The Statue of Gold

by SomeDrunkSheep

With his unexpected transfer to the Northern border of Amestris, Miles discovered that things were not always as they appeared to be, especially in the case of the seemingly unmovable commander of the Briggs Fortification, Major General Olivier Mira Armstrong. LivMiles, M rated.

10. 10 - A Very Different Sort of Game

A/N: Morning! After a very long wait, here we are with a new chapter for this story. I am very sorry for the absence of updates, it took me a long time to shape this chapter as I intended it, and now that it is in the form that I wanted it, there it goes! Thank you kindly for checking out this story, for the support and your patience!

I hope you will enjoy your reading, please let me know what you think about this chapter, I'd love hearing from you! Thank you very much for reading!

As per warnings, we are getting the story forward with some of the steamier things and harder aspects. Progress will be made soon, but it needs building - stone by stone, as they say.

Without further additions, here we go with the drill...

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Chapter Ten – A Very Different Sort of Game

No matter how miserable he had felt the previous morning, the very following day, Miles had woken up in such gloriously heightened spirits that one might have assumed he had taken up ridding fantastic unicorns in his dreams and drinking special tea with bunnies wearing funny top hats. Or something to that extent.

Despite sounding like he had munched on some dubious mushrooms or particularly fancily named mold, nothing could possibly compare to sleeping throughout the night without waking up to wonder about the secret meaning of life and how in the blazing hells he had managed to get himself into different unpleasant situations over the time.

His slumber itself had not been long, just mere stolen moments between the dark hours of the night and the less dark hours of the very same night. Nor had it been especially restful, but beggars cannot be choosers, and Miles, albeit not being the most religious type of man, was not one to question the Providence in its general understanding.

Naturally, reasons to contest his exaggerated state of comfort could be easily pointed out, for he had been abruptly awakened by a very drowsy and confused Olivier who, from her position on the other side of the mattress, had tried to jump over him to get out of bed and managed to step right on his leg. But love qualifies as the most powerful anaesthetic, as Miles had not even flinched when his ankle twisted and made a bone-shivering crunch that hadn't sounded right. No, our good Major had merely smiled his most cheerful smile and muttered a pleasant 'Good Morning' to the frowning woman. Only some other minutes later had pain truly hit him, and his brilliant smile had turned upside down.

On a second, more rational thought, he considered he might have to ask the Doc to have a look at his ankle. He wondered if it was going to swell, or just bruise. Both were very promising prospects that would definitely include some ice packing.

Closing his lids for no more than a second, Miles flexed his foot to relieve the pain that was occasionally shooting up his nerves when he rested his leg at the wrong angle, and resumed dreaming open-eyed about the previous night.

Some might – and honestly, should, given how blown out of proportions he was describing the scenes to himself - imagine that some scandalous things had happened that made him so flustered. And they would be very wrong.

All that our Major Miles and the venerable Major General Armstrong had done that faithful night had been drinking mint tea and chatting about little nothings without even the trace of a set subject of any vital importance. However, Miles could barely remember feeling so at leisure around anyone, so, perhaps, he was entitled to his burst of euphoria.

That was a silly thing to think about, given how he considered himself to be a sensible adult who did not waste precious time going over nuisances - but damn! He felt like he could hug a tree and swear he had not gone insane, even if it was something that only a mad man would probably do.

Yes, Miles was just irrationally happy that perfectly fine morning, and there was a story behind his most likely over-blown excitement.

At last, for the first time in recent history, Olivier had not sneaked out of his room like a thief in the darkness. Not only that, but she had also chosen to spend the night by his side, and most amicably, at that – something that would have been impossible no more than half a day before. They had babbled about this and that up to the point when they could no longer form coherent words from fatigue, and had fallen asleep snuggled comfortably against each other. Well, comfortable was a big word, considering the crick in Miles' neck, but he preferred to ignore it – just as he ignored his definitely purpling ankle - and focus solely on what was beautiful and didn't ache after sleeping so stiffly.

Which, alas, was preciously little!

Miles absently massaged his shoulder – he should ask the doctor for an ointment of some sort, too – and returned to his reverie.

Calling the recent events to mind, it had come as a surprise when, after Armstrong had finally reclined next to him on top of the sheets, she had simply laid there, legs stretched in front of her and crossed at the ankles, listening to whatever he said and responding with idle comments to various what-evers, much like before their unfortunate strife. It had been as if nothing of that bleak period of their relationship had happened, and all had been erased with a big sponge.

Hah, relationship - indeed, without intending to sound pretentious, Miles was walking literal miles ahead with the notions in his head. But, to his salvation, it was very early in the morning, he had slept close to nothing, and people rightfully tended to think of fantastic things so close to dawn.

Not that the night had not been pleasant, no. Certainly, it had been slightly awkward, with them not knowing quite what to do with their hands at a certain point, but fatigue had been a better counsellor than any other, like it tended to be.

Their mouths had run until their eyes had finally become hazy and their heads had started to spin from the lack of rest and too many unfamiliar sensations. Only then had they admitted it was time for them to retire.

Their yawns had erupted at unison, filling the room with the silence that ensued. Watching the absent manner in which Olivier rubbed her wrist as she declared her intention of staying for the night, Miles had rather randomly recalled that he had once glimpsed a gun under her pillow. Believing it a most chivalrous move, he had offered to take the edge of the bed. His original thought had been to make her feel more secure because, despite her pretence of being comfortable with their friendlier exchange of words, she had still held onto that wry glint in her tired eyes like a vice.

When he had voiced out his reasoning behind the chosen position on the mattress, Olivier had begun laughing. That hadn't been one of her more studied laughs - it had been the kind that let someone know they were deemed as pathologically stupid. An instant later, she had realised her misstep, though Miles had feigned ignorance and smiled sheepishly at his unnecessary worrying.

It would have been prattish of him to comment about her slip, so he had simply made up some ridiculous story about the people who might fancy stabbing her and he, the veritable armoured knight, had the duty to protect the queen of the castle. Emboldened, Olivier had retorted that she had already decided to use him as a human shield if things went astray, anyway, so he could sleep on the floor just the same. The burglar would probably just stumble on him.

A little chuckle rumbled up in his throat as he remembered the little banter that could have very easily resulted into a shouting match. It was troublesome that anything he did or said could escalate into something more hazardous than it should, but Miles was aware to what – and to whom - he had entrusted his confidence.

Luckily, in spite of how brave she had meant to sound with her little tirade, Olivier had approved of his offer to sleep on the edge of the bed. Perhaps not even five minutes after that, she had fallen asleep.

The loud whistle of the kettle startled Miles from the depth of his thoughts. At that moment in reality, and not inside his head, the Major was brewing the coffee in the office, waiting for the commander to appear with the night's reports that had been collected by Buccaneer.

In other words, business as usual.

Carefully, he poured the coffee in two separate cups and placed them on the table that stood in front of the office sofa.

It took him no time to return to daydreaming, and he should be ashamed by how fast he kept on losing track of his surroundings. That was no conduct for an officer, despite how giddy he was over his situation with the colder-than-ice Olivier Mira Armstrong. Though he was so drunk on the morning's dew that he gave no damns about his conduit as of yet. Indeed, he could have decided to fall for someone who didn't entertain the thought of cutting up people for the sport of it, but he could have done much worse, he thought. Much, much worse.

Just as he was thinking about that, Armstrong entered the office, grumbling something incomprehensible, and handed Miles a stack of papers that he was not sure he would have caught if he hadn't been expecting them. She gave him her best glare and snatched her pink mug from the low table where Miles had left it to cool. She retreated to her desk and started rummaging through the many papers that were expecting her there.

When she took a swig from the warm coffee, she smiled into the mug.

It was the same old coffee – just as unsavoury and bitter as always – but it was made with love.

The afterthought nearly made Olivier spit the black liquid back into the mug, and it became very hard for her to swallow it. The confounded coffee went down her throat with a stinging gulp.

XXXXX

That evening, Miles found a plausible reason to discourage Buccaneer and the rest of the crew from their attempt to get him to open the bottles of rum that Karley had been nagging him about. He would eventually come and drink with them, he promised solemnly, but not yet.

