Gift
Sweeney couldn't think of anything good enough to give Dylan for his 21st birthday. It wasn't like she could give him booze--he'd been drinking with her right from the beginning--or sex, either, since he had that all the time. And, as far as presents in packages wrapped in bows went...well.
Two years prior, Angelica's lawyers had shown up at Sweeney's dingy little office, for Dylan. His mother had been declared officially dead, and all of the Furioso state was now his.
So he already had every possible item he could ever want. They still lived in the guesthouse, and Sweeney hadn't quit her job (she wouldn't have had much to do during the day while Dylan was at the Divine, anyway) but they had a lot more stuff. And, oh yes, three other houses, two of which Dylan rented, and one, Dylan's favorite, they stayed in for vacations.
Sweeney hadn't really adjusted to this whole wealthiness idea yet. She didn't really see the need to do anything different because of it, and Dylan had grown up with it, so neither did he. On weekends they did the same things they'd always done: take long drunken taxi rides, stay in bed late into the afternoon, share exotic food.
Everything was as it should be, as if it was meant to be.
But of course, it wasn't meant to be. Sweeney was never meant to be part of the equation at all--she knew that much. All Sweeney had to do was look at the night sky, or remember a dream on first waking, to know that Dylan was a boy meant for a goddess, and Sweeney was just an aging not-quite-punk with big clumsy hands.
So what should she give him, give to this beautiful creature, a divine offering who'd thwarted destiny, who seemed perfectly happy to sit all day making doggy eyes at her? What present could possibly be worthy of this gift who'd lain himself at her feet?
She decided the night before, not long before midnight. They were curled in bed, contented, his long soft hair painting patterns of shadow across her chest. He looked like a child, in sleep, and as she watched him, even breath making him gently rise and fall like the tide, she thought about the woman in the moon. About the Molyneux scholars, and, [god], Oliver. About what Dylan's innocence had almost cost, and what it could cost him in the future. And she knew the one thing she could give him, that no one else could, not really, not properly, that deep inside he must already want.
The truth.
So, of course, everything was screwed up come morning-time.
Sweeney gave Dylan breakfast in bed, english muffins with strawberry jam, and hot waffles with ice cream. She fed the melted cream to him with her fingertips, and watched in awe as he licked it off like a cat. They shared a pot of Jamaica Blue Mountain, and she sang "Happy Birthday" to him.
The doorbell rang.
They tried to ignore it, but it went on, and on, and Sweeney was utterly certain that it would keep ringing until it was answered. She pulled on Dylan's velour bathrobe and came to the door on bare feet.
Balthazar Warnick was standing on her doorstep, apparently totally unfazed by the wait, or her appearance. "Good morning, Ms. Sweeney. I trust you're well? May I borrow Mr. Furioso for a bit?"
"I--" It would be a lot easier to ignore Balthazar, if he weren't such a damned combination of earnest and intimidating. She knew there was something very wrong and frightening about this man--had seen demonstrations of it, in fact--but when he just stood there in his suit and tie, it was hard to become very outraged. "I'll go get him."
She let the professor into her house, and he promptly sat down on the sofa. Then she ran down the hall again.
"Damn it. Dylan, Warnick is here to see you."
Dylan scrambled hastily out from under the sheets. "What? Professor Warnick? Here? Right now?"
"Yes! So get dressed, before he comes down here looking for you!" She threw him some clothes that might possibly belong to him.
"But--what does he want?"
"I don't know!" [But I can imagine], her mind footnoted. And hadn't she just made the personal vow to not keep secrets from him? She reached out and grabbed his arm, sighing. "Well, yeah, I think I do. I think he's here to do what I was going to do anyway. Except he won't tell you all of it, I think."
"What?" Dylan was pulling on his shirt, looking very confused.
"Stuff about your mom. And--your dad, and Balthazar, and me." [And Oliver]. "Stuff you need to know."
"...Oh."
By then, Dylan was reasonably dressed. He opened the door and started to walk out into the hall, but she stopped him. "Listen, kid," she said gently, "Come home when he's through, okay?" Sweeney pulled his head down and kissed him soundly.
"Of course," Dylan answered, then kissed her back. "I promise I'll be home in time for dinner. We're eating Portuguese tonight, all right?"
"Right."
Sweeney didn't follow him to the living room. She held on to the doorframe, listening to the quiet murmur of voices, and shortly after, someone closing the front door. Then she shut herself in the bedroom, and went back to bed. She hoped sleep would keep her from worrying about Dylan, about how the story was told--and about herself.
Sweeney woke up to the sound of a door slamming. She pulled herself off the bed and went out into the hall, still wrapped in Dylan's robe. She had no idea what time it was, or what day.
Dylan was calmly removing his shoes at the threshold, like he always did. "Hey," he said, "you look like hell." He smiled. "Get a move on. It's dinner time."
"Did he tell you?"
"Oh, yeah, sure. Come on. I'm starving."
So she threw on some actual clothes, and pulled her hair back instead of taking the time to brush it. Her hands were shaking, with, what, aftershocks?
When they stepped outside, Handsome Brown was waiting at the curb. Dylan told him where they were going, and after that they didn't talk at all. Billie Holliday was playing on the radio, and Sweeney listened.
At the restaurant, Dylan ordered a whole lobster for himself. Sweeney randomly chose something off the menu, not paying too much attention to what it was.
"So," Dylan said, after he'd taken a few bites of bread, "You and my mom, huh?"
Sweeney could feel her eyes widening, and didn't try to stop it. "Um. Yeah."
"Which one of us is better?"
"Dylan!" She swiped at him, and he grinned.
"And my mom and Oliver. My dad." Sweeney looked him in the eye. "Warnick showed me his picture."
"Yeah. You look a lot like him."
"Is that why you went out with me?"
"No!" Sweeney looked down at her empty plate, twisting her fingers around the stem of her wine glass. "You're a lot different, too." She thought about poor, poor Oliver, at the end, with his shorn, scarred head. Then something hysterical bubbled up inside her, something a lot like joy. "He's a girl now, you know."
Dylan didn't even blink. "So does that mean I'm the only guy who's ever loved you?"
And it was meant as a joke, but she could have taken offense at it. Instead she clung to it, like a talisman. "It means that you're the only one I love right now." She pulled his hand to her, across the table, and kissed his palm. "Happy birthday, Dylan."