Light. Stillness. The sounds of a bustling street market somewhere in the distance. The smell of coffee wafting from down the hall and a masculine scent on the pillows beneath her head.
Motoko opened her eyes slowly, letting them adjust to the bright morning sun now casting its rays through the window high above her. Gradually, memories of the night before filtered back to her and she rolled over, her hand reaching out across the mattress, alarm rushing in as she felt nothing but cool cotton sheets beneath her palm. She sat up, scanning the room for some sign that what she remembered wasn't just a dream or implanted memories. At the foot of the bed her eyes found what they were looking for: the black turtleneck draped over the back of a large wooden chair, massive combat boots lying askew on the floor beside it. She let out a sigh laden with more relief than she had expected and sank back into the luxuriant warmth of Batou's bed.
"What, afraid I ran off on you this time?" Batou himself had appeared in the doorway, grinning mischievously. He was wearing a muscle shirt and sweatpants, fresh from a jog, and holding two large mugs that somehow managed to look tiny in comparison to his massive frame. She rolled onto her side and glared at him, stung by the implication even though she knew that she had no right to be. The sudden dissipation of his grin betrayed his realization that he must have hit a nerve. He practically ran to the bed, cursing under his breath as hot coffee splashed onto the floor, burning his fingers on its way down, and abandoned the mugs on the bedside table, sending more coffee sloshing and more curses streaming from his mouth. Clearly flustered, he hastily wiped his hands on his shirt and clambered onto the bed beside her. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"
His comically disproportionate panic at his apparent misstep had already dissolved her unearned feelings of hurt by the time his hands found their way to her cheeks. Motoko let out a genuine laugh, the first in a long time, and stroked his now thoroughly bewildered face. "It's ok," she reassured him, first with her words and then with a light kiss on the cheek. "I'll forgive you as long as there's coffee left."
It took him a beat to regain his composure and he leaned back to inspect the damage he had done; it looked like there was almost as much coffee on the floor and the table as there was in the mugs. Shooting her a sheepish grin and a shrug, he handed her the more full of the two. "I better get something to clean that up. Gabu will lick anything off the floor and she gets the runs if she has coffee..." he trailed off, obviously catching the expression that told him he'd said way too much, and retreated back down the hall toward the kitchen.
Watching him disappear around the corner, she sipped her coffee, letting its slightly bitter, roasted notes linger on her taste and olfactory receptors. Her prosthetic body didn't actually need the caffeine, but she savored it nonetheless. The habit made her feel more human, the deliberate ritual of its preparation in an archaic press lending a small sense of normalcy to a life otherwise devoid of such. She knew that Batou used the same kind of device and noted, with a hint of nostalgia, that he still managed to make the cyborg-friendly synthetic brew taste like what she imagined the real thing might. She could hear his deep voice booming from the kitchen, cooing at his basset hound and ordering her to stay put. 'He got a dog...'
A moment later, he reappeared with a roll of paper towels and closed the bedroom door behind him before kneeling down to mop up his mess. Motoko found herself suddenly distracted by the way the muscles of his back and arms moved as he pushed a crumpled mass of paper towels over the scattered pools of coffee on the floor, his white-blonde hair falling into his face as he crawled his way toward the bed, completely absorbed in his task. She hid a sly smile behind another sip of coffee, and was struck with an idea.
Quietly, she set the cup down and swung her legs over the side of the bed so that her feet came down on either side of his shoulders just as he was cleaning up the last rivulets of liquid from the underside of the bed frame. She watched with amusement as he froze for a moment before popping his head up over the side of the mattress to stare at her dumbly. His expression shifted in turns from confusion to surprise to delight as she bent over him to grasp his arms and guide his hands up the finely toned thighs which were now straddling his midsection. Leaving his hands to their own devices, she moved her own to either side of his thick neck, kissing him deeply, greedily. Muscular arms wrapped around her hips, pulling her to the edge of the bed as he met her passion with equal force. He moved to stand now, clearly intending to take her with him, and she tightened her grip around his neck as he lifted her off the bed.
