A/N: This fic has been edited to abide by FF's rating guidelines. The unedited version is available on AO3: /works/59491543/chapters/151723042

Cover art uses images by pawel_czerwinski on Unsplash and Phosphor Icons.

Pater is calling them.

His emblem's blazing orange overlaid on their HUD almost manages to compete with the sparks shed by the grinding wheel in 621's hands. They've spent the day buffing out the worst of the last sortie's damage in a comfortable focus, expecting at least a week to take on Balam and RLF contracts before Arquebus served them something new — something retaliatory, a reaction to the ones from Balam and the RLF.

Except Pater, consummate professional he is, goes through Walter without fail. And it's ten after six. Arquebus is closed.

They pick up.

"Ah! Raven. I'm pleased to have caught you between sorties," there's surprise there, but the pleasant kind. "I was hoping to extend an invitation to you on behalf of the Vespers — myself included."

His voice comes in crisp even as they adjust their grip on the grinder, its vibrations humming up their gloved hands as they lean into QUIXOTIC's scorched plating. Flecks of metal spark and fizz away like dying stars while they let him talk, thinking about how Rusty was the last person who called them directly; how when he had, he'd served them the Jorgen mission, personally. How they had accepted, personally.

"Your habitual excellence has sparked the interest of my colleagues, and they would like a chance to meet you. As it so happens, some of us will be getting together later this week for a social call — and I would very much like for you to join us."

How Arquebus planned for PCA SP at the base. How Rusty, not Pater, issued the request. How Rusty knew they'd say yes, as long as he was the one asking — what that says about Arquebus, and about them.

" will also be in attendance."

621 huffs, shutting off the grinder with a flick of their thumb. The sound cuts. They brush the faint ridges left behind, the buff and scratch and point-welded repairs blending into the patina of battle damage QUIXOTIC has accumulated over a year on Rubicon. Good enough.

"Twist my arm."

"Wonderful. I look forward to meeting you, Raven. Pater, out."

The bar is a nice one. Compared to the Redguns' choice of open port bars, this one is cosy, personal: a local brewery with a real blackboard nestled neatly against a tall trellis of Rubiconina flora, full-spectrum lights feeding them what the port's overhead lamps won't. And next to that: Pater, scrolling through emails on his datapad. He's dressed exactly how they'd expect: collared shirt and tie well-fitted beneath a Vespers bomber. His undercut looks freshly-done, clean lines beneath the neat tuck of a tied-back bun.

"Pater?" they ask.

His head snaps to them immediately. Startled alertness quickly melts into a wide smile, pocketing his datapad to shake their hand. "Raven! It's a delight to finally meet. Come, follow me — we have a table further in. V.V sends his deepest regrets for being unable to attend. Something's come up in Squad V, though he said we should go on without..."

The smile infects 621 in an instant, happy to return something so painfully normal in the sea of confusion that's been their last six months. It twists something painful in their stomach that they have to swallow down, glad for Pater's focus on guiding them through the restaurant and the way he's already begun filling them in, in that same clear, amiable tone he uses in briefings.

"They brew an excellent stout here — says it tastes like the closest thing Rubicon has to dark chocolate."

"Your usual?"

He makes a dismissive motion. "I prefer IPAs myself - though I won't turn down a good stout."

They hum. "You'd like Ganymede."

"Oh?"

"All they talk about is craft beer."

Pater's laugh is a polished arpeggio — too structured for windchimes, but 621 can't say they know enough about idiophones to draw an appropriate parallel. It's nice, anyway. He leads them with the kind of ease that suggests this isn't the first time he's done this, and they take the time to note their surroundings: couples and coworkers around tables pulled into asymmetrical arrangements to suit its patrons, inoffensive pop rock piped over the tinny speakers, a room for cue sports off to the side. Mostly business types, so this was probably Pater's choice.

The men at the table don't look up until 621's close enough to scrutinise. Rusty's the first they spot: fluffy hair like his muzzled emblem, all affable predator grace. Then there's O'Keeffe, who they don't need a file to recognize; they could clock that stubble and shades combo across a port. And lastly Freud, compact and stocky, an utterly unremarkable Earther except for the hawkishness of his gaze.

