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In the lull between warp jumps, Subridens Subdola greets a rare morning of contented quietude and suspiciously little incident. No officers blaring down the vox, no voidsmen lost to the whims of machinery, or fights on the lower deck. A solitary punch thrown on the bridge over a navigational disagreement. Refuelling sacraments on one of the galaxy’s endless repertoire of frozen, uninhabited shitholes press on far beneath the upper levels, well away from any of the high-ranking staff who might hear it.
Indeed, in the Lord Captain’s personal quarters there is scarcely sign of life at all save the steady breath of two bodies piled on top of eachother. Both had been awake for some time, but reluctant to break whatever spell kept them there in the dim candlelight. Hara cannot hear it, but a shifting arm beneath her head causes her to turn and look.
Time? Heinrix signs with a precise gesture to the ceiling.
With a huff, the woman on top of him makes a laboured crawl to her side of the bed, past the ludicrous amount of covers and to his alarm she had most definitely not turned off after waiting for him to fall asleep in the small hours of the morning. To her own shock, it was almost early midday in standard Terran. Careful to maintain bleary-eyed neutrality, she could only pray he had exhausted his capacity to bollock her for the week after yesterday’s triumphant, twenty-day-late return to the Navigator’s chambers.
Early. She replies back over her hand in an easy lie. Her fingers make the outline of a rising man; a signifier that one’s three hours of allotted sleep had come to an end, if one were a treasure hunter on Sibellus. It was distinctly lacking in finesse, yet one of the only things she had bothered to take with her when she left for the Koronus Expanse. Kindness from old workers who cared for Sarto Stubbs’ daughter after he was gone, forgoing their three hours to teach her how to speak to people she had lost the ability to hear.
Hara hadn’t insisted he learn a word of sign language- Throne knows that she would sooner crawl back to Commorragh than ask him for a damn thing- but he had simply taken to it himself one day. Asked for a drink over a game of regicide as if he had grown up in the Underhive himself, grinning into the board when creeping red seized her cheeks.
Those days spent testing the water felt so long ago, now. Somewhere along the line, precarious quiet had turned into familiar safety and for someone who had sworn to the edge of the Callixis Sector and back she was done with inviting people into her chambers, he certainly looked comfortable sprawled out in hers. Perhaps it was time to… she could ask. Was it a Knightly faux pas? Too intimate? Nevermind the fact her bare chest sat in full view of him as they spoke, both breasts and every little tattoo plain to see.
An imperceptible click turns her hearing implant on, and with it the distant clamour of daily life returns. Nowhere was safe, but this was as good a place as any to be foolish; the worst he could do was evacuate via the window and pretend he’d never met her. Just like we practised, von Valancius.
It is subtle, at first… the way she settles back to his side. Scratches along his stubble in that way that reminds him to shave. He is the Interrogator, of course, but she has devised friendlier ways of getting what she wants. Phase two is instigated with soft kisses up his neck to his ear, and instinct bids him move his jaw back invitingly.
“It's getting long.” She smiles, infected by nonchalance.
“Sorry?”
“Your hair. S’getting long.” Her expression remains right where it is– the very picture of unassertive interest. She needs to pretend she has only just noticed, or the whole thing becomes weirdly intense.
“Oh.” As if he had just realised he has a body for the first time in weeks, Heinrix makes an unsure gesture to the back of his head. Pulls a dark strand from behind his ear and works it around his thumb “I suppose it is.”
“I could, uh…” Hara trails off as she continues to kiss down his across his face, straddles his hips and then takes her fingers from his roots to ends to belabour the point. A little greasy; he hadn't bothered to wash much over the past few weeks, it seems “Could sort it out for ya. No charge?”
“And you cut people’s hair often?” If the raised eyebrow means anything, he refuses to elaborate. It doesn’t stop him placing his hands at her sides, absentmindedly twisting the hem of her underwear.
“Always did my own. Friends, sometimes.”
