Chapter Text
Any attempts to locate Slone post-confession prove futile when the captain conveniently volunteers to train prospective pilots off-base. And quickly regrets it when the dumbasses get lost, leading Slone on a wild goose chase to collect the lot before night falls and the temperature drops below freezing. She drags in the last two as the last rays of sun disappear behind the pines and deposits them at the feet of the sergeant. That’s the last time she volunteers for anything, damnit.
Fred’s chatting with CW-1313 in their shared docking bay when Slone comes to join the pair, stomping snow off her boots and shivering as she goes, “We’re never volunteering again.”
“They scuffed my paint,” Fred agrees.
“Vain little man,” Slone sighs. It doesn’t bode well for the new pilots if even Fred is put-out by their presence. Grabbing an empty bucket from a cupboard, she fills it with water from the work sink and adds dishsoap (the finest the Milita can afford) until a nice layer of bubbles coat the surface of the water. Wetting a microfiber towel Evie bought Fred for his “birthday”, Slone passes Fred the bucket and climbs to his hip when someone sneezes alarmingly close behind her.
“Steamin’ bloody Jesus!” The way she falls is less than graceful, almost as graceful as her whipping around and slapping the wet towel across an enormous cloak’s optics. The three stand looking at each other for a while, Slone waiting for her heart to calm down enough to safely beat the shit of the cloak, Fred confused what his pilot is doing on the floor, CW subtly switching her livestream on to send to her pilot, and the cloak standing there with a towel draped over his helmet like a birdcage. Slowly, he reaches up and slides the towel off his helmet and offers it back to Slone.
“Did you find the things in the lockers?”
What? The things in the… Oh. The cloak from the showers. The one who shared their 6-1 and may have hidden a body in the lockers. Slone remembers now. Was he always this big? Probably, she just didn’t notice. Being covered in vomit does that to a gal.
He’s still looking at her. At least, she thinks he is. It’s hard to tell without knowing his body language. So she goes for the safe response.
“I did, thank you.”
“ Gut .” The cloak nods, turns, and disappears with a shimmer. Neither titans nor pilot speak until they’re reasonably certain he’s gone.
“I think… You made a new friend?” Not even Fred, bless his slightly-radioactive heart, quite know what to make of the encounter.
“Uh-huh. Fred, CW. Do a quick search for a German cloak,” Slone gives herself a shake, “And hold still while I wipe you down.”
The unexpected visit from their new cloak friend almost distracts Slone from her Sarah Briggs Problem. Almost. Rather than risk going back to her room, Slone sleeps in Fred’s cockpit that night. It’ll kill her back come morning but backaches are better than the headache of being lectured by her bully turned friend turned boss.
Fred wakes her up the next morning when a message hits his system with a ping, “Specialist McKinley has requested all personnel to relinquish their arms for inspection.”
“Never going to happen.”
.
Zachary McKinley is four seconds from a mental breakdown. Which by itself isn’t particularly unusual but today is arms inspection day and he’s already spent the last six hours chasing down every. fucking. pilot in the Militia trying to wrench their weapons from their cold, dead hands. Including seven cloaks. He shudders. Cloaks are weird. He doesn’t like cloaks.
The only thing worse than a cloak is Slone. The last person on McKinley’s list. Slone. Fucking Slone. The last person on McKinley’s list. Slone.
Is he crying? He can’t tell through the tears.
It’s been six hours. He’s so tired. Maybe if he goes to the titan bays one of them will step on him and hopefully die? Does the roomba still have a knife? Maybe he could ‘trip’ and ‘fall’ on it. He could be home right now. Maybe being harassed by IMC patrols wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t personal. The IMC didn’t want to kill him; only drive him out of his home and possibly kill him.
“Are you okay?”
If McKinley wasn’t crying before, he is now. And also laughing hysterically in the face of the rifleman who stopped to check on him.
“Whoa.” The very concerned rifleman takes a step back but doesn’t run away, “You okay?”
“I’m so tired,” McKinley stops laughing long enough to wheeze through the tears, “So tired.”
“You’re the munitions officer, right? Can I help?”
“Wrench Slone’s kraber from her cold, dead hands?” McKinley laughs. The rifleman doesn’t laugh. Or cry. Or run screaming.
“I can do that,” the rifleman offers. McKinley stops laughing.
“What?”
“I can get the kraber. I’m heading, uh, maybe, possibly, that way now.”
“The kraber,” McKinley repeats, “You can get Slone’s kraber? Without dying?”
The rifleman is either crazy or passively suicidal. But McKinley’s too far gone not to take advantage.
“And the L-Star?”
The rifleman nods, “Okay. Anything else?”