Whenever that would be, it was hard to tell. First and foremost, he wanted to finish carving the chess set, which was reputed as being his newest purpose in life. He had no good explanation for his fixation with it, other than it being a little leisure project that had turned into a way to forget that his life could potentially be threatened if he played a false move and someone chirped about him to the wrong persons. Perhaps he focused on it because he wanted to take his mind off what was happening in a war threading so close to home and away from the worries over his family's safety.

Perhaps it was because he could hardly wait to have that promised match with the commander.

If he were to be honest with himself, it was a bit of all of them.

Well. More of the latter, but still - a bit of all of them was the fairer response.

He was just about to finish polishing the third knight of the set when someone knocked at his room's door. He guessed that it was Buccaneer, coming again to plead – for the hundred-thousandth time - to the little crew's most important case, that of locking the Major in the Doc's deposit until they drank the entirety of that retched rum. Miles didn't even like rum, but he couldn't say that to people who could make an accordion out of him if they so wished.

Not bothering to lift up to get to the door, he instead called loudly, "Enter, it's opened!", and minded his business of inspecting the freshly shaped wood.

The edge of the door slid widely over the floor until the handle bumped into the wall with a clang. A pleasant fragrance of spice and flowers rushed into the cool room, determining Miles to look up with surprise.

It was not Buccaneer who entered, but Armstrong, with her head held smugly high and carrying a big box. Its dark lacquered wood was chipped and stained by different colours that had mixed up into a sort of murky green, the tone that usually resulted when different pigments got blended together haphazardly.

Miles made to sit up, paying the customary respect when someone – or his freaking superior officer, he reminded himself – entered into a room, but Armstrong waved him off with an exasperated shake of her head. She unceremoniously placed the crate on top of the table in front of him, the bottom hitting the surface with a heavy thump.

"So," the woman began, putting her hands on her hips. "I know you have no paint and no idea which one to buy."

Miles blinked slowly. "That is correct," he said lamely.

"Heavens," she retorted disapprovingly. "Anyway, as I was about to say – these paints are the very best of the finest of my personal stash," she explained conspicuously, making it sound as if she had brought some high-end illicit drugs, and pointed to the box. "Make me some room, now." She motioned for him to move aside.

Hooking a foot around its leg, Olivier dragged a chair close to where he was seated. "Don't stand there looking at me like a moron, Major!" she snapped. "Make haste and tell me how you want these painted. And if it's agreeable to you, do that this century, alright?"

Miles puffed air through the nose. He watched her, bemused by her offer, and lifted a powdery eyebrow. "You know, Sir, I was just thinking that you seem to be reading my mind."

Olivier snorted, wondering why women – and Miles – used that expression so flirtatiously. She found it silly, like any remarks that were not practical.

Though, funnily enough, she didn't mind hearing it when it came from him. "Let us say I've figured it out," she commented, "as you looked like you'd rather cut your own hand when you said you will start painting the pieces soon."

"Well, that's hardly a surprise – I'm horrible at painting."

"Ah, how very unfortunate for you. Now move your stuff, already!" Armstrong demanded impatiently. Miles collected the spare wood and discarded it in the chest in which he collected the sawdust and other waste products from his project, and beckoned her to have a seat.

Olivier plopped down on the chair she had dragged for herself. She opened the box and got its contents out, consisting in various colourful jars and brushes of different sizes and shapes. She laid a heavily stained fabric on the table, one that must have been used during the making of many paintings, and picked up an empty jar to fill with water. "You have some clear lacquer, right? You should at least have that much."

"That, I do," Miles said, a bit embarrassed by the slip of technical planning on his part. "It is right there- um..." He looked around in a cupboard, not seeing any glimpse of what he was looking for. At last, he found it. "Yes, here it is." He presented her with a sealed vessel.

"Good, good. Now, tell me what I am supposed to do."

He stared at her. The woman gave him a queer look. "Oh, yes, certainly! Thank you, Olivier."

"Mhm," she hummed and sketched a little smile. "Well, shall we begin?"

Miles handed her the project plans, watching nervously as she inspected the sheets. He was expecting to hear some rude remarks about his crude doodles, but she silently set herself to coating the wood with paint accordingly to his notes. She started with the small squares that were going to mark the positions on the board once they were set into position, and he performed the final touches on the last of the knights.

Olivier let the squares dry after she applied more coats of monochrome pigments, and studied the instructions once more to begin working on the round-headed pawns.

XXXXX

The rest of the week passed swiftly between the two highest ranked officers of the Briggs Fort. Soon, a month flew by, and none was made the wiser.

Every evening, like a clock, the Major General and her assistant closed the office for the day, and retreated to the Major's room to work on the chess set. They were not able to spend too much time on their shared endeavour, given how tired they both were after the daily business, but they tried to advance as much as the means allowed them.

One evening, while Miles was shaping up the vines decorating the edges of the board, Olivier picked up a pawn. She turned it over in her palm, then caught it between her index finger and thumb. "Miles. Which of these pieces would you say that you are?"

Only his eyes moved up to look up at her. "Piece? Hm, I don't know."

"Why, of course you do," she replied and put the pawn back on the table. "We all know which one we are, but we don't want to admit it."

Miles smiled. Of course he knew the answer, and she knew that all too well.

"Hm. Now that you say it, I have noticed something. People, much like the chess pieces, tend to follow certain patterns," he commented, voice kept conversational and light. He idly pushed a rebel strand of his loose hair that had fallen over his forehead behind his ear. Crooking his neck to the side, he pointed an eyebrow towards the wooden figures. "Don't you find that fascinating, Olivier?"

"Indeed," she replied, studying the controlled manner in which the other officer was rearranging the figurines on the table.

Finally, Miles picked up a rook that needed painting and gingerly placed it in front of her. "I'd say this is Buccaneer. He does what he has to do - asks nothing, doesn't see anything. A command from whom he considers superior is the law for him." He pointed his finger to an already painted piece. "And I reckon that Henschel is our other rook. Both of them look straight ahead and hear nothing but their orders. They're loyal and obedient, certainly, but what I question is their imagination. Or lack thereof. However, predictability and reliability are their greatest assets."

Next, he picked up a bishop. "Karley and Neil, definitely. And if there was a third and forth bishop in the same player's set, they would stand in for Redmyre and the doctor. They do divert from the route, even have ideas of their own. However, if you watch their course from afar, they still walk the line. They can be creative, which is a strong suit, but their wild strike is hardly passionate enough to stray from the set course. Not if they are given the proper directions, or so I believe. Though they do need their sense of freedom, one that our esteemed colleagues that I've mentioned before require not. The simple sense of liberty makes them... sensible. Obedient. But I don't like to use such words."

The Major then pointed to the pawns. "There are many of them in here. The working hands, the helping hands – the fodder. They know their place, know about the nature of their dispensability. They are aware of it, and that either keeps them in their place or makes them restless. But, just as the rules of the game dictate, there are some pawns that reach the end of the board and become another piece. Yes, those can be dangerous, although they can just as easily be made valuable or be sacrificed by the experienced player. Hope, the very essence of their existence, is what makes them vulnerable."

He pushed one of the queens forward. "And now, Olivier, this is you. The queen. The only piece that is allowed to move freely in the game, making your position the most perilous."

Olivier elegantly crossed her legs, all the while looking at the tip of her boot. She didn't miss out the implications of the verb that he had used – allowed to move.

She chose not to comment on it, but looked back up at him. "I see. And what about you, Miles? Do you, perhaps, fancy yourself the king?" she challenged with a hint of bait.

He chuckled. "Oh, hardly! No, not at all, and frankly, I wouldn't wish for such a position."

Armstrong smirked. He had not fallen into the typical trap that some got tangled in, dreaming to be kings and having queens. But, then again, she hadn't expected anything different from him. "And why is that?" she asked as she leaned forward.

"You know why. The king is the only piece on the chess board that needs protection and is defenceless in front of the others. It needs cover and has to be moved when that is blown. Don't you see, Olivier? It is a position of need and helplessness, with narrow movements, even if the king is the one that survives the whole game. In the end, it is useless without the other pieces. Besides, I'm hardly so high up on the food chain. Unfortunately, I'm too aware of my limitations."

"Ah," Olivier breathed out. She stroked a slender paint line with her brush. "Well, then, Miles, what do we have left for this riddle? Not walking forward, not moving sideways. Not turning into other pieces. Not taking cover. The knight, is it?"

"I suppose. Yes."

"Hm," she hummed. "Prosaic, I'd say. Though, allow me to remind you - it's an expandable piece."

