The Magic Spoon

I.
Soldiers understood.
Deck crew, CIC, sometimes even pilots just didn’t get it.  But a (fellow) soldier always understood how it was after an engagement.  The adrenaline out of control, spurring an insanity of need, tension, desperation…
Lt. M.Z. Denov (Senior grade) had a Marine she saw.  He wasn’t the prettiest to look at.  Certainly not the smartest.  But he frakked so hard it hurt and isn’t that what mattered?

II.

“Whore” he grunted one night, his callused fingers pressing bruises into her hips.  She stiffened.
“Don’t call me that.”  a pause.  The truth was that his little burbles of vitriol were charming.  ”Somethin’ else.”  she finally demanded.  Call me something else.
He lifted his head, thumping it on the top of her rack  ”What dirty name y’want?”  What a good dog, she thought, he didn’t miss a beat this time.   Den let her head fall back and her fingers dig into his back.
“Petty Officer, First Class.”

This is about Denov, (mine!) and her little romps aboard Battlestar Whatever. Way to go practically asking your best firned to lead you on, Den. Way to go being all in denial about your part in some military-grade Evilitry, Den. God, you’re so lame! *sigh*

One thing you need to know about Denov is that she’s basically Payne. Without the whole painslut bit. Which is pretty much the core part of Payne, so that doesn’t make sense, but there you are.

There is a story behind the last bit, but I’m not going to tell you.

—-

They never talk about these little…Denov wasn’t even sure what to call them.  It always started with Ambrosia and moved to stock-room moonshine and ended with Rosie’s face pressed against her neck and Rosie’s hips rocking against her wrist and her heart feeling like it was about to thump itself right through the hull of her shuddering chest.   Quick, drunken, fumbled, silent.
There were no words.   Not before, during, or after.  They never said a word, that would make it real.