Lovers? Never. He doesn't need to know everything, contrary to his own beliefs.
Hara’s hand runs circles across his scalp, and the addition of her metal prosthetics is enough to coax him to shut his eyes in contented silence. Memories of long hours spent huddled around a terrible voxcaster blasting even worse music came unbidden; stupid kids using whatever they could find to paint their hair whatever colours they could make, then nursing the inevitable chemical burns afterwards. When the voxcaster didn’t work, they would beg Hara to sing for them. Hers were all long dead now, but did the Interrogator ever have those kinds of friends? The ones you could make mistakes with?
“Hmm. I assume you have the necessary tools here already.”
“Yeah! Still do my own. Don't need no one with sharp implements getting near me, things being what they are and all. Even got some spare red dye around here, if you wanted a bit of Hara flavouring…”
With a final flourish she lets the proposition linger, bated breath as a moment drags on for eternity. Heinrix’s eyes are still closed, but she knows that look as well as her own augmetics; he is well and truly considering it. A small, optimistic part of her animal brain conjures a striking vision of her man with dark red locks.
“Fine. The same as before” Heinrix states, with just a touch of Inquisitorial authority. Gaze upon her one more, he seems to catch some impish look she hadn’t realised was there. “The same. No ‘Hara flavouring’, and certainly not whatever passes for a ‘ganger special’ on Sibellus.”
“Aw. Swear on my good hand, darling. I'll even wash it first, so the cut sits even-like”
“A bath, Hara? I was led to believe this would be a haircut…”
“It is. I ain't getting in with you.” She chokes out with a little more force than needed. He was usually more than keen for a tumble (more so than her, for certain), but the man had perhaps fifteen hours of sleep spread out over twenty full days. This isn't about that.
Heinrix chuckles but makes no effort to move her via his hold on her hips, expression one of mock surrender “My apologies, then. Shall I heat the water?”
“Stay put. I'll do it.” Hara asserts, then pecks the spot her bionics had been preoccupied with. Whilst he anchors her legs to his sides for a moment longer than necessary, he relents when she gathers a fistful of dark hair in her grip “That’s enough. Off.”
His gentle, tired sigh marks her ascent to the bathroom. Eyes on her back, because they always are.
When she walks in, she notes that their eclectic mix of toiletries were strewn about the place just as she remembered them. Hers, mainly, presenting as a swathe of white face paints, deep black eyeliner, red lipsticks and tweezers cast about the table. Recently, a small, respectable portion of the dresser had been sectioned aside for a razor, toothbrush and plain hairbrush… Hara allows a moment of mourning for her novelty lighter collection, which now made its home shut away in one of the drawers.
The bath. Don’t keep him waiting.
As she runs a finger across the surface of the porcelain, she makes a note to give Abelard a raise; the poor man had dutifully ensured someone had kept it clean the entire time she had been gone, in anticipation of their lost mistress’ return. He had always possessed a staggering attention to detail, dragging the Protectorate behind him -Hara in tow- with little more than a stoic salute. Ordered her nice things to wear. Never mentioned the needles, or the sick, or the fact she used to keep her bed covers behind the desk. Tried to keep Heinrix occupied, far away from the new Rogue Trader.
Restless, mind racing a hundred knots a minute, she rummages around in storage for those scented candles Jae had shoved into her hands two months previously.
Abelard was well within his rights to want van Calox gone, frankly. You keep the direct subordinates of an Inquisitor who hates you somewhere on the middle deck of your voidship, out of your way but comfortable enough that they can’t complain about the lack of accommodation. You don’t invite them to your room and fuss over how stressed they must have been looking under every floorboard whilst you were gone, or lie them down in your bed, or turn the faucet as hot as physically possible for their bath (the way they like it)– you don’t convince yourself you can put up with a little pain if it eases his.
