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Daniel Ciin (miaiphonos) wrote in paxletalelogs, @ 2011-06-01 00:06:00

in this world of truth
Who: Lia & Samuel.
What: It’s Samuel’s birthday, and celebrations abound (as is right and good).
Where: The drive-in theatre and beyond.
When: Wednesday, 23 March. (Way backdated. Oops.)
Warnings: Sexual references, somewhat graphic mention of violence.
Notes: RL Newport Beach doesn’t have any drive-ins still open. I plead creative license.

It had taken some doing on Lia’s part, no small amount of creativity and resourcefulness going into this trip. Her cryptic directions had led them on a winding path to a small town outside of Newport Beach to which even he had not been; she had answered none of his numerous questions, joking or otherwise, and had dropped not a single hint as to their destination. But for all his feigned frustration Samuel enjoyed the uncertainty, as much as he enjoyed the easy conversation - and occasional opportunity for pawing one another - the drive provided. As they had crested a slight rise of a hill, the retro-styled facade of the drive-in at last coming into view, he had found himself unable to suppress the broad smile that suddenly lit up his face.

Half an hour later they had backed Samuel’s pickup into an exceptional parking spot, settling in for the night’s double feature. Samuel leaned up into the bed of the truck, pressed hard against the lowered tailgate, careful to keep from overturning the speaker now balanced at its edge. “I wondered what these were for,” he said, spreading out a third thick blanket atop the growing pile. He threw a rakish glance to her over one shoulder. “I was kinda hoping...”

“You’re always ‘kinda hoping,’ guapo,” she told him with a saucy little smirk, holding what she’d usually consider to be an unreasonably large and well-salted tub of popcorn doused in what was, at least, real butter, and the ridiculous bucket of soda they called a large here. Hanging from her shoulder was her purse and a tote bag packed with snacks more to her taste - fresh fruit, raw veggies, a small bag of organic popcorn, and a box of outrageously priced and exquisitely made artisan truffles from the best chocolatier in Orange County. Cake, Lia thought, was almost never better than chocolate, and God knew she would never be caught dead baking.

For the occasion, Lia had worn a loose, long-sleeve, flowing red minidress belted at the waist, along with exceptional white six-inch Louboutin sandals. A little more than she might have chosen for an outing to the drive-in usually, but she’d had the birthday boy in mind when she’d chosen them. As he finished up laying out the blankets, providing them with a comfortable cushion, she set down the snacks and her bag to put her hands on his shoulders.

“A little help?” she asked, smiling as she kissed the corner of his mouth.

His tongue darted out, teasing the swell of her lower lip. “Of course,” he said, answering both comment and question in one fell swoop. His hands tightened at her waist, a petulant quirk of his fingers inching her dress up at her thighs. He made good use of this extended view as he lifted her up to the tailgate, his eyes suddenly level with her shapely legs. “This is already the best birthday I’ve had all year,” he quipped, leaning forward to press a kiss to her knee. “What will I do if it gets better?”

He gave her little enough time to respond, one booted foot moving to the tailgate, his hand wrapped firm around the bed rail as he moved up to her side. Even so, she managed to laugh and shake her head at him as she shifted backward with remarkable discretion. The thick pile of blankets made a surprisingly comfortable surface atop the bed liner; he lowered himself to sit next to her, reaching out to quite needlessly smooth a wrinkle from her dress. “True Grit, huh? You already know me too well.”

With a pleased little grin, she reached over him to set the popcorn in his lap, then retrieve her own bag of snacks. “Well, I heard there was a Texas Ranger in it, and I do love Matt Damon in uniform, so,” she grinned as she took out a small bag of fresh strawberries. She shifted a little closer to him, crossing her legs as she plucked a ripe, red berry from the bag. As the previews began to play, she held it up to his lips. “I figured, what self-respecting Texas boy could resist a good, old-fashioned Western?”

“One with considerable distraction next to him,” he said. The popcorn far less appealingly presented - and thus already forgotten - he flashed a bright grin, biting into the strawberry’s firm flesh. His tongue flicked over her skin in a gesture more than a little suggestive, swiping sweet juice from her fingers. He straightened back up to sit, still sucking the juice from his lip. He reached out his free hand, pinching her thigh through her thin dress. “So what’s the second movie, or will I even care by then?”

“Well, God, I hope not,” she told him teasingly. “Because it’s the Justin Bieber movie.”

He rolled his eyes, uttering an audible groan. With a little smile, she leaned forward to kiss what remained of the sweet fruit from his lips. Pulling out another, empty bag, she lightly sucked the juice from her own lower lip, then slipped the hull inside it. Then, she looped her arm through his and took his hand, glancing at a preview for some other dark but well-acted movie with guns in it.

