Mystic Wonderful : A Hell Theory Novella Page 3

  Francis paused in the act of unlacing his own boots. “My story?”

  Gavin chuckled – but not unkindly. He had the air of someone who could insult you to your face without offending you. “You see anyone else sitting here? Yeah, you. Where you from?”

  “Oh. Um.” People rarely took a genuine interest in him, if that’s what this could be called. It was nice, but he was out of practice with this sort of thing. “Chicago.”

  “Memphis,” Gavin offered, hooking a thumb toward his own chest. “You got family back home?”

  “No.” Thought of them still pricked. “Not anymore.”

  Gavin nodded. “I have a brother. Or, I had. He was pretty fucked up on heavensent, so.” He shrugged. “Maybe not anymore.” Matter of fact: he’d long resolved himself to the bleak reality.

  Then he cocked a brow. “Girlfriend?”

  “Er, no.”

  Gavin grinned. “Good, you’ll give me someone to troll the brothels with when we go on leave.”

  “Brothels?” Francis asked, feeling faint, suddenly.

  “Yeah!” Gavin laughed, oblivious to his sudden dismay. “Some are really fucking seedy, but if we ever get down to New Mexico, holy shit, some of those are gold…”

  Francis sighed.

  Gavin kept up a running, much-unwanted commentary about New Mexico’s brothels, and the willingness of their prostitutes, while they stripped down to boxers and undershirts, gathered fresh clothes and wash bags, and headed for shower cubicles side-by-side.

  “…and then there’s Lola, she–”

  Francis cut on the water at its hardest setting and, thankfully, drowned out a no-doubt vivid description of Lola.

  It wasn’t until the jets hit him that he realized how much tension he was still carrying from the op. The water wasn’t as hot as it would go, but warm, pleasantly so, and he found that he shivered, and then settled, his muscles unclenching.

  All through camp, he’d worked on training his mind as well as his body. While he had no defense against awkward conversation – the low murmur of Gavin’s voice next door proved he was still prattling on about the best breasts in New Mexico – he’d worked diligently on the sorts of concentration and relaxation exercises that would allow his normally fractious spirit to stay level on dangerous missions. It was rooted in confidence: knowing that he had the weapons, the gear, the strength, and the skills to protect himself and his teammates.

  There had been a moment, in the helo, rain stinging his face, when the bottom had dropped out of his stomach, and he’d thought he might throw up. But then he’d closed his eyes, briefly, and allowed himself to feel the weight and drag of his pack, of all his gear; the way his helmet squeezed at his head, and his goggles were pressing deep groves into his cheeks. He wasn’t alone, he wasn’t unarmed, and he wasn’t in over his head. He had his wings; others had signed off on his status as a Knight. He could do this.

  He’d focused all his attention on each task as it came: rappelling, landing, unclipping. Going through the door, descending the stairs, checking each doorway, each corner, each shadow. In that way, he could usually trick himself into a sort of workman’s trance, confident and competent. The trick had worked today, and no one had breathed a complaint about his performance – probably all too preoccupied with Rose’s insubordination.

  But now, back safe, warm water sluicing away the sweat and grime, nervous tremors stole through his frame, and all the nerves he’d pushed back rushed to the fore.

  He lingered, until the water shifted from warm, to cool, to nearly cold; until the murmuring next door had gone, and he felt like he could keep his teeth from chattering if he left. He cut off the water, and in its absence heard only blessed silence, save the varied plinks of dripping water.

  With a sigh, he toweled off, pulled on sweats and a t-shirt, and left the dressing cubicle attached to his shower stall with a greatly relaxed body, and a mind that he knew he could wrestle into submission with a hot meal and a good night’s sleep.

  He was walking down the long, damp, tiled row of shower stalls when he heard a locker slam shut up ahead, and paused a moment, cursing inwardly. Doubtless Gavin would want to pick the conversation up where they’d left off, and he didn’t have the energy for that right now.

  Still, there was no choice. He straightened his shoulders, lifted his head, walked around the corner into the locker room – and found Tris there.

