Beyond the Scions Pt. 02

Domestic

It turned out that Hartmann's apartment was only a few miles away, and easily reached by bus. His building was nothing like Carol's, however, and required a key code just to get into the complex. From there, she walked up four flights of steps -- mostly because it would take longer than the elevator -- then followed the line of doors until she reached the number she was looking for.

Cautiously and slowly, she knocked.

Hartmann answered and stared at her, shirtless with only a pair of pajama pants on. His left wrist was bandaged and in a splint that also held his fingers immobile, and he kept his elbow bent to hold his hand level with his shoulder. Carol could feel him examining her head-to-toe, so she tried to shrink within herself, until he finally said, "Yeah, it's you all right. Come on in."

He stepped back, and she followed him inside. It was a nice two bedroom apartment with a big living room, though sparsely furnished with only the essentials and a gaming system. He motioned around carelessly with his good hand. "This is it. You can find everything yourself."

"It's bigger than my place," Carol blurted, then blushed.

Hartmann shrugged. "I moved in about three months ago, and I've barely spent any time here. Now go to the kitchen and make me a sandwich; I'm hungry."

"I thought that you just wanted me to clean," Carol protested weakly.

He pointed to his injured hand. "The doctor says that I'll never regain full function of my fingers because of what you did. The least you can do is make me a sandwich."

"Fine, I'll do it." Carol nervously bit her lip. "I can do basic cooking, but don't expect anything fancy."

"There should be sliced meat in the fridge. A buddy of mine brought over groceries about an hour ago." Hartmann went back to the couch and flopped down, then turned his movie back on.

Carol rummaged around in the kitchen, searching through his fridge to pull out everything that she thought would make a decent sandwich, then paused to ask, "How much mayonnaise do you like?"

"I dunno, the normal amount," he answered distractedly.

"How many slices of meat?"

"The usual."

"And how much cheese?"

"Good god woman!" he exclaimed in frustration. "Just make a sandwich, okay? Why do you have to ask so many questions?"

"I'm just trying to figure out what you like," Carol muttered. "Today is your first day out of the hospital, isn't it?"

Hartmann paused to think, then answered in a tone that was simultaneously resigned yet amused, "Fine. Lay the meat on thick, then top it off with a slice of cheese."

"Lettuce and tomato?"

"Only if the tomato is ripe."

Carol carefully arranged each item onto the sandwich as Hartmann silently came up behind her to watch, so that when she picked it up and turned around she nearly bumped into him. He took hold of the plate with his good hand, then continued to stare at her. "I can see why you were chosen to clean the Suit."

"I like doing a good job, that's all." Carol looked away, feeling all too aware of the fact that he was underdressed and standing uncomfortably close.

"So, what was it like for you inside the Suit?" he asked casually, returning to his spot on the couch to eat.

"It was ..." Carol felt herself blush. "Amazing."

"Innit?" Hartmann chuckled. "It's going to be agony until I can return back to active duty. You're a little bitch for injuring me like this, you know?"

Carol didn't know how to respond. She looked down at the floor and shifted, folding her hands together. "I didn't mean to."

Hartmann harrumphed. "Go on and get to work. My dishes need to be done, and uh, I dunno. Whatever else you find to do."

"Do you need any help with your injury?"

Carol's question surprised him. "What do you mean?"

"Changing bandages, or managing pain medication, or ..." she hesitated, then said in a lower tone, "Getting dressed."

Hartmann laughed at her. "What's the matter? You like what you see too much? No, I don't need any help getting dressed, but if you'd like I could help you get undressed."

"No," Carol snapped.

"You're not my type anyway." He lounged back and put his feet up, and Carol watched from across the room as a few crumbs fell from the bread and onto the cushions; she was going to have to vacuum under them later. "I had to cancel a hot date because of this," Hartmann mused. "I ought to thank you for that one though, 'cause she turned nasty when she found out this injury could be permanent."

"Was she your girlfriend?" Carol asked offhandedly, opening the cupboard under the sink to search for cleaning supplies.

"Nah." Hartmann took a minute to finish eating, then put his plate down on the floor, making Carol wonder if he was naturally a slob, or playing it up for her benefit. "You know," he said, watching her. "If I'm going to have to look at you every day, the least you can do is make yourself up so it's a little more pleasant on my part. Wear something pretty tomorrow, and put on some lipstick. I'm sure you can find video tutorials online."

Carol felt her face turn bright red, so she quickly turned the water on to wash the dishes, hoping that would be enough to ignore what he had said.

"How about you? Any boyfriends?" he continued.

Carol shook her head. "No."

She could practically feel him sizing her up before asking, "Friends?" and again she shook her head. "So what do you do for fun?" he added.

