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Red Hot	By : dragonslover1 Category: +G through L > Jak & Daxter Views: 2284 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Jak & Daxter, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Disclaimer: I do not own Jak and Daxter, nor am I profiting from this fanfiction.
Red Hot
Day Four
She just couldn’t figure him out.
He fell asleep some time ago, though how long, she couldn’t say – she’d lost her grasp of time. She was comfortably warm, wrapped in his blanket, totally having forgotten her reason for having it in the first place. Right now, the most she could do was stare, confusion wrinkling her young face, as her mind chatted endlessly.
She didn’t get him. There he lay, fully dressed down to his boots and shirt tucked in, using his pack as a pillow, hands linked behind his head and ankles crossed. He looked like a playboy like that, as though simply waiting for a pack of females to waltz in and start feeling him up. . .
Like she had done not two nights ago. Or was it three?
She scoffed, turning her head to break her gaze on him. He was a goddamn frustrating man, that’s what he was. How he managed it was a mystery, at that. At times he seemed so harsh, as though he didn’t give a damn whether she lived or died out here. But other times he encouraged her, accepted what she had to say or do; hell, he even showed concern about her health!
The only reason she could think of as to why he acted this way was that he was mixing the man he is with the commander’s role he assumed. But the problem with this reasoning was that she’d always known military men to be unnaturally cruel, stepping on others to lift themselves higher. If all these facts played in, then. . ?
It would make his military persona harsh, that was for sure. And the man beneath would be – kind?
No, she couldn’t believe that. This is especially so after his talk with her earlier. What was it he said? “You know how your father thinks it works. Are you sure it’s the same thing?”
That was as good as saying, “Your dad’s wrong, any failures you cause are my responsibility, and I’m man enough to take it.”
Well, perhaps not that last part. . .
Swinging her eyes over at him, she couldn’t hold back a giggle. Oh yes, he was manly all right. She could even see him saying just that, maybe while sporting a smirk or something like that.
She was getting distracted. How odd it was, that he didn’t have to do anything and he still distracted her. Or maybe it was her own thoughts about him that were the distraction?
Ugh. She couldn’t even make up her mind about why she couldn’t make up her mind.
Go to sleep, she told herself. Preferably before sunrise.
But it made no sense! Shaking her head, her thoughts continued without rest. Weren’t the two of them arguing viciously not long ago? Some of the things they’d said were -- well -- unforgivable. That argument alone should have broken up a ten-year friendship. Why had but one motion ended the hard feelings?
All he had done was put his blanket on her. It’s not like he apologized and it’s not like she wanted him to. Sure, she was much warmer now, but. . .
And damn it, he was shivering in his sleep. She could see it from here.
Never before had she thought of herself as having a bleeding heart, yet here she was, considering laying beside him so the blanket could cover them both. This infuriating, stubborn, egotistical lump of flesh had her going against her very nature.
God damn it, it was his decision to be cold while she would be warm. She had nothing to feel guilty for. Hell, she even said the words: “You don’t want any guilt from me, you won’t get any.”
She felt guilty anyway. If she thought back enough, she could say this entire situation was his fault anyway, for appealing to her competitive nature with that race earlier. She stumbled through a pond because of that man. Then later, he pissed her off so she threw her wet clothes at him. They were pretty much dry beforehand, so the fact that she’d soaked them was his fault.
All his fault. She had nothing to feel guilty for.
With a defeated groan, she got to her feet. Hopefully he was sleeping deep enough that she wasn’t going to wake him up. And hopefully she’d wake up before him tomorrow and keep him from ever knowing about it.
It was so strange when your wishes were granted, yet denied all in the same moment.
Yes, she woke up before him. Her back was to him, and she was a little curled up. But he was spooning with her -- one arm across her waist, his body aligned with hers, hell, he was even using her neck as a pillow. Now she found herself effectively caught. How ironic that her one moment of sympathy would lead to such a situation.
Regardless of whatever qualms she had, though, she couldn’t deny how warm and calm she was.
- - -
Torn woke up sharply, some quick movement doing the trick. Before he had time enough to open his eyes and get his bearings, he had the distinct feeling of being covered up, head to toe. At the same time, he heard Ashelin saying, “Morning. Here’s your blanket.”