"As are the others. Even the king is expendable, Olivier, once the player loses. Humans, by their very mortal nature, are expandable, and certainly, so am I."

'And so am I,' the Major General thought serenely, chewing onto his logical line. There was even less wonder in her mind as to how he had managed to unnerve his former commanding officer. Well, one's loss was another's gain.

"That's true," she agreed after a few moments. Delicately, she let the piece to dry on a tray. "Therefore, the knight. The chessman that moves in the most irregular pattern and protects the queen from an easy to miss spot, being able to jump over the other pieces. That's quite imposing, don't you think?" She gingerly picked up a knight that was already painted, the artful touches on the wooden pieces standing out, not fully dried as of yet. She turned it around, looking at the little colourful details mounted over the chequered horse.

"A knight pledges their loyalty to their master," she said.

"And their master awards their faithful servant," he countered.

"So they do, indeed." Olivier put her elbow on the table. "So they do."

For a few moments, none of them said anything.

"What did you do before you came here, Miles?" Armstrong demanded abruptly, her electric eyes fixing Miles with intensity.

He smiled at her. "I was actually wondering when this question would come up again. You've quite the penchant of coming back to it."

Olivier blew some air over the shiny piece. "I like to know about those I'm working alongside," she stated and looked into his eyes. She was not asking that question as a mere colleague, because professionally, she could have lived without knowing the answer. They could perform their duties without learning about their pasts. But, behind the closed doors, she indulged in her curiosity. In her lust for knowledge.

Miles, the good sport that he was, entered the game, intrigued by her renewed interest. "Certainly you do. But let's call things on their rightful name - you like to know about their weaknesses and what they can do for you, not what they are like." His crimson eyes twinkled mischievously as he gazed into her blue ones. "Really, Olivier, I find it absolutely amusing how, despite being given enough snippets to hold onto – you know, those little things that, if used properly, can make one lose it all - you still continue to demand for more. Some might call it being greedy."

"Then consider this as an exchange of faults."

"Faults? No, no, Olivier, I don't consider myself faulty, and this is hardly an exchange."

"Just as usual, modesty is what hits the hardest when you are talking, Miles."

He chuckled. "Indeed! What would I be without the mandatory embroideries!"

"Rather dull, I suspect."

"Ah, Olivier, but aren't we all dull, once we draw the line and discard all the flowers and perfumery? We are, after all, made of pretty much the same substances, yet it is the matter that sets the difference."

One of Olivier's eyebrows lifted. "And the weeds that we're sniffing on, apparently. Yours are something quite potent."

"Why, but of course! I pride myself on consuming only the best!"

She shifted in her seat. "What on Earth are you talking about? Fuck's sake, Miles," she exclaimed, "I'm just blown away at how you can change the subject and steam someone to the point they forget what they were talking about."

Miles grinned and shook his head. "Saw right through that, didn't you? What happened to the good old days when diversions worked, I wonder?"

Her lips departed with a wet sound. "Miles. You're confusing the persons," she spelled out. "I'm not sure how you've not noticed, but I'm not your regular blonde."

"I haven't realised I even had someone like that, but it doesn't sound too shabby," he replied casually and took a mouthful of tea, clearly unnerving the woman that was sitting across from him. "Regular blonde. Hm, actually, not shabby at all!"

"Major, I swear to you, if you keep talking in loops, I'm going to kick your teeth in."

For once, Miles considered her threat. Armstrong sounded like the type who would beat anyone who stepped on her nerves, no matter who that was.

No, not just sounded like that - she was the type who would definitely do that. Therefore, the conservative spirit in the Major arose, and he chose the safest way to meet her inquiry. "You've asked me about this before."

"Tch! Yes, and you haven't answered me then."

He tilted his head and crossed his legs, seemingly amused. She was clearly losing her patience with him, but the whole conversation had its funny side. At least to Miles.

Shifting on his spot, he looked at her with a curled-up lip. "People might be fooled to think that you are cut from one piece, Olivier dear, but you have your facets."

She snorted at the new deviation from the subject, but her face was starting to show a hint of interest. "You are still not answering, I see."

"Not to your question, no. But I still have given you an answer, haven't I?"

Olivier rose from her chair and stepped over to him. She put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him lightly, taunting him. Miles let go of the fine chisel and looked up, straight into her eyes.

She watched him like a hawk watches its prey, but he didn't act like a scared rat in the field. He held her steely gaze with a challenge written in his blood-coloured orbs. She slowly lowered herself onto his lap, brushing her inner thighs against his raised knee as she sat down, facing him and finally sharing the look at the approximately same height.

Their eyes remained fixed, as if they were connected by a bridge, reaching into the other's insides and crawling through the labyrinth of the soul, guarded by tall gates, overrun by wild vegetation. None blinked and none really breathed, just shallowly, life itself possessing little meaning when they were scratching the dirt over their hearts until their nails became raw.

The matter was about who was the one whose resolve would break first. The first to commit a move would be proclaimed the winner and the other, the loser.

And yet, none was going to win, and none was going to lose. Because none was going to make the next move while the other stood still. Their minds had become linked from the moment they had accepted to work together. That was the source of all their problems, and perhaps the answer to them, too.

Unwittingly, those two couldn't move in asynchrony, not anymore – if that had ever been possible. They won and they lost at the same time, always mirroring the steps of the other in their tuneless dance.

It was grating the Major General's nerves to acknowledge that hard, unmerciful truth. "You are absolutely infuriating, Miles," Olivier told him, irked by the playful glint in his eyes.

"Thank you. I will take your words as a cherished compliment that I will treasure dearly," he retorted without skipping a beat. With faux honesty, he pressed his right hand over the heart.

"I mean it," she insisted.

"How delightful that we are on the same page! I mean it, too."

"You talk excessively much."

"I've been told that before, I believe."

Armstrong had to snort at that. "And didn't that make you think?"

Miles looked to the side in consideration. A moment later, he returned her glance. "Not particularly, no."

With the corner of her mouth tugging up, Olivier slid her arms around his shoulders. "Heavens up above, man, you are in a league of your own when it comes to piffle."

He had the audacity to smile wider at her remark. The arms around his throat tightened, the insides of her elbows pressing dangerously onto his carotids.

Countering her evident threat, Miles suddenly uncrossed his legs, shifting Armstrong's centre of gravity on his lap. Her hands grasped for purchase on his back, her clear eyes widening from the shock.

Bewildered, the Major General realised that the one she was sitting on was a force to be reckoned with, and what was infuriating was not the revelation in itself – but that the bastard was aware of it.

Frowning deeply at the brilliance of his joy, Olivier leaned forward and kissed his smiling lips, admitting defeat to the game she herself had began.

Deliberately, Miles pushed her off him. Olivier's breath hitched and, for the second time in a too short while, she grabbed his shoulders, feeling herself slipping backwards. He steadied her effortlessly, catching her just when she was about to drop off. Just as brusquely, he lifted her up and sat up from the chair.

Shaken by the leap, the Major General hooked her legs tightly around Miles' waist.

"But please, don't you tell me, Olivier! Were you afraid I'd let you fall? Whatever happened to having each other's backs, I wonder?"

"You wretched thing!"

The Major chortled gaily. "As you are lovely."

Olivier slapped him across the head and silenced him with a bruising kiss, as tender as hitting one's head into a lamppost.

Chuckling good-heartedly, Miles held his burden securely suspended in the air and paced forward, carrying Olivier away from the working table.

Taken over by the sort of warmth that she had never thought that her body was capable of producing, Armstrong let her fingers wander through Miles' hair as her tongue pushed past the slack barrier of his smiling lips, welcoming her with a swirl. She groaned into his mouth, her jaw giving way to their little dance and her head swimming with very peculiar sensations.

Her back met the mattress softly, but her mind refused to processes how she had landed there. The gentle hands of her partner travelled over her body, making her tingle and shiver with each turn and twist they made in their wicked journey. Miles' fingers drew lines over her clothes and Olivier was not certain if she had ever felt something akin to that. So strange - he wasn't even in direct contact with her skin, only with the fabric rubbing against her, but he left burning trails wherever he lent his attention to.

She could do nothing but press their reddened lips together harder.

His nimble hands stuttered at the hem of her long sleeved blouse, only one finger raising the material and going under it. She gasped, the shy touch of his cold fingertip surprisingly intense. Inhaling sharply, she abandoned their lock to look into his unnaturally crimson eyes.