She shrugged. "I watch movies, browse the internet, and occasionally read, I guess."

"Any favorites?"

"...No."

"Anything you hated?"

"I'm just here to help you out," she snapped. "Not to be interrogated."

Hartmann scoffed. "Apparently you have so little going on, you should be grateful that I've given you something to do. How is it that a person can be so boring?"

Carol didn't know the answer.

I'm Definitely Crazy

Carol went to the retail store instead of going home, all the while calling herself crazy. She never thought much about her appearance, and tended to stick with items that were simple and practical, but she decided that if it would help get her on Hartmann's good side, then a little dressing up wouldn't hurt.

She wasn't at all sure how to broach the topic of the Suit with him, particularly the little niggling fantasy that had worked it's way into her brain about getting inside and using the help mode again. While she knew that he could help her, she had no idea whether or not he would.

There wasn't much time before the next bus home, so she grabbed a floral sleeveless dress with ruffles at the bottom of the skirt, then went to the makeup section for mascara and lipstick, carefully selecting a neutral shade that wouldn't be too much of a bother to put on. After making her purchase, she managed to make it to the bus stop just as it came into view on the street, and Carol hated how close she had cut it.

The next day, after she got dressed, she examined herself in the mirror. For a fleeting moment, she thought that she shouldn't have thrown away the red pushup bra, then pushed the thought out of her mind. She was trying to appeal to Hartmann, not to seduce him. The skirt was a little long for her height, so she hoped that she'd remember to hold it up and move carefully.

It felt strange to be wearing something other than her usual shirts and jeans, but it put her in the mood to follow a simple hairstyle tutorial online, and she managed to tie her hair back into a half updo that didn't look too bad. With the mascara and lipstick, she almost didn't look like the same person.

On the bus, she was more aware of people looking at her than usual, so she nervously clutched her bag on her lap and kept her gaze pointed downwards.

At Hartmann's apartment, he did a double take before letting her in. "Wow," he breathed. "Done up like that, you're a solid 7. I thought that you'd be an iffy 6 at best."

Carol glared at him. "With that sort of injury, you'd be on painkillers for awhile, right?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'm on some pretty good shit right now," he replied. "Why? You want some?"

She was taken aback. "What? No!"

"Shame. It would help chill you out." Hartmann returned to his usual spot on the couch, and Carol found that she no longer had the words to chastise him. Instead, she found herself flushing as she busied herself with tidying up, and questioned what she had been thinking as Hartmann's eyes fixed on her. He laughed when she stepped on the hem of her skirt and nearly tripped, then suggested, "Some high heels would help with that."

"I'm not made of money, sergeant," she retorted. "And there's a good chance I won't have a job next month."

"It's Master Sergeant Hartmann, miss. And before this injury, I was on track to becoming Sergeant Major Hartmann."

"What's the difference?" Carol muttered.

"I dunno. What's the difference between a janitor and a vice president? You both work in buildings." Hartmann scowled. "Aside from the obvious fact that one can't afford to buy shoes."

"Okay, I get it. Sorry." Carol turned away and retreated to the kitchen to look busy, but she had managed to rile Hartmann up enough that he left his couch to come up behind her.

"You can be a real bitch, you know that? So what's your real game? Why are you really here?" he asked.

Carol hesitated. "Inside the Suit ..." she began slowly, carefully keeping her back to Hartmann. "Do you know about a 'help mode'?"

"No." Something about his voice was strange.

"After I shut the doors to the Suit, it called me 'commander' then activated something called a 'help mode', which is how I knew how to access the playback for the auto-recording. I was wondering if you knew anything, as the main pilot."

Hartmann roughly grabbed her arm and turned her around, then pushed her back against the counter. "My Suit did what?" he asked with a dangerous tone.

Carol saw the same gleam in his eyes that he had right before he pushed her into the Suit while threatening her with a fatal accident, and with despair she wondered if anything was going to miraculously save her this time. She stood frozen as he placed his good hand on her neck, and she squeezed her eyes shut with the anticipation of being choked, but he didn't do anything else.

"Stay away from it," he whispered into her ear. "It's mine, you got that?"

She nodded, and he let her go.

"I'll see if I can get the military to pay you to be my nursemaid, or whatever." He shrugged, then started back towards the living room.

"I'm not so sure this arrangement is going to work out," Carol protested, then shrank back when he turned to look at her, his eyes still glinting.

"It's going to work just fine," he said. "And you're going to wear those fucking high heels."

Bonding?