He jerked it away from his face, sitting up and trying to get his bearings. Same cave, there was the fire pit, Ashelin’s ass --
He did a double take. Her back was facing him as she snatched up her pants and put them on. Meanwhile, against every code of honor in his brain, he found himself staring. Damn, but she had a nice ass, every move she made just seeming to give him a better angle. He tilted his head, biting back a groan, once she had her pants up.
The perverted thoughts going through his head now were more potent than any he’d had before -- or at least, about her. All it took was one look at her rear and he couldn’t help but want to feel her up. He swallowed thick, trying to concentrate on his dry throat.
Going through a routine helped. Dusting himself off, folding the blanket, digging in his pack; it all served to distract him. Or enough so that he managed to hide the fact that he’d ogled his underling like a starving dog looking at fresh meat. She didn’t seem to know he had stared, and if she did, she wasn’t letting him know it.
Once they were both ready to go, he outlined today’s trek with her. It was then that he discovered, in bringing up that they’ll be needing palm-lights, that she hadn’t thought to pack one herself. Which meant they’ll both be needing to use his alone, since they’ll be spending most of today inside the mountain and devoid of sunlight.
It was a headache to even think about it. Nonetheless, what was done was done, and there was no way of changing it now. If anything, he could call this a bit of a survival situation, lacking light on her part. At the very least, she had just learned something.
The curious thing about her right then was that she wasn’t looking at him directly. She always had something else to be looking at. Though he puzzled over it, he decided that if it was important, she’d share it. After all, he was her superior, and her strife was his strife until they were out of this. If she had a problem, it was his duty to fix it, if she couldn’t do it herself.
But since she remained silent in regards to anything like that, he had nothing to worry about.
Even as he told himself this, he knew it wasn’t true. If she didn’t fess up soon, he was going to pull rank.
He outlined today’s trek with her by scraping a series of lines in the dirt. They were the paths within the mountain that he knew of, and the ones they’d be taking, precursors willing. If they had to take a detour, chances were they’d have to backtrack entirely out of the mountain, adding a day at the very least to this training regime-slash-survival challenge.
And as they walked, they talked. Ashelin was beside him the whole way, his right hand and palm-light shining light ahead of them, and yet she continued to avoid his gaze. He could practically count down as each of the metaphorical strings in his mind snapped one by one. He was at five now.
“So you don’t know how to do anything the slightest bit feminine?” he asked now, surprised at her implications. She’d said her father had trained her hard, to be strong and capable, not some everyday housewife.
“Don’t start insulting me, cretin,” she snapped. “I’m sure I could wing it -- if I had to.”
“Wing what, exactly, little girl?”
“Anything I had to, old man,” she shot back. She hit her foot on a rock, pitched forward, and then regained her step flawlessly. It was impressive how quick she’d reacted.
“Such sweet names you have for me,” he teased. “But I prefer nicknames like ‘handsome’ and ‘godly.’”
“How pretentious,” she all but sighed. “I should’ve known. Your arrogance knows no bounds, does it?”
“Actually, I had to raise it just to match your own, little girl.” He was smirking.
“That’s funny, I always thought I was meek.” She glanced at some kind of speck off to her right.
Snap. Four left. “Far from it. Why, I’ve never met a more confrontational little girl before in my life.”
She sent a glare at him, then quickly looked away. “You ever think, maybe you just piss me off all the time?”
“Do I?”
“All. The. Time.” She enunciated clearly this time.
Snap. Three. “Don’t start with me,” he warned her. “You really don’t know how many babied, whiny, arrogant and stuck-up little bitches I’ve had to deal with. You’re one in a dozen, no more.”
This time, she had a sneer for him. “The same goes for you, boss! I’ve literally beat the shit out of guys like you before -- verbally and physically! Keep on pushing me!”
Snap. Two. He shoved her, and she hit the cave wall. With something like a yowl, indignant and angry, she launched herself at him. Tough he tried to take the impact, he was still thrown back, hitting some jutting rock formation a little too hard in the small of his back.
