Today’s the day, and Mireille knows she has to take her chance. She breathes out a sigh, steadying her nerves and prepares herself with the words she’d rehearsed earlier. Just introduce yourself, she repeats in her head, and everything else will follow. How difficult can it be? She wasn’t thinking of the fallout, though. Not of the consequences or the possible rejections or what might not happen.

The only thing on her mind was him -- and this childish fantasy of meeting and falling in love and being together, even though he was already with someone else. The thought bothered her, but she tried not to think about it. Instead, she thought of what she might say to him. So, she approaches him where he sits by himself at the end of the bar, slipping onto the stool next to him and leaning forward with her arms crossed over the countertop.

He wasn’t really a fan of trips to the UNSC Infinity. Orders were orders, though, and he needed a checkup on his armor. He knew what they’d say, already; that there wasn’t much they could do for an old suit of Mk.V[b] beyond some reinforcements, that they had enough extra equipment to upgrade him. And he knew that he’d say no, that it was alright. The armor was scratched up, burnt, and dented, but it had kept him alive since the very beginning of HEADHUNTER, so why abandon it now? 

For some time, they’ve held back from their true nature by sitting around and waiting, biding their time, watching as Rick’s people walked past them without ever acting on instinct. Carlos demanded it, so they had no choice -- but that doesn’t mean one of them might try something stupid. He’s prepared for it, to kill his own people if it means securing this alliance, if that’s what it can be called since he has his own reasons for wanting to keep them alive.

Did Rick know it? Did he see it in his eyes when Carlos thanked him for opening the doors and letting them in? It was a big risk, of course. That said a lot about Rick’s character, the kind of man he’d been before the world went to hell, the kind of man he chose to be during it. Carlos stood watching him from the corner of the room. Though this was a good group of people that Rick had, Carlos knew there had to be others out there somewhere -- not that Carlos was starting to get soft and take back his plan.

Three letters and still no response. Sending them was a mistake, she knew, but one that couldn’t be taken back now. It’s too late, she thought, and I’ve made a fool out of myself for nothing. After all, had she not been the one to sever ties when a seemingly better prospect presented itself? Not that she desired to leave him, but there was only one path to tread and so she, hastily, sought the opportunity. Where the heart was concerned, she knew it’d been the wrong choice. Did he hate her for it? And is that why he didn’t respond?

So, she wrote another, asking him to meet her at the Cafe Laurent in a week’s time at its busiest hour of 2 o’clock. Then, sealing the letter, she sent it with her servant to deliver it discreetly in a basket of fruit and expensive chocolates that might pique his interest. Esmee assumed her husband was none the wiser, even while she dressed for the occasion when the day arrived, wearing something reminiscent of their time together in the past.

Appearing to him is probably the worst thing she can think of doing to someone, but it’s his fault for not moving on. How long’s it been? Two months or two years -- longer, shorter, give or take. That’s the thing about being dead: there’s no such thing as time. All she knows is that it’s getting really depressing to watch him in this constant state, day after day. Or for what felt like days, she wasn’t certain. What else is she supposed to do? Not suddenly show up because she knows it’ll do more harm than good -- won’t it?

There’s no Ghost 101, some kind of rulebook from beyond the grave that she can refer to. So, yeah, appearing to him is probably stupid, but is it any better than him suffering while not knowing what had happened to her other than she died? So, standing in back of him, her hand hovering over his shoulder but unable to physically touch him, she calls his name with the hope that he can hear. Can he see her, too? She’d tried her hardest to manifest before him. God, this was so lame like one of those piece of shit Hallmark movies about reunited loves. 

Smack the Booty

The first smack might've been an accident. Matter of fact, Molly had been ready to chalk it up to that--after all, Rick didn't seem the type to be loosey-goosey with his hands. The second one to the opposite cheek, however...well. Once was a mistake, twice is a hobby.

Let Molly Smack the Booty

Innocent enough that he'd be bending over to look under the hood--something had blown about a mile back, so they'd managed to baby the engine until it just fell flat here. In the middle of fucking nowhere. So, Rick had dutifully lifted the hood and bent beneath, fiddling with this and that to try and find a problem. His tush was just...there.

Well, who could resist the temptation like that?