“So,” she asked, “should I be a good girl and let you watch the movie we actually came to see, or should I use my wiles to steal all your attention?” She grinned and gave him another kiss.

“Good girls are overrated.” He gave her hand a tight squeeze, pulling her closer to him as he nipped at her lip. His leg pressed flush to hers, pushing upward the line of her skirt. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said, his gaze flicking - only half in jest - to the screen. “If there’s enough gunfire I might be pulled away. Just for a bit. But I’m pretty sure your wiles are more interesting than Jeff Bridges’.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, deftly sliding her skirt down just a touch to keep it decent before leaning forward again to give him a chaste little kiss on the mouth. “He’s not at his best in this, but I think he still has some highly effective wiles. He’s aged well, I think.”

With a little grin, she kissed him again as Samuel rolled his eyes. “Let’s watch, though,” she said as the last preview rolled. “I’d hate to ruin one present with another.”

With that, they settled into comfortable silence, Lia leaning her head on his shoulder, occasionally stealing bites of his buttered popcorn, but mostly sticking to her own, healthier snacks and offering them to him as well. For the most part, though, they were rapt by the movie - Samuel especially so during the gun fights, as promised. As the credits rolled, their snacks set aside, she slid her arms around him and gave him a much lengthier kiss.

“So they were pretty good shots, I think,” she told him, then nipped his lower lip. “Would you have done better than Matt Damon?” she grinned.

“Fuck yeah,” he said, laughing against the corner of her mouth. “Don’t tell me you brought me all the way out here, on my birthday of all days, just to insult me like that.”

He traced the swell of her lip with a playful swipe of his tongue, tasting the sweetness of her own treats beneath the salt of his. The realization made his thoughts take a decidedly vulgar turn, deepening his already quite predatory smile. His hand moved, remarkably, atop her skirt, his thumb stroking her skin through the thin cloth; he sighed happily at the warmth and softness she exuded even given such flimsy barriers. His mind wandered all the more, dragged back to somewhere slightly more situationally appropriate only with much effort and no small reluctance. Still, he could not resist a little good-natured - if-ill intentioned - needling.

“You know,” he said, “you look good enough to eat. But since I’m aware of your aversion for PDA, I’ll settle for one of those truffles, if you left any for the birthday boy.”

“I am good enough to eat,” she told him with a little smile, leaning forward to kiss him again, liking the salty-sweet combination they made. “And there are some left, though I don’t know who said anything about them being for the birthday boy.”

Despite her teasing, her body shifted as close to his as it could without being on top of him. He wasn’t wrong about her preference for more private encounters, but it was his birthday, and she was feeling very pleased with him and herself at how well the evening was going.

“But,” she said, reaching over for the box and plucking out a particularly dark truffle and lifting it to his lips, “because I like you, I guess I can share. A little.”

At the last moment, she took it back, had a bite of it herself, then offered the perfect little half-moon of chocolate again, her smile closed-mouthed now, though her eyes twinkled. He curbed the exaggerated rolling of his eyes in light of this welcome turn. He leaned further toward her upraised hand, biting at the sugary concoction with a petulant nip. He caught perhaps more of her slender fingers than he had any reason to, his tongue flicking out over her skin as he did.

“I’m not normally one for sweets, but I could get used to that.” He pulled away, the impish light in her eyes reflected in his own. “Good thing you probably wouldn’t always hand feed them to me, though. Nobody likes a fat cop.”

“Least of all me,” she said with a grin, delicately licking her fingers as a cat might have before resting her hand on his stomach. “But not to worry. Even if I start spoiling you too much - which I probably won’t, but if I do - I promise I’ll help you work it off.”

With that, she kissed him, discreetly sliding her tongue along the seam of his mouth, then sucking his lower lip before moving her lips to his earlobe, her breath feathering across his skin as she whispered, “I could give you a birthday demonstration if you wanted to go somewhere more private,” she told him.

The urge to leap from the truck’s thickly-piled nest of blankets was strong indeed, but the ghost of her breath on his skin proved enough to hold him in place. He turned his head, catching her lips with the hard press of his. For a brief time that was all he could manage - a kiss so fervent it was almost bruising, his hands tight at her sides, his body straining toward hers in unveiled enthusiasm. After a beat he seemed to not so much collect himself as come to a screeching halt, an action brought about more by practical concerns than earnest self consciousness. “Does the cab count?” he asked, giving her lower lip a teasing bite.

