Patreon LogoYour support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)

Interstellar Flight (Mr. M & missedstations)

"Heh. They don't have quite the missionary zeal that they used to. But then, religion is quite the different beast these days. Perhaps we just need to find a philosopher, or make do without." He grinned at her. It was fun to talk about possibilities, about doing something different from what they normally would do with their lives. Taggart had to admit, he'd liked this past few weeks of travel without having to shoot anybody. No smart soldier really enjoys his job, no matter how good a professional he or she might be at it.

In response to her comments about the food, he looked back at his plate. "No, not at all. I'm used to spicier, or more powerful flavors, but this has some complexity. I guess I'm lucky my usual diet hasn't killed my taste buds." He wasn't about to complain, even if he'd had something to complain about; he was finding acting the part to be interesting, but he had no wish to be a jerk to a poor server.

He ate a few more bites in silence, gazing out at the city which had started to come awake as the sky deepened. There were lights all over, but the total light density wasn't yet enough to blot out the stars, so they got the brilliantly-colored illumination up from the city, and the brilliant stars and small moons down from the sky. It was lovely, of course; it was designed to be so. That's why this restaurant was where it was, and why their window faced as it did.

"The fanatics explore, the weirdos and outcasts and desperate and visionary head out to do the settling, and of all those, the lucky strike it rich. And if they're really lucky, their descendants work past their entitlement issues and become pretty decent people," he mused, shooting her a sidelong glance and a smile as he took a sip from his drink. Everything was quite nice; the beverages, the starter, the company and conversation. As the exterior grew darker, the room lights stayed the same dim level, but bits of the centerpiece snapped into glowing, either a cunningly-disguised device or a real organic plant that provided its own illumination; honestly, Taggart couldn't tell just by looking at it and it didn't matter, anyway. Ilena looked great by the centerpiece light. But then, she always looked great. Times like this, Taggart realized he was really lucky to have scored this assignment.
 
“Ugh! Philosophers!” Ilena said with mock-disgust. “They're always so... Convinced that they are better than you. And depressing! Philosophers seem to like to trying to take all the fun out of life. Good for dinner parties, but not for living with.” It had been one of her games, seating guests she didn't quite like next to pessimistic philosophers and restricting the flow of alcohol to that section of the table.

“Yes, I've noticed...!” she replied, in response to his food comments. She had never been too fond of spicy, but she could cope with it: and the cuisine on the Tears had been rather novel at first, but harsh on her tongue. But then again, it was difficult to make preserved food taste good without heavier flavouring... “But I'll forgive you for it,” she said lightly. “I wouldn't trust you to make fish this good.” Insulting Taggart's culinary skills was a little low of her: she was even worse, but she at least knew who to pay for a good meal.

“Oh, so I am a 'pretty decent person' then?” Ilena said with a laugh. It was the best compliment she had ever got from Taggart, as backhanded as it was. “If that is the case... I would like to admit that it turns out that my father's belief that all mercenaries are dirty and smell isn't true after all. Your hygiene is excellent and you actually have manners.”
 
Her reaction surprised and amused him. "So, not big on philosophers, then. That's OK; the battlefield turns every survivor into a little bit of a philosopher, and you've got enough insight about life as well -- I think we'd survive without one."

In response to the crack about fish, he sucked in his breath as if he'd been injured. "Oh, ouch! That drew blood!" He chuckled. "If you really want to see what I grew up eating, we can subsist on FMPs and ship's water next jump." He shook his head; it was an empty threat, since he knew he'd never do that to her. "Seriously, though, learning to live on that stuff allows me to appreciate this more, I think, than I would if I'd grown up with it. Perhaps it's the contrast that shows the value of things, hm?"

"Actually, I would say your father's belief is true more often than not," he admitted, "it's just there's no group of people who is 100% anything, really. Stereotypes exist for a reason, but stereotypes aren't binding, after all." He smiled at her, genuinely. "But thank you. I have manners enough to know when I've been sincerely complimented." He took a sip of his drink. "But I apparently don't express myself as well as I ought. The lucky ones I was talking about, they'd be really lucky if their descendants became pretty decent people, yes. That's generally true, and what I meant. But your ancestors, in specific, hit the karmic jackpot, Ilena. I'm not fooling myself; I'm sure you had your share of idle cruelties and hurtful decisions growing up. No more than I, though in a different scale, I'm sure. Still... I am honored to think of you as my friend."

