"Dependency"
And so even though Roy actually enjoyed the military functions, the grand parties, the opportunities they presented, still he complained to anyone who wouldn't run screaming in the opposite direction whenever they saw him with that look upon their face. That generally consisted of her and her alone, gracious soul; she'd listen and say nothing as he spoke, stopping him only to adjust the skirt of his dress uniform or the curve of the collar.
On the night of a promotion, he'd talk about the undeserving recipient. How their exploits and successes in the East had been the products of luck, really, and they were morally bankrupt to boot – shouldn't that be taken into account? It mattered to him.
Or before a ball, he'd harp on the musicians they'd asked to play. No sense of rhythm. Wouldn't know a crescendo if it smacked them upside the head with a pole.
He'd complained only once, early on, about how these things wasted time. He'd talked as he buttoned his shirt and frowned into the mirror about how it was going to be dark a long time that night, about how long nights were precious for the time they gave to the two of them – about how such a night, crafted for them, was to be given to a bumbling fool.
Her hand had frozen in the act of pinning up her hair when he turned to her, and she looked at him with eyes wide, eyes fearful. Then she'd looked away.
At this point he couldn't remember who had insisted upon it, but they'd gone to the party separately, spent it separate, not speaking, not touching. He'd danced a few songs (his partners asking all the while if everything was all right), downed considerable amounts of champagne, and called for a car early.
He'd been trying to pull the cork from another bottle of wine when someone knocked on the door, and he'd opened it to find her there, shivering in spite of her gloves, her scarves, her hats, her coats. He'd pulled her inside, into the warmth, into his arms, enveloping her until she stopped shuddering, rocking her until her breath steadied and she melted.
Then he'd held her at arms length, surveyed her face, and found something deeper by far than fear. He'd kissed her, laughing for no reason, unwinding the scarf from her neck even as he offered to boil some water for her. She shook her head, smiling, laughing too, and said that she could do it, that she was good at it. And he smiled at the coat she shrugged into his hands, something fierce and joyous gripping his throat.
(A/N: Sweet Jesus, was that a plot? Noooo!)