“The 11,” McKinley says earnestly, “She won’t give it up. But she has to. I need them all.”
The rifleman gives McKinley a reassuring nod, “When do you need them?”
“Before dinner.”
Does McKinley feel bad watching the rifleman walk away to his death? Kind of more. Mostly he’s tired. He’d allocated an hour to fighting Slone but now… Now he can take a nap. A nap sounds nice.
A few Hail Mary’s should help alleviate that guilt.
.
There are upsides and downsides to sharing a room with Sarah Briggs. Downside: She’s messy. Upside: Avoiding her is easy because Slone knows Briggs’ schedule. At least, she thought she did when she pulled Cooper into her room by his belt.
Smiling against her lips, Jack rucks her shirt up to splay his fingers across her ribs, only to get smacked away when she yelps, “Why are your hands so cold?”
“I’ve been shoveling snow every day since we got here,” Jack grumbles in a rare show of malcontent, tugging on the front of her shirt to lure her closer, “It snowed six inches last night.”
Slone makes a huffing noise but allows Jack to spread his fingers against the small of her back, his breath ruffling her hair against her cheek when he kisses her there, “I like your haircut.”
Slone snorts, tipping her head back to grant access to the column of her neck, “The medics shaved half my head to treat a concussion.”
“I like it,” Jack repeats, his cold nose bumping against her skin, “It suits you.”
She shakes her head and pulls back to tug her shirt over her head, “You’re already in my room, Cooper, you don’t need to flatter me. Now take your pants off.”
Brain blanking when Slone takes off her bra, Jack barely drudges up enough self-preservation to enquire about Slone’s roommate as he fumbles with his belt.
“She’ll be busy the rest of the night,” Slone dismisses, shimmying out of her pants, “Do you want this or no?”
“I want this; I definitely want this.” Catching her by the arms, he pulls her close and kisses her gently, “Slow down. Please? We have time.” She makes a face at him which he kisses away until she laughs and pushes him off.
“Fine. We have time.”
Humming against her lips, Jack takes his time exploring Slone’s mouth, running his tongue across her teeth and catching her bottom lip between his teeth just to hear her laugh. Once she’s sufficiently lax in his arms, he tugs her by her elbows toward the en suite bathroom.
“C’mon.” She resists at first but all complaints die a quick death when he lifts his arm. Sex can wait.
Sex waits even longer once Jack steps into the warm shower and immediately melts, draping himself over Slone’s shoulder.
“Cooper,” she laughs, wrapping her arms around him to keep him from slumping to the floor.
“Dead,” Jack murmurs into her skin, tracing the reverse path of a water droplet with his tongue to the base of her skull and back down. Feeling his teeth begin to worry her collarbone, Slone tilts her head back with a hum and runs her hands up his back to his hair.
“Alright there, Cooper?”
“I think I’m in love with you.”
“Because of the shower?”
“Yes.”
That earns him a wet slap on the flank.
“If I stay, will you fall asleep?”
“Maaaybe?”
She slaps his flank again, “Then I’m getting out. Use Sarah’s body wash and hurry out.”
“Why hers?”
“Because I still can’t find my damn deathbox and I’m pretty sure she’s hiding it as leverage.”
“You have a weird relationship with your friends,” he tells her. She kisses him instead of answering and slips out of his grasp.
Twenty minutes later, she’s not sure if she should start without him or check if he’s accidentally drowned himself. Wouldn’t that be a sight? None of them would let her live it down.
She’s mentally drafting a death notification to send his mother when Jack emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam. A lazy smile crosses his face before he comes to the bed to flop on top of her, knocking the air out of her with an umph and nuzzles her neck,
“You’re the most wonderful woman alive.”
Bringing her hand to his head, she gently scratches her nails against his damp scalp, “Because I have a private bathroom.”
“And hot water.”
Fingers twined in his curls, Slone tugs Jack’s face up, reveling in the quiet groan that slips from his mouth,
“If I ride you, are you going to fall asleep?”
A pretty eyes peek out from behind long eyelashes he doesn’t deserve, “I think I could manage tha-ack! No pinching!” She pokes his ribs again out of spite.
A short tussle later and she’s straddling his thighs, one hand gripping him while the other collects spit from her mouth to smooth the glide of her palm. He groans and arches into her touch, throwing his arm over his eyes and panting softly when she sweeps her thumb under the foreskin.
“Shit, Alice!”
“Still tired?” she teases, lining herself up.
“Nope, not tired. Wait, wait, hold on,” he grips her thigh to stop her from sinking onto him, earning a concerned frown, “Where’s the lube?”
“Fred has it.”
“ What ?”
