders. Looking them each firmly in the eyes, he said quietly and intensely, "I'll be fine. Let's just get this over with." He then turned on his heel and started walking the rest of the way down the block, eyes firmly fixed on his destination, not looking left or right.
Berger and Sheila looked at each other, worry etched deep in each of their faces. Finally, Berger took Cheryl from her and waved her on. Claude had paused at the entrance to the subway, a set look on his face. Sheila recognized it as Claude at his most stubborn. It was the same look that he'd worn the night that he didn't burn his draft card. Fighting off a shiver, she forced a bright smile onto her face and laced her arm through his. Berger joined them at the stairs, a mischievous look on his face. He plopped Cheryl into Claude's arms, then raced past him down the stairs... and jumped the turnstile. Sheila just stared at him. Eventually, she snorted out a laugh as she and Claude descended the stairs to join him, "I can't believe you just did that!"
Berger shrugged, an unsure but game smile dancing around the edges of his lips, "Well... no one's here to catch me at it and I figure Claudio's got a point. Why waste money on something we can get for free?"
Claude's lips twitched, then stretched into a slow smile. Handing Cheryl to Sheila, he walked over to the turnstile, took in a deep breath and vaulted over it. Turning to Berger, he smirked, "It's been a while. I wasn't sure I still had it in me."
Berger pulled him into a tight hug, slapped him on the back, then motioned for Sheila to join them. Sheila rolled her eyes, but passed Cheryl over the turnstile and then wormed her way under it. As she dusted herself off, she shook her head sadly, "What are we teaching our daughter?"
Berger just leaned close and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek. Eyes shining, he answered, "To do whatever she can to help a friend."
Master Post and Chapter List
A/N: And now for some excessively, ridiculously long (and silly) chibi-silliness
Claude: Hmmm...
R-chan: Better already?
Claude: *frowns* The jury's still out.
R-chan: Aw... Come on. You got happy memory fluff!
Claude: *scowls* Yeah, but I know what happens in the next chapter. And you made my mom cry.
R-chan: O_O Can't win for losing, can I?
Claude: *smirk* You could always write me sex, you know.
R-chan: *sweatdrop* You're the one who talked me out of it!!
Claude: *sweatdrop* Aw crap. I did.
Questions, Comments, Rutabagas?
Nuriko: HOLD ON A MINUTE!!
R-chan: O_O My goodness. What?
Nuriko: *eyes wild* Did I hear that right? He had to talk you out of writing him sex? Which implies you were willing to write it for him in the first place? What the fuck???
R-chan: O_O I... um... well... Look, I didn't say I would. I was just... well... considering it. You know.
Nuriko: ;_; *wobble eyes*
R-chan: *sweatrain* I... well... I just... I'm sorry! *runs away*
Claude: *awed look* You chased away the fic author. You have to teach me how you did that.
Nuriko: *smirk* Long familiarity and natural talent. Try it in fourteen years -- I guarantee you'll have power over that girl like you can't imagine. *eg*
Coming Soon: Claude's first night home doesn't go nearly as smoothly as they all hoped, but given enough time, things start to get better... or do they?
Title: The Zorya
Fandom: Hair, the musical: 2009 Revival
Pairing: Berger/Claude/Sheila
Rating: PG-13 for some kissing, really very mild stuff, though... even for me.
Word Count: 62,317 Part 2: ~7200
Warnings: Slash (as always ^_^), angst
Disclaimer: Neither the musical nor the boys belong to me, if they did they'd be groping each other on sta--. *pause* *blinkblink* Huh. Look at that... they do. *eg* :D ((Hair was written by James Rado and Gerome Ragni with music by Galt MacDermot.))
Summary: Berger and Sheila are a broken triangle, desperately missing their third side. But is Claude well enough to fill his usual place? Only time will tell.
December 2, 2010: Yeah, nothing really to say... Happy second night of Chanukah, everyone!
Enjoy and please remember... comments and reviews are love!
The Morning Star
by Renee-chan
The trip to Flushing was made mostly in silence. Even Cheryl refrained from her usual shenanigans, sat quietly on Berger's lap. Sheila just stared out the window of the subway, eyes intently focused on whatever it was out there that had caught her attention. On some level, even though he'd been the one to suggest it, Berger couldn't believe that they were actually doing this. The last time he'd seen Claude's parents... Jesus, it had been that night so long ago when they'd found out that Jeanie was pregnant with little Claude. They'd been so innocent, then, so ignorant. How many things would he have done differently if he'd known then what was going to happen? He snorted. One thing for sure: he'd have tied Claude up, thrown him over his shoulder and dragged his ass to Canada kicking and screaming if that was what it took. Then again... if he'd done that, he wouldn't have Cheryl. Tucking his face against Cheryl's already unruly black curls, Berger took in a deep breath. He'd give almost anything to have spared Claude the pain he went through... but would he give up Cheryl? His arms tightened around her. G-d... he hoped he wouldn't have. Jesus. It was easy to see how Claude used to get himself tied up in so many knots just thinking.
