Looking Back

7 years of Living with Gargoyles

by Darkwood

‘You and I are one, now and forever.’ He says.

‘Gargoyles protect,’ he says.

      It sure doesn’t do anything for romance.

He was supposed to be here by now.

Sure, with all of the press coverage, and national acceptance I should be calm and patient, but I still worry. There is such a thing as a Quarryman, you know. But no, he’s only...twenty minutes late. I’m only FREEZING waiting up here in the dead of winter on the top of a building so he doesn’t have to scale a wall, but I’m fine.

      And to think, this all could have been prevented if I had only slacked off one night a few years ago. But no, not Elisa Maza, heaven forbid I take a snoozer on the job.

      It’d break the family record.

Where is he anyway? I can feel the ice congealing around my big toe. These boots sure have gotten some wear and tear in the last, what is it now, four...five years? Not that I can think of any better way to spend my time. Jeez, falling off buildings has become second nature to me now... like brushing my teeth, or feeding Cagney.

      Oh the things I think.

Whistling might call attention to myself, with everyone looking up all the time now. Maybe if I just stand closer to the building it’ll be warmer. Hey, there he is! Let me just not slide on this ice as I jog towards him, eh? Alright, that’s it Maza. . .

      “Elisa!” He shouts before he even lands, in a caring voice.

I suppose the wait was worth it.

      “Goliath!” I reply in turn.

It’s amazing how fast he moves sometimes, I’m already wrapped in his wings, and he’s melting the frost off of my jacket. He wants to know if I’m ready. Of course, why else would I be waiting? Oh, right.

      And then it is hold on and here we go.

For some reason the wind doesn’t seem quite so cold from up here. When it is just the two of us.

      What was that? Oh, god, not his wing, who the hell plans this shit anyway. Be cool, he can deal with this sort of thing, he knows how. One could be amazed at how fragile the flight of a living hang glider is.

There’s a roof, I point it out. We land. OH SHIT! He pulls me out of the way just in time.

      He always does.

But now is not the time, I tell myself, and we run. Damn this jacket, it snags on everything!!! He rips my arm loose and we keep going. Hold on, he says as we dive off the roof. Can his wing hold us?

      More importantly, are we still being followed?

That’s it. Tomorrow I quit this! I say it to him. His eyes, as he looks into mine, shielding me from a blast by swiping me out of the way, are so pained that I laugh and joke it up. Sure, sure, like THAT is the truth. I lied. Sometimes I honestly want all of this to go away, to wake up to Cagney licking my forehead and not have to think about what time it was and when my boyfriend will wake up out of his stone stupor.

      Not that I have anything against you, big guy, but dodging lasers is not in the job description of ‘girlfriend’ or ‘wife’ even, being a cop, well, that’s different. We won’t say a thing about that job description, because I’ve stretched it and mended it so many times that this doesn’t matter anymore.

Saving the world, or rather my friends is fine, but I was going to be on a date tonight! I was going to be a normal girl, and go out with...

      A big midnight purple hang glider that is in love with me.

Ok, so maybe not a normal girl, but a contented girl to be at Angela and Bronx’s wedding tomorrow. That would have been somewhat normal.

            Except dodging the tails of the bride’s family and looking out for Lex and Brooklyn’s tempers at her being sold off like this. Not that Brooklyn’s girlfriend and Lex’s little woman don’t mind, they do, but they are Angela’s sisters, and can understand.

      “Well, big guy, what do we do now?”

      “I cannot fly, so we must run, yes?”

      “Of course, amor.”

He’s a bit bewildered by that, he’s not nearly as extensive in Spanish as he is in my father’s language. He’s better at that than English, sometimes, and when he grabs me and starts murmuring something about my being the goddess of...

Father won’t answer what it means, and mother turns very white when I ask, which is more than a little feet for a born Native American, with skin as tan as... well, if purple can tan, as tan as Goliath.

So we get into this building, and I smell something. He nods as if to affirm my mental question of, “Is this a meat packing deal?”

I’ve gotten soft, I think, because I’m complaining about a smell. I don’t exactly find it reassuring to think that, so I think I’ll just let it go, and he pulls me into a freezer. Great, just great, more cold.

And I’m beginning to wonder how I can get my mind off it, maybe about how to get my jacket mended? And then strong arms pull me close, he wraps his wings around me and I remember.

      I love him.

And then,

      He’s bleeding.

I push gently and he lets me go. I take his wing in my hands and look at it, he mumbles something, I never knew gargoyles could mumble, and he puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

      “It will heal when I sleep, Eliza.”

And I love how he says my name, and I love how... he’s so damn self-sacrificing! I roll my eyes and shake my head, strip off my jacket and shove it into his free hand and rip the sleeve of my tee shirt. I scoop up some of the frost from the wall and press it against the wound, he growls angrily, but only clenches his fist.

       Never thought I’d get used to that... a boyfriend who growls when in pain instead of whining. It’s great, actually.

And then I wrap the strips of my sleeve around his wing and realize that... I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love this purple hang glider that puts me first in life, in the world. I love him and that makes up for all of the gunfights and all of the dangerous bullshit I’ve had to put up with in the last...

      Isn’t it six years?

Who cares? Not me.