Apologies Owing
Well, they're finally here - the pilots, that is. The base's WACs have some opinions they'd like to share.
A follow up to this piece - and an announcement! I'll be trying to post all of Cord's drabbles on AO3 at Pavilioned In the Fields.
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The talk over dinner was about nothing but the officers.
There was no consensus yet, it seemed, over who was the handsomest. Netta was stumping for Brady, the one who'd ridden his fort straight into a rut in the middle of the airfield and had walked away without a scratch, but Anita and Mary Dacre both wanted to speak of no one but DeMarco - or rather, the dog he'd brought with him, who had kindly consented to pets and treats and much crooning while his owner stood by and beamed at himself for the genius idea of getting the husky to find his Friday night dates for him. (Mae, too, seemed taken by the idea of the dog, though she was a little too world-wise to let the pup's gorgeous blue eyes win her over to his owner.)
"I liked the one that blew us a kiss," Nina said, almost loyally, still mooning into her soup about it nearly three hours later, elbow firmly planted on the table while she started wistfully into space. "What'd you say his name was, Phoebe?"
"Biddick," Phoebe said, wisely taking the middle road and saying nothing about anything apart from name, rank and serial number, reaching around Nina's elbow for the salt. "Curtis Biddick. Flies with Richard Snyder."
"The one who looks like Leslie Howard?" Becky looked like that was more her speed. "Now there's a man I'd let do a few close maneuvers."
"Curtis Biddick," Nina smiled dreamily, staring off into space obviously having heard nothing Becky had said. "It was so romantic."
"You gotta watch out for boys like that, Nina, they're usually more trouble than they're worth," Mae said, locking eyes with Phoebe across the table and exchanging abbreviated smiles.
"You all can have fun with the squaddies, but I feel like aiming a little higher," Ethel said with a cutthroat grin, inspecting the arch of her brow in the convex of her soup spoon. "That blonde who drove in with Major Egan looks like he really could be in pictures."
"Cleven," Phoebe supplied, before anyone could ask. "Major Gale Cleven. He's Egan's best friend, apparently. He came up to tower, didn't he, Cord? With Major Egan and Demarco?"
"He did," Cord said, non-committal while she wiped some sauce off the corner of her mouth and considered whether she wanted to try chasing down the last of her peas. "Seemed nice enough."
"Hmmm." Ethel looked unimpressed, and perhaps a little put out that Cord, of all people, had gotten an eye in to the main chance that she clearly couldn't appreciate properly. "Nice enough to have a girl at home?"
But no one ventured an answer for her - the half of the table that was facing the doorway all clammed up at same time as the man himself approached the table, uniform immaculate and blond hair swept just so over his very handsome face. The table stood up as one, Nina accidentally flinging her spoon into her bowl with a clatter.
"Ladies. Was wondering if I might have a word alone with Lieutenant Callaway." His voice was all gravitas and gravel, and Ethel looked like she'd die of envy the way she was glaring across the table at her lieutenant.
Mae's eyes, on the other hand, flashed with delight, and Cord looked around the table to see that nearly everyone else was smiling the way girls smiled when they thought you had something to keep a secret about. She felt hot with betrayal. Now just what do you all think - "I think we're all finished, Major, we can leave," Mae offered, gesturing to the rest of the table to get going. "We'll catch you up, Cord." Mae promised, beaming back at her friend, following the rest of the group out the door and back to barracks.
Cord took a breath and studied her shoes for a moment, hoping that none of that heat had made it to her face, and Cleven hadn't seen any of their hinting smiles - or heard what Ethel had just said. She waited until the crowd cleared the door to speak. "Sir?"
"Seems I owe you an apology, Lieutenant."
Whatever she'd been expecting him to say ...wasn't that. "…What for, sir?"
Cleven's gaze was patient, though it looked like that patience was being tested a little at the moment. "Whatever John's done here for the last month."