They lock eyes. He takes a long drag of his cigar, smoke curling like a slow judgement. 621's fingers twitch.

But before it can bloom into anything more than a mild annoyance, Rusty leans back in his chair, arm draped over the backrest like it's always belonged there. The faint pull at the corner of his lips is as effortless and liquid as 621's imagined it.

"Wallclimber," he says, low and easy. The naked sound of his actual voice on their actual ears sends a ripple up the buttons of their spine — and triggers the flutter of a hundred little Coral butterflies in their chest.

621 feels their own smile grow wide before they can stop it. "Wallclimber."

Still, they sit, pretending the short greeting doesn't have them frantically tamping down the storm of wings against their ribs. It's ridiculous, it's unlike them, it's — god, it's embarrassing. O'Keeffe is right there.

O'Keeffe is also sliding them a full glass, so he either doesn't care or has decided his entertainment tonight is watching them make an utter fool of themselves. They take it without protest. The first drink is smooth, nutty, and fungal in that way all vat brews are.

"So, Raven," Pater says, his voice polite. Prying, but polite. " tells me you're a contact of his from his days at Schneider."

"When it was independent. Be surprised if you found my name on anything."

"You must be a Jupiter War vet, then," Rusty says. He gestures lazily between O'Keeffe and Freud with his drink. "Same as those two."

"I'm a strong seventy-three."

Rusty's grin widens. He tilts his head, and the arm he's draped over the back of his chair settles like it's been there for years — like it's an invitation. "I'll say."

"Ex-Schneider…" Freud says. He taps the ash off his cigar, gaze narrowing as if dredging a thought up from somewhere deep. "You ran one of those NEUNTOTER deathtraps."

A Mariner Valley drawl drags along his syllables as he speaks. Martian, then. Not Earth.

It's also not a question.

"Ran them? I built them."

Freud's eyes flash, something unreadable passing across his expression. His pause stretches a beat longer than it should. "What was your callsign?"

"You can't expect me to make his job too easy," they deflect, gesturing with their glass towards O'Keeffe, who watches the exchange with a carefully blank frown. "Not coasting on one beer. Four, maybe. Five."

Freud frowns. The satisfaction of denying him almost makes up for the dismissive puff of smoke he'd blown earlier.

"Play you for it."

621 halts. Their glass hovers just shy of their lips, so close they catch the condensation as their head snaps to the source of the challenge. Not Freud: Rusty.

Rusty, with that leisurely posture still draped over his chair. Rusty, still wearing that casual expression, but his eyes have gone hard, like finding his zero. Again they think predator. Again they think of wolf's teeth, held shut. "Gotta admit, I'm curious myself... buddy."

"And what do I get out of it?"

He shrugs.

They drum their fingers. Usually, a good fight's reason enough to do anything — except they can smell the agenda lurking under the challenge like exhaust, tainting the air. And it's not like there's anything they really want to extort out of the Vespers like they're clearly trying with them. 621 could probably convince him to fork over the COAM for one of those nice Earth vintages they saw behind the bar. Walter'd probably appreciate that. But they can't say they want it — not in the same way.

621 lets their gaze drift to Rusty, who takes another slow sip of his drink. The leather of his Vespers bomber jacket creaks faintly as he moves, the soft, worn material shifting against his body. The blue patch of STEEL HAZE comes into view.

There might be something they want that badly after all.

"Your jacket," they say. "I win, it's mine."

Rusty's eyes narrow, a blink-brief flicker of surprise. "A real cow died for this, y'know. And there are no cows on Rubicon."

"I believe a new one is in the budget, sir," Pater supplies. "If I order it now, it'll be here by the end of the month."

"Don't. I'm not planning on losing."

621 hums. Rusty might be taking this suddenly and entirely too seriously, but they've never met a gun they couldn't grin down the barrel of. "Better take his measurements now, before he puffs up too much."

