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You’ve heard stories about the Pathfinder, all roguish charm and boyish good looks and completely unqualified for the job he’d been given. Sloan rails against his trespasses, his flippancy in nearly the exact same way Evfra does; Keema laughs and tells you not to get attached.
Oh Keema, you say, certain in your infallibility, I never get attached.
You didn’t expect him to be so small; in all the stories no one ever mentioned the tiredness that lingers on his face when he doesn’t think anyone’s watching, the sadness in those blue, blue eyes.
You look like you’re waiting for someone, you say as you walk up, leaning against the bar in as smooth a manner as you can manage. It’s intense, being the sole focus of his attention, the way his head tilts to the side and his eyes narrow as he takes you in. You hold the drink out because your curiosity has always gotten the better of you, and you’re surprised when he takes it. You’re more surprised by the crooked grin that follows, lights up his whole face, and it takes everything you have to keep your cool. Business, you remind yourself firmly; this is just business.
It’s probably inevitable.
It doesn’t have to mean anything, though. At least, that’s what you tell yourself later, digging through a container box in Sloan’s hideout just to find the most expensive bottle of alcohol in Andromeda. Keema’s laughter echoes in your head, followed by her warning: He’s dangerous, you know. If you don’t tell him—
I can’t risk it, you’d snapped, and you swallow hard now, staring down at your hand wrapped around the bottle, dropping down to stare at him when he slips into the room and accuses you of ditching him for thievery. Everything in that room happens too fast for you to follow, footsteps and a flashlight and a startled gasp. But your world slows to a stop when his lips touch yours and he presses up against you in all sorts of interesting ways, and you almost wish he would have went with punching you. Almost, but you aren’t that selfless. It’s just a distraction, you tell yourself, squeezing your eyes shut until the world starts turning again.
Later, sitting on the rooftop, you’ll try to tell yourself that again. Except--
You’re someone to me, he tells you, sincerity dripping from every inch of him. He kisses you and it tastes like freedom, like flying, like you’ve won something. It’s just a distraction; you have a war to win, after all. It’s better this way.
You don’t believe it, of course, but you’ve always been a good liar.