She barely used the tub, anyway. The whole topic was an endless source of frustration for Heinrix, but she was a woman who preferred to shower and get on with things. It’s not worth getting caught by demons or assassins in her room with her eyes closed and pants down, even if he’s there with her. She’s promised when it’s safe one day, she’ll wait naked in the water for him, with her gun somewhere out of reach. When it’s safe.
Just when the water is borderline scalding, she nods and fetches a jug with a contented hum.
“Alright. In you come!”
In no great rush, Heinrix trudges over to the sight of two lit candles and Hara’s wide, self-satisfied smile as she pats the rim of the bath. She is acutely aware her hair is out of place after a mad sprint from one end of the room to the other to fetch a working, inoffensive novelty lighter (from the infamous novelty lighter compartment).
“Mood lighting? You spoil me, Lord Captain. Just a moment.” He moves to shed the last of his upper clothing, and Hara, almost unbidden, jumps up as if she has been shot.
“Wait, wait. Already said I’ll do it.”
“I was under the impression you’d just ready the water. I can take my own-”
“I know.” She interrupts, and after a tug at the top of his clothes wordlessly begins to work her way down whatever undershirt he had collapsed into her bed with the night before. Further objections die unspoken as he blinks rapidly, the remainder of the buttons giving way without so much as a fight.
He watches her toil. She remains engrossed in the plain white fabric of his outfit, but didn’t need her sniper’s vision to know Heinrix had been trying to bore a hole into her head with his eyes from the moment she had re-emerged with Lady Orsellio, to the very second he finally gave into exhaustion (after he had established that, yes, she was indeed not a warp apparition).
It wasn’t so bad. One of the first things she had noticed about him was that he liked to stare; over time, she had compiled a non-exhaustive list of all the strange, harmless habits he barely realised he had. Certain button ups for certain overcoats, a sip of recaff only after you had started on breakfast, and he always picked the black pieces on the regicide board. It had been a long time since she'd bothered to notice the little things about another person.
With a helpless laugh, she notes this was a shirt he wore only when he had completely run out of other options- as it sat too tight around his neck, he’ll have you know- and thus the neighbourly move would be to do away with it. Collar first, Hara peels the fabric away until he stands almost bare in the candlelight. His skin is cold- it always is- but there isn't a goosebump in sight until she runs her hands down the length of his arms and back, stopping at one of the souvenirs left by their last little joint foray into the Expanse.
“You look nice. You always do.”
Heinrix’s gaze is equal parts warm and uneasy, but he remains still; there is something that flickers under the surface he barely tries to conceal. Tense? Tense is the wrong word. Whatever Commorragh had broken in him had made the Interrogator far less on edge when they were alone. Nevertheless, she’s careful when they sink down, down, down through the dense cloud of steam that blankets the room and to the lip of the bath.
He hesitates just before the fall.
“This ain’t trick or nothing. Not gonna poke your eye o-” Emperor’s bones. Idiot. “Sorry.”
“I’m not fragile, Hara. It was a slip of the tongue.” Malaise dispelled, Heinrix’s crooked smile is imbued with genuine compassion and- as if in demonstration of his candour- he tips his head backwards “It’s just that lying like this reminds of Guisorn III. Sometimes- Throne, this is embarrassing. Sometimes, I would sneak outside and play in the mud without my family’s permission, as small children are wont to do. Once she caught me, my eldest sister- Ingeida- would proceed to run the foulest, coldest bath a young noble could conceive of.”
“Hard to picture a sullen little Heinrix covered in mud.”
“My parents did not want to picture it either.” He adds, gravely “Before they ever found out, Ingeida would throw me in the freezing water and scrub until not a speck of dirt remained, no matter how hard I cried. She tended to do my hair last, as it took the longest… hauled over the side, just like this.”
She found it hard to picture him as little at all, to be honest; it made some of the things that happened to him soon after better left unsaid. Well into the task at hand, Hara’s voice is a low, unfocused murmur “Bit mean. Think mine would have just let me take the beating from my old woman.”
