Eris was fucked.
Not in the fun way or one where punching was the solution.
No, this was much worse.
He avoided Inter-Faction Leadership gatherings like a plague. Or like the conflict management training he was ordered to go to after arguing with Four for the ninth time in the mess hall. This time he'd been Voluntold by Tris that he was going. And who was he to argue with her?
"You know you could try to enjoy drinking Jack Kang's expensive liquor instead of glaring at anyone who gets close."
He tried desperately to ignore her. Until she pinched the tender skin of his wrist, nearly causing him to spill his drink. Eric decided it was win that he didn't yelp at the sharp pain or bitch about her causing a bruise.
There was his problem Eric thought as he turned to the side, clad in a black and red A-Line dress and a pair of combat boots. The sensibility of it made Eric picture her kicking someone's ass in the outfit in glorious detail. This was the one woman who not only out shot him on the range, but who also argued at Leadership meetings with an unparalleled voracity that he admired. When she took down Jack Kang by citing an obscure sub clause, it was the hottest thing he'd seen in a long time. He wasn't sure how to convey he felt more for her without Tris brushing him off like she always did when they were bullshitting when they were supposed to be working.
"Nice belt you got there, Stiff," Eric said. Over the years the nickname became an affectionate one rather than an open invitation for Tris to punch him in the face.
She was wearing a belt he lost last month. It was his favorite: alternating pyramid studs in six by six squares with three inches of leather between each one. He bought it not only for the belt's ability to do its job, but also because he could easily wrap it around his hand in a fight. Now said belt was wound around her waist, drawing attention away from the fact the leg obscured by the longer side of the dress had no less than four knives strapped to it.
"Thanks, Nose, it's new to me," Tris answered. She leaned against the wall next to him, holding out a glass.
"Does your boyfriend know you go around offering drinks to men whose belts you stole?" Eric said as he took the drink from her. It was a good quality back field still Amity whiskey, his favorite when he got a choice of what to drink.
He knew he was gambling, but he felt lucky.
"I don't have a boyfriend," Tris' nose scrunched up.
Eric grinned before taking a sip.
"You want one?"
She blinked before giving him a stare Eric only associated with when she problem solved whatever issues came across her desk.
"And it's not your belt anymore, I found it fair and square."
Eric felt like he could get away with pushing the envelope on this. Or it might've been the smoothness of the whiskey boosting his confidence.
"You didn't answer my question, Stiff."
She cocked her head to one side, eyes traveling up and down his form before smiling.
"Does your girlfriend know you accept drinks from women whose paracord bracelet you lifted three months and four days before she allegedly stole your favorite belt?" Tris asked. She took a sip of her drink, an expectant look on her face, and his belt mocking him from her waist.
Were Eric not stuck on the fact Tris knew down to the day when he'd walked off with the bracelet, he would've seen the obvious trap she led him into.
"I don't have a girlfriend," left his lips then he realized what he'd said. "Fuck."
Tris bumped his shoulder then said with a grin,
"Want one?"