Olivier felt herself blushing madly, her face heating up with the blood that rushed to her cheeks. She felt the urge to kick herself, and him, too.

Miles' expression softened visibly and turned lovingly at the sight of her rosy face. She relaxed, fully coming to the knowledge that she could show every kind of vulnerability without being mocked for it, and allowed herself a small smile.

With the utmost delicacy, Miles rubbed the tip of his index finger over her right cheek and to the corner of her mouth, still red from his little bites. He trailed on over her lips, marking their contour and smearing whatever spit remained on them, making them glisten even more. Olivier's blue eyes turned black and unexpectedly wide, like they wanted to take more of him in. Ever so gently, he bowed to kiss her again, overwhelming the stern woman with his care for her.

There was no such slowness coming from Olivier when she welcomed his lips with fervour. She caught the sides of his shirt and tugged them up, demanding to have him barred of any impediments. Miles broke their embrace to discard his top garb on the nearby nightstand, half of it landing over the little reading lamp that promptly fell over from the weight, and took the bedside table and a pillow with it.

The man peered over to the tumbled assembly. The lamp's flex had, by some unknown force, tangled into Olivier's hair and would have probably pulled it as soon as she moved. He swiftly stretched to lift it up back into its place, along with the table, preventing the untimely death of the poor tiny lamp.

Presented with the opportunity, Olivier took a moment to admire the dark skin that made up his chest, lined with the occasional white scar that was faded with time.

It was a pity, the Major General thought, that she had never chanced a real glance at him before, not while he was naked before her, being too afraid of the awakening feelings that pervaded her senses every time he laid his touch on her. She was finding herself infatuated with the way his muscles worked under the web of his former wounds, not many in number, though some looked to have been quite serious. They raised an alarming amount of questions inside her head, for no staff clerk could possibly gain such marks from merely writing reports.

Miles hesitated for a moment before fumbling with the hem of her blouse, all the time smiling in a manner that he deemed to be reassuring. He had yet to be sure of her evaluation over him looking at her in any way, and if the falling lamp hadn't deterred her state of excitement, a direct question would definitely leave him with a black eye. She had never let him get a glimpse of her body before, always forestalling his attention somewhere else or making sure that they were in the dark. The inquire he wished to make was unnecessarily complicated to formulate.

Amidst the many truths that she didn't want to admit, Olivier found no endearment for the body that hid under the dense border of her uniform, or as it was the case at the moment – the barrier of her civilian attire. She was a human being concealed within a position of power that accused sheer boldness, one that didn't allow the full individuality surface, and she had become too well-accustomed to that kind of wall.

But the man leaning over her was still smiling at her, gazing solely at her face with nothing but kindness and understanding written into his features. She trusted him more than anything else, she realised.

With unmoving certainty, she acknowledged the silent question in his eyes and nodded sharply. She averted her gaze from him, searching for a spot on the wall, impatiently waiting for something to happen.

Aware that it was going to be the only encouragement that he was going to get, Miles lifted up her garments. Somewhat mechanically, she raised her arms to take them off. His hands gingerly insinuated themselves behind her back, working on the fastenings of her brassiere. The wings detached and her breasts spilled heavily without their wired support. Her chest trembled with the failed attempt of staying still.

She closed her eyes, not wanting to see his face when the many marks that marred her skin were revealed to him. She had managed to hide them up until then, no matter how sloppily, but they were now in the open, by her conscious consent.

In her brief existence, Olivier had seen too many conflicts that had ended badly for both sides. By the nature of her profession and uncanny penchant of getting herself into the thickest of things - especially when she was not supposed to be there - she had landed on the pointy end of blades and barrels more than once. Her body had kept the remainder of all that physical pain that was adamant on chasing after her. She possessed the tokens that men might have prided themselves with, but not the women of her age, who were supposed to revel in the soft skin that men preferred to touch - or so she had been told over the years.

She never paid attention to those uncalled for remarks. Olivier Mira Armstrong was a soldier first and foremost, more scuffed by the brutal reality of her profession than many of her peers.

However, she shouldn't have been so surprised to sense Miles' curious fingertips against one of the ugliest brands that she wore, one that was displayed on her shoulder, where the surgeons had needed to implant a screw after a messy affair that had turned horribly wrong, something that she had been darn lucky to survive. Olivier opened her eyes and demurely pinned her assistant under her gaze.

Miles kept his simper plastered. Not bothered in the slightest by the image that he was admiring, he went on to caressing another scar, a stab wound that hadn't healed prettily. He mapped every single sign on her upper body, felt them softly rising and falling beneath his fingers.

It was fascinating how all that butcher's work seemed to twist into a wordless story unveiled under the slow caresses of his hands. After he had studied her all over, he bowed and kissed every last one of the marks, nipping around the tainted skin and making her shiver with his gentleness.

He had counted all her lines and scars and paid full reverence to them. Eventually, he turned his attention to her chest that was heaving with her laboured breathing. He caught one of the breasts within his palm and kneaded it, like sticky dough covered in flour, rolling the heated flesh and pinching it, splotching the skin with bright red. Olivier drew in sharp inhales and kissed him eagerly for the few moments he lifted up to the level of her head.

Heavy sighs escaped past her lips as he lowered himself back to kiss her other breast. He captured the perked up nipple into his mouth and encircled it with his tongue, leaving wet trails over it. He sucked on the mound, his teeth grazing the heated skin, and all that Olivier could do was to gasp as if she was being strangled.

She was unsure if she knew how to breathe anymore when his hand travelled down her abdomen and got past the hem of her trousers. Her toes clenched inside the boots that she hastily kicked off from her feet, hearing them clattering to the floor in the next moment. She faintly registered Miles getting rid of his pair, but she might have only imagined it, just as well. There was only the sound of blood thumping into her ears, and nothing else.

Despite being absorbed by her sight, Miles lost none of his sheer concentration as he slowly slid her trousers off her legs. He did it without rush, savouring how her skin blossomed in the cool air as he uncovered more and more of it. He wondered why he had never taken his time with her before - not that he could have done it - but he wanted to make up for his obvious mistake.

He searched her features for any sign of discomfort, but Olivier seemed to have her head somewhere very high. Perhaps straight into the clouds. He testily stroked the skin under her navel and her eyes shot up, fully opened, staring straight into his. She held his gaze, suddenly very focused on him, and Miles took it as a good sign to continue.

He lowered her undergarments and she was finally left bared beneath him. Her blue eyes turned slightly guarded, but he still looked solely into hers, respecting whatever was left of her dignity until she gave him her approval.

Olivier shifted her eyes again on that spot on the wall and idly spread her legs, letting him slide between them. At once, she grabbed his shoulder sharply when he felt him going lower with alacrity, kissing a sure route down her sternum, to the uneven valley of her belly, and down to the point where all the heat in her body seemed to be pooling. He was proceeding excruciatingly slow, leaving wet pecks over every bit of skin he uncovered in his journey down her hipbones, her thighs, her most voluptuous forms.

She was perpetually shivering, as if she was being moved by a puppeteer, albeit having her eyes stubbornly canalised into the distance.

Miles, like any other being with an ounce of intelligence, worried about her thought process. He was constantly amazed by how different from the daily routine she could act in his presence, like she was either about to shatter at the first tap or break into a run. Or break his bones, just as well. Her demeanour was endearing in its own way, but he certainly hoped that she would eventually stop concerning herself with troubling thoughts and lived more into the moment, and, hopefully, let him live, too.

It appeared that reality had rushed back into her head when his hands reached between her thighs and a fingertip trailed a slow line across the weeping furnace that they concealed. She looked straight at him and her features twisted into an intrigued grimace, waiting to be surprised. Miles had to prevent himself from laughing, as her raised eyebrows were quite comic, and kissed the inner skin of her leg. He languidly stroked her lower lips, circling the ring of muscles hidden between them. The index pervaded the slick canal and she adopted a queerly enthusiastic expression. He pushed a finger forward, up to the knuckle, and sprightly added another soon after.

Olivier clenched a fist into the bedding and the other into his loose hair as his fingers rammed into her, another digit having joined the others. He lowered his mouth and tentatively licked around the tender flesh of her thighs, grazing his teeth over it until the skin was bright red. Working his fingers fervently, he mouthed down to her pulsing clitoris and licked around it, stroking it with his tongue and sucking on it in time with the movements of his hand.

