Chapter Text
If there was one thing Cimorene hated more than shooing away irritating knights trying to “rescue” them from being General White’s assistant or getting ambushed by Crown soldiers, it was air travel. Not space travel, though that was a headache and a half in and of itself, but single planet air travel. All the resources of the revolution and yet sitting in even the finest jet made them want to hurl themself towards the ground and cuddle a boulder.
The trouble is that even the nicest airplanes tend towards a teeny tiny interior space and that means all the awfulness of traversing the stars gets magnified tenfold. See, on an airplane General Mercymourn Cordelia White is almost as waspish and paranoid as every time she’d set foot on a starship the twenty-four years Cimorene had known her, a maelstrom of teeth and overbearing anxiety that terrified even experienced flight attendants and reasonably confident pilots.
There was no helping the trip across Darcy, going from the primary stronghold Fort Bingley all the way to remote Beckham to inspect the troops there. They’d just have to grin and bear it.
Only halfway through the twenty-hour flight and the two of them had already run out of tasks they could feasibly do midair. There were books and puzzles and whatnot, all ones Cimorene had selected that Mercy would tolerate long enough that they’d get some peace and quiet from her anxious yapping. Their private cabin was decently sized, sure, but Mercy’s soft voice still filled the room like nobody’s business.
Okay, that wasn’t exactly fair. Cimorene wasn’t around for the Anderson explosion back in the day (they’d joined up a year later) but from what they’d heard it was one of the worst spaceship disasters in a century. Even Doc Lorenzo himself was loath to set foot on any sort of flying contraption, skyfaring or spacefaring, and he’s one of the most sensible people they know. It only made sense that Mercy would be a paranoid, anxious wreck every time they flew.
Alas, Cimorene was the only person who ever truly felt the full brunt of her anxiety. They always sat on her mask side and became her eyes and ears where she could neither see nor hear, guided her through the worst of the panic attacks before getting shut out again, and even triple checked in-flight meals for poison and adaptive utensils. This left them little time for themself – assisting Mercy was an exhausting full time job, but that's why Cimorene makes the big bucks.
Still, the books seemed to be working right now. The genre of the moment was mysteries set amongst the animal kingdom. Apparently, creatures of the forests had fascinating politics that these books captured quite elegantly, even if they weren’t accurate. Only Mercy, she who speaks to animals and convinces real, actual bears to maul endless armies of bearfolk people, would know.
With Mercy’s attention conveniently taken up, Cimorene was finally, finally able to take a crack at their latest cross-stitch work in progress. They’d picked up a chart for a midnight gathering of cats that they wanted to gift their beloved (and only) friend Morgan for her birthday… several weeks ago. Cimorene had only finished maybe a fifth of it by now. Fucking yikes.
Before they started working, however, Cimorene elected to take what would be the first of many particular gambles this trip. Rather than the typical foot of personal space Mercy required, allowing only a faint touch in case there was something on her bad side that Cimorene needed to inform her of, they elected to scoot over, oh, about two inches.
See, although Mercy’s always been appreciative of everything Cimorene does for her, it’s mostly been in the form of a fat paycheck or some understated feedback. After an offhand comment from Belle a few months ago, however, things started to get… odd.
It started with a handwritten note of appreciation. Mercy rarely ever handwrote notes beyond a post-it or two that lasted all of about a day before they were unceremoniously destroyed. But this, this was a genuine piece of her best attempt at heartfelt emotion. It was also painfully stilted, awkward, and impossible to read in a handful of places due to the amount of things that were crossed out.
Cimorene tucked it into their tablet case, safe, secure and always with them.
Then there was that whole thing with the bouquet. Now, Cimorene was no stranger to ordering an unusual gift or two for those Mercy needed to wine and dine. They’ve even bought flowers for some noble or war hero or whatnot.
But these ones… Mercy had actually tried to order them herself, which was a bad idea. There’s half a dozen protocols Cimorene does to keep their and Mercy’s various personal orders untraceable. Let’s just say there’s many very good reasons she never does it herself and leave it at that.
Cimorene tried not to think about the fact that all the flowers in the order were their favorites (sunflowers, gerbera daisies, tiger lilies) and just helped her finish it up. The flowers showed up that afternoon on their desk, they handed them to Mercy, and she got one of her “upset but hiding it very well” expressions up.
She looked over the flowers, straightened them, and handed them back. Obviously, Cimorene had done something wrong. The flowers were wrong. They went up and started taking them towards the green waste so she’d never have to think about them again.
However, they only got a few steps in before Mercy physically blocked their path and started signing at them frantically. What was she- oh. The card attached. Cimorene had to read the card.
“To the one who always shows up for work. -M”
So… not exactly the most sentimental card, but the fact that Mercy was trying to give them to Cimorene as a surprise coupled with her distress that they tried to throw the bouquet out probably meant that there was more emotion attached than it initially appeared. That was… odd.
The flowers lived on Cimorene’s nightstand for almost a whole month before there was nothing left but stems and dead petals.
And even day to day things have gotten a bit odder. Mercy’s been trying to talk to them about inconsequential and/or personal things! It’s been twenty-five years and the amount of inconsequential and/or personal conversations they’ve had wouldn’t even fill up a single journal. Well, maybe two. Point is, they’re usually few and far between.
Used to be anyways. These days, it almost seemed like she was… trying to be more open about herself and listen to Cimorene talk in turn. It’s nice. It’s just unusual and a little bit out of character. Cimorene should be concerned, has been even, but Doc says she’s acting just fine otherwise. They’ll both just have to keep an eye on her.
Cimorene managed to get a few stitches in before the fact that they fell asleep at one AM and woke up at three to get to work started to weigh heavy on their eyeballs. Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. When the hell else are they going to work on Morgan’s present? The moment the jet lands in Beckham it’ll be all hands on deck for the next stars know how long.
But sleep called. With a soft sigh, Cimorene placed the fifth-finished piece back in its protective carrier and slipped it into her personal bag. Fine. Sleep time it is.
Now, they could use their neck pillow that they keep handy or… there was another gamble Cimorene could take. Maybe, just maybe, Cimorene could use Mercy’s big, strong arm as a pillow. Maybe Mercy would tolerate that. Maybe they could just let down their hair to cover their scaled ears, slide on over next to her, and rest their weary head on her, sleep overtaking her like a cheetah.
“Wha-“ came Mercy’s soft voice, the uncoordinated brogue that came when she wasn’t overworking her half-lipped mouth to speak normally. They could feel her shift, twisting to look at them with her good eye. This only served to make them a bit more comfortable in her arm, the warm scent of her sweat filling up their lungs.
Then Mercy relaxed, returning to her book. “Oh. Rest well, Cimorene.”
So they did. And when they awoke some several hours later, Mercy too was fast asleep leaning on them.
That’s one point to Cimorene. Perhaps one day, whatever this is might be something a wee bit more officially romantic. For now, they’ll take it.