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A sliver of pale moonlight shines down through a break in the clouds covering London’s night skies. It is both encouraging and worrying; encouraging because it’s been weeks since either the moon or the sun shone down upon the city, worrying because it means a greater likelihood of reapers on the prowl. Abby peers through the scope and scans the streets before her. Still and quiet, they are, for the moment at least, empty.
“When this is all over,” she murmurs over her shoulder at her companion sitting with his back against the wall of their foxhole, “you’re taking me dancing.”
His soft snort is quick, though reassuring. “Is that so?”
A hint of movement a block and a half away to her right has her readjusting her rifle’s angle. She sights once more, inhales, holds it for a three count, then slowly releases it through her lips as pulls the trigger. The softest snick is the only sound either of them hear as the shot zips a hundred meters across the open space, right through the skull of a husk; one shot, one kill.
Perfect.
“Yup. Suit and tie for you, flouncy skirts, delicate lace, glitzy jewelry for me.” Her hands move mechanically as she reloads the rifle, the expended casing popping out onto the ground. A soft sizzle and puff of steam as the heat meets a trace amount of snow, the only indication of any activity. “Dinner, drinks, dancing. The whole shebang.”
Coats tilts his head up at her. “How do you figure that? Last I checked, you’re the one who owes me.”
A soft chuckle escapes before she can stop it. “Babe, I paid that debt before I left you the first day.”
He huffs and trades out positions with her. “Did not.”
“Tourniquet.” Even though the light is dim around them, she doesn’t miss the twitch at the corner of his lips. Oh, yes, he remembers.
“That just means we’re even,” he replies. He shifts to his left, lifts his arm a bit, his lungs expanding as they fill. Seconds later, he drops to sit beside her.
Their eyes meet as she changes places with him and she smiles. “Kensington,” she murmurs, tapping him lightly with her forefinger on the tip of his nose.
His gaze narrows as he bats her hand away. “Doesn’t count.”
“Does too.”
“That was just a scratch!”
With a soft sniff, she counters, “Did you or did you not require medigel?” Rising over the edge of the wall, she peers around the area.
“It was a scratch.” Coats sits quietly for a moment, then adds, “‘Sides, I already repaid that.”
“Yeah?” The air around them is still, silent, almost expectant.
“Chiswick.”
It’s difficult not to tense up, and for a moment, and her lungs seize. Okay, can’t argue that one. But it’s better to move on. Close calls are one thing, but to see death staring you in the face? Accepting that as your fate only to live on…?
“Yeah,” she finally manages, then counters when she can speak again, “Notting Hill.”
Coats hesitates before replying; a hint of regret, perhaps, for having brought up Chiswick? It would be so like him. “Marylebone.”
“Belgravia.”
They continue on, a countless string of locations – battles fought, scouting missions, rescuing refugees – incidents that could have, but most decidedly didn’t, lead to personal disaster. Occasionally they trade off positions as they rotate their watch.
It’s late, near the end of their watch with no sign yet of their replacements. Coats is up top, sighting in on something in the distance while exhaustion stalks Abby. She drops with a thud to sit when her head falls back against the wall. “Shepherd’s Bush.”
Silence that’s worth its weight in gold fills the air, weighing down everything, including time, as her words disappear into the night. In one of those ‘It sounded better in my head!’ moments, realization comes as soon as the words leave her lips, but there’s nothing she can do to snatch them back. In all honesty, she’s half-horrified and half-amused at the connotation; her lips twitch, helplessly, as she twists to glance up at Coats. He isn’t unaffected, a similar sort of look screwing up across his features even as he continues to keep watch.
From one heartbeat to the next, in the quickest of moments, he darts a glance down at her. They both struggle to contain their laughter, or at least silence it as much as they can, but once the first sound escapes, it’s too much. Desperate times call for desperate measures, as the saying goes, and they are certainly living in desperate times right now. A strangled gasp slips past his lips. Abby chokes on laughter as she breathes in through her nose. They collapse against one another behind the wall, seeking solace in ill-placed humor at their mutual friend’s expense.
It doesn’t last long; it can’t, not if they are to remain at their post. Through extreme application of Williams willpower, Abby forces herself to suppress the laughter and trades off positions with Coats. “He’s going to kill me,” she mutters, but there’s no real fear behind the words. If anything, a stray echo of a laugh accompanies it.
Coats gives in to a last giggle as he finally regains control. “Nah, he’s not like that.”
“Have you seen him recently?”
The silence gains her attention immediately. Looking over her shoulder at him, she whispers, “You have?”
Coats nods. “For all of about ten minutes,” he clarifies, “back in Vancouver when he was being held. He’s the one who sent me looking for you.”
Her gaze narrows, lips pressing into a thin line. They’ve had that discussion numerous times now, too. “Need to work on your hunting skills, Mharú.” Movement at the far end of the block has her sighting quickly; her finger pulls without hesitation, despite the exhaustion.
Coats changes places with her. “Nah,” he replies, cheeky grin at his lips again, “not when I’ve got the best covert N on my side, I don’t.”
As she drops back behind the wall, she nudges his shoulder with her own. “Flatterer. That’ll get you –”
“A pint and a snuggle when we get back to HQ?”
Snorting softly, as mile spreads across her lips. “You find both, you let me know,” she banters back. “I’ve got it on good authority, both are currently being rationed.” When he glances down at her, her lips twitch. “Eyes on the prize, soldier.”
A smirk slides into place. “And what makes you think they aren’t?” But he does turn his attention back to his rifle scope. “Ah, well, can’t blame a bloke for trying, right?”
“Right.” With a last soft chuckle, she reaches up to pat the side of his leg just above the top edge of his boot.
He shifts, sights, but stays his finger. “So, tell me more about this night of dancing…”