Taffer Notes: In which Zofia wishes for kinder things than life, and Crane tries out for America's got talent.

Oh.

Jin had found a dress. A ridiculously long one, its hem whispering around the girl's ankles, and the sleeves wide as bells over her hands. It was red and likely made of silk, with golden threads woven into the fabric. Intricate patterns winked back at the overhead lights as Jin moved about the place, dazzling anyone who dared to look long enough. The dress had been stashed away in a carton full of colourful baubles and gaudy hats, and to this moment Zofia thought it had belonged on a theater stage, rather than the Harran streets. There'd been a lot of odd bibs and bobs buried alongside of it, none particularly useful, but Jin had got real excited over it and wasn't likely to take the thing off again. Ever.

She also trailed a heavy, fruity scent after her. Perfume. Lots of it— maybe even the whole bloody bottle — and Zofia didn't particularly like the smell. It reminded her of Cloé. Which, by itself, wasn't a bad thing, except for how Cloé and her reception desk (full of pictures of family, and of cats and dogs and whatnot) that was then. Jin was now, and now kind of sucked.

Her mind took a sharp turn, right along with Jin whipping about in a piroutte, and curiously prodded at the smarting memories of home. Had Cloé packed up after Harran? Gone working for someone else? Closed up the office behind her with a sad little frown and headed home for some tea?

Zofia sighed. Rubbed her knuckles against her arms, the woollen cardigan she'd thrown over her shirt soft and warm and clean, but feeling alien on her. Or maybe it was her skin that didn't quite fit any more. It itched a little. Dry. Prickly. Soapy and clean and that hadn't been her in a whole lot of forever. Stale water and a sponge only ever got one so far. Left bits unattended, no matter how thorough you thought you'd been. But a hot shower? Foaming soap? Dear lord. Her toes curled. Her knees pulled up to rest under her chin, and Zofia shifted her rump on the cushioned couch.

Between showers and fearful glances down the bunker's corridors, the group had cleared out the common's area. They'd pushed some of the excess furniture against the walls and turned the centre into a half circle of dusty comfort. Around them, tucked into the hallways spreading out from the large, circular room, were plenty of separate, smaller units. Like lodgings in an underground hotel. One of the first orders of things— right after the folks with guns had sniffed out every accessible corner in them —had been for everyone to stake a claim to one of them. Even Crane, and he'd seemed horribly proud when he'd let her know she ought to be grateful that he'd got them the best room. Never mind that they all looked the same. Four beds. Two lockers. An empty shelf, a barren desk without a chair, and plain walls and a carpeted floor.

Three stars at best.

Phoebie and Yeter had taken Riley to a single unit. Jin, dress and all, had convinced McG to share too, and Collin had slunk off into one of his own. But none of that had lasted long. They'd come right out again, pulled back together by a year of absolute proximity. As if the thought of privacy, of separation, frightened them.

Now, Phoebie was nursing her baby on a couch. Yeter was nose deep in a thick tome that hopefully held an answer to them getting out of here without having to wait out the lockdown, and Collin lounged next to Zofia with a pad of paper on his knee and a pencil dancing up and down. McG, (or Eren) looked a little despondent still, even with Jin orbiting him in her ridiculous dress. 'round and 'round she went, flicking hem and all, dancing with white socketed feet to a private little tune in her head.

Probably something straight out of a musical, and maybe they ought to have painted whiskers on her or something and— Zofia's jaw clenched. Her fingers twitched. She pulled together with the thick and hot feel of her core pressed tight, the beginning tremors of a seizure ready to pounce. Eyes wide, tongue squeezed to the top of her mouth and a few shallow breaths through her nose, she sat still and waited for the seizure to tear her off the couch.

It didn't. It eased away, and no one noticed. Bloody hell…

Collin kept doodling on his pad. Phoebie murmured nonsense to her daughter, with Yeter now sitting real close. And Jin danced one more round, before she lifted the bottom of the dress and let herself fall into the wide recliner occupied by Eren. A carefree laugh bubbled up the girl's throat and he smiled, his eyes cutting up and a little of the strain falling from his face.