He pulled away, glancing down long enough to determine he would not overturn any of their makeshift picnic. “My windows are probably tinted well enough...” He slid down off the tailgate, boots hitting the ground with a heavy thud. His grin, when it returned to her, was utterly shameless. He stretched out a hand to her, meant to help her down. “What do you say, sugar? This is your show.”

A little smile accompanied the arch of her brow as she packed away the truffles and briefly organized the remains of their picnic into what would be taken home and what would go in the trash. It was a brief enough distraction, and once it was done, she carefully made her way to the edge of the tailgate without allowing her dress to ride up too much. Instead of taking his hand, she put hers on his shoulders, her legs crossed as they draped over the edge of the truck.

“I say you’re asking for a burger when I’m offering you a seven-course banquet,” she told him, then leaned forward to kiss him. “Not that a burger isn’t tempting,” she said, brushing her lips across his. “But you’ll be glad I made you wait. I promise.” She smiled and flicked her tongue across his lips. They parted in a wide smile, his tongue flicking out to slide beneath hers.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he said, biting at her lower lip. His hands moved to her hips, pulling her down from the truck and flush to his chest. “Still...” Her sharp heels firmly on the ground, he leaned up to the bed, guiding her neatly organized piles of picnic accouterments closer toward them both with a gentle tug at the thickly layered blankets. “Pardon me if I don’t want to wait any longer than necessary.” With marked reluctance he released her, lifting her tote bag from its resting place, holding it out to her. What little trash they had he collected just as quickly, speed-walking to a nearby bin, then back to her side.

“Ready?” he asked, brightly smiling still. He gathered up the blankets, slamming the tailgate shut the moment they’d cleared its thick metal line. He was striding toward the cab almost before she could answer, keys jingling in his unburdened hand. As he opened the door for her, she shook her head, then put her hands on his shoulders again - neither of them seemed to mind these small excuses for physical contact as he lifted her into the cab.

The drive back to Pax was oddly reminiscent of Halloween, though at once entirely different: this was them, this was theirs. A bubble of laughter escaped her as she braced herself when they took a turn sharply and too fast even as he grinned himself.

Before long, they were back at the building, moving quickly into the elevator, where all she provided him was a brief kiss, during which she pushed his hands into more appropriate places than where they seemed to want to wander. Finally, they reached her floor, and once they were in the apartment, she set down her bags and her keys, then waved toward the living room. “Make yourself at home,” she said. “I’m just going to go freshen up.”

It was a missive he found easy to follow. He sauntered into the living room with naked familiarity guiding his steps. Grinning all the while he took his place at the corner of the sofa, kicking off boots and socks, giving them a lazy kick to push them out of the way. “Is this the part where I look for some Barry White to put on?” His arm came to rest atop the couch, shoulders rolling as he settled into the cushions. His free hand slid across his jeans, pushing at the stirring of his length. Casting an eye around the living room, he called back toward where she’d disappeared. “Or whatever it is you listen to. I dunno.”

Her laugh rang through the hallway as she approached the living room almost as soon as she’d left it. Slipping out of the dress was a simple matter by design, as was taking down her hair. As a result, she returned -- wearing nothing but those Louboutins, her pale blue La Perla tangas and matching chemise -- just in time to reply, “I’m not really into cliches.” With just a hint of a smile curving her lips, she walked slowly over to him, her heels tapping quietly on the tile. “Though if you’d like a soundtrack beyond the one we’ll provide ourselves, I’m sure we could figure something out.”

She stopped in front of him, her eyes on his, smile unabated. “I was going to ask if you wanted to join me in the bedroom. But if you’d rather make out on the couch for a while first, that’s OK, too. We can take things as slow as you want.”

That little smile was curving just a little more noticeably now. He laughed outright at that, his eyes brightly gleaming beneath his arched brow.

“No,” he said, giving a slow shake of his head. His eyes passed over her, drinking in every glorious detail. “No, I think your plan sounds just fine.” Smiling still, he rose from the couch, one small step putting him flush against her. He reached out to her, one hand taking hers, the other slipping soft around her waist. At once he felt warring desires, such as she often stirred; the need to have her then, without another moment’s delay, was as strong as the desire to do this right, to make it last, to make their long months of patience seem a worthwhile sacrifice. A low, bemused growl betrayed his frustration, soon muffled as he pressed his lips to the column of her throat. Her lips parted in a contented little sigh as he held her close and she felt the lines of his body through the silk of her underclothes.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” Again he laughed, quieter this time, the sound punctuated by a nipping of his teeth at soft, tanned skin. Her own laugh purred from her throat. “Let’s go, before the couch starts sounding like a great option.” Abruptly he pulled away, taking her hand with him, leading her toward the bedroom with such unabashed enthusiasm he might as well have thrown her over his shoulder - not that the thought had failed to cross his mind.

