"Okay dirt bunny, your turn," Tyler announced as he strode out of the bathroom in bare feet and blue jeans, belt hanging loose, a damp towel still draped around his neck. At first glance Angie was nowhere to be seen. "Now where the hell..." he had his hand on the front door when he spotted her slouched in the armchair by the fireplace, half-camouflaged by the afghan that had fallen over her from the back of the chair. He laughed quietly to himself and went to sit on the broad arm of the oversized chair. Angie started violently from her doze as he sat down.
"No!" she cried out as she tried to scramble to her feet, unsure of where she was.
"Hey, take it easy," Tyler steadied her with a hand on her shoulder, "it's just me." He leaned closer so he could look her in the eye. "Just me, okay? We're taking a couple days off from the war, remember?" He gave her a second to focus.
Things crystallized in Angie's head. "Oh, right." Her voice was shaky, apologetic.
"No problem. Takes a while to get used to."
Now Angie sat up, shook off the last of her drowsiness and took in her surroundings calmly. "Used to what?" she asked.
He got up and went to the sink, running water into the coffee pot. "Everything you got unused to out there." He motioned to the door like he'd done when he told her he had to rush too much "out there". He was pulling cooking stuff from the shelves. "Let's see what Reno's idea of food is," he said as he opened the fridge.
"Want me to cook?" Angie offered.
When Tyler turned to look at her he saw what he figured she must have looked like before the world went to hell, asking an everyday question and expecting an everyday answer. Good. That's why he came here, to this place he'd managed to construct as a temporary refuge from hell. He'd built it a long time ago when there were different kinds of things to escape from and wash away. Hell was still hell, of course, only the details had changed, but now he wasn't in control of the schedule and hell wasn't confined to any one place on the map. The reasons for coming were still the same, though: to be somewhere where he was required to be nothing but quiet, where life demanded nothing from him and allowed him just to be. He'd never brought anyone along before, male or female. Looking at the suddenly everyday face looking back at him (as if he hadn't realized she was there until now) Tyler figured hell, this New World must be newer than I thought. Anyway she seemed to fit here, though he'd never expected it would suit anyone but him. First time for everything.
"Nope." He responded to her surprise with a stock smirk. "What, you think I live on roots and berries? A man's gotta eat, so a man's gotta cook. Now go wash that shocked look off your face. I promise I won't poison you."
As Angie closed the bathroom door behind her she was aware of how much she didn't know about Ham Tyler, and had been filling in on her own. Though she understood (so she thought) that he probably had different reasons than most people to want to get away, she figured he had a cabin in the middle of nowhere for much the same reasons as any guy…to kick back and be a slob. To not shave, to lie around, eat jerky, and maybe drink or hunt. On occasion to get laid without interruption. None of these things put her off, to be honest, because he did have that quiet core that she'd seldom seen in anyone she'd known, and she figured his manly entertainments would at least be more low-key than some. Still, she wasn't stupid, and she knew that they both knew at least one of the reasons why they were here was on that first list… to get laid without interruption. Why he seemed to be putting her off she didn't get, unless it was just what he said, he didn't like to rush. Sort of an expanded notion of foreplay? Again it occurred to her, she just didn't know enough about him to know.
Oh God, another wonderful endless hot shower. When she took the shampoo from the shelf it gave her pause… the kind of stuff she couldn't afford in the Old World, even after an overtime-week. Well Tyler had to know by now that he didn't need anything fancy to seduce her, she'd come here willingly. It was possible he was from a more rarefied circle than she'd imagined… it didn't cost money to know books or history or movies – she was living proof of that! – but who knew where mercenaries were recruited from, how many kinds of worlds they had to move in? Come to that, how much money did it take to set up this place in the middle of nowhere, as it was obviously an "independent" pursuit?She jumped when she heard the door creak open. No knock. But no entry, either, just a disembodied voice.
"Take it easy on the hot water, you'll need some to do the dishes." The door shut again.
Angie smiled to herself as she finished her shower and dried off with one of the deliciously lush towels piled nearby. She'd been right all along, questions didn't matter much. She felt calm, and quiet, and safe with Ham Tyler. For now, that was all she really needed to know.