His endeavours were immediately encouraged by her hand implanting itself steadier into his hair. He lapped at her, nipping around her vulva ever so maddeningly as his forth finger entered the canal with absolutely no effort. She gasped audibly and her hand twirled through his locks, tugging at him indecisively. He inhaled her deeply and removed his hand only to replace it with his tongue, mining inside her and poking at her walls.

She let out a stifled sob and one of her legs jerked up and hooked over his shoulder. Her innards tuned into liquid mush, feeling like they were being pulled and pushed at the same time, fire burning her insides so intensely that she could not form a single thought. He pressed forward and pressed some more, until it was too much to contain the heat mounting up within her belly. Her spent gushed out and he soulfully claimed it on the tip of his tongue, licking her earnestly through her high and after it, soon replacing his mouth with his fingers just when she was beginning to recover, plunging inside her almost violently and repeating the motion.

Olivier blinked rapidly and saw nothing but spots. She was left with her mouth agape into a perfect circle, skin electrified and eyes invaded with bright lights after having experienced only the darkness of her tightly closed lids. She felt her body falling over the edge again, barely aware of escalading in the first place, her heart thumping loudly at the base of her neck and straight into her ears. With considerable effort, she strained her eyes to make out Miles' form that was encompassed by the halo of his wild white hair, and kissed him without a single breath left in her lungs, pushing her chest into his.

Just as jerkily, she collapsed, panting like a dying motor.

With a telltale guffaw, Miles grinned smugly at her, the way he did when he had completed a task in less time than it was humanely possible. Smiling in spite of herself, Armstrong couldn't help smacking him over the head.

"Stop grinning, you cur," she cracked, her voice hoarse from screaming. She was not aware of having produced such sounds, but her throat was dry and hurt as if she had swallowed glass.

He responded with a little bark, making her actually laugh mirthfully. "Good Lord, you're awful," she said between chuckles.

Looking most sensually into her eyes, he licked his wet fingers. The gesture made her feel overwhelmed and, well, a bit more than just bothered. She bit her lips to stop herself from smiling, and tugged his hair to the side, making him lean on his back.

"Miles, you honestly deserve to have that expression beaten out of you," she warned him as she climbed on top of him, despite her eyes being uncharacteristically animated.

"Weren't we advocating against violence?" he asked, raising his head slightly off the pillow.

Olivier lightly slapped his forehead. "I wasn't." With that, she looked down at him, her expression turning very serious, distinctively unsuited for their situation and former mood.

At first, Miles actually believed it was some sort of attempt at a practical joke, but the severe tension in her brow failed to diminish. His smile faltered until it disappeared, replaced by visible worry. "Olivier-"

She put a hand over his mouth, her eyebrows furrowed. He grabbed her wrist and moved her hand aside.

"Olivier, please, what's the matter? Are you alright?"

"Do shut up, Major," she cut him off, just like those times when he started jabbering about this and that while they were working and she couldn't focus on what she had to do.

He opened his mouth again to inquire about her wellbeing, but she silenced him with her lips. The look that she gave him afterwards was almost begging him not to say anything.

Too focused on her movements, she hovered above his legs. She held them down with her body and placed a hand close to his neck, making sure he understood she wished for his cooperation and especially, his stillness.

She took a deep breath, then another.

Miles watched her with a big grain of salt, trying to decipher what was happening. Olivier stared blankly at his clothed knees, the tint in her orbs having turned from blissful straight into self-encouraging, like she was preparing herself to face the labour of her life. He doubted it had anything to do with him or whatever she planned to do, and would have voiced that out if she hadn't regard his body like she was deciding the best angle to desiccate it. She kept on jumping from one emotion to another and he wasn't certain that it would be the safest choice to tell her that she didn't have to do a thing.

Lost in her own world, Olivier inhaled another steadying breath and swallowed, reminding herself that her deeds were from her own volition, and not from obligation. Her clinical gaze softened and she looked back at his face, nodding with the smallest upwards tug of her lips. Shaking out from her jumpiness and regaining her elevated spirits, she cupped his high cheek and stroked a finger under the line of his sideburn, then kissed him slowly.

With her free hand, she undid the fly of his trousers, and helped him out of them.

She kissed the underside of his neck and lightly bit his pointy chin as she grasped the base of his throbbing erection. With purpose, she grazed his warm chest with her parted teeth and slid down his legs, down to his pelvic bone that she pecked breathlessly.

Her eyes darted up once more, catching his definitely startled ones. "What's with that look? I'm not biting, you know," she sneered, then began laughing at her own joke. Miles snorted and shook his head, still questioning what he was getting himself into.

Lowering her lids, she engulfed the head of the cock that was standing up for attention, licking around it with surprising headiness and earning a heavily concealed groan that sounded a bit pained. She looked up at Miles and saw him covering his mouth, wearing the most majestic frown. Olivier graced him with her best glare, one that was reserved for melting the ice and scaring away the bears, and he dutifully raised his hand, as if the militia had caught him in the act.

She smiled around his length and slowly captured more of it between her lips. She bobbed her head snappily, up and down, stroking the sides of his cock with her tongue and squeezing the base with her palm. The movements were rushed and impatient, but she was beginning to feel more confident than ever, like she had conquered the world itself.

Not long after, she let herself fully relish into what she was doing, her initial sloppiness turning into a controlled pace, increased in ardour and enthusiasm. One of his hands involuntarily got tangled into her long hair and her stormy eyes watched him brightly, praising him for doing the right thing of enjoying himself alongside her.

He offered her a heated scowl that dissipated as soon as the head of his cock hit the back of her throat and she began to swallow around it. She sucked on all that she could of the length, drawing out choked grunts from his slightly parted lips. Olivier smirked as well as she could, satisfied with herself, and doubled her efforts of globing more of him.

In a moment of distraction, she was jerked up by the hair, losing him from the confines of her mouth. She glowered at him and slapped his hand away, returning to her target more fervently. With a few harsh sucks and fingers cutting into the skin of his hips to keep him in one place, his breath turned into a groan and he came powerfully into her eager mouth.

In utter shock, he regarded her petrified, clearly trying to form his most polite apologises. He could have just behaved like a normal man and just look pleased by the whole ordeal, but what was normality when it came down to the two of them, anyway. What a strange character, Olivier pondered as she dug her nails into his already abused skin, finally breaking it in retaliation.

Miles swallowed drily, his unfocused eyes barely distinguishing her figure, and let his words perish before they got out.

She didn't wait for him to make up his mind and plunged upwards, capturing his lips in a searing smooch. He responded, still a bit dizzy, by cupping her buttocks in his palms. Olivier hummed approvingly around his mouth, licking generously around his untangled tongue, and he quickly regained his tempo, squeezing her bottom and departing the cheeks. His fingers found her heat again and they invaded her insides, delighting into how drenched she was over his thrusting hand.

She made an impatient noise and patted him on the collarbone – slapped him, really, but her reflexes were now a joke to control. Getting the message, Miles shifted them so he was again towering above her. She gladly fished around for his cock and was more than pleased to find that it was still more than fairly up for what she desired, evidently too aroused to deflate.

For some reason, Olivier remembered that her old Armstrong Grandmother had once told her out of the blue that young men who fell got up fast. She had always wondered about that expression of hers, and had long given up trying to find its logic. Though, sobering up for a second, she understood what the old lady had meant.

Hah! She knew why she liked that old crone so much, bless her kind heart.

Unaware of Olivier's mental revelations, Miles hooked one of her legs over his shoulder and entered her thoroughly and unceremoniously, her body welcoming him like a well-worn glove. Olivier gurgled something that he couldn't understand, and felt himself hardening further with every thrust. He pushed himself into her, hitting her walls with ardour. He kissed her hard, but she could barely respond, her breath cut short with each penetration that reached deeper into her, occasionally shifting the angle just to sense her springing up like an elastic.

Miles made do with looking into her eyes that were desperately blinking to hold his gaze, and leaving kisses on every inch of skin that he found. Her mouth stayed opened, throat chocking out wails and moans, and once he grasped both of her hips and raised her lower back off the mattress, she cried out so loudly, the entire fort had probably heard her.