She shakes her head, “It’s missing with my box. Don’t worry about it.” Any protests he might formulate dissolve into static by the time her hips are flush against his pelvis and completely wash away when she rocks experimentally.
Palming her hips, he runs his hands up her ribs to cup her breasts and back down to squeeze her thighs, idly wondering if she’ll choke him out with them if he asks nicely enough. He’s never been into asphyxiation but damn what a way to go.
Either he’s kinkier than he thought or needs to see a therapist. TBD later.
Wrapping an arm around her waist, he surges up to kiss her, pressing their chests together and taking control of the rhythm. She gasps when he snakes a hand between them to rub his thumb in gentle circles against her clit, tilting her head back so he can press kisses along her neck.
“Florent asked me yesterday if you use me like a stress toy,” he tells her as he sucks the spot under her ear, making her squirm.
“What – hah – what did you tell him?”
“I have no shame.”
She huffs, chasing his lips for an open-mouth kiss, “That’s not an answer, Cooper.”
“I wouldn’t mind it,” he mumbles, abandoning her lips to chase his mouth after her nipple instead, hands tightening against the muscle of her thighs when he finally caught it.
"Ach, no," she knocks him loose, "They're sore."
A knock on the door freezes them in place right.
“Al, are you in there?” Briggs calls through the door and jiggles the handle as Jack’s orgasm hits him with unexpected and ill-timed force.
“Fu-Uck.” He pushes his face into Slone’s shoulder to hide the way his back bows and mouth falls open into a silent ‘oh’, fultiling fighting to keep his eyes open as his body shudders and Slone begins tapping his shoulder.
“Shit.”
“Uh-huh,” he mumbles dumbly.
“Shit, shit, shit.” Hissing, she hits him with more force, “Let go!” He does so and she jumps off like a cat scalded, making him gasp at the sudden friction against his sensitive dick. Stumbling to his feet as well, he accepts his shirt when thrown at his face.
Another knock sounds.
“Al?”
“I thought she was busy?” Jack demands, frantically tucking his shirt back into place.
“I thought so too!” Grabbing him, Alice maneuvers the man into the corner at the foot of her bed and strips her blankets to cover him.
Jack pokes his head out, “She’s going to cut off my dick, isn’t she?”
“Probably. Now shut it.”
Smoothing her hair, she takes a deep breath and opens the door, “Sorry, I was in the bathroom. Did you forget your key?”
“Yes,” Sarah sighs as she pushes into the room, “It’s been a hell of a day.”
“Are you finished for the day?” Alice fights to keep her voice even. Underneath the blankets Jack muffles his breathing with a hand, perspiration making his skin sticky.
“No, but I’ve got a few hours and want to talk to you while I have a chance.”
“Oh?” Alice’s voice goes up a very unsubtle octave. Jack muffles a silent scream by stuffing a blanket into his mouth.
“About the Cooper Problem. This morning took me off guard but I appreciate you telling me. I shouldn’t have laughed at you beforrre…” she trails off suspiciously, “Why are you making that face?”
“What do you mean?” Slone asks casually. Too casually. Almost as casually as when she told Briggs they were fucking.
“You look like a teenager hiding weed from their-” Sarah pursues her lips as she fully takes in Alice’s rumpled, half-dressed state and a discarded men’s jacket on the floor, “from their parents. Seriously, Al? In our room?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alice tries slowly.
“You’re such a bad liar. Why would you–,” Sarah groans, “Whatever. Cooper, you have until I finish showering to get out of here before I kick your ass.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Shooting to his feet, Jack trips when his legs tangle in Alice’s blankets, “Sorry, ma’am.” Briggs just sighs and stalks into the adjoined bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
“She’s pissed,” Jack frets while untangles himself and grabs his jacket from the floor, nearly falling again in his scramble.
“I’ll deal with it,” Slone assures brusquely. Grabbing his lapels, she pulls him in for a quick kiss.
Jack swiftly steals another one, “See you at lunch?”
“Assuming we survive, yes. Now go.” He grins and kisses her again, this time long and deep as he presses his hands against the small of her back to bring her closer. Sighing contently, Slone leans into him until they hear the water shut off and freeze, “Shit. Out, Cooper.”
“Yup.”
“Oh, wait!” Remembering the sobbing E-3 from earlier, Jack uses the doorframe to keep himself from being pushed out, “I need your guns.”
“My what?”
“Your guns.”
“Did McKinley put you up to this?”
“Please?”
“Fine.” Stupid brown eyes. Fucking weapons.
“And the 11.”
“Fine! Just go!”
.
Sarah takes her time before leaving the bathroom wrapped in a towel. Sighing through her nose, she pulls fresh clothes from her trunk and dresses before addressing her roommate.