As though sensing that he was starting to fray a little, Sheila reached out to take Berger's hand into hers. She started absently stroking her thumb over his knuckles as she stared out the window. It wasn't much, but it did ease the tension a little. This was starting to feel like they were heading into a battle of sorts... Oh, who was he kidding? It was a battle -- a battle for Claude -- and he couldn't help if he was distracted by nerves.
By the time they reached the station, Berger had managed to calm himself and followed quietly in Sheila's wake. When they reached the Bukowski residence, he stopped a few steps shy of the door and let Sheila step up to ring the doorbell. After the third ring with no answer, Berger was ready to leave Cheryl with Sheila and just climb in the window that he remembered as being Claude's, pack a bag of his clothes and leave. Sheila, however, had been spoiling for this fight for years and she wasn't letting go of the idea that easily. With a wicked grin on her face, she depressed the bell one more time... and then proceeded to lean on it. Out of deference for the seriousness of the situation, Berger buried his laughter in Cheryl's stomach. When Sheila overheard, she turned and lifted an eyebrow. Berger just smiled impishly back at her and mouthed the words, "I love you." She beamed at him, tossed her hair and turned back to leaning on the bell.
It didn't take more than a minute for the lights to go on in the front hallway and a harried voice to shout from within, "I'm coming, I'm coming! For goodness' sake, I'm coming!"
Sheila didn't let up off the bell, however, until the person opened the inner door. When she did, Sheila met the woman's eyes for a moment, then deliberately released the bell, "Oh good. I was starting to worry that you might not be home."
Mrs. Bukowski, to her credit, didn't immediately slam the door in their faces. She did, however, let out a gasp and say, "You. What are you doing here?"
Sheila offered her her sweetest smile and just said, "We'll be happy to tell you as soon as you let us in. It's November and it's cold and I don't want my daughter out here for an hour while we converse, if I have a say in the matter."
The two blondes stared each other down for another minute and finally Claude's mother sighed and slumped. Nodding mutely, she wrapped her robe tighter around herself, stepped back and motioned for them to enter. When she saw Berger, her eyes narrowed, but when she saw who he held in his arms, they softened and began to shine. Voice full of tears, she said, "She's beautiful... I remember when Claude was that small. He was so... so sweet as a baby..."
Berger's eyes widened as, all of a sudden, Claude's mother buried her face in her hands and started to sob. He jerked his gaze over to Sheila, silently asking for advice. Sheila, no less moved by Mrs. Bukowski's tears than Berger, stepped over to the other woman and pulled her into a gentle embrace, murmuring soothing words into the fall of her hair. After a few minutes, the older woman finally calmed and stepped away, embarrassingly wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her robe. Wordlessly, Sheila held out a handkerchief. Mrs. Bukowski took it with a grateful smile, dabbed at her eyes with it, then blew her nose. That done, she took a deep breath and said, "I'm sorry. It's just... it doesn't seem like so long ago. And now..." A few more tears tracked down her cheeks, "Now... I just wish he was here."
Sheila sighed, clearly unwillingly to attack someone who was in such obvious pain, "Mrs. Bukowski... before we say anything more, is your husband at home?"
The older woman shook her head, "No, no he isn't. He's out with his coworkers, no doubt indulging in far more alcohol than is prudent. He does that most nights... he has for many years. Ever since..." She trailed off as she realized that neither of the people before her really needed her to finish that explanation. They understood all too well what would have driven Claude's father to drink.
Shaking her head at the situation, Sheila wrapped her arm around Mrs. Bukowski's shoulders and guided her into the kitchen. Once they were all seated at the kitchen table, Sheila gently asked, "Mrs. Bukowski... when was the last time you went to visit Claude?"
At that, the older woman's head jerked upwards, "You... how do you know about that?" When Sheila ducked her eyes away, Mrs. Bukowski reached out and grabbed her hands, once again demanding, "How do you know? I told you... I sent you that letter... How??"
Into the ensuing silence, Berger quietly said, "I ran into him." Mrs. Bukowski turned to look at him and he shifted uncomfortably, "It was the night Cheryl was born. He... he broke out of his room, got away from the orderlies... pretty much ran me down in the hallway. And since it seemed like I was reaching him that night when nothing else was, the doctor cleared me to come back. I've been visiting him every day since. Sheila found out a few months back and she's been visiting, too. That's it. No one else knows, yet. We didn't want to overwhelm him."
The older woman slumped, "And... how is he around you?"
"He... it's not easy, you know? He still has a pretty hard time of it." Berger paused a moment, pressed a gentle kiss to his daughter's forehead, "But he's getting better. He's talking, at least, and most of the time he's pretty aware of what's going on. He just... it's gonna take time, you know? It's not gonna happen overnight."
