by L D Inman
Speir put down her armful of gear next to his, straightened while he rearranged the pad clips to stop falling over, and glanced about the room.
“Your quarters are nicer than mine,” she observed. “And you have your own bath.” And his own com terminal as well, tucked into a small desk beyond the neatly-made bunk—and yes, there was Douglas’s Arisail banner on the wall above, as expected. “I’m envious,” she said lightly, knowing he would know she didn’t really mean it. In the corner opposite the one in which they had dumped the gear, a counter stood to serve as kitchen prep surface, along with a tiny table with two stools. It was indeed far nicer than the room she had in the tower block, but, “I’m hardly ever here,” Douglas said. “Except to sleep and shower.”
Speir shared a shower and toilet with her corridor, none of whom had particularly couth habits and who did the minimum of what was necessary to avoid failing inspection. Douglas, she knew, was competently tidy. “It’s too bad we don’t share a corridor,” was all she said, hoping that didn’t betray too much how she wished for the days when she and Douglas were in and out of each other’s quarters at all hours, reading, working, idling….
And then there was the other thing, of course, but so far she’d kept that well camouflaged. She glanced at Douglas, who had finished straightening the gear and turned to her with an unreadable look.
She couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t be even more awkward, so she merely watched him as he stepped closer to her. He glanced away, briefly, across the room; then, as if in decision, he drew a breath and looked back at her. He took a gentle grip of her shoulders and bent to press his lips to hers.
It wasn’t a formal salute. Startled by the intimacy of it, Speir did not move at first; then she took a breath, drawn in mingled with his, and firmed her feet where she stood. He didn’t pull away, so she closed her eyes and leaned into his kiss, to taste him, just a little.
Just as it was getting interesting he pulled back and lifted his hands away, looking into her face, fingers realigning the air, as if to judge the result of a delicate experiment. His chin came down a little, so much as to say he was prepared to be rebuked.
Speir regarded him for a moment, gravely. Then she grasped him by the waist and pulled him back in.
She caught the briefest glimpse of his crinkling grin before their mouths met again, this time with intent. Her hands met behind him, and her fingers spread wide to explore the firm furrow of his spine beneath his jacket; impatient with this barrier, she pulled the jacket up to get both hands underneath it. With the same impatience both his hands buried themselves in her hair, his fingertips at her nape, dissolving even her memory of pretending to have no appetite. This was a keenness so vivid that nothing previous could have deserved the name. She clasped him length to length and helped herself to the taste of him, with no more reservation.
Douglas made a small startled noise in his throat, which changed to a growl as she moved her hands downward. Then he responded in kind: he was devilishly quick with his tongue. She should have known he would be. She should have thought of this months ago. Except that this—oh, and this—was clearly the best moment. Douglas always knew when to close.
The sense of total engagement between them was not new: but all their actions before had been to drive one another’s bodies back; now she wanted him close and closer still, curve to curve and skin to skin—an expected revelation that nevertheless altered all expectation as it unfolded.
He freed his mouth just enough to catch his breath, his brow damp against hers. “Will you come to bed with me?”
“Oh, yes, please,” she breathed back, and he chuckled.
With that settled, he wasted no time but drew her with him toward his bed, levered off his boots, gathered her up, and fell over it with her. She kicked her own boots off and squirmed for purchase.
They made short work of one another’s fatigues, singlets, and pants, strewn away from the fray as they reached and found the whole-skin contact they wanted. Naked at last, he rolled to align them and nearly rolled them both off the bunk; they could hardly spare breath for laughing. Speir plied the strength of her hands and her legs, and steadied them together. His solid curves under her grip were all she’d anticipated, his shoulders lovely at close view; time itself liquefied under their vigorous partnered rhythm.
