Kyohohoho. Mystery pairing! Except it's really obvious. But whatever.
Need
A pair of blonds nestle into the covers together on a chill
winter's night. She is in a thigh-length negligee; he wears no shirt.
She wears no perfume, but the faint, masculine scent of cologne
emanates from him: clean and cool. She runs her hand through his hair,
and the scent of him strengthens momentarily; every breath she takes
whispers his scent-signature to her senses. She removes her hand, and
the fragrance of the cologne ebbs back to being a mere subtle presence,
radiating gently from the tips of his hair and pooling in the curve
between shoulder and neck.
He always showers before things like
this, in addition to the two he takes regularly every day. He never
forgets; but in the event he does, she will not hesitate to remind him.
Sometimes they even shower together. She enjoys opening the door to see
him standing beneath the downpour: his unruly blond hair melting down
into a glistening sheet of gold before the touch of the water, his
bangs snaking down into his eyes, the water streaming over his
shoulders. There is something about rivulets of water streaming down
the body of a man that makes his skin fascinating to touch: as if it
were flowing and stationary, all at the same time. She splays her hand
on his chest and watches the water ripple around her fingers: feeling
the water rush past even as his skin remains warm and still beneath her
touch. She feels the quiet vibration of his voice beneath her fingers
as he laughs and teases her. And then he falls silent and pulls her
slick mass of blond hair over her shoulder, letting the soaked strands
spill like liquid sunlight across her collarbones. The water runs
through her hair, glistening brightly admist the adhering strands and
causing them to tremble before its cascading rush. The water seems
almost to bring her hair to life: filling it and suffusing it like a
spirit, causing it to rise up in undulating movement. His hands move
gently through her hair: panning for water in a river of gold.
Now, she is curled against his chest: the sheets tangled about them in
a state of disarray she would normally have frowned on. He does not
seem at all bothered by the disorder; he looks as at ease in the
disarray as he would in a perfectly ordered setting. He lowers his head
and nestles his face in her hair. She smells of shower-scents, of soap
and lotion; such suits her better than perfume. She rests her own face
in the space between his chin and shoulder; she can still smell the
clean steam-heat of the shower, clinging close to his skin beneath the
initial tang of cologne.
Her lips brush his collarbone in
something that is neither a tease nor an invitation. Nonetheless, his
breath still catches in his throat.
The slow lace of her arms
about his neck after a few heartbeats have fluttered past, however, is
an invitation and a demand all in one. She pulls herself up to him,
closer to his face, into more intimate contact. Their lips touch. Their
eyes fall closed. His lashes stroke her cheek.
The phone rings.
A heartbeat passes. She disentangles herself, sits up, answers the
phone. He quirks a brow up at her, disappointment easily concealed
beneath nonchalance, and eases his head into in her lap like a wistful
dog patiently waiting his turn for attention. From where he is, he can
faintly hear the voice of the person she speaks to. It is the voice of
another man, a voice strong and resonant and authoritative. He
recognizes that voice, but shows no external reaction to it. It is as
if he had not heard or recognized it at all. But slowly, after a few
moments, it becomes clear that if he is to now be compared to a dog,
his master is not the woman whose hand has absently wandered into his
hair.
He does not resent this man for coincidentally calling
when he did and interrupting them. He is ready to answer to the call of
that man.
She makes a few short replies, and then hangs up. She
exchanges a look with the man whose head is cradled in her lap; he
stares back up at her blandly.
She tells him a name and a situation. He replies that he knows already. He could tell.
Then without a word, they slip off the bed and pull on their clothes.
Their matching fair skin is slowly covered by official blue, their
relaxed demeanors vanishing as professional expressions are pulled on
like a pair of gloves. She then turns and makes the bed rapidly, her
efforts reducing it to a paragon of ordered neatness within seconds. He
waits for her, snapping the clasp of his watch into place and checking
the time on it.
She opens the drawer of the bedside table. An
automatic pistol is tossed to her companion. He catches it easily,
holsters it at his back as she does the same with her own pistol. Then
he crosses to the door.
When they exit, he opens the door for her and holds it as she passes.
Their strides match as they proceed down the hallway: the efficient,
straight-backed, rapid step of experienced soldiers answering the call
of their commanding officer. A call that-- for both of them-- takes
precedence over all else.
They are needed.