Light fluff of Cal and Kandros???
If you insist (she said, as her rubber arm was effortlessly twisted).
#
After the day he’d had, it took one full drink--and not a weak one at that--and most of a second for Tiran to stop running scenarios and worrying about strike teams and regretting poor decisions. Sending Quebec out on the kett thing? Bad. It was only pure luck and maybe some damn watchful Spirits that had gotten them all back alive, and he was pretty sure they’d need to be retired, leaving a gap in his roster he didn’t know how he’d fill at such short notice.
Maybe two drinks wasn’t going to be enough.
Drinks or no drinks, he still glanced at his omni-tool every time it vibrated, and winced at the ever-increasing list of notifications all, of course, marked ASAP or Urgent! or Immediate Reply Requested.
He didn’t quite groan when he looked up from the last perfect sip of his relaxation in a cup and found Cal Ryder standing beside his table. At least she wasn’t in armor; armor would most certainly have translated to Immediate Reply Requested. She shifted from one foot to the other, and he thought her expression was supposed to be a human smile but it mostly just looked pained.
“Hi,” she said. “Uh. Sorry to bother you? I was just... here? And I was wondering if we could, um, talk?”
He sighed. “No rest for the Pathfinder, I guess. What do you need, Ryder?”
She blinked at him. Her eyes were almost the same color as his; he’d never noticed that before. He almost managed to convince himself it was the second drink that made him stare a little too long and a little too hard, nearly missing her reply entirely.
“Oh. Actually. It wasn’t about APEX. Or work. Or Pathfinding. I promise. Vetra said I should just--well. It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to bother you.” Even the flickering, colored lights from the dance floor behind her couldn’t mask the way she blushed beneath her freckles. She ducked her head, her loose hair falling to cover half her face. He had the strangest urge to push it out of the way. Maybe let his hand linger.
Tiran chuckled to cover his own discomfiture. “Well, if it’s not work, it’s no bother. By all means, pull up a seat. Drink?”
“Yes, please,” she said, slipping into the seat opposite him. One hand--one strange, human hand with all its fingers--toyed absently with the fabric wound around her neck. “Whatever Dutch makes is fine.”