Eyes Love & Water
Page 30
Ben ran up behind her. He grabbed her shoulder and executed a not gentle yank to spin her around to face him. “Whoa! I always? What always? When we met the first time, you almost killed me. The second time you saved my life. Then, the third time I get you out of a bad scrape. Where in the hell is the 'always'?” Ben erupted defensively.
Miranda flinched away. Her shoulder hurt where he had grabbed her. So had his yelling, in her mind her Ben never got angry. It was only fair though, she had made the mistake of accusing him of things his alternates had done. She felt stupid and childish for the mistake. She wanted to apologize and tell him everything, but she couldn't bring herself to show even him that kind of weakness. She grunted at him and turned back away.
Ben teleported to stand right in front of her, blocking her path. “Miranda! Aren't you even going to answer me?” His big beautiful blue eyes hunted hers out.
Miranda couldn't help but soften with those eyes in front of her, “Your alternates have a tendency towards over protectiveness, and unfortunately I kind of grouped you in with them.”
“I'll forgive you, look are you sure you can handle this? Because you didn't seem so sure at my place.”
“Yeah, go home, this shouldn't take too long,” Miranda projected a strong and apparently convincing assurance. Ben shrugged and disappeared. Miranda glanced around, a few people stared at her with ruffled expressions. Gently she smoothed it over in their minds. They turned back to their tasks, and she turned back to hers.
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Ben returned to his apartment, in almost the moment he had left it. Despite Miranda's assurances he still didn't feel sure she was safe, but he was sure he couldn't follow her around to keep her that way. He knew if he didn't dare go to Miranda he could go to Tina. The fact that she now lived only two doors away was a nice convenience. Ben trotted out his door and over to hers he tapped her doorbell, and her door slid open much faster than expected.
“Oh, Ben, what are you doing here? Another problem? Arguing with Miranda now?” Tina proceeded towards the glass elevator, ahead of Ben. “You know you should talk it out with her if you have a problem. I have to get to the anatomy lab. They're doing a virtual pre-plague Agurian. If I want to ask some questions I need to be on time.” Tina danced into the elevator. Ben was right behind her.
“No, no fight, she went to get her things. I just wanted someone to talk to, while she's gone.” Ben leaned against the back of the elevator.
“I'm sorry I wish I could, but this is an important anatomy session. It's one of the few I don't have to inconvenience Gene with, since it was scheduled before I switched to medicine. Have you tried Daniel, or Gene? He's not the one doing the lab. Doctor Wilson is The Expert on Agurian anatomy and physiology, and you don't give a hoot about Doctor Wilson.” The elevator stopped and Tina went directly for the transport booth, “This will take about three hours, if she's not back by then I'll sit and worry with you, okay?”
“Okay,” Ben watched the elevator slide shut and travel up to the second level. He stepped off, letting the two people who had summoned the elevator have it. He went back to his apartment and found the jazz still coming out of his stereo. He'd forgotten he'd left it on. Frustratedly, he flicked it off. The microwave beeped and Ben remembered he'd left that going too. Ben retrieved his lunch and sat down contemplating life. Ben shook his head. Ben didn't like the looks of the pattern that was forming. Miranda comes tiptoeing into his life and everything else slips his mind. What was wrong with him? Was he losing it? Or had he fallen for her?
Ben took a bite of his tepid macaroni, and flicked on the stereo again. He didn't notice it was all just a cold gob of tasteless pasta smothered in manufactured cheese product until four bites later. By then he couldn't say whether it had come out of the microwave cold or whether it had gotten that way while he fixated on Miranda. Either way he had finished by then. Ben took the dish to the kitchen and dropped it in the trash.
There was nothing for Ben to do, except wait. Halfheartedly he realized it and sat down. Ben waited patiently, for about two minutes. Then he leapt to his feet and began neatening his uncharacteristically neat apartment. He alphabetized his substantial CD collection in record time. Then he moved on to his videos, books, dry goods, and he had just started on his canned goods when his telephone rang, after so long the sound startled him into dropping a can of corn onto his foot. He yelped and answered the phone.