It took Cord more than a moment to realize he was talking about Bucky Egan. She'd plumb forgotten his first name was John, if she'd ever known it at all. He introduced himself to everyone as Bucky. "…that's very kind of you, Major Cleven, but I'm not sure that's your apology to make, sir."
"Well, a fellow can try." He smiled - a brief thing - and Cord realized why Ethel thought he'd do well in movies. Underneath those baby blue eyes ran some very, very still waters. Well, they'd have to be, to have Egan for a friend. "He - he means well, usually. He's just not…real good at thinking things through sometimes."
You can say that again. "That's…not a quality one looks for in an executive officer, if you don't mind me saying, sir."
Cleven chuckled - a sound Cord was getting the impression most people didn't hear very often. "No, it most certainly is not. But he has others - a damn fine flyer, a good man to have with you in a fight, and a - a good friend."
The quiet fortitude was growing on her - a strong contrast to Egan's boisterous take-all-comers antics. And he'd come here, when he didn't have to, when nothing said he even needed to, to apologize, on the sole basis of one meeting this morning where she'd stood her ground and been short with his friend. He noticed things, Major Cleven did - and that counted for something. "He must be, to have you making apologies for him on your first day here."
Again, the smallest of smiles. "He'd do the same, if it had been me that had stepped wrong. I'm just trying to…pay the favor forward." He took a breath, and looked at his shoes. "He, ah - he mentioned you were from Ohio."
"Dayton," Cord supplied, wondering when this had turned from an apology into an interview.
"Pretty prime flying country out there at Wright-Patterson," Cleven said quietly, glancing at her with softly curious eyes.
"Yes, sir, it is. I practically grew up there - my dad worked on the base, as an engineer. Worked pretty close with the test pilots."
"Is that how you got into the tower?"
"More or less, sir."
"Heard Brady say you were the calmest voice alive, talking him in today."
The 'for a woman' that had doubtless followed the original comment went unsaid, and Cord measured out her own smile. "Well, there's two types of pilots, sir - those who've had a belly landing, and -"
"-those who will." Cleven finished the old chestnut with a smile. "They teach you a lot about belly landings in Dayton, Lieutenant?"
Cord took a deep breath, remembering the rumbling, skating feeling of the plane underneath her, the nameless terror that the brakes no longer worked and her steering was in God's hands, waiting endlessly while the machine skidded heavily to a halt and she planned her exits, preparing to make a run for it. "A fair bit, sir."
"Hopefully we won't give you any more." He caught her gaze and held it. "Let me know, if he gives you any more trouble? We can't have our controller off her game."
She looked him in the eye and knew, instinctively, that he meant that, and if she said something, he would take her at her word - something not too many men on this base would do. That counted for something, too. "You'll be the first person I tell, Major."
He nodded, glad to be heard and understood, and turned to leave, before thinking of one last thing. "And maybe you'll let your friend know the girl at home is named Marge?" His smile was nearly imperceptible, and Cord almost laughed to see it. So he had heard. That's a very dry sense of humor you have there, sir. "Wouldn't want anyone …getting the wrong idea."
She nodded, happy that there was something here she could do for him. Oh, we're going to get along so well. "Of course, sir." Well, Ethel, serves you right. She could just see the other woman's face when she told her that Cleven was definitely off the market.
The understanding, it seemed, was mutual - Cleven gave a little nod and put his hand in his pocket. "Enjoy your evening, Lieutenant."
"And you, Major."
He went back outside, and Cord's eye followed him through the windows to the group of pilots joking and laughing in the road outside, probably getting ready to go into town. What reason could he have given for stopping in the mess hall? Or maybe he didn't need one. Egan hooked his arm around his friend's shoulders, and Cord caught a glimpse, again, of Cleven's fleeting smile - wider now, laughing with his friends as they set off for the village and the pub. And they're best friends? Well, they do say opposites attract.