“Al…” Briggs trails off.
“I’ve thought about it,” Slone lounges across her bed without preamble.
“I'm sure you have, I just want to make sure you’re not making a mistake.”
“The militia doesn’t forbid interpersonal relationships.”
“The Milita is more than just us now. You’re technically his superior, Al.”
“Not his direct superior. The 41st is infantry.”
“It could still cause a conflict of interest, especially in combat.”
“You know I wouldn’t let it.”
“Fair enough,” Sarah responds without thinking, the shakes her head, “Fine. Just keep this private and out of our room, okay?”
“How can I keep it private without using our room? Cooper shares a barrack with nineteen other riflemen.”
“Fine. You can use the room ONLY if you warn me first and leave no trace. I don’t want to walk in on Cooper’s bare ass.”
“I’m not a degenerate, Sarah.”
“No, you’re a nightmare sent to raise my blood pressure.”
They sit in comfortable silence while Sarah gets dressed in a fresh set of clothes. “You know, it’s kind of funny,” she muses, “I never expected you to go for someone so much younger.”
Looking up from her book, Slone frowns at Sarah, “What?”
“Cooper. Didn’t he just graduate college?”
“Yes..?” They stare at each other.
“Al, most people graduate college at twenty-two.”
.
.
.
“What??”
It doesn’t take long to pull up Cooper’s file.
“Oh, my god,” Sarah snickers, “He just turned twenty-three. Last month. He’s only been twenty-three for a month. How did you not know?”
“It never came up,” Slone groans into her hands.
“He’s twenty-three. He was in ninth grade when you graduated high school.”
“Shut upppppp.”
“Do you think it’s a fear kink or an older woman thing?”
“I’m leaving now.”
.
McKinley’s workshop is an amalgamation of cardboard boxes, shipping crates, and disassembled parts even he struggles to separate. Which means Jack doesn’t stand a chance when lets himself in and immediately trips over the eviscerated remains of a spectre.
“Uh, Specialist McKinley?”
No verbal response but Jack does hear a snort-snore drift out from somewhere in the back.
Picking his way through the mess carefully, Jack pushes past the plastic sheet covering the doorway to the backroom. It takes some poking around and he stubs his right knee twice but eventually Jack finds McKinley wedged between two cardboard boxes cradling a smart pistol.
“Specialist McKinley?” Nudging McKinley with the steel toe of his boot, Jack waited before nudging him again and repeating himself longer. Still nothing. Just as he was beginning to wondering if he should call someone, McKinley suddenly jerked awake with a wild snort.
Leaping to his feet, he trips over the smart pistol he dropped, falls into a box of springs, jumps back out, and pats himself down.
“Wow, fuck,” McKinley bends at the waist and stretches, “That was a nap. Uh, can I help you?”
Not sure how to respond, Jack holds up the three weapons he’d conned out of Slone with a well placed pair of puppy-dog eyes. McKinley looks at the guns, then at Jack, then at the guns again, not quite sure what the rifleman wanted. Until his brain caught up with his eyes and went comically wide.
“You got them??”
“Yeah, I got them.”
“And the 11?”
“And the 11,” Jack unholsters the P2011 as proof.
With an air of stunned reverence McKinley accepts the weapons and gazes at Cooper with the solemn awe usually reserved for holy artifacts and deities, “The Chosen One.”
“What?”
Grabbing Jack by the shoulders to pull his to his level, McKinley shakes Jack earnestly, “Have you found a specialization yet?”
“No?” Jack stutters.
“Fantastic! How does Small Arms/Artillery Repair sound?.”
“I’m applying for the pilot program next year,” Jack starts to protest.
“It’d give you a leg up in the program,” McKinley stops shaking him, “Half the job is maintenancing titan weapons and everyone has to be nice to you.” That’s not a bad deal. The only experience Jack has with titans is Fred and, no matter how much Slone likes him, Jack hasn’t been allowed to do more than ride on Fred’s chassis. The cockpit is completely off limits and probably always will be.
“I’m in.”
“Good. Good,” McKinley pats his shoulder, “Excellent. Stay here.”
.
Kicking in the cafeteria door, McKinley shouts into the space, “Adams, I’m taking Cooper!” Adams’ head snaps up. Damnit, when did McKinley get here?
“You can’t take my private!”
“I’m taking your private!” McKinley screams back , already halfway gone, “Take it up with Lewis!”
.
Captain Lewis signs Jack over. McKinley sticks his tongue out at Adams, who grabs it and threatens to rip it out until Lewis snaps at them to leave his office.
.