  Only Tris.

  He stood behind the bench where he’d dropped his gear earlier, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, hair damp and slicked back, sorting his dirty fatigues and organizing his knives – of which there were many.

  Francis halted, struck utterly dumb by the sight of flushed skin dusted with dark hair, and rippling muscles; the solid, strong physique of a man past forty who’d worked tirelessly his whole life. Scars marked his stomach, shiny lines where hair wouldn’t grow. One on his chest, right over his heart, sent Francis spinning from instantly aroused to deeply worried: someone had tried to kill Tris. More than once.

  And no wonder. He was a Knight, he reminded himself with a firm mental headshake. It was the most dangerous job a person could have – one he’d signed up for willingly.

  Tris lifted his head, spotted him, and Francis was glad for the rush of worry, the way that it had chased heart-eyed-moron off his face and replaced it with something more appropriate.

  “Sorry,” he started, heading for his own locker. “I’ll just grab my stuff and–”

  “He’s gone.”

  Tris’s voice brought him up short. “Who?”

  “That idiot Gavin.” He tilted his head toward the door with an eye roll. “If you ignore him long enough, he’ll eventually shut up.”

  “Oh. Oh, well – that’s good – not that I don’t–”

  Tris’s face did something: a quick flicker that wasn’t a smile, but wasn’t a frown, either. Wasn’t intended to drive him away, Francis didn’t think. And his gaze remained, while his hands kept sorting equipment with the sure, mindless motions of long practice.

  He almost looked friendly. If a cliff face could look friendly, that was.

  “I don’t mind that Gavin is chatty,” Francis clarified. He didn’t feel like disparaging the man’s fellow Knight was a good way to start off their second conversation, not after the first had been such a disaster.

  Tris snorted, and it was definitely a smile – or at least the threat of one – that tweaked the corners of his lips this time. “Everyone minds it. He’s a fucking idiot.”

  Francis snorted, too, and grinned – not the subtle, repressed expression that Tris had offered, but his own wide, helpless grin, the one he knew made him look even younger.

  To his surprise and delight, Tris’s almost-smile widened a tiny fraction, so that he looked like someone who could smile, rather than a slab of granite. He glanced down at what he was doing, finally; pulled a t-shirt from a stack of clean clothes, and Francis regretted that he’d no longer have unfettered access to ogling his torso.

  “He means well,” Tris said, “most of the time. But don’t hesitate to tell him to shut up if he oversteps. He thinks everyone’s as stupid and horny as him.”

  “Right. Well. I’ll remember that.”

  That felt, sadly, like a natural end for their exchange. Could he even call it a conversation? Probably not.

  He turned to stow his wash bag in his locker; shut the door and spun the dial. Stepped into sneakers, and gathered up his laundry bag. All the while, he heard the rustle of cloth behind him, and knew that Tris was getting dressed; tried hard not to think about what that would look like, curse his vivid imagination.

  When he could hold off no longer, Francis turned back around, surprised all over again, because now Tris was dressed – dark t-shirt and gray sweats soft from many washings – and had moved around his bench, his own bag over his shoulder, standing closer. Much closer.

  Francis didn’t trust himself to say anything intelligent, so he lifted his brows in
silent inquiry.

  “You did – fine today,” Tris said, brows lowered, expression stern again – but his voice had wavered, just that one second, like he’d been choosing his words.

  It wasn’t the highest of compliments, perhaps wasn’t even a compliment at all, really, but it filled Francis with a twisting sort of warmth, one that curled and fluttered in his chest. “Oh. Um. Thanks.”

  “But,” Tris went on, because there was always a but. “You didn’t have to do any real fighting.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “I know they trained you at the academy.” His tone and the aborted hand gesture down by his hip turned trained into a mockery. “But it’s different in the field. Less predictable.”

  It was, he realized with a quiet start, very much like what Lance had told Rose last night in the mess: that whole it’s different when you’re in it thing.

  Only Tris wasn’t staring fixedly at him with badly disguised want.