He'd been in quite a state earlier. Back when they'd found out they'd locked themselves in. Him and Collin, both, what with seven days in here meaning certain death without suppressants. For all of them, the boys and her and Crane— they'd forget themselves and everything and Meghan'd probably put them down. Because that was how that worked, no?

But Crane, he'd had a plan. The brawns with the loopy sort of brain and full of oddly ingenious ideas. Like rationing their Antizin shots to help them ride out their reluctant captivity. "It'll work," he'd said. Supposedly.

He'd handed Meghan the two syringes from the infirmary, half a dose of suppressants drawn into each. And then he'd got fiercely hugged by Collin, and that'd been adorable, because for once Crane had looked a little uncomfortable.

Zofia glanced around the room. No Crane. No Meghan either. Just them and Scott, who sat hunched over his equipment, methodically cleaning bits of armour and stripping down his weapons. He'd been at it since he'd come out of the shower.

She puffed out air. Tested her digits with a careful wiggle. They felt numb and swollen, and her heart flopped uselessly about in her chest. A bit top-heavy, no squeeze quite right. Like it was waiting for something unpleasant to happen, and would she be so kind and not sit here and let it find her?

"All good?" Collin asked, and Zofia realised she'd got to her feet.

The kid had cleaned up too. Had swapped his dirty pink shirt for a fresh, purple sweater. His hair was in disarray, fluffed up from the wash, and he smelled of the same cheap lemon soap as she did. She should know. He hadn't left her bloody side.

Zofia nodded. "Thought I'd have another look around."

"Cool. Hold on," he said and stuffed the pen and notebook into the wide pocket on his trousers. "I'll come with…"

She folded her arms in front of her. Squeezed them in tight, and worked up the sternest of frowns she could muster. "Did Crane put you up to this?"

"Busted." Collin shot her a smile. "He said to keep an eye on you."

"Well, you don't got to. Where's he think I'll go? Out?"

"We haven't checked all the rooms yet," Collin reasoned.

"That's true enough, but what's left is locked. Fat chance there's something hiding in there to begin with, don't you think? I'll be fine. Don't worry."

"He won't like it though."

"He'll get over it."

Zofia wandered, her legs a little lame. She focused on each step, one foot in front of the other— left, right, left, right —until something tore on the inside. Here we go. It gave way to a hard drag downward, and the seizure whipped across her side. Knocked her into a wall. With a desperate wheeze for air through a throat that snared shut tight, Zofia pulled herself forward. She traced the wall. Left foot. Right foot. Left and left and right and right, the world turned an ugly, muddy yellow and every breath harder.

She found a door and hoped she'd walked far enough so they'd not see her. That Crane wouldn't come around a corner somewhere, because he didn't need to see her like this either.

Her first try to crack the door open failed. She bruised her knuckles on the handle. Cracked her nose into the wood, and told the stupid thing: "Ouch," before she finally made it through and into a dark room at the end of something. There were shelves. Boxes. She crashed into them. Hot and breathless, with sharp teeth on her bones and cruel fists in her gut, she fell. Half a shelf came down around her, joined her on the hard, naked concrete.

Above her, a lone light bulb swung sadly from its cord. 'round and 'round it went, and smeared the dusty air with orange light. Her jaw locked open, the tendons pulled taut in her neck. And Zofia cried. Mute, her voice lost to a voiceless plea for something kinder than life.

By the time her radio came on, she'd given up on crying, and the lightbulb had parked itself. Like they'd both got exhausted, her on the floor with the seizure sapping the strength from her limbs, and the thing up there from circling like a tethered, fat firefly.

"Fi?"

She took a shaky breath and fumbled for the radio clipped to the band of her trousers. Her fingers weren't helping. They kept tingling, the tips numb and cold.

