2013.03.12 - Reconnecting

One hasn't been doing much talking since he got back from Bangkok. He never initiates conversations, and in the three days since he and Fern returned to New York, he's kept his responses to the fewest possible number of syllables. 
 
His Brooklyn apartment is considered a burned bridge. He wouldn't let Fern return at all, and only went himself so he could salvage a few of their personal effects, load up some equipment, and bring everything back in his APC. For now, home is Weischel Carcass House, the abandoned meat packing plant where he made a stand against one of the clones and small army of Organitech troopers. It's defensible, off the beaten path, and unlikely to be revisited by his enemies. 
 
Which isn't to say that it's comfortable. This isn't a concern for One, but he's attempted to make one area livable for Fern's benefit. The foreman's office has been converted into something like a small frontier cabin. The amenities are temporary, portable, or both. There's an air matresss in the corner. A folding table and metal chair have been moved up from the packing room floor to serve as a desk and workspace. A second table has been set up with a hot plate, microwave, and other small appliances. It's like camping, only with electricity and the looming threat of bad guys. 
 
They're lucky the office has a bathroom. 
 
Right now, One is seated at the "desk." He's plugged into his computer, accessing and organizing the files retrieved from Seven's hard drive. Wrinkles in his white button-down and his dark grey slacks are a testament to how long he's been at work. Physically, he's more or less recovered from his ordeal. Some of the cuts are still healing and some of the broken bones are tender, but he's intact. His most visible injuries are the fading scars down the back of his right hand and the haunted look in his eyes.
Fern hasn't been so quick to recover physically, the week of captivity having taken a toll on her slight form. She ate, but not well, same with sleeping. The constant tension and worry was very much like she had drank nothing but coffee non-stop the whole time; a ceaseless humming of all her nerves, unsure of what was going to happen next. Most of the worry was about One. They kept her in the dark, but for the bits Nine told her, and it was maddening not to know. It wasn't very much better knowing, actually, but at least it was a reality she could deal with. 
 
She's still catching up on the sleep and likely will be for a while, as she's found sleeping for long periods is almost impossible still. Nightmares wake her up often, heart pounding, sweat dampening her hair, and then getting back to sleep is difficult unless she's got One in sight. 
 
While he works at the desk, she's been dozed off again, but a sudden jerk has her upright, eyes not quite focused as she looks around. She doesn't make any noise most of the time, and she's silent now, still but for her roaming gaze until it finds One. She pauses then, letting the last remnants drift away, before she swings her feet off the air mattress, planting them on the floor and pushing herself up. 
 
"One?" she ventures, as she straightens her clothes, which are at least fresh and clean. Fern has been trying to tread gently, the marked change in him painful to see, having no idea how to best approach him. It's a distance she doesn't know how to bridge, and it's wearing on her almost as much as the constant terror had. 
One doesn't respond immediately, or even look toward Fern, but he does reach for her. When she's near enough, he curls an arm around her waist and draws her close to his body, being careful around ribs that are still mending. "Glitch, isolate File D, then paste all passages containing the 'ISR' keyphrase to a new text document." 
 
His voice is rusty from disuse. He unplugs himself, slides his prosthetic ear back into place, and turns to face Fern. His hands come to rest comfortably on her hips and he tilts his head back to look her in the eye. "Still having bad dreams?" he asks her.
Fern drifts toward One's outstretched hand, socks whispering lightly on the floor, moving gratefully into his warmth. She stands with him as he completes what he's doing, leaning lightly on him, then bending to press a kiss to the top of his head as he unplugs. 
 
His eyes are met and held, but she says evasively, "Not so bad." With one hand resting lightly on One's shoulder, she brings the other up to softly touch his face. "How is your work going?"
"I don't know," One is equally evasive about his reply. "Reading my father's journal... It's strange. I'm getting answers to questions I never thought to ask. Not all of them are good." 
 
Despite his dodgy tone, it's the most conversational he's been since they got back. Facing his past has changed him. Since their return, Nine's sword has sat undisturbed in one corner of the room. Every day or so, he'll stop what he's doing to stare at it, or even to cross the room and touch the pommel, but he hasn't picked it back up since he laid it to rest. 
 
Now he slides his hands up to Fern's ribs and gives her another squeeze. "You're still too thin," he says, changing the subject. "Want me to make you something to eat?"
The light touch wanders, straying to toy with strands of One's hair as she shifts so her legs press softly against his. "I never thought of him in terms of being your father," Fern says quietly, "Not until..." She stops before saying Nine's name, still mourning the loss of her once captor. When she gave him her trust it was well placed, and the things he did for herself and One went far beyond what most would do. One of the nightmares is those last moments, Nine's knuckles brushing against her cheek and the explosion. In that dream, she doesn't leave him to his fate alone, her imagination filling in the blanks with disturbing intensity. 
 
The brush of his hands and his observation bring her smile ghosting to her lips. "You can never be too thin," she teases, although she thinks the same of him. Her knee nudges his, pushing it against his other, and she casually swings her leg to straddle his lap, sitting but keeping almost all her weight on her own feet. "Tell ya what, Doc," she says slowly. "I'll eat if you do." That's certainly fair. Before he can answer, she leans in, soft lips aimed for his own. 
One returns the kiss warmly, and in that moment, something that's been locked up is released. There's an unclenching. He's been closed off, withdrawn, and when he relaxes it's as if he's finally coming back to himself. 
 
"Mmph," he grunts. "Deal." 
 
