Man on the Inside

10

Every decision Brontë makes on the plane feels dangerous. If Art can read him that thoroughly, how can he not know he's a cop? Brontë's afraid to question it too much, as if just the thought that the base of the tower is crumbling will bring it all crashing down.

Maybe Brontë just doesn't seem like a cop. Maybe what Nimm said about his head remaining distinctly out of his ass somehow protects him from being identified. He has no clue what exactly it is. What about him is so different from those around him?

He tries to focus on a puzzle book instead of just obviously panicking. He asks Art's help on a few crossword questions, to try and present as if he isn't terrified of being noticed. Art's reading, and it seems he's not even paying the slightest attention to Brontë, bad or good. Especially when Brontë looks over to read a single line of the book, and comes away pretty certain it's a romance novel.

"Few more observations for you," Art says as the plane's coming down again. "May or may not be accurate. Between you and your children, you've got someone who's really into movies, someone who's into sport, and someone who's into history, but none of you know geography. And you're kind of a prude."

Brontë gets whiplash. "What?"

"Based on which crossword questions you asked me. Parents usually know a lot about their kid's interests, so I'm not assuming you like all those things yourself."

Brontë sighs lowly. "Close. My ex-wife was a movie buff, so that's where that knowledge comes from. Why'd you call me a prude, exactly?"

"Oh, you just seemed overly uncomfortable at what I was reading. I'd certainly hope it's not homophobia."

Brontë blinks rapidly, and Art holds up the cover of the book- which does show two men. "I didn't even notice it was gay," Brontë says, probably too quickly, "I'm not- my daughter identifies as queer, you can trust that I'm okay with that. I just- read a sentence I didn't expect and read no further. I'm not- judging you, or anything."

"Oh, prude is very subjective. A more objective way of saying what I mean is just that you're not comfortable talking about those kinds of things." Art's casually packing the book back in his bag as he talks. "For example, you won't bring up what you've just deduced about me."

Brontë swallows. "Which is?"

"Correct, although it didn't have to be. You don't need to be attracted to men to read about romances between them, but it's true that I am."

Brontë can't look straight at him. "So you're... gay, or bisexual. I didn't actually think about it."

"Bisexual, for what it's worth. You spoke like the thought had crossed your mind. Maybe I read you wrong, or maybe you just know some things before you know that you know them."

Brontë doesn't know what to say to that at all. He'd excuse himself if they weren't required to stay buckled into their seats right now, and so he sits in the awkward silence and bears it.

Art doesn't try to make any more observations as they go, but he does talk casually, asking Brontë questions about his life in general, that Brontë ends up answering more truthfully than falsely. It's calm, and it's enough that Brontë forgets his worries as they're getting into a taxi, letting himself be taken wherever he's going. He's already crossed two state lines, that far away from the closest source of help who's actually aware of what he's doing.

He finds some comfort in the fact that they haven't met up with anyone. He's not suddenly surrounded by the Volkov clan, or some strangers who may or may not be goons. It's just him and Art, and for better or for worse, Brontë is trusting that he'll at least survive this trip. For now.