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It’s a little kiss—soft, warm—and it startles Hitch though she may have initiated it. Did she? She can’t remember. It’s surprisingly gentle, though, and a bit sloppy. His breath smells of liquor. She’s pretty sure hers does, too.
She wonders if he minds.
She doesn’t.
When they pull apart the world comes rushing back; she can see it in his face as what they’ve just done dawns on him. His cheeks turn red. She laughs and reaches out to touch one and he lets her. It’s warm, like his lips.
“Do you wanna go back?” she asks.
Nobody in the tavern is paying them any mind. They’re all laughing, bent over their drinks, getting handsy under the tables.
“All right,” he says.
Marlowe doesn’t shrug her off when she links arms with him on the walk back. They’re both a little more than tipsy and it’s either the alcohol in her system or the feel of his arm in hers that keeps her from feeling chilled. Maybe it’s both.
She’s not sure what she expects back at HQ. Part of her feels certain he’ll walk her to her hall and that will be the end of their evening together. Marlowe’s never been one for public displays of affection…or any displays of it, really. That he talks to her and seems to occasionally even enjoy doing so is as affectionate as he’s ever been; she’s always felt stupid for hoping it might mean something.
But now that he’s kissed her—or at least kissed her back…
Well, maybe it does mean something.
She smiles and leans against him and grins against the back of his shoulder like an idiot, hope blossoming too hard and fast in her chest to be able to help herself.
He walks her to her door, but doesn’t come in. He just stands there, conflict written plainly on his face. She’s not sure why, but Marlowe is Marlowe, and if he doesn’t want to come in he’ll have no problem telling her, probably in words that sting just a little too much, and she’ll play them over and over again in her head for hours afterward, trying to make sense of him.
So she takes a chance, takes his hand, lacing his fingers with hers, and pulls him inside. There is only an instant of resistance, but then he follows, closing her door behind him.
The room is dark, but she doesn’t bother to light a candle. They won’t need it anyway.
Instead she stands on her toes and kisses him. It’s light and soft, like the one in the tavern; she doesn’t want to rush anything. It might frighten him. She’s not sure. He’s so recklessly brave sometimes it terrifies her, but she doesn’t want him to be afraid of her.
It’s probably a silly thought.
He returns the kiss and pulls away. She despairs like a pathetic romance-novel heroine, heart fluttering anxiously, and struggles to think of a way to salvage the situation: excuses, pleas—anything. But then he’s back, kissing her hard enough to push her heels down to the floor.
She’s laying back on her desk, disorganized sheets of paper all over the place, when the clock tower in the square strikes midnight.
Marlowe startles at the sound, fingers clenching against her waist and the bunched-up fabric of her dress. His lips leave her neck.
“It’s late,” he says, as if in a daze, and straightens his back.
She follows suit, sitting up. She wants to pout. It had just been getting to the good part; he’d been pressed so closely against her that she knew he wanted her. She wants him, too, belly warm and aching pleasantly.
She’s not sure what to say to make him stay. “You don’t have to leave,” she tries.
He lets go of her dress, tugging the fabric down again, smoothing it out as if it matters. It’s almost a tender gesture. She doesn’t know what to make of it.
“I should,” he tells her, “so I will.”
She’s not surprised and for that she’s glad. He’s probably upset he’s broken curfew already and if they catch him out much later than this he’ll be in big trouble. She bets he’s never been in any real trouble his entire life—never stolen so much as a crust of bread. Is it stupid of her to like that about him? He’s so different.
“All right,” she says, and straightens his rumpled shirt. It’s a poor imitation of his gesture. “Good night.”
He leans down, takes her face in both of his hands, and kisses her so softly she hardly feels it.
It only lasts a second, but it leaves her heart pounding hard.
“Good night, Hitch,” he says, and lets her go.
He returns to his room.
Long after her door clicks shut behind him, her heart continues to beat so loudly she thinks she can hear it.
The next morning he finds her in the mess hall. She’s just set down her tray when he appears, almost out of nowhere. Almost like he’s been waiting for her.
“Hi,” she says, feeling suddenly shy. The collar of her uniform jacket is up to hide the marks he left on her neck last night. Things seem different in the daylight. If the marks weren’t there she’d probably think she imagined the whole thing.
He’s smiling. “Hitch.” He takes her hand, pulls her after him. He doesn’t say anything else.
She’s not sure what to think—or what’s going on. Marlowe’s never struck her as the type to want a quickie in the supply closet, but she supposes it wouldn’t be entirely surprising. Maybe he wants to finish things from last night.
But he pulls her past the nearest closet. His grip on her hand is tight until they get to a dead-end corridor, and then he lets her go. He’s still in a good mood, a little smile on his face—one he’s clearly trying to keep from exploding into a full grin.
He fails almost instantly, excitement practically radiating from him.
She expects a kiss. Maybe even a hug. That he’s glad to see her must mean something good.
But she doesn’t get either. “You’ll never guess what happened,” he says. He’s too energetic for this hour of the morning.
“Ah—I’m—” She fumbles to think of something intelligent to say, but she doesn’t know what he’s talking about. “What happened?”
He wrestles his grin back down. “I don’t have much time to talk; I’m supposed to be taking my shift in—well, right now, probably, but I had to tell you—” He takes a deep breath and then lets it out slowly. His voice, when it comes, is an attempt at careful control, but Marlowe’s never been good at hiding his excitement about anything. He’s too passionate, and she knows, now, that it extends to more than just justice and big words.
“The official announcement won’t happen until this afternoon, but Team Leader Eibringer told me about it in advance. The Survey Corps is opening up for transfers.”
Hitch hears him as if he is speaking to her from the other end of a very a long tunnel.
“I was the first to sign up.” He glances out the window behind her, where he can see the clock tower.
She heard it chime seven o’clock a few minutes earlier, before she’d set her food down in the mess hall. He’s already late. He’s never been late for anything.
“I have to go,” he says, and hesitates a moment before he pulls her into a hug. She returns it automatically. Her limbs feel numb. “Let’s talk about this later after the official announcement!”
And then he’s off, running back down the hall so as to not keep his patrol partner waiting any longer than necessary.
She stares after him dumbly, his words echoing in her ears.
Survey Corps… Transfers… First to sign up…
She doesn’t even realize she’s falling until her backside hits the floor too hard; the wall behind her is cold.
Of course he’s already signed up.
Of course he’s leaving her.
She was just a nice distraction. Now that he’s found something shiny, something more interesting—of course she’s become irrelevant. Good enough to tell of his plans, but not good enough to keep around. She should be used to this kind of treatment, but she’s not. She always fucks it up. How is it that her capacity for caring for others is always so disproportionate to how they feel about her?
She swallows hard and gets back to her feet. The Survey Corps is a death trap, she thinks. She can’t let him go there without trying to talk some sense into him. But what can she say to change his mind? What can she tell him to make him see that the Military Police is the better option? Not her—he’ll never stay for her; she doesn’t matter enough. But the Military Police: they do matter. He has goals for reforming them. She has a chance if she uses them.
It’s only a small chance, and maybe nothing she says will sway him, but she has to try.
If he goes, he may never come back. Not alive, anyway.