Dynamics of a Human Heart Ch. 03

Grey looked back, "You can go get the coffee now."

Miranda was taking in the entire scene in a state of shock, but proceeded to do so.

Grey calmly reached down and yanked the wand out by the cord, it shot out from between Samantha's thighs like a rocket and smacked firmly into his palm.

"What--?" she began to say, but as she was looking up at the Englishman, he began to spray her in the face.

"Ack! Quit it! Stop, you fucker!"

"Oh, good," he commented, cigarette dangling from his lip, "you're up."

"Miri, get this psycho off of me!"

Miranda hurried into the bathroom and just stared agog at the sight of Grey spraying freezing water in high-pressured pulses into her lover's face.

And she began to snicker.

Sam now had both hands out in front of her to deflect the torrent of water; she did her best to turn and face Miranda while simultaneously keeping the three jets of freezing water from her head and chest.

"Sweetie, do something!"

Miranda began to laugh.

"That's not what I meant!"

And Miranda fell flat on her ass and proceeded to laugh it off. All the stress, all the anger, and the emotional debris and damage of this minefield of a night just flooded out in paroxysm of hysterical laughter. She laughed until tears sprang to her eyes and her sides ached.

Grey took the opportunity to collect the coffee that Miri had managed to set down before collapsing and preceded to hand it to Sam, shutting off the water in the process.

"Drink," he instructed.

"What is it?" she growled

"Virginal goat blood, what the fuck do you think it is? It's coffee, now drink!"

She took the mug glaring daggers at the man and sipped carefully.

"What, you didn't roofie this or anything did you?" Samantha sneered.

Miranda was still attempting to regain control of herself; but she knew Sam's angry voice when she heard it.

"Come here, pet," Grey beckoned.

In addition, if Miranda had come to know anything about their new guest, it was that he could always be counted upon to make the situation...

Samantha leaned forward and Grey popped her upside the back of her head with a wet smack!

...worse.

"Aw, you fucker, you fucking motherfucking—"

"Stupid should hurt," he turned to address Miranda, "I can see why you like her birdie," Grey commented as he gestured towards the naked, half-frozen young woman in front of him. Sam was currently hurling forth every vile obscenity known to man, "She's a smooth-talker, she is."

Miranda smiled a little and did her best to ignore the glare she was getting from Sam for her part in all this, "She has her moments."

"Plural? Really?"

"Shut up."

Sam drained the cup; Grey took it from Sam and handed it back to Miranda.

"Another cup or two until she has herself a proper, lengthy, piss, then switch to water and see if you can get her to eat something, start small and work your way up until she's either full or heaves."

Miranda nodded, "Done this a lot?"

"Remind me to tell you about my sweet thirteen."

"Remind me to be somewhere else when he does," growled Sam.

"Down, angry little lesbian," Grey smirked.

She gave him the finger and he bowed sweepingly, every movement of his body a study in sarcasm before turning around and heading down the hall.

"I'll be in the parlor, let me know if you need any help with Bile-spewing Barbie."

"I swear to God," Sam began, "I'm going to climb out of this tub, crawl over to him and beat him to death, this is what I am going to do."

Miranda stroked Sam's arms; they were still ice-cold and riddled with goose bumps.

"I know love, I know, but before you do, there are a few things you should know."

Sam focused her eyes on her lover as dread began to push its way through the mounds of nausea in her stomach.

"Uh-oh."

After filling Samantha in all the events of the evening: from the party to the homeless woman to the theft of the car; there was a long, pregnant pause in the conversation.

"So, for those of you keeping score," Miranda began as she counted off fingers, "Assault, gambling, grand theft auto—"

"'Grand theft' my pale arse," Grey broke in as he ground out a cigarette, "If that bloody rust bucket out there is worth more than a hundred dollars, I'll eat this goddamn coffee mug."

"I'm sorry," Samantha broke in, now dressed in her absolute warmest pair of pajamas, "I'd like to just circle around to the point that you put me in a fucking shopping cart and peddled me up the avenue like groceries!"

"Groceries are quieter," Grey commented as he lit up a new cigarette, "And tastier."

"Objection," Miranda chimed in.

"Noted and ignored."

"And that bit with the stick," countered Samantha, "makes that whole thing 'aggravated assault' due to the high probability of multiple and long lasting injuries of a debilitating nature," Sam possessed a passing interest in the law and was considering studying it further.

"And in layman's terms?"

"You nearly beat him to death with a big stick," Miranda explained, "The police frown upon that, it makes them all flustered and stern."

