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Irving pushed through the door with his iced coffee, three espresso shots because by two o'clock he could barely keep his eyes open, and held it open for people going inside. Radar sat up as soon as Irving was outside, wagging his tail.
Irving didn't glance back at the man who exited the coffee shop after him, the man he'd come there to see.
"Here you go, boy." Irving held the tiny cup of whipped cream while the dog licked it clean, then pushed it down it into the overflowing trash can on the curb. "Let's go."
He'd only driven a few blocks when it seemed like the caffeine was kicking in, or the adrenaline.
As usual, he and his contact hadn't sat together or spoken, but when the man had entered, he'd dropped a folded piece of paper onto Irving's table as he passed—Irving's cue to stop looking through his wallet as if maybe he'd forgotten his cash or cards at home, stuff it inside, and go to the counter to order.
As always, after one of the message hand-offs in a coffee shop or an ice cream parlor or sometimes in a park, Irving would wait until he was at home to decode the message. But every part of him stayed on edge until he could see what the note said. Especially since the last few had indicated they were getting closer to being able to safely alter Lumon's chips.
He scratched Radar's head. "I can feel it, boy. It'll all be over soon."
Getting some fresh air always helped his fatigue a little, too. And as much as he wanted to get home and hopefully read the good news folded tightly in his wallet, he felt the pull of something else, something that had been growing in recent weeks. Besides, if he was being watched, something his superiors made clear was possible, it would be good to break up his post-contact routine.
"Want to go for a walk?" he asked, though he knew he'd get a wagging tail and perked up ears in answer.
They were in a neighborhood Irving wasn't very familiar with, but one that looked decent enough, when he pulled over and parked. Inexpensive but not run-down homes, very middle class, as far as he could tell. Perfectly respectable, as was to be expected in Kier.
He took a gulp of his coffee before leaving it in the car. He'd taken to going to unfamiliar places to walk Radar often lately, and while he told himself it was just boredom and the need to experience new people and places, he didn't really know why he did it. He didn't know why he did a lot of things anymore, and the not-knowing was getting to him.
They passed a few people on the sidewalk, and a couple of them smiled and nodded in greeting. He found himself examining their faces each time as if he might recognize one of them. He only knew he was looking for something, as silly as that seemed. Another thing he had no explanation for, along with his paintings and the surrealistic nightmares that kept him gulping coffee to avoid.
He typically couldn't remember details, just shapes and bleeding colors. When he woke, his pounding heart and nausea told him he was probably better off not remembering.
What looked like a mother and daughter approaching on the sidewalk paused briefly for the little girl to ask if she could pet his dog. Radar had looked at her hopefully and wagged his tail, but he was too well-trained to approach her.
"Radar's very friendly," he assured the girl's mother. "It's very good that you asked me," he said to the little girl. "Not all dogs are nice, you know."
He and the mother had a brief conversation about the etiquette surrounding pets and the risks of strange dogs when a car pulled into a parking spot a few feet up the sidewalk and a man got out of the driver's side. Irving clocked the plate number, the man's height and hair color as he viewed him from the back with his peripheral vision, a habit born in the desert. You sized up everything in your environment to make sure nothing was a threat, or you regretted it later if you were lucky enough to be able to regret anything.
"Thank you," the mother said to Radar, patting his head.
"Good boy," said the little girl as she walked away. Radar chuffed at them by way of goodbye and started the little girl giggling.
With a smile, Irving turned and started walking again as the driver of the car that had parked was closing his trunk with a paper bag of groceries in each arm.
The man turned to step onto the curb and stumbled slightly, dropping one bag in favor of putting a hand on his vehicle to keep his balance and stay on his feet. The bag landed upright before toppling. A white foam carton of eggs jutted halfway out and three oranges rolled across the pavement.
Irving ran to him, grabbing his arm to help get him fully on his feet again. "Are you alright?" he asked. Radar grabbed one of the oranges in his mouth, shaking his head side to side, ready to play.
The man laughed. "Thank you, yes. Just overloaded and clumsy."
Irving almost had to take a step back. Having that smile turned on him was like stepping out of a cold, shuttered house in the morning and being suddenly overwhelmed by too much sunlight, the warmth and brightness a shock to the system.
He had the urge to put a hand up and squint through his fingers.
Irving realized he was staring at the man. He shook his head and looked away. He had to look away or stay dumbstruck. "Let me—" He grabbed the toppled bag and started rounding up the oranges.