Cord tidied her seat and exited the mess, surprised to see Mae was sitting on the bench outside the mess, apparently waiting. She got up as Cord stepped outside, grinning from ear to ear. "A word alone with Lieutenant Callaway, huh? You got something you want to share with the class, Cord?"
"Oh, buzz off, Mae. He just wanted to -" She paused, feeling, suddenly, that the apology was not for public consumption. "To thank me, for helping Brady land."
Mae nodded, a little impressed with the new Major. "The way she's going, I think Netta's gonna thank you too."
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You can read more of Cord here on tumblr at her tag.
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Halo Reloaded: "Never Forget This Moment"
In the heart of the holographic observatory, where the ceiling did a damn good impression of the infinite expanse of space, Linda and John... were having a moment. Well, Linda was trying to have a moment; John seemed to be more in a tête-à-tête with the stars. The place was designed to awe, with its endless sky full of stars, nebulas, and galaxies, all fake but convincingly so. Linda decided it was time to shoot her shot, metaphorically speaking this time.
She sidled up next to John, her armor clinking softly, a subtle symphony of Spartan presence. "Ever think there’s more to life than just shooting bad guys and dodging explosions?" she ventured, eyeing a particularly bright holographic star that seemed to wink back conspiratorially.
John, momentarily distracted from his cosmic contemplation, turned his helmet slightly towards her. "Between you, me, and the Covenant, there hasn’t been much time for philosophy," he quipped, his voice carrying that monotone gravitas that somehow made even the most mundane comments sound like mission briefings.
"Yeah, but there's gotta be more to it, right? More to us?" Linda pushed on, her tone a mix of curiosity and something a tad softer, something that didn’t come with a gun attached.
John looked like he’d been asked to solve a Rubik's cube blindfolded—with his gloves on. "Us?" he echoed, as if the concept was as alien as the foes they faced. "I... we're Spartans. Our 'more' usually involves larger guns."
Linda couldn't help but chuckle, a sound rare and precious in the Spartan ranks. "I'm serious, John. All these stars," she gestured vaguely upwards, "make you think about the bigger picture. And in that picture, there's you and... there's me."
There was a pause, filled with the digital hum of the observatory. John seemed to process this at the speed of a dial-up connection. "Are we talking about feelings now? Because I missed that briefing."
Linda rolled her eyes, her patience wearing thin but her determination undeterred. "Yes, John, feelings. You know, those things that make your heart try to punch its way out of your chest."
John stood still, the epitome of a man confronting his mortal enemy: emotional vulnerability. "...I'm not exactly an expert on this. My idea of a heart-pounding moment is usually when I'm dodging plasma fire."
"And yet here you are, heart still intact. Think you can handle a little more excitement?" Linda teased, stepping closer, her tone daring him to take that leap with her.It took a moment, but then John, ever the soldier, accepted the challenge. "Okay, let's say I'm open to... discussing these feelings. Hypothetically."
"Hypothetically," Linda repeated, a smile in her voice. She reached out, her armored hand finding his. "I've always wanted more, John. More than the missions, more than the battles. With you."
John's response was a long time coming, lost as he was in the novel sensation of his heart attempting gymnastics. Finally, he found the words, clunky and uncertain.
"I've spent so much time fighting, I forgot what it was to want something... for myself."
Their visors met, a Spartan version of eye contact, and pull their helmets off each other. The distance between them closed, a gap bridged by mutual, albeit clumsy, admission of something more profound than their usual exchanges of tactical data.
The kiss that followed was anything but smooth. It was the epitome of "Spartan Romance"—clumsy, earnest, and somehow, against all odds, perfect in its sincerity.
Under the artificial stars, two warriors found a new battlefield, one where emotions were the weapons and the spoils were moments of shared vulnerability. "I never want to forget this moment," Linda murmured, her voice soft but fierce with conviction.
In the fake starlight of the observatory, amidst the silent witnesses of a thousand simulated worlds, Linda and John discovered a new frontier. It was uncharted, fraught with the peril of unknown feelings, but for the first time in their lives, they werenighted.
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