At the end of the table, Freud makes a noise. It takes a second for 621 to recognise it for the laugh it is, ice cold and low with a dark amusement. "If Rusty's in, I'm in. Take your pick of the other two. Pater's the better player."

"Sir, I — thank you, sir." Pater stammers. Giggles. "He's correct, but I'm afraid I wouldn't be very sportsmanlike about it. I recommend you take , Raven."

O'Keeffe sighs. "Guess I'm in."

621 offers him a grateful smile. The eyeless tension on his face begs, don't.

"It's settled, then," Rusty rises. "9-ball, scotch, race to three. Pater, you're ref."

Pater's smile, just for an instant, challenges the sun. "It would be a delight, sir."

They set up quickly, with Pater pulling two balls from the pockets and setting them behind the head string. Rusty pulls a cue from the wall, and even that small movement is effortless and fluid in a way that 621 can't look away from, and the subtle spark in Rusty's eyes as he offers them the cue is all the proof they need that he's doing it on purpose. They accept — but not without letting their fingers brush his knuckles, closing a circuit that sends the thrum of Coral and competition singing electric along their nerves right up to the core of him.

And then they snatch it away.

"Will you lag for break, Raven?" Pater asks. He's wearing his liaison face again, tone precisely warm and measured; amiable with an agenda.

"Obviously."

They raise their chin as they join Rusty at the head of the table. Between the experimental draws of their cue, they see Rusty's gaze trailing over them, grinning in their peripheral — and when they look back at him, he winks. It sends the butterflies in their chest into a fresh frenzy and the unintended momentum they bring carries 621's shot a healthy few centimetres further from the rail than Rusty's.

621's teeth clack.

Watch them, comes a private line of text on their HUD: O'Keeffe. They won't play fair.

621 looks to Pater, humming pleasantly as he racks the balls into a tight diamond for the first break.

Neither will we.

Rusty steps back, gesturing to the table with his cue, nodding towards Freud. Freud for his part is perched on a stool next to a high poseur with an ashtray and the last third of a beer, giving an dismissive, thick-fingered wave that trails smoke behind it.

"It's yours, ," he rumbles, unhurried. "Set me up something interesting."

"Sir," Rusty nods.

He breaks in one smooth stroke. The crack of the balls ripples like thunder through the room. 1 and 3 sink clean. The cue ball rolls a hand's width from the 9 and stops, leaving a shot for the 2 into the corner pocket.

Freud approaches. He sets the ashtray on the rail, letting the cigar smoulder there as he lines up his shot. The force of his followthrough makes the 2 leap as it slams into the pocket. They go back and forth like this until Rusty's last shot slides the cue ball right next to the lone 9, and Freud sinks it with a tight, low-angle shot that sends it spinning into the corner pocket.

The first inning goes to Freud and Rusty, without 621 having made a single shot.

"Could just tell me now," Rusty goads. His grin is languid and self-assured and in any other context they'd swoon over it — have been swooning over it all night. But right now it makes their fingers itch for a trigger. Or his throat. Both. "Give us all our nights back."

"I'm getting that bomber off you," they hiss, low and lethal. "And I'm gonna wear it in the rain. I'm gonna dry it on QUIXOTIC's heat exchange. Stretch out the sleeves until it fits. Treat it rough."

Rusty flinches, but laughs.

Pater racks, and Rusty breaks again. The 1, 3, and 9 sink on the break, leaving the right side of the felt crowded and the way to the pocket almost entirely blocked by the 4 and 7. Freud taps his cigar like a metronome as he thinks, assessing the angles Rusty's left him with snow-cold delight. It's a hard shot.

And then he sets the cigar down, sending a draw shot into the 2 that knocks it into the pocket. The cue ball rolls obediently back.

He smiles. It's for himself.

Rusty slides forward. They're falling into the same rhythm as the first inning, setting up shots for one another in practised silence. 621 doesn't even know if any unfavourable lie is because of a miscalculation or because Freud might accuse Rusty of boring him — if Rusty might send that accusation the other way, too. They see the white of Freud's teeth when Rusty makes a particularly difficult shot, pocketing the 5 and 7 in one go. Freud takes the 6.

