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W groans, barely able to keep her eyes open. She's sore and tired, sprawled out on her stomach because she can't find the strength to move. If she was out in the wastelands, she'd be as good as dead.
But she isn't. She's inside a mobile base, lying on a bed of all things, with the rightful ruler of Kazdel tracing constellations out of the scars on her back.
Admittedly, "bed" is a bit of a stretch; it's really a leftover cot that was scrounged up from a broken-down former hospital they passed on the way, padded with just a bit of extra bedding. The base is still sparse—furniture, supplies, personnel—but everyone does what they can. W can respect that, really. It's not so different from what she's used to.
The cot is designed for one person, so Theresa has to cuddle close. She's warm, soft in places W has never been, gentle in a way W could never be. She touches W more when she's worried about something. For all of her clever strategies, she's so predictable sometimes. She speaks more with her hands than with her mouth. These last few nights, she's pulled W into bed with something like desperation, and kept her there as if she was trying to drown in her.
In the back of her mind, W can't help but wonder if Theresa is just using her as a pleasant distraction, the same way W would find her way into Ines's tent in the middle of the night to take the edge off. But even if she is, does it matter? The delicate machinations of running an underground rebellion are well beyond W's scope, anyway. She's used to things she can grab and fix with her own two hands. A nation isn't one of those things.
At the end of the day, W doesn't mind being used, as long as she can be useful to her.
Theresa's thumb skims over the point of W's shoulder blade. "What about this one?" she asks.
"Shrapnel."
She hums thoughtfully as her fingers move lower, to the starburst of scar tissue near the base of W's ribcage. "And this one?"
"Caster. Didn't dodge fast enough."
Theresa makes a soft, sympathetic noise. "That sounds painful."
"It's whatever. I've survived worse."
"Such as?"
W lifts her hand, presenting a tiny, straight-edged scar lancing across the side of her index finger. "Potato-peeling accident," she says. "Barely made it out alive."
Theresa smiles, just a tiny bit, a smile that gets more and more rare with each passing day. "My, that must have been devastating," she says, delicately taking W's hand in hers. "However did you survive such a grave wound?"
W hums in mock thoughtfulness. "Who knows. Maybe I'm a little tougher than I look."
Theresa smiles a little bit wider, and lowers her head to press her lips to the scar. Lacing their fingers together, she lays a slow, indulgent trail of kisses along W's arm, from the back of her hand up to her shoulder. It's like a scene out of those cheesy romance novels Hoederer likes, something soft and purehearted that W should be too jaded for by now.
She nuzzles the side of W's neck with a soft sigh. Her fingertips key down W's spine, vertebra by vertebra, until they brush against that spot low on W's back that makes her tail twitch.
"Still hungry?" W teases, trying to sound casual, even as the touch of Theresa's lips on her nape makes her go weak.
"Mm..." W can feel her eyelashes fluttering against her skin as she closes her eyes. "I shouldn't be greedy," she muses quietly, though her wandering hands tell a different story.
"Didn't you say–" W swallows, tries to remember how to form a full sentence as Theresa's teeth scrape over a day-old hickey– "you have a meeting in the morning? Kal'tsit will have my head if you're late."
"You're not wrong," Theresa sighs. She nudges W's cheek with her nose. "Could you roll over? I want to kiss you properly."
Six months ago, coming from anyone else, W would've mocked the open sentimentality. But coming from Theresa, it feels right. It feels like something she can trust.
W pushes herself up with no small effort, flopping onto her back. Theresa laughs at her gracelessness. She slides her hand behind W's neck, cradling the back of her head, gazing down at her with a tenderness that makes W hurt. W had been hunted, protected, even coveted before, but it wasn't until she met Theresa that she learned what it was like to be cherished.
What do you see in me? she wants to ask. What makes you care so much?
But Theresa silences her before she can get a word out. She can still taste herself on Theresa's tongue, all too aware of the knee nudging hers apart.
"Hey," she protests, though there's no strength in her voice. "Your meeting…"
Theresa's nails skim down the back of her neck, making her shiver. "That's not something you need to be worrying about," she murmurs.
If it was anyone else—especially Ines—W would've laughed at how transparent she was, mocked her for craving sex the way other mercs craved black-market kohl, something to turn off your brain and turn you into a dumb, hedonistic beast.
But, well, it's not like W is in any place to talk.
So she wraps her arms around Theresa's shoulders, arches into her touch, lets her weight press her back down against the hard foam mattress. If there's one thing W is good at, on or off the battlefield, it's making a good distraction.