Christmas Coda 68 - Barry and Mike from HALLOWEEN IS MURDER

 

Christmas Coda 68 – Barry and Mike from Halloween isMurder

 

“Krampus,” Barry repeated.

“Right.” Mike’s pale green eyes were watchful. Maybe he heard it in Barry’s voice. Heard that finally, finally Barry had had enough.

After three years of hunting monsters, who wouldn’t have had enough?

Oh right. Mike. Mike hadn’t had enough. Mike, it seemed, would never have enough.

Barry said shortly, “And that’s its real name? Krampus? Or is that an alias?”

Mike frowned. “I briefed you on all this.”

Yep. He sure had. Here it was Christmas Eve, and they’d spent half the evening talking about a pagan German Hel-spawn—literally, the son of Hel, Norse God of the Underworld--nickname “claw.”

So much for the holly-jolly mood with which Barry had started the day.

“Pals around with Santa,” Barry said in a bored voice. “Except his job is to punish the naughty kids.”

Mike’s weathered, blunt features were always a little difficult to interpret, but reading between the lines, he looked affronted. Or at least as affronted as a monolithic slab can look. “What’s got into you, Fitzgerald? We’re not talking about lumps of coal, you know.”

Barry dropped his head in his hands and groaned. “Mike. For the love of God.” He raised his face and stared into Mike’s astonished eyes. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

“I know it’s Christmas Eve,” Mike snapped. “That’s the point. This is the one night of the year when we get our shot at him. Last year we had the Delano job. The year before that, you insisted we had to stake out the Ford place—”

“Paying jobs, Mike. Commitments we made to real live people. Human people.”

Mike, relentless, as a gear shift stuck in drive, plowed on. “And the year before that—”

He stopped.

Barry glared at him, waiting for him to say it, almost willing him to say it, because that really would be the end. If Mike regretted spending that night, their first real night together, the sweetest, the happiest, the best night of Barry’s entire life—if Mike regretted spending that night with Barry instead of chasing monsters, then it really was the end.

And maybe it would be easier that way. Easier than hanging on, hoping that eventually, one day there would be time for them.

 Because after three years, a nice fat bank account, and a whole hell of a lot of unbelievably weird nights, it was pretty clear that day was not coming any time soon.

Barry understood. He really did. Mike was a man with a mission. A mission and an obsession. Barry understood the mission and sympathized with the obsession. But he didn’t share it. Either of them. Yes, he was glad, even a little proud, to be able to take some of the credit for ridding the world of yet another creature of the night. And some of these supernatural capers paid well. Unbelievably well. Some, like tonight, were pro bono. Anyway, the money wasn’t the point.  

The point was…

Well, it was hard to say what the point was. Not because Barry couldn’t articulate it, but because he wasn’t sure anymore of how Mike felt. About them. About him. Maybe for Mike it really was just about having someone to hunt monsters with.

As if reading Barry’s thoughts—part of his thoughts, Mike said, “I don’t remember you kicking about the dough.”

“The money’s good,” Barry agreed evenly. “The money’s great. Money isn’t everything.”

Mike snorted. “You don’t say, Socrates.”

Barry felt himself turn as red as Rudoph’s schnoz. He opened his mouth, but for once he wasn’t sure what to say. Sure, he was irritated and disappointed, but that was any partnership. He, well, he loved Mike. And he’d been riding along for the last three years thinking, assuming, Mike loved him too. Not that Mike had ever said so. Not in so many words. He’d said things that Barry took to mean the same thing. But sometimes, you needed to hear the words. Even a tough guy—semi tough guy—like Barry sometimes would have liked to hear the words. Needed to hear the words.

Before he could settle on a less embarrassing way to put that into plain and simple syllables, Mike said shortly, crisply, “If you don’t want to go tonight, just say so. We’re wasting time.”

Barry’s head snapped back as if Mike had slapped him—that was what it felt like, for sure—his eyes narrowed, and he said flatly, “No. I’m not coming tonight. I’m going to my sister’s and celebrate Christmas Eve with my family, the way we used to do.”

Mike absorbed it. Nodded once. Curtly.

“You’re welcome to come too. Celebrate together.” If Barry sounded stiff, it was because it was obvious that, after telling him that it was a waste of time hearing him out, Mike was about going to decline his invitation with all the graciousness of a sledge hammer.

Sure enough, Mike’s lip curled sardonically. “Thanks. I’ve got a previous date.”