"And what's their feeling towards rape?"

That ended the conversation with the finality of a guillotine.

"Yeah, thought so," he exhaled a cloud of smoke from between his teeth, "Well, this has been...time-consuming..."

Miranda frowned while Samantha just rolled her eyes.

"...but I think I'll be on my way,"

"Gee, what a shame," Sam muttered.

Grey just laughed, "Good girl. Don't be afraid to show your teeth."

The compliment took both girls by surprise and they looked at each other. Miranda frowned as she met Samantha's eye, there was something the other girl was thinking and seemed on the verge of saying.

"Anyhow, goodbye, farewell, amen," Grey opened the door.

"Wait!"

Grey looked outside into the night and then up at the sky.

"I was this close," he hissed holding up two fingers with a sliver of space between them.

"Can you stay over?" Sam asked.

Grey turned and gave Samantha the exact same look that Miranda was.

"Why, and I know I'm going to regret asking this, would I want to do that?" he asked.

"We can pay you!" Sam called out.

"Pass."

"I'll let you see me naked again," Sam said in her best attempt of sounding seductive, "Miri too."

"Hey!" Miranda cried out.

Grey yawned and stretched his arms out, "Beg pardon, what did you say?"

Sam turned on Miranda, "Okay seriously, what is this guy's deal?"

"I have no idea in regards to his 'deal'," Miranda replied, "But I'm having an idea."

"Is it a good one?"

"Let's find out," Miranda turned to Grey who was watching the whole thing with a detached amusement, "I can get you more cigarettes."

His expression shifted into one of interest, "Go on."

"The cigarettes you smoke, they're not local, right? They're not domestic?"

"And you know that how?"

"I had an uncle back in Kyoto who had smoked every kind of tobacco known to man," she pointed at the cigarette pack in his shirt pocket," My uncle went all over the world, used to send me cartons of cigarettes, one from every country he went to, as a joke because he knew I didn't smoke," Miranda leaned in for the kill.

"I have an entire carton, unopened, of that brand of cigarettes and they're yours, if you'll just stay till morning."

Grey sighed and tossed his cigarettes to Miranda. She caught it and examined it: the box was white and emblazoned with gold and purple markings.

"'Silk Cut'," she read aloud before turning back to address Grey, holding up a hand in a placating manner, "Okay, just stay...stay here."

"What am I, a soddin' hound?"

"Just sit. Stay. Good Englishman."

She dashed out of the living room as Grey turned to address Sam, "So, how long has your bird been at sixes and sevens?"

"Huh?"

"Out of her bloody gourd."

"Oh," Sam got a funny little smile as she turned to look down the hall where Miranda had fled. There was crashing sounds coming from a closet and several loud and angry exclamations in both English and Japanese.

"Since forever," her smile became nostalgic, "She's nuts, but I love her."

"Well, she'd have to be; she's involved with your demented arse."

"Fuck you," Sam said cheerily.

"Not bloody likely."

"So, how'd you get that scar?" Sam asked.

"Nicked myself shaving, how'd you wind up a cripple?"

"Car backed over me."

"Huh," he reached out and lightly struck her shin with his stick.

"Ow, what the fuck was that for?"

"Two reasons: one, in the brief time we've known each other, you've given me plenty of reasons to cane you to death so I require no further explanation or justification on the matter," he took a drag and exhaled smoke, "And two: I wanted to see what kind of injuries you had. Judging by the fact that that hurt, I assume it isn't nerve damage?"

"Pretty much," she leaned over to rub her shin, "Bones were crushed."

"And let me guess, it didn't heal proper?"

"No," she frowned. His tone was changing, becoming more authoritative, "I can still feel them and I can even move them a bit—"

"But if you attempt to stand it's 'snap, crackle, pop' time?"

"Basically."

"Huh," he beckoned, "come here a bit."

"Are you nuts? You hit me last time!"

"No hitting, promise."

Carefully, Samantha leaned closer as Miranda returned in triumph.

"A-ha," she called out, "Mission accomplished."

"Good job, pet," Grey replied, distracted, "Okay Sam, I want you to pull down the lower portion of your eye, like if you were putting a contact in."

Sam complied as Miranda watched in puzzlement.

"Good, now tilt your eyes up," a small smile, "As if you were rolling your eyes in exasperation."

"Not difficult," Sam chortled.

"What are you doing?" Miranda asked

"Your sclera is blue," Grey commented.

"Yeah, I always liked it," she shrugged, "Blue on blue eyes is sexy."

