Title: Wake-up Call
Characters: Waltfeld/DaCosta, Andy/Aisha
Words: 888
Warnings: implied slash and infidelity
Summary: Decisions made in the loneliness of night feel different come morning.
The alarm in the clock in the alcove went off. Instead of an annoying buzzer, a local station came through mid-note. The call to morning prayer, kept to a low volume. Yet loud enough in the silence of the room. Louder than the steady hum of the ship's engines and ventilation.
Waltfeld reached up blindly and found the off button with his fingers. He found the light and switched it to a low setting. He stretched his limbs slowly, not wanting to wake his companion in the bed that was barely made to hold two.
DaCosta did not stir. He slept on his stomach, his face sunk into the pillow facing the wall, an untroubled expression on it. One naked, well-shaped arm curled around his head like a shield. The sheet rose and fell with his slow, deep breathing. There was something vulnerable about him in this state, something he never allowed the others to see when he was awake. Something Waltfeld caught only a shadow of when DaCosta flashed him a rare smile.
Brushing his lips over DaCosta's shoulder and breathing in, Waltfeld smelled the dust of the desert that seemed to never wash off and the unapologetic, masculine acridity of sweat—so different from the scents of a woman's skin. As different as the thick dregs at the bottom of the pot from a glass of fine wine. Both made one's senses swim, but only the wine had the power to ruin a man.
The videophone beside the bed issued a quiet ring. Waltfeld sat up quickly and reached over his lieutenant to press the audio-only answer button. "Waltfeld."
"Commander? A call for you from Banadiya, sir," came the reply of one of his crew aboard the Lesseps.
The pressing of warm skin against him suddenly made him feel exposed. Even in these private quarters, the events of last night, so rational and mutual before, seemed impulsive and selfish on this end of an open line.
A moment went by without his response.
"Sir?"
"Tell her to hold. I'll be there in a second."
The connection severed, he eased himself out of bed. DaCosta did stir at that, his dark brows furrowing and relaxing, but he said nothing. Waltfeld threw on trousers and an undershirt, entirely conscious of the rustle of clothes as he did so. However, even if DaCosta did wake at the disturbance, he would not have said much. There would have been no protest in his cool manner.
Safely outside in his office, the door closed behind him, Waltfeld sat down behind the desk and pressed the receiver button.
Her face appeared on the screen, her eyes downcast as she waited for him to answer her call. He relished that moment when he could gaze at her unnoticed. Her fair features signaled the break of day in his body in absence of a window or sunlight, and he wanted only to bask in them.
She finally noticed he had answered, and by then it was too late to hide his goofy grin. She beamed.
"Hey, sleepy head," she said, her rich voice cracking slightly.
"Hey."
"Did I wake you? I thought you were usually up by now."
He shrugged. His tiredness must have shown on his face. "I haven't had my fix yet."
"You're losing your edge, Andy," she said facetiously.
"A momentary lapse, I assure you."
She hummed, as though undecided over whether to believe him. He did not care which. At the moment, he only wanted to see her eyes: so deep and dark and unabashedly warm.
"I miss you," she said. "When are you expected back in Banadiya?"
"We're on schedule to finish here by Thursday afternoon. Although, just between you and me, I was planning on our moving out early and surprising Aisha—you won't tell her I said that, of course."
Aisha smiled, lowering her eyes momentarily. "Of course."
He found himself uncharacteristically silent, lost in the oasis of her smile. Merely a mirage at this distance.
Her smile turned sardonic under that gaze.
"Well, I can see you need your caffeine."
"Shall I call you later?"
She nodded in such a way as to suggest she did not care though he knew she did. "Sure. You can keep me abreast of things." A timid, "Later, then."
No awkward I love you's. No promises to risk breaking. No step toward a sense of finality.
"Later."
She hung up. The screen told him he had been disconnected. He let it stay that way awhile, as though just in case her image should return, before severing the connection on his side as well, and rising to put on a pot of coffee.
DaCosta was already half-dressed and sitting on the edge of the mattress when he stepped back into the room. His brief, "Morning, sir," though sincere, lacked any of the intimacy of the night before.
He didn't avoid Waltfeld's eyes, like some other young officer might be tempted to do. The only trace of discomfort he showed was in the raking of his fingers through his short burgundy hair. Maintaining his cool composure even under the pressure of the elephant in the room, DaCosta understood the situation without need of words, without verbal promise of discretion.
Just one of the things Waltfeld liked about him.