Sentinel Green 2.9

Wisteria 2.9

The second the words leave my mouth I regret them. It's not a wince-and-hiss kind of regret, but an eyes-wide, oh god I'm so sorry regret that transforms my face into a caricature of self-recrimination.

Maeve’s stunned, strangled reply doesn’t help. “What are you talking about?”

I backpedal like Lance Armstrong on maximum rewind. “Oh fuck. That came out horribly. It's just, I mean--” Way to fuckin’ go, Riley, blurt out the equivalent of I know what you did last summer! “I only figured it out because… the same exact thing happened to me. I'm sorry,” I tack on, fighting the urge to wring my hands.

While Maeve processes this I struggle to read her expression. I can’t tell what’s happening in her head at first, but she finally gets out a flat, blunt, “what” that doesn’t even sound like a question.

That what is so familiar to me, but that’s the last thing on my mind as it becomes increasingly clear that Maeve is now concerned that I’ve become a threat. Her eyes are hard, and the grip on her weapon went from relaxed to strangling at some point when I wasn’t watching. I axe the idea to lift my hands in the don’t shoot pose or take a step back. It feels better to just calm down the best I can and try to salvage this trainwreck.

“I… couple days ago, I was driving late at night, through the same area where we fought that monster tonight.” I don’t like offering a more long-winded explanation like this, but at this point I’ll just fudge this up even worse if I don’t go in order. “And a girl darted out in front of my car. She didn’t… make it, and that’s when I met, um, ‘my’ Puchuu and… the rest is, well.” I indicate lamely to my still-transformed magical outfit. My gaze shifts to the floor, weird shame welling inside me even though I’m still certain Maeve shares my story.

Or… does she? Sudden doubt seizes me with dozens of ice-cold hands. Have I been horribly mistaken? It would be perfect, the cherry on top of this whole ordeal, if I’ve just admitted to vehicular manslaughter and Maeve actually wasn’t the driver of Krystal’s accident after all. I dare to peer back up at Maeve’s face, my chin still tucked low, uncertainty written all over my face now.

“Oh.” Maeve finally seems to understand, and I try not to let my knees go watery with relief. That could have been so bad. She drops her glaive, but instead of a loud clang and clatter as it hits the floor, it disappears into thin air. Then she takes a few steps, and I tense, but it’s just to close the space between herself and the bed. She sits heavily upon it and stares into space. I let her.

It’s several crawling seconds later that she finally looks up, meeting my eyes with an expression I’ve never seen on her before. I’d seen glimpses of this raw, exhausted sorrow before, always when it wasn’t the best time to speak of what troubled her. Now she speaks, but I could have never expected what she says.

“Riley...” Her voice is thick with emotion, no longer the steady, calm tone I’d gotten so used to in so few days. “You didn’t used to have green eyes, did you?”

Everyone always said my face was an open book. My first reactions tend to flash across it without any kind of permission, and now is no different. I don’t know why it hits me like it does, but that simple question lances me, and I know it shows. Even when I add a strange, crooked smile, it shows.

“No,” I manage. “Not even close.” I feel like more needs to go there, but for a time I just draw blanks. All the moisture in my throat goes up in flames, and suddenly it’s all I can do to summon my voice. Errant snips of thought cut tiny lines through me. I’m grateful she knows what this is like. I feel awful that I am grateful. I want to know more about her. I don’t want to stab at that fresh wound to ask. A profound sentiment struggles inside me, amorphous and shrouded. I want to excavate it and put it into words.

All I can manage for now is, “Is that yours? The color, I mean.” I gesture faintly with one finger across my face, from eye to eye. It almost feels like a sacred gesture, some kind of ineffectual ward against evil.

It’s like kicking down the door to a musty old house. “No,” she says, her shoulders bowing, her posture closing in on itself. “This isn’t me, either.”

She cuts to the heart of it in that particular way she does so effortlessly, but the tiny stab of existential dread doesn’t last long. I’m not me, and she’s not her, but some things haven’t changed. I still can’t stand to see someone I respect and genuinely like hurting. There’s that little blitz of social fear, the idiotic worry I’ll go too far. I silence it and slip in beside her, taking a seat next to her on the bed. She’d sit taller than me even like this if she wasn’t hunched forward, but because she is I have no trouble putting an arm around her shoulder.