“So… Cooper got a promotion,” Davis begins conversationally while standing in like for breakfast. Slone hums a ‘good for him’, not fully awake and uninterested in anything that’s not eggs and sausage. “You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?”
“With what?”
“I know I’m a permanent fixture, but you could at least pay attention.”
“Right.” Switching her plate to one hand and resting it on her hip so she can balance her tea and water cup in the other hand, Slone leads the way to sit with Droz and Bish, “What was that?”
“Cooper’s promotion,” Davis settles into the chair next to Droz, “Did you have anything to do with it?”
“He got promoted?” Bish asks.
“Move,” Slone commands and knees the man in the side, “You’re in my spot.”
“You’re so mean. Do it more– OUCH!” Ribs now caved into the shape of Slone’s kneepad, Bish scoots an additional chair over so their elbows don’t brush while eating.
“What’s his promotion?” Slone asks once she’s sat down and shoveled a few bites of scrambled egg into her mouth.
“Small arms and artillery,” Davis keeps a close eye on her face while telling her. Droz looks between the two but doesn’t say anything.
“Good for him,” Slone mumbles, “Who has whiskey?”
“You didn’t know?” Bish gasps, “What kind of girlfriend are you?”
“Never call me a girlfriend again.”
“What are you then?” he asks, far too curious for his own safety.
“Fuck off, Bish,” Slone snaps at him.
“So you didn’t recommend Cooper to McKinley?”
“McKinley?” It takes a moment for the protein to hit Slone’s system but when it does she scowls, “The fucker fucking used me.”
“Cooper?” Droz jerks forward, instantly suspicious. If Cooper has been using Slone to get a leg up in the Militia, there will be no body.
“No, fucking McKinley. He used Cooper to get my weapons.”
The three men look at each other in shock before Droz speaks carefully, “And you… gave them to him?”
“Yes,” Slone grouses, stealing a sausage link from Bish’s plate. He doesn’t protest.
“The P2011 too?”
“ Yes .”
“Holy shit,” Davis whispers to Droz.
“What? Why is the P2011 important?” Bish asks, head swiveling back-and-forth between the three as yet another sausage link disappears from under his nose.
“Doesn’t matter,” Slone snaps, “If Cooper got a promotion, he earned it. I wouldn’t recommend him for something he hasn’t earned and he knows it.”
“What’s it take to earn it?”
“A hell of a lot more than good head, now drop it.”
They most certainly don’t drop it.
“Drop what,” Briggs plops down in the seat next to Slone with her own breakfast and a 1.5L thermos of coffee.
“Cooper gives good head,” Davis updates her.
“I regret waking up,” she sighs, huffing the steam of her coffee like smelling salts and grumbling, “Not discreet.”
“Speaking of discreet heads,” Davis begins with an encouraging look from Droz, “How’s our belligerent drunk?”
Briggs takes a long sip of her coffee, grimacing at the flavor, and sighs again, “Belligerent and drunk. I’ve been weaning him off slowly but it doesn’t make a difference. His saliva is practically whiskey at this point.”
“Is he getting more from another source?” Slone asks.
Bish perks up, “A lot of the IMC officers left contraband in their offices. He could have found some.”
Before he’s finished speaking Briggs is already shaking her head, “Not possible.” For once, Slone agrees with Bish but they choose not to say anything more, Bish taking a bite of his eggs while Slone sips her tea.
They eat in silence until Briggs breaks it with a terrible suggestion, “While you’re in a good mood, you should apologize to him. I think it’d help.” Despite not naming anyone specifically, everyone looks at Slone, who holds up a finger to indicate she needs to swallow before speaking.
“That’s not happening.”
“You punched him in the face.”
“I also cleared vomit from his airway after he pissed himself,” Slone informs her flatly. Bish gags into his water and Davis looks queasy. Even Droz grimaces at the thought.
“C’mon, Al. For the Milita?” Briggs appeals.
Slone sips her tea, “Never.”
After Slone leaves to check on her platoon’s training, Briggs looks to Droz for help, “Well.”
Droz holds his hands up in surrender and Davis scoffs, “Alice Slone has never apologized to anyone in her life. You’re taking a piss if you think she will now.”
“She gets it from her dad,” Droz agrees.
Inhale through your nose, exhale through your mouth , Briggs reminds herself, there’s got to be a solution somewhere …
“What about Cooper?” Bish pipes up with what he considers to be the obvious solution. Three sets of eyes turn to him.
“What?”
“It worked for McKinley. The only reason he got Slone’s weapons is because Cooper asked for them,” he looks around the table, “Didn’t you hear him crying in the breakroom.”
“There’s a big difference between giving up a gun for inspection and apologizing to her archnemesis,” Briggs argues.
