#kbd2k19

And now, again, she was standing in the middle of his quarters.

Quarters was really just a fancy word for a room with a sink and a bed, but it at least was a place he could go to and be relatively unbothered. The Commander and his wife were just a bellring away from summoning him to heed to their commands, but for whatever it was worth, Miles appreciated the quiet — even if silence nowadays wasn’t the same.

With just the two of them it was like the air stood still as much as they did; as if waiting for something horrible to come their way and tear everything back into its place.

He couldn’t understand, of course he couldn’t; the kind of silence it took to be able to stand anything about the situation she was in. Miles didn’t even know her name. And if he could at all avoid calling her by the patronym given to her by Gilead, he sure as hell did. Playing the pronoun game was an easy enough way to go around it, anyway.

There was more to her, that was the one thing he’d learned. Even when she was waiting on her knees for the Commander and his wife to grace their presence, her back was in such a straight line it was like she was too big for her own skin. She wasn’t quiet, she wasn’t complacent — she was anything but. She was just trying to survive in a world she didn’t want any part in.

And that had to be the most terrifying thing of all. How the tyranny could play itself out to be good for all, when even the slightest sights of who someone was, was chucked aside. When the rights of someone were equivalent to the capabilities of their bodies and the willingness to bend to the wills of people who had no right to decide any of it.

She wasn’t looking at him. She had her back turned, eyes scanning at the small bedroom he supposed he should’ve called a home. There was nothing else to go back to, anyway. She took a few steps to get to the sink and the mirror above it. Only high ranking men were allowed beards, so it was his semi-daily duty to get rid of any shadow that might’ve been present.

“If you’re an Eye, you’re pretty shit at your job.“

He wanted to laugh. Sometimes he wondered if he’d forgotten how.

The way he couldn’t find anything meaningful to say didn’t seem to bother her. She turned to him, her dark eyes looking damn near black as she settled her unwavering gaze on him. If she could see straight through his clothes and flesh and into his bones, he wouldn’t have been surprised.

No one had looked at him that intensely in years. And he found his stomach turning.

“You could’ve sold me out months ago.“ Something in the tone of her voice changed. The blatant hardness shifted to make room for something like a question. Why didn’t you end this? You could’ve ended all this.

“I know.” “And why didn’t you?” “I’m pretty shit at my job.”

She doesn’t smile, doesn’t even hint at it, but the hardness in the way she looks at him shifts, if only for a moment.

“Did you volunteer to this?”

She didn’t need to elaborate; just the way she said ‘this’ said all that was needed. He wanted to scoff, but all that he was able to do was ever-so-slightly shake his head and draw in a deep breath, the anger and frustration creeping to the space between his muscles and skin.

“No.”

She waited. Something told him she would keep waiting until she got an answer she’d be satisfied with.

“I was in the army. It was this or being a guard.”

The decision hadn’t been hard — he’d seen what the guards do. Driving people around, no matter how revolting, was a joyride compared to what he’d most likely had to do as a guard. People he’d served with were shooting innocent people Gilead found unworthy for one reason or another — he would rather die than pull a trigger without a reason.

“Soldier, huh? Bet you feel right at home, then.”

His confusion must’ve shone through.

“Isn’t this the sort of lodgings you’d be in; out there somewhere?” There’s a sense of macabre amusement there, somewhere in the space between them and the small dark room they’re standing in. He nods, the slight confusion turning into a slow, hesitant nod. “More or less.“

Her hand strokes the edge of the sink, fingernails idly scratching a chip on the surface of it. She’s still looking at him when she turns to go back to the door.

There’s comfort in routines like that. As much as he hates to admit it, ever since the Project any lack of routines makes him uncomfortable. He works because it keeps his mind off the discomfort on his joints; of the mechanical whirring in his ear and the heavy thud of his metallic leg. He wakes up early because it’s a remnant of something he lived by for so many years that being without that routine leaves him feeling displaced. Like he wouldn’t belong.

Luka gets up from the makeshift cot he’s made for himself on the floor, gathering the blanket and jacket he used as his bed, and tosses them to the nearest table. He clicks the coffee machine on, walking to the very end of the room where he left his arm the evening before. There’s a faint gleam against the metal as he turns the table’s light on, proceeding to sit on the stool beside it. He picks up the arm and rolls up the sleeve of his t-shirt, revealing the metallic joint that rings a hollow sound when Luka presses the shoulder of the prosthetic against it.

“Does it hurt?”

Her voice is soft, suitable for the early morning hours, but out of place in a workshop where the only soft thing is the sheets she’s slept in. Luka lifts his chin to find Arden sitting up on the bed he’s insisted her to sleep in, his eyes scanning her for the end of her thought, the end of her sentence. There is none, her journalist’s ferver clearly turned off, which is a side he’s not witnessed before. He doesn’t know how to feel about it.

“Does what hurt?”

“Putting the arm on.”

He feels a rush of heat boil in his stomach; rise up his chest. It’s not blood or fury, nothing he can pinpoint to be anything but shame. It settles to the nook of his neck, closing his throat, making him turn his eyes back down to his right shoulder. He lets his left hand’s fingers move to work the locks and clasps that, together with the built-in magnets,  keep his arm in place.

“Not anymore.”

He can hear her approach, her bare feet gently tapping against the concrete floor as she comes to stand beside him, wearing a white shirt he can only assume was not intended as sleepwear. The tips of her hair brush against the slit of bare skin between his shirt and the metal joint, her hands hesitantly rising to replace his fingers on the shoulder. She’s watched him enough many times to know the moves; to be familiar with this part of his routine. He stays silent, once glancing at her face that’s filled with such focus he can’t bare to keep his eyes on her for long.

It lasts only a few moments, her fingers lightly touching that slit of skin before she’s dropping her arms back down, a sense of regret suddenly all over her. Arden shakes her head, her brows knitting together as she lets out a breath and in a frustrated manner starts muttering something that is on the verge of turning into an apology.

“I’m—I shouldn’t have… I’m—”

Luka doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t let her sentence end or grow into something, but follows her muttering with an end to an avalanche he doesn’t want her to feel.

“Thank you.” He says, sincere and resolute in a way that makes the heat on his neck slowly unwind.

She looks straight at him, as if searching for the end of his thought now, but only for a second. The regret he thought he saw melts off, and all that’s left are a pair of dark eyes staring right into him without any kind of hesitation. He doesn’t think he remembers a time anyone’s looked at him without the urge to turn away.

“I’ll pour the coffee.”