He met her eyes as he said that last in a soft voice, and held her gaze for a moment, perhaps a little longer than he intended, as his collar felt hot, suddenly, and his eyes dropped away back to his food. "I didn't mean to overstep my bounds," he said with a gentle smile. "It must be all this rich food, going to my head or something. My apologies."
 
“Ugh! No! I lived on a research station, remember? I did that already.” Only vagrants and scientists lived that badly, only on water and FMPs. “They had to drill through the ice every time we needed supplies, so they did it by what was easiest to pack and weighted the least. It's why field research is only a hobby for me. The life is too unpleasant.” They said marines had it rough, but really, if you wanted to see pain, you needed to see the completely insane footsoldiers of scientific progress: research teams willing to face death, hostile environments and a constant battle for survival for the vague possibility of finding out something new.

“I am too spoilt to be a real biologist,” Ilena said with a laugh. “I only like playing in my labs, and I don't want to spend longer than a week without taking a shower.” She only visited alien planets as personal expensive field trips, and while she did some research, she had only published out of scientific duty – a firm belief that all discoveries should be shared, for the benefit of the human race.

“Ah, so I am a friend! I am glad to not just be an employer. After living with you all this time I was starting to wonder... You are a complicated man, difficult to read,” she was smiling back, although, seeing his eyes drop... Interesting. “I do not generally take my bodyguards to dinner, you know. So why apologise?” Normally she would have hired herself some company for the meal, left the bodyguards to sit outside the door.
 
He regarded her again with a slightly surprised, slightly shrewd expression. "No, I don't suppose you DO normally break bread with those you employ. I am honored again." He nodded deeply at her, something of a seated bow.

When he rose from his bow, he smiled again at her, and there was a little shyness in it, inexplicably (he wouldn't have been able to say where that came from, himself). "You know, I don't mean to be complicated or difficult. I'm sure you can see how I might try and keep a certain reserve. I mean, you're my employer, and a married woman. Or were, at least. So I kept a degree of distance." He raised an eyebrow. "But now that I know my hygiene and odor are sufficiently under control, perhaps I'll loosen up a bit."
 
For one, most people who worked for Ilena kept their distance anyway. She'd usually had over twenty rooms entirely to her own, but having to share a small ship with someone for weeks made life very different, to say the least. But she was curious if he kept his distance so much because she was of a different class, or really because she was just his employer.

“At this table, we are equals,” she said easily. Even if she was the one paying, she would not have invited him if she wanted to be only en employer. If you wanted to make an employee happier, you gave them a bonus, after all, not invite them to dinner. She had never been too good at keeping a distance herself, she preferred other people to keep away from her instead: so she was aiming for an easy friendship, perhaps.

“Maybe sometime you will take me out to dinner,” she added with a smile.
 
He chuckled. "The glib answer would be the old standby: 'you don't pay me enough for that.' But the truth is, I'd love to. Though..." he leaned in a bit, glancing about as if the waiter were in the room or something. "...I will be hard-pressed to find a place as impressive as this that I can afford, so that much is actually true."

He straightened up. "But in a way, I'd say we already had our first date on the flight off of Ekkar's Jewel. I mean, it usually takes a little while before I cook for a lady." He winked and sipped his drink. He was just playing around, conversationally, taking advantage of her "equals" comment, but it had been a mistake to mention the word "date," for as he swallowed, it hit him that this current dinner might be considered a date, what with her recent divorce and all, and if that were the case, he'd just drawn her attention to it, as well. His ears pinkened, but he didn't cough like he felt he was going to. Instead he set his glass down and smiled and tried to play off his sudden self-consciousness.

"You know, considering you haven't seen him in years, you mention your father reasonably frequently, do you realize that? It's pretty clear you learned from him well. Out of curiosity, did he ever go out like this and get his hands dirty? I'm just wondering if it's a family trait, down through the generations!"
 
Ilena noted his change in colour: and her response was to laugh. “I am glad it didn't take so very long for you to cook for me! But I should like to see where you would normally take a lady...” Maybe her teasing at this point was not entirely fair, especially since she had noted his discomfort, but it was fun.

