Author's Note: And here's the first chapter....
Hopefully the case of the main character isn't too confusing... and if it is just hold on, you'll understand soon enough. And yes, this is a 1x2x1, trust me.
*huggles*
----Snow Tigra
Touched and Bound Part 1
The minute I saw him walk through that door I didn't like him.
It's silly really, when I think about it. I'm not really sure what caused this dislike, especially from me of all people, but it was there.
The day had started like any other and I'd arrived at work exactly ten minutes early. I always arrived 10 minutes early. 10 minutes gave me enough time to put on my apron, clock in and assess what needed to be done for the day. I worked at a mix between a deli and coffee shop. We had the normal assortment of doughnuts with a few varieties of coffee and all of it was ready for the morning rush that would start about half an hour after I arrived.
I don't know why I always have things so precise, I guess it's just an odd perk of mine which I'm at a loss to explain. But, true to my apparent nature, I was in the midst of cleaning and taking orders when he stepped in through the front door, his entrance signaled by the annoying little bell on the door hook.
Long brown hair, abnormally long for someone his age and gender. It flowed down his back, with the consistency of a stream, to nearly brush the backs of his knees. The long mass of hair was braided, with obvious care, and tied off at the end with a simple black tie. Comparatively the rest of him was more what I would have expected from another my age. His attire consisted of black jeans, a loose red t-shirt and a black matching jacket to complete the ensemble.
Three other things struck me as strange about him aside from his braid.
A gleaming, polished, golden cross hung around his neck, standing out in sharp contrast to the dark clothing he wore. It caught the overhead lights and glinted as he walked, obviously not something he hid, or felt that he needed to.
His hands were covered with black gloves, matching the outfit and disappearing beneath his sleeves. Yet the weather didn't warrant such things, so I passed them off as a fashion accessory, at first.
The final thing was his smile.
I took one look at that bright smile across his face and decided that I didn't like him. This one struck me as trouble; and something about him and the way he walked unnerved me, which is quite a task for one to accomplish. I didn't let it show of course, I am apparently quite good at hiding my emotions. But either way I didn't like him on sight. Not at all.
"Got any orange juice?" He asked as he came up next in line. His eyes seemed to sparkle with bright smiles and the grin upon his face held a mischievous tilt. I simply nodded and turned around, grabbing one of the small cartons from behind me and ringing it up.
He happily took the orange juice and paid for it, his gloved hands grasping the carton with practiced ease. Then he moved over to sit at one of the tables in the corner. I refused to let myself frown at the apparent fact that he was staying in the store; I had another customer to take care of.
The busy hour passed without incident. Despite the fact that I'd only had the job for a year, the manager seemed only too happy to let me handle things on my own without another employee rushing around behind me waiting to be tripped by their own feet. I don't work well with others. I'm more efficient if the jobs are left entirely up to me and I'm allowed to set my own rhythm. Plus I have a very low tolerance for people who wish to make idle conversation while they work, which all of my coworkers have tried to do. It's not that I'm unfriendly or unsociable. I just like my privacy. I may not know myself as well as most people do at my age, but I do know that I work better alone in jobs.
As soon as the busy hour passed I moved about my work of cleaning and restocking. I refilled the self-serve doughnuts, cleaned the counters of spilled coffee and even pulled out the mop where two customers had been in too much of a hurry to not spill their drinks. Tables were wiped, occasional customers were served, and more coffee was brewed.
And through it all he sat at the table watching.
A carton of orange juice doesn't last that long.
He just sat at that table, slowly sipping at the carton and attempting to look normal. He might have succeeded with all the customers passing through, but I saw through him. No one, and I mean no one, is able to make a small carton of orange juice last three hours. He just sat there, sipping it and watching me out of the corner of his eyes. It unnerved me to say the least. But it wasn't the fact of him sitting there that bugged me. What bugged me the most was that he was obviously waiting for something.
He was waiting for me to get off work.
Needless to say I did not look forward to clocking out that day.
~*~
"Your name's Trowa?"
I stopped outside the back door to the coffee shop. I was still wearing my work outfit, my hat and tie stuffed in a small bag slung over my shoulder, along with a few past due doughnuts that would be my late lunch. It didn't surprise me that he was waiting there; after all he'd been waiting inside all day. But I suppose a small side of me had hoped he hadn't noticed the back door that the employees were supposed to use. So much for that thought.
"That's what it says on my name tag," I responded with a small shrug.
I could feel his eyes watching my back, concentrating on my head. His gaze felt like a physical force and I had no desire to turn back and meet it. Instead I started walking home. I wasn't at all surprised when he started following me.
"You know anyone by the name of Middi Une? She's a regular at the coffee shop during Wednesdays."
That I couldn't resist. I glanced over my shoulder and tilted my head a bit at him, glancing over him once more. He stood behind me, still grinning like it was his natural expression. His gloved thumbs were hooked in his pockets as he stood there, waiting for me to answer his strange question.
I responded with one of my own.
"Little young for a cop, aren't you?"