Droz plants his hands on the table and leans forward, “Did she give him the 2011?”
Bish nods, “She gave him the 2011.”
“The chosen one. I changed my mind,” Briggs immediately amends, “Where is he?”
.
McKinley isn’t happy about giving up his rifleman less than 24-hours after getting him but Briggs pulls rank and he’s forced to cede. Honestly, Jack feels a bit like a favorite toy being passed around when Briggs pulls him from McKinley’s shop and into the hall.
“Cooper, I need you to convince Slone to apologize to Barker.”
“What?” Of all the things he expected Commander Briggs to say, that was not it, “Who’s Barker?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Briggs says with a wave of her hand, “Slone knows and that’s what’s important. I need her to apologize to him so we can all move forward.”
“I can try, ma’am.”
.
“Hey. Why are you reading a washing machine manual?”
Neck deep in disassembled parts and chewing on a pencil while reading an instruction manual, it takes Slone almost twenty seconds to register Jack leaning against the wall of Fred’s docking bay.
Smiling at him, she spits out the pencil and raises the booklet, “S’not a washing machine manual, Cooper. It’s Fred’s owner’s manual.”
“I thought only Hammond creates titans,” Jack points out the logo printed across the top of the manual, “That’s Marques General.”
“Technically, Fred’s a knock-off brand,” Slone admits with a glance to make sure Fred’s properly deactivated, his battery sitting next to Cooper’s elbow, and returns to the page she’d been reading, “There’s something wrong with his knee and I want to locate the problem before one of the technicians catches wind.”
“Really don’t like sharing, do you?” Jack teases as he wanders closer to peer over her shoulder.
“I’m an only child,” she tells him dismissively but doesn’t push him out of her space, “Does McKinley know you’ve wandered away.”
“Uh, yeah,” Jack admits, scratching his head before tucking his thumbs into his flak jacket and beginning to twist at the waist, “He’s reluctantly loaned me out to Briggs for a few hours. Guess you’re gonna have to share me too,” he teases with a grin.
“Not going to happen. Pass me the lube over there,” she points to the rolling tool cabinet behind Jack.
Turning to look where she pointed, Jack furrows his brows and turns back to look at her, “Lube?”
“Mmhm,” she hums. When he doesn’t immediately go to hand it to her, she looks up to find a very confused Jack Cooper standing there like a sim with unclear orders, “For the joints and battery terminals. Fred prefers it to petroleum jelly or penetrating oil,” Slone explains. At least four sex jokes sit on Jack’s tongue but he hides them behind a suppressed smile.
Sitting on the tool cabinet, he watches closely as she applies the lube, patiently explaining the parts and functions when he points them out. Bleeding the fluids especially interests him.
“I didn’t know titans need brake fluid. Or any fluids.”
She laughs, “How did you suppose they stop, Cooper?”
“I dunno. Same way we do, I guess.”
“Hmm. Do you see the drip pan?”
“Uhhh, yeah. Over there,” Jack points out.
“Right. How the… the thing.” She makes a circle with her fingers, like that would somehow explain what she’s looking for.
“What thing?” Jack looks around for a circle-thing but nothing comes to mind.
“The, what’s the bloody thing called, the ten. The ten.”
“The ten?”
“Yes.”
Shaking his head, Jack chuckles as she pokes around for whatever a ‘ten’ is, “I don’t know what that means.”
“The ten,” she makes a circle with her fingers again, “The ten. Where did I– oh, right.”
Seeing she’s pointing at the cabinet he’s sitting on, Jack spread his legs to grant access to the drawers. Instead, to his shock, she grabs him by his hips, lifts him, and drops him on a crate next to the cabinet. Too stunned to speak, he watches as she lifts the cabinet lid and triumphantly pulls out a wrench.
“A 3/8?” Jack asks breathlessly, flustered and flushed from being picked up and moved like he weighed nothing. He knew pilots used injections and body mods to enhance strength but damn. Hopefully this doesn't awaken anything in him.
“10mm,” she corrects sternly, “Only Americans use standard.”
“Right,” he gulps. Something’s definitely awakened. Hopefully she won’t notice.
She notices.
“Alright there, Cooper?”
“Please do that again,” blurts out of his mouth before his brain can catch the words, “Damnit, Jack.” For such a smart woman, she doesn’t seem to catch on immediately.
“Use millimeters?”
“Yes. No. The, uh, the other thing. Later, maybe.”
She’s still not sure what he wants but nods easily, figuring he’ll tell her when the time came. Fortunately for the two of them, Cooper can communicate when called upon.