It was a relief when Hartmann texted her the next day that he wasn't going to be home. She fretted about whether or not she should ever go back to his apartment, or if she should give up on the Suit altogether and disappear rather than risk exposing herself to his dark side. Whether she liked it or not, Hartmann was the only person she had access to who had any connection to the Suit, and the longer she was away from it, the more her heart ached. As long as there was any chance of her getting back on base, she needed to stick it out.

She spent the day shopping for clothing and shoes, and drained her bank account as much as she dared, hoping against hope that Hartmann would secure a paycheck for her at the very least. She aimed for an entirely new wardrobe, with a far more feminine focus than what she had previously, including a number of knee-length skirts, high heels, and even nylons. She also added foundation, blush, and eyeshadow to her makeup collection, then spent the rest of the day watching video tutorials on her phone. That night she went to bed feeling a little foolish, but she hoped that if she satisfied Hartmann enough, he'd help her in return.

All she really cared about was the Suit, and she was willing to do whatever it took to get back to it.

Though, somewhere deep inside, Carol had liked the way Hartmann looked at her when he first opened the door. She wasn't sure what the number rating system was supposed to mean, but seven sounded better than average. Seven was enough to stop feeling invisible.

So, the next day, she put on a skirt and blouse, applied makeup and styled her hair, then put on her new high heels before leaving to get to Hartmann's apartment.

He had a sour look when he opened the door, and didn't speak to her as he let her in. For a moment Carol was terrified that she had done something wrong with her appearance, but something about the way he hunched over as he walked made her suspect that his mood didn't have anything to do with her. When she set down her bag, she noticed that there was a new bottle of pills on the counter, and she wondered if it would be too forward to pick them up and read what they were.

"How was your day, yesterday?" she asked, trying to sound casual. "I went ahead and bought new high heels. Do you like them?"

He grunted, and glanced over at her with unseeing eyes. "I was at the doctor's yesterday, so what do you think?"

Carol winced inwardly at his irritableness, so she turned away. Carefully, she made sure that he wasn't watching, then picked up the bottle to read the prescription, and recognized it as an antibiotic. "Oh no!" she exclaimed, forgetting herself. "Is your wrist not healing well?"

"It's a minor infection," Hartmann retorted. "And none of your business."

"I can help." Carol walked up to him, and gestured at his hand. "It must be difficult changing the bandages on your own."

He looked at her and scowled. "You aren't remotely sorry. You said so yourself."

"I was drunk, and I didn't mean it." Carol nervously bit her lip, then added, "And that was before I met you."

"Go make a sandwich or something," he snapped, so Carol backed away.

She quietly assembled the sandwich in the kitchen, careful to make it the same way as before, then brought it over to him. While her mind kept telling her over and over to leave well enough alone, she couldn't resist the impulse to do something to cheer him up.

"I'm here, so you might as well use me," she murmured, standing next to the couch.

This time Hartmann looked her head to toe, then cracked a slight smile. "Use you? That's surprisingly straightforward of you. Go ahead and undo some of those buttons on your shirt, then, and we'll see how it progresses from there."

Carol blushed deeply. "That's not what I meant."

"I know," he smirked.

She folded her hands together and looked down at the floor, shifting uncomfortably. "I'm trying to be nice," she said quietly.

"In that case, sit down next to me." Hartmann grabbed her arm and pulled her down onto the couch. "Relax, I'm not going to molest you," he said with a chuckle. "Just rub my shoulders -- it gets tiring holding up my injured hand like this."

"Why do you do that?" Carol asked. As far as she knew, Hartmann had yet to put on a shirt since he was discharged from the hospital, and she wasn't so sure about touching his skin. But, since he had asked, she took a deep breath to steel herself, then placed her hands on his bare shoulders.

"I have to keep it above my heart for it to heal correctly," he answered distractedly.

"I am sorry about what happened." -- Was she really? -- "I panic too easily, and I was so scared that you were going to hurt me," Carol said.

"I wouldn't have tried to prank you if I had known that," he replied, and Carol could feel his muscles softening under her touch. After a minute, he mumbled, "It's funny that your hands are warm; I expected them to be frigid."

"Why?"

"That's the sort of person you are, isn't it? Afraid to reach out to others?"

Carol quietly focused on massaging Hartmann's shoulders while he ate, then she murmured, "If you're actually wondering, I grew up in foster care."

"Ah. Was it hard?"

Carol shook her head. "I just learned that it's better to be invisible."

"What happened to your real parents?"

"They died in a house fire when I was three. Apparently I almost didn't make it because of smoke inhalation, and I came close to being declared dead."

"Well what do you know, it looks like you do have something interesting about you after all." Hartmann turned to grin at her. "Your legs look great, by the way. Too bad about keeping those buttons done up, though."