He wrestled her down to the ground, only to get thrown off when she got a knee between them. The palm-light flung from his hand and went skittering across the ground, for a moment throwing disconcerting shadows on the walls. It stayed lit, which could have been a blessing or curse; he wasn’t sure.
Regardless, he got up on his feet at the same time she did, dodging a right hook from her and blocking a backwards swing from that same fist. She spun the other way, aiming a kick for his side; he caught it and twisted. She tripped, hit the ground, and with her ankle still in his hand, tripped him with her other foot. It wasn’t as effective as she wanted it to be, he was sure.
He only took a knee. But she was quicker today than before, or maybe he was a little slow. Either way, she landed a solid hit to his jaw. Snap, one. He caught her fists, spun her around, and tried to keep her pinned with her back to his chest. She surged up anyway, forcing him to get up with her or end up on his back. He hit the cave wall for a second time, pain spreading in his back to remind him of the previous hit, but thankfully he didn’t encounter a second sharp point.
He’d just about had enough of her. He threw her away from him with one sharp motion, and though she spun, she had a hand on his jacket -- the pull yanked one shoulder off him, and he tossed it rather than fight her while trying to put it back on. She came at him with more kicks: right spin kick, twist, left backwards spin kick; he dodged them both. It was time to stop playing nice with her, he decided. When she came at him again, he took the first opening he found, ducking below a swipe of her arm and slamming his elbow into her stomach. One way or another, she was going to learn to obey the chain of command.
She pitched and doubled over, one arm holding her stomach. Her wrath seemed to have lessened as well. He said, “Need another lesson?”
That rage came rushing back, he saw. No, it had never gone away, even a bit, he realized. She really hated his guts. Whatever, he thought. She wants more punishment, I can give it.
The next series of blows only proved, more and more, how hard she’d trained in hand-to-hand. It was helping him realize, possibly for the first time, that she wasn’t the Baron’s daughter in name only. And her endurance was something to be feared, as well; she took three more of his well-placed hits, yet still was going strong. She only needed a second to recover before retaliation.
At one point she got a grip on his shirt and managed to throw him to the ground. The pull ripped his shirt at one shoulder and tore apart some of the stitching at his side. He tossed it aside like he’d done with his jacket, annoyed to know he’d be returning to the city without a shirt. She’d lost her jacket in the fight as well, when he caught her by the collar and she shrugged out of it for distance.
But this fight was getting them nowhere and nothing but bruises. Since wounds weren’t stopping her (and why was she trying so hard, anyway?) he knew he had one option left: make her yield. This time, the wrestling ended up with him holding her back to him again, but sitting against a wall. He had his arms around her tight and secure, and no matter how hard she struggled, she wasn’t going anywhere.
Breathing hard from the exertion, his mouth was near her ear when he said, “Give up, yet?”
Her answer was a grunt, a jerk, and finally, a sigh. “That depends,” she replied, “are you going to stop insulting me?”
“That’s a two-way street,” he reminded her. “You’ll have to stop insulting me, too.”
“Bullshit,” she bit out. “The only people I don’t insult are people worthy of my respect.”
“Again with this respect shit!” he snapped. “You bitch and moan about it more than anything else! Know what? You need to learn when to shut the fuck up!” He tightened his grip when she struggled again. “If you have to respect something, respect the goddamn chain of command!”
“You shouldn’t even be on that ladder!” she yelled. “Some no-name bastard -- you’re probably a whoreson!”
Snap. That was it. “I earned my name, my place, everything!” he bellowed, surprised at his own rough voice. “What could you possibly know about fighting your way to the top, huh?! Sheltered little bitch -- you’ve had everything handed to you on a fucking silver platter!” She struggled, he gripped her harder. “And I’ve had enough of this attitude of yours! Just because you’re confused about your own goddamn hormones, you have to take it on me?!”
“Hormones!” she echoed, her tone more indignant than anything. It made him believe he’d hit the nail on the head. “I’m not so weak to be manipulated -- even by myself! You’ve got it all wrong you asshole!”
“Oh, I’m wrong? You don’t want to jump me?” He snorted at the idea; she’d made it obvious she had the hots for him, whether she was trying to deny or hide it or not.