“My parents would have noticed long before the water could heat up if she had waited. Ingeida was everything an older sibling should be– she saved me from getting into trouble. It was her birthright to inconvenience me whilst doing so.” Finished with an acerbic chuckle, Heinrix’s furrowed brow softens as he relaxes into lathered up shampoo.
Most of Hara’s siblings were guilty, black scorch marks in her past– countless funerals and wakes tumbled into one, always more occupied with prying her wailing mother off the coffin than whatever final rites the priests could be bothered to spit out for another dead kid. The man at her side was a good few decades her senior, but still spoke of his sister with such… clarity. Such heartache. As if a perfect spectre of Ingeida was right there, working next to her.
“What do you think she’s doing now?”
It is awkward for him to shrug, but he attempts it anyway “Married, I suppose. All three of my sisters likely are. Happy? I hope so.”
She’s finished with the soap. Next comes conditioner, and a short trek to the bottle grants precious time to weigh just how badly she needs to twist the knife that lives in her chest this morning.
“Did you, um, ever want that? A wedding, I mean. How’s the pressure?” Hara’s hands keep their pace downwards so as not to betray how they struggle to keep still, avoiding his now open eyes. It was far, far too easy to push unspoken boundaries with him cradled like this. If he wants, he only has to answer the last question she tacked on.
His sigh is bone rattling. Not a hope in the warp she’s getting a straight answer, then.
“The pressure is fine. There were a great many things I wanted before my sorcerous powers manifested…” He pauses, face unreadable, making use of the time Hara takes applying the cream to suck in air through his teeth “For a noble in a knight world, matrimony was more about mutual gain than romance. Love was a benefit, not a requirement.”
“Oh. Yeah. Forgot you lot were allergic to fun.”
“We understood ‘fun’- I grew up in a culture that valued the art of courtship, at least. And I have had every opportunity to make up for lost time…” He is waiting expectantly when she musters enough courage to look down.
“Aren’t you sweet? Yet to hear a lick o’ poetry in my ear, though.”
“Clearly, I need to work harder.” Combined with a rather deft evasion of her original question, those cogs in his head are turning too fast for comfort; a surefire sign he had packed away that little joke for later. “Have you? Considered marriage, I mean.”
Massaging someone’s ends gives one an opportunity to think. It is far too raw to admit that she had certainly considered it– with him, when she was high and emotional. Maybe with some inoffensive nobody whose only demand was that she lie back and think of the Emperor from time to time, when she was being realistic. She possesses enough introspection to know she’ll never learn from past mistakes.
“Dunno? Guess I should think about it to save Dargonus’ nobility from a collective apoplexy. Back home our love was mostly real, but officially, the marriage wasn’t– we’ve got our own traditions that weren’t recognised by Imperial Law.”
“Such as?”
“Well, one time I was with my mate Toxic Toby, and we stopped by Seigneur Pixton’s Manor to ‘requisition’ some of his art. He had this massive curtain that always had drawn closed, see, and since we were robbing him anyway… we, ah…” In an instant, Hara catches herself before too much comes tumbling out. Poor Tobes. She remembers his face, frozen in that perpetual glower of his. Better to remember him as the miserly bastard he was “Nevermind.”
Rather humorously, Heinrix makes little effort to hide how far his eyebrows shoot upwards “Toxic Toby? I’ll assume that’s a pseudonym. What did you use Pixton’s curtain for, then?”
“Nothing, really. Was funnier in my head.”
His expression softens from wry amusement to gentle concern, and she hopes the heat hides how red she no doubt looks. Common folklore maintained that to prove newlyweds could live bound spiritually in matrimony, they had to be bound together physically in some way throughout the entire ceremony; Tobes and her figured the curtain could hold about thirty. It had indeed been the largest wedding in Sibellus history-
“Hara… you don’t need to feel embarrassed. I don’t care that you relieved some lordling of his home decor, or that you used it for a tradition the ecclesiarchy doesn’t understan-”
“Hold on. Who said I was embarrassed? Was my home for over three decades. I’m only here ‘cause-”
Stop it. He doesn’t need to know, so don’t ruin it. Play stupid so he thinks you’re a better woman than you are. She doesn’t take advantage of his current position, and continues to rinse the ends clean as tenderly as before. Just clean his bloody hair.
