Standin' On the Edge (3/6)
RJ Ferrance, DC, MD (rferrance@VCU.ORG)
Tue, 6 Feb 2001 12:34:42 -0500
Amanda, Michelle reflected irritably in her first coherent thought of the
new day, didn't know as much about Matthew Brennan as she thought she did.
Michelle had known the man less than 18 hours, but that much she already
knew. Her teacher, after all, had assured her that the young, vulnerable
damsel in near-distress routine would have the man eating out of her hand in
no time.
Michelle contemplated that prediction as she sat in her bed, alone, her legs
pulled up so that her chin rested on her knees. She was staring out through
the guest room's sliding glass door - the one that she'd not bothered to
cover with the pastel-colored vertical blinds. The only person out on the
beach was Matt Brennan, and he was barely visible off in the distance,
jogging along near the surf with a Golden Retriever keeping pace.
She hadn't been pushing to have him eating out of her hand. But she also
hadn't expected him to be basically... not interested in her at all.
Maybe he was simply overly vulnerable to Amanda's rather unique charms.
They had history after all, and maybe that history was what put the two of
them together so quickly and so often.
Or maybe, she wondered, Matt saw her as Duncan MacLeod had seen her: A very
young girl trying to act as if she belonged in a very old club.
Arrogant old bastards.
Of course, the fact that they had a good point didn't detract at all from
their arrogant old bastardness.
Michelle had met a number of men while in Amanda's care; some of them
Immortal, some of them not. Most of them had been powerful and thoroughly
confidant, all of them had been rich, Amanda's favorite quality in a man, it
seemed. But Matt wasn't like the men Amanda usually went for. He was much
quieter, much less... flashy, flamboyant. Much less... fun. And he had
shown flashes of leaning toward morose and brooding, two very unattractive
qualities, which... could explain their recent separation. And yet, Amanda
had described him as one of her oldest and closest friends.
Yet at the same time, Amanda had sent Michelle here on this errand of
intrigue, when a simple question from Amanda to Brennan probably would have
gotten her what she wanted. That didn't make any sense to Michelle.
Of course, it wasn't as if Amanda was in the business of making sense.
Michelle took her thoughts with her to the shower, where she let the hot
water and the soap that smelled of honeysuckle rinse away the clinging
remnants of a troubled sleep. Thoughts of her host had intruded upon most
of her dreams, and she still wasn't sure why that had been so.
Perhaps it was guilt, but she refused to entertain that possibility. Amanda
had taught her never to bother herself with guilt. Besides, what did she
have to feel guilty about? So far nothing. And in the end, if she
accomplished her objective, all she'd have done was share something of his
with one of his best friends. Nothing he surely wouldn't have been willing
to do himself, right?
Maybe it was just that he'd not come on to her last night. At all. A man
not wanting to pull her into his arms and make love to her - especially when
she turned on the charm and flashed the legs - just didn't make any sense to
her.
But then, she had at least a few more days to try and figure him out.
^--*-*-*--^
Dressed in a sleeveless shirt and cutoffs, she headed out of the guest room
to formally greet the day. The house was quietly empty, with Matt still out
running with the dog. There was a large TV, and an even larger
entertainment cabinet with a first rate audio system. That could wait for
later, though. On the table that faced the ocean sat an impressive notebook
computer, its flat screen offering her animations of small groups of
brightly colored balls coming together to form a chain of ... brightly
colored balls. Said groups were then interrupted in their task by some kind
of superhero looking colored structure called "Anzovirax." A moment later
there was a short propaganda blurb from the drug company making Anzovirax.
"Might as well get this over with," she muttered. Get The Job behind her
and then enjoy a few days at the beach without it hanging over her head.
She tabbed the spacebar to shut off the colorful (if not informative) screen
saver only to be met with a screen that asked for her password.
Password?
Password. She frowned, trying to think quickly. She hadn't expected to
need a password.
Damn.