“No, I don’t! I want to kick your ass, that’s what I want!”
Prove it. The words in his head weren’t pointed towards her, but himself. He had his chance now, if he thought about it -- she claimed she only wanted to dent in his skull. He knew better. But he had to prove it first.
And it seemed like a good way to diffuse the situation. He released one of her wrists, grasped her chin with that hand, tilted her head, and kissed her. In an instant her body had gone rigid with shock.
That surprised him. He knew she was young, but not nearly so young as to have never been kissed. Then again, with the Baron’s strict rules. . . The thought entered his mind, I’ll bet you’ve never felt passion like this.
- - -
“Shock” was beyond what went through Ashelin. Everything about her situation boggled her mind. Yeah, okay, she was bluffing about not wanting to jump him. And yeah, she could admit (with difficulty) that she wouldn’t have rejected his kiss regardless of the setting. But, here, now, after a skirmish? It was horrible timing.
Yet it still diffused her latent anger, replacing it with -- something else, something she didn’t want to give a name to. Something she was enjoying immensely. Something that made her stomach quiver on the inside, pulled on her more intimate place, spread heat through her face and chest. Before she could gather enough thought to come up with a reason to not continue with this, she felt the first brush of his tongue.
How she knew it was his tongue straightaway was beyond her, but know it she did. At first it was a tiny lick to her lip, and then it became a demanding kind of presence. He demanded, she acquiesced. Following instincts (and spoken snippets from those more experienced than she) made her open her mouth. And then her world spun, hard.
He had such audacity with her, didn’t he? Letting his tongue swathe her mouth however he liked. She would never deny the pleasure of it to herself, but he hardly needed to know that. She should’ve pulled away by now, hit him, declared that he had no right to put his hands -- or anything else -- on her. She should curse him and flay him with sharp objects.
Yet there she sat, moaning quietly whenever he employed a new tactic. And he was so very good at what he was doing -- why did she want to deny him, again? Her thought were so jumbled. . .
Oh, that was nice.
As they kissed, mouths growing wetter and hotter with each second, she felt his hand move from her chin to her neck. He stroked her skin there with absent motions, and she came to the sudden realization of just how big his hands were, able to cover so much of her neck like that. And why was she letting him touch her there in the first place? He --
Oh lord, he was sucking on her tongue. It pulled a louder moan from her, the sound coming to her own ears as a plea. She wanted more of this, much more. Of course she didn’t have the ability to ask, word for word -- but then, he wasn’t stopping.
Wish granted.
Torn, she thought, Gods above, Torn -- why is it you?
She found herself caring little about the whys and hows and what ifs. All that mattered, in this moment, was his mouth, all fiery lips and sensual tongue, teasing and granting at the same time, bringing her closer to. . .to. . .
Where was she again?
In a cave. In the wasteland.
She snapped her head to the side, getting a very wet lick across the cheek for her sudden move. She could hear Torn’s half-spoken protest even as she said, “That’s enough of that.”
Which was a lie, really, but they had to get moving. She was sure of that, at least.
He groaned. “And why is it enough?” he asked, his tone suggesting he didn’t agree with her.
She turned a glare on him -- something she was good at. “Because I said so,” she told him. “Let me up,” she urged, trying to get to her feet.
Much to her disappointment, he released her. At that very moment she wanted nothing more than to throw herself at him, let him continue what he started. . .but then they’d be back to square one. And she was lightheaded enough as it was. Besides, she was going to spend the next several hours mad at herself for feeling disappointment that he let the encounter end. The rest of the trip after that was going to be filled with self-raging for choosing to get moving, rather than stay kissing.
And. . .and she was honestly afraid. She knew so very little of Torn, but she knew of men in general. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him shake his head, rub his forehead, adjust his pants as he stood. If they continued making out as they had, there was no doubt he would try to get more out of her, and then the complications would come running.
Her excuse in the past had always been the same: Praxis, her father, would surely slaughter the man. But something new came to mind, here and now with Torn. That she didn’t want to be rejected by him. What if they did go all the way, what if she let him do as he pleased with her, and then that was that? What if he decided he didn’t think her so attractive once he’d had her virginity?
