If I Told You A Secret . . .

by K-Nice

Nothing stirred at 12 Airman Lane, USAFB, New Orleans, LA. The house was two story, four bedrooms, two bath and at the top of a long waiting list for painting and repairs. No lights were on, the quarter moon provided little illumination. The deadness was broken by the quick, cautious movements of a tall, thick young man.

Scott slipped out of the kitchen, a half-empty bottle of Vodka under his arm. With all the drinking that went on at Friday Night Poker, it wasn't like his father would miss it. Scott could easily claim it never existed. Sure, it would be easy, if only he didn't feel sick every time he lied, even to his no-account war-hero of a father.

"Hey, Scott?"

Scott spun at the whispered words. It was well after midnight. His sixteen year old brother Alex was on a date and their younger siblings should be in bed. His father was away on assignment, something about Latveria. He should be the only one up. Scott deftly swung his hand back to conceal the liquor behind his body.

"'Remy, what are you doing up?" Scott was on the offensive immediately. His fourteen year old brother was quick to needle him about any shortcomings. The teasing was apparently all in good fun, but the boy was frighteningly perceptive. Scott's only hope was to keep him on the defensive.

"Nuthin'! I was just . . . comin' down for some milk." Jeremy Summers met his older brother's eyes only fleetingly, preferring to stare between Scott's legs at what looked like the bottom of a glass bottle. Again.

"Milk?" Scott pressed the issue. If he really though about it, he should just run upstairs while his distraction was still working. But, of course, Remy's response reeked of deception and Scott had a desire to ferret out the truth.

"C'mon, Remy be for real. Milk? At 12:30 in the morning?"

"I couldn't sleep." Defiance crept into the boy's voice, a voice that usually held awe for his big, tough, older brother. Remy had always followed Scott around, and had even tried to copy his rigid exercise regime, but soon gave it up due to the early morning schedule. Slowly, Remy was changing from a cute, though scrawny, kid to a terrible teenager. Scott had noticed that of late. He was growing more and more sullen. Scott figured it must come from bunking with Alex, he who wears fatigues and speaks in military time.

Scott sighed. The craving that had kept him awake for hours was beginning to make his head pound. He wasn't in the mood for a confrontation with his kid brother. "Whatever. Just get it and go back to bed."

Remy grinned what had to be the most blatantly self-satisfied smile since Nero. Without a word he sprinted into the kitchen.

Scott turned to watch him, keeping his back--and his precious bottle--away from prying eyes. Seconds later he reappeared with his hard-fought milk. He hesitated on the steps, his boots making no sound on the hard wood floor. "G'night Scottie."

"Night, Rem. And if you break curfew again, I'm gonna have to tell Dad." Scott ignored the muttered curses and settled himself on the couch. He had been so caught up by Remy's words that he had almost missed the fact that the boy was fully dressed in jacket, jeans and boots. Remy was headed for trouble, hanging out with some local kids named Bella and Julien. He just didn't get it. What was the draw? Scott had never snuck out after curfew. At least not after that fiasco with that British dignitary's daughter. And her ham-fisted brother.

As much as he hated raising the specter of their oft-missing father, that was one thing they rallied together on. Even Alex, who idolized dear old Dad, could see the pain his absences had brought them. Of course, the Major had even more to atone for in Scott's mind.

He tipped the bottle back, letting the alcohol splash into his mouth. He savored it, rolling it around his tongue, then swallowed. He kept drinking at a dizzying pace until he had to rest his arm. After a moment, hunger and thirst and anguish became one. He raised the bottle again, and almost choked.

"Scott? What are you doing?"

That imperious superior voice belonged to none other than His Holy FlyBoyness, Christopher Summers. And the footsteps on the stairs, would be Remy again. Or maybe Rachel, who might really want milk at this time of the night.

Scott shot up from his sprawl on the couch onto his feet and turned toward the door, the bottle hanging guiltily from his hand. He glanced at the stairway. It was Alex, carrying Remy, and Rachel, who seemed to make no sound at all.

His father was in his white dress uniform. "I'm sorry, Scottie, but your momma's not coming home."

Rage filled him He could hear the accusation in that sad voice. Scott’s heart broke but he defended himself anyway. Loudly.

"No! You killed her. It's your fault. Not mine. I was just a kid. There was nothing I could do. I didn’t kill her. You did! It’s your fault. Your fault!" Scott screamed at his father, hurling the near empty bottle at him.

Alex ducked and rolled, like he'd learned from some of the Alpha Flight guys from The Canadian Air Force. "Scott? Jeez, man! What's with you?"

Scott back-pedaled across the living room, moving out of his hallucination with hesitant, unsure steps. "Alex?" It was Alex all right, his pressed jeans now wrinkled.

Scott's mind analyzed the situation while he tried to still his heart. Alex had seen and heard his outburst. He had to cover and fast. Scott straighten up, as if he hadn't just come out of a drunken fit. He wiped spittle from his mouth. "How. . .how'd the date go wit' Lorna?"

Alex smiled, dreamily. "It went great. Better than great. She's great."

"That's great." Scott nodded, grateful for the limited vocabulary. His concentration was on not swaying to the music in his head. He couldn't be bothered with difficult adjectives.

Even with full knowledge that something was wrong, Alex was tempted to crawl up the stairs into bed. Alex knew Scott wasn't one to want to talk about things with his younger siblings. In fact, it irritated Alex, since Scott acted as if he was their father or something.

Scott could drink if he wanted to. Alex didn't see where there was a problem. He was on the stairs before he saw Remy hovering in the darkness on the top step.

The boy had tears in his eyes, his arms wrapped tight around Rachel, who lay her head on his legs. His eyes pleaded with Alex. Alex relented and dismounted the stairs. Crossing the living room, he tried to catch his brother's attention.

"Hey Scott, you okay?" Alex held his hand out as if to offer help.

Scott lurched forward and landed on the couch. Alex pulled him all the way onto the cushions. Scott's heavy muscles made him too bulky to carry so Alex gave up the idea of getting him upstairs. The couch would be fine for tonight.

"No. No, Alex. I'm not okay. Not okay." Scott mumbled softly as Alex grabbed a blanket from the front closet.

Alex tried not to listen to Scott's rambling apology about the bottle. It was too late at night for him to worry about that just yet.

After tucking him in, Alex was about to leave when Scott grabbed his hand.

"You know sumthin'? Sometimes, I still miss Mom." Scott buried his head in the cushions to hide the tears.

"Me too Scott." He pulled his hand away as Scott's grip loosened. "We all do."

Alex walked away. He was almost out of earshot when he added, "Even Dad."

[next part]

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