Mrs. Bukowski rose from the table, walked over to the stove and started fiddling with the tea kettle. Eventually, she filled it with water and set it to boil. She then turned back to face them, a terrible expression of grief on her face, "The last time we saw him was several months ago. It... it didn't go well. My husband started demanding to know how much longer we could expect this to go on. The doctor responded that there was no way to predict such a thing. My husband started yelling back, wanting to know what we were paying him for since he didn't seem to be making any progress. Claude reacted badly to all the heightened emotions. I could see it building -- it started the moment we walked into the room -- but I hadn't thought to warn anyone. The next thing I knew, he had his father pinned to the floor with his hands around his throat, trying to choke the life out him. Thank goodness the doctor was ready with a sedative or Claude might have done him real harm." Several more tears tracked unheeded down her face, "We haven't been back since. My husband refuses to go until Claude is himself again -- even if that never happens -- and he's forbidden me to go on my own. He claims it's too dangerous." Her voice dropped down into a whisper, "I think... I think if it were up to him, he'd have Claude thrown into an asylum and forget that we ever had a son." With those words, she bowed her head into her hands and again began to weep.
Wordlessly, Sheila held out her arms for Cheryl. Berger passed her over and got up to go to comfort the sobbing woman, "Hey, lady... it's gonna be OK." Wrapping his arms awkwardly around her, he let Claude's mother cry into his shoulder, "He really is getting better, more and more every day. In fact..." Berger caught Sheila's eyes long enough to get confirmation before continuing, "In fact, Dr. Howard released him from the hospital. We're going to be bringing him home tomorrow."
At that, Mrs. Bukowski's head jerked up off of Berger's shoulder and she stared at him open-mouthed, "H-home? He's... he's coming home?"
Sheila took that as her cue to rise and walk over. Berger stepped back from Claude's mother as she reached them. She wrapped an arm around Berger's waist and gently squeezed. She said, simply, "Not here, Mrs. Bukowski. Not to you. He's coming home with us."
They waited as she looked back and forth between them, eyes confused. Eventually, however, they landed on Berger and widened. In a voice gone soft with surprise, she said, "I always wondered... He... he talked so much about his best friend, 'Berger.' He talked about you as much as he did about his girlfriend... perhaps even more. I wondered, but I never really thought..."
Berger gave Sheila one last squeeze, then stepped over to take Mrs. Bukowski's hands in his, "I know it's not what any mother wants for her son. I know it's not the usual road. But I can promised you this, if nothing else..." Once he had her full attention, he said quietly, earnestly, "I love your son, Mrs. Bukowski." His voice roughened with emotion, but stayed strong, "Losing him once almost killed me. Losing him again would finish me off, I'm sure. So, you have my word that I'm going to do whatever it takes to keep him safe, to make him whole, again. I need him too much to do anything else."
Claude's mother stared at him for several minutes, blue eyes boring into earnest green. Berger just continued to hold her gaze, willing her to understand, to open herself to the possibility that her son could be happy in such a nontraditional relationship. It didn't take long. Her eyes slowly filled with tears and before Berger really understood what she was doing, she'd leaned up on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his cheek, "I shouldn't... I know I shouldn't... but I believe you." Swallowing hard, she turned away from him to deal with the kettle, efficiently preparing the tea pot and pouring the hot water in to allow it to steep. Still facing the counter, hands shaking where they rested on its surface, she whispered harshly, "His father can't know. He... I don't know what he'd do, but I don't think it would be anything good."
Berger snorted, "And what could he do? I'd dare him to even try anything."
Before Mrs. Bukowski could answer, Sheila put a hand on Berger's arm, gravely shook her head, "Banana-Berger, he could do plenty." At Berger's confused look, she elaborated, "There are laws against it... two men having a relationship. He could get you both arrested."
Berger's jaw dropped and he crossed his arms defensively over his chest, "Well that's a good, old-fashioned bummer, man. What the hell? It's just love. It's not any different than you and me. In the sixties we were all doing it."
Wrapping an arm around the younger man, Sheila gently rubbed his back, "I know that, love. You don't need to convince me, but that doesn't change the reality of what is. The laws were there then, too -- we just broke so many laws back then that we didn't care about breaking one more."
Berger subsided, took Cheryl back from Sheila and stepped away from the two women. Sheila sighed softly as he did so, grateful, as always, that Cheryl's mere presence could calm her father. She hadn't mentioned this before, to any of the Tribe, because she hadn't cared. She agreed that the laws were stupid, that they needed to be changed, but the Tribe had done so many things that were illegal as a protest against similarly ridiculous laws that she had figured they all knew and that this was more of the same. But now... now it mattered. She didn't want to do anything that could get Claude hurt and his mother knew his father better than either of them. If she thought he would report them, if she thought that he would do something to cause them harm... Sheila would believe it. Stepping up next to Claude's mother, she covered the other woman's hand with her own, "We won't say anything. You have our word. Neither of us would do anything to hurt Claude. OK?"
The older woman nodded, pulled her hand away to pour the tea, "I appreciate your discretion." By the time she had all three tea cups delivered to the kitchen table, she'd regained some of her equilibrium. As they all sat down, she said, "I also appreciate you coming all this way to tell me about Claude, but... is that really why you've come?"
At that query, Sheila looked over at Berger. He was the one who'd been so insistent, so she thought that he would be the best one to explain. Blowing one last raspberry against Cheryl's neck, Berger looked up, "It... it's going to sound stupid to you." Seeing nothing but calm acceptance and patience, however, in the older woman's gaze, he sighed, "We came to get Claude's clothes and things... if you still have them." At Mrs. Bukowski's confused expression, he explained, "We thought it would be better for him to have his own clothes back, instead of coming home in those same damned hospital sweats he's been living in for the last year and a half."
