Five Men She Trusts With Her Life by soapbox_solo38 (Five Things Challenge)
1. Because He's Gay
The candlelight, the warm oil, and her state of nudity would normally lead to a scandalous conclusion. It isn't even a remote possibility in her mind, however, as the strong hands working their way down her back hit a particularly tense muscle. He focuses on the area, massaging away the stress and pain while she stifles her moan and closes her eyes, enjoying the attention.
"You need to get a new chair," he tells her as he runs a thumb across her spine before shifting upwards, and gets a noise that could be an agreement or an argument in return.
"Don't sit in it anyway," she mutters, head pillowed on an arm. It's true, of course; most of her waking hours are spent on her feet, dealing with crisis after crisis and the requisite truck-load of mundane matters thrown in for kicks. He nods, although she can't see it, and rubs the area between her shoulder blades that tends to tighten when she's had a long day. Considering the explosion he heard during lunch, and the rumors of someone trying to breed Pegasus Tribbles in their quarters, he guesses it'll be more knotted than usual.
When she practically purrs under his hands, he's knows he was right. At this point, he usually is.
"Do I want to know?"
"No," she tells him, and goes back to pretending the world beyond his ministrations doesn't exist.
2. Because He Doesn't Ask Questions
"This the right shipment?"
He nods, noticing how possessive she seems in the warehouse's dim light when she stands with one hand on the crate, like a mother holding a child's hand.
"Built as specified; estimated blast radius is about three city blocks."
She purses her lips, looking thoughtful. If he squints, he's sure he'll be able to see the plans and diagrams already beginning to form in her mind.
"And when used in conjunction?"
His face must give him away, because she smiles.
"Great. The money will be sent to your account as soon as I get this-" she pats the crates, "-back home. Thanks for your help!"
It's a matter of pride that she doesn't feel the need to check the merchandise before taking it away, but he stands there for a long time after she's left, remembering how to breathe. He's forgotten that dealing with her is like playing with fire - and if there's one thing she's good at, it's getting other people burned, accidentally or not.
Still, by the time she comes around with another exotic, almost alien design for him to build, he'll be too happy to have a challenge to pit himself against, and won't feel a shred of sympathy for the poor, higher-ranked bastard who is going to have to stop her from using his creations too liberally. After all, it's not his problem.
3. Because He Is An Elder
She inhales deeply. savoring the scent of wood and resin that has always marked the tents of the bantos makers. It brings up childhood memories of many worlds similar to this one, of watching through corners and slits as the mastermaker carved and strengthened the sticks that were her people's pride and joy. Of course, being children, they did not understand the importance of the rituals they saw, the secrets witnessed by little eyes and quickly forgotten again, but as adults they remembered the mystery of the place, and the reverent awe they had felt when the very essence of life seemed to be captured on the bantos.
The rustle of cloth warns her that that mastermaker is turning, and she offers him a smile and respectful nod. He waves it off with a mumble that would have fooled many, but she knows it is an act, and that his sharp eyes are watching to see her reaction. So she takes the bantos from him and runs her hands along their lengths, studying them.
It is the way of her people to gift adults within the camp with decorated bantos sticks when they had achieved some important rank, or performed some special task. The shapes burned into the wood tell of the owner's life, of their greatest triumphs and disastrous failures, the grain and texture of the wood lending depth and shading to the progression of figures. It is also tradition for the story, as it stands so far, to take the entire length of both bantos, so that the wielder may be sure of who it is they are, and what they stand for when they fight with their weapons. Even though the time of close combat is fading, and new technology like the automatic guns of Earth are making bantos useless, she wants to carry a pair to remind her of her people, and the battles she has chosen to wage on their behalf.
But only half of each bantos she holds is complete, though the sealing coat has already been laid upon them. When she looks at the mastermaker, startled and uncomprehending, he holds her gaze and touches the blank ends with a gnarled, scarred hand.
"In these times, One Who Walks Ahead, where you are coming from may not be as important as where you are going."
4. Because He's Good
Although the hand holding the scalpel does not tremble, she knows what is going through his mind. It would have been going through hers, too, if their positions had been reversed.
"It's all right," she manages to say, forcing the words through the freezing numbness of shock. "I know you can do this." He meets her gaze, eyes frightened above the surgical mask. They operate on Marines and engineers and botanists on a daily basis; it's part of the job, after all, and it gets easier with time to distance yourself from the person lying on the table, life in your hands. The medical staff is a tight-knit one, though, each member linked to the others, and now it's not a human body to heal, not a problem he has to fix that is in front of him; it's a friend, a colleague, someone he knows in the way they should never let themselves know their regular patients.
