My ID papers state "undead," so it's a moot point.
His footsteps make little to no sound on the pavement as he edges toward me--- Padlock indeed---and my feet get itchy. Whatever Adam wants, I want the opposite. He's getting closer; I want to run away.
But I stand my ground.
He halves the distance between us. It's evidently as much as he can take. For now.
Only occasionally does a car pass us by.
There are no other pedestrians on this street; none that I notice anyway. On the other side of the street is a park; at least, I assume that's what it is. Low boundary wall, trees shadowing the horizon, what looks like the shape of a gate or an entryway; the sodium glow from the streetlamps distort what I can make out. And it's all surprisingly empty.
Hollow. What I registered in passing as I pursued Adam now recedes even further, becomes a faded background to our reunion.
"I don't understand what you want," Adam says. "You haunt me and never said anything until now."
"Adam, I haven't been anywhere near you.
Not for years. I've been avoiding you."
Adam cocks his head, nears me still more.
Oh, those two little vertical lines above the bridge of his nose, how familiar they are. Furrows of concentration. They show when he's in the throes of passion, as well; right before he comes, he---
No. Right before he came. Our sex life is in the past. Any mutual attraction is over. Done. Dead and gone.
But I can't help remembering.
"Why now?" he mutters.
"Because..." I shrug, a slow rolling of my shoulders that's more about shaking off the guilt and confusion and anger than expressing my uncertainty. Should I tell him about Will? "After all these years..."
"Why speak to me now?" It's like Adam isn't even listening to me, not specifically to my words, just the fact there's noise coming out of my mouth.
Now I have to grip the fencing as he stands within touching distance for the first time in a lifetime.
"You've never spoken before." Adam's capable of moving so much faster, but the slowness with which he lifts his hand to my face makes me bite my lip in fear. "You've never chased after me.
You've never spoken."
Somewhere in the back of my mind, the penny doesn't quite drop, but it begins to wobble. Adam, talking as if he's seen me before, since he killed me. He's not comfortable with my appearance, but definitely familiar with it. As if he's seen me when I haven't been around. My doppelganger. My ghost.
Adam curls all fingers but one into his palm and tentatively runs the tip of his forefinger down my cheek. A nerve fires, and I feel it twitch just below the surface of my skin; I wonder if he does too. The gentle stroke becomes a bolder prod, as if he still doesn't believe I'm really here, and why would he?
I jerk away from his touch. He looks at me like I'm a museum exhibit. To him, maybe I am.
And he stares down at his hand, that frown never leaving his brow. "My God." He makes a fist, straightens his fingers, then flexes the muscles of the hand that made contact. "It's like you're real. You're really real."
I want to make a joke of it, come over all Pinocchio and say, "I'm a real boy!" but I know inappropriate humour when I think of it. "Of course I am. I'm right here, aren't I?"
"Fuck." Staggering backwards, Adam puts his hand out to grab a hold of the fence, and instinctively, I jump forward to catch him.
My arms round his waist, I pull him upright, try to get him steady on his feet again, but he feels like a---and I can't believe I have a sense of humour twisted enough to even think this, despite my recent qualms about inappropriate jokes---dead weight in my arms. "I've got you. Are you all right? Can you stand up? Just try putting your weight on one foot, and---"
"Nathan?" Adam grips my upper arms, so tightly I couldn't let him go even if I wanted to.
Eyes narrowed, he stares into my eyes. "If it's not you, it's someone very like you, but..."
His hands are on me. His hands are on me.
Not on my skin, but by God, Adam Locke's touching me. For the first time in seventy years.
And it's like those years never happened.
Apart from one very important fact: the last time Adam Locke touched me, I was alive. Living and breathing.
And bleeding profusely.
"It is me. As I live and breathe. But for the fact I don't live. Or breathe. But you know..."
Another shrug, taut this time, because of Adam's unending grip on me. I can barely move with him touching me. Inappropriate humour, again, Stephenson.
"You're dead?" His grip on me loosens, and I only let go of him when I'm sure he's able to stand on his own two feet.
I tell myself it's altruism that keeps my arms around him until the very last second. Given who I'm with, who I'm talking to, it would be insane of me to want to touch him ever again, but a part of me does want that and can't be denied. Maybe it's curiosity, a need to confirm to myself that yes, he really is here, right in front of me. A need similar to Adam's own.
"Jesus. Fucking Jesus." He staggers back, but in a way that shows he's able to stand up on his own. He's stunned, not thrown off his feet anymore. "I thought...I thought..." Adam lowers himself onto steps leading up to the front door of a tenement block, which tells me just how hard this has hit him. Shaken, he has to sit down to gather his thoughts. He rests his head in his hands, fingers clawing at his hair, as if he's trying to pull something out of his mind which will explain all this. "What the hell happened?"
