The Stories On Our Skin

“I did not expect you to remain in London,” Ducky says. He takes a sip from his glass -- just water these days; he has become fond of the simpler things.

Albert smiles and raises his own glass in a mock-toast. “I’ve traveled a bit here and there,” he says, “but you must admit that London has always been my kind of town.” His eyes still have that twinkle to them that Ducky became so fond of in Paris, the one that promises mischief of several varieties, and Ducky must admit that he is pleased to see it again.

“Yes, it always was, wasn’t it?” he says. They had quite a few weeks in London scattered over the years. There were the stolen hours along the Thames, their fingers brushing as Albert spun a story about a job in Kansas that may or may not have been entirely fabricated in the spur of the moment; the lunches in Trafalgar Square where Albert taught him the art of the pickpocket, mingling amongst the tourists before returning their table with his jacket stuffed full with stolen wallets; the long nights in whichever hotel Albert had decided to take up residence for that particular month, demonstrating to Albert exactly how his medical training could be put to very practical use.

“You’re in DC, now, aren’t you? Working for the law?” It will never fail to amaze Ducky how Albert can exude amusement like that, with every gesture, with every curl of his mouth.

“Yes,” Ducky says, “it is not the most lucrative of enterprises, but I find that the work suits me.” He runs his thumb over Albert’s knuckles. Their hands have changed over the years, growing thicker, less deft, but they still know the language of each others’ bodies. Ducky does not need to cut Albert open to know the shape of Albert’s ribs, the beat of Albert’s heart, the expansions and contractions of Albert’s lungs. These are things he has learned through observation, through the taste of Albert’s skin in his mouth, through the feel of Albert’s body underneath his fingers.

Albert brings Ducky’s hand to his lips, and it will never stop being strange, the openness of Albert’s affection in public these days. “That’s good,” Albert says. “I hope you will not object to spending the rest of the night with an unrepentant criminal such as myself.”

“You will hear no objections on my part,” Ducky says, “but perhaps you should not tell me what young Michael is up to these days.” He stands, fingers still in Albert’s hand, and he is suddenly struck by the desire to kiss him, out here in the open where anyone could see. Ducky dismisses it. A foolish notion, one for much younger men.

“I wouldn’t think of it,” Albert says with a different smile, and that is how they go upstairs, with their fingers still locked together, their arms brushing together as they walk.

Albert always had a taste for the finer things in life, which is why Ducky is not surprised by the extravagance of his accommodations. It’s a large suite with many bedrooms and a common area for planning all sorts of things that Ducky prefers not to consider at the moment. “Have I told you the story of the marine corporal who was stabbed while interrupting a mugging?” he says as Albert leads him into the bedroom.

“No,” Albert says, his fingers quick and assured on the knot of Ducky’s bowtie. “But you know how much I enjoy hearing you talk.”

Ducky tells the story the way he always does, only slightly exaggerating his own involvement in the case, as Albert peels off his clothes, as Albert traces the familiar pathways on his skin.

Albert never seems to exist beyond the moment, beyond the ever-shifting now, and Ducky likes to move from present to past to future with ease, but their time together always feels set apart from what might be considered the ‘real’ world, the world of dead bodies to be dissected, of new marks to be conned. And so when Ducky touches Albert, he does not feel the weight of the years on his shoulders. He feels the reality of Albert’s body, still alive and well and strong, and he feels the reality of his own, his fingers, his toes, his own blood flowing underneath his own skin.

In the morning, Ducky wakes to the gray London sunlight on his face, and it conjures up the vivid memory of another hotel room, another morning. It was the summer of ‘72, and Albert had been sprawled, face down, on the bed. There had been something about the light, something that made Ducky feel as though he were in a photograph, all white light and black shadows. And he had wanted to reach into that feeling, so he had tasted the length of Albert’s spine. He had traced words on the planes of Albert’s shoulder blades with his fingers and tongue, words that he could not bring himself to say out loud, words that he still wanted Albert to have.

Today, Albert is already awake, wrapped in a white hotel bathrobe and speaking softly into a mobile phone. He hangs up when he sees that Ducky is awake as well, coming to bed with his arms outstretched. Ducky kisses him when he arrives, a hand on Albert’s cheek, a hand on the back of Albert’s head. He tastes like morning, like London rain.

Ducky is leaving today, a midday flight from Heathrow to Dulles, and Albert shares a taxi with him to the airport. A long while ago, when their lives were less… acceptable, they would taunt each other with touches in public, a hand on a back, an elbow, an adjusted collar, a straightened tie. Ducky had a fascination with the cleft of Albert’s chin, and Albert loved to stroke Ducky’s hair. They would wind each other up like clocks until they could be alone together again, laughing as Albert would press Ducky against a wall, as Ducky would shove Albert onto a bed. Today, Albert rests his arm on Ducky’s shoulders as they walk inside the terminal.

“I won’t insult you by asking you to stay,” Albert says when they reach the security station, “but I hope you will one day you will consider it.”

Ducky laughs. “Charming me won’t do me any good,” he scolds, but his chest feels tight and painful. There are days when he wishes he could stay as well. He’s never been given to impulsiveness, but he still reaches out to clutch Albert’s fingers, still kisses the knobbly knuckles, still presses his lips against the soft skin of Albert’s palm. It feels strange to do this, as if he’s been stripped totally bare. He feels naked, totally exposed, and yet something inside him loosens, something inside him feels as though it’s been set free.

“I know,” Albert says, “but I still had to try.” He smiles, a small one that still feels like a secret between the two of them. He doesn’t take his hand away.

“When I get the chance,” Ducky says, even though promises are foolish for the both of them, “I will be back.”

Albert’s smile broadens as if he hears the entire volumes that Ducky is not saying. “I’ll hold you to that,” he says with a tiny salute, and then he disappears into the crowd.

Ducky watches the space where he used to be, but Albert is too skilled at his work, and there is no trace of him left behind. But the world does not stop spinning for such idle thoughts, so Ducky straightens the tie around his neck, and he removes his hat from his head, and then he leaves.