“Pass me the penetrating oil,” she says instead. Again, a sex joke sits on his tongue but he no longer trusts himself to open his mouth.
“Alright, Cooper.” Having removed fill and drain bolts, Slone steps back to allow the fluid to drain into the drip pan while she shifts her weight onto one hip, “What did Sarah send you here for?”
“How do you know it was Commander Briggs?”
“She borrowed you from McKinley, didn’t she? Can’t imagine you’re playing hooky with me. And if you are,” she adds sternly, “Get the fuck out of my docking bay.”
“No hooky,” he holds his hands up as a peace offering, “Briggs sent me to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“She wants you to apologize to Barker.” They share a long silence against the background of the general hubbub of the titan hanger.
“I don’t know who Barker is,” Jack breaks the silence. Slone immediately shakes her head and goes back to check the fluid levels.
“Never going to happen.” It’s only half empty but the drip pan will overflow soon, meaning this was about to get messy. She doesn’t have another one, so she’ll have to ask a technician to borrow one. Maybe Cooper could do it, since apparently he’s now the emissary between Slone and the rest of mankind.
“I figured,” Jack says, “Which is why I brought an incentive.”
“Cooper, I swear if you take off your clothes—”
“Peach rings,” he interrupts proudly, making her pause.
“Peach rings?”
“Peach rings.” Taking the gummy candies from his vest pocket, he wiggles the bag enticingly, “And may I say, you look fine as chilled wine in summertime.” Slone wants to be mad at him, or Sarah, or someone, but she can’t. Scratch, she’s still pissed at Barker, so she’ll redirect that energy toward him. Hopefully he’ll hemorrhage and die.
“Damnit, Cooper.” Taking Jack’s face in her hands, she kisses him gently and whispers against his lips, “I’ll die first. Now get out before McKinley misses you.”
Oil and grease smeared across his face, he grins at her and gives her a quick peck, “I figured.”
“Can I still have the peach rings?”
“Nope.”
She narrows her eyes playfully and gently slaps his cheek, “Get out of my titan bay.”
“Can I come by tonight?”
“Out.”
.
He receives a message seven minutes later:
>2100.
>Bring the candy.
<What happens if I don’t
>I won’t lift you onto the bed.
.
<Busy tonight?
>Painfully.
>We won’t be finished until late but you can use the shower if you like.
<Marry me
.
Sarah Briggs doesn’t want to see Jack Cooper in a towel. Jack Cooper would rather have died than have his Commander see him in a towel.
They make eye contact.
"She won't apologize," Jack blurts out. Briggs leaves. They never speak of it again.
.
Sarah doesn't sleep in their room that night, not that Slone's complaining because it means she gets to keep Cooper overnight. Once given the chance to warm up after a day in the cold, he makes the perfect space heater to stuff into her bed and curl around. He doesn't kick or snore and she's honestly very content to sleep through the night.
“Captain Slone?”
Like some fucked up curse, a rap on Slone’s bedroom door drags her awake long enough to check her watch, squinting against the light that threatens to blind her. It’s 03:26. Way too early for fuckery to abound. And she doesn’t recognize the voice so it’s probably Sarah’s problem anyway.
Sarah, whose bed sits empty and unused. Because she's sleeping somewhere else. Great.
The person knocks louder, “Captain Slone?”
Someone better be fucking dying or Slone’s burning this whole place to the ground. Not bothering to put something on over her pajamas, she rolls out of bed and opens her door to find a very fidgety rifleman who somehow remains serious in the face of a captain wearing an oversized t-shirt and taxicab yellow flannel pajama pants. Behind her, Cooper stirs in bed and opens a blurry eye. Noticing Slone's companion, the rifleman flushes and looks anywhere but inside when he addresses Slone,
“Sorry to wake you, ma’am, but Commander Briggs left a note on her office door saying not to bother her unless General Marder himself walks in.”
Of course Sarah did.
“What happened?”
“It’s Barker, ma’am. He’s throwing up in the showers.”
Of course he is.
“Where?”
.
She hears him before she smells him and smells him before she sees him. Sending the relieved rifleman back to bed, Slone enters the locker room and grimaces when stagnant water immediately soaks through her socks. A trail of pink stomach bile starting from the sinks leads her to the open showers where she finds Barker crumpled on the floor next to the drain. The cloying scent of rum hovers around him like a cloud. Where did he even find rum? Sarah’s been giving him small doses of the whiskey they’d picked up from Sleepy Sid’s to stave off withdrawals but whatever Barker got ahold of smells expensive.
“How much have you had?” she asks, crossing her arms as she watches the man heave again.
Groaning, Barker rolls his head to the side and sighs dramatically when he sees her, “Great. The mean one.”
