Chapter 40: Wake-up Call – Chapter 39 – Armed and Mastered – Part 4
The yellow streetlamps of Brockton Bay streak past my bike at a far more sedate pace than I'm used to. Still, the lack of pressure at, for once, heeding the speed limit is more than offset by the civilian version of the Armscycle not having any overt computerized navigational assistance other than the obvious GPS, and that's not taking into account the added difficulty of…
…
Well…
Hannah's hugging me.
We decided to take a single vehicle, seeing as we were going to the same place and would be going back to our living quarters after dinner. It was a logical, perfectly sensible decision.
Which ended up with Hannah sitting behind me in a blue bike stripped of outward armoring, her hands clasped in front of my abdomen, her arms around me, her chest…
A new driving assistant. One that forces me to mimic the right movements so it outwardly looks as if I'm focused on driving. Magnetic clasps fastened to driving gloves on the handlebar? It would've to extend to finger movement so it would be convincing enough to—
I take a curve hard enough that I need to lean into it, and Hannah shifts behind me, her arms briefly tightening around me, the pressure of her chest not being impeded, at all, by my jacket. Nor by hers, seeing as it's unexplainably open.
I am in Hell.
It's not enough that she's wearing a black leather jacket that both contrasts and perfectly compliments the short dress beneath. It's not enough that said dress means I keep catching glimpses of her thighs at my sides whenever I look down. It's not enough that it's been so long since I last was with a woman that I'm completely unable to distract myself from her heat, and only driving right at the very limit of the speed allowed to people without science fiction superbikes lets me escape from her soft scent defined by orange blossom notes and something mildly spicy lying beneath it that drives me insane whenever I have to stop at a red light.
No, all of that is just a minor inconvenience compared to the fact that, for whatever arcane reason male minds are not prepared to grasp, she's wearing her jacket open while riding a bike, something she should perfectly know is not only utterly impractical, but really unadvised.
And that means I keep feeling her breasts shifting against me at her slightest movement.
I never even liked baseball, so I don't have that alleged escape.
Thankfully, after only so many stops that have me surrounded by the scent of our leather jackets, sweet orange blossoms, and what I'm quickly growing to label as pure Hannah, we reach our destination.
So I climb on the sidewalk with two quick thumps on my wheels, slow down toward the almost empty parking spot for bikes, and brake before leaning to the side so I can kick the—
Hannah dismounts.
She doesn't do it awkwardly, doesn't shuffle on her seat before shifting her balance to her hands, doesn't… doesn't do it [sanely].
No, she straightens her right leg and circles it above me, brushing along my back until it joins the left leg on the other side, the absurdly lithe woman displaying her flexibility in a quick yet torturous to witness movement.
This is [unfair].
"Here?" she asks.
I distract myself by looking at the seaside restaurant. It's a mostly glass and aluminum squat building without a specific theme. One can order anything from a burger to a seafood platter, which means neither will be of outstanding quality, but also that we won't have a problem with the selection no matter what she's in the mood for.
It also means I owe Clockblocker an hour of brainstorming. The brat liked the latest addition to his costume, and now he's gotten greedy.
"It's been recommended to me," I curtly point out.
She looks back toward me, the visor on her helmet open in a way that casts shadows over her that only let me catch a glimpse of glittering emerald, and she shrugs her shoulders before taking it off, immediately shaking her dark hair loose.
…
Damn it.
"Can you take this? Thanks," she tells me with a smile as she hands me her borrowed, also black helmet. I should've fitted it with a speaker system so we could talk on the drive over, but at least that means I avoided some very inappropriate and awkward remarks and—
Now that's just [unfair].
Really? Gathering her loose hair into a ponytail that leaves her neck bare? Turning her head aside as she raises her arms to secure said ponytail? Slowly opening her eyes and smiling at me as she finishes? No way. There's absolutely no chance this behavior isn't deliberate.
And now she offers me a hand to help me dismount, as if I [need to—]
Her hand's really soft.
There're calluses due to her frequent handling of different weapons, slight bulges below the first joint of her thumb, above the joint of her trigger finger, at the base of her pinky finger… Yet they're still soft. Leathery, maybe, harder than the surrounding skin, yet far from unpleasant.
And holding this soft hand, I dismount.
And only at the very last second do I remember that I didn't engage the kickstand.
"Shit!" I turn back as quickly as I can, sliding to the side of my bike to support the weight as I kick the damn stand halfway in place before I juggle Hannah's helmet out of the way and grab the middle of the handlebar so I can pull the bike forward and properly secure it with far more effort than if I'd remembered to do it [properly] before stupidly reaching for her hand and standing up.