"Come on, answer me. Where are you, Fi?" He sounded worried, and her heart shook off the lingering seizure. You messed up, it told her. Stop messing up.

Zofia pressed the radio to her ear. "I'm here, Crane."

"Here? Where's here?"

…

She huffed. "Not far." Pushing herself up on elbows made of pudding, Zofia looked around the narrow room she'd stumbled into. "I went to look around some more. Found a cupboard." Upended boxes lay around her, their contents scattered on the floor. "It's got toilet paper. And shower gel." She kicked at a packet of soap. It skidded under a shelf. "Soaps."

Crane exhaled on the other end, though when he opened his mouth again, his words tilted with a touch of humour. "Shaving cream?"

There were more voices on the other end. Scott and Meghan, and she caught snatches of a conversation about something unfinished and still under construction.

"Don't be ridiculous," she said and let herself sink back, her shoulder blades rapping against the ground. "You're not shaving, not if I've got a say in it. It makes you look like a baby."

"Ouch, Paper Tiger. Thought you loved me for more than the stunning looks."

"You got it all wrong. I tolerate you."

"Fiercely."

"Adequately."

He snorted, and she could hear the smile pressed into the waveband. Her heart gave another shudder. "You coming back?"

Yes. "Give me a little while, Crane? I'm…" She stared to the ceiling. All manners of things.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. It's just my head and people and there's…" She swallowed.

"Say no more." The smile had drifted off, given way to a careful warmth. "Take your time. I'll go ahead and have a shower without you."

"Ta."

"Uh huh. You're missing out though."

"I'll cope," she said before the line went quiet, and Zofia was left with the bunker murmuring around her. Pipes. Air ducts with their fans spinning ever onwards. And a steady white noise in her ears from the seizure. She shifted on the hard ground. Her core still hurt. Her left calf felt like the muscle in there was just waiting to snap apart, and her throat and lungs still weren't ready to labour on.

Guilty already, she dug for her pills, the crumpled plastic package stuffed way down into a pocket of her trousers. Clumsy, cold fingers worked two of them free, and slid them past her lips so she could swallow them dry.

Eventually, the ringing in her ears dulled, and the hard pressure melted from her bones. She could breathe again. In and out, slow and steady, with her head a little less her.

As the lights dimmed, so did the pain.

She let her neck roll, pressed her cheek flat against the cold ground. More shower gel looked back at her from under an angled box, and maybe the tin over there was shaving cream, which she'd leave right where it was. There were toothbrushes too, skeletal fingers with bushy ends over where they'd tumbled from their box. And a handful of small squares of foil strewn over the floor like colourful petals. Zofia squinted. She reached clumsily for the one closest to her, pinched it between her fingers, and lifted it over her head.

"Oh," she told the cupboard.

Kyle tossed his weapons on the bed. Crowbar first, then the hatchet, and with a pained grunt here and there, he worked the gun holster over his shoulder and discarded that too. Truth be fucking told, he wanted nothing more than to make a little room between them and toss himself on there as well.

Don't, dude. If you lie down now, you're not getting back up.

He turned his back on his equipment. Toed his shoes off somewhere on the way, and snatched up a fresh set of clothes. There wasn't a lot of steam left in him, but he figured it was enough to take him to the showers. And if you're lucky, you're not going to pass out and drown in a fucking puddle.

Nah. He'd be fine. The hall was empty, his lazy footfalls the only noise save for the chatter drifting in from the rec area.

What he wanted was to keep walking. And not to dwell, because dwelling fucking sucked, and with his mind finally idling and no longer set on a task, dwelling was all it seemed good for. There were a lot of unattended cards to revisit, and they all had things printed on them he'd love to ignore. At this rate, he'd have rather stuck to blissfully simple tasks; like the one Meghan and him had been off to earlier. Simple. Straight forward. Nothing much that could go wrong…

Gather up plastic furniture covers. Lug them to the entrance. Fold them out. Dump Biter corpses on them. Roll them up like lumpy sushi rolls. Huff and puff while you dragged them into the motor pool/garage with a lonely, squat truck parked in a corner. That had sucked the most, with every step of him carrying the front end of a carcass reminding him that his back was fucked. Meghan had offered to get Scott to do all of this shit, but "Nah," Kyle had said. Let the man grieve.

