#palmsky

Normal Halo Fan Behavior

Previous posts here: 1, 2, 3

That does it. She sees his head pop up in her periphery. “As in...Blue Team Kelly and Linda?”

“Do you know any others?”

“...that seems strangely sociable of them.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” She runs her fingers through her hair. Was that too much? Should she just pull it back like she always did? She huffs, reaching for the elastic band she’d just taken out.

Slowly, Lasky’s attention returns to the datapad. “When are you going?”

“Tonight.”

“Ah. And…is that why you’ve been standing in front of the mirror for ten minutes?”

“It hasn’t been—” she checks her watch. “Whatever. Hair up or down?”

He sighs. Sets the datapad on the table. Rubs at his eyes. “Do whatever’s comfortable, Sarah. Am I missing something here? You don’t usually put this much effort into…” he gestures toward her.

Before she can answer, the room's holotank glows a brilliant gold and Roland’s avatar appears in a swirling flourish, arms crossed, looking suspiciously cheerful. “Based on the elevated heart rates of all three Spartans during the time of their conversation, I’d say you’re missing something significant, Captain.”

Two seconds tick by. To Sarah, it feels like two years.

Roland grins.

Tom blinks. “Sarah, is this a date?”

She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t considered the possibility. “If that’s what it turns into, I won’t complain,” she concedes with a shrug and a gentle glare in the direction of the holotank. “But I wasn’t gonna mention that part unless it actually went somewhere—thanks, Roland.”

“You’re welcome!”

Tom’s face morphs into something close to that kicked-dog look he got when his usual strategies of garnering sympathy weren’t working. “I know we keep things pretty open between us, but do we need to talk? Am I not enough for you anymore?”

Oh, a joke. She bites her tongue for a second as the word she’d been searching for earlier comes screaming to the forefront of her brain. Arousing. Their insistence had been arousing. Suddenly, the butterflies make sense…and instantly become wasps. “You know I haven’t fucked anyone my own size since I became a Spartan?” She might as well approach this for what it was. Or what it could be. What she wanted it to be? "...Miller doesn't count."

Some of the surprise drains from Tom’s posture at the mention of Miller, replaced by resigned agreement. “No, he doesn’t. But do you really think that’s where this is going to end up?”

“Again, wouldn’t say no if it’s offered.”

“...that’d be something to see,” Roland mutters.

Sarah turns on him. “You wanna watch?”

“I—um, meant it more in a rhetorical sense, Commander. But…of course, if you’re open to the idea…”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, okay? I don’t know that we’ll be doing anything besides drinking and trading war stories. If—and only if—it ends up being something else…we’ll figure out the logistics." Her eyes flick between Tom and Roland, narrowing on the latter. "Until then, stop getting my hopes up."

"Sure thing—just one question. In the "hypothetical" event that you do end up…involved with the lovely ladies of Blue Team," he makes a big show of miming the quotation marks. "Could I…maybe ride along sometime? Just for curiosity's sake?"

There's a near-simultaneous sigh from both humans in the room. "We let him join us the one time…" Lasky starts.

"Actually, Captain, I've been included in your sexual escapades no less than three separate times and I find it exhilarating—"

"That’s my point.”

"And you can hardly fault me for that!" Roland retorts with mock indignation. The holotank flares brighter. "It's in my nature to seek new experiences and a threesome of Spartans would certainly be—"

"Okay, okay!" Sarah cuts them both off. "Roland, shut up. Right now this is not a date and there is no plan for a threesome. Right now it’s just drinks. Got it?” She doesn’t know who she’s putting more effort into convincing—the two of them or herself.

Roland shifts like he wants to say something but, wisely, stays quiet.

Beneath the armor, you’re still a human body, flesh and blood. The blood hasn’t been altered. It runs red and dries black. Your skin bruises when impacted (even if it heals much faster). Your lungs function the same, if much more efficiently, which is only beneficial in your line of work.

But you have been told you can survive the vacuum of space now. To a point. That’s something to be reminded of, when you live on a starship. The observation deck threatens to suffocate you with the unabashed glimpse into eternity. If the glass broke, you wouldn’t die immediately, armor notwithstanding.

There’s a reason you don’t go up here often. But someone you know does. You wonder why either of you look to the stars for guidance, if this is how you’re both left feeling. 

Then again, the stars couldn’t really judge you. You’re fairly certain they had a lot more going on than humanity ever could. Judgment for your lot was a lot more... physical.

A hand touches the outer edge of your gauntlet. You blink, cocking your head over the bulk of your pauldron to look him in the eye.

“Will you tell if I have a smoke?”

“Do I look like I’m going to tell? Ask Roland.”

He rolls his eyes and lights up. It’s not a brand you recognize-- so, probably contraband from one of the transfers, spread out somewhere between the near-eighteen thousand crew. It stinks. You don’t know what it smells like, actually.

Roland probably has it broken down, though. Chemical compounds. How it affects his fine-tuned shipborne atmosphere. How it makes him feel, armed with swathes of knowledge that contradicts itself. Humanity stands too good, too high, for something like smoking to slow it down.

“Where’d you get that pack, anyway?”

“Do you think I’m going to tell, Spartan Commander?”

You look at him, affronted.