… All right, I know I'm out of practice, but I was expecting, at worst, my college-self level of performance, not to add to my high school trauma.
"What?" Hannah says from behind me.
"I…" I force myself to turn to face her and see her gaping at me. "My apologies. I think I was unduly distracted."
She blinks, points unsteadily at the bike that almost fell down seconds ago, and then cocks her head as she stares into my eyes.
"Did you… the bike? Forget to—"
"No need to rub it in," I protest as I, in fact, rub the back of my head—though I first almost brain myself when I go to do it with the hand still holding her helmet, and then I remember I'm still wearing [mine], so I end up scratching beneath it.
This is mortifying.
And Hannah blinks yet again.
Then, for reasons entirely unclear, a wide smile blooms on her face, and she almost bounces as she turns toward the somewhat aptly named (yet still depressingly aspirational) Stern Gallery.
"Come on, hurry. I'm getting hungry," she shoots at me over her shoulder, her wide smile still fully on display.
…
I don't know what I'm doing, yet it still seems to be working.
It appears that, after all, Tinkers truly are bullshit.
***
I don't know what I'm doing.
"Can I suggest a bottle of red to start the evening?" the disgustingly unctuous waiter asks me while doing a half-bow that has his oily forehead over our table.
I'm going to murder Dennis. Just… as a matter of principle.
"Not for me," I finally answer, tempted to check whether he's dripping. "I need to drive later."
"I [could] drive, if you want to," Hannah interjects. "This is supposed to be about you relaxing."
And there goes my excuse.
"It's been quite long since I drank anything—" I start to excuse myself.
"Perfect! Bring him… I don't know. Something expensive that he can finish by himself?" Hannah seizes on the opportunity like…
Like a male adolescent eager to get his date drunk. Which I'm sure is an analogy that bears no relevance to our current circumstances and, thus, should not contribute to my steadily rising feeling of disorientation.
"Of course, Madam! I'll make sure your husband enjoys this evening out relaxing with his lady!"
… Ah. So this is what a spit take without actual spit feels like.
"I—" Before I can finish the explanation, Hannah kicks my shin.
"Excellent, as for me… I think sparkling water will be fine. I [do] have to drive," she tells him with an infuriatingly charming smile.
I'm getting carried away.
I'm [letting myself] be carried away.
So the waiter walks off with the black leather menus and the rest of our order, and I'm finally left alone with Hannah, her disorienting dress, and her intriguing, broad smile. The place is well lit, though the warm lights are soft enough that I think I can see the half-moon over the bay glinting off her hair, precisely in the same way as argent keeps bouncing off the rippling surface of the sea below our window.
This is far too flowery for me.
"Colin?" she asks. And there's a lot that fits in that question.
"What are we doing?" I answer.
And she freezes.
"Having dinner—"
"No. Hannah, you're… You're beautiful—I [mean] you [look] beautiful, and this is obviously not just something between friends. You just let that poor Case 53 think we're married—"
"He just has oily skin—"
"So does Gregor the Snail. Now, please, answer the question."
Her smile slowly fades into a frown that pains me to watch, and she uncomfortably worries at her lip. It's a bad habit she picked up, a way to express anxiety while still hiding it behind her bandana. I've tried to talk her out of it often enough.
She always says she doesn't mind people seeing when she's unmasked, yet I feel she would mind right now.
"I was obviously joking about the marriage thing, in case that wasn't clear," she finally settles on answering.
"I know that. But it's the kind of joke that sticks out when a well-dressed, attractive woman orders me a glass of wine and offers to drive me back to my place."
"… I mean, [everything] sounds dirty when you describe it like that."
I try to hold back the smile and finally concede defeat. So, with an apologetic shrug, I lay my hand on top of the white cotton tablecloth, reaching past the middle of the round table, nearing her.
She looks at it, at my hand covered by my own collection of leathery calluses that I try to keep at bay so they never again reach the point where they become painful or peel entirely in the middle of delicate work. Yes, I've got a skincare routine, and it's sadly important for my own very masculine work.
Hannah looks at my hand in silence and then looks up into my eyes questioningly.
I nod.
And she lays her own hand on top of mine.
"This is a date," I tell her.
"It is," she answers, her smile making a comeback.
"Next time, tell me."
"Next time?" she asks, her eyebrow climbing up in an exquisitely crafted inquiry.
And I ruefully smile.
***
Once the awkward part of the evening seems to be finished, conversation once again flows smoothly. It shouldn't be surprising, given how much Hannah and I have shared over the years.
It, somehow, is.
"Tell me, once again, why you aren't allowed to play with magnets anymore," she asks me with a glint in her eyes I allow myself to appreciate.