621 gets the sense that they're about to get cleaned out for a second time, so they open a private line to Rusty and see if they can do something about that.

You look good when you're winning, they say. They attach a high priority tag to pierce whatever notification suppression he might have on.

Rusty halts just short of contact. Huffs.

Keep watching, he pings back. It'll get better.

The cue ball cracks sharply against the 8, rebounding off the rail and careening into the 9, which drops neatly into the nearby pocket. 2-0.

Pater racks.

Freud gets the 1 and 8 on the break and the 2 and 6 roll together next to the corner pocket. It's a shot Rusty could probably make, but the cue ball sits tightly against the 9 and forces Rusty over to where O'Keeffe has been standing silently the whole game. Rusty paces the table, cue gripped firm, chalking it like he can find the right approach in the dust.

621 and O'Keeffe lock eyes over his shoulder. A word pops up on their HUD: Pater.

"Pater," 621 approaches him, voice soft, ostensibly being a good sport about not breaking Rusty's concentration. They gesture with their empty glass. "Could you top me up? We've got some time while figures out how he's gonna foul."

Rusty scoffs.

Pater's smile is reflexive and earnest. "I would be happy to. Would you like to try that stout I mentioned?"

"Surprise me."

Pater departs just as Rusty's considering the mechanical bridge, but whatever he sees in the prongs he thinks better of it. 621 watches as he unfurls his entire upper half to get the angle he wants, biting their tongue to ignore how the motion draws his clothing taut across his body, bomber pulling his shirt up to reveal a slit of skin as he lays long across the felt.

O'Keeffe nudges his leg.

Rusty shoots wide. The cue ball hits nothing but rails.

"You—"

"Call the ref," O'Keeffe challenges. He doesn't even look smug, which is just fine, because 621 is smug enough for both of them; grinning with the bone-deep satisfaction crawling up their spine for the second time this evening.

That grin carries them right to the table, where they line up the cue ball to pocket the 2 in one smooth stroke, putting enough spin on it that it glides to the other end of the table where the 3 has an easy route into the corner.

O'Keeffe finally rises from his seat, brushing 621's shoulder as he passes.

"Left it pretty for you," they murmur.

He hums.

They make quick work of it, pocketing balls until it's just O'Keeffe with an easy shot for the 9 that he sinks without much effort. Pater comes back as the score rolls to 2-1, placing the new drinks on the poseur O'Keeffe was patiently fading into the background on until a moment ago, then setting to work raking for the next game. 621 takes the dark drink, appreciating the gentle chill that sinks into their hand with it, not noticing how the temperature of the room had slowly climbed since they began — but it makes sense, given the size of the room, the flow through the air exchange, the number of bodies in it. It has everything to do with fluid dynamics and nothing to do with Rusty's gaze, no less heated than when he'd first issued the challenge but somehow sharper. Intent. Not how he and Freud are speaking in low, strategic tones on the other side of the room.

621 stops. Their Coral brain works faster than their conscious mind, telling them that's weird before they realise it's weird; that they're talking that way not out of some pretension of fairness — because that's clearly off the table — but because they have to. Because they can't be pinging messages back and forth.

Because Freud doesn't have augmentation for Rusty to send messages to.

They swallow this revelation alongside another sip of the stout. It's sharp, with a heady, hoppy undertone that lingers long after it's left their tongue. Less sweet than they'd expect.

Pater gestures to the table.

621 breaks. The clatter of the balls is sharp, satisfying, but only the 6 ends up in a pocket. They set their jaw, but refuse to give Rusty the satisfaction of frowning, or throw O'Keeffe by acting like it was a bad break. The space between the 1 and the pocket is clear. It's good enough.

They just need to not fuck up.

It feels better being the pair to neatly clean the table, knocking balls in with a comfortable rhythm. It's familiar in a basal, habitual way, having done it dozens of times before, with different tables, different people, different gravity. They have to thank the Redguns for the practice: their pride suffered a while, but they doubt they could make the shots they are with Ganymede's coefficients still in their muscle memory.