Kyle frowned and let himself practically fall through the door to the showers before he swung it back shut with a nudge from his foot. He groped for the light. Ding-ding-ding the lamps went overhead.

After they'd discarded the bodies, (since who wanted them to start rotting in the halls?) he'd Yes Ma'am like a good boy, because there was still more shit to do. Inventory and all that shit.

Item number one on the list: Where did the cameras point?

Not the showers, thankfully, and Kyle wiggled out of every bit of sticky, grimy and bloodied clothing that he'd carried on him for way too long. He threw it into a pile and fought the urge to burn them.

They monitored the entrances, both inside the garage and out the front. Some were pointed up and down the halls, and an extra one kept an eye on the stairs leading down. Otherwise, only the medical bay had a camera in it, and he'd half expected to find Zofia elbow deep in the medicine storage.

Kyle placed himself underneath a shower head, and craned his neck up to stare at it. "You better still work," he told it. "Or I'm going to fetch my crowbar and I am going to fucking dismantle you. Pipe. By. Pipe. Ya hear me?" He twisted the knob. And had his face and front splashed with ice cold water.

"Fucknoshitwhatyou'refuckingshittingmenonono—"

Sliding back, his arms hugged to his chest, Kyle stared at the cold stream. His back ached from the sudden movement. His teeth gave a few involuntary chatters, and he was glad Zofia wasn't here, for reasons of the water is cold, okay? Not my fault.

"This is fantastic. This is just fucking great. I'm thrilled."

He glared at the pipes and stood with a dirty puddle forming by his feet, reluctant to stick himself under the water again. So what if he was pissed, he had every right to. He'd worked his ass off ever since they'd arrived, tried to make up for ending them all down here. Had counted gasoline canisters and done math to try and figure out how long they'd have power— mapped out most of the bunker's two levels, because someone had to. Wasn't like the place was small either. Maybe nowhere near as expansive as Kyle had originally hoped, but sizeable. Designed to house maybe five or six families, and stocked accordingly, providing food and supplies for a couple of months at best.

And it wasn't even fucking finished. Half of the downstairs was nothing more than fucktons of abandoned construction and inaccessible rooms.

He sighed. Scuffed his bare feet on the tiles. Felt a hint of warmth creeping through the air, and with hope a little withered but not yet dead yet, extended a hand to catch heated water against it. Sceptical, and ready for it to turn to ice again any moment, he stepped into the hard stream.

Hot hot hot-hothothot- "Oh God yes."

At first, the water stung, needled his skin. He contemplated turning the pressure down. Briefly. But instead he closed his eyes, braced his arms on the tiled wall, and let the water chip Harran off his shoulders.

And he tried not to think. Not to drag himself through today and through yesterday, or to the few cc of postponed death he'd given to Eren and Collin. His eyes opened, water catching on his lashes, and he squinted to his watch. Or the two or three days until it was his and Zofia's turn to share what he had left, unless he wanted the shitty sort of munchies.

How were the chances this was going to end well? Where on the scale of this'll go tits up and we're probably all going to die would this fall?

"We'll be okay," he said. Squeezed his eyes shut again, and turned his face against the water. Cuts flared painfully. Small scrapes felt like gashes, and by the time he leaned in, his forehead pressed to the wall and the water scalding hot against his neck and back, he appreciated the pain for what it was; a distraction.

He really just wanted to shut off. Trail a happy thought for once, stick to it like gum to a shoe, and let someone else worry about everything else. Kyle tapped his fingers against the tiles while the water worked on peeling his skin off. Found a matching rhythm in his head and hummed along with it, no one around to judge. Offended muscles squeezed along his spine, so he shifted under the shower, let the water hammer away at them for a little while.