Seeing Claude's mother still hesitant, Sheila put a hand on Berger's arm and patted him softly. Turning back to Mrs. Bukowski, she added the piece that she knew Berger wouldn't... that she knew Berger couldn't, "And with Cheryl in the picture, now... we really can't afford to buy him a whole new wardrobe, even at the thrift stores."
At those words, Mrs. Bukowski's eyes widened, "Oh... of course. I didn't even think..." Flustered, she played with her tea cup, turning it one way, then back the other. Finally, she nodded to herself and rose from the table, "Excuse me for a moment." Without another word, she left them sitting alone in her kitchen with those three untouched and rapidly cooling cups of tea.
The moment she was gone Berger grabbed at Sheila's hand and hissed urgently at her, "What the hell did you go and tell her that for? It's none of her business!"
Sheila sighed and patted his hand with her free one, "Banana-Berger, it's OK." Before he could protest that it wasn't, she put a finger against his lips, "Just listen for a minute, all right?" When he subsided, she continued, "Berger, she's Claude's mother. She wants to be there for him, but she can't be. She wants to help him, but she can't make herself go against his father's wishes. She needs a reason, an excuse, to do it. She needs to feel needed. OK, baby?"
Berger stewed over that for a moment, expression still stormy. Eventually, he sat back in his seat and grumped, "I still don't think you should have said it."
Recognizing that as Berger's grudging acceptance, Sheila just smiled, "OK, Banana-Berger. Maybe I shouldn't have."
When Mrs. Bukowski finally returned to the kitchen, she was carrying a decent-sized suitcase and a smaller travel bag. She placed the suitcase on the ground, the travel bag on the table between Berger and Sheila. Clearing her throat, she said, "Claude's father wanted to get rid of everything. He said that when Claude returned home..." Her voice caught momentarily, but she continued, "He said that the Army would have put a stop to this nonsense, that Claude would have no need of costumes to go out in public... that we'd buy him new clothes, more appropriate clothes. He told me to dispose of it all. I... I packed everything up and told him I'd done it." The smile on her face was sad but proud, "I didn't. I tucked it away in the attic because I knew... I knew that when Claude did come home, he would want it." Leaning over, she put a hand on the bag that was on the table, "I... I don't know what most of these things are, why he thought they were important. Some of them..." She shook her head, "It doesn't matter. They were things he kept, some from school, some from other places. Some of them he displayed openly, others he kept hidden in boxes at the bottom of his closet. Either way... I think he'd want them all. And if not, he can throw them away himself."
Sheila took Mrs. Bukowski's hands in hers and rose to her feet. Blue eyes met blue in perfect understanding and Sheila enveloped her in a tight hug, "Thank you... thank you so much, Mrs. Bukowski. I'm sure Claude will be grateful."
When they stepped away from each other, they shared a smile. Mrs. Bukowski then cleared her throat, "There... there is one more thing. The last thing I want is to offend either of you, but I need to make this offer." Quietly, she held out a check. It was written from her personal account and totaled $2000.
Seeing Berger about to all but roar in protest, Sheila briskly planted her foot on his instep. While he cursed under his breath and tried to bend over to grab his foot while simultaneously trying not to drop Cheryl, Sheila pushed Mrs. Bukowski's hand away, "We can't take this. You know we can't."
But Mrs. Bukowski wouldn't budge. With steel in her voice and fire in her eyes, she said, "It isn't meant for you. It's for my son. Like everything else I've given you tonight, if he doesn't want it, he can dispose of it."
Sheila met those eyes for another minute, gauging the depth of her intent. Deep in those eyes, she could clearly read the question: What if it was your child? Finally, she solemnly nodded, reached out and took the check, "We'll leave it to Claude to decide." Smiling softly and speaking over Berger's hissed protests, she added impertinently, "And if he does decide that he wants to cash it, I'll make damned sure he calls to say 'Thank you.'"
That last startled a laugh out of Claude's mother. Eyes twinkling, she stepped back, "Please, see that he does. It... It will be good to hear his voice, again."
The rest of the visit was pleasant, more so than Berger had dared hope it would be. Mrs. Bukowski emptied out the tea mugs and with a conspirational wink, pulled out a box of cocoa powder from the back of the cabinet and made hot chocolate for them instead. They shared the drink in happy communion, all nearly giddy with the knowledge that Claude was coming home tomorrow. Berger hadn't expected it, but he found himself almost liking Claude's mother... and pitying her. It couldn't be easy for her, trapped here with Claude's father and his bitterness, his unwillingness to change. He couldn't do anything about that, but maybe... Clearing his throat, he made her an offer, "I... I can't make any promises, Mrs. Bukowski, but I'll talk to Claude. I'll see... I'll see if I can get him to agree to talk to you, maybe to see you. You'd be welcome at our place, just so you know. OK?"
The older woman's smile was brilliant and lit up the room like a small star. And the minute Berger saw it, he knew where Claude had gotten his own smile from because this one warmed him, too. She reached across the table to grip his hand and said simply, "Thank you."