Amanda, she tried. The computer didn't like that one. Theresa, he'd said
had owned this house before. Nope, not that either. Immortal?
Therecanbeonly1? No. She looked out toward the sea. Duck? Atlantic? What
was the boat's name? She squinted to read the letters painted on its stern.
WNL. WNL? Nope, not that either.
Damn.
And then her head was buzzing. She looked up in time to see him approaching
the house from the surf. Damn, the password would have to wait. She
abandoned the computer and stood, trying to look like she'd just wandered
out of her room.
"Good morning," he greeted her.
"Morning," she echoed, looking for the dog. "Where's your running partner?"
She asked it ever so casually. He hadn't glanced at the computer's screen,
had he? Had he? She took a step to one side to hide the monitor until the
screen saver could kick back in.
"I sent her home," he told her, heading straight for the half bathroom off
the hallway. He left the door open while he rinsed his face and washed his
hands. "She's not mine, she just likes to run with me. You hungry?"
"I could eat," she told him, following him to the kitchen. He sliced a
grapefruit in half and set it in a bowl before her while he turned his
attention to making them both omelets.
"Did you sleep okay?" he asked her. Small talk. Or maybe not. Maybe he
really did care about how well she'd slept. Wouldn't that be just like him?
To turn small talk into something 'noble'.
"Not too badly," she answered. "I drifted in and out a lot - you know,
first night in a new place."
"And a strange man in the next room?" he added.
He said it with such a straight voice she had to look for the crooked smile
before she could be sure it was a joke. "Well, that, too," she allowed,
joining him in that smile and praying he wasn't telepathic. Hmmm. With no
nibbles on the line, maybe it was time to change the bait. "Imagine my
surprise - not to mention disappointment - at having suffered the night
alone." She even added a dramatic sigh.
He let a long silence hang between them. She could feel the line go slack
even before he spoke again. "I have a long history of disappointing women,
Michelle," he said quietly. His back was turned to her now, hiding his
face, which might have told her how he had meant that. She'd just have to
wonder. For now.
Or, she could slowly turn up the heat until she found the point at which his
interest could at least be drawn in her general direction.
"Your boat," she said, choosing, for the moment, to ignore his last remark.
"WNL? What's that mean?"
"It's a medical abbreviation," he told her, adding some grated cheese,
finely sliced ham, and little green pepper to the omelets. "It supposedly
means 'within normal limits'. Theresa was a pediatric radiologist, so she
spent her time interpreting x-rays of children. I used to tell her that I
was sure radiologists use the initials for 'we never looked'."
Michelle was pretty sure she wasn't fully getting the joke. "You two were
very close," she observed quietly. Theresa, apparently, hadn't had any
trouble drawing his attention.
He didn't answer her until he had flipped the omelets, and then slid them
onto plates. "Yes, we were," he said as he laid the plates on the counter.
He took a seat on a stool across from her and bowed his head, reciting a
quick prayer of blessing for them both.
Michelle allowed the prayer a respectful moment, then quietly asked, "When
did she die?"
He was sprinkling black pepper and then Tabasco sauce on his breakfast - but
not on the grapefruit, she was glad to see. She shook her head slightly
'no' when he offered her the red bottle. "January," he said. "Five months
ago. Cancer."
She caught the brief expression that looked almost like a snarl as he said
that last word. "Cancer," she repeated.
His eyes finally came up to meet hers, and she saw the haunted, empty look
there in full force. But there was something else on his face as well.
Anger? Yes, anger, but not simply anger. "Something you or I will never
have to deal with," he added, his voice soft, cold, biting.
So that was it. It made sense now. Sort of. MacLeod had told her about
this, during the long night that had followed her funeral. She'd watched
from the shadows, held back only by MacLeod's strong hands, as her parents -
and especially her father, normally so proud and strong - had broken down in
racking fits of grief. "Survivor guilt."
His eyes flared, and for a moment, she feared he was about to lash out, if
only verbally. But then his 'gentleman programming' must have kicked in,
and his face softened. No, melted would have been a better term.