I know how I am in situations like this, so I try to do what I’d want. I don’t crowd her, but I don’t move away. Instead I stare out at the space in front of us, trying not to box her in with my gaze. Things occur to me to say, dimly, but I let them drift in and out of my head. Only one thing is strong enough to make it to my voice.

“I don’t know if what happened to us is rare or not. But if I have to be living this way, I’m glad I found you.” The second I’m done speaking a wry smile twitches at the corner of my mouth. “That’s not right. You found me, I guess.”

Her face turns towards mine and I meet her eyes. They’re misty, but a smirk breaks out over her face and I guess it was more like kicking down that door after all. The expression is a burst of fresh air, even though I know she’s struggling to give us even this much of that smile. Her voice still wavers when she says, “Excuse me, I think that the monster is the one that put us in touch.”

I twitch around a stifled laugh, but a stupid grin breaks across my face. We’re both so wrecked, so clearly trying not to be, but somehow that makes this strange dance all okay. “How--how gracious of it. Four stars on Better Business Bureau. Woulda been five but I don’t really appreciate the attempted murder.” Her lingering pain hurts, reminds me of my own, but somehow it’s bearable, sitting here together like this. Maeve doesn’t move away, and I’m grateful for it.

“That’s terrible,” she says after a pause. She elbows me in the ribs and I play-cringe away from the little jab.

Maeve rests back on the bed and I stay where I’m seated, looking her way with a growing bubble of contentment staking tentative ground in my chest. My smile downgrades into a warm, tired one.

It isn’t long before Maeve turns back my way, her composure now visibly more intact. Mine, however, shatters when she next speaks.

“I...” She hesitates for a beat. “I’m a little jealous that you got to keep your gender though.”

Even if my face hadn’t given it all away, I doubt I’d have tried to hide it. I glance away, feeling somehow guilty, as ridiculous as it seems. My hand makes its way up to scrub at the back of my neck. “Well. As it were, I--”

I cut myself off mid-sentence as the second implication hits me. I drop my hand from my neck and pivot to look at Maeve better, my eyes wide and my eyebrows traveling up my forehead. She’s looking at me with a somewhat sympathetic smile, like I’ve been caught in an awkward situation and she feels bad for me.

“Wait,” I blurt out. “So you--you swapped, too? I mean--”

Maeve sits bolt upright. Her expression transforms into one of intense, focused surprise in a flash. “You didn’t. You were a girl.”

I’d been in danger of bumbling my way into another confusing situation, and am grateful Maeve picked up on my meaning. “Yeah,” is all I manage for a second. I shake my head and give her a bewildered, lost look. Of all the things that had chafed against me since my whole life exploded, I never expected this confession to cause such relief. My shoulders sag and I scrub my hands across my face and up through my hair. I don’t have to pretend I know what I’m doing. A strange, exhausted smile cracks out across my face as I peer at Maeve. “I’m kind of--surprised if I didn’t raise red flags before now. God, I feel so conspicuous. It’s like--nothing’s quite right, things aren’t crazy off but they’re off enough that they throw me off and--and you know exactly what I’m talking about.” I breathe the last part of my rambling diatribe out on a deep exhale that feathers out into a tired chuckle.

Maeve pulls both her long legs up, crossing them, and pivots to face me directly. If that wasn’t bad enough, she leans forward, resting her chin in her hands, completely focused on this conversation and eating up some of the formerly comfortable space between us. Thank Gaia, my current deity of choice, that we aren’t having this talk over dinner. Whatever food I’d have been eating would surely have become the instrument of my demise. As it is I cough convulsively but stifle it fast. I heat up in my old body but don’t usually turn red. This new body isn’t so gracious… I can feel it.

“To be perfectly honest,” she says, “you did give off a weird vibe. I thought you were gay a couple times, because you’d do something effeminate - like the way you hugged me. But then I also noticed you checking me out, so I wasn’t sure what to think.”