Then, as if Fern wasn't even there, he stands up. She's cradled in one arm as he pads over toward the improvised kitchen on bare feet. "I think I'll start taking clients again tomorrow," he says. "There's so much space in here, I could lay out my entire workshop, everything for the clinic, and still have room to spare."
Fern drapes her arms lightly around One's shoulders as he lifts her, and her legs easily wrap around his waist. She settles against him, arms tightening in a hug, that need to feel him close hardly lessened yet. Without pulling back she nods her approval of his plan, her head rubbing against his. Finally, loosening her grip, she leans out to look at him, "I'll help you. Even if I can help you best by just being out of the way. I don't want to add to anyone's concern." 
 
Talk of working reminds her to mention, "I phoned Anita and Julius. I didn't tell them much, but they know we're safe." She pauses, lips twisting wryly, "I have no idea what to actually tell them, but I'll figure it out before I go back to work. They told me to take a couple days, but I haven't really thought about much beyond that." 
There's a light, low chuckle from One. "I'd recommend you tell them as little as you can get away with," he rumbles. As he speaks, he picks out a few small items for them to snack on. Apples, grapes, some smoked almonds, and a small loaf of fresh bread from a nearby bakery. These are arranged on a wooden cutting board, along with a knife. 
 
There's a pause as he glances down at Fern's hand, which she once cut open in the process of slicing him some bread. Then, without a word, he picks the knife back up and starts slicing everything into managable portions. "Ahem. Knowing Anita, she'll have the whole story out of you in five minutes. Probably won't phase her, either. That woman's a terror and I love her to death."
With another light kiss, Fern slips out of One's hold, but doesn't move more than a step away from him. She takes up the grapes, pulling them from the bunch, agreeing with him again. "Despite how she'll take it, I don't want them to know too much." But she knows that One is right, and she'll likely spill more than she'll intend in the security of her employer/surrogate mother. The individual grapes are set aside with the apples One's cut, and Fern clears the inedible apple bits out of the way, one hand sweeping it all into the palm of the other. That and the grape stems are tossed in the garbage, still without stepping far from One. 
 
Fern pops a grape into her mouth, then offers a second out to One, her eyes settling on him thoughtfully. The fact that he seems eased isn't lost on her, and it makes her realize fully how worried she still was in this aftermath. "Mangia," she says, her imitation of Anita's Italian accent spot on, "before you waste away." 
One laughs as he accepts the morsel. "Yes, dear." 
 
A few sideways steps take him over to the bed, where he yanks off the blanket and spreads it on the floor. The cutting board is carried over, and in a matter of moments their meal becomes a picnic. "There we are," he nods, satisfied with the result. "It's not exactly dinner, but it's something to eat." 
 
He pops a few almonds in his mouth, crunches them down, and swallows hastily. "I trust you, and I trust her. Tell her whatever you have to. But you're right. In this case, I think less is more. Now let's eat."
There's a spark of amusement in Fern's eyes as she watches One, savoring her single grape as if it were mana from Heaven. Food tastes so much better when you aren't in a cage and wondering if they're drugging you with something. She glides over and folds down onto the blanket, patting the spot next to her. "It's perfect," she says, her tone inviting no contradiction. There's a pause, and she adds, more softly, "You're perfect." The affection with which she looks at the tall doctor would be obvious to a blind man, that note in her voice heard by the deaf. 
 
She waits for him to sit before she asks, somewhat tentatively, "How are you feeling?" There is no specification if she means physically or otherwise. They've not said much about what happened at all, even to each other. 
At first One just shakes his head, his hand paused with a slice of apple halfway to his mouth. A moment passes, then he crunches into it, using the time to formulate his response. 
 
"I can't stop thinking about them," he says. "All of them. Nine. The explosion." He pauses and glances at the sword resting in its corner. "Five and Eight. They might still be out there. The Alphas. I keep reading about them, Nine talked about them... I don't know who or what they are, though. I'm hoping that it's all over, but somehow I doubt it."
Fern doesn't intend to rush him, giving him whatever time he needs, even if he decides not to talk about it at all, as she leans and nabs a few almonds. The first is popped into her mouth the way the grape was, and she chews slowly. Her head is ducked, but her eyes are still on him, and as he speaks she scoots a fraction closer still to him. 
 
"I dream about Nine," she says quietly. She doesn't tell him she dreams about the explosion too. There's a breath before she goes on, the heavy sadness her voice held lightening, turning to a more matter of fact tone, though still soft. "We have to be realistic about it. That building was huge. That explosion was not so huge." Sure, huge enough to take it's toll, but not to bring down the Alpha Project, she doesn't think that for a moment. 
"I know," One admits. "I'm trying not to think about it, but I doubt that's the last we'll hear from them." 
 
He's quiet for a long time, snacking on more apples, then a slice of bread. His motions are automated, though. There's no energy or appetite left in his actions. After a few more bites, he dusts crumbs off of his hands and shakes his head. "No sense borrowing trouble. We're safe here, at least for now. Why don't we get some rest? I'll move Glitch over by the bed so I can recharge while we cuddle."
The Pandora's Box she's cracked open has robbed Fern of her momentary appetite as well, and she's picked a bit less than he has, while trying to make it seem like it's been more. His suggestion is greeted with an enthusiastic bob of her head, "Yes, please." While he takes care of setting up the computer, she clears away the food and fluffs the blanket back out over the air mattress. She turns and flops, although she does it as delicately as one is able to flop, and waits for him to get situated and commence with the promised cuddling. 
Everything seems simpler once One is stretched out and has Fern wrapped up in his arms. He closes his eyes, disconnecting himself from the waking world and focusing on his maintenance routine. As he sifts through accumulated data, formats sectors of his hard drive, and rearranges files accordingly, he's not alone. The physical contact with Fern is a constant, comforting reminder that no matter what he's lost, it's outweighed by what he's gained.
Category:Log