Titania
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The Predator
His presence fills the whole place. He does not say a word, but I feel him even though I only dare to steal random glances at him – anything else would be suspicious. He looks so serious, eyes focused, taking in every detail. I know his face so well, I have seen it a thousand times before, studied his expression, the way he moves, gracefully, effortlessly. I know the whole situation is intolerable to him; the pressure of the trial, his sister's agitation, his father's demands, his not-so-beloved wife, and the mother of his child. But he is like Hamlet, always brooding, hesitating. Paralyzed. Melancholic. Sometimes I just want to clasp his shoulders and shake him, shout at him, tell him to go for what he really wants. I know he wants to change that tonight. He will confess his insecurities, his feelings. Too late. He has his responsibilities. He can't pretend he didn't marry, although it seems easy to do so out here, in this fairy tale place, far away, removed in time and space. It has been so long, so much has happened. And still he has that much power over me. I have no right to judge him. I'm not sure myself. Am I doing the right thing? Is it the right thing to be in this wilderness with him? I know many people would say that what I'm trying here is unethical. My best friend said so. The only one I told about this. But my lingering need is stronger than all those concerns.
I hate to turn up out of the blue, uninvited
But I couldn't stay away, I couldn't fight it
I had hoped you'd see my face, and that you'd be reminded
That for me, it isn't over.
Never mind, I'll find someone like you.
Beautiful song, so true. Except that in Mason's reality, Adele will not be born until next summer, and the song I can't get out of my head is still 23 years away.
An angry voice tears me from my reverie.
"You're talking about rights? I'll give you rights!"
Whatever else the nasty little man with the dirty shoes is snarling barely registers with me. I know the words by heart anyway. But I am still amazed at the scenery. It is all so very realistic. The old-fashioned police-car from some twenty-odd years back. My hairstyle, oh, I have always loved that 80s hairstyle. I never knew it would look so good on me. My hair is lighter than hers was, but he does not seem to notice. I must admit the leather jacket is a bit longer than the one she wore (they didn't have any cupcakes back then, did they?), and it's black, not light brown. My pullover is light blue, not red. I can't wear reds, they look cheap on me. My jeans are a shade darker, too. The stylist says I'm a winter type, I need contrasts. Like Mason and myself. In the first couple of minutes, I thought he would notice that I'm not her, but he doesn't. Of course not. We only notice what we expect to see, everything else escapes our attention. Keith leaves us. He just unloads the sleeping bags and drives off. Mason is furious, I can see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice. I make a half-hearted effort to protest, I even remember to kick at the car as Keith departs, so Mason believes I'm as mad at Keith as he is. He is holding me back. The touch of his hands sends a chill through me. I know all I would have to do is use the walkie talkie he doesn't know I have, and we'd be out of here in a heartbeat.
But he has accepted that it is just the two of us for the night. It's easy for me to play my part. I don't have to act much to pretend I'm nervous. It feels real.
We hear the howling of a coyote nearby.
"Don't worry, I'll protect you," he says.
I can hardly keep a straight face as the image of Mason fighting off a coyote with his briefcase crosses my mind. "Good with coyotes, are you?"
"Predatories in general."
"Do they know that?"
"Julia, don’t worry," he says in a patronizing voice, "just get into your sleeping bag, I'll take the first watch."
I know what my next line is, but I realize that I'm going to deviate from the script. Mason is a dinosaur, a relic from the 80s. I am a modern woman. I do love him, but I have to give him a piece of my mind. I find myself crossing my arms in front of my chest, shaking my head defiantly. "Who do you think you are?"
His look of surprise is priceless. "Excuse me?"
I look straight into his eyes. "Do you think you are the knight in shining armor who has to protect the damsel in distress from the big bad wolf?"
I can tell from the look in his eyes that this is exactly what he has been thinking, but will never admit to. I can tell that he didn't expect this. "I'm sorry," he stumbles, "I meant no offence."
"I know," I reply. "But you have to see that I don't need your protection. And I don't need to sit down wait for you to make up your mind about whom you really want in your life."
"Julia…" he begins, but I cut him off.
"No, Mason. I slay dragons every day. People expect me to be a caring mother, a supportive sister and friend, a merciless opponent in the courtroom, a woman dressed at the height of fashion, who keeps in shape and is still an outstanding cook, who works through piles of paperwork and keeps her house in order. And of course I have to be a bedroom fantasy after a long day of work. You are planning to seduce me, not thinking about tomorrow, about how other people are affected by what we do, because you know no matter what mistakes you make, I will cope with it, I will re-invent myself. I am the only predator around here, Mason. I am so much stronger than you."
He is at a complete loss. His handsome face falls. He has that wounded look, the one that can as easily shift into aggression.
"Now will you get into that sleeping bag and let me take care of things by myself as I always do?"
I expect him to protest. But he silently wraps himself into the sleeping bag.
Old friend, why are you so shy?
Ain't like you to hold back
Or hide from the light.
Amused, I watch as he struggles with the zipper.
"Need help?" I ask.
"No, thanks," he retorts, still tearing at the slider.
I toss him a small tin.
He arches an eyebrow at me. "McNett's Zip Care?"
I nod. "Sliders wear from grit or sand, and then they fail."
He grumbles something that could pass for a 'thank you' and applies the content of the tin to the zipper of his sleeping bag.
There is a moment of silence. I just sit there, watching the stars, listening to the howling of the coyote in the distance. I love being out here in nature. Just when I believe I will be content to watch him sleep, he speaks.
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Yes, of course," I say lightly, but my heart is beating wildly.