The man reached down for the one closest to him. "So stupid," he said. "Like I couldn't make two trips." He still had laughter in his voice, and Irving guessed he was embarrassed.
"Radar, drop it," he said, cringing when the wet orange fell out of his mouth. Irving picked it up and awkwardly rubbed it on his shirt. "I'm afraid he bit through the peel. It wouldn't bother me, but . . ." He held it out, not sure if he'd want it. His chest felt tight, like he couldn't breathe, when the man's smile turned brighter.
"It's okay. You can keep that one." He reached a hand out, and Irving realized it was for the bag he held.
"Let me help," Irving said, gesturing with the bag at the houses nearby. He did want to help. But he also didn't want this man to walk away from him so soon. "Do you have to go far?"
"Not at all." The man hesitated for a moment, then led the way to his door, opened it, and sat his bag inside before taking the one Irving held and doing the same. Then he held out his hand. "Thank you so much. My name's Burt, by the way."
Irving took his hand and held it firmly. "Irving. And you're so welcome. I'm sorry about the orange. I hope it doesn't mess up your dinner or anything."
"No, no, it's fine," Burt said with a laugh. "In fact, my streak's still intact, thanks to your dog here. What was it, Radar?"
As Irving nodded, Burt scratched Radar's face with both hands. "I took over the grocery shopping from my husband after I retired, and I haven't made it home with everything I set out to get a single time, can you believe that? Memory's not what it used to be. I've even somehow forgotten every list I've made."
Husband. Irving didn't know why that word felt like a punch to the gut or why he felt so drawn to Burt. He couldn't think of a way to stretch out the conversation, either, and he scrambled to come up with something.
"I understand. I have to make lists for everything, or I'm lost," Irving explained. "I'm a creature of routine."
Radar sat and whined softly when Burt straightened. "I haven't seen you walking him around here before. Are you new to the neighborhood?"
"I live in Leonora Lake." Telling him that went against years of training. Why had he said it? "We went to get coffee and whipped cream and decided to walk somewhere new." Irving laughed at himself. "I guess I just lied about being a creature of routine, didn't I?"
"No, no. It's the routine that makes doing something new so exciting." They stared at each other for what felt like a long time before Burt took a deep breath. "I guess I should—"
"Yes, of course." Irving took a step backward. "I'll, uh, just—well, I do owe you an orange."
"You helped. Consider it payment."
"No, I should bring one next time I'm walking. I could leave it on your step if—"
"No, you don't owe me anything, truly," Burt said with a wave.
Irving lifted his hand and turned away, a lump in his throat making it hard to swallow.
"But . . ." Burt said.
Irving turned to look at him, hopeful.
"If you insisted on replacing it, I wouldn't turn it down," Burt added. "Don't leave it on the step, though. Knock." Burt winked, wiggled his fingers at Radar, and closed the door.
Irving had the sense that all his wandering in unfamiliar places, all the times he'd looked at people's faces for some kind of recognition, had led him to this place. To this person.
Radar whined softly as they walked in the direction they'd come from. Irving was rejuvenated, wide awake, and ready to go home.
The message would have woken him up if he'd still been tired. Since he wasn't, he felt like his brain and heart were on fire, and he had to draw on years of training to be able to manage the anticipation. A day later, he met with the generals and admirals, was debriefed on the plans, and could barely believe that what he'd hope for for so long was about to happen.
They'd finally reverse-engineered Lumon's tech and were confident they'd be able to undo the severance.
"How will you organize the re-integration?" Irving asked when it was time for his questions.
"Obviously, given the scope of the operation, that will come after the deactivation," a general he wasn't familiar with said from the end of the table. He sounded ridiculously like someone who should be chomping a cigar and sporting a flattop haircut as precise as if the barber used a level. "It's impossible to set anything up in advance, for obvious reasons."
An admiral chimed in. "We'll have emergency centers with hotlines and transportation available for those who need assistance post-integration."
Irving took a deep, steady breath. "I'm not questioning your methods," he said, even though that was precisely what he was doing, "but what about Lumon's claim that it's irreversible and the rumors of deaths and—"
"This isn't some activist group like the WMC, tinkering with the tech and putting people at risk. This is the expertise and might of the god damn United States military," the first general said, looking even more like he needed something to chew on.
"Yes, sir. Of course, sir. I just feel like a warning, some sort of preparation, to avoid the worst outcome, would be prudent." They couldn't warn everyone, but they had to do something, didn't they? Would it even matter if they waited until the last minute? What could Lumon do?