  “I guess I’ll just have to learn, then,” Francis said, trying for a sunny smile. “I sparred with Rose a lot, in camp. I imagine we’ll keep doing that.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” But Tris was still looking at him, showing no signs of moving away.

  Francis shifted his weight from foot to foot, nerves prickling at the back of his neck. He didn’t know if–

  “I was gonna – that is – I mean…” Slowly, color bloomed along Tris’s unforgiving cheekbones, and it had nothing to do with a hot shower. He cleared his throat, too loudly; it echoed off the locker faces and the tile floor, and he frowned, afterward. His voice was low, and gruff, and not at all encouraging when he said, “If you want some pointers from someone with field experience, I could show you some things. Just if you want.” He shrugged like he didn’t care either way, gaze skating off across the room.

  Francis took a measured breath, despite the rabbiting of his heart. He didn’t dare examine any of it; didn’t dare hope.

  Keeping his voice carefully neutral, he said, “Yeah. That would be great, thanks.”

  Tris nodded, still not looking at him, and headed for the door. “See you tomorrow, then.”

  “Okay. Tomorrow.”

  When the locker room door shut, he slumped sideways into the cool metal of a locker, grin finally breaking loose. He still didn’t examine – but it was a close thing.

  ~*~

  In training, Rose had become Francis’s primary sparring partner, and, as a result, his style had adapted to suit hers, so that they danced around one another, anticipating the other’s instinctual moves. Because she didn’t have the bulk and sheer strength of the larger, more densely-muscled cadets, and, he suspected, because she’d learned what she already knew from Beck, a veritable ghost from all accounts, Rose fought like a dancer. She ducked, and slid, and tucked, and rolled, and sprang light as a deer. She sliced, and nicked, and, finally, only once she’d gotten inside someone’s guard, quick as a flash, did she drive a blade home. She’d punctured many a training dummy in his observation.

  Francis, for his own part, had never thought of himself as big or strong. It still caught him off guard when he glimpsed himself in the mirror and realized that he’d grown to nearly six feet, and that the puppy fat had finally melted off his body, leaving him all narrowness and lean muscle. His curls were still soft, long enough on top to rest on his forehead; he’d always been a little stupidly proud of his hair, glossy, dark, and loosely curled, enough to frame his face. A face made narrower and harsher by time and loss, though still almost delicate, in its features; nothing could ever be done about the guileless, clear blue of his eyes. They were traitors, always.

  He hoped they weren’t now, today, as he picked himself up off the mat, shook out his hands, and squared off from his new sparring partner again.

  He’d learned to fight like Rose, to be the mirror that she needed.

  Now he had to learn how to use his body in a different way – one that would enable him to go toe-to-toe with Tris’s indomitable solidity.

  “Alright,” he said, “let’s go again.”

  Tris wasn’t even breathing hard. He cocked a brow that seemed to say really? then settled into his stance. Beckoned Francis with a crook of a finger that Francis was definitely going to think about later. In his bunk. Alone.

  They’d done this a few times, now, and today there wasn’t an audience. Gavin and Rose had come to watch, and even Lance, though Francis had sensed that was more about Lance wanting to be near Rose than about watching Francis getting his ass kicked in public. Which he had, a good bit, mortifyingly so.

  He was learning, though, slowly. Learning all of Tristan’s favorite moves, all his tells.

  No one was invincible, not even celebrity crushes and idols.

  Francis moved in, angling for a jab – but feinted, ducked quickly beneath Tris’s swipe; felt the air displacement above his head, ruffling his hair. Rose would have used the moment to get inside his reach, up close, a knife at the ready.

  But Tris would expect that, at this point. So Francis bent back, caught himself on one hand, and hooked one booted foot behind Tris’s knee.

  He didn’t think it would work – surely Tris was prepared for that move, and would manage to keep his feet.

  But Tris’s knee gave, and he fell back with a curse.

  Stunned, Francis could only watch as Tris fell. He caught himself with a hand, his whole body one thick, tense line of muscle as he managed to keep from landing on his back, twisting and throwing himself away so that he landed on one knee, spun, and managed to retake his feet.