“-Cause Theodora asked so nicely. Not embarrassed, Heinrix. Ain’t you got my portfolio lying around for this sort of info?” She indicates for him to look up, and hopes her playful grin softens the blow somewhat. Not angry, or ashamed.
He begins an admirable attempt to appear neutral, but shifts awkwardly enough that the answer is obvious. Hara Marguerite Stubbs really did have a portfolio!
“Records on you and your home were… sparse, to tell the truth. We had far more on Edelthrad.” Between jugs of hot water, he keeps his eyes on her from below with all of his usual intensity “Regardless, you must know by now that these questions have nothing to do with my job. I want to know you.”
She ponders giving in, despite the fact just about anything he learns about her is useful for his job. Van Calox was a damn bloodhound, but she had rather genially dodged any attempts to poke too far into her background so far. In an act of uncharacteristic mercy, he had- in turn- rather quickly stopped pushing the topic… she had no idea why he had relented, but she worried he had figured out she was simply too spiteful. With her first step on Theodora’s ship, she had used the last dregs of her resolve to settle on the fact that her long, undignified crawl in the mud would not be a wild tale to satisfy anyone’s curiosity. It had been built on the backs of dozens of Hivers more deserving- written in their blood- and their love for eachother was theirs.
More than that, the smallest, weakest part of her cannot take the fact he might not like them. She’s sick of that familiar warm swell of shame. What does she do if he thinks they’re meaningless? What woman in her mid-thirties should even care? He was probably more right about embarrassment than she cared to admit.
“Sorry.” Throne, it feels like talking with a mouthful of glass. It isn’t his to know. She won’t try to concoct a convincing lie, at least; she was no Jae. Hara would simply refuse to tell the truth.
Calm as a night sky, he takes her hand to his lips, nevermind the thin coating of conditioner on it “Don’t apologise.”
She doesn’t think her expression sours at all, but it’s hard to tell as this whole song and dance would be easier if he donned the Inquisitorial cap and pushed her, to be honest. It would be so simple to tell him to take a long walk out a short airlock if he were cruel when they were alone; if he made his games more obvious. If Heinrix had just functioned like the overpromoted enforcer she thought he’d be, he never would have gotten so close he could ask these sorts of questions in the first place.
After he releases her hand, there is a silent agreement to not push the subject further. She allows him to lean into the warmth of the water, and the rest of the wash is conducted in the spirit of peace.
Once it is done, she pulls him up straight and makes a second enthusiastic dash for the vanity dresser to fetch their one and only nearby chair, insisting he stays right where he is whilst she scrambles to pull things in order. When she refuses his help for the third time, she swears a switch almost audibly clicks somewhere inside his head– he finally appears to realise that part of the fun demands he does nothing at all. Resigned to his fate, he watches his hairdresser dart about with his elbows on his knees.
“This way, darling.” Hara guides him by the hand and places a clean, red towel over his shoulders.
“As you command.”
He sits. In an uncharacteristic display of restlessness, he then begins to shift near constantly once actually upon the chair. As she wrenches his disobedient torso into place, she laughs just close enough to his ear that warm breath no doubt tickles it. He was the stark opposite to her questionable flexibility, and could barely help it; absolutely, relentlessly stubborn “You’re not just my only customer, but my worst. Sit straight!”
“I am!” He responds in kind- so much quieter than her own boisterous guffaw- yet his protest is laced with odd vulnerability “Are you sure you're confident doing this? You have enough light to see what you’re doing?”
“‘You’ve stabbed me’, or whatever. If I cut it wonky, I’ll let you shave the rest of mine off. That’s how sure I am.”