After that, they said their goodbyes, wrapped a sleeping Cheryl in her coat, picked up Claude's belongings and left to go back to Manhattan. They still had a lot to do before tomorrow, but Berger secretly didn't care. Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough. He was done with waiting.
Pace to the corner. Pause. Stare at the clock. Curse. Pace back to the other corner. Pause. Curse some more. Pace halfway back across the room. Stop at the window. Check the angle of the sun. Compare it to the clock. Clench your hand. Drive it into the wall beside the window. Curse over the now bruised knuckles.
Dr. Howard sighed from his vantage point on the bed, "Claude. It's only 8:57. It's the tail end of rush hour. Besides, they said they would be here this morning -- they never said they would be here immediately when the hospital opened at eight. Calm down."
Claude turned to face the doctor, bit off a growl. He closed his eyes, took in a deep breath, then through clenched teeth said, "I know all this. It's just..." Making a frustrated noise, he buried his hands deep into his hair and gave it a sharp tug, "Freedom is so close I can almost taste it. Patience is surely a virtue, Doctor... but right now it isn't one of mine."
At the wry tone of Claude's voice, Dr. Howard shook his head and let out a small laugh, "You know, son... were I in your situation, I don't know that I would be fairing any better."
At the obvious empathy in the doctor's voice, Claude finally managed to let go of some of the tension. He walked over to the bed, sat down gingerly, as far away from Dr. Howard as space would allow. Dr. Howard merely raised an eyebrow and said dryly, "I think we're past the point when you need to fear me pouncing on you with a syringe full of haloperidol, you know."
Claude let out a small huff of a laugh and shook his head, "Old habits die hard, Dr. Howard. A year plus of mistrust is hard to unlearn."
Dr. Howard nodded, understanding in his eyes, "I do wish you'd started talking to me earlier. I'd like to think I could have assuaged some of that mistrust."
Claude sighed, raised a hand to rub at his temples, "I wasn't ready before now. I'm still not ready. But I want to get out of here and if talking to you is what it takes," he shrugged, "Then I'll talk to you."
"I certainly don't want to push the issue, Claude. That doesn't help anyone," Dr. Howard then pulled a card out of his pocket, "Look, son... I feel as though I have a vested interest in you and your success, but I'm not so proud as to think that I'm the only one who can help you readjust. Obviously your friends have accomplished even more than I have. I just want you to know that I am available if you need to talk and I would appreciate it if you would at least check in every now and then, let me know how you're doing, all right?" He then handed over the card.
Claude read the card, frowned, read it again. When he looked up to meet Dr. Howard's steady gaze, it was with a quirked eyebrow, "This isn't the hospital address."
Dr. Howard nodded, "You're right. I have a private office outside the hospital. The number I've written below it is my home telephone number. In my limited experience with people in your situation, problems never arise conveniently in the hours between nine and five. I want you to be able to reach me if you need help."
Claude stared at him for a minute, searching his eyes for any sign of deception, insincerity. He found none. There was only honest concern. Eventually, Claude raised his hand, held it out to the doctor. Dr. Howard smiled, gently clasped that offered hand and shook it. There were no words, no promises that Claude didn't believe he could keep, no threats, no ultimatums, just help offered and warily accepted. And into that moment of peace and camaraderie came the strident tones of the hospital intercom paging Dr. Howard. Claude was off the bed and pressed into the corner with the first shrill tone. Dr. Howard winced, met Claude's momentarily wild-eyed gaze, then sighed and shook his head, "I know. You'll work on it. I'll go see what they want."
It took Claude almost another five minutes to convince his adrenaline-locked body to leave the haven of the corner. It didn't go willingly, Claude was just glad it went at all. Most days he coped with unexpected noises just fine -- OK, that wasn't really true, but at least most days he was better at coping with unexpected noises -- but today... today he was just a little too on edge. He didn't have any extra attention to spare for little details like that, no padding left to cushion his over-anxious psyche. Damn it, where was Berger?
At exactly 9:13, Berger, Sheila and Cheryl finally arrived. Claude met them at the door, tried to push them back out into the hallway to discourage them staying any longer. At Sheila's frown he winced, explained quietly, "Look, can we just go? We can socialize outside. I just... I want to get the hell out of here."
Berger placed a gentle, steadying hand at the small of his back, gave it a small rub, "Easy there, Claudio. We'll have you out of here soon, there's just one small thing we have to take care of first."
Claude met Berger's eyes, a plea in his own. What could there possibly be left to take care of? The paperwork had all been completed yesterday. All that remained was to sign him out at the desk. Unless... Maybe they wanted to lay down ground rules. Maybe... Oh, G-d, maybe they'd changed their minds. Maybe they didn't want him, after all. Maybe they were just here to tell him that he'd have to find somewhere else to live. Oh G-d. As panic started to quicken his breathing and grey the edges of his vision, he was only dimly aware of Berger pulling him into a tight embrace and talking softly into his ear. After another few minutes, the haze finally started clearing and he could make out some of Berger's words...
"...gotta stop doing this. Jesus, Claudio, we're not abandoning you. If you haven't figured that out by now, you're a bigger idiot than I am... and that's saying a lot. You--"
Claude broke into that soft tirade with an exhausted chuckle, "You're not an idiot."
