Author's Notes: Response to The Gathering challenge. Many thanks to Alison
for the beta. You're wonderful. And my apologies to all who loath Dr. Kyle,
but what can I do. It's a Doc Kyle story. That's what happens when you suddenly
pick up The Gathering and rewatch. You get ideas you never intended.
Geneva Time
White Star 2
For nearly three years, once a week, he had made the trip to Geneva to be questioned, prodded and probed by men in white suits and men in black gloves. Every week they would tell him that this was probably the last of it. A month ago they had promised him that they'd gotten all they really needed, and then martial law was declared, and the next week, men in grayish green security uniforms were at his door, to take him. They took his statement again and scanned him again and told him to be there, at the usual time, the next week.
It was poetic justice, he supposed. His crime was to have Kosh scanned, and his punishment to be scanned himself, again and again, just to see how much information they could get from him before he lost his mind or made for the door. He'd stopped practicing medicine, he'd stopped living. His whole existence, as far as the world was concerned, was between eleven and six, Geneva time, every Wednesday.
But what they didn't understand, no matter how many times they'd been in his mind, pulling and prodding to find out more about what he looked or sounded like, what it was he'd left out of the reports, what they *couldn't* understand was that there was a longing to see that creature of light, and it never went away. It was so beautiful, so...he couldn't even describe it. He had to see it again so he could describe it for himself. Everything had changed for him that day, and some days he felt as if just seeing it again could change it all back.
It had been three years, maybe even more. He hadn't been keeping track of time lately. The image, the memory of the encounter was slowly fading. Sure, they pulled it up every week, brought it up again out of his subconscious. But like an old record played over and over, it was beginning to wear down. Soon it would wear so thin that it would be impossible to hear the music, to see that beautiful light, and all that would remain would be the memory of once having seen it, even though he wouldn't really remember, and the longing to see it again.
And knowing that he never would.
Benjamin Kyle stared out the window, out into the view of sunny Buenos Aires. He remembered a lot of things when he sat there. He thought of Laurel, of her good luck before he had opened Kosh's encounter suit. It was a legend they had talked about. One human had seen a Vorlon once and had turned to stone. One doctor had seen a Vorlon once, and he was slowly turning to stone inside.
The taste of scotch was bitter and vivid in his mouth even though the glass had been emptied a long time ago. Soon he would have to drag his feet out of his apartment, down the stairs, and to the train station. It was a two hour trip to Geneva and an eight hour time difference. It must have been easier when trips took longer, not to have to leave in the middle of the night to be there in the afternoon.
He could have resisted, tried to get his life back on track. Start up his practice again, or at the very least get a job. Any job. But he was too sedate inside; he did what the men in uniforms told him to. He was army-trained after all. It was supposed to be instinct by this time in his life. But he was a soldier that didn't fight and a doctor that didn't practice. All he did was obey orders and answer questions.
He wished it would rain at night, on his way to the train station. He wished for something to be the way it had been promised. Any break in routine would have been a blessing. Anything to free him from the numbness.
There was still a pistol in one of his drawers, still waiting to be returned if he were ever officially discharged from the military. Not that he would be, he suspected. He was fast gaining on the retirement age, but even that he probably wouldn't see. It was a PPG, the one he was issued before he left for Babylon 5. The barrel in his mouth, one pull of the trigger would leave his face deformed beyond recognition. An instant, almost painless death.
Benjamin Kyle stayed seated, the sunset stretching across a cloudless sky,
taunting him. He pushed the glass away from him, across the table. It nearly
reached the edge. He wanted to push it further and watch it shatter, but didn't.
He had no time to clean glass shards from the floor. He had to go get ready
for his trip.