Page 8 of Mystic Wonderful

Gavin rolled his eyes. “Overdramatic. All flash, and no bang. And that conduit! Okay, honestly, how did she convince Lance to bring that fucking thing back with us?”

Francis shrugged. “She made some logical points.”

But Gavin shook his head. “Logichas nothing to do with Lance letting her get away with all that shit. If you ask me–”

“About to say something you shouldn’t again?” Tris suddenly stood behind Gavin.

Gavin, Francis noted with interest, froze, and his expression shifted to worry.

And Tris, Francis couldn’t help but fail to note, was down to his tac pants and a clinging black tank top, dog tags gleaming under the lights, heavily-muscled arms crossed and on full display. Dark chest hair peeked out of his shirt. A tattoo, what looked an awful lot like a sword amidst embellishment, stood blue-black and faded from time on one thick bicep.

The image was…a lot.

Francis swallowed with a suddenly dry throat and very carefully didn’t allow his gaze to linger.

“No,” Gavin said in his own defense, glancing back over his shoulder at Tris.

“Hmph. See that you don’t.” Tris walked off to the showers with a last glare of warning.

“Sheesh,” Gavin muttered when he was gone, and they’d heard one of the cubicle doors shut. “Cheerful as ever. Okay, so.” He spread his feet on the tiles, and wiggled his bare toes. “What’s your story?”

Francis paused in the act of unlacing his own boots. “Mystory?”

Gavin chuckled – but not unkindly. He had the air of someone who could insult you to your face without offending you. “You see anyone else sitting here? Yeah, you. Where you from?”

“Oh. Um.” People rarely took a genuine interest in him, if that’s what this could be called. It was nice, but he was out of practice with this sort of thing. “Chicago.”

“Memphis,” Gavin offered, hooking a thumb toward his own chest. “You got family back home?”

“No.” Thought of them still pricked. “Not anymore.”

Gavin nodded. “I have a brother. Or, I had. He was pretty fucked up on heavensent, so.” He shrugged. “Maybe not anymore.” Matter of fact: he’d long resolved himself to the bleak reality.

Then he cocked a brow. “Girlfriend?”

“Er, no.”

Gavin grinned. “Good, you’ll give me someone to troll the brothels with when we go on leave.”

“Brothels?” Francis asked, feeling faint, suddenly.

“Yeah!” Gavin laughed, oblivious to his sudden dismay. “Some are really fucking seedy, but if we ever get down to New Mexico, holy shit, some of those are gold…”

Francis sighed.

Gavin kept up a running, much-unwanted commentary about New Mexico’s brothels, and the willingness of their prostitutes, while they stripped down to boxers and undershirts, gathered fresh clothes and wash bags, and headed for shower cubicles side-by-side.

“…and then there’s Lola, she–”

Francis cut on the water at its hardest setting and, thankfully, drowned out a no-doubt vivid description of Lola.

It wasn’t until the jets hit him that he realized how much tension he was still carrying from the op. The water wasn’t as hot as it would go, but warm, pleasantly so, and he found that he shivered, and then settled, his muscles unclenching.

All through camp, he’d worked on training his mind as well as his body. While he had no defense against awkward conversation – the low murmur of Gavin’s voice next door proved he was still prattling on about the best breasts in New Mexico – he’d worked diligently on the sorts of concentration and relaxation exercises that would allow his normally fractious spirit to stay level on dangerous missions. It was rooted in confidence: knowing that he had the weapons, the gear, the strength, and the skills to protect himself and his teammates.

There had been a moment, in the helo, rain stinging his face, when the bottom had dropped out of his stomach, and he’d thought he might throw up. But then he’d closed his eyes, briefly, and allowed himself to feel the weight and drag of his pack, of all his gear; the way his helmet squeezed at his head, and his goggles were pressing deep groves into his cheeks. He wasn’t alone, he wasn’t unarmed, and he wasn’t in over his head. He had his wings; others had signed off on his status as a Knight. He could do this.

He’d focused all his attention on each task as it came: rappelling, landing, unclipping. Going through the door, descending the stairs, checking each doorway, each corner, each shadow. In that way, he could usually trick himself into a sort of workman’s trance, confident and competent. The trick had worked today, and no one had breathed a complaint about his performance – probably all too preoccupied with Rose’s insubordination.

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