"Yeah, well, they're also indicative of a genetic mutation."

"Beg pardon?" the two girls looked appalled at the idea.

"Osteogenesis Imperfecta," he tossed away his cigarette and lit up a fresh one, "that's 'brittle bone disease' to the rest of us. It's caused by a genetic defect and it's almost always inherited," he took a long drag, "How old were you when you broke your first bone?"

"Six, I feel out of a tree," Sam replied.

"Break a lot of bones since then."

"Well, yeah."

"Well, the good news is: it's treatable, but you need to get it diagnosed first," he exhaled a cloud of smoke, "whoever was responsible for your X-rays needs to have his bloody medical license force-fed to him, BBD stands out like a blood stain on a proper scan; very small fractures all over the body. Anyone who doesn't have their head mounted firmly up their arse would spot it."

"But" Sam said as she felt her pulse begin to race, "It's treatable?"

"'Treatable', not 'curable', kiddo," he ran his hand through his blond hair in deep thought, "This charming little condition comes in four varieties ranging from 'my life sucks' to 'oh my God, somebody put me out of my misery."

"But Sam's family has no history of BBD," Miranda jumped in. When they'd first gotten together, she had applied her impressive intellect towards seeing if she could improve Sam's lot in life, six months later, several consults, and a great deal of money spent and she'd only heard off-hand comments regarding BBD, further research was hard to come by. "I've consulted with her family's physicians a great deal."

"These 'consultations', they wouldn't happen by any chance to be the same bunch of cut-rate crows that were responsible for that incompetent diagnosis in the first place, would they?"

Miranda felt her cheeks go red, when he put it that way, she felt like an idiot. Of course, most things he said made her feel like an idiot.

Grey continued, "Some more good news is that your case is exceptionally mild."

"This is mild?" Sam exclaimed, pointing at her legs.

"It is, in fact. I think the only way they're going to find the wretched little mutation will be with a biopsy and a DNA test," he exhaled another cloud of smoke, "Someone in your family had Type I. You inherited, say, Type 0.5, just enough to make you miserable but not so much that you can't live a semi-normal life."

"Great."

"If it's any consolation, anything you spawn will be free of it; I don't think it's got the genetic chops to make it through another generation: it ends with you," he smirked, "Your offspring shall walk tall."

"DNA testing? Biopsies?" Miranda had heard of the procedures being used to treat various genetic disorders, but it had taken her months of searching and carefully putting together the different clues she could find.

"Yeah, pretty much, poppet."

"But it's treatable?" Sam repeated her hands began to tremble with excitement.

Grey nodded as he finished his cigarette, "Yeah, prescription meds can sometimes work, but in your case, I'm thinking regular IV infusions of Parmidronate at a hospital, preferably one that has a radiology department that isn't full up on full-on fucking fuckwits," he thought for a bit, "Children's hospitals usually have a nice crop of bone doctors on hand to deal with Timmy falling down the well and all that. If you can't score a bed, they can at least point you in the right direction."

"But, I mean, I could get better?" Sam whispered; she had gone white as a sheet. Miranda hurried over to her and suddenly the pair felt like they were in the doctor's office, getting another consult about her condition.

Except this, one 'doctor' seemed to know what he was talking about. He was a chain-smoking, abusive, jackass who took every opportunity to insult them and seemed only semi-sane. However, he knew what he was talking about.

"Okay, seriously, are you 'House'?" Sam questioned.

"Am I a house?" he asked, slightly taken aback. He'd been called many things in his life, but that was a new one.

"'House', from the TV show? He has a limp and uses a walking stick and everyone hates him but he's a medical genius."

"He's cute too," Miranda commented quietly.

"Was this show on BBC, say ten, twelve, years ago?"

"No."

"Then I've never seen it," he counted off his fingers, "I don't have a limp, I carry this thing around because you never know when someone's going to need a savage beating. Not everyone hates me, just the people who get to know me," he sighed, "And I am not, nor have I been, a licensed medical practitioner," he shrugged, "I'm just...well-informed."

"Also," he added, as an afterthought, "I am not bloody 'cute'."

"So I could walk again?" Sam asked breathlessly.

"Well you won't be taking the annual Boston stroll and you can bet that a cane and probably leg braces are going to be involved," he continued on, "And it'll take at least a year of infusions and physical therapy to deal with this kind of damage, more so if the bones have healed poorly."

"But I'll walk?"

"Yes! Yes, you will bloody walk! If you can make it through all of that and have the money to pay for it all, yeah, you'll walk."