621 chalks, considering their options. There's an obvious shot on the 2 to the side pocket, but it leaves O'Keeffe with a difficult follow-up — and they've already staked far too much of their own pride on this game to set up anything other than their absolute best chance of winning.

And then they notice the 9 sitting close to the 4. If they can knock the 2 into the close pocket, they can set O'Keeffe up for the 3, leaving them to combo the 4-9 and tie them before Rusty and Freud can escalate.

It puts them right in front of Freud and Rusty's poseur, but with Pater nominally acting as referee they'll either have to be subtle — or Pater's on their side and wouldn't call it if Freud took the 9 ball and rolled it into a pocket by hand.

But if that's the case, then they're fucked either way. So they might as well repay Rusty for the show from earlier. They strut over, long, lunar limbs easily covering a distance Rusty was considering the mechanical bridge to make.

Nice view, he messages them.

621 draws the cue back, and back, and back, until the end presses into Rusty's stomach. They feel him breathe. They feel themselves breathe.

Pater says nothing.

Give you a closer look later.

They pocket the 2. The cue ball knocks off the rail towards what is admittedly still not an easy shot, and O'Keeffe approaches the table.

"Should pull some more of your exes out of the freezer, O'Keeffe," Freud's tone slithers, pointed and cruel. "Makes you put the effort in."

"Don't usually have to," O'Keeffe replies. He puts enough draw on the cue ball that it rolls back right back where it started, lining up the 4-9 for 621 without a word between them. He looks at Freud over the top of his glasses, but 621 can't see the exchange of expressions there. They just feel the hostility. "Half-good's been good enough."

621 slides up to the table.

They keep Rusty in their peripheral as they bend over, pausing and pretending to adjust their grip. Really, they're focusing on him, seeing if he'll escalate in this game-within-the-game they're playing; watching the way that liquid confidence locks up, just for a second, when he realises what's been set up. They smirk: what're you gonna do about it?

The cue ball snaps sharp against the 4 with enough force to bounce. It ricochets hard into one corner pocket and sends the 9 bounding into the back of the other, where it disappears, leaving them tied 2-2.

"Oh," Pater's voice gains a soft, organic lilt. It's the only sound in the room: the tension has drained everything else away. "Are you positive you don't want me to order that jacket, sir?"

Rusty just growls. Pater racks, but he's grinning slightly as he does it; enjoying seeing his superiors squirm just a little bit, when the flush of alcohol allows him to.

" ," comes Freud's voice. It's just his number, but the tone that carries it makes Pater freeze with his hand still in the pocket. "Isn't it about time you checked in on V.V?"

"I..." Pater looks to Freud, to Rusty, to 621, and for the first time seems to inhale the intensity that holds the air taut. And as quick as he had seemed so momentarily out of the loop, he smothers the cluelessness with a thoughtful, vaguely worried look. "I believe it has been a couple hours since he last said anything. That isn't usually a good sign." He bows. "It was good to meet you, Raven."

This time, it's Freud's look beating into 621 that asks, what're you gonna do about it?

Pater departs, leaving O'Keeffe to rack for himself. They think, critical mistake, but then realise Freud has no reason to doubt O'Keeffe, and a tiny, embryonic inkling of worry hatches in their chest. They reach for the stout.

O'Keeffe finishes, letting Rusty approach and inspect the rack before he readies to break. It's another small, wordless exchange, the kind of anticipatory filling in of one another's space that only comes with habitual intimacy. 621 expects it to make their stomach twist. It doesn't.

He drives the cue forward with pure, mechanical motion: 621 thinks of the exposed pistons of QUIXOTIC's NACHTREIHER legs, the careful interlock of a hundred smaller systems combining into one beautiful movement. The balls scatter across the table with intent, the 1-3-6-7 thunking softly into the pockets in quick succession, followed by the lagging 4, which coasts on residual momentum until it finds itself tumbling into the corner closest to 621.