Berger leaned back, met Claude's eyes with a raised eyebrow, "Not gonna defend your own intelligence?"
Claude shrugged, "No. Apparently, I am an idiot."
Berger rolled his eyes, "Yeah, you sure are. Nothing ever changes, huh? Next time just fuckin' ask the question before you go and tie yourself up in knots, OK?" Leaving one hand against the small of Claude's back, he lifted the other and started ticking off points, "I love you. Sheila loves you. Cheryl practically thinks you hung the fucking moon. You're coming home with us. You belong with us." Lowering his hand, he met Claude's eyes squarely, "There's just one minor detail we need to take care of before we get you out of here. That's all. OK? Still with me?"
Taking a deep breath, Claude nodded, "Yeah. Yeah, Banana-Berger... I'm with you."
"Good," with a firm nod, Berger pushed Claude back into the room and closed the door behind them all. He then reached out a hand for the bundle Sheila was carrying in her free hand. He plopped it down on the bed and started pulling things out: underwear, socks, belt, jeans, shirt, shoes. He then turned to Claude and quirked an eyebrow.
Claude swallowed hard, walked over to the bed to start fingering the items laid out on it. He picked up the belt, ran gentle fingers over it with a look of awe on his face, "You... you bought me new clothes?" In the entirety of the last night as he lay awake counting down the minutes until his release, he hadn't even considered anything past the idea of leaving. He hadn't considered that he had no clothes, no personal effects, nothing that didn't belong to the hospital except those few things he had still had on him when the Army had first dropped him off here. It had been so long since his appearance actually mattered that he hadn't given it even a second's thought, but this... He turned to look at Sheila, knowing she would give him honesty about this even if Berger wouldn't. With an undertone of accusation, he asked, "How much money did you spend on me?"
Sheila gave him a soft, understanding smile and shook her head, "You're not running up a tab, Claude. You're family. If you need something, we'll take care of it." Seeing that he was anything but mollified by that explanation, she sighed softly, "Not as much as you're obviously thinking, Claude. We bought you new underwear and socks, but the rest..." She stepped forward, raised a gentle hand to press against his cheek, "The rest of this is your old clothing. Your mother kept it all. After a little... discussion... she was eager to help." At the clear disbelief in Claude's eyes, Sheila gave his cheek a small tap, "She's your mother, Claude. She loves you. She wants what's best for you, even if that's us. And she kept everything. You won't be wanting for clothing anytime soon."
Claude's breath caught. He hadn't even considered... he'd thought that when his parents stopped coming around, they'd mutually decided to wash their hands of him. He should have known, should have realized, that that wouldn't be the case. Lifting the white shirt in his hands, he pressed his face into it, inhaled deeply. There it was, the faintest teasing hint of lavender. And wrapped around that smell came a memory. He'd been young, maybe five or six, and his mother had been packing away their summer clothes in trunks in the attic. Within each trunk, she placed a lovingly wrapped packet of dried lavender. When he'd asked her why, she just gave him a soft kiss on the top of the head and smiled. He remembered that smile... so brilliant and so warm. She smiled like that often in those days, so bright and happy. He used to do every stupid thing he could think of just to make her smile like that. She didn't... she didn't smile like that much anymore.
At the next change of the season, as she pulled out the summer clothes and this time packed away the winter clothes, she again tucked fresh packets of dried lavender into the trunks and he again asked her why. This time, she answered that she liked the rush of that smell when she opened the trunks every season. He watched this go on for three more years, six more changings of the season and finally, when he was nine, he'd asked her, "But, Mother... why lavender?"
The smile she gave him then was different, but no less bright. This one also held a hint of pride. This time when she raised a hand to his cheek, she gave him a real answer, "Did you know, Claude, that flowers talk?" His mouth had dropped open and he'd shaken his head forcefully. Her smile had turned playful and she'd laughed, "Well, they do. If you give a girl a red rose -- and someday, I'm sure you will -- that rose will tell her that you love her." She pulled him down to sit on her lap and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, "And if someone you love dies, you might lay forget-me-nots on their grave to tell them that you love them and you will cherish the memories they've left behind. Do you understand?"
He'd sat there with his head tucked beneath her chin, in awe that his mother knew this whole other language that he hadn't even known existed. He nodded, wanting to hear more, wanting to understand it all. Because if he could... then he could have this with her. He could have an entire secret language to share with his mother that his father wouldn't understand, "So, what does the lavender mean?"
She gently rocked him in her lap, pressed another kiss to the top of his head. She then softly began to speak, "Lavender is a special flower. It stands for purity, for silence, for luck... and for devotion. It was the flower I carried at my wedding, the flower my mother carried at hers and my mother's mother before her. I suppose, in a way, it's the signature of the women of my family."
And something about that moment, sitting with his ear pressed against her chest listening to the equally soothing tones of the beat of her heart and her soft voice, learning this new, incredible language... it had felt almost mystical. And he'd heard something in her voice then, something that he'd never heard before: a touch of wistful sadness. And with a child's leaping insight, he'd understood. His mother... his grandmother... his great-grandmother... and on and on and on back to the beginning, had carried these flowers at their weddings... and his mother had no daughter to pass that tradition on to. He sat up in her lap, steadily met her eyes and said, "I won't forget, Mom. I won't forget what the lavender means. And when I have a daughter, I'll make sure she carries it at her wedding, too. I promise."