In spite of my unfortunate return to “perpetually flustered,” I can’t stop the big, stupid smile that returns to my face. It is, perhaps, a touch self-deprecating. “Well, I guess your red flag was half-right. I bat for both teams--or, my old body did. Jury’s out on this one.” For a split second I can feel myself teetering at the edge of a rabbit hole, wondering how much of my personality can override this new vessel’s biological hardwiring. I shake it off. “I… will openly admit that you can be a bit… distracting at times. Sorry if I made it weird. I’d blame it on my unwelcome return to teenage hormones but that’s probably a cop-out.”

Maeve looks at me like I just said something particularly curious. I briefly wonder what it could be as she cocks her head to the side thoughtfully. Was it the bi thing? “I guess that makes sense. I am-” But she cuts herself off after that and doesn’t pick back up.

I’ve never possessed any chill and I guess I’m not about to suddenly develop it. Maeve’s silence needles in my brain and makes me internally fidget until words fountain out of me. “Please don’t feel the need to disclose anything back to me. I’m just sort of--talking now. I guess.” Besides, I’m pretty sure I know what this whole situation spells out. Not that I was ever angling for anything to happen there, but in my mind I mark Maeve up as ‘attracted to women until proven otherwise.’ It seems simpler.

Maeve looks back at me from where she’d been glancing aside, thinking. “Oh. Uh, I’m just not sure how to word it.” She lifts a hand as if to give me option one. “Saying ‘I was straight’ implies I’m not now. But if I ‘am straight’ does that mean I like girls still or like guys now, because I’m a girl now? Is straight even the right word? You see what I’m saying?”

In my mind I cross out ‘attracted to women until proven otherwise’ and replace it with a bunch of question marks. And perhaps the word ‘danger.’ “Language is the worst. And this concept is a migraine, yeah.”

I pivot better on the little bed so I can face Maeve more comfortably and try to pull my ankles up closer to the join of my legs to sit in the meditation pose I used to use all the time as a woman. It’s nowhere near as comfortable as a guy and I adjust fast, settling for cross-legged. My eyes track back to the way Maeve is sitting now, wondering how leg length and gender affects posture. A curious glance in the name of science quickly makes me feel uncomfortable. “Distracting” is right.

Maeve’s expression grows just a touch serious, and a second later purple sparks spring to life between us. My eyes widen but soon my surprise is replaced by another broad grin. God, will I ever get sick of watching magic? It’s one of the few perks in all this madness. As I watch, transfixed, Maeve toggles between an outfit or two and settles for what have to be the most adorable and appealing lavender pyjamas I’ve ever seen. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from smiling too hard.

She clears her throat and brings me back to the here-and-now. “Ah, I assume by the whole ‘return’ to teen hormones comment we’re both a fair bit older than we look.”

It takes me a beat to process. What comes on the coattails of her words is relief, though. Knowing that she’s also not originally in her teens makes me feel a lot less skeevy and guilty about the way my body reacts to hers. Though I reason it’s not something I can help, it still made me feel strange until now.

“Right,” I say. “I mean, I wasn’t middle-aged or anything like that--not that that’s a bad thing. But I definitely felt bizarre being at that high school.” Why am I hedging around giving my real age? It hardly seems to matter at this point. “Twenty-six.”

She gives me that enigmatic Mona Lisa smile again, like I’ve done something unintentionally humorous. “I know the feeling,” she says. “Though I’ve been in schools since I graduated myself, so it wasn’t quite as odd for me. I’m twenty-nine.”

This is better than I could have hoped--it’s not like I would have been bothered by Maeve and I being farther apart in age, but it’s a comfort knowing that we’re… similar, at least in a few ways. Then some other things start to occur to me, and my grin grows.

“Hey, I did think you were making some references that were pretty unusual for a teenager. Makes sense.” I drop my eyes to where my hands are resting along my shins.

Maeve huffs out a small laugh. “Hey, you first. I was playing off of you with that Final Fantasy stuff. You said limit breaks before I said Omnislash.”

“Ha! You’re right,” I muse, still addressing my legs at first. I pull myself out of my thoughts with some effort and glance up at Maeve again, savoring every second of this new, easy feeling. For a short time that’s all I do--smile and study her, allowing vague little feelings and not-quite-thoughts to drift in and out of me as they please. The place I always seem to return to is gratitude. It’s a feeling I didn’t expect to experience so strongly, given all that’s happened to me in under a week.