She pulled on fresh underwear, jeans and a green v neck sweater she'd grabbed back at the camp. She'd gotten it from the "Men" bin of clothing, but it was lamb's wool and so soft she had to have it.
When she re-entered the main room Angie found Tyler stirring something on the stove. He was still barefoot but had pulled on a clean cotton shirt, and Angie realized that until now she'd never seen him in anything but those endless black t shirts and black jeans and dark sweaters worn under the ubiquitous black leather blazer. He looked different… relaxed, like a guy might look in his own house. Well this was the closest he got, she figured.
"Doesn't smell like poison, anyway, and damn I am hungry," Angie peered around Tyler's shoulder and reached for a spoon, but he slapped her hand away.
"Get lost. It's gonna be ready when it's ready."
"Ow!" She jumped back and erupted, "You think you could stop smacking me? I may look sturdy but the bruises are starting to pile up."
She wasn't kidding, and he could see it. He put down the stirring spoon, replaced the lid on the stew pot, and went to where she stood clutching the hand he hadn't meant to slap quite that hard.
"Lemme see," he reached for her, but she stepped back.
"Yeah, I know," she accused, "you're gonna say 'you're fine', so why bother? I know nothing's broken, but just cut it out, will you?"
"You don't know as much as you think," he told her in his "quiet" voice. She stood still then, and let him take her hand and look at it.
"Where did I get you this time? Here?" He turned her hand over and found the spot, though there wasn't any mark of course because it hadn't been much of a slap.
"Look at me," he instructed, and she did, finding his eyes were more serious than she expected. Still looking her in the eye Tyler lifted Angie's hand and kissed the place he'd just slapped in jest.
Then he examined the wrist that he'd grabbed so hard, twice, the day before, when her carelessness had angered him. There was a very faint bruise reaching halfway around the pale skin. He kissed that place too… three slow kisses that traced the length of the mark. Angie stood transfixed as he bent her head forward against his shoulder and turned her a little to the side so he could find the back of her head where he'd knocked her to the ground with an open hand that day when the Visitors had them cornered and she didn't move fast enough. He left a kiss there, too. This done, he faced her again and tipped her chin up with one hand while with the other he touched the places where he'd marked her face with a harsh grip the morning she'd lost all control and focus. She shut her eyes as he leaned down, and felt that hard looking mouth soften against her skin. Then he straightened again and looked at her with that raised-eyebrow expression of his, except this time it wasn't demanding.
"Better?" When she nodded he told her, "Whoever did that to you before, it wasn't me. And I won't do it again. Okay?"
Angie noticed that while he didn't apologize in so many words, he didn't ask for details either. Under the circumstances the first wouldn't have meant much to her. But the second, that meant a great deal.
Feeling suddenly awkward, Angie stepped away and shook her still-wet hair. "So you got a hair dryer in this forest lair of yours?"
Tyler stared in amazement.
"I'm not even gonna answer that one," then he tipped his head forward to display what he figured should be obvious: his short hair, and receding hairline.
"So shoot me for asking."
"Don't tempt me. Plates are over there," he indicated the shelves where he'd gotten the cooking stuff. "Make yourself useful."
Angie found a box of antique flatware under where the dishes were. As she set the small, elaborately carved oak table she asked, "What's to eat?"
Ladling delicious-smelling stew into the plates with the panache of a five-star chef Tyler informed her, "Tonight's special is take it or leave it." He returned the pot to the stove, and pulled a bottle of red wine from a cabinet under the sink then returned with two glasses in one hand, the bottle and a corkscrew in the other.
"Beaujolais," he announced as he uncorked and poured, again with an obviously practiced hand. "We're fresh out of cheap vodka."
Angie sat with a thump and inquired in a weary voice, "Can you drop the wiseass for a little while?" It was tiring trying to keep up, and a jarring contrast to the way he'd treated her just moments ago.
With a "gotcha" smile that was growing all too familiar to her, he sat down.
"Okay, how's this," the smile warmed and morphed Gotcha-to-Honest as he raised his glass in an elegant salute. "Welcome to my refuge from hell. I hope it works for you."
She knew exactly what he meant, and observed as she raised her glass in return, "I think it's working already."
