Shadows in the Night

Billie Joe had a lot running through his mind while buttering his toast - wheat bread, mind, for he kept himself on a strict diet - and he wasn't quite sure of the different feelings that were fighting each other deep inside his gut.

He had found Mike's note paper weighted beneath the coffee maker. There had been a sense of relief in catching sight of it. Late in the morning had come by the time Billie had finally roused himself out of bed - the abnormally late hour he slept in to no doubt caused by the fact he had cried much of the night pervious - and when he had made it all the way down to the living room with no sign of his husband or stepdaughter, anxiety had intruded him without warning. And though the note soothed him, there was still an unexplainable uneasiness making itself comfortable in the back of his head. It brought him to feel more aware of his surroundings than usual.

Like his sense of hearing had magically heightened as his vision had sharpened.

He reckoned that he could feel every grain of the bread beneath his suddenly sensitive fingertips as he applied its topping. And he hated it. He threw the toast into the garbage can like someone had told him it was tainted with a sadist's poison.

His strength was wavering, and that much was obvious to him. If it weren't true, he wouldn't be standing with his belly pressed to edge of the counter and hands gripping it on either side. His head wouldn't be bowed in near surrender, and he wouldn't be gritting his teeth and thinking, Get a fucking grip, Armstrong, stop being such a goddamn pansy.

Things had gotten complicated. More tangled than Billie had bargained for. Of course he had recognized the strains his husband's past would bring. The two had gotten together as Mike was signing divorce papers, and Brittney had been entering her sixth month of pregnancy at the time, seething wild that Mike would leave her and their unborn child. But he loved Mike, and he didn't doubt Mike loved him too. And with Mike came security, stability, hope.

But what the fuck does a person do when all of that so called security, stability, and hope starts fucking crumbling as if it never truly stood tall to begin with?

Billie Joe didn't want to think that the horrors his mind played were anything close to reality. He was one to exaggerate, everyone had always recognized that about him. The center of himself had been hope, through one bad relationship after the next, and he refused to allow something that had once made him feel invincible fall to ruins.

I can fix this, he was thinking, his hands clutching the counter tighter and his teeth breaking through the skin of his bottom lip until blood began to surface. It's early, he still loves me. He loves me, and he's talking to Brittney right now, and when he brings good news, we can talk. Today, we'll sit down and just fucking talk, and patch the hole in the boat before all the damn water makes us sink. We'll work it out, he still loves me. He still loves me.

Billie could sing positive ideas through his head all day long, but it didn't have the power to halt that one determined little tear to fall and mark his unshaven cheek.

It was gone as quickly as it had come because - Mike was home.

Ever since he was a boy, he could compose himself quicker than his mother liked. Wipe the unwanted expression away and replace it with a pretty lie. He was well practiced; an expert. His face morphed into false calm and ease in a simple second, and when he turned to see his husband in the doorway of the kitchen, it was an easy task for him to put on a weak smile and softly say,

"Hey, Jackass."

Mike put on a tiny smile too, but Billie guessed it was more from relief than anything else. "So you got my note?"

"Yeah. Why did Stella want to go home so early?"

"Well. . ." Mike's teeth found his lower lip, but they released it so a heavy sigh could sift out of his mouth. "She thought we needed to work some shit out and that it was best if she wasn't around while we did. I mean, she was probably right. . . Bill, I talked to Brittney."

It was hurried and fast and blunt. And Billie already knew it. "So," he said, some anticipation coloring the iris of his eyes that had turned quite pale. "What happened? How did it go?"

"How does it ever go with her? She's stubborn, Billie, and. . ." The taller's head shook from side to side as his shoulders noticeably sagged. "There's no talking to her, let alone compromising."

Defeat. Mike radiated defeat. The color retreated from Billie's eyes.

"Then. . . well, then you're going to have to call your lawyer, aren't you?"

Mike suddenly sprang to life in frustration. He growled out loud and raised his hands, burying them in his hair as he groaned, "Didn't you hear me? Billie Joe, she won't compromise. And bringing it to court will do no damn good, she'll just twist up shit about me, and it'll be a waste of fucking time. And a waste of fucking money we don't fucking have. Please, baby, I know you want this, but you're not understanding that we just can't right now."

For a moment, Billie said nothing, until a silence formed between them. Mike stared at Billie, and Billie stared at Mike. But then Billie remembered his promises to himself that he would fix this - whatever it was - and he weakly said,

"Okay."