“Ah, we don't like to talk about it...” One generally did not mention the times one's family committed war crimes, mass murder, drug smuggling, forays into organised crime. “He was in the army, a long time ago. The original disputes over the colonisation Sapphire. We all know how that ended up.”

It was something now in historical records: a bitter war over who got the resources, resulting in destruction of most of them, and eventual crushing victory by military funded by the Kostukova family. Sadly, the war also caused a massive tectonic event, resulting with the majority of the planet being underwater. It was a classical story of what not to do with a viable, resource rich planet, and a major embarrassment to everyone concerned.

“We learned a lot from that,” she added lightly. They had stopped being openly involved in colonisation.
 
At her mention of Sapphire, Taggart tensed, realizing just from the reference that he'd made a faux pas. He'd studied the conflict, of course; it was one of many examples in every strategy class taught nowadays. But he hadn't realized Ilena was related to THAT branch of the family. He'd just wanted to get her talking about her family some more, as she generally seemed to enjoy that. And now it was awkward.

"I'm sure you did. I've heard that education is just a collection of what everybody learned from their mistakes, so it's good that you learned." He hoped that was enough to pass the subject by, and move on to other things.

"But as for where I would take a lady, I presumed you'd be more interested in where I take a date!" He paused and eyed her for a moment with a smile, letting the aspersions he cast on the quality of his normal dates sink in. "I'm kidding, of course. Actually, there's this little dive bar, perfectly wretched place..." and again, he paused to let that reference to her own past register, grinning. "Kidding again. In all honesty, I don't know, actually; depends on the planet, what's available. But if all else fails, I can always take a girl out shooting." He paused a third time, and then snapped his fingers as if just realizing. "Damn it!"
 
“I am afraid that seeing as I didn't do it...” Ilena smiled, a little tersely, “I don't feel too guilty about it. But the whole thing is a rather embarrassing stain on our family history...” The fact that the whole thing was taught in schools was the biggest insult of all, but it really wasn't a fight they wanted to pick. When asked, most of them pretended to have no knowledge of the incident at all... No, they totally didn't ruin a planet just to prove a point. She was going to entirely drop the subject at that.

Oh, no, he did not just make a reference to the first date with the man she wanted to kill... She did, at least, appreciate the humour, and it was a good follow up to Sapphire: she had to laugh a little.

“Are you telling me we have been dating without realising all this time? Interesting problem.” Ilena said playfully, only realising after that what sort of implication the words had. “Oh dear...”
 
Now that it was her turn for a little bit of embarrassment, Taggart couldn't help but smile. But he shook his head. "Don't I wish, but no, I didn't bring a picnic lunch, so it still counts as just weapons training. There are rules, you see. It's all very military." He chuckled and took another bite of his starter, noting he was nearly done with the dish. "This really is quite good; would you like to try some? I thought I'd better make the offer now, while there was still some left."

He'd just negotiated a little bit of a minefield with her family history, and the joke about her ex was a little bit of a risk, but it fit with the theme, and he couldn't resist. But now they were in rather a danger zone of a different sort; should they really be joking about dating when there was a vague possibility of same? And they, living in such close quarters for the rest of the mission. It was not a sensible topic, but... he couldn't help but be intrigued. He'd been mulling it over all day, after all, and so introducing the concept into her mind? Was something he wasn't opposed to.
 
“No, you enjoy it. Makes sure that I will have something to eat the next time I am here!” If she ever came back... She rather hoped not. As entertaining as this rock was, she doubted that it would stand too well to a second visit. She finished her own dish and leant back contentedly. Good food, decent company... This trip wasn't so bad. Apart from her goddamn husband. Ex-husband? Dead husband? Who knew, now.

But those thoughts were far too unpleasant... Her eyes wandered off to the skyline. “Hmm. I think you should tell me a funny army story. Aren't you veterans supposed to be full of them?”




{AND I feel shitty for posting something this short. >: }
 
{It's a conversation; sometimes you can't pad it out. Don't worry about it, you've more than earned the occasional short post}

"A funny one, hm?" Taggart considered as he enjoyed yet another mouthful of his appetizer dish. Finally he nodded. "All right."

"There was this one time... this is just a warm-up story, understand... but this one time, I was just a young soldier, and we'd just received this new commanding officer. The new Colonel was the type to run the troops through drills, extended marches, all sorts of stuff that looks good on the parade ground, but isn't necessarily good for much in the field. But oh, he loved his precision marching. And also, a colonel isn't normally supposed to spend so much time working the troops, see. They're supposed to leave that to the ranks below, keep a better eye on the big picture, etc."