"You're not wrong, Bailiff," a general said, and the conversation between them eventually led to the decision to do nothing differently than the original plan, as Irving had expected. Though while Irving was there, news came in that it would have to happen in waves rather than all at once.
None of them liked that, because it meant the second wave and onward would lose the element of surprise, but hopefully the first one was enough to throw Lumon off its feet.
"Which wave will I be in?" Irving finally asked. "Is it possible to know?"
"The first. We want you here when it happens so we can debrief you. We'll give you enough warning to get here." The general stood and shook Irving's hand.
"I understand, sir."
They dismissed him, the dozen questions he would have liked to ask stuck in his throat.
Two weeks.
How many years of his life had he given up for this mission, and it was anticipated to come to an end within two weeks? He already felt a bit adrift at the idea of no longer working toward this particular goal.
The way it was going to happen gave Irving pause, but he had to trust that the people in charge knew what they were doing.
The next day, at about the same time in the afternoon that he'd been in that neighborhood before, Irving walked with Radar down the sidewalk. He whistled as he threw an orange in the air and caught it, being extra careful not to drop it.
He hesitated at the door, his hand raised to knock. Burt was married. It wasn't even appropriate to show up like this. But Burt had encouraged it, hadn't he? Maybe he just wanted a friend? Somehow Irving knew deep down that he wanted something more, and it was a wholly unfamiliar desire. It had been a long time since he'd even thought about anything but the work, and when he had thoughts along those lines before, they'd never been because of a man.
Irving wasn't bothered by that, and he didn't even feel surprised. Seeing Burt's face had been like a final piece slotting into place when he hadn't even realized he'd been working on a puzzle.
No, I should go. Just walk away. It would probably be the smart thing to do. He'd kept people at arm's lengths for years because of his work, because it was easier to be unattached and alone. He couldn't slip and say anything, like the way he'd told Burt where he lived. Probably fine, but one never knew.
He realized that the likelihood that Burt had worked for Lumon in some capacity was high. So many people who lived in Kier worked there. That was even more incentive to leave. He couldn't jeopardize the mission.
His mission that was nearly over.
Desire rose up, a desire for connection that he'd long ago hidden away, and he decided to knock.
Before he could, the door swung open to sunshine and a voice that always sounded like a laugh was trying to burst free from behind it.
"You brought me an orange," Burt said.
"I'm a man of my word."
Burt's brow drew down. "Did you promise?"
Irving felt ridiculous smiling so broadly, but he put his hand over his heart. "Only here."
Burt stepped back, opening the door wider. Irving glanced down at Radar. "Stay, boy."
"No, come on, Radar," he said, patting his leg. "I love dogs. Furniture always looks better with a little pet hair, doesn't it?"
Irving stroked his finger over his mustache and stepped inside.
Burt put the orange in a bowl on the dining room table with one other orange and an apple and got them both a glass of iced tea while Irving sat on the couch and watched him moving around in the kitchen.
He has a husband. What are you doing?
Maybe that should be the first order of business. Figure out why Burt encouraged him to knock.
"So, your husband, is he at work?"
Burt appeared in the doorway to the kitchen with a glass in each hand. He stopped there, looking at Irving. "He's away on business at the moment. For the next week or so."
"Oh. Good." Irving straightened. "I mean, not good, but . . . but good career, it seems."
Burt looked like he was trying not to smile, and once he put the tea down on the coffee table in front of the couch and sat next to Irving, he stopped trying.
"No, it's good. Good career. And good that he's gone on business right now. It's easier for us to get to know each other that way, don't you think?" He put his hand over Irving's. "Good to be alone, isn't it?"
His heart kicked in his chest, reminding him of how he felt the last time he'd been shot at in the desert. He'd heard the sing of the bullet just missing his ear. In many ways, this was scarier.
The touch of Burt's hand felt as thrilling, as intimate, as the last time he'd made love. He couldn't bring himself to do it, but he wanted to grab Burt's shoulders and pull him close. Instead, he chose to make sure Burt knew he wasn't only interested in sex.
"When I said good, I really wasn't trying to suggest . . . anything," he explained, but he put his hand gently over Burt's to sandwich it between his.
"I know," Burt said with a chuckle. "But your blush was so gorgeous, I couldn't resist encouraging it."
Irving's whole body went warm at the word gorgeous. Burt clasped Irving's hand in his and held it on top of his thigh. "Tell me about yourself, Irving from Leonora Lake."