There was no more time for this weakness, no more room for letting him near her. What she needed, desperately so, was distance. Stop talking to him so easily, stop wanting to get closer, stop actually getting closer, and -- for fuck’s sake -- stop touching him.
As they gathered their things (packs and jackets), they were silent. She kept glancing at him, wonderingly, wanting him even as she refused to get any closer, and looking away every time he seemed to turn in her direction. She didn’t want his affection, she told herself fiercely; she had enough of that. Well, very little, in truth. No, what she wanted was to be a real woman, all adult and mature and full of the experiences required to be one. Torn was granting her a few of these desires just by being a capable C.O.
But he was not the one she could go all the way with. Not now, after she found herself quite drunk on the occasional praise he gave her, with the way he seemed impressed at how she handled herself or tried so hard to live up to expectations. Or that’s what she assumed he was doing, when he studied her so closely on the opposite side of a fire.
They walked along the path in total silence, indecision wracking her brain with questions she didn’t have the answers to, and answers that didn’t have a corresponding question. She was getting a harsh headache. Before they had reached their destination, she was keeping pressure on her temples, but receiving no relief. She was going to be in a bad mood for the rest of the trip if this continued.
And what was worse than that? Of course, that Torn noticed. As soon as they had settled into their lunch-break cave, he took a look around, saw her sitting there with her head in her hands, and spoke.
Spoke the words she didn’t want to hear, nonetheless.
“Are you in pain?”
She groaned, letting her head drop further. His attentiveness wasn’t going to help her any.
“I know of a lot of aphrodisiacs.”
She shook her head, blowing out a sigh. “Stop talking.”
“What, is my voice making it worse?”
“Everything about you makes it worse,” she snarled, glaring at him.
Why did he look so calm? She wondered about that, puzzled, as he lounged across from her. He looked like he didn’t have a care in the world.
How opposite of herself, she thought. While he was relaxed, she was tense. While he had no worries, her head was bursting with unsolvable problems. While he was content, she had a migraine.
“Maybe you should let me make it better,” he offered.
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re the whole problem,” she snapped.
“I’m a variable.” At her confused look, he smirked. “Insert a new value and you have a whole new equation.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, great idea. Regale me with algebra.” She snorted. “You’re an improper fraction.”
“Which can be a useful tool in algebra,” he countered.
She shook her head, turned her back to him. “Just shut up.”
For a long time after, during which she had time to think and try to control her headache, there was silence. The only thing of note that happened was when Torn left by himself. She figured he left to pee, and so she took advantage of the situation to do the same. When he came back (and how long had it been?), she was using her jacket as a pillow, propped against a rock. Her hands were still on her head.
The lengthy silence told her he wasn’t moving, but neither did it sound like he’d taken a seat. She looked up, saw him standing not a few feet from her, arms crossed. She closed her eyes again to deal with her pain in blissful solitude. She heard him move after another moment and considered the encounter over.
She was wrong.
He pulled her hands away from her face, and she saw then that he’d simply crouched from his place. For a long moment, they stared at one another.
And then he said, “I’ve never thought of myself as a bad kisser until now.”
She couldn’t help a laugh at that. No, he wasn’t a bad kisser; he was exquisite. The problem had never been his ability in kissing -- it was the fact that they’d kissed at all, and what might have come of it, had it continued.
“You’re not a bad kisser,” she told him, surprised at her mellow attitude.
“I don’t know what else can be blamed,” he countered. “Did I increase the blood pressure in your head?”
She shook her head. “I won’t bother explaining.” She tugged on her hands. “Leave me to my misery, will you?”
“No.”
Now indignant, she stared at him. What was he thinking, and could she really survive another of his tactics? Fighting, kissing, talking; he seemed to win at everything. She was reminded then of just how much she hated him.
“One way or another,” he said, “I’m going to fix you.”
Her response was to raise her brows. Exactly what did he mean by that?
“Are you comfortable?”
“Yeah, but--”
“Don’t move.” He edged closer, releasing her wrists, sitting fully now. Before she had a chance to react, he was holding his fingers to her temples. He rubbed, fingers circling her temples.