He drilled into her fervently, kissing her jaw and neck and biting her collarbone, struggling to muffle his own growing voice. Her churning heat contracted around him and her legs caught him into a potent grip, pulling him towards her and capturing him inside her. Her smothering release covered his lower body and he groaned, empowered. Her nails found his bottom to hold onto and pushed down, ravaging his skin, and he returned the aggression effortlessly, lost in his own kind of daze. His thrusts were on the point, snappish and deeper than before, and her voice turned into untamed croaks as she found her peak with a leap of her heart, soon followed just as spectacularly by him.

Olivier's breath was whizzing. Lacking coordination, she seized the nape of Miles' head and pressed their lips together in a sloppy kiss that was far off from the other's tune, but still kept the same rhythm. Miles rubbed her cheeks as he regained some of his strength and the smooch became somewhat more intent, though just as sensual. They let go of their embrace to peek into each other's eyes as they drew their running breaths.

Naturally, the poetry withered and died quickly when it came to Olivier, who decided she had acted sweet enough for one night, and pushed Miles off of her like one tosses a runaway leaf. She shifted into a sitting position and quickly departed from the bed.

Placing a palm over his eyes, the Major patiently waited to hear the usual noise of her boots clicking on the floor and the door closing behind her. Waited for her to gather her clothes and leave again, returning to the same predicament they had already been into. So much for making amends.

Didn't that make him feel so tenderly loved.

Well, at least he had tried.

However, Olivier merely collected the fallen blanket from the floor and threw it over his face.

"If you honestly think I am going to freeze my arse off in this cold just because you are too lazy to get up and retrieve the blanket, you have another thing coming," she scolded. However, a smile hid behind the hair that was draped over her mouth.

Taking the cover from his eyes, Miles let out the sigh that deflated his chest. He made some room for her on the bed, thinking that it would be easier for her to settle on the edge of the mattress. Olivier ignored the position that he offered and jumped over his body, kicking him in the thigh when she reached the side of the bed that was guarded by the wall. "Get out of my spot, Major! This instant," she ordered him.

"Yes, Sir," he replied with a chuckle. He retreated to the edge of the mattress, where he had picked up the habit of sleeping when they were together. Olivier rolled her eyes and kicked him again, for good measure.

Despite her words, Olivier didn't lift the blanket to cover herself with it, though she snuggled closer to the man lying by her side, making use of his body's heat. It was still quite chilly in the room, but his skin burnt like a furnace.

"You know," she said matter-of-factly, "I knew you could do better."

Miles' eyebrows shot up. "Hm?"

Olivier rolled her eyes. "You know. The last times when you've slept with me," she explained. "You felt a bit constipated."

He puffed at her choice of words and she elbowed him. "I am not joking, you git."

"I am sure that you are not, and I'm afraid to imply that you might be."

She clicked her tongue over her teeth, looking into the distance dreamily, like she was thinking of something else. After a moment, she nodded with conviction.

Miles looked at her with puzzlement. He didn't remember ever encountering someone whose demeanour changed so drastically in a matter of seconds, but he was hooked by her hidden fluidity. He actually didn't mind it at all, though it certainly gave him a headache sometimes. "Cenz for your thoughts?"

"What's in my head is worth much more than a cenz," she retorted headily, "but I was thinking that I've made a good choice."

"Pertaining to...?"

She turned her head around to look him in the eyes, grinning savagely. "Pertaining to you, dimwit. You are a fine hunk of meat, you know," she spoke appraisingly and patted his belly. "Mhm, good choice."

Miles let out an undignified noise. "Please don't start writing any romance novels, Olivier, or writing in general."

"That's ridiculous," she retorted, aware that what she was saying was also preposterous. "Why shouldn't I?"

"Because I want to keep your absolutely heart-warming compliments to myself only," Miles dead-panned. "You have such a way with words, they simply make me feel very special."

"Obviously, I do have," she agreed. "It's a family heirloom. And that's an awfully selfish request, by the way."

He blinked a few times. "Right, I'm not going to contradict you."

"That's very wise of you," Olivier mockingly praised him.

"Surprising, hm?"

"Hush, now. Be a pillow and stay silent."

"As you wish."

Olivier rolled her eyes. Twisting a bit, she put a finger on his chest. Miles looked at her, motioning for her to say what she wanted to.

"Miles, can I ask you something to which you are actually going to respond without bullshitting your way out of the answer?"

His eyebrows lifted on his forehead, something he found himself doing quite often in her presence. "Of course."

"How did you get those scars?" she questioned and pointed to his legs, wanting to satisfy a curiosity she had held onto ever since she had given him eye drops a few months before.

Miles sighed, exasperated. Talking about dispassionate conversational topics. "You sure are awfully curious about what I did before I arrived here."

"Yes, so what?"

"If I didn't know better, I'd be flattered."

She drummed her fingers on his breast bone. "Flatter yourself and answer my question. At least this one."

"Alright, alright," he said and lifted one of his legs in the air. The dark skin was marred with criss-crossed marks that ran in circles around the shape of his muscles. "I've been suspended from a ceiling with barbed chains."

Olivier made an impressed face. "Huh? You don't say!"

"Oh, I do," he retorted in approval.

"My, you deviant!"

"Ah, no, no! Nothing of the sort! I'd had this boring little mission at our border with Creta a while ago and my team was supposed to look out for some convoy. It was a mundane thing, but it soon turned out that we'd had a mole and we've been captured. I've, well, um... I don't know how to sugar coat this. I mean, I've unnerved the guys who'd caught us and I'd landed myself a good while of hanging upside down because of that. Not the most pleasing experience, I don't recommend it."

"Who the hell upsets his captors, Miles?" she asked, looking amused. "That's idiotic."

"What can I say, I'm the only one stupid enough to do that," he replied, not really proud of his moves from back then. "It turned out fine in the end, not only because they didn't shoot me – though I swear, they weren't very far from doing that – but because I've managed to get out of the chains and I sort of paid in kind to my nice guards. I broke off a few teeth of which I am very proud."

"You should have made yourself a necklace with them."

"I definitely should have! Pity that I hadn't."

"Well, what a sweet story."

"Oh, yes, I couldn't walk for a few weeks without screaming my insides out, but it was sweet, yes," he made sarcastically. "This was a rubbish task, I really don't know what my officer-in-chief was thinking. He wasn't very smart, I should add, but after that, I only got real missions. No ceiling suspension and the likes." He huffed sardonically. "I actually began preferring that to... well, whatever else."

"So you used to spy for the army, hm?" Olivier asked, getting to what she had been trying to learn from him for a good while.

"In lack of a better term, yes. But no. Not really. It wasn't a position ad litteram. It was more like looking into different matters that pertained to the safety of the state. I know it sounds benign. Hell, I thought it sounded benign. Peaceful intelligence gatherings, convincing certain parties about the need to sign a document, discussing delicate matters, you know the likes. In the end, too many missions escalated, some turned into a bloodbath for the other side, and not always justified." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Honestly, Olivier, I really believe that violence has no place in anything. But those were the orders from above, and one has to do what one's got to do. I tried to detour certain plans, but how much can one actually do when the higher-ups want something else? I got to be in charge of leading some of those things, after a while, and I got to see even more dirt. It's incredible how high the pile is."

He took a breather, thinking of a better way of expressing things. "That's what it was, dirt over the eyes. I've got no other word for it. It's just frightful to learn what the higher-ups can demand when they put their minds to it, Olivier. I'm certain you've seen much of how twisted some can get. I personally had had enough of that in the end, being an agent for the state, or whatever I was supposed to be. You know," he continued, "my position was actually very well regarded, considered a warm spot by my unsuspecting colleagues. It sounded perfectly recreational to merely go talk to someone, look into something, all for a more than nice pay, when in fact, there came a point when I wondered if it wasn't cheaper for the state to hire mercenaries. They wanted me to be diplomatic, but hey, you teach them a lesson! How does that even work?"

Miles turned on his side. "If you ask me, the job only sounded good on description. Diplomatic affairs, my ass, because this country's diplomacy is a bamboozling poppycock. Attack and make sure there will be no retaliation. It is nonsensical from the beginning till the end, there is nothing else to it. Isn't it?"

The woman nodded her head, showing that she was still listening.