"I thought you were simply a 'young lady'," he said, sipping his orange
juice. "Young, naive. Tossing out a diagnosis like 'survivor guilt' is
pretty ambitious, don't you think?"
That stung a little. But she'd be damned if she'd show it. If she didn't
manage to get him beyond that 'cute little girl' thing, their relationship
would get very old, very quickly. "You're forgetting: I've studied under
Amanda." She used the eyebrow arch, just like he'd taught her, and she
hoped her eyes were dancing with the lightness she was trying to pretend she
could feel.
It worked, because he grunted, and turned back to his eggs. Tabasco on
eggs. In the morning. She shuddered, and tasted her own omelet. "This is
really good," she complimented him honestly. "Finding a man that's still
there in the morning - that's hard enough. But finding a man that's still
there and can cook like this?" She shook her head in not-entirely-mock
admiration. "I have hit the jackpot."
He didn't laugh, he didn't even smile. Actually, he frowned, and looked
away. When he looked back, his eyes had no expression at all. Lifeless.
"Michelle," he said, holding her eyes, "getting involved would be a big
mistake for you, and an act of unbridled selfishness for me. A lot of the
things I've always cared about just don't seem to matter to me right now.
Until I figure out why that's so, I sure as hell can't mess up someone
else's life by entangling it with mine."
She bit her lip for a moment to keep from saying something too quickly. She
had to remind herself that her flirting had only been part of the confidence
game. His brushing her aside wasn't personal. It didn't hurt.... It
didn't hurt.... She could almost hear Amanda's voice in her head urging her
to turn it around. Make it into a 'misunderstanding' on his part.
Embarrass him with it.
Hit him where it would hurt most: In his sense of chivalry and virtue.
"Please don't assume, Dr. Brennan," she said softly, flatly, "that simply
because I'm a 'naive young lady' that I would just naturally want to jump
into bed with you the moment I met you." Too bad Amanda wasn't been here to
see this. She would have been so proud. Michelle shook her head, and that
look of disapproval he'd taught her was firmly in place. "Male vanity is
such an ugly thing. I had almost believed you were better than that."
Now he was blushing. She was sure he was mentally replaying their
conversation to see what he'd misinterpreted. He might even be able to see
that she was clearly out of line, but she was willing to bet the Boy Scout
in him wouldn't let him say so. "Michelle -" he started.
She held up a hand. "You've had a bad time lately," she continued. "You've
lost someone who obviously meant a lot to you. Well, you just need to get
the hell over it. I got to watch my parents sobbing at my graveside, not
able to tell them that it was okay, that I was okay, and that in fact I was
so okay, that I'd most likely outlive them." Her cheek twitched as the con
fell away, and the real emotion took over. She'd hadn't even allowed
herself to think about this in so long, and the pain she still felt
surprised her. And so she had that to be angry at him for as well. Morose
old bastard. "By a few centuries." Her voice wavered, but she pushed on,
gritting her teeth against the anger and the hurt she couldn't bury. "I had
no idea how warm and secure and loving my home was until I lost it. I may
be young, Dr. Brennan, but I'm no stranger to pain, and dammit, I find it
insulting that you would think I am."
His eyes didn't waver, though she was sure they wanted to. He wanted to
hide, to run away, to ignore her pain so that he could pretend his was
worse. Or, at least, that's what she hoped he wanted. She wanted to make
him feel as small and helpless and alone as she felt, as helpless as she'd
felt ever since those frightening moments in that New York alley.
Finally, he nodded, just a fraction, and a slow, sad half-smile creased his
lips. "So," he asked softly, "who's this old fool that thinks you're a
'naive young lady?'."
^--*-*-*--^
****************************************************
RJ Ferrance, DC, MD
Combined Internal Med/Pediatrics Resident
Medical College of Virginia Hospitals
Richmond, VA 23298
rferrance@vcu.org
http://views.vcu.edu/~medtoast/anvil.html