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 is the movies' faults and inaccuracies that inspire my subplots… being too correct would destroy my material.
Aron taps his foot impatiently, as he tries to resist the urge to pace incessantly. The inquiry had insisted on seeing them separately. They had finished with him in a bit over two hours.
The process had been frightening and disorientating. He had stood in the center of the hall. The questions had come from all sides, with the representatives talking over each other. He had scrambled to answer, as they changed subjects without warning.
Though it had been exhausting, they had asked him nothing he had not expected. Well, almost nothing. The questions about Bloody Wednesday, his exile, and his return he had expected. He had not expected them to grill him on his courtship of and marriage to Miranda, whirlwind affair though it had been.
The only thing that had bothered Aron was when one delegate, with a wry twist to his mouth asked him why he wanted anything to do with Miranda now. He suspected his answer, that he loved her, had not been sufficient.
At any rate, the sun had still been low in the morning when they let him go and called Miranda. He is still waiting for them to finish with her. It was after midnight now, and they have not called so much as a recess.
What are they asking her? What could possibly take all this time?
He gives up on standing still and starts pacing again.
Miranda strides from the hall, looking noticably pale. Without slowing down, she loops her arm through Aron's and draws him with her. "Let's get to our rooms." She say, pitched low.
When they pass through the door, Miranda shuts it behind her and abruptly slumps against it, sliding to the floor with her head in her hands.
He stands and watches her for a moment, and then sinks to his knees reaching towards her with a tentative hand. "Was it bad?"
"I think," she says dryly, "I'm going to sick up."
He digs in his pockets for a packet of herbs. "Here." He tells her gently. He has been carrying these almost all the time. His own stomach does not suit him since his dematerialization.
She takes the herbs and chews them, but they do her no good. Moments later she is bent over a basin, dry retching. He holds back her hair, and whispers what he hopes are comforting things to her.
She sits up and takes a handkerchief from her pocket to wipe her mouth. "I'm done." She says steadily.
"We should get a healer." He suggests.
"No," she answers sternly. "I know why this happened."
"Ok." He says. He helps her up and to the bed, as he gently embraces her.
"You think otherwise?" She queries softly.
"You've had enough decisions made for you." He feels her jerk slightly in his arms. "I hurt you didn't I? Your ribs?
"Yes." Her musical voice says, "But I hurt worse when you won't touch me at all."
Some time later. "What did they ask you?"
"Everything." She answers low. "About us, about the politics, about Thantos' … treatment of me."
"I sorry you had to relive it."
Miranda pulls back sharply, "It wasn't that." She says resolutely. "Somehow, I know," She frowns and bites her lip lightly, "That I could do that again if I had to."
Startled he reaches towards her, "No you won't have to…I'll never let…"
"I know." She says intensely, "But when I didn't have a choice, I could get through it. Because it was that important."
"Then what was it that?"
She rolls a corner of the blanket between her fingers. "Everyone knew. I know they must have. But they pretended they did not see anything. They looked away because they could not help me, and it was better. It left me at least a little dignity. Now, they are talking about it, and I cannot stand it. They look at me, and I know they are remembering things better left forgotten."
"They'll forget about it." He says.
"The record will be open." Miranda retorts angrily, "Any one can go to the archives and read all they can stand to about me, every second of it if they care to. They will never remember anything else."
"They'll remember you as a hero."
"They'll remember me as his victim!" She shouts. She presses her lips tightly together. "I don't want my name tied to his." She says more calmly. "Not ever."
She looks fundamentally sick of all of it. He supposes he understands. This stubborn insistence reminds him of the spirited woman he married, those several decades ago. Trying to comfort her will be out of place here, so he tries practicality.
"If the records are open…" He suggests carefully. "You'd better tell the girls."
"No," she says shaking her head.
"They need to trust you."
"I will not." She breathes fast.
"Alex will…" He attempts.
"I can't." She looks hunted.
He speaks carefully, "You know what will happen when they find out."
"There are some things... I cannot talk about. The inquiry forced me to today, and it, it was... Saying these things aloud… it makes them real. Let them read the transcripts for themselves if they are that curious. "
"You should at least tell some of it." He says, leaning towards her a little and locking eyes with her. "Miranda, what if someone else tells them, and they hear you kept this from them? Think about it."
She turns a bit pale at this and looks at him appraisingly for a moment. Just when he is about to ask what is wrong she nods. "Alright." She says in a shaky voice, "I'll think about it."
"Does it hurt you that I know?" He asks casually. "Like the delegates."
"You, you're different." She says. "I can break down in front of you. I don't know why, but somehow you still… still care about me." Her voice breaks.
"I love you." He caresses her hair.
"I don't bloody deserve you." She whispers in response.