He knew perfectly just how to bear down: she was briefly unstrung with the delight of it and let her head fall back to cry out, before her grip returned to her in a joyful resurgence. Together they threatened the rocking bunk underneath them, but fortunately they reached groaning collapse before it did. Douglas rolled away, laughing as she threw a hand to keep him from falling off, and they panted their way back to equilibrium.
“Ohh, that was fun,” Speir said, when she had voice to speak. “Thank you. I wanted that.”
“Aye.” Douglas’s hair was charmingly damp at the temples. “Thank you.”
“Your timing is impeccable as always.”
“Timing, hell,” Douglas said. “I just couldn’t stand it anymore. I was so keen for you.”
“Were you really?” She looked at him. “I had no idea.”
“I didn’t want you to have. Didn’t want to be rude.”
She sighed. “And here was me afraid to initiate for fear of trespassing.”
“It’s a little bit complicated, here,” he acknowledged.
Things would have been just as complicated at Ryswyck, for other reasons; but she kept this observation to herself.
Douglas turned his head to look at her. “Are you hungry?” he asked.
She suddenly discovered herself to be ravenous. “What have you got?”
“Let’s see.” He struggled up and out of the bed and went to the kitchen corner. Speir took a moment to enjoy the view before getting up herself.
Douglas opened a cabinet and plunked down a familiar crock—naturally, his sister would have sent him a pot of cheese. What he pulled out next did surprise her, however.
“Where did you get a whole loaf of fresh bread?” she demanded.
“I helped Kittris run a cable over the back slope,” he said. “Now he obliges me when he’s got mess duty.”
Speir pulled Douglas’s bathrobe down from its peg and tied it around her. “That figures.”
He pulled out a bottle, rummaged further in the cabinet, and then frowned down at it in his hand. “Hm. I thought I had a second bottle of beer.” He looked up at her. “D’you mind sharing?”
“It’d be strange if I did, at this point,” Speir pointed out.
“You took my robe,” he noticed, half-indignant.
“Well, you’re not wearing it.”
Douglas swallowed a smirk.
They sat down at the little table and tore off ragged pieces of bread, using the serrated edge of Douglas’s combat knife in an attempt to make the slices even, and then applying cheese with it. They ate together, comfortably, as if no time had passed since the last meal they’d shared like this.
“So how’s the collation going?” he asked her, swallowing another bite.
She took a swig of the home brew and pushed the bottle across. “Slowly. I discovered two more boxes of maps in the back of the closet. It’s taking a while to write them into the program, but Colonel Marshall likes what I’ve sent him so far.”
“I heard—” Douglas paused to take a drink— “he asked Inslee to send you his commendation.”
Speir waved a hand. “It’s something anyone could do, who has time on their hands in the weather tower. But he’ll be able to make good use of it, shoring up his emplacements. How’d the training review go?”
“Eh,” Douglas said. Speir didn’t press him. “Do you want more of this?” He gestured with the bottle.
“You have it,” she said, and he did. They swept up the crumbs of the crusty loaf, which was all but finished except for one heel, and took turns drawing patterns in the little pile. Douglas wiped the smear of cheese off his combat knife with his fin
ger, and looked as though he were about to lick the fine-sharp edge, but “I wouldn’t,” Speir said, and he used a hand-towel instead.
An indolent little silence fell. Then Speir stirred herself. “So then,” she said, “shall I spend the night? Or would you prefer to sleep alone?”
He shot her a covert look. “I was hoping not to sleep at all tonight,” he said. “If you were agreeable.”
She couldn’t stop the little grin creeping up her lips. “I am very agreeable,” she said.
“Good.”
They finished cleaning up, and then Speir challenged Douglas to a wrestling match by pushing him down on the rumpled bed, which ended, predictably, with Douglas’s robe joining the muddle of clothing on the floor. This was one bout she delighted in losing above all others; and she did not waste her opportunity to savor him, stroking him wherever she could reach, even with the soles of her feet.
“I think we’ve dented the wall,” he said, as they finished up on their sides to cool off.