Irving did tell him, what he could, and Burt told Irving about himself. And as much as Irving didn't want to tear himself away, he desperately wanted Burt to see him as a gentleman. To not think he came for one thing.
Burt seemed to understand and didn't try to convince him to stay after saying once that he didn't have to go. Irving felt respected, and that tempted him to stay. But he left, the invitation to come to dinner the next day making it easier to go.
He brought another orange and added it to the bowl with Burt looking on, an unreadable but joyful expression on his face.
"Want an orange for dessert?" Burt said later after they'd put the dishes they'd washed together away. "I made a cake, but it fell a little and got chewy. Tastes good, but it's all wrong. Probably forgot something." He chuckled and pointed at his head.
"I like chewy. There's no such thing as a wrong cake, is there?"
Burt turned to him and pulled the dish towel Irving had thrown over his shoulder off, holding it in his hands as if examining it. "Eric and I are more roommates than anything."
"Burt—"
"No, I just think you should know. I care about him, but I think he's had someone on the side for years. I didn't really care because I was content in my life, and we're friends. It was easier to stay, but there's nothing more than that between us anymore . . . not for a long time. And now that I've met you, I'm not content to stay anymore." He glanced up at Irving. "Don't worry, I'm not proposing marriage or trying to make you commit to anything. Even if you walked away today and never came back, I've felt things I haven't in a long time, and I wouldn't want to stay."
"I'm not walking away," Irving said breathlessly, shaking his head.
"Good." Burt turned his beautiful smile on him. "I'm relieved. I just wanted you to know that in all the time I've been married, I've never done anything like this before. I'm sure everyone who does says that, but—"
"I believe you." Irving put his hands on Burt's shoulders, finally, and that touch was as satisfying as anything he could remember.
"Thank you." Burt stepped forward, and they embraced. "That means . . . so much."
Irving slid his hand up the back of Burt's neck, gently rubbing the pads of his fingers into his hair. He did believe him. He trusted this man a ridiculous amount, more than he'd trusted some people he'd known for years.
When Burt moved back and leaned in, Irving did the same. The kiss was soft and sweet, the sweetest kiss he'd ever had. Then it turned into something more, a knowing kiss, a kiss that said this is all I could ever want and I have to have it right now. It felt familiar even though no one had ever kissed him with such passion, such longing.
Burt's arms tightened around his waist, and in sync they moved toward the living room and down the hall. Irving gasped as Burt's hands found their way inside his clothing.
"I've never done this," he blurted, swallowing hard and taking another deep breath. "Just so you know, in case I don't . . . do something right."
"Oh." Burt grinned and cupped Irving's face in his hands. "No such thing as a wrong cake."
Irving thought his heart would burst, then Burt kissed him again and all his worries disappeared.
He brought Burt an orange every day. And every day, he'd step inside, Burt already taking the orange out of his hands and pulling him close, surprisingly deft fingers working at Irving's buttons. Burt would say, "You don't have to keep bringing me oranges."
"But you love that I do."
Burt would only smile in response and push him toward the bedroom. It was the best routine Irving had ever had.
As he sank his fingers into Burt's hair, Irving glanced down his body to get a glimpse of his face. The pleasure hit when those light blue eyes glanced up at him. Irving shouted and arched his back, his eyes closing involuntarily as Burt expertly drew it out as long as he could, making Irving's toes curl.
When he was finished, Burt slid up and kissed him. "Not bad for an old guy, huh?"
"Not bad for anybody. The things you can do with your tongue could make a sailor blush."
Burt laughed melodically. "Baby, I think they just did." He pulled Irving on top of him, kissing his neck and tickling the skin with his teeth.
Later, as they were pressed together, Irving half-dozing, Burt said, "Irving, I lied to you."
Irving's heart clenched. "About Eric?" he asked, dreading the answer. Dreading hearing that their marriage was fine and that he was supposed to never come back.
"No, about where I worked. I told you I worked for Gatlin Electronics, but I worked at Lumon. Eric always said I shouldn't tell people that, and I got into the habit of lying. I didn't even mean to lie to you, but it slipped out, and it felt weird to explain it in the moment." He cupped Irving's cheek. "I want you to know the truth about me, to really know me, that's all."
I lied too. How could he say it? How could he not?
"It's okay, because . . . I did the same thing. Habit."
"So you still work there?"
Irving took a deep breath. "On the severed floor."
Burt beamed. "I retired from there. I wonder if we knew each other?"
Everything he wanted to tell Burt stuck in his throat. He wanted to warn him of what was coming, let him know to not be afraid if he suddenly remembered everything. He couldn't do that without jeopardizing the mission.
