SpadeBenedict Mercier
"I've got to make some calls."
"No."
"Look, lady-"
"Lady?" she scoffed, "A moment ago, it was sweetheart"
"You have a gun in my face."
They stood on opposite ends of the room, she was staring him down. He was working hard at hiding his irritation. The two of them had been going back and forth with one another about things that didn't make any sense to him. Sector 12? Is that from a movie? What the hell was that supposed to be? After his recovery, Ben soon realized that she had robbed him of his gun. She asked him questions but his puzzled expressions and half-formed answers only had served to agitate her. They raised their voices, and the more questions she threw at him, the more he grew defensive about his answers. At one point, he made the mistake of asking if she was under the influence of any illegal substances. She responded with a gun to his face.
"I'm giving you fair warning-" she suddenly gripped her torso. For a moment she seemed confused.
A low growling from his own stomach indicated something he was very familiar with from long nights on the job. "You're hungry," he offered without humor. "I'll fix it."
"Don't move."
"I told you I have nothing to do with Sector 12." he said tiredly, "We're both hungry." He shook his head as he made his way past her, he could feel himself becoming a cranky. That's probably why they were both on edge, food. Maybe eating would relieve the tension. He ignored her vocal protesting when he began opening cabinets. She wouldn't shoot him, not if she was that paranoid about leaving her house. She wouldn't risk the sound of a gunshot. Still, he scowled when she took a seat at a kitchen table not far from him, she should know better than to point a gun at someone without pulling the trigger. "I'll prove I'm not with Sector 12. Do you watch movies?" he peered into the fridge. Eggs, and various unused condiments, aside from that it was nearly empty. "The bad guys never cook dinner. Sometimes they use poison in drinks, sure. But never a full on dinner."
"Are you an idiot?" she said after he continued to ramble. He paused mid-step. Her question didn't seem like an insult, rather, her voice held a real octave of stress. He understood it. By offering to cook rather than placing her under arrest, he was effectively throwing her off balance. He needed to remain calm if he ever hoped to learn more about her.
"I'm just someone who acts like more of a desperate jerk when he's hungry." There was a small cupboard to the side of the fridge, he crossed his fingers. He figured he wouldn't get a personal word out of her anytime soon. Not that it mattered. He might not have been book smart, but he certainly wasn't an idiot. He had his own ways. You can tell a lot about a person using only the contents of their pantry, he concluded:
Organic kale, grass-fed butter, fair trade coffee: Upper-middle class female, liberal, and preachy with control issues. Terrorist threat.
Hamburger Helper, left over pizza, cold cuts, a bag of weed: Typically young, mostly male, thin but out of shape, single. Identity theft.
Vitamin supplements, dirty blender, chocolate bars, diet cola: Young sexually deprived female or workaholic male with diagnosed anxiety. Suicidal.
Steak, iceberg lettuce, Oreos, Ketchup: Middle class family of four. Embezzlement.
A half a bag of corn chips and a fully stocked liquor shelf. On the surface it might have said a lot about her, but that would mean ignoring an entire trail breadcrumbs. Figuratively at least, he frowned while tracing the insides of an upper shelf. People who usually ate this carelessly would be just as careless in keeping a house clean. Her kitchen however, was practically spotless. He knelt, opening a bottom cabinet and studied the inside with a practiced eye. In order to piece together more of the story, you must always pursue the trail of clues- even an absence of clues often provided just as much to be suspicious.
He scratched the back of his neck, "Hmnn..."
"Today was my grocery day," she smiled, but glancing up, he could tell that it wasn't a very friendly one.
"I'm still getting aquatinted with the arsenal," he replied briskly.
He continued to search. There weren't any drugs in the kitchen, which confirmed his hunch about her being in trouble. She must at least believe there to be danger. Why else would she have to have her groceries delivered? It wasn't like she was rich, not while living in this neck of the woods. He bit down on the bottom of his lip as he reached around bottles of vodka. Way in the back, seemingly forgotten and half empty were small jars of seasonings. Bingo. He picked up a jar of cinnamon.
Ben smiled. Of course, of all things it had to be cinnamon. His own mother had used it quite liberally in her own cooking. It went into stews and pies; chicken, chocolate, fruit, and even in his coffee. That's because the spice was, on it's own distinct and by the same token versatile. He looked over his shoulder, giving her a thumbs up. She had been watching him intently as he rummage around in her kitchen, resigned yet intrigued. For a moment, he found himself staring at her. Cinnamon is also practical. It's sweet and uniquely comforting. Any kitchen, no matter how barren, would be incomplete without it. His fingers clasped firmly around the jar as he stood up. He grinned, holding it up to his ear and shaking it a little. Cinnamon. How interesting. Slowly but surely, I think I'm catching on.
"French toast..." she tilted her head, hair spilling over one shoulder. "I didn't ever think of that."
"I have six younger sisters," he unbuttoned the front of his uniform and draped it over the back of a chair, "I can get creative in the kitchen when I need to." It was a little cool for only an undershirt, but he didn't want to risk dirtying his uniform with anything other than blood or dirt. Especially breakfast, Benedict grimaced at the thought, he'd be laughed right out of the station.