“What!” Ben grunted into the receiver.
“Hey, if you're going to yell at me maybe I'll just call back later,” Tina growled back.
“No, I'm sorry. I dropped a can of corn on my foot.” Ben leaned against his refrigerator and looked down at his foot.
“I'll forgive you. You may as well meet me in the medical center.”
Ben bent to pick up the can and began tossing it up and down in the air catching it. “That's okay I don't need medical attention it’s just my pride that hurts, well mostly anyway.”
“Uh, not what I'm saying. I called Gene to let him know I would be hanging with you to wait on Miranda. He told me she'd just shown up there limping. I'm on my way there.”
Ben nearly dropped the can on his foot for a second time, “Is it serious?”
“I don't think so. Look, I'll see you there.” She hung up the phone with a click.
Ben tossed the can up one more time, hung up the phone and missed the catch. The edge of the can landed on the bridge of his foot. He howled. With a brief glare at the can, it exploded spreading corn puree all over him and the kitchen. Ben limped gingerly into his bathroom to clean himself up.
Ben met himself in the mirror. He was a sorry sight, red faced with a thin veneer of atomized corn sludge from head to toe. Wiping yellow slime from his face Ben shook his head, then stared at his reflection, “Yeah, that was great take your stupidity out on the corn and double your troubles.”
He nabbed his bath towel and began wiping off. Then he gave it up for a lost cause and stripped for a quick shower. He teleported to his bedroom to change. Then wet hair and all he teleported to the clinic. Tina hadn't arrived yet and Ben couldn't find Gene, so Ben gently felt around for Miranda's mind. Briefly he made contact. She was in the act of berating her clumsiness, but immediately closed her mind when she felt him. Still it was enough to find her by.
Limping he walked up to the closed exam room door and knocked. “You may as well come on in Ben,” She thought to him tersely.
Ben entered. His eyeballs fastened on Miranda's ankle, propped and padded as it was on the chair in front of her. He inhaled a whistle through his clenched teeth. “So, it looks like you twisted it pretty bad,” Ben commented.
Miranda silently avoided his eyes. She tried to reposition herself to no avail. It was obvious to Ben she occupied the only comfortable position possible. Finally she turned back to face him. “I didn't twist my ankle I folded it to get it nice and limbered up. Then I tied a knot in it for good measure,” she answered with a pained expression.
“Owe, that must really hurt.” Ben limped over to sit next to her. He didn't miss the irony that the can had twice landed on the same foot, leaving him with what would be a mirror-image limp.
Miranda stared him down with a sarcastic grimace, “Only while I'm breathing, but seriously what gave you the first clue? Was it the black, the blue, or the fact that it is swollen to the size of a grapefruit? “
“You don't have to be so touchy, “ Ben said reaching a hand down to poke at a particularly livid area of the bruise.
“Don't even think about it if you want to retain use of your hand.” Miranda's eyes lanced Ben with a look threatening she had sharp and dangerous objects hidden about her person. Given everything Ben knew about Miranda, including the knife she pulled when they met, it was entirely possible that she did. Ben withdrew his hand meekly.
“Sorry, hey I'll let you touch mine if I can touch yours.” Ben offered gently flopping his injured foot up on the chair next to hers.
Miranda blushed, “My bruise. He wanted to poke at my ankle.”
“Ahh, so what were you offering to let her touch?” Gene lifted his other eyebrow at Ben.
Ben smiled lightly and teleported off his shoe, “My bruise. I wanted to poke at her ankle.”
“My, my, what did you manage to do?” Gene poked the spreading crescent of blue and purple, setting Ben yelping.
“No fair, you don't have a bruise to poke fun at!”