"Long story short, it had never crossed my mind that I was capable to do what they'd told me. I'm repeating myself, but I'm not one who promotes violence, yet I had to make use of it more times than I wanted to because I had to. That is how I've landed my first promotion, actually. They recommended me for, and I quote, 'outstanding efficiency and brutality'." He looked down at his hands. "The audacity, Olivier! I'd gotten so many important contracts signed and gotten rid of so many hidden threats to the national security, and that is what they appreciated? The swiftly blackened eyes? That were, by the way, mostly due to idiots who made out a riot out of my perfectly good work. Alas!" he wailed, rubbing his forehead. "I made sure that the promotion that followed was solely for my keen mind, not for throwing fists."

"I gather you'd resigned from your post," Olivier offered helpfully.

"I had, yes. Why should I be the one sleeping on thorns for their outrageous demands? I refused to be their puppet anymore. It came with a price, of course. Hadn't erased what I'd done, but at least I could prove that I had something better to deliver, like true diplomacy and real covert operations. I was lucky to meet someone who helped me with a post in tactical missions. I even had my squad, I was very proud of it. I really liked that. I got recognition and, on the bright side, they finally admitted that they needed me to talk to those who were unwilling, no force required. I was content."

"So, what happened next? How come you didn't continue with that?"

"Oh, but I have, until the fateful day when my superior officer changed and he decided I was too smart and he too dumb, and you know the rest."

Olivier chuckled. "You have a way with unnerving people, don't you?"

"Only those with dust instead of brains, but apparently, those are the most dangerous. I've learnt my lesson with them. I hope, at least."

"If you say so," Armstrong commented and looked sideways. She chuckled lowly, sounding more like a purring cat.

"Hm?" Miles hummed at the Major General, who innocently tilted her head to the side.

"Oh, nothing."

"Indeed?"

"I was just thinking, it is amazing how a simple roll in the hay can untie your tongue like this. That's highly unprofessional, Miles."

It was his turn to chortle. Olivier regarded him with confusion. He shook his head. "Oh, but it's not unprofessional at all," he said, confident of himself. "I prefer to call it 'information exchange'." One of her brows arched up and Miles' smirk only grew in width. "Bad experience for bad experience, I like to call this," he continued and crooked a finger at her. "You see, Olivier, you now owe me my share of answers. That is how exchanges work – they are bidirectional."

Armstrong's jaw clenched. Miles cupped her chin, watching her triumphantly. "I told you I used to gather information. Seriously, do you really believe I have no filter over my mouth? I gave you my piece. Therefore, it's your turn now," he told her, expression sobering.

Her jaw became very tight. Resentfully, she batted his hand away. "What do you want," she demanded coldly.

"Please, Olivier, don't get so defensive," Miles told her softly, losing his edge. "I've said what I said to lighten up the mood, as a joke. I just wanted to ask you something, it doesn't mean that you've got to answer to anything you don't want to," he hurried to add. "I respect you far too much, and I hope you trust me enough not to doubt me or my reasons."

She nodded reluctantly. "Fair enough. Ask ahead."

"Thank you. Of course, I am not sure this is a sensible question, but it troubles me," he began. "I just mean to make sure that you're alright, because I'm honestly worried. I don't want you to feel coerced to answer, even if-"

"For fuck's sake, Miles, skip the introduction!" she burst out, scandalised.

He raised a protective hand in front of him. "Fine, easy," he said. "When you have, you know, gotten down on me," he started a bit embarrassedly, "I've noticed that for a few moments, you have tried to make up your mind, like you didn't want to do, well, that." He moved his hand vaguely. "I hope I haven't pressured you into anything you didn't wish to do, because I'm not going to demand anything from you and I can vouch for that. I mean it, no jokes this time!"

Olivier suspired and bit her lower lip. "No, don't get all knotted about it, it's... Tsk, It wasn't that," she replied under her breath.

Miles looked at her, evidently relieved to learn that he had only imagined things. His good spirits died down when he noticed she had adopted a fallen expression.

"It is- well, it's complicated," she started. "Actually, it's not. It's plain stupid."

"How so? If you don't mind me asking."

"Well, since we got to this point. I don't know how to say this, but it's the very first time I've done that, you know... by my own volition," she admitted. She shifted so that she was sitting and lifted her knees to the chest. Absently, she drew the blanket over them.

"I am sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"For the love of God, Miles, shut up! You're talking more than my mother and brother and sisters combined, and believe me, they talk too much," she cut him off. "I wanted to do it, and that's that," she said and looked at him. He put a hand on her elbow and stoked it gently. She didn't flinch away, but studied the powerful contrast between the colours of their skin, finding that she liked it quite a bit. "It is a bit of a long story, but I suppose I should tell you about it. I'm not sure you will want to pursue anything with me ever again after it, but I guess I owe you this."

"Nonsense," he said hurriedly. "You don't owe me anything, Olivier, I was just making light. Don't mind me."

She gestured forlornly, like she hadn't heard him. She didn't believe him and it pained Miles to see her like that. It seemed like they hadn't made too much progress from the day when they had insulted each other and slammed doors, after all.

"My family is an old one, too entangled in the ways of the world not to have made enemies," she began, wanting to shed some light over the whole situation. "I've been in conflicts many times, Miles. I am not sleeping with guns under my pillow or carrying around a sword just for the fun of it. I have always been very competitive and worked in dangerous projects just to advance in my career. I know I'm ridiculously young for my position. I have earned it with my own sweat, but that left marks. You saw them." She inhaled, sounding defeated.

"I have seen my other female colleagues, who eventually became my subalterns - some charming, with their smooth skin and brilliant smiles. Some really dumb, but looking swell. They'd said certain things about my career, like many others that I'm sure still talk trash for the hell of it, as people are bound to. I built my entire career solely on my merits."

"Of course you did, Olivier, no one who knows you can contest it."

The Major General rolled her eyes emphatically. "Miles, I mean that I've never slept with anyone to attain my ranks, not whatever you're trying to imagine so that I don't look bad!"

"I stand by what I said."

Olivier shook her head. "You're impossible."

"Rather! But do go on, please. Pardon my interruption."

"Right. So, at a point, it had gotten very hard to get certain things that I needed." She averted her gaze. "I still refused to put out to gain influence, and suffered due to that. I had horrid missions from which I'm surprised I've gotten out, but I have. It must be some lucky star or the devil that kept me in one piece. I got all these from them," she explained and pointed to one of her many scars, "and, one day, I've realised that all my resistance earned me more pain than anything else. I don't know what possessed me to start ruminating what those girls had said when we were drinking coffee in the morning. That maybe, one day, I would want to be a bit like them. Shape myself up, maybe. Look good and desirable, even if it's silly. Hm, I think I digress."

"But you're beautiful, Olivier," Miles jumped to support her. "I think you are, honestly, and we all have scars."

"Tch, talking again! That's a nice thought, but you don't need to say that. I'm not blind, Miles, I know what I'm saying. It is one thing for a man to have scars, they say it builds up the character. But me... I know I try to play the part of one, but I am not a man. I will never be anything but a woman in a world full of men." She sighed. "I had moments when I was being thankful that I could cover whatever wasn't appealing with clothes, it certainly helped move things along."

"Believe me, Olivier, I'm not lying. Show some faith."

"Whatever, I now know what I want from life, and that hardly has anything to do with appearance," she snapped. "The point is, at the moment when I was having these thoughts, one morning as I was brushing my hair, I looked into the mirror and realised something - I have a pretty mouth. Problem is, others realised that, too, and here comes my bit of predicament."

Miles' teeth clenched in apprehension, but he didn't interrupt her anymore. She continued her speech. "My commanding officer found that out just about the same time as I did. He was sure to make good use of it. He didn't make me do anything, but I was conditioned with certain favours to acquire what I desired. Naturally, I refused and worked my way around things. Until I could do that no longer."

The blanket crept higher, until it reached her chin. "My little brother had gotten very sick one day. I was a Captain back then, it had been some time ago."

She shifted a bit. "I received a letter from my mother, saying that my brother caught a cold and then it developed into pneumonia... There had been complications. Alex- Alex was constantly asking her about me. I thought the earth was moving underneath my feet when I read the letter. I don't talk much with my family, but I've sort of raised my brother and sisters, you see. They're not much younger than me, the twins are barely two years younger, but I've watched over them many times, I was responsible for them. I had to see him, I had to go and see Alex and make sure he was going to be fine! I was so scared that he wouldn't make it before I arrived, I didn't know what to do. He wanted to see me and I wasn't sure I could get there in time..."