"Well, after a few months of this, we were prepping for morning parade, and somebody was passing out fake mustaches. See, the Colonel had this big walrus-like mustache he was very proud of. Waxed it, combed it... I wouldn't be surprised if he talked to it at night. Anyway, so I got this stick-on mustache that was just like the Colonel's. Everyone did, men and women alike. So I stuck it on, like everyone else, and went to the parade grounds."

"So here we were, rank upon rank of uniformed, mustachioed soldiers, standing at attention in perfect, perfect rows. And the Colonel got up on the podium, as he was wont to do. And even from the distance I was, I could tell he was livid. Just furious. And he starts in yelling at the lot of us that someone was going to pay, someone was going to suffer the consequences. And just then, he notices how every single soldier in his entire command is wearing his mustache. And we notice, at the same time, that somebody had gone and shaved his mustache off."

Taggart paused to let that sink in. "We never found out who did it, though I think the MP CSI team was a bit purposefully lax in their investigation. The Colonel never drilled us again, and he was out of that command within a week."
 
Ilena placed her cutlery on the place and pushed it away a little before leaning forward, resting her chin on her hands, ready to listen. She was glad that that he explained what colonels do – she knew none of the military lingo. And she had never been interested enough to look up military ranks and the responsibilities!

She rather wondered what Taggart looked like with a moustache... “Did you have hair then?” Ilena asked lightly, “Because I'm imagining you like this and with a moustache... And it's not a pleasant picture!” Her mental image of him didn't really stand for it...

The end of the story was good, though, she had to giggle at it, covering her laugh with a hand. “And how on earth was it done? I mean, even if you never found out who surely there was speculation about how. Just in case I need to get rid of some man's moustache. For future reference.”
 
"I had a crew-cut at the time," he admitted. "A little more hair, but not by much. That's before I learned the joy of no-maintenance, and before," he waved at the left side of his skull vaguely, "the scar tissue rather messed up the hair growth patterns." His tone was matter-of-fact; she saw the scars every day, it's not like it was a big deal, but she probably hadn't considered how they would make the hair on that side of his head all patchy and weird.

"Well, I'm thinking it must have been special forces, maybe one of the sergeants got fed up and called in a favor. It wouldn't be hard: sneak in through a conventional window, light dose of sapper gas to keep him quiet and sleeping while you shave... possibly a laser-guided automatic dealie-bob to do the deed, and I'd think a small vacuum to collect up the hairs. Hell, some shavers these days have those built in! Figure, maybe, thirty seconds for infiltration, thirty seconds to dose and do the deed, thirty seconds for exfiltration -- even if you run into a snag or two, you're in and out in under two minutes and leave very little trace." He leaned forward toward her. "And somewhere... somewhere you've got an old veteran going through his or her scrapbook with a grandchild, and the kid sees a few short, bristly hairs taped to the page in their own little spot, and asks 'what's that?' and the veteran looks and says 'souvenirs!'" He grinned and winked at her.

Just about then, the door made its customary little click as the waiter opened it from the other side, a moment of warning for the occupants, and their next course was served.
 
Hm. Ilena had indeed never thought about the effect scars had on his hair. She leaned forward consiprationally: “I think you'd look hilarious with a beard and a bald head. Then you would just need some big guns, and an eyepatch, and you could look like a proper movie pastiche pirate.” She stopped herself adding that her childish side would find it hilarious to dress up in that way and go to one of the central worlds.

“I would love to be a fly on the wall for that one...” she said, leaning back to let the waiter take her plate, her cutlery, place the new set, polished to an equally high shine. She took polite no notice of the boy, but managed to not get in the way of him doing his job. When their courses were placed in front of them, she appreciated them with a look first. “Looks good and smells good... High expectations so far.”

And she couldn't resist looking at the waiter's ass as he was leaving. “Nice one, a bit young though. Makes me feel like a dirty old woman... It's the worst part of aging,” she complained at Taggart. "You can stop the biological part, but you just find that all the young ones are too immature."
 
He leaned in to match her conspiracy, "You know, I've got the guns, and I'm sure there's an eyepatch somewhere. Should I get some flashy clothes and stop shaving my chin?"