Like clockwork, though, the little voice inside me that tracks social interaction and alerts me of protracted silences pokes at me. Along with it is a subject we haven’t addressed yet. “Oh, so… um, sleeping situations. I’m honestly good with the chair and maybe leaning forward onto the bed… I mean, I fall asleep in airplanes like that all the time, on those little tray tables. And through maybe a few math classes,” I add with a small smirk. “So feel free to spread out.”

Maeve hesitates. Then she swings her legs off the edge of the bed and glances my way with a tiny frown. “Shouldn't I be offering the bed to you? I don't have too much trouble sleeping sitting up either, and I had the bed last night.”

I sense a nice-off coming, and stifle a smile. “Yeah, but… you’re so tall. Isn’t leaning over like that sort of killer on the middle and lower back? Or so some of my tall friends have told me.” I try not to let their faces flash through my mind. Fresh from a kind of pleasant evening, hot on the heels of our first real victory, I’m not in the market for a punch of sorrow to the gut. “I can take it tomorrow if you like? To be honest I’m still pretty wide awake so I don’t even know if I’d make good use of it tonight.” It’s true--I’m relaxed, sort of, but also very keenly energized. I wonder when my inevitable crash will hit.

Maeve waves a hand at me, unconcerned. “Tomorrow we’re going shopping, so we’ll get an air mattress or something. I mean if you’re positive you want to stay up, you can. But I was up real early this morning and I can attest that there's not much to do in here.” Then she grimaces as if remembering something. “Well, I mean unless you can leave, which you can. But if you leave and don't come back, I'm stuck here. So please don't.”

I blanch. I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s probably true. “Yikes… that’s scary. I won’t go anywhere.” I cast a glance around the little apartment, sizing up walls. “It would be great to have a book at some point… maybe I can find a bargain bin of old paperbacks when we’re out tomorrow.” That thought starts a daisy-chain to my phone, which I normally read articles on late at night to wind down. I never got that charger from the girls, but I’m still on the fence if I even want it. I feel my expression darkening before I can stop it, but smooth it back out quickly enough. Tomorrow will be nice--no monsters (knock on wood) and getting a few more bits and pieces to make this place more livable. I try to look forward to it and squelch a little cold knot inside me. Getting those things just makes this situation feel so much more permanent.

“You sure you don't want the bed?” Maeve tries one more time.

“Positive,” I say, because a lovely, tantalizing, irresistible thought just occurred to me. I can go shower. The need cranks all the way to 11 and suddenly I’m positively fidgety with the need to degrungify myself. “Will it bug you though if I run the shower? It’s been… a bit since I’ve had one.” I feel grosser by the second.

“Oh. No, I don’t think it’d bother me at all. Feel free? I don’t think I noticed the hot water running out at all when I was in there this morning, so I guess either the tank is huge or it’s just magic.”

Magic hot water tank. Chalk one more point up on the “perks” side of this whole shebang if that’s true. “Frickin’ score if so,” I murmur, turning and stripping off my shirt already, chucking it into the tiny bathroom ahead of me. I crank the water on so it has a chance to get hot before I dive in, then poke around to make sure I have everything I need. I try tugging my socks off with my toes as I take my short inventory, but these feet are different feet. Frustrated, I finally stoop to fling them off the old-fashioned way. The towel that Maeve had magically made clean is hanging up on the rack, and it looks like that’s all I need.

I turn to peer back out through the door, light steam already starting up behind me. Bless you, possibly-magic water heater. “G’night, I guess, if you go to bed before I’m done.” I don’t bother trying to stop the smile. It feels so indulgent, such a privilege to be able to say goodnight to someone. I really thought I was going to be completely alone when this whole mess started. Maeve gives me back a wide smile of her own as she bids me goodnight.

I shut the door and make short work dispensing of my pants and boxers. The hot water feels amazing, just at that perfect point where it’s almost too hot to handle. I do everything I’ve always been told to avoid, letting the near-scalding spray hit my face for a long moment and vigorously scrubbing it with both hands. I wonder vaguely if this body will break out if I treat my face poorly, but I somehow doubt it.