Her laughter rang out behind them, her legs stretching to keep up with his strides. It was a short walk from the sunken living room to her large, well-lit bedroom. The expansive windows offered a perfect view of the ocean, and she smiled at it before turning to him, her arms winding around his shoulders. “I want to know more about what I do to you,” she said with a smile before pressing her mouth to his, kissing his lower lip, tracing her hand over his back. Her body pressed close to his and one hand slid down to his stomach, under the fabric of his shirt, and stroked the skin at his waist. “I’ve wanted this for a very long time,” she whispered against his lips before kissing him again.

“Not as long as I have,” he said, grinning at the corner of her mouth. His hand slipped beneath the chill hem of her chemise, trailing soft silk before coming to rest at the small of her back. His thumb dipped teasingly beneath the waistband of her panties, tracing her smooth, soft skin. “I’ve wanted this since you first stormed off the beach.” He bit the swell of her lip, his sharp kisses moving to the line of her jaw, the soft hollow beneath her ear. His quiet laugh feathered a warm breath over her skin, his tongue flicking at her lobe. “If looks could’ve killed.” His laughter was answered with her own as she nuzzled his ear.

He pulled away, then, his hands moving to his own hem, stripping his shirt off over his head. He tossed it aside, forgotten, moving immediately back to her, sweeping her up in his arms, her sharp-heeled feet lifting solidly off the floor. “I’ll tell you what you do to me,” he said, crossing the bedroom in long strides, stopping at the foot of the bed. “You make me wait for a third date.” He tossed her onto the bed, pinching her backside as she fell from his grasp. As she fell, she laughed and squeaked, brushing her hair out of her face as she looked up at him. He was close behind her, his knee sinking into the mattress as he crawled on hands and knees toward her. “Which took months, y’know.” She smiled as his lips pressed to her knee, her thigh, the flat of her stomach beneath that thin line of cloth. “The abuse I have put myself through with all this waiting...”

“Oh, I like the sound of that,” she said, her bare leg sliding up against his side.

* * *

Some sweat-slick and ragged-breathed time later, he settled in close alongside her, his arm slipping beneath her shoulders the moment his head hit the pillow. He pulled her close against him, kissing her cheek, a shadow of his typical, impish smile crossing his lips. “Well,” he said, “I’d say that really was worth the wait.”

Thoroughly sated, she draped her arm over him, sliding her leg over his as well. When he spoke, she smiled, nuzzling his cheek as she settled in close to him. “Of course it was,” she told him with a little stretch. With slow, slender fingers, she traced a pattern on his chest, then pressed a kiss to his collarbone. “We’re both excellent in bed.”

Then, casting her eyes up to him as he nodded earnest agreement, her smile softened a bit. “And you know, I meant it. I won’t torture you with too much mushy stuff,” she teased, giving his nipple a little pinch, “but I do love you.” She leaned up and gave him a soft kiss, happily returned, then looked at him as her hand slid up to his hair, stroking it. Her smile turned back to a grin as she shook her head and brushed her hair out of her eyes. “My mother didn’t believe me when I told her I was dating a former special ops SWAT cop.”

Samuel’s brow arched above his suddenly obscenely smug expression. The assertion brought with it a number of questions, not least among them when exactly he had come up in conversation among Lia’s family; but rather than ask so directly, Samuel opted for his more favored tactic of good-natured teasing. “That so?” He looked down to her, pressing his grinning lips to her damper forehead. “Which part gives her the most trouble, you think? Just curious.”

“Well,” she said, drawing the word out as she leaned up to kiss him. “My mom is kind of... radical. Anti-establishment, anti-authority, definitely anti-war and anti-gun. Not that fond of cops, in general.”

She gave him a sidelong glance, nuzzling his neck as though to take the edge off her mother’s politics. A little grin, though, peeked out at the corners of her mouth. “So, you know, the fact that I’m dating a SuperCop is kind of... jarring, I think.” She laughed. “Especially when up to now, I’ve tended to gravitate toward artistic types, at least when it came to serious relationships. But I’m working on convincing her you have a sensitive side.” Her grin was more than a little impish now as she kissed him again.

“I think lying to your mama is a sin,” he mused. He leaned down to return her kiss, his tongue flicking out over her lips. “Guess that means you didn’t tell her about our first date, hm?” He turned over on his side, his arm still close beneath her, his free hand wandering down her side. “I’d hate to give her a heart attack before I even meet her in person.” His fingers stroked idly at her skin. “I don’t watch Fox News or jerk off to Sarah Palin. That counts for something, right?”