And, slowly, unexpectedly, the pain began to fade. She could hardly believe he was showing such a side of himself. He was like a chameleon, she mused, able to show a dozen different sides of himself in a single day. Or maybe he was reacting to her own chameleon ways; it could be either or.
She got a mental shock from that, forcing herself to relax, to close her eyes. She couldn’t stand seeing him like that, looking at her with intensity and caring. And now she had something to think about, long and hard. Was it he who was constantly changing, or were his changes perceived only because of hers? Was she the aggressor here? Was she the confrontational one?
Luckily for her, his ministrations were helping. The headache was getting better, even as she continued to muse to herself about the complicated things.
What a truly odd, fascinating man he was.
- - -
He was confused by her, this little girl who wanted so badly to be a grown up.
Over their time together (which allotted to a few days, maybe a week in total) he’d come to learn a lot about her. Her habits, for one, included begrudgingly accepting that he was right, whenever he was right. She was arrogant and confrontational, really believing that she deserved more than she had. Whether she wanted to prove herself to her father or simply rob him of his throne, Torn didn’t know, but she seemed determined to be the strongest, in all ways possible.
Seemed was the key word.
He was starting to see through her walls and facades, to see who she was beneath. It was a talent of his, to see underneath, though he’d never found a good use for it until now. Ashelin, well, she was fooling herself, and in doing so, fooling everyone else. She wasn’t happy. She wasn’t strong, or not as strong as she wanted to be.
That was exactly it; she was a lot of things, but not the woman she wanted to be. Whether she knew it or not, there was a simple, insignificant cause for that.
She was still a kid.
Girls mature faster than boys? Perhaps physically. As he continued rubbing her temples, he was pummeled with a feeling of being needed. She wasn’t mature. She was being forced to appear mature. It occurred to him then that Praxis was likely the farthest thing from a father that a man could be, and still legitimately be a father.
In many ways, she was still a child, wishing to be hugged and cherished. It rose conflicts in him, that feeling of being needed battling fiercely with his desire for her.
With the two of them sitting as they were, he could study her as never before. She was half-asleep, from the looks of it, lulled into comfort and relaxation by his fingers alone. He tried not to think of what other reactions she would have if he were to use his fingers in different ways.
As he watched her, her lips parted with a deep breath. It reminded him of earlier, of their kisses. How she’d reacted was far beyond what he’d been expecting of her, that was for sure. Then again, her initial reaction had been far less than he’d expected. Ah, and the way she returned his kiss, how her clumsy tongue had tried to keep up with his own. For a moment, it had been like he was holding a being of fire, kissing an inferno.
But then she’d turned away, ending their encounter, demanding he stop and release her. Why had he? He knew as well as she did that an end was the last thing either of them wanted. Why had she, then, suddenly stopped? Why did she call out “enough?” And why, why, why did she get a headache after?
He wanted her, more so than he’d wanted a woman in a long while. He knew she wanted him, too; he was very possibly the first man she’d allowed herself to want. Desire was a powerful thing. They both felt it. Why weren’t they acting on it?
Oh, sure, he knew what answer she would give: Praxis. “He’ll know,” she’d say. “He won’t approve. He’ll make you disappear.” And Torn knew the man was capable of it, too.
That didn’t stop him from wanting Ashelin. It didn’t stop the almost painful throbs in his lower extremity as it strained against his pants. He wanted very much to know her body as he now knew her mind -- wanted to know her body even more. He wanted to know what sounds she would make in his arms, as a lover. The sweet sounds she’d made earlier were like an appetizer, giving him inklings of how vocal she might be.
And those strong legs of hers, that endurance, even her rage; it was all teasing him, tempting him, making him imagine how it might be, with her.
Just now his right hand jerked, though not because of where his thoughts were turning. He looked at his arm, trying to see the bandage beneath the jacket sleeve. The wound was acting up, no doubt because of the continued strain. First the fight, and now keeping his arms level and still to rub her temples? It might be slowly lulling her to sleep, but it was also tiring his already-tired arms.