Batou held Motoko tightly, his tongue probing and hands groping, her perfectly crafted bosom pressed against the taut muscles of his broad chest. His mind wandered to what felt like a lifetime ago, to black-out-stumbling-drunk middle of the night trysts, when she would let him have her roughly, furtively, against the wall of one of their bedrooms after their most frustrating cases had finally been brought to an end. The memories of those illicit encounters sent an aching heat surging through his body from his core.
Then something slid out of place, and suddenly, here and now, it didn't feel right. His grip slackened as he sank back onto the bed, still holding her. They sat there for a while, foreheads pressed together and eyes cast downward, neither of them moving, neither of them speaking. They'd done this plenty of times before, in plenty of places and positions, but now, with the harsh morning sun streaming in and the memories of the night before still playing over in his mind, all of those encounters seemed crass, even lewd. Back then those indiscretions had just been an excuse to get close to her without having to admit what he really felt, without having to open up the gaping wound of his heart to the unbearable intensity of her scrutiny. But now, he couldn't hide his longing. He had already revealed too much to turn back. She was the only person in the world who could drive him to the heights of delirium and the pits of despair; the only woman he had ever loved - could ever love - like this. For the first time, she'd shown him that she might return some fraction of his feelings, and he was blowing it in a big way.
He felt her shift above him, lifting herself off his lap and down onto the bed beside him, and his hands withdrew from her into tightly clenched fists pressed into his own thighs. 'You idiot,' he thought, mentally punching himself for ruining the moment. A gentle hand on his disrupted his internal tirade, though, and he looked up to meet Motoko's searching gaze. She smiled, and the room began to fill with the sound of jazz piano. He stared at her for a moment, a little stunned, before finding his words. "I thought you hated the Duke," he laughed.
"I don't even know who that is," she replied, lifting her hand to stroke his cheek, the sun framing her face in a halo of light. —I just know it makes you happy—
If it had been possible for someone to fall any deeper in love than Batou already was with Motoko, in that moment he would have; but it was not, so he had to settle for a demonstration instead, returning and amplifying her gesture by pulling her into another kiss, softer and sweeter this time. This was a special moment, and he wanted to savor it, to make real, honest love to her instead of giving in to the craven urges that wanted him to throw her against the back of the door and ravish her like some sort of crazed beast. So he cradled her cheek and kissed her tenderly, his free hand reaching back to clasp hers. Slender fingers slid to the back of his head, through his hair, and this time, a joyful warmth replaced the frenzied heat he'd felt only minutes before. An idea whispered to him, and he pulled his lips away from hers to trace a path of featherlight kisses over her perfectly sculpted chin and slender neck, across the graceful line of her collar, and down her toned arm to her fingertips, which he kissed one by one, never taking his eyes off of hers. The next kiss, this time to the nearly translucent skin of her wrist, elicited a soft gasp. Her free hand, which had been toying with his hair, snaked under the hem of his shirt, lifting it up his chest and over his head with the practiced ease of an old pro. He felt her tugging at his waistband, but he wasn't ready for that, and gently diverted her hand. As a compromise, he tugged open the buttons of her thin top, sliding it off her shoulders.
"Now we're even," He whispered huskily into her ear, cupping one alabaster breast firmly and felt her shiver against him as he ran the rough pad of his thumb over the extra sensitive skin of her areola. His lips found hers again, his free hand sliding up to grasp the short hairs on the back of her neck as he kissed her lovingly. She let him lower her back onto the bed, their hands caressing and exploring, breath mingling. This time when she reached for the drawstring of his sweatpants, he didn't stop her, letting her slide them down over his hips so he could kick them off, only a bit awkwardly. Her shorts were far easier to remove, sliding off over her hips and long legs in a single, fluid motion. She pulled him closer and he shifted to position himself over her. His eyes asked the question, and hers gave the answer.