  Francis should have reacted right away, taken advantage of that brief window of vulnerability, but he was too shocked.

  He’d managed to knock Tris Mayweather off balance, and he couldn’t believe it.

  Before he could indulge in a giddy laugh, Tris was after him, scowling, brows drawn low, jaw set as stone.

  Shit.

  Francis popped back to his feet and got his arm up just in time to block the hard jab Tris sent toward his neck. Their forearms collided with bone-jarring force, the impact shuddering up through his shoulder, and neck, setting his teeth; he bit the inside of his cheek.

  The next blow came at his head, and he barely got his other arm up, wondering with a sick lurch if Tris was actually going to try to hurt him, now. If he was embarrassed that he’d been bested in some small way.

  Worried thus, Francis wasn’t ready for the next hit: all three had come in a heated flurry of movement. It caught him in the stomach, just up under his ribs. Not hard enough to rupture anything, but hard enough to knock the breath from him, and leave him bent over, gagging.

  Tris gave no quarter. He got Francis’s wrist in an iron grip, twisted his arm until it was a choice of spin, or have his shoulder dislocated. He ended up, like he did most times, down on his knees on the mat, one strong hand on his wrist, the other heavy and hot between his shoulder blades, pressing his face down into the padded rubber.

  His breath caught in his throat, as was becoming routine, not from the force of impact, but from the feeling of iron-tight fingers on his skin, and the heat of a wide palm against his vertebrae. He couldn’t breathe because of the strong, heavy body poised just above his, touching in places, heat radiating off of Tris, his breath just audible through his lips; because even if Tris was bigger and stronger, Francis was big and strong enough that pinning him down like this still took effort.

  The knowledge sent a shiver through him, like it did every time.

  “That was a lucky hit.” Tris didn’t growl the words, but it was a near thing. “And you still can’t get out of a hold.” Accusatory, rather than mocking.

  Francis had tried, in their sparring sessions. Had tried twisting, and bucking, and rolling away; had closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and tried, to no avail, to outmuscle him. Nothing had worked. Tris was as solid and unyielding as the stone he so often resembled.

  But Francis had seen that flash of anger today. And he’d seen other flashes, too – not enoug
h to be encouraged, exactly. But he’d seen…little tics. Quick smiles; aborted hand movements like he’d meant to clap Francis on the shoulder after a vigorous match, but then thought better of it. There had been that moment in the locker room, after the last op, the way he’d looked away, the stumbling note in his voice when he’d offered his help in the first place.

  Francis didn’t think, when it really came down to it, that Tris was as unflappable as he appeared. But, like with sparring, it would take just the right move to tip him out of his comfortable sternness and into something like true emotion.

  Francis took a deep breath, and moved as best he could, given their positions.

  He didn’t try to get away, though. No, instead, he pressed back, shifting into Tris, until his ass was flush against the cradle of his hips.

  His reward was this: Tris went very still. He sucked in a quick breath that was almost a gasp. And then, suddenly, he was scrambling up and off of Francis.

  Oh shit, Francis thought, because Tris didn’t scramble anywhere. He stalked, and lunged, and stormed – but he didn’t stumble and clamber, undignified and clumsy.

  Francis rolled over so he was sitting on the mat, and glanced up at his mentor, unsure what he would find, expecting a thunderous scowl and a reprimand. Maybe even – shit, maybe even a telling-off. Hateful words, assurances that Tris was definitely not…

  He didn’t expect to see Tris staring down at him with a totally blank expression, white as a sheet.

  His hands hovered open at his sides, his whole strong body coiled for a retreat, or maybe an attack. His gaze tracked back and forth over Francis’s face, eyes wide, and dark, and full of a hundred doubts. He almost – almost looked afraid.

  “Tris?” Francis asked. “Are you alright?”

  Tris’s jaw worked. He opened and closed his mouth a few times. Then he spun away and stalked out of the room without answering.