fridgetothefire | 017 ☣ Infirmary post + some housekeeping things

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017 ☣ Infirmary post + some housekeeping things

[Backdated to Tuesday]

[She's been in the infirmary since late Sunday night, but she spent most of Monday sleeping. She looks a little pale, propped against pillows, hooked up to an IV, but she seems comfortable enough.]

Hello, barge.

I am so bored. Worse, I can't read without getting a headache right now. So.

[She holds up an infirmary clipboard, the paperwork turned over so she could draw neat, careful charts on the back.]

Come in, sign up for a half-hour time slot and book. Books are sorted by genre and how many hours I estimate it will take to finish them. If you read to me, I'll bake you something nice later.

[OOC: feel free to ignore the regimented tyranny of storytime and talk to her about whatever, either on the network or via spam.]

[Private spam for Ben, before the attacks.]

[She knocks on his door, a cold, shaken look on her face.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Nice. Sore, but it's...far away. A bit like I have cottonballs stuffed in my head. Sort of inconvenient, but also cozy.

[She has actually been having a bit of fun pondering her own state of mind. It's novel, interesting to reflect on and describe.]

Good. [Ironically, he understands; he hates that feeling but he suspects it's comforting for that majority which has never had to fear PsyOps. He could, ironically, explain to her why she's feeling that way but he's not interested in just this moment. Instead Ben is reaching over to pick up her hand-drawn chart, scanning down the neat rows and boxes, taking note of the few names.</i.] I'm... glad you are okay.

[It's a bit of a relief from her own relentless ways of thinking, and if it isn't strictly comforting, it is mostly comfortable, insulated and mellow. She grins, silly but sincere.]

I'm pretty glad too.

[He likes the expression on her face right now; he isn't, these days, much one for it himself but he enjoys seeing happiness displayed so openly in others. Of course he does - how could he not?

It reminds him of what Alex said. That he should ask. Ben looks back down at the chart for a moment, uncertain because he doesn't want to change that happiness, that expression, but she's tough, and they've both been through so much worse.

He looks back up.] How much do you remember, about what happened?

[The smile loses some its bright cheer, but what replaces it is pensive, rather than distressed, grounded and warm.]

Most of it, I think. I remember you saving me.

[Ben is encouraged, at least, by the lack of a truly negative reaction. He blinks slowly at her, wondering over the word choice. Save.]

I merely acted on intelligence given to me by Doyle. Had he not contacted me, I would not have known to search the third level at the time.

So, someone told you there was danger, and you came running toward it. And saved me.

[Ben blinks slowly, spine and shoulders straightening.]

I am better suited to handling combat situations than the vast majority of the population aboard the ship; I am at least twice as durable, I heal 33% faster, and I am well trained. In addition, I was the one with the information and in a position to intervene.

[Summary: Yes.]

I'm very glad it was you and not Lua.

[Yes.]

[Ben is quiet for a few more moments; he's no hero, he would not have gotten involved had Rhade not been attacked, had he not recognized Anya's scream. It was, at that point, only sensible as well as being exactly what he wanted to do.

The X5 considers the paper held carefully in his hands, fingertips cautious so as not to wrinkle it, and finally reaches over to put it back down where he picked it up. He's still looking at it when he starts:]

When I left. Before I left. You... [He doesn't frown, but he shifts uncomfortably in the chair, shoulders dropping to an even line and then relaxing, but he doesn't finish the sentence.]

Oh.

[She blushes.]

Yeah. Um. I'm sorry?

[Ben isn't entirely sure that was the reaction he wanted. He's not sure what reaction he did want, of course, but an apology doesn't feel satisfying. Or clear.

He still doesn't frown, looking up at her in steady confusion.]

I doubt there is reason to apologize. I just didn't understand.

I made you uncomfortable, didn't I? I didn't mean to.

[She knows he wants an explanation, not more apoogies. But it's so hard to take the squirmy feelings in her stomach and put them into words.]

Edited 2013-07-05 14:11 (UTC)

It is very easy to... make me uncomfortable. There is a lot I still don't understand.

[He means it to be reassuring, but he's missed the mark before. She's right, though; he doesn't want her to apologize, but he's not sure that asking again will do what he wants, either.

He chews quietly on the inside of his lip for a moment, one of the few subtle fidgets he allows himself from time to time, and drops his eyes down to the schedule sheet again.

Ben doesn't look up, his voice low, when he says:] I'm sorry. I could read, or I can go.

[His uncertainty strikes something like a bell in her, sad and silvery-sweet. She wants to brush it away. She understands him, a little, the soothingly methodical way he thinks and how alien the outside world is to him sometimes. So she clarifies, states the facts as simply and thoroughly as she can.]

I did kiss you. I care about you very much, and you saved me, and I suppose I was swooning a bit. I don't regret it, but I won't do it again. Unless you want me to.

[She reaches over, touches his knuckles lightly with her fingertips, a tiny, floating touch.]

And I would prefer to keep your company for a while. Unless you'd like to go just now.

[There's no censure or passive aggression in the offer. If he needs to run off and think about things a little, that's okay. She trusts him enough to know he'll still be there for her in the ways that matter, in the ways he already has been.]

[Ben understands action and reaction; it's motivation that trips him up, that he can't follow the clear threads from beginning to end without getting lost. His attention sharpens, however, when she begins speaking, eyes ticking back up without raising his head.

He's quiet while he processes what she's said; they've already discussed the saving aspect. It also aligns with what Alex had said, which is comforting for that fact, but confusing for what it means. That he doesn't know what it means. He's just considering that he doesn't, really, ever want to be touched - he wants her to care, he likes that she cares, but there's some kind of disconnect there, he's aware - when her hand brushes against his and he glances down sharply.