"Here," she breathes, bloody fingers ghosting about the gut wound, "the bullet's probably still inside, I didn't feel an exit wound, and when you fish it out, save it for me? I want proof that I cheated death again."
It's barely there, and it's forced, but she knows from the way his eyes crinkle that he's smiling. It's a tradition, their tradition to save the bullets to show their skill and God's mercy. It's what he'll think about when he works inside her, and that's exactly what she wants.
The gas mask slips over her face, and she inhales; once, twice, hands fluttering to the table on the third exhalation as his face swims out of focus and his strong, steady voice calls... for a...
5. Because He Is Small
She cherishes her Bright Minded, and the questions he poses her, the scenarios and daydreams he unwittingly reveals. She watches her Loyal Dreamer kindly, shelters the confessions of her Mind Tender, whispers of rest in the deaf ears of the Far Traveler. She thinks of her Sky Toucher with warm affection, for he of all of them is strongest and yet never attempts to force her hand, to make her give up what she would not.
But once bitten, twice shy, and though she looks after them with the distant benevolence of a caretaker, she does not let them coax her, persuade her, does not take their word for the truth. They have dreams, they have ambitions - the little worries of the mortal kind, things that are trifles in history's long gaze - and they would lie to her, they would cheat her and make her subservient if they could, and all to achieve something of no lasting significance. She remembers - with miles and miles of memory storage, with hoards of data crammed into every corner of her mind, how could she not? - and for the cruel usage of her builders, does not let them draw near to the core of what she is.
All but one, that is.
For he has virtually no power, no link through which to exploit her for his own gains, and yet he is kind, gentle, unaware that of all those who have traversed her halls he is the sole one who has never reached out and attempted, however futilely, to change her, to alter her. He rises each day before the sun, eats his muffin and drinks his coffee, and then walks, rather than take the transport, to the heart of the system; his routine is predictable, understandable, something she could almost set her internal sensors by. And it is this tiny man, this unnoticeable person who offers the best logic, the calmest reply, the simplest answer - as she did, ten thousand and many more years ago.
So she listens to him, out of all the people living within her; she listens, and when he unknowingly whispers, truth or lies, she believes him, answers his few requests. And out of all her charges, out of Bright Minded and Sky Toucher and Swift Words, she would fight a thousand Hive ships for him.
In his world, he is meek and replaceable, and ten thousand and many more years ago, she was as well.
The candlelight, the warm oil, and her state of nudity would normally lead to a scandalous conclusion. It isn't even a remote possibility in her mind, however, as the strong hands working their way down her back hit a particularly tense muscle. He focuses on the area, massaging away the stress and pain while she stifles her moan and closes her eyes, enjoying the attention.
"You need to get a new chair," he tells her as he runs a thumb across her spine before shifting upwards, and gets a noise that could be an agreement or an argument in return.
"Don't sit in it anyway," she mutters, head pillowed on an arm. It's true, of course; most of her waking hours are spent on her feet, dealing with crisis after crisis and the requisite truck-load of mundane matters thrown in for kicks. He nods, although she can't see it, and rubs the area between her shoulder blades that tends to tighten when she's had a long day. Considering the explosion he heard during lunch, and the rumors of someone trying to breed Pegasus Tribbles in their quarters, he guesses it'll be more knotted than usual.
When she practically purrs under his hands, he's knows he was right. At this point, he usually is.
"Do I want to know?"
"No," she tells him, and goes back to pretending the world beyond his ministrations doesn't exist.
2. Because He Doesn't Ask Questions
"This the right shipment?"
He nods, noticing how possessive she seems in the warehouse's dim light when she stands with one hand on the crate, like a mother holding a child's hand.
"Built as specified; estimated blast radius is about three city blocks."
She purses her lips, looking thoughtful. If he squints, he's sure he'll be able to see the plans and diagrams already beginning to form in her mind.
"And when used in conjunction?"
His face must give him away, because she smiles.
"Great. The money will be sent to your account as soon as I get this-" she pats the crates, "-back home. Thanks for your help!"
It's a matter of pride that she doesn't feel the need to check the merchandise before taking it away, but he stands there for a long time after she's left, remembering how to breathe. He's forgotten that dealing with her is like playing with fire - and if there's one thing she's good at, it's getting other people burned, accidentally or not.
Still, by the time she comes around with another exotic, almost alien design for him to build, he'll be too happy to have a challenge to pit himself against, and won't feel a shred of sympathy for the poor, higher-ranked bastard who is going to have to stop her from using his creations too liberally. After all, it's not his problem.