She leaned her head back to look. “And your bunk’s never going to be the same.”
He laughed freely, something she hadn’t seen him do in ages, unless one counted their private sparring court, which this was more or less an extension of. They lay together, resting; Douglas’s quarters didn’t have any windows, but the clock—fortunately not mounted on the much-abused wall—told her it was getting later. They yet had time for another round or two; time to improve on their repertoire, though Douglas’s hardly needed improving. She marveled afresh as he lifted a hand to stroke her, without hurry, curve by angle, soft flesh by hard muscle. His gaze followed his fingertips, lifting to meet her eyes occasionally, and then stayed meeting hers as his thumb insinuated itself into just the right spot, and pressed down slowly. She shuddered and steadied herself against him. “Oh. How do you—…?” It was a whole minute before she could finish the sentence. “How do you know?”
“My dear,” he said, “what d’you think university’s for?” and she laughed, catching her breath.
“So this is what your certificate is in, then.”
“No,” he said, with a snort appreciating her jest. “History.”
“Ah. Did you study anything else, besides history and sex?”
“A little practical philosophy.” Of course, she thought. “But all that pretty much kept my hands full.” He demonstrated with her flesh, and they both snickered.
“Look at that dimple,” she murmured, reaching with one finger to touch his cheek. “It’s adorable. I never noticed it before. You need a few more excuses to smile, I think.”
“I thank you for your assistance,” he said.
“Oh,” she answered, “the obligation is mine.” She slipped a hand down, deftly. “Your turn.”
At her touch he bit his lip and leaned forward to rest his forehead against her collarbone. “You seem well educated, yourself,” came his muffled voice.
“I should be. I did my national service with the Young Army Engineers. Stayed in the big barracks at Five Forks Wharf.”
“That would do it,” he said, and then, “Oh,” as her fingertips circled in.
She pushed him over and rose up to bestride him; he clasped her thighs eagerly and rocked to settle her upon him. She watched him smile up at her; watched his eyes fall closed as pleasure overtook him—had she ever seen him so unguarded? Her own body mirrored him as he shivered and finished; then, spent, she toppled down to rest across his chest, and his arms curved up to hold her comfortably. She shifted so they could nestle together, her cheek pillowed on his shoulder.
After a moment he spoke; she felt as much as heard his voice. “I know I said I didn’t want to sleep tonight….”
“A small rest,” she agreed, closing her eyes. “Before the next round.”
His chuckle was almost silent. “Who’s winning, d’you think?”
“Oh, you are, definitely,” she sighed.
“Not so sure about that,” he mumbled into her hair, his accent for the moment gone pure Northern.
His sleepy fingers stroked the back of her head, a homely touch, as if she had family again. But to pursue that thought would be to stir grief, and that was no bedfellow’s hospitality. Instead, Speir curled closer and let out a soft sigh. Douglas’s touch stilled; he reached with his free hand to hit the light-switch panel, and darkness closed them in.
~*~
They were waked some time later by the buzz of Douglas’s com.
Both of them were trained to wake instantly, but Speir really wished she was not hearing the insistent irritating pulse. Douglas came awake on a sudden inhale, let the breath out in a stifled groan, and disentangled himself from her gently. In the dark he padded to the com terminal and fumbled with the pad. “Douglas.” The projection lights did not come on; he’d hit audio only, she noted with a sleepy smile.
“Douglas. It’s Captain Amis. Are you awake?”
“Yes, sir,” Douglas said, the gravel in his voice his only commentary.
“I’ve got a schedule gap that needs covering at the comm tower. Can you fill it between now and shift change?”
So much for the next round, she thought. “Yes, sir,” Douglas said, impeccably neutral-voiced.
“How soon can you be out here?”
Douglas stifled a yawn. “Quarter hour, if I get a shower and shave, sir.”
“Go ahead. See you then.”
Amis’s voice disappeared. Speir saw Douglas’s shadowy outline stretch thoughtfully, arms extended forward and then back. Then he went into his bath alcove; the light came up and the shower started.