“Mmm...” she gave a little sigh draping her arm around his neck. “I like you jerking off.” Languidly, she shifted a bit, pressing herself delicately against his fingers.

“And no, she knows nothing about the firing range, and she doesn’t need to,” she chuckled a little breathily. A little pout formed on her lips as his fingers pressed into a particularly tender spot.

“And no fair doing all this,” she sighed. “You just knocked the bottom right out of me; I’m all sore.”

Even so, she still leaned forward and kissed him again. “She’ll like you eventually,” she said, leaning back again and looking at him with a little smile, her fingers threading into his hair. “She just worries about me.” Her hand shifted, fingers tracing along his hairline at his temple.

Sulkily he pulled his hand away, bringing it to rest on the slope of her hip, his hasty accommodation of her secured by her roundabout flattery. He gave her another kiss, his teeth playfully worrying at her lower lip. “What’s she got to worry about?” he asked, his tone almost unsuitably light. “I open doors, pay on dates, make sure you come first... and frequently...” He kissed her again, his tongue sliding over hers, grinning broadly when he pulled away. “And you can share all those pros with her if you really want. Might help her get past the apparent cons.”

“I already told her all that,” she said, leaning forward to kiss his lower lip, giving it a little nip. “She considers those your basic responsibilities as a date, much less a boyfriend.” She continued stroking his hair, a little smile on her lips, an outright laugh on his own. What she’d said was true, though; Lia’s relationship with her mother was anything but conventional.

“Anyway,” she said, nestling a bit closer to him, her hand moving to his cheek to stroke it with her thumb, “she worries because you were in active duty, and in combat, and, well, because you’re still kind of in combat day-to-day at your job.” Her voice and tone were more subdued now, and she watched his expression attentively. “She’s pretty convinced that everyone who goes into combat comes back with PTSD, you know?”

“Ah.”

It was not a claim easily denied. Samuel had seen his share of friends and brothers in arms wash out, folding under exponentially increasing pressures on the battlefield and off. Of those, few had found anything akin to recovery, finding little solace in civilian life and its naive ideas of rehabilitation. Even those who had seen their contracts through, had lived the life through multiple tours, accepted honorable discharge and found success on the other side, were not immune to echoes of their pasts, like ghost pains from a long healed wound. Samuel cleared his throat, easing the hard line of his jaw, clenched at some point beyond his recollection.

“Every job has its stresses,” he said; no answer at all. “I managed better than some, and I checked out just fine when I left. If she’s worried about me jumping under the table when a truck backfires, tell her not to fret. I ‘transitioned’ just fine, as they like to say.”

She reached for his hand, then, drawing it to her lips, then pressing it to her cheek as she shook her head with a slight smile. “I don’t think anyone’s worried about you jumping under any tables.” There was a quiet laugh in her voice. It sobered though, as she took a breath. This wasn’t a conversation she was particularly relishing, but the idea of not telling him about it or trying to gloss it over seemed contradictory to everything they’d done and been up to this point. “She’s my mom, you know? She worries about me.” There didn’t seem to be any need, however, to go into detail about her mother’s very bluntly articulated concerns about battered women’s shelters or guns in the house.

She looked at him then as she kissed his knuckles again, then said quite softly, “It can’t have been easy over there.”

His attempts at lighthearted derailing had met with clear failure; all that remained was honesty. Samuel understood well her mother’s concerns - had seen firsthand that there was precedent for them - but to hear them applied to his own case, his own growing relationship, was another matter altogether. He tried not to feel resentment, tried to tell himself he would feel the same, would say the same were the circumstances reversed.

“No,” he said, “it wasn’t. And every tour you know the numbers are less and less on your side. I served with some guys on their fifth or sixth tour. Sooner or later that luck runs out, and usually you’re there to see it when it does.” He shook his head, a rueful smile curving at the corner of his mouth. “But we had jobs to do, and they got done. Rangers lead the way.

“What about you, hm?” He quirked a brow, something tired lingering in his steady gaze. “Do you worry about you?”

In silence, she’d listened, his hand held in hers against her heart. At his question, she uncurled his fingers and pressed her palm to his. Slowly, meeting his eyes, she shook her head and laced her fingers between his longer ones.

“We haven’t known each other long,” she told him, her other hand moving to his chest, tracing a pattern there even as she continued to look into his eyes directly, without pretense. “But I know you.” She tugged their hands to her cheek, pressing his hand to her face. His thumb stroked gently at her skin, tracing in silence the line of her cheekbone, his eyes intent upon hers.