He laughed at that, the sound slipping from his throat as the smile on his face grew. I had amused him; that was for sure. But I didn't smile back; I just watched him and waited for my answer. Who else but a cop would be asking about a girl that had disappeared nearly a month ago? Relatives stopped asking after a week.
"No, I'm not a cop." He admitted when he'd had his laugh.
"Then why are you asking?"
A smirk crossed his face. "Why are you avoiding the question?"
Shit.
I gave a shrug and turned to face him. "Customers don't wear name tags. If she stopped in then she stopped in. The cops asked me the same things a month ago, even showed me a picture. I'm assuming you're referring to the same missing girl."
He nodded, once.
"The cops stopped asking a month ago. Why are you so interested?"
Now it was his turn to shrug. "Call it a personal favor. Any idea what happened to her?"
"None. I don't make it a point to follow around people I don't know." I was hoping he'd get the hint. I wasn't in the mood for this conversation and had no desire for it to continue. He wasn't a cop, so as far as I was concerned he was just being nosey. I don't like nosey people, as a rule. I try my best to stay away from them.
"Touché," he said with a grin.
And as far as I was concerned that was the end of the conversation. I turned away from him and started walking again toward my home. To my surprise he didn't follow me anymore. When I looked behind me he was gone, and for that I was quite thankful.
It was only when I reached my door that I realized the truth with a sinking feeling in my gut.
He didn't need to follow me. He could just corner me again at work tomorrow.
I groaned.
~*~
I have this strange habit, when I wake up in the morning, one of the very strange things about myself that is a mystery to me. The minute I wake up, I don't move. Before doing anything, before even opening my eyes, I listen to the room around me. I pinpoint all sounds and match them to the objects to which they belong. I make sure the silence is natural around me, and I wait for a few minutes, making sure that nothing else is holding its breath and waiting to see if I notice.
Next my eyes open and flicker around the room in quick glances. I take a quick survey of what's around me, making sure nothing has moved and that everything is exactly where I left it. Checking and double-checking the room to make sure there was nothing unexpected; that nothing was waiting for me that wasn't there the night before.
And about the time my hand starts to slip under my pillow for a weapon I stop myself.
It takes me that long to break the habit and yell at myself, and stop.
I suppose some people would call me paranoid, and maybe I really am. But put yourself in my position. Anyone else acting that way would be on meds like you wouldn't believe, swallowing a rainbow trailmix of pills every mealtime. However, I can almost certainly guarantee you that those people all have their memories fully intact, even if their minds are working a little off kilter.
For a while I thought I was paranoid and that I should seek medical help. But when I added all the pieces together that just didn't fit right. So I'm not paranoid. I'm cautious.
Least, that's what I keep telling myself.
Crawling out of bed, I head toward the old shower in my small home and turn on the water. A short shower in the morning, only enough to attempt to get my hair into some semblance of order, then I spend the next half-hour or so looking in the mirror.
That isn't a habit I had before I can remember.
No, instead this is merely a habit that I've acquired recently. I spend nearly half an hour every day just standing here, staring at myself in the mirror. I comb over every inch of my face, neck and shoulders that I can see, practically willing the reflection to give me some clue, some small hint as to who I really am. But it never does.
I could spend all morning studying my blue eyes, which are just slightly tilted from mixed Asian heritage. I can look over my oddly pale skin, and even spend hours staring at my chocolate colored hair, that was so brown it was nearly black. I could stare all day and night - in fact I had more then once - but still no clues came to me.
No, instead, every time I looked in that mirror it was almost as if I was just looking through a window and seeing another completely different person. Because my reflection has never looked familiar, and it's still hard to this day to admit that that's me staring back at myself. It's so strange, but at times I feel like I'm a vampire, or some godforsaken creature that has lost their reflection. A soulless demon, forced to wander the world in confusion.
But then, I'm not one to believe such things. Powers? Creatures? All fairy tales to make man feel more important then they really are. It's a great human comfort to think that when one messes up they can just blame it on some higher power or some invisible little man.
And listen to me, getting all philosophical in front of the mirror. Time to head to work.
~*~
I wasn't surprised to find him waiting for me.
He wasn't waiting by the door, persay, and it took me a while to find him among the hustle and bustle of the morning street. Actually, I probably wouldn't even have noticed him, if it weren't for the strangely sharp sound of the newspaper dispenser clicking open for someone to retrieve what they'd paid for. Thatsound caught my ear, oddly enough, amongst all the other sounds of cars zooming past with bikes clicking and horns. I glanced up from the door to the small bakery/deli and saw him standing across the street.
He stood there, the paper tucked under one arm as he stared across the traffic at me. If I hadn't known better I would have said he got that paper just to see if I'd hear and notice him, but that didn't seem right at all. Our eyes met for a split second and his face seemed to hold an immense amount of curiosity, before I broke the contact and went back to fishing around for the key to the store.
Opening the door I flipped on the lights and headed for the back, as they all clicked on above me with snapping electrical buzzes. Setting down the chairs I moved in behind the counter and began to unpack everything, turning on all the coffee machines and checking on all the doughnuts and pastries.
Luckily my job did not include making those. All our doughnuts and pastries were brought in half an hour before I arrived from a large bakery downtown, where they were cooked over night. It saved the deli man-hours and money and it saved me a couple more hours of sleep, which I had no reason to argue with.