That hurt. The good sort of hurt, and his humming turned to a noise that wasn't altogether sure if it was supposed to be a groan or a laugh.

He wondered how Zofia had reacted to her own shower. If she'd huddled under it with her arms around herself and turned on the spot with that scowl of hers cemented on her lips— or if she'd loosened up a little. Or a lot— if she'd let him anywhere near if he hadn't been too busy being a good little soldier.

Kyle cleared his throat and swiped a bar of soap from its cradle on the wall. He took a whiff. Lemon. Always fucking lemon. But it went on anyway, and whatever bits of Harran the water by itself hadn't been able to wash off, he scrubbed at until he thought he'd bleed.

By the time he'd gotten some lemony soap into his eyes, and was halfway through an off-key rendition of Sharp Dressed Man, the door to the showers opened. Kyle choked down a note, snapped his mouth shut, and turned to find Meghan grinning at him from across the room. The door clacked shut behind her.

"Grown gills yet, Crane?"

"What— I— Jesus fuck, don't you knock ?" He fumbled to cover himself awkwardly with one hand, while the other frantically swiped through his hair trying to get the rest of the soap out.

"I tried. You were too busy auditioning for America's got Talent to hear. Which it doesn't."

"Ow."

She smirked. "Ah, I'm sure you've got plenty of other strengths."

Hell no, you're not hitting on me. He pointed to the dwindling stack of towels, and then lamely at himself. "Please?"

Her brow arched. "You're ruining this already." But she fetched it for him, and stalked up to him with her eyes busy and Kyle feeling measured. "Nice tats," she said as she tossed the towel at him.

He caught it against his chest. "Uh— thanks?" The towel went around his waist in a hurry.

"Lighten up, Crane." She flashed him a bright, toothy grin, right before she pulled her shirt over her head. "I'm not trying to get between you and your girlfriend."

No? Aw. I mean- what? Good. A glance at the mirror showed him a hollowed out version of himself. With Harran having taken a good few bites out of him that he hadn't been able to refill yet. He grimaced.

When he looked back to Meghan, her smile curved down, made way for a frown that softened her sharp features. "She's had it rough, hasn't she?"

Kyle's heart itched. "Yeah."

Meghan nodded while she undid the tight band keeping her hair in place. It swept out, thick and long— and probably a real bitch to keep clean. "Rais?"

The itch gave way to a sharp sting, and he gave a noncommittal grunt in response, tried to distract himself by tackling the frustrating exercise of getting dry.

"Savvy mentioned her," Meghan clarified, and he heard the swish of cloth on skin, quickly followed by the shower coming back on. Spurt-spurt-splatter, and Kyle sighed.

"Savvy talks too much," he said and worked on getting his new pants on without losing his dignity.

"Agreed. But for all it's worth, I think you're doing good with her. She's lucky to have you around."

He snorted. "Ha. Want to do me a favour and tell her that?"

"I'm sure she knows. Oh, and Crane?"

"Huh?"

"If this gets cold, I'm coming for you," she taunted.

"Yeah— yeah—" Was about all he managed in response while he shoved his head through his comfy, fresh shirt.

"And you should get this looked at," she added.

"What?"

He shot a look over his shoulder. Skin. Boobs. Nope. Then back forward to the door. Which had a nice handle… all… handly.

"Your back, you look like you were run over by a truck."

Kyle scoffed. "Fits. I fucking feel it." He bundled his old clothes into the wet towel. Fiddled with his belt one handed, squeezed the radio into it, and waved over his head before he piled into the hallway.

The rec room was busy, with everyone having carved out a little space for themselves around the low table smack in the middle. Packaged food and water bottles were arranged on the thing, and Kyle thought he might have just walked into a slumber party. Sans the PJ and B horror movie, with the Jin girl donning a fancy red dress too grown up for the little thing, and the horror movie out past their locked doors.

