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Hands in pockets.
Keep it casual.
Don't let them know you know.
And definitely don't let them know you're scared.
That last one was easy, because Dusty Attenborough wasn't actually scared at all. What he felt when he spied the man watching him through rolled-up car windows of smoked glass, or the other man peering surreptitiously from the corner through foliage near the entryway of a hotel, was much more alike to contempt. It was easy to grin in nonchalance; his only concern was that the grin might start to slide into a lopsided sneer of disgust, and that wasn't the sort of expression that sat well on his face.
The man he would be meeting shortly had no such concerns, Dusty imagined. Walter von Schoenkopff could make any expression suit him. It was nearly unfair.
He probably didn't have to worry about sweating, either. Schoenkopff probably made sweat look good. This night's summer air was beyond balmy and was nearly muggy, and by the time Dusty reached the door of the March Rabbit he was questioning his decision to wear layers; even with the low, open cut of his shirt he felt moistness starting to collect on his limbs under his clothes, and when he surreptitiously ran a finger over his upper lip there was sweat there as well. Unseemly, to say the least.
They had elected to arrive separately and staggered for additional security, so although Dusty was perfectly capable of making a reservation on time Schenkopff was waiting already when he arrived, seated at a table in the back. Dusty pretended not to notice as multiple of the men assigned to shadow Yang's subordinates met one another at a nearby table as the location of their charges converged.
Schoenkopff had more layers on than Dusty. Schoenkopff had a tie on. He of course looked entirely at ease in the getup. Dusty sat down and the older man joked, "You've sure got a lot of groupies," with a slight conspiratorial hunch across the table, which was adorned with a single candle as though for a romantic dinner.
Dusty gave a small smile in return. "Seems like a lot of fuss over us given we're retired now."
And then they spoke of Yang. This was the root of it -- of that disgust that had been so near palpable earlier on the street as Dusty considered how they were treated, Yang Wen-li and everyone loyal to him. Dusty let Schoenkopff fill his glass for him -- briefly considered tilting it receptively or moving it closer to him, refrained out of some peevish vague wish to make him do the work himself. He barely looked at the wine once he had it, idly turned it in a circle. Their food came and they spoke of what perhaps was to come, of executions and rebellions. Dusty sliced his roast and sampled a piece. Yang was restrained by their government; the government itself restrained by treaties and webs of inevitable political consequence. Schoenkopff described the scenario he pictured playing out and Dusty saw immediately its plausibility and their intended place. They were all tools, all disposable. That was what they got for devoting their lives to this government and its so-called ideals.
After this, for the sake of their audience, they took the time to finish their dinner. It was delicious.
Schenkopff mentioned offhandedly as he cut into his own roast, "It's my birthday fairly soon."
"Oh?"
"Yes. I'm not in the habit of childish parties or anything, but if the situation continues much longer the boys won't be able to go drinking with me, as is the tradition."
"Yeah? How's that usually play out?" Dusty played with a piece of garnish and speared it on the end of his fork. "Pick up a lot of girls on your birthday outings, do you?"
"Is that a hint of jealousy I hear from the avowed bachelor? Maybe I had the wrong impression, but I thought that was something you were proud of." Schoenkopff cocked an eyebrow and speared Dusty with his smiling gaze like the garnish on the end of Dusty's fork.
"Mm." Dusty didn't feel like getting into it right now.
"Well, if it pans out this year, come with us, why don't you. Though I expect it'll turn into a bunch of drunk men slapping each other on the back and hanging off one another's shoulders. Not really much picking up women involved." Dusty tried to work out if Schoenkopff was insinuating anything in particular, beyond the literal image of the Rosenritter slung bonelessly over one another and surrounding furnitures due to drunkenness and camaraderie and nothing else.
The topic recurred later, in the cruising groundcar. "No attachments," Dusty explained, feeling counterintuitively vulnerable to be disclosing this. It was a personality flaw that he lived like that, wasn't it? But Schoenkopff was the same, in a manner of speaking. Flings, but nothing long term -- that was its own form of avoiding the weaknesses introduced by long term attachments, even if they didn't have the same--
"I have a daughter," said Schoenkopff nonchalantly.
Dusty did a physical double take away from whatever he'd been looking at out of the window. "A daughter? You?!" Schoenkopff nodded, and explained, and the slight defensiveness at the insinuation he recall the girl's mother gave Dusty some reason for pause. Oh, you remember her. You definitely remember her, thought Dusty. If it was a time of his life when the young Walter had found women so entirely fresh and alluring, it was a time when he was vulnerable to feel for them deeply. And what was he to make of the insinuation that women were no longer as alluring and entrancing as they had been a decade and a half ago? Was it simply the statement of the conqueror that he was running out of nations to subjugate, or was there perhaps still some novelty to be found outside the realm of only women...?
