Author: Lazuli1
Rating: T
Disclaimer: "Joan of Arcadia" is the brainchild of Barbara Hall. None of the characters belong to me.
Summary: Whether he is viewed as bad or good, Ryan Hunter is a mystery to all who encounter him. But to him, Joan Giradi is the greatest enigma of all. Spoilers for "Something Wicked This Way Comes".
"Inscrutable"
She was reading again.
It would seem appropriate to some, that a girl who worked in a bookstore would be enraptured with the minimal thrills and cheap delights that books were wont to offer. To feel lost in the pages and dreams of an unsteady hand, a faceless figure whose language flowed into one's subconscious like a soothing waterfull. Knowledge is power, as the saying goes. And power is all.
She turned the page. A hair fell into her face. I watched and waited.
Such a striking, open face. A girl on the cusp on womanhood should not be enslaved to such childish features. Her eyes were far too wide, betraying her innocence to the world. She'd have to fix that, if she wanted to stay alive. There are far crueler things than me who would jump at taking advantage of such a beauty. Of course, it would be foolish of anyone to attempt harm on God's new favorite Poster Child. One greedy hand, stretching hungrily towards that frightened face would probably find themselves missing an appendage, courtesy of a few well-placed lightning bolts.
No bother. God wouldn't interfere. God would simply watch, and observe, as He always does, however annoying and irritable that particular habit was. Afterwards, as her face shined with freshly shed tears, pleading for an answer, a reason, anything, He would simply say it was "The Way". The way things must be, the way things should be, the way things fit His inconceivably moronic and vapid plan. Why not? He's done it before.
She turned another page. I slunk behind a bookcase for a better view. It's always best to observe your enemies while they aren't watching. You might pick up little mannerisms or find an obscure little sign that could help plot their downfall. Sounds nefarious and sinister, I realizeed that, but it's still a blast. Years of practice have honed my senses, and I am completely aware of my surroundings, whereas the Almighty's Precious Pet is absolutely oblivious to my presence. With the Creator on her side, it seems a little odd that He didn't teach her any basic survival skills.
Her hair was now in danger of fully covering her face. It wavered on her shoulder a bit, before gravity wins out and it began its slide downwards. She cought it in time, her face twisted in a semi-pout at being distracted from her book. Grabbing the end roughly, she maneuvered her hands around the brunette strands until a haphazardly-arranged bun appeared on her head. I'm immediately charmed.
How could I have ever thought she was only sixteen? Though her face still bears the shedding remains of adolescence, her lips form a perfect pout that is reminiscent of her mother. Poor Helen. I wondered what it will feel like when she discovers her daughter is a direct conduit to God. The sheer shock of it all will probably kill her.
Good.
Makes my work easier.
I was nearer to her now, treading silently over fallen books and awkwardly placed chairs. Honestly, doesn't anyone ever clean around here? It's called a job for a reason, sweetheart. Pick up after the slobs who hoof around your precious Fortress of Solitude, leave it sparkling clean, the way you wished your life was like. But she's seen too many things to fully wash away the dirt in her life. Perhaps her heart still weeps for her dear Adam, crying out in pain at the injustices he's caused her. She thinks it's all a secret, that she's recovering, but those fools can't read it as well as I can. She is dying on the inside, dying from the stress caused by pain, by God, by her friends, by her family. Oh, and by me.
Speaking of which, I've huddled long enough. Time for the Black Knight to make his move against the White Queen. I removed myself from my hiding place, and walked up to her. She didn't sense me until it was too late.
"Pride and Prejudice," I muse aloud, reading the title of her novel. Her head shot up, and those delicate eyes widened. A multitude of emotions crossed her face: anger, fear, annoyance, alarm…and ah, yes. There it is. She was curious.
"Ryan," she hissed, and bolted to her feet. The book lay on the table before us, thrown aside.
"Oh, please, Joan, don't stop on my account," I exclaimed, my hand held to my heart mockingly, "You looked so interested, I'd feel terrible if I unwittingly interrupted you."
"I didn't realize you had the ability to feel," she shot back, and either she's been hanging around God too long, or she's traded in for the other side, because the heat that surged from her glare felt hot enough to burn me alive.