“I’ve never for a second worried. Not about that.” Her other palm pressed to his chest, then. “I’ve never been so sure of someone in my life.

“You’re a good man, Samuel Wolfe,” she whispered.

She loosed his hand and draped her arm over his shoulder again, then leaned forward to kiss him.

A half-hearted joke died on his lips as he pressed them to hers, his relief at her response almost palpable. Tension bled noticeably from his body, sinking him closer into her even as he pulled her nearer still. “You know I’d never hurt you,” he said. The moment he said it a discomfort seemed to settle over him; his tone felt too soft, too unguarded, the moment entirely too heavy. True to his nature he reached for levity, hoping to soften the blow. His hand tightened at her hip, giving her a taunting little squeeze. “Unless you asked, anyway.”

Shaking her head, she kissed him again, but he won a smile for his efforts. “I do know. And you better.” She nestled closer, though, tracing her fingertips along his nape, pressing her forehead to his for a moment before pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, love. But you know, I’ve already figured out that there’s more to you than just Mr. Rock Out With Your Cock Out, Uses Humor to Deflect, Doesn’t Have Any Pussy Girly Things Like Feelings. As fun as he is.” She gave him a little grin and kissed him again.

“He is fun,” he said, drawing her lower lip between his teeth. “Much more fun than that other side you’ve got all figured out.” His hand wandered lower, tracing soft curves and lines, distracting them both, he hoped, from matters best left deeply buried. “One day we can trade stories,” he mused. “I’ll tell you all the gory details of training and combat, and you can tell me...” His mouth pressed flush to the column of her throat, he gave a small, thoughtful hum. “The worst questions you’ve taken on the show. Or your worst date.” He nuzzled into her, nipping gently at her collar bone. “I dunno what constitutes a war story in your field.”

Shaking her head, she laughed, her hand shifting to his chest, where she half-heartedly pushed at him. “Fine, fine,” she said, shifting to kiss his temple. “I can take a hint. Sort of. We can talk about something else.” With a little sigh, she slid her leg lightly over his, more affection than suggestion, and nestled against him. She reached for his hand again, lacing her fingers with his and drawing them close to her, kissing his knuckles again as she burrowed closer to him.

“And what else piques your interest?” he asked. His fingers tightened on hers, his thumb skimming over her skin. His arm moved closer around her, low at her waist, a gentle embrace reflecting her own apparent, less carnal, intent. “You sound so disappointed, Sugar. And I hate disappointing such a great lay.” Grinning, he leaned over, kissing her forehead. “I’m sure I’ve got some Pussy Girly Things Like Feelings lying around you can poke at, if it’d really make you feel better.”

The smile she gave him was softer than his grin, and warmer. Her fingers loosened from his, and her expression sobered a bit. They traced over his palm, where a deep line cut through his life line. Then softly, her fingertips drifted down to his wrist, where another, more faded line showed through, paler than the rest of his skin. “You have all these scars,” she said softly, gently stroking her thumb over his wrist. “Are they from when you were in the Rangers, or from SWAT?” she asked, looking up at him.

He made a vague sound, looking down to where her hand touched his own; she touched him as gently as if the scar were an open wound, some recent injury from which he may not have fully recovered. He smiled at the thought. He drew a deep breath, the motion skimming his broad chest over hers. “Both.” He cleared his throat, shifting slightly at her side. “That’s from a low jump in oh-one, Afghanistan. Just fuckin’ clumsy on my part. Cut myself somehow or other, and it ended up infected.” Lia looked more than a little horrified at that, and brought his wrist to her lips. He laughed, shaking his head at his own foolishness. “We had to take an airfield. You don’t stop that kind of thing for a flesh wound.

“This-” He raised his hand, the scar at his palm held at her eye level. “We had this drug raid with the ATF, and I was on point. It got messy, and I got...” Again he laughed, though this time it held more earnest amusement than before. “Overly enthusiastic, let’s say. Got into it with one of the suspects and ended up grabbing the knife he pulled on me. Dragged him into where I could get a really good swing in. It worked, but I got a good souvenir for it.”

If Lia looked horrified before, she looked utterly appalled now. “You -- you grabbed a knife? By the blade?” she asked, caressing his palm as she looked into his face with disbelief. He merely laughed, nodding again. She drew his hand to her breast, resting it over her heart as she shook her head. “You might have balls of solid rock, my love, but I’m not convinced there’s not some of that in your head, too.” Despite her teasing tone, she kissed his hand again, pulling it up to her lips, then sighed as she held it in hers.

“Fair enough,” he said, his smile entirely more self-satisfied than it had any right to be.