"Hey, Crane," Collin called from a couch. "We're going to have dinner. Want to join us?"

His mouth opened. Closed. Seen Fi? almost made it out before he spotted her trudging down the hall, a good part of her tucked out of sight behind a cardboard box balanced in her arms. Kyle cocked his head to the side, watched quietly as she rounded the couch, and eventually stopped in front of him with her dull grey eyes turned up. The pupils in them were smaller than they ought to be, and he swallowed down the disappointment scratching its way up.

"For me?" he asked instead and motioned at the box with his chin.

She shrugged, but hugged the thing closer to herself. And when he started sifting through it, her shoulders came up, and her nose crinkled. Faint, red splotches lit around her cheeks and nose. Cute. Kyle smiled, his eyes moving from the uncomfortable little addict in front of him to the contents of the box and back again. Shampoo. Soap. Lotions and small towels and toothpaste and two toothbrushes, but— "No shaving cream. Little shit."

Zofia huffed and the box moved off with her attached to it. Kyle trailed them to the couch, planted himself between Collin and her, and without waiting for anyone to give him the go, shovelled food and water on his lap.

Mine. And mine. And some more mine. He glanced to Zofia, and caught himself thinking: Also mine.

Dinner was spent in silence. And about as awkward as the first family dinner with the girlfriend's parents when you were fifteen, and the dad was glaring at you from across, a shotgun strapped to the bottom of the table. Zofia sat with her legs wrapped around the box, as if she expected someone to drag off her find, and nibbled on her ration without any visible enthusiasm. She looked nervous. Jittery, her eyes locked on things only she could see dancing across the bunker walls.

"Want to get some sleep?" he asked with his mouth half full and his stomach still good as empty.

Zofia's heart was being a bother. It shouldn't have been knocking against her throat, for one, and it shouldn't have been so bloody loud. She kept trying to swallow it back down, but whenever she'd got it halfway, Crane shifted next to her or glanced her way. And wham-wham it went again and she glitched half through the bunker. The pocket on her trousers was a little too warm too, and she expected it to catch fire any moment.

"Want to get some sleep?"

She caught her tongue between her teeth. Nodded. Knocked the rest of her food and water into the box, and was about to pick it up when he scooped it off the ground instead.

"Night," Collin called.

"Night," she parroted, a hand in her trouser pocket where she fidgeted with the rectangle foil.

"What did you do?"

Kyle hated himself for asking. He held the door open for her, and she slipped through wordlessly. And so damn tiny under his arm with her narrow shoulders and her short, spiky hair.

"Nothing," she said. Looked to him briefly, before drifting into the room and letting her eyes roam from corner to corner. They set on the weapons he'd dumped on one bed. Skipped to the others— and Kyle didn't know what to think any more. She reminded him of the girl with her bow poised at him. Scared and miserable and lonely. Terrified. Of him, no less.

"Then what's up? You look spooked."

"I'm fine." The answer came too quick, and even though he wanted to, Kyle didn't press. She'd tell him if she'd feel like it, and wouldn't if she didn't. That was a lesson he'd learned.

He set the box down on the unit's desk, and while she started pacing quietly, he tugged his shirt off.

"Okay. Then get your fine ass into bed."

She wheezed up something that could have been a laugh. Potentially. "Crane…"

"I mean it. You're tired. I'm tired. Tired people sleep." He tried to shoo her into the general direction of the second bed, swinging his shirt around his wrist like a rope meant to herd a filly, but she wove around him, her arms folded around her chest. Dodged him like she dodged Biters, quick footed as ever.

So he sat on the edge of the bottom bunk and watched her. She hovered by the box, her elbows in her palms. Soft shadows gathered around her, and he didn't think he'd seen her look anywhere near as fragile in a very long time.

He frowned and lifted an arm to tap the bottom of the bed over him. "You want top?"