There's a moment when he does consider retreating, just for a while. He could sit with his music and think about what she's said and the motivations behind it, maybe ask Alex another question, maybe Rhade. But he doesn't want to go.

At last:] I just didn't understand. [It is, he's aware, a noncommittal answer. It's the best he has.] But I would like to stay at least a while longer, as well.

[She pulls her hand back, but calmly, not sharply, relaxing back into her pillows with a small smile.]

Okay. Would you tell me a story?

[The change in Ben is abrupt and almost palpable. He breathes out, and while good posture is basically coded into him, his shoulders relax and so does something behind his eyes.

He doesn't smile, but he does look back up with more confidence, more sure of himself as quickly as that even if his eyes track her hand movement back to her lap before flicking up to her face.]

Of course. Shall I read one, or make one up?

One of your stories.

[Anyone can read to her. Only he can give her those.]

[He'd been half-expecting the answer, but he's still so pleased by it that he actually does, for a moment, smile even as he glances away. He used to be asked nightly for stories.

Not so much, anymore. But they're still his favorite part of being who he is.

Ben doesn't even have to think; he already knows what story to tell, and his voice is low but confident when he breathes out.]

There is a girl. A princess, unique among her kind because she is made of glass when those around her are made of stone, opaque and solid and unyielding. When she was born, the glass was pure, unblemished, and beautiful to look upon, but those around her felt they must be careful with her. She was precious and fragile, and as she grew she became more beautiful, but also more fragile - not because she was changing, but because less and less of the world was inclined to be careful with her.

She insisted that it was unnecessary, that she would not break, but more and more she could not look at herself and see the beauty that others saw. More and more, others did not see it, but rather the care that must be taken. What had once been precious began to be a burden.

And one day, the girl fractured, the glass of her form - the finest, the most reflective, still the purest - shattering into pieces, but she held onto them. She held tight, fiercely determined, and any who dared to threaten her tasted the razor edges she now wore like skin. She held so tightly that something strange began to happen.

The emotions that had been contained before began seeping out through the cracks, coloring the glass, each shard a different color: there was love, red as blood and the heart of the fire; there was sadness in all its shades, cerulean and indigo and nightshade; there was curiosity in a riot of greens and golds; there was happiness, bright yellow and fleeting; pain the color of fresh bruises; fear like a faded sunset; anger, burnt out like ash; hope, keeping the color out so the purity of the glass could shine through still. She held onto all of them, and when she realized she could not make the pieces fit back together perfectly again, she found a different way.

She molded them together with steel.

[Ben finally looks up again, brown eyes bright, much more relaxed despite the words themselves. It's when he's telling stories like this that Manticore's thumbprint fades, and he sounds more like a real person than ever, but this he is happy to share.]

When she had finished, the threads of new strength - stronger, even, than the stone of those that had doubted her - framed the pieces of glass in an array of color no one had ever seen before, and the princess was more beautiful than ever, and she feared nothing. No one, now, could break her.

[When he looks up, she's crying, tears streaming silently down her face. She wants to kiss him again, fiercely. She wants to cling to him and never let go. She wants to believe him. She's a mess when she speaks, a full-throated blubbering warble.]

Why did you have to be so wonderful?

Edited 2013-07-12 15:39 (UTC)

[There's a moment, terrifying and absolute, when Ben first sees her reaction and is convinced he made a mistake. The next moment, though, he's remembering that sometimes tears mean pain or fear and sometimes they mean happiness, and while he can't quite believe he's capable of evoking that kind of reaction, he holds himself still long enough to find out.

He's still mildly alarmed by her tone of voice, and then absolutely bewildered by her words.]

Anya?

I'm not - I'm not beautiful or unbreakable or any of that stuff. I'm just some girl.

[Strong, maybe, she can accept that one. Sharp-edged and full of too many emotions, certainly. And that's the terrible perfection of the story, how obviously he means her, how it wraps around her like a tailored coat, warm and perfectly fitted to her jagged edges and masculine hip bones, vibrant and lovely. She wants to button it up tight and pretend she's as beautiful as the person he's talking about.]

[Ben stares at her crying, the acrid scent of them stinging his nose and making him want to do something, anything. It's a visceral part of him that needs no thought and no logic; in another lifetime it would be all he needed, it'd be all he listened to and acted upon.

But Manticore hardwired logic into him and another part of him understands with unwavering certainty that this will pass; that she's overwhelmed, not sad, and his hands stay where they are folded in his lap, even when he leans forward towards her.]

Anya.

[His voice is low, insistent. A gentle push for attention, not a persistent shoving or pulling. His eyes are steady, nearly unblinking, as he waits for her to meet them, continuing only when she does.]

Why not? [He has to grope to find the words, caught between his straightforward soldier mask and the easy, sweeping metaphor of the storyteller in him. It's the disconnect he can never quite reconcile.] The stories... this is what they are for.

Take one thing, one aspect, one person - take the truth of them and build on it to create something that may not be, but might be. To explain something that cannot be explained. To show us how to be it, or how to understand where it came from.

[She meets his eyes when he calls her name, suspended by the line of his attention, then hiccups, and it catches her by surprise so much she almost giggles through the tears. When she listened to the story, she almost believed it, that she could be something extraordinary, something suited to the cadence of a fairy tale.]

Which one was that?

[Aspiration, or explanation. There's a very thin edge to the question, warning and teasing. He'd damn will better tell her that she's all those nice things now, not just in hopes and might bes.]

Edited 2013-07-16 17:18 (UTC)

017 ☣ Infirmary post + some housekeeping things

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