(no subject)

[msmcknittington]

There was a single lamp burning in the newsroom when Deret came in through the back. Mirel sat in its yellow pool, so absorbed in what she was doing she hadn’t heard him coming down the corridor. He stood in the shadows under the balcony and watched her for a moment. At some point during the day, she had given up on that tight braid, and her hair was pulled back as usual, the ribbon barely controlling the curls. Right now she was relaxed and focused, and he was the farthest thing from her mind, even if she had been at the forefront of his all evening. She looked like she was in that zone where the facts and the words flowed together into one effortless stream, and he hated to interrupt her, because he knew as soon as she saw him, that would end. But he couldn’t stay under the balcony all night, and he didn’t want to avoid her forever.

She didn’t notice he was there until he came up behind her chair and reached past her to lean his stick against her desk. She jumped as the knob rattled against a drawer, but then froze as he placed an arm on either side of her, planting his hands on the desk.

Mirel’s back went poker straight. Her hair brushed the underside of his jaw, and the familiar, spicy smell of her rose up.

“You spelled that wrong,” he said quietly, and she snorted.

“Mancrest, you are flattering yourself if you think your presence can make me misspell a two-letter word.”

Deret glanced down at the page and saw that the word she had just written was, in fact, only two letters long. He grimaced. If he had waited a second more in the corridor, his line might have worked. The next word or the one after that would undoubtedly have been longer.

“For a man who makes his living with words, the ones I use frequently do not convey my intended meaning,” he said, voice low and rueful.

She bowed her head, her hair again brushing his jaw, and when she spoke, her voice was less hostile than it had been for several days. Amused, even.

“That I cannot contest.” She looked over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow, taking in the braided leather sash and formal shirt he was wearing. “Where have you been?”

He hesitated, not wanting to see her stiffen back up when he told her. But he had told himself that when he talked to her next, it would be the truth, not dodging things he thought she didn’t want to hear.

“Celebrating a wedding.”

“I see.” She took a breath. “Anyone I know?”

“Amaranthe and Sicarius Lokdon.”

“And how was that? For you?” she asked after a long second.

“Good. It was good.” Giving into temptation, he lowered his nose into her hair and inhaled her scent. That was even better than any party could have been, and more so when she didn’t pull away. After a moment, he pressed his cheek against her soft hair. “I was worried before that Amaranthe was making a mistake, and she’d be very unhappy at some point in the future because she was with a man who couldn’t care for her. She deserves someone who can care for her.”

“And now?” Mirel asked carefully, not moving.

“He cares for her. It was pretty hard to miss once I started looking for it.” He briefly pressed his cheek harder against her head before continuing. “They care for each other.”

“I thought that was probably the way it is when he showed up at my flat. He doesn’t quite live up to his reputation.”

Deret released a breath that was almost a laugh.

“He’s changed since I first met him, I think, but it left an indelible impression.” Gruffly, he added, “I should have been more willing to let the facts I had in front of me sway my opinion.”

Mirel’s fingers crept across the desk and lightly stroked the back of his hand. He tensed and fought the inclination to turn his hand up and grip hers. Better to let her make that move.

“That’s your other flaw,” she said, voice definitely amused now. “You can’t write human interest stories, and you’re pigheaded.”

“Pigheaded?” he repeated, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice. If he let it show, she might stop stroking his hand.

“Mmm. I’ve known you for a while and I notice things. It takes a lot to change your mind. And you sulk.” More softly she said, “I’m the same way. I’m sorry.”

“You’re not pigheaded.”

She glanced over her shoulder, eyebrow arching. “No?”

“No, you do that wounded pride thing. It makes you snippy.” He bit the inside of his cheek and then added, offhandedly, “It’s almost as bad being pigheaded. I wouldn't want you to feel left out on that account.”

Her mouth dropped open and then she grinned and then she laughed, and he chuckled along with her, taking the opportunity to shift his weight and wrap his hand around hers. When they were done laughing, he ran his thumb over her knuckles while he spoke.

“I thought that, when I fell in love, it would be this big thing. That it would be exciting and dangerous and hit me like a lorry barreling down the street. You know, newsworthy. ‘Love strikes man, suspect in custody.’” He swallowed. “So when I met this girl, who seemed to be in need of rescuing from bad influences, I jumped in with both feet. My big chance to be a hero.”

“You already were a hero,” she said in a slightly scolding voice.

“No, Amentar wasn’t really . . . People won’t remember it in ten years. They barely remember it now. I thought Amaranthe was my chance to save the day, get the girl, be the hero. Everyone would remember.” His voice went rueful. “I was more in love with the idea of her than her, really. We didn’t really date — we just organized a revolution together. I had the wrong girl entirely as it turns out. The right one snuck up on me.”

“Hmm.” Mirel pulled her hand free and then scooted the chair forward on its casters. She carefully swiveled it around so she could look up at him, lips quirking at the corners. “Who is this girl? The right one?”

Deret felt his own lips curl and he played along, bracing himself on the desk again and leaning in.

“Well, she doesn’t need saving because she can stomp on fingers on her own, without any assistance from me or anyone else.”

“Her brothers probably taught her some things. Navy types, you know.” She frowned, feigning concern. “And how old is she? You keep saying girl, and I don’t think you know anybody young enough to be a girl.”

“Older than I am,” he said, leaning closer in yet. She raised her hands from the armrests and settled them on his upper arms. Their heads weren’t so far apart now. Her face was alive with good humor and — he felt his own breathing pick up — desire. Her eyes were dark, pupils wide, and her cheeks flushed. “But not by much.”

“Oh,” she breathed. “So not a girl. More of a wom—”

He brushed his lips against hers, cutting her off. Their noses bumped, and she laughed breathlessly, delightedly, sliding her hands up his arms to cup the back of his head. He lowered himself as far as he could on his arms, but they couldn’t get much closer than that, no more than lips touching. He wanted to get his arms around her, feel all those soft curves he knew were there against him, but that would mean he’d have to stop kissing her and that just couldn’t happen.
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