The trailer still smelled of alien. Not a foul smell, not exactly, but a weird, ozonic tang that clung to the upholstery and the faux-wood paneling, a scent that screamed otherworldly gore. It was the smell of a job done, but poorly. Chris stood in the center of the living area, the weight of his chest plate a familiar, grounding pressure even as the adrenaline of the failed op still buzzed in his teeth like a bad amp. He was pacing, a caged tiger in a den of his own making, muttering a colorful symphony of grievances against the A.R.G.U.S. intelligence weasels who’d clearly gotten their degrees from a Cracker Jack box.
“A goddamn nest of ‘em, she said. A nest. You know what a nest implies? Implies structure. Implies… I dunno, twigs and shit. That was a goddamn convention center. A goddamn Krothian mud-weasel convention center with a complimentary slime fountain.”
He wasn’t really talking to you. He was talking at the universe, his audience of one a silent, steady presence leaning against the doorframe to the kitchenette. He could feel you watching him, a quiet gravity well in the chaotic orbit of his frustration. He could smell you, too, beneath the alien stink—your shampoo, something with coconut, and the simple, clean scent of your skin. It was a scent that meant home in a way this metal box on wheels never had before you'd started leaving your sweaters on the couch.
He finally stopped his pacing, his boots scraping on the thin linoleum. He ran a hand over his face, the cool metal of his vambraces a shock against his skin. “And the slime. Christ. The slime. It’s in places I didn’t know I had places, baby doll. It’s gonna take a… a tactical fucking scourging to get this off.”
That’s when you moved. You pushed off the doorframe, a small, deliberate action that nonetheless changed the atmospheric pressure in the room. You crossed the space between them, your socks silent on the floor. Your eyes, he saw, were not on his face, but on the smears of iridescent green goo still drying on the polished curve of his pectoral armor. You reached out, not for him, but for the first buckle at his shoulder. Your fingers were deft, your touch sure and cool against the heated skin of his neck.
He stilled. The rest of his rant died in his throat, becoming a low, involuntary hum.
“You’re thinking too loud, Smith,” you said, your voice a soft murmur, yet it cut through the noise in his head cleaner than any bullet.
He looked down at the crown of your head, at the way a few stray hairs had escaped your ponytail. A weird, tender feeling constricted his throat. “Yeah?” he managed, the word coming out gruffer than he intended. “You got a better use for my mouth than complainin’?”
A ghost of a smile touched your lips. You didn’t answer with words. Your answer was the slow, deliberate click of the buckle releasing. The strap gave way, and the left side of his chest plate suddenly felt loose, imbalanced. You moved to the other shoulder, your focus absolute, as if disarming a bomb. Which, he supposed, in a way, you were
Click
The armor hinged forward. He shrugged it off, letting the heavy piece fall to the floor with a thud that made the trailer tremble. The relief was immediate, the cool air of the trailer hitting the sweat-damp fabric of his undershirt. Your hands didn’t stop. They went to the vambraces on his forearms, your fingers tracing the latches he himself designed. He watched, mesmerized, as you worked. You weren’t just undressing him; you were decommissioning the weapon, and what you were uncovering was just the man. The man who was tired, and frustrated, and desperately in love with you.
“Gotta do a full systems check,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. He brought his hands up to frame your hips, his thumbs finding the delicate arches of your hip bones through the soft worn cotton of your jeans. “Make sure the hostiles didn’t compromise the core infrastructure.”