There is no possible way for her to make a mess of a simple trim- short of the ship careening into the ice fields below- but van Calox doesn't need to know that. Silent in his self-inflicted misery once more, he faces the last dregs of water rushing down the drain and lets the bathroom’s judge, jury and executioner freely manipulate his head. Fortunately for her victim, Hara has no need to ask where his hair usually sits– because she had made a mental note that it was about an inch and a half behind the ear well before the topic had ever come up. Said victim does not deign to clarify when he sees her weapon in position. Perfect.
Sleeves up, scabber. Time to show what you’re made of.
Snip. Once the first lock of hair is gone the rest comes easy. Minutes pass by, punctuated by the occasional rustle of wet strands that pass over themselves and the snipping of scissors; everyone says she’s always been good with numbers, so calculating how much to take off comes as naturally as breathing.
Snip.
Eventually, their meditative tranquillity is broken only by a barely stifled snort that carries through the chambers “You wound me.”
“What? Where?” Focus intruded upon, she puts her tool aside to check for any nicks on his scalp.
“No, no. I’ve just realised what you were trying to say. It isn’t ‘you’ve stabbed me’, Hara. The saying goes, ‘you wound me’.”
She blinks, embarrassed- once, then twice- then clacks her scissors together for dramatic effect. “I’m about to.”
“Such cruelty towards someone whose head is at your mercy, Lord Captain.” Heinrix remarks. Whilst his tone is as severe as ever, a glimmer of playful compassion crinkles the corner of his eyes in a way that betrays the joke. Low gothic can’t be everyone’s native language, as much as the Imperium declares it to be so.
Hara’s laugh, in turn, is hoarse; a reward for decades of poor taste in lho-sticks.
As she works on evening out the ends they lapse back into companionable silence, interrupted only as Hara hums some tune the washerwomen enjoyed on Footfall. It would be wrong to say he falls asleep- as that would make the cut a disaster- but he certainly relaxes just a little too far into the chair to be fully alert. Fortunately for him, she muses, Hara Stubbs worked on kids and senile old codgers with more bullet holes than teeth– she can cope with a middle aged man running on fumes.
Eventually, she moves around to combat his fringe. The final frontier.
“Hey” She clicks, tapping the bridge of his nose with the handle “Talk to me to stay awake. So, how’d you do it on long missions? Keep up appearances and shit, I mean.”
Almost on instinct, he flinches and fixes her with a strange, sad expression… only for it to pass just as quickly, his eyes drifting upwards in thought.
Snip.
“I’m awake… and my hair? It depends. Sometimes, the worlds you land on are ‘civilised’, and it isn't too difficult to coax a noble’s personal attendant into a quick trim. Sometimes, you go without. Make do. Maybe look in the mirror and cut your own, if you know what you want.”
“It’s how I got started. Was sick of my older brother giving me bowlcuts.”
“Indeed. It was easier after…”
Heinrix’s voice wanes, but she already knows where it is going. Easier to cut after he had grown it all back. Over the metal plate. Steadied his paralysed hand. Replaced the eye. Undeniably, it is much easier to look at yourself when a maimed freak isn't staring back. A second stretches on far longer than it should, and he looks as if he is trapped somewhere far away when his gaze strays to the corner of the bath. Much like herself, his pain is his; he would never deign to share it all with her.
“I bet. Careful.” Hara interjects with a gentle touch against his tensed jaw, then traces her thumb above the eye that he lost… the lighter of the two. He straightens in silence, and lets her run the comb through his damp hair once more. It gives her welcome time to steer the conversation someplace safe. This isn’t meant to be a minefield.
Snip.
“I’ve always liked yours. It's uh, nicer than mine.”
“Your hair is striking, like you are. And regardless of the reality of the matter, I have an unfair advantage, my lady. I don't bleach it every standard Terran month.” Heinrix grins.