When he got the call to go meet the generals, when it was imminent, he'd warn him. There'd be no risk then of blowing the operation and letting Lumon get wind of it. There wouldn't be if he told Burt now, he knew, he wasn't some spy, but duty was duty.
"Maybe you were my boss," Irving said. "You'd make a great supervisor."
"I'd be lousy at it. I'm a pushover. It would only take you walking into my office and smiling at me for me to forgive you any mistake. Look at me sexy, I'd give you a raise before you even asked."
"Yeah?" Irving said with a grin. "So I can basically get you to do anything with the right . . . incentive?"
"I think so. Let's try," he teased.
They did.
Irving hurried down the sidewalk, anticipating another wonderful afternoon like the last several. He left Radar at home this time, figuring less dog hair to clean might be wise since Burt's husband was due to come back the next day.
He was humming, the orange tossed into the air above him, when the world tilted.
Irving groaned at the sudden pain inside his head and the sharp whistle in his ears as he went down. He squinted at the blurred sidewalk, grass, the orange rolling away from him as he lay on the pavement, trying to figure out which way was up and which was down. He felt like he was in a centrifuge, spinning so fast it stole his breath.
He remembered, and the strange memories of this other him interlaced with his own, sending him off-kilter, making his stomach twist and threaten to empty itself.
"Are you okay?" a woman asked, her hands on his arm finally giving him some sense of balance.
The blur snapped to hard edges as Irving B. pushed himself into place in the memories of Irving Bailiff.
"Thank you, thank you, I'm okay," he told the woman in a shaky voice he barely recognized. "I'll be fine."
They were supposed to call him, warn him so he could get there. He thought of the general, the look in his eyes when Irving wanted to warn Lumon employees. They'd probably decided he might spread the word once he knew when it would happen, jeopardize the mission, so they kept him in the dark and intended to collect him afterward. Bastards. But what was done was done.
The acrobatics his brain was going through didn't feel good, but the pain was gone, he just wished his mind could stop racing over unfamiliar places and feelings and faces and—
Burt.
Irving ran, nearly tripping and going down again but he grabbed a fence and managed to keep on his feet.
Burt's hand touching his as they stared at a painting. Their foreheads together, breathing the same air, with plants surrounding them, I'm not ready, that smile that was all sunlight and warmth among cold white walls, cold black walls, his paintings, melons, waffles, numbers . . . .
He stopped and took a deep breath, forcing his mind to rewind from all the sights and sounds it had to share between what seemed like essentially two brains suddenly smashed together.
He made it rewind to Burt, whom he'd loved at Lumon. Whom he loved now.
His vision blurred again, but not because he was unsteady. He ignored the looks and shouts of concern from people on the street as he wept openly and ran to Burt. The thought that he might have gone through what Irving did while alone was almost unbearable. Maybe he'd been spared, and Irving could warn him. Most of all, he just needed to hold him in his arms in a way part of him never really had.
He ran, and he didn't bother knocking. He burst through the door. "Burt!"
Burt stepped out of the kitchen, a half-eaten orange wedge in his hand. His face was damp, his eyes puffy. He clearly hadn't been spared, and it must have been horrible not knowing what was happening. Despite that, though, he was smiling. Burt dropped the piece of orange like he'd forgotten he was holding it and reached toward Irving.
"What . . . what are you doing?" Irving said as he rushed to him.
They came together in a fierce hug, Irving lifting him off his feet for a moment. "Waiting for you," Burt said, laughing and sobbing at the same time. "I think I always have been."
"Are you okay?" Irving asked.
"I am now that you're here."
They'd need to be seen by a specialist ready to help with any side-effects of the integration, to be safe. Irving would know more after his debrief and would be better able to help Burt through the process. They'd go together, soon, but for now they stood, their foreheads pressed together, both of them smiling and clinging to one another with tears streaming down their faces.
"No wonder I felt so comfortable with you," Burt said. "From the first moment I saw you, I wanted to be close to you."
"You took my breath away," Irving said with a laugh. "Twice." He stroked Burt's back, his shoulders, and they held each other until their breathing slowed. Irving leaned back to look into Burt's eyes, waiting for a sign of where they were going to go from there.
"Well?" Burt finally said, brushing his thumb over Irving's chin, glancing from his eyes to his lips.
Had Irving ever felt this much joy before? This much love? "I'm ready now." He cupped Burt's face and kissed him again, for the first time.