He considered his options now, deciding that aching arms wouldn’t do him any good, even if he wasn’t ambidextrous. He needed to give his right arm a break, at least, before the wound split open again. That didn’t leave him a wide array of options to pursue.
In the end, he chose to feed his desire, if only a little. Dropping his hands from her head to shoulders, he leaned in close and kissed the side of her neck. Twice. She gave a quiet moan.
She’s half-asleep, he realized. The knowledge was like a slap to the face. He leaned back, abruptly cutting off his passion for her -- or as much of it as he could. It wouldn’t do for him to seduce her when she couldn’t do a thing about it.
Then, without thought, he knew they’d spent too long at this stop. Spent too long, and forgot to eat. The rest of the hike was going to be a real bitch. Nonetheless, they had to get moving, and now that Ashe’s headache was gone, they could make real time. He nudged her awake.
She blinked blurry eyes at him. “What d’you want?” she asked.
That’s my girl, he thought, smirking. “Time to get going.”
“It’s morning?”
He laughed outright. “No. You were napping. It’s midday. Now c’mon.” He stood up, pulling her to her feet as he rose. For a moment after, she was close, and his hands were on her waist, holding her in place. He reveled in it.
And then she had stepped away. He found himself amending his earlier mental statement about the remainder of the trip. Sure, they could still make good time, but he was going to be spending it feeling every second as it passed, he just knew it. Because every second would be spent inhaling her scent, revisiting memories of her lips, imagining her draped naked across his bed.
It was going to be a long, long walk.
At least they were going to be spending it in the mountain, away from Marauders.
“We have to make good time,” he told her, as she stretched. He tried not to look at her curves as she did so, though he knew it was a lost cause. “How’s your headache?”
“Gone,” she answered, throwing him an appreciative smile. It faded. “Thanks for that, by the way.”
There was that begrudging tone, again. He shrugged. “I just fixed what I broke.”
“It was still more than I expected of you.”
He gave her a surprised look. “Still underestimating me,” he observed. “You do a lot of that.”
She tilted her head. “For most everybody, yeah, I guess I do.”
He turned that admission over in his head. Did he just manage to make her admit something she hadn’t thought of before? It would be a step in the right direction, that was for sure. He shook his head. They had to focus on travel now, and this was when the tunnels grew complex. Left, right, right, middle, right, left; he chanted it in his mind. It was the path to take over the next five hours or so.
After all, there were a multitude of tunnels ahead, not to mention splits. He also happened to know that several of the tunnels branched off into swarmer nests, due to past exploration.
He warned Ashelin of it now, in case they got swamped. He saw her nod, check her gun’s ammunition pack. That was when he realized, with a jolt, that she’d probably never actually used the gun in battle before. He wondered if she were going to today. And if not today, when?
He gestured her over and off they went, he trying not to think about her possible first battle.
She was still an enigma, despite how much he understood her. They seemed to be getting along fine all over again. Sure, there was the occasional insult or jab, but overall they had regular, almost pleasant conversations. And just earlier she’d been trying to disembowel him.
He was starting to think that she just built up a lot of steam. She definitely seemed like the type -- the type who was easily annoyed, and to grand amounts. She just needed to burn up every so often to get rid of it. But the way she’d exploded earlier. . .had she been annoyed at him all night, even in her sleep? He wondered about it.
Four and a half hours later, they were close to their destination -- damn close. Hell, it was almost within sight when he held the palm light in that direction. It was just too bad about the swarmers finding them right then.
And that they were completely occupying the path they needed to take. There was nothing for it, then. Shooting swarmers left and right, he led Ashelin down another path. It was times like this when he was so glad he was ambidextrous. As they ran down one corridor he’d never fully explored, he kept an eye on her. And he found her to be more capable than he’d thought. Sure, she’d choked at the first sign of battle against marauders, but swarmers were different.
Small. Weak. Easily smashed apart when stomped on. And she was stomping, kicking, throwing them off her with her free hand whenever they managed to hop on.
He remembered his gun, seeing her free hand. His gun that was still holstered because he was guiding them with his off hand. He whistled for her attention.