Mason unzips his sleeping back and sits up. He looks at me with serious eyes. "What have you done to Julia?"
All blood seems to drain from my cheeks. "I have no idea what you're talking about," I say mechanically, looking around uneasily. Are they watching us? Have they heard? Does that mean this is over? That we're just going to be driven back?
Mason smiles. "You don't get into Harvard if you're a bit slow. So tell me the truth. Who are you, and what have you done to Julia?"
I shrug. "I am Julia. Tonight."
He hesitates. "I know you are. My memories tell me you are. You have her scent, her looks, her voice. But Julia keeps her feelings to herself. She has yet to learn to put me in my place."
We both smile. I am suddenly very much aware of his presence. Then I hear it. The slight hiss. They normally stay away from humans. We must have provoked this one unintentionally, fussing with the sleeping back in its territory.
"Don't move," I whisper.
Mason's whole figure is tense. He holds his breath.
I keep my eyes on the rattlesnake as I slide my hand into the backpack. The snake threatens, is ready to strike. Her bite does not mean death if it is treated promptly. But out here? Will they really come to our rescue, or will the whole project be in danger? Will they let him die to protect their secrecy?
My fingers close around the gun.
Everything appears to be in slow motion, all sounds wrapped in cotton. Then I hear the shot.
Only when Mason whispers a breathless "thanks" do I realize I am still holding the gun. I fired at the snake, I missed, but the shock, the vibration of the ground, or the smoke on the air obviously scared it away; it has disappeared into the night.
My knees are weak.
"Too bad Adam and Eve didn't have a gun," he jokes. Then he gently takes the gun from my hand and stows it back where it belongs. I'm still in a shock. But we're alive. Both of us. And I want to feel alive. I turn to him.
He just looks at me, reluctant to make a move.
I am like the rattlesnake. I threaten just a little, then I strike. I reach into his hair. It feels just like I imagined. I crush my lips against his, feel his gasp of surprise, then his hands in my hair, on my shoulders, tearing at the jacket. My heartbeat is like a drum, my short little breaths and small cries like the background music to an unheard melody. I let myself fall, enfolded in his arms, enfolded in my dreams.
*
Neither of us speaks. When my shoes are tied, he pulls me close to him once again. My lips brush his. His expression has changed, it is so full of hope, so energetic. "I have plans, you know," he says softly. "For us. Everything will be different now. I will set things straight with Victoria."
I give him a sad little smile.
Never mind, I'll find
Someone like you.
He keeps talking, about how we are going to get married, open our own company, Capwell & Capwell, about how our children are going to grow up at the beach house, about how much he loves me.
I nod and smile, but my heart is not in it. I did this because I wanted some closure. I shut him up with a kiss. His hand travels down my spine and makes me shiver. I giggle with surprise.
Who would have known how bitter-sweet this would taste?
Last night is firmly imprinted on my memory. It comforts me to know it really meant something. Sometimes you have to live your dreams before you can part with them and start re-inventing yourself. I study his face so I will recall his image, his scent, the feel of his skin, lazy kisses down my collarbone, my shoulders and arms.
I hear the steps approaching, but they barely register with me because I am so absorbed in my experience of the real Mason Capwell.
Someone coughs.
I gently break the kiss. "You have to go," I whisper.
Mason rises reluctantly, his hand still in mine. "Are you coming?"
I blink away my tears. "Not now," I reply.
Don't forget me, I beg, I remember you say
Sometimes it lasts in love, and sometimes it hurts instead.
Mason stares up at the man in black.
"It is time for your treatment," the man in black says. He is the Active's handler.
A change comes over Mason. He lets go of my hand and nods. Without looking back at me, he follows the man in black to the van. The woman who accompanied him takes my backpack and our sleeping bags to the smaller car. "I'll take you back to town," she says.
I nod.
As we get into the car, she sideglances at me. "He really believes it's 1987?"
"Yes, definitely."
"And you are Julia, aren't you?"
"Who wouldn't want to be Julia? But why don't you just go on and tell me what you really want to ask? I'm not going to tell you how much I paid to the agency, though."
She blushes profusely. "It's none of my business, ma'am, and our clients get a full guarantee of discretion, but, y'know, I always watched Santa Barbara with my gran when I was a teenager, and I had that soft spot for Mason… I was wondering…"
She cannot bring herself to ask. I smile and say nothing. That is enough of an answer for both of us.
*
Romeo Five blinks, trying to adjust to the bright light of the lab.
"Did I fall asleep?" he asks in confusion.
"For a little while," Topher Brink answers.
Romeo Five tries to remember something, it was important, someone he wanted to talk to, set things straight --- but it is gone. "Shall I go now?" he wonders.
Topher nods. "If you want to."
Hesitantly, Romeo Five walks from the lab to join the others for breakfast.
THE END
Annotations: Song lyrics from Adele, "Someone Like You" (Album: 21, released 2010).
This is a crossover fiction between Santa Barbara and Dollhouse, created by Joss Whedon:
"The show revolves around a corporation running numerous underground establishments (known as "Dollhouses") across the globe which program individuals referred to as Actives (or Dolls) with temporary personalities and skills. Wealthy clients hire Actives from Dollhouses at great expense for various purposes. These "engagements" range from romantic interludes to high-risk criminal enterprises. Each Active has their original memories wiped and exists in a child-like blank state until programmed via the insertion of new memories and personalities for each mission. Actives such as Echo are ostensibly volunteers who have surrendered their minds and bodies to the organization for five-year stints, during which their original personalities are saved on hard drives, in exchange for vast amounts of money and a solution to any other problematic circumstances in their lives. " (from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dollhouse_%28TV_series%29)
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