"Ouch," I retorted sarcastically, and plopped down on a chair that's placed opposite to the one she recently vacated. She stared at me like I grew another head, but I could still see it simmering beneath the surface. Curiosity. It's a dangerous thing. I extended my hand to motion to the empty chair. "Please," I didn't ask as much as ordered.
She sat. "What are you doing here?" a rushed question to me. Her eyes suddenly narrowed, "Where…where you WATCHING me?" I smiled. I'm such a cad.
"I'd prefer to think of it as 'observing'," I responded, twirling my fingers against each other, "We are enemies, after all. I'd like to get to know you a bit better before I destroy you."
"Are you serious? 'Get to know me better'? You think this is some sort of date?" She looked infuriated, "I want you out of my life! Out of my school, out of this town, out of my dad's office, out of everything!" I leaned forward abruptly.
"No," I hissed, and she's taken aback. I loved to keep them on their toes. Leaning back in my chair, I offered her a slow grin. I could tell it affected her. I may be naughty, but I know I'm still good-looking. Her cheeks flared up, and her eyes brightened. She's slightly attracted to me, and she hates it.
"I like it here, Joan," I continued in this vein, inwardly rejoicing in my newfound victory, "I like the people," I picked up Pride and Prejudice and thumbed through it nonchalantly, enjoying her discomfort, "I like the atmosphere, that small-town smell. That feeling of righteousness, of good neighbors with good intentions. It's invigorating to a well-traveled man such as myself. When one has money, Joan, one suddenly realizes the joys and simple pleasures that a place like Arcadia has to offer."
"I wasn't aware that you were into this sort of thing," she said, her eyes glinting, "I thought you were more the torch-wielding psycho who went around burning places that meant something to people." I raised my eyebrows.
"Is that an accusation?"
"More like a fact. I know you had something to do with the church being vandalized, and the synagogue burning."
"I'd like to see your proof, Miss Giradi," So like her father. This could be a problem.
"The proof lies in your mere existence, you heartless bastard," she seethed, "how could you even think about doing that? Especially when you know God exists?"
"God is a daily nuisance whose presence infuriates and exasperates me," I monotone. A sigh. This conversation was not turning the way I wanted to. Glancing down at the book in my hand, I realized that I had crumpled a few of it's pages. I performed a mental shake, and tossed the book on the table.
"Interesting choice of reading material," I remarked, "Headstrong woman who stands alone in a babbling group of idiots ends up discovering that the one person whom she detests the most is the one she's destined to be with. Her equal in every way; body, mind, and spirit." I looked up and met her eyes, teasing, "A particular favorite of yours?"
"You're disgusting."
"I've been called worse," My voice was clipped. She smirked. Now, that was interesting. Could it be that I had begun to rub off on her already?
"Somehow, I don't doubt that at all," She extended her hand, "Can I please have my book back?"
"Certainly, Miss Bennett," I nudged the book into her waiting fingers, and chuckled at her outright look of disgust.
"Don't call me that," she muttered, "If you ever think I'm going to call you Mr. Darcy, you've got another thing coming."
"I'll let you reserve that title for your precious Adam," I sneered. It had its desired effect, her countenance shattered slightly at the mere mention of his name.
"Stay away from Adam," she threatened. I rolled my eyes, then stood up.
"Where-where are you going?" she was startled, her curious nature still not satiated. I was flattered, but knew there was a danger that if I remained too long, I risked exposing things about myself that I would have liked to have kept hidden.
She was very disarming, and she didn't even know it.
"As much as it pains me," I nodded my head in her direction, ever the gentleman, "I've got things to do, evil plans to plot. You know the drill." She obviously didn't.
"I will beat you, Joan," I stepped close to her, our bodies only separated by a foot and a half of air, "Make no mistake about that." Her strength wavered, but held strong.
"I will fight you, Ryan," she breathed back, "Make no mistake about that."
I gazed into her eyes. A spark, a connection, whatever it was, we had it. That pure pleasure of finding someone else on this Earth like yourself was intoxicating. Yes, she would fight me. And she would love every second of it.
"Goodbye," I whispered, and left quietly. I felt her eyes scorching my back, and reassured myself that it was exactly what I wanted.
So why did it feel so wrong?
The End.