When the course was served and the waiter left, he chuckled at her reaction to the departing man. "Well, you're entitled to be a dirty old woman if you want to be. With your money, it's considered 'eccentric'. But as for the youth... I don't know what to tell you. You could have any young hetero guy you want, Ilena, you really could... but would you want them?" He waggled a fork a her, playfully. "And there's the rub."

He also was savoring the look of the meal, if not the waiter. He hesitated to dig right in, waiting until Ilena took a sample of hers. He didn't want to seem... uncultured? He didn't want to violate any rules of the environment, and since he didn't know what the rules were, he fell back on training, which was, in this case, to wait and observe.
 
“Hm... Starting to think that I may need someone my own age! Perhaps for casual sex, it is interesting enough. You do not have to wait for me, please enjoy,” Ilena replied, then sighed, eyes to her main course. After tasting a bite, considering it – obviously approving or she would have complained – only then she did continue, “But perhaps I should be more pragmatic when choosing my life partner. Someone who shares my views more closely.”

She could not help but think that her relationship was her own mistake. She had been far too idealistic about who she married, whereas she should have vetted a partner even more carefully than she vetted her bodyguards.

“What were we talking about a moment ago...? Ah!” She reconsidered Taggart, “Beard. Yes... Some flashy clothes would be excellent... Maybe if we find a good shop, we should buy some just for fun. And how should I dress...?”
 
He ate when she did, and found he really enjoyed it. Tender, nicely cooked, spices and flavors were not as subtle as the starter but were well-balanced and not overpowering... he was in danger of inhaling it, actually, so he made himself eat slower, so as not to embarrass himself.

"Shares your views or doesn't, you can't control that sort of thing. You're attracted to who you're attracted to. But finding out their background, what they're really made of, yeah, in your position, that would be best. Then you know whether or not to enjoy them casually as they are or whether you can trust them more deeply," he said, nodding absently. A stricter examination of her ex-husband's dealings might have shown something to be concerned about earlier; it was only sensible she'd learn, be more careful in the future. She'd be a fool if she didn't, and Ilena was no fool.

And then she started talking about the pirate thing again, and he couldn't help but chuckle. "Oh, your outfit all depends on the role you want to play. Pirate Queen, to go with my new image? Done. I'm sure you'd look great with a power sword on your hip, too!" He winked, playfully. "Otherwise, just think about what sort of archetype you want to try out. You've seen enough movies! Femme Fatale? Resourceful Adventuress? You've already got the Classy Woman of Society angle down pat, so perhaps aim more for a New-Romantic Brigand?" He leaned back, apparently considering her image, but also realizing he might need to be out of easy arm's reach when he ventured (with a wry smile), "Beach Blanket Bimbo?"
 
She had been implying that she should choose someone for appearances, rather than actual love. Plenty of Aristo marriages were based on sharing of similar goals rather than passion – and even without passion, things could lead to a strong mutual affection. Consider her parents for example. They married each other to have enough money for even crazier ventures, and it worked very well. That no one expected faithfulness or anything more than friendship did not get in the way of the relationship working.

“We all learn from out mistakes,” Ilena said, tapping a glass with a fingernail lightly, listening to the crystal reverberate. “At least I will not be making this one again.” As good as she was at business and making money, in the matters of the heart her skill left much to be desired. Could a person even be 'skilled' at that?

She grinned at the last suggestion, though once upon a time she might have been offended. If he didn't know her so well, if she didn't consider him a friend now, she would have given a reprimand. “Hmm. I don't think I would suit being blonde,” was Ilena's eventual reply, as if she had considered the suggestion seriously. “I did think I have the femme fatale thing down,” she added with a mock sigh, “Considering how often I seem to be armed now. Classy society women, sadly, don't tend to carry firearms. We pay people to do that for us.”



{How sad I was to read the update on your signature. Does this mean now that you actually have to do more work?!}
 
(Work? Me? I just can’t waste my time on BMR at work; that’s more an opportunity to waste my time with my normal fiction writing. No, I have to wait until I get home to waste my time here, now.)


If he’d known she had been thinking about business arrangements rather than marriage for love, he would have realized it was logical, particularly given her status, but he would have found it sad. He wasn’t one to believe in the sanctity of marriage or that couples needed formal recognition of their attachment, but he had always figured if you went through the trouble of publicly and legally declaring yourself married, it ought to mean something, emotionally as well as economically. In that way, he was perhaps a romantic at heart, if only slightly.