She'd started to cry then -- happy tears, she would later tell him -- and pulled him into a tight embrace. Ever since that day, lavender had held a special meaning for him. It was her scent, his mother's scent, and it meant that she would always, always love him... no matter what. He should never have forgotten that. And he wouldn't... not ever again.
Lifting his head from the shirt, he was surprised to see a small spot of dampness left behind. Then again... that made sense, too. Berger's hand was again resting on the small of his back -- he recognized the warmth -- and the other man's voice raised in gentle query, "Claudio...?"
Claude cleared his throat, gave Berger and Sheila a slightly shaky smile and husked out, "I'm OK. It's just... that smell. The lavender." At the twinned pair of curious looks they shot him, he just shook his head, "I'll... I'll tell you someday, just not now, OK? Suffice it to say, it carries a really strong sense memory along with it." At their looks of gentle understanding, he gathered up his clothes and fled into the bathroom to get changed.
It was strange, in a way. It had been four years since he'd last worn normal, civilian clothing. It felt wrong, somehow, to be wearing it, now. It felt as though at any minute, someone would break down the door and demand to know why he was camouflaging himself as someone normal. But no one did. He dressed slowly, savoring the feel of every article of clothing as he pulled it on -- the almost velvety feel of one of his most worn pairs of jeans as he slid them up his legs, the soft, stretched out cotton of his favorite white, embroidered shirt. It was only when he straightened that he found the first problem. He'd clearly lost some weight since he'd left for Viet Nam. As he quickly threaded the belt through the loops of his jeans, he fought down a blush. He'd lost a lot of weight. The jeans were too big. They were too big by several inches. Hopefully Sheila and Berger wouldn't notice. They didn't need to feel like they had to buy him new jeans, not when they were already giving him so much... No. That was what a belt was for and he'd just have to concentrate on putting some weight back on to fill them back out. Then it wouldn't be an issue.
He perched on the toilet seat to pull on his socks and his old scuffed up leather shoes. Only then did he stand up and turn to look in the mirror. And it was almost as though he was looking at a stranger. The man before him, he looked just like that naïve, innocent boy that had left for Viet Nam all those years ago. He looked just like him... except for his eyes. Those eyes were haunted, wary... bruised. Those eyes were damaged. They didn't fit, made him feel like the entire body below those eyes was a costume he'd put on to fit in with the rest of society. Those eyes made him feel disconnected.
Shivering slightly with the force of that feeling, Claude made himself look away from the mirror, made himself walk to the bathroom door and pull it open. And before he even had a chance to note Berger or Sheila's reactions, a happy squeal and two tiny hands grabbing at the leg of his jeans drew his attention downward. Strange thoughts immediately pushed to the background, Claude bent down to lift Cheryl into his arms. Once there, she pressed her head against his shoulder and let out a happy little, "Muh-muh-muh-muh-muh."
Claude just laughed, "Sweetheart, if you think I'm 'Mama,' then we are going to have a lot to set you straight about."
She looked up, met his eyes with a beaming smile and, with a smirking laugh, agreed, "Muh-muh-muh!"
He turned to look at Sheila, eyebrow raised. Sheila, however, was no help. She was trying to hide her giggles behind her hand -- unsuccessfully, Claude noted -- and could only shake her head in response. Berger took pity on him and walked over to clap a hand against his shoulder, "Don't worry about it, Claudio. Lately, I've been 'Mama,' too. So has her stuffed dog, for that matter. It's nothing personal."
They met each other's eyes for a moment, held gazes for another, then finally both started to laugh. And suddenly... it wasn't so hard. He wasn't disconnected. He was connected in the most real, most important way possible. Cheryl might not be his by birth, but Berger had made it very clear that he expected Claude to think of her as his in every other way. He... he had a daughter. Somehow, in the midst of the wreckage his life had become, he had a daughter. Pulling her close, he pressed a gentle kiss to the side of her neck. She giggled and patted his head, tangled her fingers in his hair. This precious little girl... his daughter... she was his connection: her, her father and her mother. Looking up at Berger and Sheila, he gave them what he suspected was a ridiculously sappy grin and said, "Now, can we get the hell out of here?"
They had him bundled up into his coat and out of that hospital as fast as they could possibly manage it.
Berger and Sheila had had a serious debate earlier that morning over how to get Claude home from the hospital. Normally they walked and took the subway, but Berger was afraid that even such a routine activity might be overwhelming to Claude at this point. Sheila, on the other hand, thought it was exactly what he would need: to get back out into life and experience it. Throw the baby in the water and see if he can swim, so to speak. The reality of the matter, though, was that cabs were expensive, subway tokens were not. In the end, they'd decided to leave it up to Claude. The subway was only three long city blocks away and rush hour was over by now. If he could handle the walk to the subway, then they'd go the rest of the way as usual. If not, they'd hail a cab and just deal with it.