"Okay?" Mike repeated, slightly confused with a furrowed brow to prove it. His eyes were studying his husband with an urgency, so he didn't miss one more thing. "What do you mean by 'okay'?"

"I mean okay. This, me, you, us. Okay."

It didn't entirely make sense to Mike. But he knew the maze Billie Joe's head was, and how much he could have processed during the absence of both their voices in that small interval of time. And being as desperate as he was to be just fucking happy with his Billie, he smiled and asked, "Really? Us? We're okay?"

"Mm hm," Billie nodded and lifted the corners of his mouth in attempt to sugar his lie. He made sure he looked as small and vulnerable as possible, because he knew that, to a man, there was nothing equal to the sight of a willing-to-be-happy-and-peace-offering-wife. Or husband.

And it felt good when Mike crossed the room to pull him into his thick arms. The hug was the longest one they had shared in a while, and Billie all but melted when Mike's lips pressed to the tip of his nose. "I love you."

Who said it, Billie wasn't sure. It didn't matter. The other answered, "I love you too."

"I have to go," Mike said with some reluctance. "Work. I'm late as it is. But tonight. . ." He paused to take the sweet and scratchy and beautiful face he was proud to call his in his hands. "Tonight, we're going to make up nice and proper. Hear?"

"Sounds good, Mikey. Sounds real good."

Mike kissed him with a fair amount of passion, then pecked his forehead before giving one last smile and exiting the kitchen. Now, he was thinking. Now, he's accepted this. Billie's all right with the Brixton thing, at least for now, and maybe we can get back on track.

He was fucking wrong.

Billie hesitated in front of the apartment door. Knuckles against the wood, not quite ready to take the plunge and knock. When he did, it was three times, and quick.

She was gorgeous, and Billie wasn't one to deny it, though he hated the woman. Long blond hair and piercing eyes, a body that could kill. Even with a lip curled in complete revulsion and hate in her glance, she was a knockout.

"What're you here for, Billie Joe?" Brittney all but snarled. Her arms folded over her chest, hands in fists. Perhaps to keep from slapping his pretty little face. Again. After all, he had stolen her husband, hadn't he? "I already dealt with Mike today, and my patience is wearing mighty fucking thin."

"You hate me," Billie Joe answered calmly, but the contempt was clear in his crazed eyes. Everything was crazed about him, though, wasn't it? Hair a mess, dirty clothes, not showered or shaven due to him throwing himself in the car as soon as Mike's had pulled out of the driveway. "I admit to hating you too. But you can't just sit there and keep your son from his family-"

"And who's that family, Billie Joe? Mike? No. Fucking no. Not when he's banging a faggot slut."

Maybe that wasn't the sole reason. But if it caused a bit of pain to flare up in Billie's wild eyes, it was good ammunition to throw at him below the belt.

"We're married, Brittney. I'm not a 'faggot slut', I'm Mike's husband, and like it or fucking not, Brixton is my stepson!"

She could have killed him. She figured it would be real easy, and him claiming to be of any relation to her baby was giving her enough reason to do it. He was a tiny thing, and the heel of one of her shoes could easily alter him unconscious with a strike. The rest could be history. Wouldn't that feel good? Because Mike loved him, and if it was something important to Mike, it was worth destroying. Wasn't it?

But she didn't remove her shoe and club him over the head. Instead, she let her lips smile falsely, arms uncurl from her chest gracefully, and reach to grasp the doorknob once more. "Don't you worry about Brix, sweetie. He's safe with me. But, maybe you should tell Mike to check in with his Hero. I mean, after all. . . Glorias do need protecting."

The door closed.

Billie Joe's heart was pumping so hard that it hurt as he abandoned Brittney's apartment door. He was confused, and the anxiety that had been so present that morning was starting to scramble and squirm from the back of his head to the front until it was heightening to panic.

And the worst part was that he didn't understand why.

The cell phone slipped in his hands several times as he tried to punch in the numbers. He was trying to drive at the same time, and somewhere in him, he knew it was stupid, but he just didn't care. He had to call Mike, and he needed to be home.

"Hello?" Mike answered, voice quiet, almost distracted. "Billie?"

"I just talked to Brittney," Billie hurriedly said, one hand swerving to avoid meeting another vehicle with his as the other tried to keep the phone to his ear. He was shaking.

"B-Bri- what? H-how? Billie, what the h-"

"She said something. Weird. It was so damn weird, Mike, she said you should keep an eye on - on your Hero, and I know she meant Stella, but. . . but then she said that. . . Glorias need protecting. Like - like Stella was one, but-"

Mike could not remember a time he had felt more sick.