Speir let her eyes close again, dozing. When the water shut off she turned over, then hit the bedside light and got up altogether. She retrieved Douglas’s robe and put it on, sorted their scattered clothing, and tidied Douglas’s bed enough to lay their fatigues on it. Presently she heard a familiar rattling sound that drew her to the bathroom doorway.
Inside, as she expected, Douglas was whipping up shaving soap, a damp towel swathed round his waist. The tiny sink was filled with steaming water, and a folding razor waited on its shelf. She watched him brush foam onto his face and give the razor a few passes with the hanging strop. Her mother’s father had shaved that way, she remembered; Douglas used a different soap, but even without the scent the flash of recall was strong.
“That’s very old-fashioned of you,” she remarked, leaning against the doorway.
“We do have pod-shavers in the North,” Douglas said dryly.
“I don’t doubt it,” she replied, unperturbed. Her presence did not seem to bother him, so she stayed where she was and watched him scrape the foam off his face swath by swath, then splash his skin clean and drain the sink. Their eyes met briefly in the mirror when he emerged from the hand-towel, patting dry; he looked amused. He was growing more wakeful, she could tell; his movements grew more brisk, and he finished up by slapping some pomade in his hands and finger-combing his dark-wet hair into the shape from which it would feather out before noon.
He wiped his hands on his towel and turned to her; seeing his hesitation, she rose up on her toes and saluted him lightly at the corners of his lips. When she pulled away she saw the uncertainty in his face had resolved, and breathed easier herself. “So, then,” he said. They looked at one another wryly.
“Pity we couldn’t get in another round,” she said, and he tipped his head, agreeing.
“Are we satisfied?” he asked. “Or do we want to try it again?”
She considered, lips drawn in thought. “Again, I think. After a suitable interval.”
She was rewarded to see his eyes light. “Well, it’s your turn to initiate,” he said. “I’ll wait for you.” He ducked neatly around her, but wasn’t quick enough to evade the smack she aimed at his backside. His mischievous chuckle trailed into the other room. She followed, grinning.
“You can use my shower if you’d like,” he told her as he pulled on his singlet. “I’ll set the button lock for you so you can pull it to w
hen you leave.”
“I’m much obliged.”
“Not at all.” Towel draped on peg; fresh pants and socks; shirt, trousers, jacket, boots; all the last fastenings, and Douglas was swinging out the door with a brief smile.
Speir sat down on the half-made bed with a little sigh. On the other side of the wall, Douglas’s neighbor moved around, thumping slowly; she thought she could hear him muttering, which made the decision to finish her sleep shift in her own quarters easy. But she was going to take Douglas up on the use of his shower, first.
Ten minutes later she was giving the room a last brisk tidy and ducking out to shut the door behind her; Douglas’s neighbor, an officer she knew by sight but not by name, opened his own door, dragging on his jacket, and shot her a glare. Speir smiled in reply—after all, he hadn’t actually made a direct complaint—and continued on down the corridor and out of the officers’ block, humming quietly. Outside, the wind had flagged and a damp, fresh scent clung to the cold stones: it felt early, now, rather than late. It had been so long since Speir had enjoyed such an hour that she decided it would be a waste to spend it asleep; she could work on the map collation and leave herself more time to inspect the sensor perimeter when her shift started.
Still humming, she left the covered walkway to her dormitory block and cut across the parade pavement toward the weather tower.
~*~
Barklay’s foot hit a puddle of oily water on the ill-maintained street-path, splashing his already wet trousers, but he did not slow to choose his steps. He kept on at a near-run, past dwellings with broken channels and downspouts, past sullen children looking out of doors with clouded glass panels. A pair of idle boys were beating at another puddle ahead with a stick, stomping so that mud splashed in a wide, dirty corona; he made no effort to avoid them, and they jeered him as he passed.