“Take my other gun,” he told her, firing over her shoulder when she did so. “Keep ahead,” he ordered, “I’ll cover us from behind.”
“You’re guiding,” she pointed out. Neither of them had stopped shooting yet.
“Trust me,” he pressed.
She gave a nod, though he could only see her so well in the light. She went ahead; he shined the light ahead of her. Behind them, in the small illumination he had, he could still react quick enough to shoot down the swarmers. He stepped on corpses of theirs as they went as well; Ashelin was doing her job well. He felt proud of her.
Then she swore. “There’s a narrow crack ahead, and nothing else!”
“Can you fit through it?” he shot back. In his mind, he was racing over what he knew of the tunnels. They had missed a turn somewhere -- they were down a tunnel he’d never explored personally. He didn’t know what awaited anymore.
“I -- I don’t know,” she bit out.
“We don’t have much choice!” he snapped.
“If we can fit through it, so can the swarmers!”
“D’you have a better idea?! We can’t go back!”
She snarled, whether at him or the knowledge, he couldn’t say. And then he glanced back to see she’d disappeared. She was shuffling sideways through that crack, he saw. It was narrow, all right -- but tall enough for them to be able to slide through. He went after her, right hand shining light ahead, left hand shooting swarmers. He heard her yelp, but couldn’t turn his head. Then he found the ground absent and gave his own grunt of surprise.
He only fell a few inches, but it was enough that he landed on his ass, and in a few inches of water. He noticed, in the breadth of a second, that he hadn’t landed on Ashelin. Then she was above him, looking down the crack, aiming. Her heard several shots ring out, echoing loudly where they were.
And then there was the unmistakable sound of a collapse of rock. She had shot down the roof, collapsing it in to stop the swarmers. He cursed her mentally for being rash.
Instead of swearing at her, he said, “Are they cut off?”
She sighed. “Yeah. For now.” When she turned, he could see enough of her in the light to tell him she’d also landed in the water. One leg was soaked all the way down the back, as was one arm.
Much like he himself was, except that it was his ass that was soaked. He blew out a heavy sigh, pushing himself up to stand. He shined the light around the room, only to find that there wasn’t much to it. It was circular, with an angled roof lined with stalactites, though they didn’t drip into stalagmites, merely into the pool he was standing in. There didn’t seem to be another exit.
Another glance around the room gave him a good place to sit, raised above the water level. He gestured her over. “Looks like we’re stuck here for tonight.”
“All night?” she asked, approaching.
“Would you rather get rest, recuperate, and leave here to find the swarmers had retreated, or attack again and face death? I think shooting down the roof was your answer.”
She bit her lip. “You have me there,” she agreed. At least this time she didn’t seem to have had to strangle herself to say it.
He set the palm light next to him, above the water level. She sat on the opposite side, the light between them. Silently, they both took off their packs and began digging for food.
She spoke again only after a long silence. “I’m gonna take a wild guess here. . .”
“The water is probably bad,” he answered.
“You haven’t been here before?” she asked, seemingly able to hear what hadn’t been said.
“No.” He leaned back. “We’re lost now.”
She was staring at him, disbelief in her face. “Well, don’t you have a contingency plan?”
“Yeah. Sleep now, worry about it tomorrow.” He shut his eyes, relaxing where he was.
“But, that’s. . .” She stuttered, paused, looked around. “Oh, tell me you’ve been in this situation before.”
“Careful,” he warned, “or you just might start depending on me.”
“I don’t have a fucking choice anymore,” she snapped.
He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, seeing that she was glaring into the black depths of her backpack. There was nothing for it, then. He looped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her closer. With his other hand he had picked up the light.
“What are you. . ?” She started a protest, trailing off when the light switched off.
“Saving the power for tomorrow.” He gave her a jerk. “Like I said, sleep now, worry tomorrow.”
She wasn’t protesting anymore, he noticed. In fact, in a few moments she had leaned into him. This new insight into her told him that, just perhaps, uncertainty made it easier for her to depend on others. He hoped this was the case.
Otherwise they’d be in another hiss and spit fight tomorrow, and he really only needed one of those a week.
- - - - -
Day Four: Completed.
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