Story 08 / Collection 4: Be by my side


This seat will only ever be yours.

It was late in the evening and Arnold was alone in the bridge, reviewing the data being presented on his screen at the helm. The Orb maintenance team had completed their work for the first day of repairs, and he was running the diagnostics that Natarle wanted.

The darkness was oddly comforting—pitch black outside the bridge save for a few spotlights coming from the dock, and only minimal lights inside. He was enjoying the silence as well; there was none of the usual lively chatter that filled this space, and the only sound was the gentle hum of the machines. It was a good time for thinking.

If he counted the days, it had been exactly two months since they started the run for their lives from Heliopolis. A mere two months, yet it felt like they had been running forever, never quite sure where their destination was and with doom and disaster always at their tail, until they had finally found this much needed respite here at Orb.

But right now, Alaska was a very achievable goal.

His mind started roaming in exploration of what possibilities Alaska would bring, and every thought began with the same person. He was no longer sure of how much he wanted to go there, because although it was their homeland, it was also a dreaded roll of dice.

There was a question that had always been looming over them ever since the very moment they first held hands, and every day was a countdown towards the point where they could no longer avoid addressing it.

To make the right choice for their careers would mean being separated in a war with no end in sight. There was, in theory, the other option, though Arnold just did not have the courage to place himself and her principles on a scale and ask her to weigh them.

He did not like their odds, so maybe it was better to be stuck in this state—them being insulated from the rest of the EA Forces and continuing to do whatever they did—barely surviving, but at least he could be by her side.

If only the clock would stop ticking. If only they could stay here forever. If only he could hold onto her and never let go.

The sound of the door opening broke the silence and his contemplation, and next thing Arnold heard was the familiar clicking sounds of a pair of footsteps.

There was no need for him to turn around to tell who it was; he could recognise that rhythm anywhere. He allowed himself a small smile, amused at the perfect timing as though he had summoned her with his thoughts.

One of the things he appreciated most about being on Earth was gravity, because he loved the sound of her steps—there was gracefulness in its austerity, and even the soldierly crispness of her walk could not hide her natural femininity.

He sat still in his seat, choosing to momentarily forget his worries while listening to her steps growing closer, his heart beating in impatient exhilaration as he waited for her to find her way to him.

What would she bring today, his beloved obsession?

When Natarle reached the spot next to his seat, he lifted his head and saw her watching him with a bothered frown and a slight pout, expressing both perplexity and dissatisfaction that he did not acknowledge her presence sooner.

How was she allowed to make such an unbelievably cute face? If she asked him for anything right this moment, it would have been a 'yes' without so much as half a thought. There should be rules against this.

He smiled, and her frown relaxed.

She took a quick scan around the room and then at his screen. "Why are you still here?"

"I'm just wrapping up on the system check we ran today. The report is ready, it looks good."

She inclined forward to take a detailed study, but the placement of the display had her bending herself in a manner that seemed to strain her body.

"Take my seat," Arnold said as he attempted to stand, only for him to be rejected with a light push on his shoulder.

"No. I'm fine."

"It doesn't look comfortable. Come sit down."

"No," Natarle still refused, her insistence sounded oddly pensive. "It's your seat. You worked hard and kept us alive this far; I won't let anyone else sit in it."

Her rationale caught him by surprise, and even under the faint lighting he could see her blush at his stare.

Perhaps the darkness made both of them bold.

"In that case," he verbalised only half of his thoughts, the rest was left to action—he grabbed her hand and pulled her towards him, and she fell perfectly into his laps.

His arms were already around her waist when she reflexively tried to get up, protesting his actions with a fretful call of his name.

"What if someone comes in?"

"If we don't move, they won't see us."

His logic—arbitrary even by his own standards—somehow seemed to convince her. She pulled herself closer to him, trying to move herself into a position where her presence could be hidden by the back of his chair should anyone enter the bridge.

He was once again made aware of his thumping heart responding to her warmth—so loud, so heavy. Such sweet pain.

His thumb was tracing along her lower lip when her words slipped through in a mumble, "You're a bad influence."

Was she complaining? Arnold smiled weakly. "But you don't seem to mind."

Natarle let out a soft sigh that sounded a touch too tender to imply any sort of annoyance with him. He took it to mean his guess was correct.

He ran his hand as a light scratch up her spine, and watched her straighten herself with a small shiver, the movement of her body in sync with his touch as though it was an electric current. She gripped into the fabric of his jacket and sent him a chastising frown.

"Now you're just making fun of me."

"You're so cute."

Her frown took another shape—one of shyness that she would always give him everytime he said those words to her. "Stop calling me cute. I don't know how to respond to that."

"I can stop saying it, but it doesn't change the fact that I think you're cute."

The colour of her face went from pink to red, and the way her brows furrowed was starting to look like a scowl. He supposed he needed to stop now, otherwise he would really be pushing it.

"It's fun, isn't it," her voice was light but uncharacteristically sardonic, "that you keep teasing me, while I never get to see you flustered. That's unfair."