“So were you OK?” she asked, concerned. “I mean -- in Afghanistan. What’s a low jump? How many of you were there?”

“Yeah, I was fine. It looked like shit for a while, but it healed up OK.” He smiled, his head shifting on the pillow as he met her eyes again. “A low jump is a low-altitude parachute jump from a plane. Well, or chopper, but not that time.” He gave her hand a small, tight squeeze, wondering what stirred this curiosity in her, and more, what he might say to set her mind at ease. “We had two companies there, so we were covered. Couple hundred of us riflemen, some fire support...” He shrugged, the gesture brushing his broad shoulder past her smaller, softer one. “We handled it.”

Leaning forward, she kissed him, a little shudder going through her. The thought of him in a warzone was a strange one. On one hand, it made complete sense, and his cavalier attitude -- well, maybe cavalier wasn’t exactly the right word for it, but this casual acceptance, the way he talked about it as though it were normal. Either way, that bit made sense. To him, it probably was normal. Or something. But there was the other hand, which made something tighten in her chest. It wasn’t that she was normally callous about such matters, but for some reason the thought of him being hurt, physically or otherwise, bothered her more than she’d have expected.

Instead of articulating this, as she imagined he might laugh at her, or worse, be offended, she kissed his shoulder. “What did you handle?” she asked. “What happened?”

“Well,” he said, dragging out the word in his low, rolling drawl. Old habits died hard; it was difficult to avoid the urge to gloss over the bulk of it, to redact whatever might remotely be considered sensitive information. But that fight, fresh though it was in his mind, had been buried a decade ago, its every detail already strewn about and endlessly recounted in the golden age of the internet. There was nothing to be gained by holding back now. Strangely, he felt no real desire to; some part of him, deeper than he could know, ached to tell her everything she asked. Though he could not say if this urge was rooted more in pride or some other, softer emotion, Samuel could not deny its pull. He sighed aloud, attempting to sound exasperated, worn down. He failed quite thoroughly. For that, he earned a little smile.

“There was an airfield in southwest Afghanistan, a decent-sized strip of usable desert. The airfield wasn’t really what we needed - it did help, but it wasn’t the point. There was intel there we needed. Troop movements, supply lines, munitions depots... all sorts of shit. So they called us up, and we were there inside two days. Tired as fuck, but there.” He smirked, a mirthless little expression. “They didn’t give it up easy. I got winged-” He pointed to his shoulder, where the pale, puckered line of a bullet scar marred his tanned flesh. “But it was nothin’ too bad. We took the target with minimal losses. Saved a lot of lives in the end.”

Lia nodded quietly, taking his hand again and pressing it to her cheek. Then, after a moment, she shifted it, bringing his palm, then his wrist to her lips. Then, she shifted her own position, leaning up to kiss his shoulder as she held his hand to her again. “I’m glad you got through it all right,” she told him, stroking her leg over his. For a moment, she was quiet. She laced her fingers through his and stroked his scarred palm with her thumb.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally. “You know, about what I said to you in the elevator that time.”

At that, he paused a moment, remembering that heated debate so many months before. The memory brought with it its share of amusement - and unsurprisingly, he noted now, arousal -and he could not resist a small, quiet laugh. “That’s all right,” he said. “I probably deserved a little of it. Not the baby killer part, and not the fascist bit either, but.” He shrugged, pressing his lips to her cheek. The smile faded all too quickly. “I’ve done my jobs well, and for the most part I believe I was doin’ what was necessary, even when it was ugly. But that doesn’t mean I’ve not done... well. Some pretty bad shit.” His tongue slipped out, wetting his lips, a rare look of uncertainty briefly shadowing his features. “We’ve all got regrets, y’know? It happens.”

He forced a smile to his lips, though it died just as quickly as before. “I’m sorry, too, y’know. I said a lot I shouldn’t have that day.”

A slight smile pulled at the corners of her own mouth and she hitched her leg higher along his. “I might have deserved a bit of that myself,” she told him, leaning forward to lightly kiss his lips. “Or something like it,” she qualified with a quiet laugh. Even so, her dark eyes stayed trained on his, and she caressed his hand with her thumb as she looked at him. It took her several long moments to decide whether or not to ask him; she never wanted to push too hard, to make him feel judged or just put off. But this was important, she could sense that, and she didn’t want to leave it as something they didn’t acknowledge, or that they glossed over.

“What kind of bad shit?” she asked in the softest voice, drawing his fingers to her lips, kissing each pad delicately.

For a long time he held his silence. There was nothing to mark the passing of long minutes but her small kisses and the steady rise and fall of their breath; he did not move, made no sound, as if by failing to acknowledge the question it might disappear entirely. But it did not, and his resolve, once found, did not waver.