O'Keeffe straightens. His expression doesn't shift, but he murmurs low as they trade places. "Left it pretty for you."

621 hums. They bite their lip to make sure they don't look too pleased.

Their next shot is long with the cue ball resting on the head string and the 2 settled in the far corner, but not particularly difficult. What's more concerning to them is that the 5 and 8 keep the 9 locked in the centre of the table, so there's no chance of ending this early: they just have to execute on the next four shots.

The 2 drops in. Freud drags on his cigar, awash in a tightly-calibrated interest, one that begins when 621 steps up to the table and ends when they move away. They can feel it creeping up them like frost, challenging the growing heat of the room, which they'd welcome except for the smug lift of his brow that accompanies it. The smug lift of his brow that supposes by default that they're not worth his time, except he's the one staring, so they know that's bullshit.

O'Keeffe sinks the 5.

621 lines up for the 8, thinking less of their own shot and more on how they're going to set up O'Keeffe for the win. They could take the easy angle into the side pocket — O'Keeffe had set it up so beautifully for them — but the shot that leaves him puts him right by Freud and Rusty and the end of the table that just begs for their interference. They settle for the less-obvious shot in hopes of giving O'Keeffe a cleaner approach, sinking the 8 and having the cue ball roll to the demilitarised zone somewhere between the two poseurs.

Good. Not great, but good. And considering they've been playing this game with only half the table to work with, 621 is pleasantly surprised they've gotten this far.

O'Keeffe draws in a long breath. He strides towards the table, chalking his cue, and from the side 621 can see his eyes dart right to where Rusty looms only a metre from his shoulder.

"You," O'Keeffe says, pressing the tip of his cue into Rusty's chest, leaving a mark there. "Stay right there."

Rusty raises his hands in mock surrender. Grins, wolfish and easy. "Yes, sir."

They hear O'Keeffe gasp.

The 9 collides with the rail.

Something happened, and 621 doesn't know what — is just struck with the impotence of knowing something happened without being able to intervene. O'Keeffe's knuckles are white on the cue, and he snaps to Rusty, but no words come out from between his clenched teeth.

He just sighs.

"Good game," Freud says. He slides off his stool, wood creaking as it's freed from his weight, and pockets the 9 in one stroke. "Let's hear it, Raven."

621 stares at the pocket like they could make the 9 ball hop out with the force of their will alone, then feel betrayed when it doesn't. Behind the stub of his cigar, Freud's interest has only sharpened, eyes gleaming without mirth. Gleaming like a targeting array.

They draw in a long breath.

"I was R6 Pantomime," they say.

They don't expand: they don't have to. Freud knows what it means. So does O'Keeffe. The only one who might not is Rusty, but he's watching them with such heated fascination and adrenaline-relief that it doesn't matter.

And it's that heated focus that makes them shiver, not Freud. Not Freud growing still, smoking curling at the threshold of his mouth, the end of the cigar burning in his eyes like a smouldering grudge. "How'd you get off Island Four?"

He asks it like a threat.

"I never got there." They shrug, but their grip on their cue is knuckle-white, draining blood away from their digits. "I was at Vogelwerke when Furlong shelled it. Then I woke up on Rubicon."

Rusty's gone quiet. His gaze is turned downwards into the foam of his drink, forgotten in the pinpoint focus of the game, and the jagged movement of his eyes suggest he's reading something they can't see. When he looks to O'Keeffe, 621 wonders what conversation they're having in their HUDs, pinging messages back and forth as fast as they can think.

"They retired your number," Freud says flatly. The words ripple out along the smoke, dark and unsatisfied. It's less a statement and more an accusation: you should've been dead. I should've been the one to retire you.

They ignore it. "Sounds like the chief."

"Not just a callsign, then," Rusty says. He's back to looking at them, but the edges of his gaze have softened, something stormy and conflicted stirring the edges of his thoughts. 621 doesn't know what, but desperately wants to find out — wants very badly in this moment to sink into him and let his molten confidence chase out the chills Freud's pressing into them without really trying.

