Page 9 of Mystic Wonderful

But now, back safe, warm water sluicing away the sweat and grime, nervous tremors stole through his frame, and all the nerves he’d pushed back rushed to the fore.

He lingered, until the water shifted from warm, to cool, to nearly cold; until the murmuring next door had gone, and he felt like he could keep his teeth from chattering if he left. He cut off the water, and in its absence heard only blessed silence, save the varied plinks of dripping water.

With a sigh, he toweled off, pulled on sweats and a t-shirt, and left the dressing cubicle attached to his shower stall with a greatly relaxed body, and a mind that he knew he could wrestle into submission with a hot meal and a good night’s sleep.

He was walking down the long, damp, tiled row of shower stalls when he heard a locker slam shut up ahead, and paused a moment, cursing inwardly. Doubtless Gavin would want to pick the conversation up where they’d left off, and he didn’t have the energy for that right now.

Still, there was no choice. He straightened his shoulders, lifted his head, walked around the corner into the locker room – and found Tris there.

Only Tris.

He stood behind the bench where he’d dropped his gear earlier, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, hair damp and slicked back, sorting his dirty fatigues and organizing his knives – of which there were many.

Francis halted, struck utterly dumb by the sight of flushed skin dusted with dark hair, and rippling muscles; the solid, strong physique of a man past forty who’d worked tirelessly his whole life. Scars marked his stomach, shiny lines where hair wouldn’t grow. One on his chest, right over his heart, sent Francis spinning from instantly aroused to deeply worried: someone had tried to kill Tris. More than once.

And no wonder. He was a Knight, he reminded himself with a firm mental headshake. It was the most dangerous job a person could have – one he’d signed up for willingly.

Tris lifted his head, spotted him, and Francis was glad for the rush of worry, the way that it had chased heart-eyed-moron off his face and replaced it with something more appropriate.

“Sorry,” he started, heading for his own locker. “I’ll just grab my stuff and–”

“He’s gone.”

Tris’s voice brought him up short. “Who?”

“That idiot Gavin.” He tilted his head toward the door with an eye roll. “If you ignore him long enough, he’ll eventually shut up.”

“Oh. Oh, well – that’s good – not that I don’t–”

Tris’s face did something: a quick flicker that wasn’t a smile, but wasn’t a frown, either. Wasn’t intended to drive him away, Francis didn’t think. And his gaze remained, while his hands kept sorting equipment with the sure, mindless motions of long practice.

He almost looked friendly. If a cliff face could look friendly, that was.

“I don’tmindthat Gavin is chatty,” Francis clarified. He didn’t feel like disparaging the man’s fellow Knight was a good way to start off their second conversation, not after the first had been such a disaster.

Tris snorted, and it was definitely a smile – or at least the threat of one – that tweaked the corners of his lips this time. “Everyone minds it. He’s a fucking idiot.”

Francis snorted, too, and grinned – not the subtle, repressed expression that Tris had offered, but his own wide, helpless grin, the one he knew made him look even younger.

To his surprise and delight, Tris’s almost-smile widened a tiny fraction, so that he looked like someone whocouldsmile, rather than a slab of granite. He glanced down at what he was doing, finally; pulled a t-shirt from a stack of clean clothes, and Francis regretted that he’d no longer have unfettered access to ogling his torso.

“He means well,” Tris said, “most of the time. But don’t hesitate to tell him to shut up if he oversteps. He thinks everyone’s as stupid and horny as him.”

“Right. Well. I’ll remember that.”

That felt, sadly, like a natural end for their exchange. Could he even call it a conversation? Probably not.

He turned to stow his wash bag in his locker; shut the door and spun the dial. Stepped into sneakers, and gathered up his laundry bag. All the while, he heard the rustle of cloth behind him, and knew that Tris was getting dressed; tried hard not to think about what that would look like, curse his vivid imagination.

When he could hold off no longer, Francis turned back around, surprised all over again, because now Tris was dressed – dark t-shirt and gray sweats soft from many washings – and had moved around his bench, his own bag over his shoulder, standing closer. Much closer.

Francis didn’t trust himself to say anything intelligent, so he lifted his brows in silent inquiry.

“You did – fine today,” Tris said, brows lowered, expression stern again – but his voice had wavered, just that one second, like he’d been choosing his words.

It wasn’t the highest of compliments, perhaps wasn’t even a compliment at all, really, but it filled Francis with a twisting sort of warmth, one that curled and fluttered in his chest. “Oh. Um. Thanks.”

“But,” Tris went on, because there was always abut. “You didn’t have to do any real fighting.”

---