Zofia's chin turned to him. She blinked. And then she plucked a bottle from the box and carried it over. She kicked her shoes off. Almost tripped. Caught herself on the bed frame, and while he had his hands out ready to catch her, she looked down at him with her lips drawn in a thin line. Then she crawled behind him, the bottle coming along.

"What's that?"

"For your back," she said and he wanted to turn his head all the way to her. But said back protested with a twinge of pain, and he settled for listening to her pop the cap open.

A whiff of something smelling an awful lot like tiger balm drifted over his shoulder, and Kyle sat straighter. Her fingers landed a moment later. Small and cold and stronger than anyone ever gave them any credit for.

"Ouch," he complained when they started mapping out the pain on him, but all he got for the whine was a little more pressure. Heat sunk into his muscles. Pushed the pain aside, or at least made a good effort at it, and Kyle let his eyes fall shut and his mind wander aimlessly.

With one good hand to her disposal, Zofia felt horribly inadequate. Again. She'd been there before. Sort of. But she'd done okay, and she'd do okay today too, even if her right arm was beginning to grow tired from having to carry the sad little team of two. Stop thinking. Why are you thinking. This isn't for thinking. She tried to focus on where she thought the pressure would fall best, listened to Crane's breathing as if it'd cue her in on everything she needed to know. Her fingers kneaded into skin and muscle, and her palm grew warm from all the thick balm. Its smell didn't bother her as much as she'd thought it might. In fact, inching closer to his back and leaning in to give herself more leverage, it started to smell pleasant, every pull of air a bit better than the last.

He was a mess. A lot of irate red and ugly purple— and some faded blue and green from where Harran's abuse showed clearly. And he was horribly tense, every cord of muscle either knotted solid, or badly swollen.

"You're good at this," Crane said after she'd managed three full rounds up and down along his spine. He sounded sleepy. "Why didn't you tell me you were good at this?"

"I didn't know."

What if he falls asleep?

He couldn't fall asleep. Not yet. He couldn't ruin her plan. Wasn't allowed to, because if she couldn't get this to work today, then whenever would she? Never, that was likely why, and Zofia was as tired of never as she was of everything else. So she shrugged the cardigan off and peeled the shirt over her head. Chucked both over the edge of the bed. Brr. Cold. The cold drawing in close made her shiver. Crane's head turned with her flying clothing and his shoulders twitched. But then she set her palm against the base of his neck and he exhaled slowly before he grew still again.

You can do this, she told herself. Her innards pinched. Her heart skipped right past the trot and went for a full gallop. There was buzz seated in her ears. And something giddy and something dreaded, a churning mix of fear and excitement, pooled around her navel.

Her fingers rolled against the slowly losing muscles in his neck, her thumb pressing down with mostly gentle intent, but still a little bit of practicality. He sighed happily, and Zofia knew she liked that sound. Always had.

It was a good start, and she anchored herself against the soft noise, vowed not to leave. To stay right here with him, and not to glitch from the world like she'd done before. Vowed not to ruin it.

And when she leaned forward and set her lips against the ridge of his shoulder, his breathing stalled. The scent of the balm mixed well with all the him underneath, and the hint of lemon from the dreadful, dry shower soaps.

When she reached his neck, he'd remembered to breathe, and a quick glance showed his fingers curling on his thighs.

Zofia shuffled closer. Pressed her skin to his, wanting for the warmth that she'd tossed out with her clothes. That threw his breathing off course again, and Crane turned his head. His cheek bumped into her nose. Scratchy from the stubble wanting to be a beard, the one she didn't want him to ditch.

"Fi?" He looked at her, his light brown eyes a little heavy from what she hoped wasn't sleep. And just a little alarmed. Yeah… this wasn't entirely familiar territory, but she had to. Couldn't not.

Zofia placed a kiss against the stubbly cheek, tried to find his lips at the awkward angle. She missed, least until he dipped his shoulder a little and met her with a careful brush.

"You okay?" he mumbled into the kiss.

No. No, I'm not okay. But thanks for bloody asking.