There it is again. Sentiment that pools in the bottom of her gut when he acts like she’s important, congealed with the white hot rage that rises when he speaks as if he isn’t. A grown man doesn’t need coddling (or in her opinion, both eyes), but all this fuss was to make him feel good… love shown in the only way a hive rat understood. Shown, because saying it aloud would shatter whatever fragile truce keeps them together. He will leave. More likely than not, Calcazar will make sure she has a lethal accident on his way out. What else can she do other than give him as many of these little experiences as she can, until he’s sent off alone into the stars again?
The first lesson she learned was to never give your enemy the knife. The second was that not a single person in your life will be able to stay, and so they play their game on the regicide board, whatever they are overshadowed by the upcoming checkmate. Even then…
My lady. My lady. My lady.
Was it so bad to want it?
“And… there! All done!”
He’s had enough this past few weeks; she leaves the everpresent thought that they are on borrowed time where it lies, a gaping wound in the middle of her chest. One more day won’t change what both already know to be true. Hara might not be good, but she knows how to be kind.
“Already?” He exclaims, “May I look?”
“Go wild. You’ll need this and the mirror over there t’see the back.”
Passing over the hand mirror is a little nerve wracking, actually. She’d follow through on shaving her head if she had to, but…
Chair in tow, he leaves for the vanity to deliver judgement. As with most things, Heinrix van Calox conducts himself with admirable dignity despite the haggard look of a man who is on his way to the gallows. With intent, he places himself in front of the large dresser, raises the smaller hand mirror to the back of his head. Then…
“It’s… Thank you, Hara.” Soft enough that it is almost under his breath, she cannot read his eyes with his back to her “It’s the same, just as you promised.”
She hopes her grin comes across as confident rather than relieved, as he sounds genuine enough. Her wary gaze turns from the razor “Damn right. You ain’t gonna get that service in some ratfuck noble’s boudoir.”
“Not the language I would have used, perhaps… but you have indeed managed to keep it very even.”
“Said I would. You’re welcome.”
You’ve been off the stims is inferred, but goes unsaid. Did he… think she wasn’t? Why did he let her get near him with scissors, then? He most certainly checked her drawers for narcotics when he thought she was busy, so frankly he should be able to tell she’d been borderline teetotaller the past couple of months. They weren’t helping, anymore.
Whatever Heinrix sees on her face, he doesn’t comment on it.
“Now I am more presentable, once I’ve checked the time, we can tend to any unfinished business. Lady Orsellio will no doubt wish to discuss our next course of action…”
Oh, shit. She had forgotten about the alarm.
She is pulled from her ruminations rather abruptly by the realisation. A tense few minutes pass as she busies herself with moving candles from one spot to another, gathering his stray hair in the towel piece by piece.
As sure as the dunes are yellow, he returns with his disabled alarm in hand.
“Hm. I believe not too long ago you said it was, and I quote-” to punctuate his sentence, Heinrix signs a rising man over his hand “-Early. Yet, this clock tells me it is mid-afternoon.”
He stands there, hard as flogiston. In contrast, she stands like a grox in headlights, blinking dumbly at the oncoming grav-train.
“You hadn’t washed for a while? Took ages to get the muck out of-”
“I… am going to stop you before I’m forced to dignify that with a response. We will discuss your loose interpretation of the standard Terran day shortly, Rogue Trader.” Accompanied by a brisk bow, Heinrix makes for the bedroom once more “After I have put a clean shirt on.”
Not as angry as he could have been, considering he would not have let that slide a few months ago. If he hears her maniacal cackle, he makes no attempt to respond to it as he leaves. When he walks, she watches. Gathers the towel- the hair, the water- with her eyes trained on his back. Once he is out of sight, Hara reaches for her pistol to bring with her to… ah. Nowhere to be seen– had she abandoned it under the bed all morning? Hadn’t even thought to bring the thing along.
Thirty-four years old, and this was the first time she had forgotten to go somewhere armed. Abelard was right– he’ll make a fool of her yet.