“How much have you had?” she repeats darkly, already done with the bullshit.
“I don’t know.” Staggering to his feet using the wall for support, he squints at her antagonistically, “Some officer was kind enough to leave his liquor cabinet unlocked. High-end stuff. Think he was in the middle of a midday drink when we interrupted.”
“So you decided to give yourself alcohol poisoning?”
He scoffs and throws himself off balance rolling his eyes, barely keeping himself upright by grabbing a shower knob, “I’m a hostage bargaining chip. If I wanna drink, I’m gonna drink. Think I’ve earned it, yeah?”
Grinding her teeth until the enamel squeaks, Slone forces herself to only take one dangerous step forward instead of reaching out to strangle the man, “The Militia’s betting everything on you, you fucking nance. You could at least stay sober.”
“Who cares!” Barker risks letting go of the knob to wave a hand around, “ I’m through with the Frontier. All of it! This! This s’a lost cause. All of it. Was lost before, ‘s lost now.”
A cough fit interrupts his rant and he gags up what little liquids remain in his stomach before wiping his chin on his sleeve and giving Slone a mocking salute, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a top-shelf bottle waiting for me.”
Absolutely fucking not.
Barker tries to push past her and something in Slone’s chest snaps. Grabbing him by the collar, she knocks his wobbly legs out from underneath him and throws him to the floor, where she grabs his chin and squeezes, forcing him to look at her.
“Listen here, you little buggah,” Slone hisses, “If it were up to me, you’d’ve been left to choke wherever the bartender dropped your useless body.”
She squeezes tighter and digs her knee into his sternum until he wheezes, tears gathering in his eyes as his hands uselessly bouncing off her arms and sides, “You’re pathetic. Any potential you had washed out years ago.”
It would be easy to kill him here. The excuse practically writes itself: drunk, he slipped in the showers, hit his head, and drowned. These drains are notorious for clogging. No one would question it. Except. . .
“But it’s not up to me.”
Easing off, she allows Barker to breath but stays kneeling over him.
“Sarah thinks we need your useless ass. So you’re going to shower, brush your teeth, shave, anything you need to do to look presentable for tomorrow. Do you understand?”
“Fuck you,” Barker tries to snarl but cuts himself off with a groan when she tightens her grip until the bones in his jaw creak and grind.
“Do. you. understand?”
“ Yes ,” he gasps.
She keeps him there for a long moment, long enough Barker’s hazy mind wonders if she’ll kill him after all, but she seems to decide otherwise. Climbing to her feet, Slone glares down at him, “Get up.” She offers no assistance, so it takes an embarrassingly long time for Barker to regain his balance, nearly crashing to the ground more than once, his chest aching, “Strip and shower.”
He scoffs, “I’m not doing that.”
The look in her eyes could evaporate water, “Strip. Now. Or I’ll do it for you.”
Knowing full well she would, Barker angrily strips and tosses his clothes to the side,completely bare as he sarcastically presents himself, “Happy now?”
Then yelps when she turns the shower nozzle to freezing.
True to her word, Slone stays the entire time Barker showers, only briefly leaving to dig through lockers until she finds soap, shaving cream, and a razor, the former she throws at him with a firm command to use it. Barker grumbles his way through the shower, violently shivering but mostly sober by the time she tosses him a towel.
“Whose is this?” He cautiously holds the towel with two, oddly picky for a man whose clothes could walk themselves to the laundry. Clothes she refuses to let him change back into, so he bitterly wraps the towel around his waist as she directs him to shave.
Eyeing her in the mirror as he spreads shaving cream across his face, Barker asks a question that’s been nagging him since Slone knocked him unconscious in the motel room.
“How old’re you?”
“Twenty-seven, not that it’s any of your business,” she replies, eyes narrowing at the odd question.
“Nah, nah, nah.” Lowering the razor, Barker turns to face her fully, “How old‘ere you the first time you killed someone?” Leaning against the wall, Slone crosses her legs and considers her answer, deciding on honesty. What’s he going to do, report her to the authorities? Anyone that matters was there.
“Sixteen. The Garden District riots.”
They’re both silent and Barker begins to shave before she speaks again, “Why?”
“There’s soldiers, and then there’s killers. People like you tend to start early." He taps the razor against the lip of the sink, “You started keeping trophies yet?”
Slone stiffens, “Did Droz tell you?”
“You seem like the type.”
.
Jack stirs awake when she slips back into their bunk, "Everythin' okay?" She doesn't respond until she's rolled him onto his lap and straddled his thighs, already pulling down his shorts and using her spit to ease the friction of her palming him into hardness.
"S'alright, Cooper."