Gene took a small bone scanner out of his pocket and took an image of Ben's foot. Then he tapped the screen of his pop-pad. “You two are bad influences on one another,” Gene said, “Fortunately you aren't into the hard stuff yet. Miranda it's just a sprain. Ben it's just a nice large bruise. You'll both be fine in a few days.”
“Like I said, not a problem,” Miranda crossed her arms and sat back with an I-told-you-so grin on her face.
“Still, you need to be careful young lady. As for you Ben...” Gene began but ended obviously unsure of how to scold Ben.
Fortunately Tina arrived to take up the slack; “You shouldn't play with your food!”
“Hey, he doesn't have to take that from you pip-squeak!” Miranda said playfully, while levering herself into a standing position.
“Wait, let me get that bandaged,” Gene urged, but Miranda was firmly on her feet so he took a different tack, “At least let me get you a crutch to lean on,” Gene started to reach for one but Miranda cut him off.
“That's okay, he's going my way.” Miranda thumbed towards Ben. In response, Ben sat there dumbly for a moment before realizing then he teleported his shoe and sock back on and nearly leapt to his feet. Once he was standing she reached down and threw a flowered knapsack over her shoulder before flopping the other arm around his shoulder.
Feeling perfectly natural, Ben snaked his arm around her waist resting his palm on her side. She was so close he could smell the faint ghosts of the shampoo in her hair, and the not unpleasant tang of her sweat, mingling with traces of otherworldly smells she must have picked up from wherever she retrieved her things. The other thing he noticed was the way they fit together. She was at the perfect height for him, taller than most women, but not quite as tall as he was.
“See, I don't need any stupid crutch.” Miranda said hobbling towards the door, practically dragging Ben along beside her.
“I give up.” Gene threw his hands into the air and watched them go.
Ben noticed a self satisfied smirk on Gene's face, and a look of jealous contentment on Tina's before Miranda dragged him out into the hall. They hobbled and limped out of the clinic and well down the corridor towards the elevator before Miranda said a word to him.
“Okay, I can take it from here,” Miranda unwrapped her arm and disentangled his. She shoved away from him and leaned against the wall. Her face was flushed and her breathing quick, but her eyes and expression reflected indifference.
“Are you sure?”
Miranda straightened the knapsack straps and grunted. “Yeah, I just didn't want them badgering me.” Her tone had dropped the casually companionable tinge it had held in the clinic and now was flat but not quite hostile.
“Tina can be quick with that tongue of hers,” The words came out of Ben's mouth tasting like a smile, but they soured with Miranda's expression.
“I'm going to my quarters now. I don't think either of us will be ready to sneak into a dark compound for a few days,” despite the implied farewell Miranda lingered.
“Okay, how about I stop by for breakfast tomorrow. We could... set our plans.”
“Yeah sure, see you then,” Miranda mumbled and disappeared.
Ben stood in the hall staring at the empty place she had occupied. His foot was throbbing but he didn't notice. She just kept doing that to him, swirling into his life, turning him inside out, and disappearing. He was almost of a mind to do something about it. The trouble was he didn't know what that something should be. That's about the point when he remembered he had a bit of cleaning to do in his kitchen. Ben threw up his hands and teleported back to his apartment.
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Chapter 18
...And They're Off...
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Miranda let herself flop to the floor of her apartment, with only a minor telekinetic cushioning of her fall. Her ankle hurt almost as bad as the time she'd leapt out of the second floor window, but she didn't feel it. What she did feel was a giddiness at having been so close to Ben, having touched him, and a perplexity as to why she had fled. She knew he would have held her, supported her all the way back to her quarters. On deep self examination she knew she pulled away because of the ticklish, bubbling feeling in her gut at having him so close. She had felt like her self control just boiling away, leaving her more than willing to concede any point, follow any plan, or leap to any conclusion he wanted. That jelly-kneed weakness warred with the core of her instincts, and lost.