3. Because He Is An Elder
She inhales deeply. savoring the scent of wood and resin that has always marked the tents of the bantos makers. It brings up childhood memories of many worlds similar to this one, of watching through corners and slits as the mastermaker carved and strengthened the sticks that were her people's pride and joy. Of course, being children, they did not understand the importance of the rituals they saw, the secrets witnessed by little eyes and quickly forgotten again, but as adults they remembered the mystery of the place, and the reverent awe they had felt when the very essence of life seemed to be captured on the bantos.
The rustle of cloth warns her that that mastermaker is turning, and she offers him a smile and respectful nod. He waves it off with a mumble that would have fooled many, but she knows it is an act, and that his sharp eyes are watching to see her reaction. So she takes the bantos from him and runs her hands along their lengths, studying them.
It is the way of her people to gift adults within the camp with decorated bantos sticks when they had achieved some important rank, or performed some special task. The shapes burned into the wood tell of the owner's life, of their greatest triumphs and disastrous failures, the grain and texture of the wood lending depth and shading to the progression of figures. It is also tradition for the story, as it stands so far, to take the entire length of both bantos, so that the wielder may be sure of who it is they are, and what they stand for when they fight with their weapons. Even though the time of close combat is fading, and new technology like the automatic guns of Earth are making bantos useless, she wants to carry a pair to remind her of her people, and the battles she has chosen to wage on their behalf.
But only half of each bantos she holds is complete, though the sealing coat has already been laid upon them. When she looks at the mastermaker, startled and uncomprehending, he holds her gaze and touches the blank ends with a gnarled, scarred hand.
"In these times, One Who Walks Ahead, where you are coming from may not be as important as where you are going."
4. Because He's Good
Although the hand holding the scalpel does not tremble, she knows what is going through his mind. It would have been going through hers, too, if their positions had been reversed.
"It's all right," she manages to say, forcing the words through the freezing numbness of shock. "I know you can do this." He meets her gaze, eyes frightened above the surgical mask. They operate on Marines and engineers and botanists on a daily basis; it's part of the job, after all, and it gets easier with time to distance yourself from the person lying on the table, life in your hands. The medical staff is a tight-knit one, though, each member linked to the others, and now it's not a human body to heal, not a problem he has to fix that is in front of him; it's a friend, a colleague, someone he knows in the way they should never let themselves know their regular patients.
"Here," she breathes, bloody fingers ghosting about the gut wound, "the bullet's probably still inside, I didn't feel an exit wound, and when you fish it out, save it for me? I want proof that I cheated death again."
It's barely there, and it's forced, but she knows from the way his eyes crinkle that he's smiling. It's a tradition, their tradition to save the bullets to show their skill and God's mercy. It's what he'll think about when he works inside her, and that's exactly what she wants.
The gas mask slips over her face, and she inhales; once, twice, hands fluttering to the table on the third exhalation as his face swims out of focus and his strong, steady voice calls... for a...
5. Because He Is Small
She cherishes her Bright Minded, and the questions he poses her, the scenarios and daydreams he unwittingly reveals. She watches her Loyal Dreamer kindly, shelters the confessions of her Mind Tender, whispers of rest in the deaf ears of the Far Traveler. She thinks of her Sky Toucher with warm affection, for he of all of them is strongest and yet never attempts to force her hand, to make her give up what she would not.
But once bitten, twice shy, and though she looks after them with the distant benevolence of a caretaker, she does not let them coax her, persuade her, does not take their word for the truth. They have dreams, they have ambitions - the little worries of the mortal kind, things that are trifles in history's long gaze - and they would lie to her, they would cheat her and make her subservient if they could, and all to achieve something of no lasting significance. She remembers - with miles and miles of memory storage, with hoards of data crammed into every corner of her mind, how could she not? - and for the cruel usage of her builders, does not let them draw near to the core of what she is.
All but one, that is.
For he has virtually no power, no link through which to exploit her for his own gains, and yet he is kind, gentle, unaware that of all those who have traversed her halls he is the sole one who has never reached out and attempted, however futilely, to change her, to alter her. He rises each day before the sun, eats his muffin and drinks his coffee, and then walks, rather than take the transport, to the heart of the system; his routine is predictable, understandable, something she could almost set her internal sensors by. And it is this tiny man, this unnoticeable person who offers the best logic, the calmest reply, the simplest answer - as she did, ten thousand and many more years ago.
So she listens to him, out of all the people living within her; she listens, and when he unknowingly whispers, truth or lies, she believes him, answers his few requests. And out of all her charges, out of Bright Minded and Sky Toucher and Swift Words, she would fight a thousand Hive ships for him.
In his world, he is meek and replaceable, and ten thousand and many more years ago, she was as well.