Summary: Movieverse, post twitches II, Aron/Miranda, angst, continuation.
Disclaimer: I do not own this. If I did, it would not be a kid's movie. This is not a kid's story. I have not read the books and do not intend to because I like messing with the movie characters. The books may well be better than the movies, but since it's the movies' faults and inaccuracies that inspire my subplots… being too correct would destroy my material.
No the fear doesn't leave her eyes. Nor does she relax. Nor, Aron notes dourly, does she drop her mask. Her face is as calm, cool, and polished as marble floor of the room. She's controlled, exacting, and icy.
Had it not been for that one glitch, her hands jerking up to block a blow he never would have thrown, Aron might not even realize she had been hurt. It tortures him that his brother, who he had once loved, could do this to her.
Nevertheless, there is no chance he may now blame her stiffness on the inherent awkwardness of the evening. He cannot ignore as an irrelevant aberration in her serenity the terror that periodically crackles across her eyes like heat lighting.
She is strong, and she is determined, but he can see that she is defeated. The spirit and joy that had drawn him to her when they were so young are cracked and battered. Life destroys her, and she lacks the will to fight back. Aron can see this, and he wishes beyond hope that he can heal her.
It's getting late. His muscles and joints ache, unused to corporality, atrophied. "We should go to bed." He says mildly, "Else the sun will rise before we sleep."
Her answer is barely audible "Yes sir."
His face contorts in an incredulous frown which he quickly smoothes seeing her overwhelmed reaction. "It's been a long time, Miranda, but 'sir'?"
The sides of her lips curl up gently, "Yes love." She murmurs, and for a moment, the mask drops and he can see vulnerability and hope in her eyes.
Then the façade is back. Blast.
Miranda is the first to get into bed, choosing the side farthest from the door, against the wall. She had hemmed herself in, Aron realized. He almost suggests that she might feel safer on the side by the door, but he can't seem to word his thoughts.
She lies on her back and looks at the ceiling. He wonders why she stopped sleeping on her side. He wonders why she doesn't close her eyes. He wonders if he should extinguish the lights. Her hands, which sit neatly folded on her stomach, indicate that she waits for something.
He settles for dimming the lights, for he's not sure he can navigate in total darkness, within what's become an unfamiliar room.
When he leans over to wish her good night, he feels her shrink against the mattress, as a tremor runs through her body. She stares blankly at the ceiling, her eyes somehow simultaneously lifeless and panicked. "Please, be gentle with me." She whispers, as her hands clench at her sides.
Murderous rage at his brother surges through Aron. His chest constricts and the room spins. Breath comes faster and his eyes gleam.
Detecting his anger, Miranda flinches. Her hands start upward to shield her face, but she forces them back to back to her waist and grips the sheets.
He only wrests himself back to composure by reminding himself that his brother is already dead. He recalls earlier that night, after Miranda had demanded to see the body, the frigid fury with which she'd stared at his detestable relative, and he understands it.
He moves himself back so that she has space. "I'm not going to hurt you." He answers her resolututely. She turns her head to look at him
She doesn't relax. "I know you'll be kind." She answers him, the trust in her face contradicting the fear in her eyes.
"I'm not going to touch you." He clarifies, cursing his choice of words yet again.
Confusion clouds her faces, "You want to." She says and it's a simple statement of fact.
Perhaps he does, but the thought of doing it like this sickens him. He reviles himself for even feeling tempted.
"You don't want to." He rejoins.
"You're my husband." She answers flatly, "What I want doesn't matter."
"Of course it does." He answers indignantly. "I love you."
She hesitates for an instant before answering. "It's all right. You'll be better than what I'm used to. Go ahead." She smiles at him shyly. "It's the way the world is." She squeezes her eyes tight shut, and, though she looks marginally less terrified, her fortitude is still forced.
He shakes his head. "Whatever my brother's been telling you, this is not the way I am." He declares passionately. "I will not use some darkness-twisted sense of duty to force you to have sex with me. I'm not going to rape you."
Miranda only looks at him, doubtful. "It's not rape." She mumbles.
"Can you honestly tell me it doesn't feel like rape?" He asks her.
Eyes downcast, she shakes her head.
"Miranda," he says sincerely. "I love you. I've been thinking of you day and night and missing you for 21 years. It's because I love you that I need you to understand. I am not like Thantos. I do not get pleasure from injuring the most beautiful soul I've ever known."
"Alright," Miranda finally responds, "But if you ever change your mind, I won't think any less of you."
"And if you're ever willing, really willing I mean…" He finds himself saying. He trails off. "I'll go sleep in the antechamber."
"No!" she replies sharply. "I mean… Please stay with me."
"Are you sure you wouldn't feel more comfortable alone?" He asks benevolently.
She begins in a small voice "If I…" steely tones creep into her words, "When I wake up in the night with nightmares, and I'm sure I will wake up with nightmares, I'd rather the first thing I see be you, alive."
"Very well," he answers, settling himself against his pillow and dimming the lights a little more. "Good night Miranda."
"Good night Aron," she whispers, and, to his surprise, she moves onto her side and snuggles her head against his chest. He puts an arm around her, and she doesn't tense.
Sleep for both of them comes slowly but they do not speak again that night.