Later as they blazed down the highway, half a dozen police cruisers screaming in their wake, Schoenkopff said, "These damn groupies," and Dusty let his mask of a slight smile dip long enough to give a real, genuine laugh.
Yang was saved. It remained to be seen if the soul of democracy was also something that could still saved. Regardless, the night of Walter von Schoenkopff's birthday arrived, and in light of of Yang Wen-li's rescue and Frederica Greenhill-Yang's bravery there was no chance any celebration would fail to accomodate the two. There was the practical matter as well that the limited confines of the ships they were all fleeing on didn't exactly offer the possibility of a night on the town. But they had booze, and they had tables and chairs, and they had each other. As a result what might otherwise have been a raucous night of drinking and bar-hopping became a loosely organized dinner gathering of Yang's subordinates and friends. As the night some of the men peeled away to end the night cozy somewhere in the arms of a lover; others simply called it an evening and went to find their beds; and finally, by happenstance, it came to be the four of them amidst the remains of the party and the background murmuring of the hangers-on. They had lighted at a table picking at some small after-dinner snacks and pouring out the last red drops of a bottle of wine into one another's glasses: Yang, Frederica, Schoenkopff, and Dusty.
Yang Wen-li spread his arms magnanimously. As ever his sleepy face was friendly and guileless. "My three gallant rescuers, all in one place so I can thank you properly." As a practiced drinker, there was no flush of alcohol on his cheeks this night, but Dusty could tell his old friend was a little tipsy nonetheless. Maybe it was simply the spirit of camaraderie and warmth going to his head. "How can I ever thank you enough?" Yang turned to Frederica and planted a kiss on her cheek.
To Dusty's right, Schoenkopff chuckled. "I'll go without that brand of thanks myself, if you don't mind." Yang waved an arm at him dismissively and Frederica laughed. Schoenkopff turned to Dusty. "I won't speak for Attenborough, though." To his annoyance Dusty felt himself blush a little. He shied away from inspecting whether it was the thought of a kiss from a man, a kiss from Yang in particular, or simply the thought of a kiss in general that made him feel that curious mix of excitement and dismay.
"I...I'm an avowed bachelor, keep all of that cloying affection away from me," he murmured, which probably wasn't the right comeback, but everyone laughed warmly and he found he didn't really care at all.
Frederica and Yang took their leave shortly after. Somehow it had become just the two of them, lingering. An oddly non-awkward silence spread between them. Schenkopff said finally, "You know, before all of our admirers caught up to us on the highway, I think I was enjoying the conversation we were having."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yep. Some people don't have any sense of decorum in crashing a date." He took a sip from his wine, leaving Dusty to try and unpick how much of that was a joke. When the wine came back down Schenkopff was fixing him with that stare again, the one that must slay women across the galaxy.
It wasn't slaying Dusty persay, but he found he did like it. "Maybe we can pick up where we left off," he said, willing to play along with the joke-flirtation-whatever-it-was, just enough alcohol in his system that the screen of humor and nonchalance and whimsy could be rolled back, enough to peek around its edges.
Somehow they ended the night dancing. "Consider it a practical lesson. Just some knowledge that'll be handy if you ever swear off the avowed bachelor lifestyle," Schenkopff said, and then led him in a jaunty and fashionable sort of dance where the lead placed a light hand on their partner's body to guide them. After three rounds Dusty cheekily said he wanted to lead, and a couple Rosenritter who had hung around in the background clapped and cheered. "Call it a birthday treat," he murmured.
And he didn't dare to pull Schoenkopff too close, because letting people too close was a kind of danger, a sort of trap, even if it was their birthday, even if he was in the lead and it wasn't that serious. Because when you let people close you opened yourself up to pain in all kinds of ways, and when it was war, you could lose them in all kinds of ways too; into the arms of another, into the maw of death that opened between the stars with every battle they fought. So, no -- Dusty didn't let Schoenkopff lead him in another dance after that one. He didn't prolong the time they spent hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, arm in arm. And when he said, "woe, cloying affection be upon ye," and planted a cheek on Schoenkopff's jaw, he didn't put it where he really wanted to, right on those shapely lips; he went for the corner of the other man's mouth instead, though from the hoots and cheers you'd have thought Dusty went all out with tongue.
Not tonight. He wouldn't get too close, tonight. That's what Dusty told himself.
But when he saw the surprise and delight that bloomed in Walter von Schoenkopff's eyes at the kiss, and thought to himself how that easygoing smile was particularly pleasing when Dusty knew he had put it there himself, Dusty thought, perhaps another time.
It was a dangerous whim, but perhaps the freedom to engage in stupid, dangerous, fanciful whims was what they were at war for.