Her guts had firmed and she'd retreated. How could she blame herself. The last time she had decided to take a stand on anything she ended up spending who knew how long in a sensory deprivation tank. Miranda snorted at that idea. This thing, had absolutely no resemblance to any of that. Tomorrow, breakfast, she would deal with it then.
For now she would... attempt to fake the palm print patterns she could recall. It wasn't a skill she had ever been good at. It required some sort of modeling compound, latex, fine telekinetic control, and an accurate template. The materials weren't a problem, trying to exactly replicate the whirls and swirls from admittedly sketchy memory was. Outside her picture window, the artificial afternoon faded into evening; then lingered into night while Miranda prepared her templates and made test appliances. Finally the false latex palms began to feel enough like the remembered hands to pass. By dawn she was satisfied with them.
Miranda's main worry was that the palm prints weren't really the whole key to security. Far more depended on following the will of the dark. In the main compound, doors were keyed to palm prints, but they were rarely opened by them. Most doors opened for people because they were going through them in compliance with the Darkone's will. He arranged for them to be open. Doors weren't as closely controlled in outworld compounds; still, using the keypads too many times would raise suspicions, especially if the real owners of the prints had the ill timing of going through a different door at the same time. How had she even fleetingly thought a couple fake prints would be enough? They of course wouldn't, not even with a couple of convenient uniforms.
Miranda blinked off her disquieting thoughts and uncurled from the position she had sustained during the fabrication of the fake prints. They were dry and ready to wear. The dark uniforms sat folded on the coffee table. Everything was ready. Miranda rolled her head around her shoulders and looked from her front door to the stairs leading to her bed loft. She hadn't even tried the bed out. She was tired, but only slightly so compared with her time on the run from the dark. Miranda rose to her feet on her way up the stairs for a brief test of her mattress. Her stiff ankle had just lodged a formal refusal when her doorbell tweeted, announcing a visitor.
Miranda sent a wave of telekinetic pressure at the doorpad and the door hissed open. Ben stood outside her door looking fresh and rested. “Weren't you wearing that yesterday?” He asked pointing out her slightly less than fresh dress.
“Good morning Ben, and yes I was. I only have about four outfits, and two of them are dark uniforms,” Miranda flopped a wrist towards the folded uniforms and blinked back a yawn.
“Sorry, good morning, I can help you order something else.”
Miranda scratched an itch on her neck which really turned out to be a stiff muscle asking for a massage, “That's not necessary. I just haven't gotten around to it. I was busy making these.” Miranda held up the fake palms.
“Those will get us around
in the prison?” Ben asked stepping into the room to examine her craftsmanship.
“For a little while,” Miranda felt her knees go weak as Ben approached. His freshly showered smell hung about him like an aura, and it reached her far before he did. She wobbled on her feet and Ben caught her before she lost too much stability.
“You sit down. You shouldn't be standing on that ankle, it's still too colorful,” Ben ordered, to Miranda's relief having mistaken the cause of her swoon. He firmly but gently helped her into a reclining position on the couch, propping her ankle into an elevated position with throw pillows.
“Really this isn't necessary.”
“Relax, let yourself heal. You don't want to end up with a chronic injury do you?” Ben took the palms and put them down on the coffee table, “What can I get you for breakfast?”
“I'm not hungry.”
“Oatmeal it is,” Ben ducked into her kitchen and came back in short order with a tray holding two bowls of oatmeal and two glasses of orange juice. He balanced the tray on Miranda's lap and took his breakfast from it.
Miranda made a face at the food and turned the expression on Ben. Ben returned it with a stern one that reminded her of Kindy. She had to look away, and award the point to Ben. She waded through the bowl, hating the idea of oatmeal but not the taste. With every spoonful, Miranda made a grumpy or ridiculous face, and Ben exchanged it for a different one. It became a game. It was a silent breakfast, both verbally and telepathically. Strangely enough Miranda felt more connected to him at the end of the meal, than during any of the times when she had actually touched his mind.