She dove for the packet of foil in her trousers. Groped for his arm and pulled on it until she reached his hand. Pressed the stupid thing into it, and brought her shaking fingers back to grip stupidly at the hard edge of his belt. Crane's brow pinched. His eyes went to his hand. He blinked.

"Oh…" he told the condom she'd given him.

Zofia swallowed. Slipped her arm into his elbow. Pulled. Pulled a little more, until he echoed "Oh," again and finally turned to look at her. His eyes dipped. Then came back up. Dipped again. Like he couldn't make up his mind. Or was contemplating saying What? Nah. You've made me wait months, I can't be arsed any more, who'd you think you—

Crane swept one arm around her waist. Caught her lips with a careful, slow kiss. He knocked the balm bottle off the bed with the swipe of a hand. It thumped away on the carpet, unwelcome in the bed. Unwanted. But she was wanted, she had to be wanted— and had to want, and Zofia tried to remember want. The kiss stalled, his forehead pressed against hers, and a warm hand chased the chill from her spine.

"Are you sure?" he whispered. "You don't have to."

Zofia nodded, her nose knocking into his with the bob of her head. Almost slipped up and said I have to, but bit down on that real quick. Last time she'd said that it had ruined it all.

Because Crane might have never shown much patience with the world in general, but he had a world of it for her.

Kyle wanted to ask again. Wanted to ask until she opened her mouth and told him. Because what if he got it wrong? She slipped under him, all sharp bone that'd cut him if he wasn't careful, and pale skin with angry red splotches for tan lines. Perfect, inch for inch, from the band of her pants to her wide, gray eyes. Cold tipped fingers held onto his neck. And every bit of worry for what waited out the door behind them was blissfully absent, shoved aside and forgotten. His thoughts packed up. They didn't matter.

She did.

The two pillows on the bed were shit. He glared at them. Worked himself up on his knees and awkwardly grasped for the ones above them. Inhaled sharply when he felt her work on his belt, and came back down to chide her and chase her back into the mattress. There were words in there, somewhere, muffed between their lips playing tag. She wheezed and giggled once when he swept his hands down her sides, ticking over every rung of her ribs.

Then her giggle died, snuffed out by his mouth tracing an uneven line down her throat. He crossed the bladed ridges of her collarbone. Felt her fingers drag through his hair when taut skin over bone gave way to the softness of her breasts against his lips. They pinched a little when he stuck around. He passed her navel, drawing a wobbly track over lemon scented skin, the fingers curled and grabbed on tight. Kyle paused. Hovered with his lips over her stomach. Puffed air at her. Breathed her in. Out. In. Waited. And would have the whole night if that's what'd it take.

She let go.

Clothes were a problem. Getting them out of the way, a bigger one. The bunk was too small— Too short, his back added with a muted whine —the walls too close— and still Kyle couldn't have minded any less. She fit perfectly in here. Filled his world, or became it, every touch of her fingers another reward, and every timid buck of her hips a lure he happily chased.

He loved how she let him, how she didn't give him another reason to pause. Loved how she arched into him. Loved the frustrated whimper when he pulled himself up, retracing the line he'd kissed down her front. Loved how he had to swat her hand away when she wanted to pick up where he'd left off. Loved the click of her teeth on his neck, and how it made him laugh, because biting of all things, really? So what if he dropped the condom wrapper twice before he got it open, and that he'd apparently reverted to his teen years and forgotten how they fucking worked, or that he knocked his head into the wall a few times. Or that his arm cramped and he wheezed into the pillow by her ear. All that made her laugh, a small and throaty noise that he loved fiercely right then and there.

Much as he loved how she whispered his name, only to hide it away when he dove in search for it in the hollow of her throat. How he found it again on her lips, a little breathless and a little dazed.

At the end it was all rather simple.

He loved her.

Taffer Notes: *frets* I've been writing Latchkey since April last year. And 180k word later, here we finally are. About time, hm?

This was an important chapter, and I really hope I got it right.