“Me and some boys from my company had patrol one day. We were in central Iraq. The fighting had been bad for a while. Days and nights of it, usually just as things seemed to be calmin’ down. Everything was tense as hell.” He shook his head; it sounded like an excuse, and he regretted it the moment it was said. In silence, she looked up at him, his fingertips still held to her lips, like a promise. “There was this village about fifteen miles out from camp, and it was supposed to be cleared out. Evacuated. We just had to be sure. So we go in, and at first there’s nothing. But that’s the bitch of urban combat, really. It can be pretty misleading.” He drew a deep breath, unaware of the sudden, subtle grinding of his teeth before he carried on.

“We crossed over to the western side, and there was some resistance on the way. One of the riflemen took a shot to the leg - nothin’ he couldn’t limp through, but bad enough we wanted to get him back to the medic. So when this guy comes out of town with somethin’ in his hand, we’re not fuckin’ around. We told him to stop, I dunno how many times. He just kept comin’.” He shook his head, meeting her eyes. “I shot him. Went straight through his throat. He wasn’t dead when we got to him, and you know...” His voice grew deeper, rougher, edged with something he didn’t dare name. “He was just a kid, Lia. Couldn’t have been thirteen. What we all thought was a grenade was a fuckin’ rock.” He leaned into her, seeking her touch; his forehead pressed to hers. “That kind of bad shit.”

Her hands slid over him right away: up his arm from his hand to his shoulder, his neck, her other hand cradling his cheek as she looked into his eyes. Her thumb stroked his cheek, his throat as she already began shaking her head.

“You didn’t know, sweetheart,” she said quietly. “You didn’t know.”

He fought the urge to shake his head once more, to negate her absolution, even though some small part of him knew - hoped, prayed - she was right. Her arms went around him, then, drawing him close to her, stroking his back, her fingertips tracing light patterns on the broad surface. She kissed him, then; kissed his cheek, his jaw, his lips before she pulled him closer still, just holding him. Her eyes had welled up and she didn’t want him to see. This was likely difficult enough for him without being subjected to her emotionality that he’d then have to try to interpret. After a moment, once she was sure of her voice again, she kissed his cheek and said softly, “Thank you for telling me, Samuel.” She stroked his hair as she said it, shifting in his arms so their bodies were flush.

“Mm.” He questioned the wisdom of sharing such things, wondering where the motivation to do so had come from. He had many such tales - though perhaps none so personally uncomfortable as this - and in the past had shared none of them with anyone who had not been there themselves, experiencing the same trials. But to tell her felt right, calming in a way he could not entirely identify; in spite of their earlier, heated debate, she did not seem to judge, but instead, to understand, to know, in part, the weight he carried with him. The thought made him pull her closer, draw his arms tighter around her slight shape. He kissed her forehead, a faint smile crossing his lips as he did. “Thanks for listening, I guess. Kind of a downer.” He stroked her skin, trying for his old, teasing tone. “Sorry for that.”

“A downer, you?” she gave him a little smile and kissed his lower lip. “That’s probably the last word I’d use to describe you, love.” With a little hum, she nestled closer to him, feeling that he’d given her something more important than she could properly thank him for. It felt as intimate as being intertwined with him. Nuzzling him seemed the best way to express that. She was still a bit sore from the very thorough intertwining they’d just enjoyed, but even so, she coquettishly slid her leg up his, shifting in his arms to kiss his neck.

“I love you,” she whispered softly into his ear, skimming his lobe with her teeth. “I want to know everything about you.” Her hand slipped over his heart, then began to inch lower, his brow arching all the while.

“Besides, I’m a very good listener. One of my many, many talents.”

His smile flashed bright and quick, far more sincere than before, growing with every new touch of her hand. His voice was nearly a purr. “Is that so?” His hand slipped down the length of her body, fingers curving close at the back of her thigh. He found this turn in the conversation remarkably pleasing; it allowed him to recover from that unfamiliar honesty, the frankness and vulnerability he had never given to anyone else. “Well since I’ve had a recent demonstration of one of these talents...” He drifted upward, the pads of his fingers sliding soft between her legs, toying idly with tender flesh. “Feel like showing any others?”

“Mmm,” she hummed as he touched her, her hips shifting toward his fingers despite the soreness. Her hand slid lower over his skin, her nails dragging lightly across the lines of muscle of his chest, his stomach. Leaning up as her hand continued downward, she pressed her lips to his, tracing the seam of his mouth with her tongue.

“I think that can be arranged,” she told him against his mouth with a little grin.