Sam brought her hand to her mouth and closed her eyes; tears had begun to trickle down her face like tiny streams.

Miranda was being more cautious, she didn't want Sam to get her hopes up, "But she's already done physical therapy."

"That was different," Grey replied, looking for another cigarette, "The purpose of that was, judging by those thighs," he gestured and Sam actually laughed a little, "protecting her muscles from atrophy, and her bones were written off." he exhaled a cloud of smoke like an angry dragon, "Bloody slip-shod medicine," he growled as an aside, "THIS time it's the going to be the Full fucking Monty," he gave Sam a level look, "including breaking and resetting the bones so that this time, they heal correctly. But if you're being treated for BBD at the time..."

"...then this time, her bones would be stronger once fully healed since the brittleness was being treated," Miranda finished, looking sandbagged.

"Give the girl a prize," Grey commented before he began to cough, a deep, painful cough.

"You okay?" Miranda asked with a concerned expression.

"Yeah, just not used to gabbing this much."

"Want some water?"

"Yeah, anything cold," he gestured at Sam, "She's going to need a few to run all this through her noggin for a while."

"Yeah, me too," Miranda said quietly.

Grey coughed more and rubbed his chest as Miranda came back with the water.

"Cheers, luv, thank you," he said as he proceeded to drain the cup.

"What," Sam began, "What happens now?"

"It is two-thirty in the goddamn morning," Grey growled, "Now you sleep."

"Sleep? You just sat there and told me that a year from now I could be able to walk again. If you think I'm going to sleep now, you're insane."

"Why does everyone call me that?" Grey mused.

"Stating the obvious?" Miranda chimed in.

"Silence, Binty."

Grey leaned closer to Samantha's face.

"Hope is a glorious thing; it's something I remember dimly." Miranda again caught a flicker of some unidentifiable emotion flicker across his face like a ripple across a still pond. "And it's good to have hope, just temper it with patience and rationality."

"Yeah, because THAT'S what I'm known for," Sam replied, "Patience and rationality."

"Be that as it may, there's another reason why you should go to bed."

"Why's that?"

Grey casually tossed a pillow at her, "Catch."

Samantha lurched forward to grab it, completely missing and pitching forward to tumble onto the carpet.

"You're still drunk, pet; you're just not feeling it as much. As soon as the caffeine and adrenaline wear off, it'll find you and bring its friend Mr. Hangover with it."

"Great," Sam mumbled, facedown and muffled by the carpet, "Miri?"

"Coming love," Miranda helped Sam back up, but as soon as she was able to, Sam leapt into her lover's arms and wrapped both arms tight around her.

"I'm going to walk again, Miri," she whispered.

"I hope so, sweetie," Miranda wrapped her arms around the girl and tried not to stagger, "I truly do."

Sam looked at her, "Take me to bed or lose me forever, lover."

"One second sweetie," she brought Sam into their room, laying her down upon the bed before returning to the living room. Grey had opened the carton of cigarettes and was tearing into a fresh pack.

"Who are you?" Miranda asked bluntly.

"I'm Mister Grey. Haven't you been paying attention?" "None of your bleedin' concern."

"It becomes a concern when you tell the girl I love, that she's going to walk again after years of being stuck in a chair; you don't just say things like that."

"Why not?"

"Because what happens if it isn't true?"

"Would she be any worse off now if it weren't," he took a drag and exhaled, "besides, it's true."

"How do I know that?"

"Because I said it is."

"Are you a doctor?"

"No."

"Then all you're doing is offering her false hope and that's just cruel."

Grey very slowly and deliberately got to his feet and Miranda had the distinct feeling he was about to kill her as the menace and anger surrounding the man became palpable.

"Don't you ever talk to me about cruelty, over intellectualized prat!" he exhaled a cloud of smoke at her and pointed a finger at her, "Stick with what you understand: letters, numbers, data, and other dead things. You know nothing of cruelty."

"And you do?"

"I'm its best fucking mate, yeah."

"Why?"

"None of your—"

"Yeah, yeah I know, 'none of my goddamned business'," she exhaled angrily; "Can't you just take off your coat, get rid of those shades, stop smoking for five minutes, and tell me your name? Just trust me that one little bit?"

"Why should I?"

"Come on Grey, some part of you must want to rejoin the human race."

"And what if humanity doesn't want me?"

Miranda was taken aback by that, but she was starting to learn his patterns and this conversation seemed to be getting him fairly worked up.