Chapter Text
The first rains of the season were not the gentle trickle you had expected, but came in the form of a blustering storm.
Fortunately, you were already at Zeta-7s house, and as the wind howled outside, you were curled up on the couch. In the softness of its upholstery, you caught his scent, and all you had to keep you warm was one of Ricks knitted blue sweaters, a cup of decaf earl grey, and a quilt draped over your lap. Even though the days were warming up, and the world was settling, and stretching into the renewal of the season, there were still small bouts of cool air which give you a chill, but at least you were here; the place which was a well of comfort. Rick had called earlier, and told you he'd be home soon, right after finishing up a job a few dimensions away, and told you to make yourself comfortable. Though, it would have been more comfortable with him around.
You thought about flipping through the channels, but you had heard once that TV’s could explode or something if there was a power surge; most likely an old wives tale, but you didn't dare risk it. So, you thought that now was a good time for a book instead.
In Rick's house, there weren't many places which were off limits; leaving you free to explore. You'd say he was overly generous in giving you such allowances, considering most people tended to have their private spaces, but not him; or if he did, then you probably didn't know about them. You had a terrible habit of touching things, of wanting to know of their texture, and how heavy they were for no good reason. And with all the stuff he made and collected, you were never in want of entertainment. Everywhere, there was always something to which could hold your attention whether it was a plant, a device, or the random knick knack of not so long ago.
In essence, it was a place well lived in. There were the places he liked to sit, the areas he liked to eat, the places where his presence was so concentrated, you felt comforted amidst them. Was it idyllic? Perhaps. Romanticized? More likely than not.
Still, that was what made it all fun. Yet, danger could come at anytime, and disrupt your illusion.The crystal which hung about your neck was a constant reminder that you had to be vigilant if something didn't seem right. And while you felt generally safe, and the circuitry of the defense and surveillance systems were hidden, there had been times when you had felt an inkling of something, but as the saying goes ‘out of sight, out of mind’. There were times he gently reminded you to be cautious around the garage, and of the devices laid hidden in the spare cookie jars; you listened, even if there were a few times you were tempted to play with them.
Curiosity, was a wonderful, joyous, but dangerous emotion.
Amidst your search, you found that the varying rooms and spaces had a mood to them.
Like the room where musical instruments were on display, and music memorabilia covered its walls; it was nostalgic, but personal. You saw his precious yellow ukulele sat on the desk, next to a pile of sheet music; the top sheet containing the notes to a Spanish love song. You were tempted to look through them, but part of you thought that it wouldn't be a good idea. There were also small framed photos of a young Zeta-7 playing guitar in his bedroom; you'd recognize that toothy grin and bowl haircut anywhere.
From what you gleaned, he had always been lanky, which was no surprise. Oh, but seeing him playing in a band was new. Standing with two other band mates who were obviously alien, they all seemed happy, playing games, practicing, and performing for prestigious guests. You wondered what happened to them, or why Rick wasn't in a band anymore. Yet, that was a story that you'd have to hear from him another time.
You didn't stay long enough to examine the instruments more closely. And closing the door, you moved along; it was not yet a welcomed space. You did however, feel wistful in between the rooms, especially in the hallways. Along its walls, with all its pictures and paintings, you were reminded of the galleries of your youth; the ones you visited after school. You never told your father about these visits, but at the time when you fancied the idea of becoming an artist, you had observed the pictures displayed on ghostly white walls, but found no pleasure in them; seeing them as vulgar representations of one's hunger and greed.
Up until the point you met Zeta-7, your opinions on art had been low, but there was much beauty to be found in them. And having spent many happy hours observing him bring to life the inclinations of his heart, whether literal or metaphorical, you learned of freedom, of honesty, and fear. Opening your heart to the world's which were found amongst the canvas, you removed those high opinions. Oceans and landscapes, space, creatures, and figures; he painted what he knew, what he wanted, as well as what he wished, and dreamed.
At the end of the hallway, there were a few new ones, but you didn't know what to make of them. Scenes done in a impressionistic style, all seemed to be somewhat connected, and told a story. There is a man who is given a rose, whose stem climbs up his arm, until the bud rests above his heart. And while the world changes around him, and the man begins to age, the rose remains a bud still. Then, one day when the man is very old, the vines began to hinder his movement, and almost choke him to death, but then there is an illumination in the world, and the bud finally blooms.
Hmm, it made you wonder what he was thinking when he painted them.
Across the upstairs bathroom was another room where the air was stale, and items were scattered about the floor and shelves. There was something youthful about the way the sheets were rumpled, and the action figures were lined up next to one another. Zeta-7 wasn't the type to be messy except for when one of experiments went wrong, or when he was in the middle of piecing together his ideas. Small socks were balled up under the bed, and across the room a stack of textbooks sat on the writing desk. Behind the desk hung a world map, where red pushpins marked mountainous terrains, as well as areas which were known for their beauty.
You had an inkling of whose room this was, but it wasn't until you saw the yellow shirt which hung out of a hamper that you knew; this must have been Stoltz Mortys room. Stuck in time, as though waiting for is owner to return, Rick must have left it as it was as his way of coping. For your part, you understood a few things about coping, how draining it can be when you want something to make you feel better, even if it means to pretend nothing happened at all.
Finally, you had come across a room where there was nothing but books upon books lining its walls. In the center of the room was a recliner, beside it a small table with a lamp. Perhaps this was the room he came to when reading for pleasure. You lit the fireplace considering the rain brought a chill, and began to peruse the shelves.
Medical textbooks lined the top shelf; these you avoided. Unmarked journals took up three shelves worth, each one for a year in his life; these you were curious about, but you also avoided. Rick seemed to have a little bit from every genre; belles lettres, American classics, foreign language books, mystery, science fiction, romance, self help; everything that one could want for a private collection.
Hmm, for a man of science, you were surprised that he had so many romance books. There were the classic Jane Austen to contemporary romance of Jojo Moyes. Browsing through a few of them, and you found that his copy of Persuasion was well worn, and there were many lines which were underlined. Your favorite line being found in chapter 23 which said: “Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you.”
Oh Rick, a man after your own heart; this was your favorite line too. Did he know that? You replaced the well loved book on the shelf, and ran your hands along the spines of other older novels. Careful with leather-bound volumes, and delighting in the picture books, you had more than enough books to sate your need to run away with fictional characters and worlds. However, your eyes kept going back to the journals.
And after a while you couldn't resist anymore, and chose one from thirty years ago.