Afterward, their bodies still drenched in artificial sweat, limbs entangled, chests rising and falling with ragged breaths, Motoko found herself wondering, with a sinking sense of dread, if she had just made a terrible mistake. It had been so long since she had let herself go like this, let him touch her like this, and she was seized by a sudden desire to leap from the bed and flee naked into the streets to escape this overwhelming feeling of intense vulnerability. Glancing over at Batou's face, though, seeing that dopey, contented smile, she banished the impulse as quickly as it had emerged. 'You're exactly where you belong.'
Outside, a car horn honked, a dog barked, a vendor called out, hawking questionable wares to passing shoppers. The angle of the sun had shifted, the changing light in the room indicating that it had to be close to noon. How long had they been lying there, she wondered, not really caring. The sheets were cool and slightly damp beneath her, Batou warm beside her. The sound of something mournful and haunting drifted into her ears. It was the song that he had turned off in the car, and as she listened to its melancholic progression, she understood why. He had told her the name of it once, but she couldn't put her finger on it, having never bothered to commit the information to memory. At the time, it hadn't seemed important. She couldn't ask him now, though, so she scanned the nets for it instead. The answer came to her, with it another insight into something deeper about the man beside her.
The revelation pushed her mind out to the sea of what would come next. Would she withdraw again, retreat back behind her impenetrable walls to leave him battered and bruised at the gates, or would she let him in, let the long-deferred fantasy crystallize into a reality? If the latter, how would they navigate the uncharted terrain that was sure to unfold before them, full of towering obstacles and difficult conversations and inevitable clashes of two unbending wills? Her ghost whispered, repeating Batou's words from the day before, when she'd asked him to back her up. A promise wrapped in a question. 'Isn't this the way we've always done it?' Understanding and certainty settled over her; he would always be there, stubbornly and constantly beside her as they plunged headlong into the chasm of potentials. She had made her decision.
Completely unaware of the questions and choices swirling in the mind of the woman beside him, Batou was lost in his own contemplation. A thought had snagged in the back of his mind, whispering that if he looked away she might not be there when he looked back, but he exiled it back into his subconscious. He watched her chest rise and fall gently, her eyelids heavy over crimson irises. Anyone else might surmise that she wasn't going anywhere, except maybe back to sleep, but he knew her better than to jump to that conclusion.
So he too wondered what would come next. He knew they could never have what any couple would consider a 'normal' life, and he doubted if that was what either of them actually wanted. They were both professionals, married to their work, committed to a certain level of independence that held no space for any traditional notions of romance or domesticity. He hadn't lied when he had told Motoko that all he needed was her, though, and the way she had kissed him afterward made him think that maybe she felt the same. If not, though, if she withdrew again, or worse, fled completely, he took some strange comfort in knowing that at least he would know what to do. He'd wait, patiently, like he always had and always would. And if she stayed? He would follow her to the bottom of the ocean, to the hearts of active volcanoes, to the end of the world and beyond. Whether she would do the same, whether she would even notice, didn't matter, as long as she let him follow her.
The feeling of soft lips on his neck brought Batou's attention suddenly back to the present, and he brought a hand up to her face, tilting her chin so he could reach her lips with his. 'This is as close to heaven as you're ever gonna get, buddy', he thought as he pulled away to look at her again. The music, which had subsided into the background, forgotten during their lovemaking, now reasserted itself, that mournful melody crooning out from a hidden speaker. Maybe he was a fool, he thought, but at least for now he was a happy fool.
Beside him, Motoko stirred, pushing herself up into a sitting position and the cold knot of fear that she actually was going to leave reared back out from his subconscious, but she turned to face him instead, searching his expression for what, he couldn't tell. Suddenly, she was leaning over him, brushing damp strands of hair from his face, an inscrutable smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She bent closer, first to kiss him, then to whisper something in his ear. It was barely audible over the haunting melody, and at first he thought he had misheard her, but the look in her eyes when she met his gaze again told him he had heard her correctly.
Make that a very happy fool.