tender

[scubatankfilledwithfarts]

Briareos knows what it’s like to have something to prove, knows the chip on his shoulder like he knows the back of his own hand. Knows the gazes of those who underestimate [heavier than a building coming down around your ears], who don’t understand or who don’t want to.

“You can’t even watch your own six, you think I’m gonna let you screw up this mission? You’re out of your damn mind!”

What he doesn’t know is what it’s like to fight with a parent you happen to work with.

“You can’t find your own ass with two hands out there. I’m going, and nothing your geriatric ass can do will stop me!”

Or fight with a parent at all, come to think of it. He’s not sure if he should be grateful or not. The entire camp can hear the two Knutes scream each other hoarse and it’s only a matter of time until the talking starts. Soldiers are as gossipy as old wives.

There’s a loud crash in succession with a shrill cry. Just like that it’s over, the older Knute comes stomping out of the tent, jaw clenched tight.

“I know you’re out there, Briareos.”

He hadn’t exactly bothered to hide but a guilty twitch of his shoulders further gives him away. So he takes it like a man, saddles up to his commander.

“How’d you know?”

Knute’s mustache twitches irritably. “What, besides how nosy this lot is? I saw those dark little eyes peeking out. Can’t miss them.”

Well, excuse him for his dark little eyes. They don’t exactly get him into trouble on the battlefield but maybe he should look into that.

The two men are silent for a moment until Knute opens his mouth.

“Idiot kid’s got a fever…thinks she’s going to go out there and not get herself killed.”

Being a parent must be a wonder.

“Dunno how many times I dropped her on her head as a kid for her to think that…..” He turns to look Briareos in the eyes steadily with orbs as green as his daughter’s. The pit in Briareos’ stomach tells him he’s going to mention something about his childish feelings.

“Don’t ever have kids.”

Their commanding officer promptly limps away with dignity, one-handedly holding his crotch to ensure Deunan didn’t remove anything.

She’s right where her father left her, lying on her back with her arms spread at her sides. She knows he’s there; her eyelids twitch, her fingers make an abortive reach for her gun before she realizes it’s him.

Deunan doesn’t look pathetic—she never does—but her skin is visibly flushed, and when he presses the backs of his fingers to her forehead it’s hot to the touch.

Green eyes flutter open.

“I don’t want to hear it,” is the first thing she says to him, her mouth pulled into a frown. Even her eyes are fever bright.

“I was aligning my chakras before we have this conversation.”

She shifts just a little, pushes her forehead into his touch. “Don’t try to flirt your way out of this one, mister.”

She huffs when he pokes her in the nose. “You’re one to talk. He’s right, you know.”

Even the glare she levels at him makes him warm inside. This really is so childish.

“I could run with this mission with my legs tied behind my back—”

“And he doesn’t want to waste a good soldier.” The words are gentle, soft [and how can a killer like him, a tool, be soft in the presence of her--], but the truth is heavier than cannon fire, heavier than closing sightless eyes for the final time.

They can’t spare anyone else out there.

Deunan looks into his eyes and he wonders what she sees there. He rubs his thumb along the wispy hairs at her hairline.

She sighs. Her shoulders droop down.

“Orders are orders.” Deunan decides. Relief floods his veins. She’s truly sick if she’s admitting defeat just like this. Her fingers trace the shape of his wrist, slide between his own fingers.

“So keep your ass right here and rest.”

Her fluttering eyelashes haven’t worked since the first time he saw her covered in blood and someone else’s guts. “If I promise to keep my ass right here, will you stay with me?”

Ah, there it is. That’s why she seemed defeated. No wonder so many people underestimate her. Strategist. His mouth quirks into a smile in spite of himself, bemused, utterly defeated.

His knees don’t crack as he rolls onto his side to lay next to her, draw her into the crook of his arm.

“Only if you rest,” he answers, gently knocking his knuckles into her forehead.

Flushed cheeks stretch from her grin. “Ah, but I have you right where I want you~”

So she says: she’s asleep in about ten minutes.

He wants to spill his guts and tell her--