I blast through my hygiene routine pretty fast at first--not much has really changed about lathering up my hair with shampoo, which was always step one. When it comes time to address the bar of soap and my new body though, I pause.

I got dressed and dealt with morning wood earlier, but this is definitely the most… intimate… I’ve been with this new form. I take a moment to peer down at myself, taking it all in. It’s a bit easier to look the dick in the eye, so to speak, now that we broke the ice earlier. But in reality that’s only one part that makes this all so surreal. My curves have all become edges. Hot water cuts in rivers down a stomach I would never be able to maintain in my old body, with my old habits. My legs seem so long now, my feet so big. Hell, I’ve even got those awesome sexy hip-bone lines now. I trace them thoughtfully and twitch. Okay, I’m still a little ticklish. That’s oddly comforting.

I abandon that area and run soapy hands up my stomach muscles, taking a moment to slide my hands across my pecs. So, so weird… but in a way, not all that unwelcome. I went through a pretty long phase in my own teen years where I hated my body, the femaleness of it, and daydreamed constantly of being able to shift into a male whenever I wanted. It had worsened a bit when I came to the realization that I liked girls as well as guys, and that most girls I met only had eyes for the X-Y combo. That intense malcontent faded a bit over time, and at twenty-six years old I’d come to accept my skin more or less. I was perfectly happy with myself most days. Now that was all turned on its head.

I experimentally try a few stretches, crouching down and standing, testing the way my new muscles move. The strength and speed still floors me. My engine is always warmed up, ready to go with just a tap of the foot. Even without the magic part, the things I could do with this body seem limitless. My reflexes are astonishing now, the punch I pack considerable. For the first time since I turned, it occurs to me that there are likely millions of people out there who would kill to be given the chance to live the life I’ve been forced into. How many people with not much to leave behind would jump at the opportunity to be a monster-slaying, magic-wielding superhero?

Too bad I had things to leave behind. But I shut my eyes, and shut those thoughts out, too. Later. I’d figure out what the hell to do about that later.

In the meantime I continue soaping up, cleaning every square inch of myself until there’s only one area left to address. Saving my junk for last wasn’t going to make cleaning it any less bizarre.

I soap up my hands for a bit longer than needed, staring down blankly at my crotch region all the while. “Alright,” I tell myself, abandoning whatever shame/sanity normally kept me from talking to my own genitalia. “Let’s do this. I fought a monster today. You don’t scare me.” My dick seems unconvinced. Jerk.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but when I reach down to start lathering myself up, it’s not quite what I anticipated. It’s not overly sensitive, and of course this doesn’t hurt. It’s mostly just… skin. Maybe skin I’m a bit more aware of, but it’s no big deal so far. A sigh of relief escapes me as I focus on purely hygiene for a bit. I might be able to do this. A bubble of laughter catches in my throat, silent, as my own ridiculousness hits me. So I can handle myself, completely naked in a steamy shower and not pop a boner, but if Maeve so much as smirks my way in that thrice-damned magical outfit of hers…

Oh. Goddamn it. There I go.

So, observation number one: arousal can be just as triggered by stray thoughts in this body as it was in my old one. How perfectly shitty. I can only hope that this reaction was so speedy because I was already sort of priming myself for it, what with the touching myself. I stare down at my steadily growing hardon with a deeply unamused, exhausted expression. It quickly gives way to a tiny spark of curiosity, though.

I wonder if I can avoid awkward morning wood if I “take care of business” here? I mean, where else will I even address situations like this? I have a shoebox (albeit magical) apartment and a roomie now. Hesitant, nervous, and feeling like my decision gives off a neon glow that can be seen from the crack beneath the door, I grasp myself in one hand.

Okay, cool. Now what? I’ve done this to others a handful of times (ha, handful…) but actually not that often. And there were definite differences in preference between the partners I’d had. I give myself a few very half-hearted strokes, but it’s like my own uncertainty is turning me off. That’s a blow to my self-esteem if ever I felt one.

What even is supposed to feel good? Too much friction is bad, I know… no one likes a dry hand-job. I grab more soap, which is sort of nice--it at least makes things slicker and faster, but… something’s just not right. And I think I might know what it is.