“You’re right, it’s not a far step to Femme Fatale. Just a smidge of a shift from ‘beautiful’ toward ‘sultry’ and ratchet up the ambiguous trustworthiness, and you’ll have it cold.” He sipped from his glass. “As it stands you radiate more of a ‘professional’ than ‘mysteriously dangerous’ vibe. Oh, but hey! There’s always Professional Assassin, like in Long Kiss Goodnight or Sweet Killer, My Killer.” He just rattled off the first two movies with reasonably non-laughable portrayals of female assassins; the movies themselves might have been trashy and ludicrous, but at least they were cool in that very specific action-movie manner. “Let’s hear your wisecrack you'd use after shooting someone. Any set-up you like.”
 
A sense of romanticism was why she would have never chosen such a union before she found herself burned... It would have been far easier to simply avoid love entirely. But perhaps that was far too cynical? She had learned to think rationally, but sometimes it was hard to tell whether a decision really was rational at all, or if it was just an emotional response that she wanted to pretend was fuelled by logic.

“Hmm,” she considered. “Maybe a darker shade of lipstick would do.” Surprisingly, it was the trashy movies that she usually ended up enjoying the most, the ones so divorced from reality that it wasn't even possible to imagine the events occurring in reality at all, and where the action scenes defied all laws of physics. “Perhaps more cleavage...?” she added, mock thoughtfully. If he commented on that one, she would probably whack him, but the fact she was saying it did show how comfortable Ilena had become.

“My wisecrack.” What a surprisingly difficult question! “Well... I don't think 'die fucker' would suit me, hm? And sadly I haven't got any parents or relatives that need avenging, so that cuts out so many possibilities.” She considered for a little longer: “I guess there's always the nice and simple, something like 'goodnight, darling'.”
 
He could not stop his eyebrow from arching, or his grin from growing wider and more mischievous when she mock-considered her cleavage, but he wisely took a large bite of his food to stop himself from making any further comment, as purely playful as it might have been.

He nodded at her proposed comment. "That's a good one, all-purpose. Me, I think I've been a little corrupted, because I've seen almost all hundred-and-twenty James Bond films. Like, I'd walk in, the bodyguard would get up to confront me, and I'd pop him twice, once in each kneecap, and say 'Have a seat.' Or I'd go, 'you know why you always lose?' And pop him in the chest, and then say 'you don't have the heart for it.' Alternately, I could put someone out an airlock and say 'he had to go for a walk' or some such. But, frankly, my line of work doesn't allow for too much drama like that." And, frankly, if he could avoid actually talking like a cheesily-written action movie hero, or worse, comic relief, then he would probably be a better person.
 
She was quite surprised that he didn't choke, considering his expression, and she couldn't help smiling a little. The gruff soldier look was easier to break than she would have thought.

“The worst thing would be to say something witty and then miss...” Ilena mused, considering Taggart. “That would probably happen to me if I tried to look, ah, what's a good word? Bad-ass.”

Also, she might need to visit a tailor sometime to add places for concealed firearms... It was a complicated, but not an impossible affair to look good and be armed at the same time. She filed that away into a future 'to-do' list.

“But I am guessing that in the real world people just shoot, rather than saying witty lines...” She sighed, as if it was a terrible waste of potential entertainment.
 
“It’s true, the real world is rather lacking in dramatic one-liners. It’s also rather short on real comedy, true romance, and evil getting its comeuppance, but I suppose that last is because it doesn’t have a clearly defined moral orientation, either.” Taggart sighed theatrically. “And much as you’d likely want to try it out, I’d be failing my job if you actually got into a situation where such a line was necessary.”

“But still, could be worse. Even if you miss, you’re still serving as comic relief.” He winked at her and took another mouthful. It was surprisingly easy to joke around with her like this, tease her, sort of ignore the balloon of propriety and decorum she seemed to wear sometimes. He wasn’t exactly treating her like one of his military buddies, or one of his civilian friends; she was a new breed, a friendly employer, and he’d honestly never had to deal with one of those before. So he was trying it out, seeing how much good-natured ribbing she could comfortably take, as the situation warranted, but he stayed poised to apologize and dial it back a the first sign of offense.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top Bottom