Miles gently captured her hand in his, lightly rubbing his thumb over her clenched fist.

Olivier looked down at their contrasting hands, her brow furrowed from the memory of her grief. "You should have seen how happy he was to see me, he got better right in front of my eyes. Poor Alex, he was so delighted to see me, to hear my voice. You should have seen him, Miles..." Olivier had to stop, drawing in a steadying breath.

She refused to look at Miles as she inhaled. "Evidently, after I've gotten the letter, I darted to my commander and asked for permission to see my brother. The bastard knew that I was estranged from my folks. Basically, everyone knew that. So he played his cards, knowing that my demand was serious. He said I couldn't take any leave, that I had to stay and continue my work. I've asked him what I had to do to get his permission. And - well, he did tell me." She wetted her lips and looked forward. "He told me he wanted me to suck him off, because I had such a pretty mouth," she recited blankly. "So that's what I did. And I got my permission."

She cocked her head. "After that, I had to do it to get different advantages. Not for promotions, never for that," she repeated, underlining the hard work she had put into becoming a senior officer. "Only for favours such as leaves. You probably guessed that I've got my own workings on the side, and I had to make do in order to attend to them. This disgusting business went on until I found a way to transfer myself somewhere else. It wasn't better, same problems and all, but it wasn't worse. I only had to make use of what I could do when I was gathering information for my own side stuff, but nothing that could jeopardise my position or identity."

Olivier sighed. "You probably wonder why I didn't just ask for help, and it's really not complicated - my problems are mine. Luckily, I hadn't heard from that son of bitch for a long while after I left. I was fresh in Briggs' commanding office when I saw him again, actually. I was pleased to learn that he didn't chirp about our little trade, but he thought he could get something from me through blackmail. And he sure as hell got something."

Her mouth twisted into a crude line, her upper lip trembling with emotion. "I've shot that berk when he started raising claims. I just couldn't listen to him anymore, and I just shot him. I don't usually lose my cool, but I just couldn't listen to that scum anymore, rumbling like an idiot. That bastard cost others their lives, fifteen good people in total, there had been an incident when I was under his command," she justified herself. "Buccaneer found that exact moment when I shot the man to enter the room. He was shocked, that much I could tell, but he didn't ask me why I've done it. He only took the body and put it straight into the central stove, inside the heating system. It was the warmest winter we've ever had in here."

Miles stared at her with little to no expression, his hand steady over her still clenched fist. Olivier shifted away from him and crawled closer to the foot of the bed. He firmly caught her wrist, effectively halting her advance.

"Olivier," he stated simply.

She looked at him behind her shoulder, ready to continue her story. She had to finish what she had started, after all.

"I've told you about that friend of mine, Hughes," she trailed on, not budging. "He had a post in Central, worked with my brother before the war. I hope that one is alright, wherever he is. He was brilliant at moving papers around. I've only had to tell him that I needed help with something and he immediately made it that he had disappeared in action and cleaned all trails. Straight up made up some ridiculous story and got that mongrel off my hands."

Olivier ended abruptly, leaving heavy silence behind her. "So, see, that's it. The whole story why I was so shaken." She cleared her throat. "I'm well aware you've created some unrealistic image about me inside your head, sorry for the let down," she concluded and looked ahead.

Miles advanced next to her, right at the foot of the bed. Gently, he tilted her chin to see her eyes. "There's no need for that," he said and smiled gently. "You can hardly change how I perceive you just because something unpleasant happened in the past. Things happen, Olivier, it cannot always be a smooth ride. I'm not sure how it will make you feel any better, but I have had some bad experience with that, too."

He shook his hand, like he was balancing weights on its edges. "Not with my former commanding officer, thank Ishbala, because I would have shot him before he even suggested that – you have no idea what a sleazy prat he was - but I had a very tricky mission once. My very last in that office, concerning an organisation that I'd gathered enough evidence to get wiped out in the end, but its leader was very complicated to approach. A very cunning lady, that one. I had orders from the High Office to get rid of her discretely, she had gotten capital punishment for her crimes and, well, I landed that job. I didn't allow my team to get close to her. She was very tight lipped and precautious, I couldn't just let anyone ruin my work. I found out her weakness – with power comes paranoia, and a lot of loneliness. At one point I landed myself into a position of confidence, and I've gathered all the information I needed.

Sadly, I couldn't go around what they've asked of me, but I think I did it with honour. She realised in the end what my task was, and asked me not to allow her to be taken in. I couldn't do that. Orders were orders, in the end, and I had to file in a report. I didn't detail the situation and I wasn't asked about it, thankfully. I said that she resisted custody and that things had gotten out of hand. But the truth is, she asked me to shoot her, and I did. You have no idea what those animals would have done to her if they had taken her in." He snapped the thumb and middle finger against each other. "It was the last mission I took from that department, before I left. The glass just filled up for me. That is no way to treat others. No trial, no nothing."

He gathered his fists under the chin. "I was very well remunerated, had a lot of doors opened back then. But I've decided I preferred working with papers better than killing people when I was ordered to. That was inhuman, and I regret all of it deeply. So yes, I resigned and washed my hands with it all. It was better to work as a clerk. Paperwork and tactical scheming are nice and warm. I even learnt that I could type at the machine faster than any of the secretaries. And I got to travel at leisure. I miss doing that, visiting every single museum and gallery that I could find and try all the coffee shops that came up in my way."

Olivier's gaze on him softened. She observed his sideburns, so white against his high cheeks, and how his loose hair framed his handsome face like a crown of white lilies. Yet, he frowned. He didn't resemble his expansive self. He looked miserable as he told her what weighted him down. She couldn't be unsympathetic, not when his pain was so heartfelt.

After pushing the matter for months, she had found the reason why there was nothing stated clearly in his file about his previous positions. That was why his missions had been declared classified and there were little wordings about them. That was why he hadn't wanted to tell her about what he had done before he had come to Briggs.

Miles was ashamed of himself and she, so selfishly, had assumed that all the wrongness in the world had been reserved solely for her, and that he had never been hurt by anything or anyone. Once again, she had forgotten that sufferance had no preference - it just bit out of people, regardless of how kind they were or how much they smiled.

She caressed the line of his neck with the joint of her index finger. He turned his head to face her. She continued to trace the line of his jaw, slowly completing its contour. She ascended to his right ear and rested her palm against the nape of his head. "Do you mind anything of what I've done, now that you know about it?" she asked in a low voice, boring straight into his crimson eyes.

Miles returned her look, focusing on her blue orbs that seemed to be charged with electricity. "No, Olivier," he replied. "You did what you had to do, you haven't asked for any that." He caught her other hand and squeezed it lightly. "Do you mind what I've done, then?"

She shook her head. "No, Miles, I do not," she retorted. "You are not like that."

"How can you know? Your sympathy is certainly comforting, thank you, but it doesn't mean that you suddenly know me. After all, we haven't met so long ago. It hasn't been even a year since then."

'And yet, so much has happened,' Olivier thought. She smiled at him, a lopsided grin that lit up her face, especially her eyes. She was so beautiful like that, and in front of her right then, Miles could not believe that she was thinking so little about herself, when the face that she showed to the world was one of steel. Couldn't believe that she was considering him worthy of her consideration, despite what he had revealed about himself.

He felt so undeserving and filthy in front of that golden woman with cerulean eyes.

"I just do," Olivier replied and kissed his cheeks, one at a time, as if she was kissing an idol.

She just knew. There was something more powerful than her that told her that and she, at last, felt herself being sufficient, having her knight next to her, to be her spine and her thorn.

Lazily, her eyes drifted towards the nearly completed set of chessmen, fondly realising that a proud and colourful knight was standing right next to a heavily embroidered queen.

Overlooking the two pieces from a certain distance, there was a solitary, lofty wooden king with an intricate crown reigning on top of its round, faceless head.

A majestic, unnamed king that they had yet to learn its name.

Leaning her head on Miles' reliable shoulder, Olivier's mind drifted to all those chessmen, known and unknown, and how their match would play out in the end.

Because, even if they were not aware of it, they were already in the middle of a game of chess, but with very different rules than what they knew.

Time would eventually tell, like it is always bound to do.

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A/N: Ta-da, that's it for now! Thank you very much for reading, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please, let me know what you think about it and the story so far, I'd love hearing your thoughts!

Till the next time, bye-bye and take care!