one_man_army | oom upstairs; for trudy

oom upstairs; for trudy

His room (it's not like he's got it on a lease or anything, but he's been living in it for long enough that it's starting to pick up hints of his habits) is only a few floor up and a bit down the hall, and inside it's like most other rooms here at Milliways.

Bed on one side, couch and coffee table, chair, TV on one wall and a desk with chair against the other. A solid black crate sits at the end of his bed (locked, because even if this is Milliways he doesn't want anyone getting into his cache) and there are clothes in the dresser and closet, a bathroom through one door.

Carl drops onto the couch and places the bottle on the coffee table, then leans down to pull up his jeans so that he can work open the laces on the well-worn combat boots that he's rarely seen without.

(And if he has to pull the knife from the boot-sheath first, well that's how it goes.)

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She's been here before, once; after that after-prom party, they'd retreated upstairs (the glitter exploding above them had helped prompt that move), and ended up a) playing video games and b) making out.

"Managed to get the glitter out?" She asks him, taking off her shirt to drape over the chair before claiming a side of the couch as her own. Gun on the coffee-table, combat boots easily taken off, shoved with socks, dumped under the table.

"Whatever the Loompas did with the suit worked," his gun comes to rest beside hers, then he shifts to unlace the other boot. "But I'm still finding the occasional flecks in the couch."

Second boot off (and he picks at a bit of mud with his fingertip, making a note to clean them tomorrow) and then he leans back into the couch in a way that will allow her to curl up at his side.

Or, as it happens, shift so she can stretch her legs over his lap.

"Glitter gets everywhere. I think I still have some in my damn hair."

His free hand settles on her shin, and he starts to work his fingers against the muscles of her calf.

"I can't get it out of the shower, it's almost like the shit glued itself to the tile in there."

Trudy laughs at that.

"Poor Carl. At least your shower will always be shiny?"

"Something to remember that night by, anyway."

Carl smiles a little.

"Other than the fact that you totally kicked my ass in the video game world."

Granted, her lips on his neck did not help him focus on the screen.

"This," she informs him, "is because I am awesome."

(someone is really tipsy, it seems)

His thumb slides to her knee.

"You and I can agree on that, at least."

(she's adorable when she's like this)

Mmm, that feels nice.

Vaguely, "Were we disagreeing about something?"

"No. You agreed on letting me carry you to bed later, so that you don't end up with a bruise you can't hide at work when you go in."

That's exactly what they were discussing.

"Oh. Right."

Then she giggles.

"Ah, man, work."

"Don't even think about it, Marine. Not tonight. You're off, tonight."

It's not quite an order (he'd never give her an order unless they were on a mission, and even then he'd be hard-pressed to take command) but it's close.

"Yes, sah!" And she snaps off a salute that is still sharp, despite beer and the fact that she's sprawled out over her boyfriend's couch.

"...it's nice, being able to not think about work. And not being at work."

"...I'd tell you 'at ease' but I think you've got that covered, love."

(And god, he is amused as all hell right now.)

"Sometimes you've just got to get away," he agrees. "And you are away, and I am going to keep you away if it takes all my efforts to distract you."

"Hah! Hell, at this point, I'm not sure I can be bothered doin' up m'boots." She slides down a bit further, head against the arm-rest.

"I mean it, though. It's...You don't leave. You can't leave. Same people, same faces, and tours are six years. I mean, we get new blood every so often, and others leave, but." She frowns and scrubs at her face. Her voice is slow, thoughtful. "And we're all odd. Gotta be, to come here. There, I mean. And you gotta be so damn careful, because the best you can do if you have a bad fallin' out is ask for a different shift. But, I can...breathe here. It's nice."

"It's a different type of person that's willing to put themselves in that position. Like deep cover...there are contacts you have to cut off and others you have to keep. It's easy for some people and impossible for others."

Carl's done a few tours that remind him of what she might be feeling, but he's never had to go dark. He's grateful for that.

"You think you'll go back to Earth, when your tour is through?"

"Dunno," she says at last.

"Fair answer," he replies.

His hand gently squeezes her knee as he lowers his voice.

"But we're not talkin' about work tonight. My apologies."

"Hey, I brought it up," she says, a hell of a lot more easier. "You ever find any doppelgangers here?"

"No, not yet. I know Jack has a few of them, though."

"I have one. Kinda."

"Really?"

His eyes meet hers.

"Only 'kinda'?"

"'Bout ten years younger than I look, and roughly two inches taller. And our faces aren't exactly the same. Different accent, and the kid certainly isn't a Marine. But it's close enough to cause some mutual starin'," she says, more entertained by this than not.

"That has got to be insane. I'm glad I've not run into anyone who looks like me."

A smirk.

"You get much taller and we might have some issues in our future," he teases, as his hand resumes running over her calf muscles. "And don't you dare make an effort to lose your accent. I rather enjoy yours."

She laughs.

"I think I can safely say I've stopped growin'," she points out. "And hell if I'm doin' anythin' with my accent."

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