So I let go and stand there for a bit, eyes closed, face turned up to the ceiling. Just breathe, I coach myself. It’s cool if this doesn’t happen right away. Chill out and get out of your head.

Yeah, easier said than done. I sigh heavily, aware I’ve been in here for a while now. It’s very possible that Maeve knows exactly what I’ve been attempting in here, and the thought makes my throat go a little dry. It should mortify me straight back to my senses, but in reality, it’s probably relative by this point. If I’ve already had a suspiciously long shower, I might as well have something to show for it. Wait, not “show for it,” that didn’t make sense… but, something should at least happen.

Renewing my resolve, I take one last deep breath and retreat as far into my head as I can. I forgo the anxiety and uncertainty the best I can, focusing on little things. The hiss of water hitting the tub, the way each steamy lungful of air feels hot and heavy inside my chest. I flicker images across my mind and keep them as vague as possible… hands running up sides, fingers digging into the smooth skin of a back, raking down, leaving gentle, faint marks. Mouthing at a neck, nose buried in sweet-smelling hair. A stifled groan.

This is working way better--my body and I are in agreement there. It’s easier with my eyes closed, too--distant, somehow, not as up close and personal. At first I keep up a more leisurely pace, but I soon realize I’ve got to work myself a little harder, a little faster. It’s so different from my old body in so many ways, but this at least feels familiar… the more worked up I get, the more my pace matches my quickening pulse.

I lean a shaky arm against the slick tiles and drop my forehead onto it, chewing on the inside of my cheek to keep myself quiet. Hard breathing should be fine, right? Not too audible? It doesn’t matter either way, because it’s not like I can stop that. This feels good. Not as sensitive as it was when I was a woman, but undeniably satisfying, gratifying enough with each motion that I just want to keep going.

I can it when I’m starting to get close. Everything builds and my control starts to slip. My movements get less predictable, faster, driven more by need than technique, and my thoughts and focus narrow to the tightening of my muscles, the knowledge that, at any second--

I suck in a ragged breath and damn near break my “no sound” rule. Eyes squeezed shut, teeth clamped hard on my lower lip, I breathe hard and rough while I ride my way through the several hard pulses of my finish. My body moves on its own, hips snapping forward slightly, then slowing. After a few seconds of static all comfort and intuition I’d been enjoying abandon me. My hand feels heavy and foreign, and several thoughts I’d shelved rush back. Was I quiet enough? Tomorrow will be embarrassing as hell if not. It’s fine to jack off in showers, right? It doesn’t hurt the plumbing or anything, does it? Do guys just let it run down the drain or deposit it into a trash can with some tissue?

Torn between several different ideas, I settle for rinsing myself off in the shower. Lesson number two: cum gets chunky and clumpy in running water. I grimace as I do the best I can to manage that situation. All I can do is hope our drains are magical too. It occurs to me I could ask Maeve tomorrow, but… no. Decidedly no. We are not “there” yet.

The rest of my cleanup passes without event, and quickly. I’ve definitely been in here long enough. Somehow I thought I’d feel better after releasing some tension, but if anything, I just feel fuzzy-headed and a little ambivalent. Like I’d just stretched really well, or finally caught my breath after a long run. Satisfied, generally good in a physical sense, but… off. Unfulfilled.

I then come to the unwelcome realization that I don’t have magically clean clothes waiting for me. Stifling a groan and regretting past-Riley who chucked his clothes on the floor earlier, I dust them off the best I can, give them the sniff test, deem them passable, and get dressed again. Shopping list item for tomorrow: bulk t-shirts, boxers and sweatpants. The cheaper the better; I don’t care about patterns or color. I will rock that People of Walmart fashion.

I creep back to the bed, hair still damp but passable, and settle down as quietly as I can in the chair next to where Maeve lies on the bed. I stifle a chuckle but can’t stop the smile. Poor girl (“girl”) is way too tall for a twin. She’s curled up on her side, facing the window, and that works for me. I settle in on her other side, arranging myself in the most comfortable way possible and using my folded arms as a pillow. I’m convinced I won’t sleep a wink, but this weird new body shows me up again. I pass barely fifteen minutes with fuzzy gray thoughts before it all fades away.