"Apparently, sticking fridges to Hookwolf was deemed a waste of resources. Also, the PR department didn't like my proposal for a new addition to the 'Heroes in the Kitchen' line of merchandise."
She laughs.
It's just another anecdote, one of hundreds, one we've laughed at often enough after the latest attempt by the PR department to turn us into something even more impractical than we're already forced to be. A worn-out joke that lost all hilarity years ago, when we were still new in the bay and desperately needed to come up with ways to trivialize the threats we were facing.
It's an old joke, and it's only funny because it's ours.
"Well, at least I wasn't the one who got reprimanded for shouting about her [flammenwerfer]," I remind her, nudging her leg with my foot in quiet revenge for her earlier kick.
"It was [Krieg]. Joking in broken German is the least the fetish cosplayer deserves."
"You also set him on fire."
"As I said, broken German is [the least] he deserves," she ripostes with something that has warm light glint off her teeth and—
I don't love her.
I'm not in love with Hannah. I don't pin after her, don't try to get my mind off her after hours of conversation that never seem enough. I don't think about her when I work, trying to do something worthy of her. I don't… I don't share everything I am with her. Haven't given her access to my whole life's work, just so she will have it when I fall in the line of duty.
I don't love Hannah.
But I like her.
A lot.
"Colin?" Once again, her head's cocked to the side in a way that shows me her uncovered neck. And it's been years. So, so many years since I…
Dragon knew it was a date, advised me, told me how to dress.
And I… I like Hannah.
A lot.
"I am in love with Dragon," I tell her, cursing myself for not coming up with a better way to say it.
She freezes, the hand twirling the ends of her ponytail stopping mid-motion, her lips barely parted.
Then she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and straightens herself, both her hands on top of the table at each side of a plate empty save for a few crumbs of the bun of her burger.
When she opens her eyes… she smiles.
Softly.
"I know," she tells me.
"You… do?" I stupidly answer.
And she grabs my hand.
"Of course I do. I'm your friend, Colin. We've spent years together, and Dragon's… She is about the only thing you always talk about. More than work, more than your latest gadget, more than… Yes. I know you love her."
Her eyes are warm. Almost unbearably so.
"Then…"
"I like you," she tells me before I can formulate a question that, in hindsight, is far too obvious.
Her thumb is drawing soothing circles over the flesh between mine and my pointer finger, gliding smoothly over the hairless skin. Her green eyes are on mine, holding me steady.
And I…
"I like you as well," I tell her in what feels like a childish confession.
Her tongue briefly peeks out, licking along her lower lip before she offers me a shy smile. And it's only now that I realize she's wearing lipgloss.
Hannah.
Miss Militia.
"She… she told you to come, didn't she?" the words come out of those beautiful, tender, shining lips. They still hurt.
I nod.
Her eyelids slowly drop, almost as if she's trying to let our shared look rest for a brief moment, and then she looks back up at me.
"Then drink your wine, joke with your friend, and enjoy your night out with a woman you like. It's the only thing I want from you tonight, Colin."
I look at her. Just look.
She's beautiful, yes. It's not even about shining green eyes and tan, gleaming skin. It's not about the toned, agile limbs. It's not about high cheekbones, graceful nose, delicate chin, or slender fingers.
It's about a noble, loyal, courageous woman who wants to spend time by my side.
I guess I have a type.
So I let my right hand rest on top of the table and beneath Hannah's caress and, with my left, pick up the stem of my glass of wine and raise it in a toast to her.
"To werfing flammen," I say.
And she laughs.
Which, to be honest, may be the best part of the evening.
==================
This work is a repost of my most popular fic on QQ (https://forum.questionablequesting.com/threads/wake-up-call-worm.15638/), where it can be found up to date except for the latest two chapters that are currently only available on Patreon (https://www.patreon.com/Agrippa?fan_landing=true)—as an added perk, both those sites have italicized and bolded text. I'll be posting the chapters here twice weekly, on Wednesday and Friday, until we're caught up. Unless something drastic happens, it will be updated at a daily rate until it catches up to the currently written 85 chapters (or my brain is consumed by the overwhelming amounts of snark, whichever happens first).
Speaking of Italics, this story's original format relied on conveying Power's intrusions into Lisa's inner monologue through the use of italics. I'm using square brackets ([]) to portray that same effect, but the work is more than 300k words at the moment, so I have to resort to the use of macros to make that light edit and the process may not be perfect. My apologies in advance
Also, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, Xalgeon, and aj0413. If you feel like maybe giving me a hand and helping me keep writing snarky, useless lesbians, consider joining them or buying one of my books on https://www.amazon.com/stores/Terry-Lavere/author/B0BL7LSX2S. Thank you for reading!
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