Page 15 of Mystic Wonderful

“Rose and I could go,” Francis offered. If he sounded desperate, sue him.

“Rose has a meeting with theconduit.” Lance always said the word like a slur. His brow furrowed, and he shot Rose a dark glance, one she ignored, inspecting her nails from her place between Francis and Tris. “No, you two go. You should be back before lunch.”

“Great,” Francis said, stomach already in knots.

The others left – Lance and Rose a safe distance behind the still-coughing Gavin – and Francis glanced, once, toward Tris. He was met with the coldest, flattest stare he’d ever seen, and turned away to get ready, mentally cursing himself.

It was a short recon mission – not even a mission, really. A foray via helo toward the base of the mountains, where they were set gently down on the barren, rain-slick ground to search amongst the rocks and sparse shrubs with infrared; little caves and burrows and hollows along the edge of the base property offered shelter for all sorts of things, and the readings here were never quite accurate from the air. Teams were sent out at regular intervals to search the area on foot, to make sure the fences and barricades were all unharmed, and that no conduit of either camp was trying to sneak onto the property. It was Gold Company’s turn, and that was how Francis found himself walking three paces back from the quietly furious war hero he’d called a jackass.

The quietly furious war hero who’d calledhimeasy, he reminded himself, firmly.

It was raining lightly, soft patters against their helmets, and against the rocks they had to pick their way carefully through. Heavier clouds threatened above the mountaintops, and Francis knew that in a few hours they’d have a deluge, rushing through the hollows and runnels of the paths they walked, making them impassable. For one wild moment, he entertained a childish fantasy in which the heavy rains came on quicker than expected, and the two of them had to seek shelter in a high cave, huddled together for warmth, until the block of ice between them slowly thawed. Whispered confidences and confessions. A few lingering looks…

He couldn’t keep himself from snorting.

Tris turned around, rain dripping off the edge of his helmet, flashing silver over his dark gaze. “What?”

Shit. “Nothing,” Francis assured.

But Tris continued to look at him – at all of him, gaze tracking down and back up, searching. “You turn your ankle?”

It had never been in Francis’s nature to be snippy with people. The youngest of his siblings, the soft one, the one who needed looking after, always the too-friendly cadet, he’d made it his mission to kill people with kindness; God knew the world was harsh enough without people bitching at each other over trivialities.

But Tris was just so…Tris. Infuriating, really. Cold, and harsh, and judgmental, and, obviously, incredibly fragile under all that machismo, afraid he’d have his man card revoked because someone had pressed back into him in – frankly – innocent question.

So he smiled brightly and said, “If I did, would you carry me?”

Tris’s only physical response was a blink, but Francis could tell the zinger had hit home.

He turned back around, and kept walking.

And, Francis realized, anger bubbling up in his stomach, it turned out that meeting an idol, and having him disappoint you so thoroughly, was a hell of a thing.

“I just might, you know,” he continued, stepping carefully over a clump of sickly brush. “I’m so weak and damsel-like, I might swoon, fall down, and twistbothmy ankles. Then it would be up to a big, strong, manly –oof.”

The rest of his sentence ended in a huff as he collided with Tris’s chest. A chest like a wall, as firm and unyielding as marble – same as the face he looked up into a moment later.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Tris demanded – but it wasn’t the same growling, threatening tone he’d used in the hallway, and this morning in the ready room. He sounded nearly desperate, his expression pained, his gaze tracking back and forth across Francis’s face, like he was hunting for something, or trying to solve a frustrating riddle.

Oddly, it gave Francis hope. Not a romantic hope – that dream had been thoroughly dashed – but a hope that they might actually be able to work past all this awkwardness.

It would be up to him, though, he knew.

“A lot, I think,” he said, cheerfully, just to watch Tris’s brows lift. “It probably started right away: I was born in a bathtub, actually, and raised by my sisters, one of which was an invalid, and one of which was a hooker. One of my brothers was shot for treason, so I guess I’ve got some of that DNA in me. Let’s see…oh, I like to believe the best of people, even though every single experience of my life should have taught me otherwise. I look at least ten years younger than I actually am, I tend to ramble when I’m nervous, and I own not one, butthreeposters of you, because for some stupid reason I’ve always found you wildly attractive. I’ve even got the magazines and, yes, I bought that ugly action figure, even though it looks nothing like you. You were my idol, you see –werebeing the key word, because now that I’ve met you, and, clearly, misread what I thought, stupidly, were some sort of grumpy flirtations, I realize you’re a miserable bastard who hates my guts, who isn’t even mature enough to shake on it and let bygones be bygones.

“There’s a lot wrong with me,” he finished, breathless, dizzy with exhilaration. “So the real question is: what’s wrong withyou?”

Francis wished he had his phone out so he could snap a picture. The look on Tris’s face was one worth capturing for later reexamining. His eyes had gone huge – they were flecked with bits of hazel, striped with green and gold, Francis could see up close like this, when he wasn’t scowling – and his jaw was relaxed, which softened his face, and made him look younger; smoothed the perpetual lines from around his mouth and eyes.

Francis felt a rallying in his chest, felt emboldened enough to twist the knife – on his own chances. Only, he knew, with sharp regret, there had never been any chance. Tris Mayweather was only a hero in his childish fantasies. He said, “I don’t care if you like me or not, but we have to work together. Rest assured: I won’t make one more inappropriate overture. It’s clear you find me repulsive.” Then he stepped around Tris and continued forward across the rocks.

After a few moments, he heard the grit of boots on stone behind him, and then Tris drew alongside him.

Francis gathered himself for another dressing down. But, to his surprise, Tris said, in a mild, bored tone, “There’s some outcroppings up ahead that always fuck with the infrared. Good hiding spots. We’ve gotta check those.”

“Okay,” Francis said with forced cheer, and they proceeded along for the rest of the trip in a sort of unspoken truce.

~*~

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