"Yeah," they say, but it's falsetto, floated on a lightness they don't feel. Or maybe they do feel it, and the lightness is just their mind floating up and away from here, back to Vogelwerke, back to the sabotaged self-destruct that blew them thirty years into the future. "Something like that."

Their vision focuses briefly in their HUD, Coral oculars flaring. They're fighting to keep their chin up, to hold onto the pride they don't feel, weighted by the heavy, damning press of Freud's gaze.

"I should go," they continue, placing their cue back on the wall. "Don't like stretching things out once I've lost."

Freud waves his hand like he's giving them permission. Somehow, that stings the most.

"I'll go with you," Rusty says suddenly, handing his cue off to O'Keeffe. He moves toward them with an urgency that feels both directed and protective, and they don't know if it actually is, or if their singed pride makes it feel that way. "Port might be open, but Arquebus isn't exactly rolling out the welcome mat for independents these days."

621 smiles. "Got it."

The tram is empty save for the two of them. They could be sitting comfortably on the formed plastic chairs, carrying out this conversation largely unbothered by the tram bumping along its narrow tracks, but they've chosen instead to stand close together, loosely supported by the textured hand grips. Augmentation calibrated for sustained force of over 6G and bursts peaking at 80G makes them feel almost invisible anyway, the adjustments trivial to both 621 and Rusty, who's got another four decades of development over them. They wonder what little, human things they still have to do that Rusty doesn't. They wonder if his augmentation is quiet, silicon nerves as obedient and invisible as the ones they replace, without the Coral to grate against the meat.

"About Freud..." Rusty begins.

"You knew what you were doing. Don't apologise — it won't earn you any points," they say. It's a jab, but a light one; it's easier to tease with a growing number of minutes and kilometres between them and their loss.

The tram bumps, knocking Rusty gently into 621's orbit, some of that tension shedding off with it. They breathe in, catching something woody and streaked with gun oil, and realise for the first time they're catching the cologne wafting off his skin: they hadn't been able to, not even with their augmentation, for the hoppy stench of the brewery and the tarry burn of Freud's cigar. They hadn't even realised how much it had overwhelmed them until they're breathing the clean air of the tram's air cycler.

"Besides," they say, their gaze drifting purposefully over the strong lines of his neck, lingering there, not caring if he or anyone else sees them doing it. They think about kissing his pulse just to taste it. "You were right. It did get better."

Better, watching you.

The corner of his mouth pulls up in that easy smile, the one that turns 621's blood into honey. It's dangerous, they know. They also know they don't care. The nudge of the tram knocks him a half-step forward, boxing 621 against the hard angles of the wall, and they let it happen.

"And what would? Earn me points," he asks, voice low. "If I were looking to, that is."

Now it's them steeping closer, pressing into Rusty's space, close enough to breathe the gentle heat that rolls off him. 621 loses track of what's the movement of the tram and what's the two of them moving within one another's space — the featherlight brush of their lips on his cheekbone that makes his breath shake, the graze of his lashes that lightly tickle their skin.

"Doing pretty good right now," they whisper, each syllable a shallow kiss.

Whatever's been holding Rusty at bay shatters. He surges forwards, hand rough and warm at their jaw, pushing right through their gasp to claim their whole mouth. 621 reaches for his collar and tugs him upwards, all force and heady pressure and the taste of him slowly spreading from their mouth downwards, liquefying everything it touches.

The tram jerks to a halt, knocking them apart. They part, but just enough to allow a thin slice of exhaust-tinted air to slide between them, and then they're passing that back and forth with open, swollen mouths. A late-night commuter slips into the far end of the car, slouched in their seat, headphones blaring tinny music that warps through the silence. But the sound doesn't touch the heat hanging between them.

621's fingers tighten in the worn leather of Rusty's jacket. They seize his lips again in a quick, potent kiss, pulling him flush against them until there's once again no space at all. It's brief, but it's enough to leave him a little breathless. "Giving me another chance to get this off you?"

"Yeah," he breathes. 621 feels the hammer of his heart against their knuckles and something flares phosphorous white and hungry in their chest. "Think I am."