The bell of the front door rang, signaling the first customer, just as the coffee machines began to fill up their pots and the thick aroma began to seep through the store. I glanced up and only spared him a second before going back to refilling the napkin dispensers at every table. A gloved hand touched the edge of the table next to me, but I simply ignored it and went to the next table.
"Orange juice?" I asked, heading for the front counter, just like he were any other customer waiting to be served.
He followed me and leaned against the glass display case with a grin as I grabbed him a small orange carton.
"What's your last name?" He asked, as if it were a perfectly normal conversational question.
I didn't look up at him; instead I just unlocked the register so I could start ringing up sales. "You want my phone number too?" I asked in a dry, unamused voice.
He chuckled and set down the cash for the carton of juice. "Hardly, just curious, that's all."
"Barton." I responded, punching in the price and ringing up his change. "And that's all curiosity will get you." I set his coins back on the counter.
His gloved hand reached out and took the coins, dropping them in his pocket, but he didn't touch the juice. Meanwhile I went about restocking cups, straws and mixers for the coffee.
"Trowa Barton?" He said, almost as if he were playing with the words in his mouth. I don't know why, but the way he said the name sent shivers down my back, and not the good kind. I definitely didn't like this guy, and found myself wishing he would just leave me the hell alone. "You aren't much of a people person, are you?" He continued a second later.
"No."
I'm sure he would have said more, but at about that time more customers started filtering into the store. Taking his carton of juice he headed toward the back of the deli and took a seat, oddly enough at the same table where he'd sat the day before. I set my mind to ignoring his annoying stare and making the customers happy. I plastered my face with a 'good morning' smile and went about serving them and making the store money. Just like the good little employee I was...
The morning passed quickly enough and before I knew it was actually time for me to start cleaning up for the next shift. One thing I like about working mornings is that they fly by quickly. It's very easy to lose one's self in the pattern of greeting, serving and ringing up customers, pausing to clean tables and counters in between. The hours pass in a blur of faces, dollar bills and bells. Yet, still, somehow I have the talent to remember almost all the faces in front of me. I suppose I have what one would call a photographic memory.
I can't remember orders any better than the next person; that's not it. No, instead I notice odd things about people. I see their eyes, remember their faces. I note changes in looks that happen each day, just on reflex I guess. The minute the door opens I glance and see who it is. I haven't tried it, but I wouldn't be surprised at all if I could name in near perfect order the people who enter this deli every morning.
Some times these little traits of mine scare me.
The business died down, giving way to my hour or so of free time before the next rush and I locked the register, moving about to clean the tables. Not to my surprise I found him sitting in the back of the room at the farthest table, the only person left in the deli.
But he wasn't watching me this time.
Giving into my own curiosity I turned to actually see what he was doing, instead of just giving him small glances out of the corner of my eye. Turning completely to face him, I couldn't help but be surprised.
He sat there, at the table, with his eyes shut. One of his gloved hands was now bare and resting on the synthetic wood next to his long empty carton of orange juice. His hand just seemed to be resting there peacefully, while his eyes seemed to be moving; though they were shut. It almost looked like he was dreaming because I could see his eyes moving quickly back and forth under his eyelids.
The minute I'd begun to think he'd fallen asleep his eyes snapped open and met with mine. His expression changed to one of surprise tinged with a bit of fear. We stood there silently and I realized that he hadn't intended for me to see what he was doing. That I wasn't supposed to have noticed him touching the table with his eyes shut. But why? Why would it be so bad for me to notice something as small as that? One would think that he'd been able to figure out how observant I am, especially after noticing him across the street that morning.
His expression shifted, like a curtain dropping, and his normal grin crossed his face. Standing up he swept up the carton with his gloved hand and tossed it in the garbage, stopping for only a minute to replace his other glove. He walked right toward the door, stopping again when we were side by side and he was right at the edge of my peripheral vision.
"You're lying," he said softly.
I forced myself not to react to his words. I forced myself to calmly keep breathing and not give any sign as to whether he was right or not.
"You're lying about everything," he repeated.
Leaning down to retrieve my wet towel I gave a shrug. "That's a pretty broad statement," I responded in a cool voice.
His deep eyes flickered to me with a look of annoyance, the first major change in his usually happy exterior image. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but apparently decided against it, because no words were spoken. A moment later he walked for the door and left, the bells hitting the window hard and ringing through the empty deli.
Only then did I allow myself to respond to the cold shiver down my back. Standing up straight I turned to look out the window and watched his retreating form until he was out of sight.
I had no reason to believe him. No reason to think he knew the truth about the secrets I hid.
And yet...
Something about the way he'd just spoken stuck true. I knew he knew at least one of my secrets. He was correct, after all; I was lying. But how had he figured that out?
An incredible urge rose inside of me. I suddenly felt the need to leave, run home, pack my stuff and move to another place where I would be safe. But there was another urge below that, something that I tried to deny as much as possible.
And that was the urge to follow him and find out exactly what and how he knew.
And then silence him.
TBC...
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