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4. Rusty

May 6, 2009

Hank slouched against the bars of his cell and tried not to smirk. She should be coming down the hallway any minute now – that silver spoon from the bar. He’d told the officers that she was his sister. Since nobody else in the bar was able to identify her, they’d believed him. That meant that as soon as they prodded her from the miserable cot in that windowless cell they called a “Recovery Room”, she’d be delivered directly to his cell.

He examined his fingernails as his smirk deepened. Naturally, she’d be overcome with surprise and gratitude upon seeing him – he had, after all, saved her from Chesterfield. And, wonder of wonders, here he was again to rescue her from the shame and horror of being imprisoned.

Of course, he’d make sure there was some kind of reward involved. Enough to cover the usual bribe to grease the release papers for himself, Bones, and Miss Silver Spoon and then some. It wouldn’t be enough to pay off his debt to Ratchet, but it might be enough to appease the greedy fool until he could find paying work for his ship.

“She’s coming,” said Bones in an emotionless voice.

Hank spared his companion a quick glance. The ticker stood stiffly in the back corner of the cell, taking advantage of what shadows there were to obscure his appearance. He’d been in a black mood ever since they’d gotten arrested. Hank ignored him. Let him pout if he wanted. Hank’s plan was bulletproof. He had yet to meet the woman he couldn’t charm.

Sure enough, his eyes finally confirmed what Bones’ ears had already caught – his meal ticket, being escorted by a female guard. Quickly, he ran a hand through his shoulder-length wavy hair and prepared to full throttle the charisma.

The guard opened the door and removed the girl’s handcuffs in silence. Hank choked back a laugh. Here, in the full light of the cell, her outfit looked even more ridiculous than it had in the smoky bar. The girl seemed impossibly frail – short, with thin wrists and sharp cheekbones. Her skin was so pale it almost seemed translucent, and yet not a single freckle dotted her nose. The coveralls she wore dwarfed her. Obviously at least three sizes too large, they completely obscured any curves she might have had. The leather aviator’s cap perched on her head with all the grace of a dead fish.

Just about the only thing she had going for her was her eyes – wide and brown. She turned them on him curiously as the guard walked away, and he saw that they actually had little flecks of gold embedded in the rich chocolate color.

Pretty eyes or no, she was his only chance to get out of this prison and get his ship back, and he wasn’t about to lose it.

He turned up the wattage on his smile and gave her a half-lidded, interested glance from his own vivid green eyes.

Her eyes met his and he held contact. Just a moment more, and she’d blush, and then he could…

…Her eyes drifted right past his own and landed on Bones. Her expression brightened.

“Are you…you’re really a ticker, aren’t you?!” she exclaimed.

Discomfited, Hank straightened. What, exactly, just happened? She’d barely even glanced at him!

“No,” he said, just as Bones also replied, “Yes.”

He shot Bones a glare. It wasn’t safe for people to realize that he was a ticker. Bones knew that. What could be going on in that metal head of his?

“That’s incredible!” she breathed, then took a step closer, brown eyes sparkling and cheeks flushed.
Hank frowned. That was the look he was supposed to be getting. Not that bucket of bolts. He needed to rectify this situation before it got out of hand.

He stepped forward, smoothly inserting himself between the girl and Bones. He perched his best smile on his lips. A small line appeared between her brows and she looked up to his face. Good, he had her attention, now all he had to do was—

“Excuse me,” she said, “but you’re in the way. Kindly take a step back, please?”

It wasn’t a request. Baffled, he took a step back.

Bones gave a metallic snort.

Was that…laughter? No. Bones didn’t believe in humor. He must have imagined it.

The girl stepped forward and peered interestedly at Bones’ face. “Oh!” she said, blushing and dropping her eyes. “I’m terribly sorry to stare. I hope you don’t mind?”

“Your apology is unnecessary,” said Bones. “Your curiosity does not bother me.”

Hank’s eyebrows lifted. Oh, really? He’d seen Bones throw a man through a wall for doing the same thing.

She lifted a hand toward Bones’ face, then paused halfway. “May I?” she asked.

“Yes,” replied Bones.

At that, Hank’s eyebrows might well have taken flight had they been birds. Oh, really? What was so special about this girl that Bones was being so accommodating? Bones didn’t let anyone touch him. Ever.

She reached up, then had to stand on her tiptoes for the palm of her hand to make contact with the smooth panel of metal that curved to make the lower half of the ticker’s face.

“Oh! You’re rusty!”

Here, those gold-flecked eyes finally turned to meet Hank’s gaze, but instead of being filled with adoration, there was nothing but outrage. “How could you let him get rusty?”

“Me!” Hank straightened. “Me?! How exactly am I supposed to polish him, when that two-faced waste of metal won’t let anyone near him?”

She flounced. She actually flounced. He’d never seen anyone do it before, but it wasn’t the sort of gesture that could be easily mistaken for any other. “What a preposterous statement to make, seeing as how he allowed me permission to touch him not a moment ago!” She scoffed. “Besides which, one could hardly blame him for being picky if that’s the way you talk about him. I can’t imagine you have many friends at all, with behavior like that!”

Frustrated, Hank growled. This was not the plan. As a matter of fact, it could be argued that it was the exact opposite of the plan. Their window of opportunity for getting out of prison and getting their ship out of Ratchet’s slimy hands dwindled rapidly, and Bones seemed to find the whole thing amusing.

How could he possibly salvage this situation?