Barry rose from behind the desk, saying bitterly, “You know, Mike, it’s not like we’re ever going to run out of monsters.”

Mike had tensed when Barry stood up, but he said coolly, “Sure. See you the day after tomorrow, I guess?”

“I guess so.” Barry didn’t even care that his voice shook with all that dumb pointless emotion that Mike didn’t share, didn’t even notice.

Mike stared at him stonily for a moment, then walked out of the office. The door shut silently behind him.

Barry dropped down in his chair, rested his face in his hands, worked through the last five minutes. He didn’t think he was in the wrong. But at the same time, Mike had this…this calling. This slayer vocation heritage thing that went back generations. It probably wasn’t fair to spring it on him the way Barry had. He should’ve warned Mike earlier that he was, not wavering in the mission, but that he wanted some kind of a life—a life with Mike—outside the mission.

Not that Mike had seemed particularly interested in that part of the conversation.

Anyway, it didn’t matter because he couldn’t let Mike tackle this Krampus guy alone. He’d give Mike tonight, and of course tomorrow they’d be recovering from tonight, but maybe he could pitch the idea of taking some time off for New Year’s. Or maybe even Valentine’s Day?

His natural resilience reasserted itself, and Barry was on his feet again. He grabbed his hat and coat and was out the door, flying down the stairs after Mike. He was praying Mike hadn’t left without him; he didn’t want to be traipsing all over Mt. Wilson on his own—but when he reached the sidewalk outside their office building, he spotted Mike leaning against his Chevrolet, arms folded like he was counting down the minutes.

He straightened up when he spotted Barry. The hard white moonlight illuminated his face, but it was like looking at a statue. The Colossus of Rhodes maybe.

Barry reached him, said sourly, “I guess you think you know me pretty well.”

“I wasn’t waiting for you,” Mike said.

“No?”

“I was thinking.”

Barry’s brows shot up, but for once he kept the wisecracks to himself.

“You’re right. We’re never going to run out of monsters.”

“Well, it’s not like we can’t give it our best shot,” Barry said bracingly. Mike could be moody. He didn’t want him getting depressed about his family legacy.

As he studied Mike’s somber face, it came to him that it was now or never. He drew in a breath, said the thing that had been weighing on him for months.

“Look. It’s just... It's six years we’ve known each other, Mike. I just want some time for us. Business is good. The money is good. It just seems like maybe there could be time to build something. For us. Together.”

It got a little choppy at the end, because Mike was staring at him like they hadn’t been properly introduced.

Finally, finally, Mike spoke.

“Then you meant it?"

"Uh, yeah. Which part?"

"About celebrating together tonight?” If it had been anyone else, Barry would have said there was a note of uncertainty in Mike’s low voice.

“Hell yes, I mean it. Of course you should be there. Aren’t we…”

“Are we?” Mike asked.

“Aren’t we?”

These two lunk heads probably could have gone on like that for another five minutes, but Barry caught something out of the corner of his eye: a distant bright light skimming through the stars and gliding over City Hall. What was that? A plane? No, the trajectory was wrong. A slow-motion shooting star?

“Hey, there goes Santa Claus,” he joked.

But Mike continued to gaze at him in that dark, troubled way. “It’s just that your mind always seemed to be on the job.”

“Because your mind was always on the job. And that was okay when I was thinking we were working toward being able to have a life together. A real life. Sleeping late on weekends and having barbecues in the backyard and maybe going fishing sometimes.”

“You never said any of this before.” Mike sound ever so slightly accusing.

“I didn’t think I had to say it. And then I didn’t think the time was right. I wasn’t sure you wanted to hear it.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to hear it? We’re together every night. Including the nights we're not working,” Mike protested. 

“Yeah, but we’re not talking!”

Mike laughed. Barry laughed too, a little uncertainly.

Was it going to be okay after all? Did they both—

Mike reached out, cupped the side of Barry’s face, whispered, “You should have said. I thought you were getting tired of all of it. Of me.”

Barry shook his head. “No. No, I want more you. Less monsters. That’s all. That’s all I ask.” He pulled Mike’s palm from his face, kissed it. “I love you, Mike.” He smiled shakily, tried to kid, “And what would you like for Christmas?”

Mike pulled him into a bone crushing embrace, whispered against Barry’s ear, “I love you. How do you not know? I always have. I always will.”

High, high above, something sparkled and flashed across the night sky before disappearing from sight, quick and bright as a twinkle in the eye.