Chapter Twenty-Three, Part Four: Dead Bees and RefugeesMature

“Okay, beautiful. This I can deal with. I had a friend though-  really loved the bastard. Still do. He was kind of transmogrifying, that way. Except he would never have told me what you just did. Kudos.” Jack reaches around and feels Slim up the back, rubbing the man’s cool, soft skin. Strange how giving this particular lay a massage makes him feel like he’s the one being soothed. He pauses, just long enough to get a few words out before Slim moves away from him in secret litheness, supine in his escape. The fairest of them all, Jack’s traitor hindbrain squeaks behind all that snazzy white matter. “Whatever you need, honey-  I only ask you to remember me fondly. If you want, you can bring the sprog by my way for ice cream dates and plenty of casual spoiling, baggage-free. His fault. He’s almost as good as me at it.” 

The eyes have him. Those eyes, they’re keepers. Trouble is, he’s made a career out of knowing how to whistle. It takes nothingng at all to know when someone is whistling back. 

Too soon, and Slim’s available thumb caresses the rose sticking up from the ring, sending him away, his white skin and those deepset, gemstone-apple eyes blazing a permanent silhouette across Jack’s retinas. At least until he dies again. Was that the spectre of a smile in the burn of molecular shift? 

I was right, Jack thinks as he pulls on a fresh shirt, a deep blue one that screams ‘I get things done.’ It wasn’t a standard personal distortion ring. And Slim had called him Jack.

The End

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