Funny she would say that. If only she knew how hard it was for him to maintain the façade of calmness while he constantly struggled to keep his impulses in check.

So many wants. So much self-discipline. All because he wanted to love her right.

She was not even someone he had expected to fall in love with in the first place.

His friends back at home used to tell him he had a type—the sweet, gentle, charming type of girls. He might have dated one or two in the past, and they never amounted to anything; they always left him wondering why he could not seem to grasp what love was supposed to be.

Until he met her.

She was a mystery to him, but it was not her doing—it was him and his inability to explain her existence, or what it did to him.

Other women knew how to use their advantages—they could be cute, seductive, or coy—and he knew their tactics in warfares of love.

But she was different.

She knew everything about war. She knew nothing about love.

She was sophisticated yet naive. She was merciless yet kind. She was rigid yet soft. She had both sides of the coin—contradictory opposites that belonged as one.

He could read her like a book, and yet he could never understand how even her tiniest expressions of affection would throw his heart and mind into whirlwinds despite his preparedness.

She did not play games, yet when she allowed her honest self to come through her layers of armour, he would only want more, like an addict who kept chasing the high.

She had all the weapons a woman could wield. She never held them against him or anyone—he suspected she did not even know of their existence—and even so, he was always at the mercy of her love.

Those sweet, gentle, charming types of girls—she was nothing like them, and everything they scorned to be. Yet once he had a taste of her, he did not want anyone else. He knew by then that he did not have a type—it could not be called a type if there was only one specimen in existence.

And this singular specimen was his.

He wrapped her tighter in his embrace, and his other hand landed on the nape of her neck, lightly bringing her closer to whisper into her ear.

"I want you to know that you're the only person I've ever let take this seat, and right now my heart is beating like crazy."


Side story: The man of the winds

Natarle could not fathom just how easy it was for them to be talking about work in one second, and in the next, finding themselves having slid heedlessly into this position that was highly improper on all accounts. Here she was, sitting on Arnold's lap, in the bridge of their ship of all places, while docked in a foreign country—with which they even traded classified data for supplies and momentary refuge—and having recklessly abandoned all caution for an impromptu tryst.

It was a bad idea. It was a terribly stupid idea.

A voice in her head was yelling at her for how inappropriate this was, and to her surprise, she decided to ignore it, instead opting to cross her fingers and wish for luck that nobody was going to walk in, so that they could stay here like this for as long as they pleased.

She could blame it on the ambiance; the darkness and silence that gave them this false sense of secrecy.

Or she could blame it on him.

When war was their everyday, he was her haven. But Natarle had a feeling she was getting a bit too comfortable.

He let her set the pace they moved at, define the distance between them, and do anything she wanted exactly the way she wanted it. And yet somehow, the way he indulged her only made her want to bend all her rules for him.

She was new to this; there was nobody else before him so she had no point of reference, but she thought they must be doing something right if simply being with him made her feel at home and safe.

Not to mention he did actually keep her safe.

She meant every word when she said she would not let anyone else in the seat at the helm. In her eyes, the seat was almost sacred, but it was only so because it was his.

Sometimes she would wonder about this odd twist of fate; she was the one who practically forced this responsibility onto Arnold when they launched the ship in Heliopolis, and now he was so good at it that she would not entrust anyone else with her life.

It was not purely talent alone, because she knew how hard he worked when his duty required it. But once he made his mind up, he would stop for no one, and if he chose to give something his attention, everything would seem to fall effortlessly into place for him. Words about winds and wings or sails came to mind—was that why he was destined to fly a spaceship?

He was incredible. He was perfect. He was everything she could ever ask for.

But more often than not, good things do not last. Especially in a war.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she had always known her feelings for him were tainted with guilt; an awareness that she had started this relationship with him despite knowing fully well it was not a sensible decision. And often, she would wonder if what they had was indeed too good to be true.

It was like she was borrowing something that was not meant for her to keep; like he was the wind—encompassing yet intangible, and never to hold. It was peculiar, because she always felt he was the one who kept her feet on the ground.

So when Arnold brought her deeper into his arms, she held on as tightly as she could, praying that there would never come the day he slipped out of her grasp.


[Prompt title 18: 特等席 / VIP Seat]

Author's note

Halfway point! *pats self on back*

So as I previously mentioned, it's going to start feeling like a multi-chapter fic (you can probably tell where this is going given it follows how things play out in the original series). I guess this chapter is sort of an intro.

Anyway, back to the chapter. The 'words about winds and wings or sails' refers to the sayings 'wind in sails' and 'winds beneath wings'; they're both not entirely suitable for the context (depending on how you interpret it), but I like the symbolism.

Also, I actually don't know if Arnold was or was not supposed to be the first helmsman. I just assumed not, because of probability. I mean, given that only a handful of the original crew survived, what are the chances they were that lucky? But I also highly doubt it's possible to learn how to pilot a battleship on the fly, so I'm going to presume he was the backup (Co-pilot? Second helmsman? Not sure what you call it).