Right off the bat, Berger was sure they were in trouble. They stepped outside of the hospital and Claude's eyes immediately flared wide and he backed up under the overhang. It took a little coaxing on Berger's part, but they eventually got him to start walking. His eyes were flashing so quickly from thing to thing to thing that it actually made Berger a little dizzy. By the time they were halfway to the subway station, Claude's eyes were starting to look a little glazed.
Berger caught Sheila's eyes and shook his head. She sighed, but nodded hers. Before they could say anything, however, Claude's irritated voice husked out, "I'm not a child, so if you're not tall enough to trade those glances over my head where I can't see them, don't bother."
Sheila immediately moved to comfort him, "Claude, we just don't want to overwhelm you on your first day out of the hospital. There's going to be time for you to reacclimatize to the city. You don't have to do it all today. It's too much. You've done well so far. Now, let us hail a cab to get us the rest of the way."
For just a moment, it looked like he might agree, then he shook his head and resumed walking. Sheila cursed under her breath. Those long legs of his could eat a lot of ground very quickly when he was so minded. And he was clearly so minded, now. Berger immediately raced to catch up, leaving her puffing along behind them carrying Cheryl. Damn it. She'd forgotten about that, about how easily he and Berger could leave her in the dust when they wanted to. It took her almost a block to catch up to them.
Once Sheila had caught up, Claude turned to look at them both, "I know you don't want me to worry about money, but I'm not a fool, Sheila. You're still in school and Berger has a part time job, but I'm sure that money is barely enough to cover the three of you, much less me too... and I don't have anything to contribute. I don't have a job. I didn't even finish high school, for fuck's sake." Turning away, he buried his hands in his hair, "I'm not going to let you throw away what little money you have on taxis when we have a perfectly valid mode of transport that costs a fraction of that less than a block away." When Sheila opened her mouth to retort, he ran right over her, "I won't let you. OK? I'll be fine. I'll be fine. I'll be--" He abruptly cut off the words and cursed under his breath. Deliberately releasing his hair, he straightened up and squared his shoulders. Looking them each firmly in the eyes, he said quietly and intensely, "I'll be fine. Let's just get this over with." He then turned on his heel and started walking the rest of the way down the block, eyes firmly fixed on his destination, not looking left or right.
Berger and Sheila looked at each other, worry etched deep in each of their faces. Finally, Berger took Cheryl from her and waved her on. Claude had paused at the entrance to the subway, a set look on his face. Sheila recognized it as Claude at his most stubborn. It was the same look that he'd worn the night that he didn't burn his draft card. Fighting off a shiver, she forced a bright smile onto her face and laced her arm through his. Berger joined them at the stairs, a mischievous look on his face. He plopped Cheryl into Claude's arms, then raced past him down the stairs... and jumped the turnstile. Sheila just stared at him. Eventually, she snorted out a laugh as she and Claude descended the stairs to join him, "I can't believe you just did that!"
Berger shrugged, an unsure but game smile dancing around the edges of his lips, "Well... no one's here to catch me at it and I figure Claudio's got a point. Why waste money on something we can get for free?"
Claude's lips twitched, then stretched into a slow smile. Handing Cheryl to Sheila, he walked over to the turnstile, took in a deep breath and vaulted over it. Turning to Berger, he smirked, "It's been a while. I wasn't sure I still had it in me."
Berger pulled him into a tight hug, slapped him on the back, then motioned for Sheila to join them. Sheila rolled her eyes, but passed Cheryl over the turnstile and then wormed her way under it. As she dusted herself off, she shook her head sadly, "What are we teaching our daughter?"
Berger just leaned close and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek. Eyes shining, he answered, "To do whatever she can to help a friend."
Master Post and Chapter List
A/N: And now for some excessively, ridiculously long (and silly) chibi-silliness
Claude: Hmmm...
R-chan: Better already?
Claude: *frowns* The jury's still out.
R-chan: Aw... Come on. You got happy memory fluff!
Claude: *scowls* Yeah, but I know what happens in the next chapter. And you made my mom cry.
R-chan: O_O Can't win for losing, can I?
Claude: *smirk* You could always write me sex, you know.
R-chan: *sweatdrop* You're the one who talked me out of it!!
Claude: *sweatdrop* Aw crap. I did.
Questions, Comments, Rutabagas?
Nuriko: HOLD ON A MINUTE!!
R-chan: O_O My goodness. What?
Nuriko: *eyes wild* Did I hear that right? He had to talk you out of writing him sex? Which implies you were willing to write it for him in the first place? What the fuck???
R-chan: O_O I... um... well... Look, I didn't say I would. I was just... well... considering it. You know.
Nuriko: ;_; *wobble eyes*
R-chan: *sweatrain* I... well... I just... I'm sorry! *runs away*
Claude: *awed look* You chased away the fic author. You have to teach me how you did that.
Nuriko: *smirk* Long familiarity and natural talent. Try it in fourteen years -- I guarantee you'll have power over that girl like you can't imagine. *eg*
Coming Soon: Claude's first night home doesn't go nearly as smoothly as they all hoped, but given enough time, things start to get better... or do they?
