Page 30 of Origin (Deridia #13)

“You’re fretting.”

Ellion smoothed his fingers down her arm. Twisted a finger around a curl. Kissed the top of her head because she never failed to give a little sigh when he did that.

They were in their cupboard. Still. Which he hated. Didn’t hate. That was too strong. But he wanted to be in their apartment by now.

They’d worked hard. Harder than he’d thought it would be, which he would never confess to Armen. He gave him too many knowing looks already when something proved particularly challenging. When there was a setback, when the deadline shifted not from this week, to maybe the next. Which always meant even another one to come, because nothing went smoothly.

Not true. The framing had. Armen had even taken to letting Hana show him diagrams from the book, to which he’d rub his chin and nod when he thought something was lacking. Would take it and peer at it with lips thinned when he found it of interest.

It was supposed to be done before the grey-men came back for inspection.

It needed to be done.

They were supposed to be living in it. Loving init, if he was being honest with himself. They’d added locks to the doors for the claimed apartments. Those were the most coveted—there was only the one box. Ellion refused to feel guilt for claiming one of only seven.

The rest were given out to the workers who had joined when they saw its potential. Good folks. Strong backs, and skills that were needed—every one of them.

He also rejected the guilt that there were others that didn’t have skills to offer who deserved private accommodation as well. That looked on with something too near to envy, and that could grow dangerous.

It shamed him, how long it took before he realised the dormitory could be spliced into separate compartments. They would lack plumbing and many would be without windows, but there could be walls. Some semblance of ownership.

Perhaps a meeting should be held. Or a suggestion box for what might come next. What needs were being neglected.

“I am not fretting,” Hana insisted, nuzzling into his side and pressing a kiss to his naked chest, simply because it was available to do so. They hadn’t loved. Not yet. Or maybe not at all if she was going to be too preoccupied to engage with him fully. “Fretting is irrational. My worry is very rational.”

He hummed. “If you say so.”

Not that he blamed her.

He grimaced.

Maybe a little.

The hard work was worth it when she was pleased by the result. Her reluctance was taking some of the shine off the accomplishment. “You think the roof is going to fall down on top of you?”

She snorted. Shook her head. “No. Armen isn’t here for murder.”

She rarely spoke of anyone’s past deeds. What they hadn’t done, yes. And if he was thoughtful and cared to do it, he could eliminate quite a few possibilities until he was left with only a few possible answers.

But he didn’t care for it.

Armen was a foreman here. A builder. Was proficient at teaching and ordering about in equal measure, and he much preferred the work to hunching over fields at the farm.

He was already looking wistfully about the compound, trying to come up with something to do next, lest he be back there by default.

“I know. You’ve had too many good times in this bed, and you’re afraid I’m going to forget how to please you if we move into another one.”

He nudged her, just to prove he was being playful rather than sincere, but she turned her head and looked far too serious. “I don’t want to get attached,” she admitted. “It should be worth it. If we just get a couple good days there, it should be enough. But I’m not sure if I could take it, if they came, and they saw it, and I had to move out again. And what if my spot here was taken by then, and then we’re in the middle of downstairs, and there’s no privacy at all, and it’s too hard to think about?”

She slumped back down and turned her head, her confession over.

Except she impatiently wiped at her eyes, and it pained him. For her to hurt. To worry.

He wanted to say she was being ridiculous, but she wasn’t.

Wanted to remind her they’d just have to bargain to get their old cupboards back if it came down to it, but the price might be too steep and she would certainly not allow him to resort to violence.

So that was another assurance he couldn’t make her.

If she was in a different mood, he’d tuck his arm about her. Let his hand gently creep until it covered a breast. She’d laugh at him. Swat at him next, but then she’d let him be because it amused her so how taken he was by her.

“Those are some big worries,” Ellion said at last. “Rational ones,” he added, because she did so like a compliment. “But we can’t control them, you know? What they’re going to do or what they’ll say.” He rubbed his lips against the top of her head, and there was the sigh again. A little too hitched because she was close to tears, no matter how she tried to pretend otherwise. “But I do know that a night with you in our own apartment, with no one else to worry over...” His hand crept from its modest place against her arm, heading toward the breast he favoured. Didn’t grasp. Didn’t hold. She was upset, and he wasn’t so much a fool as to take advantage. But his fingers skimmed the underside, reminding her where he’d like to be. “That would make it worth it.” His hand retreated. Rested against her middle instead. “But not if it hurt you, after.”

He knew what he was agreeing to.

Letting it sit empty until they had permission to make use of it.

Until she could live there for always.

He hated it.

Made his skin chafe. Made him feel more a prisoner than he had in months.

But it wasn’t just about him. It was about her, and how she felt, and he’d not take a nervous and antsy Hana and make her do anything. Even to assuage his own pride.

“Thank you,” she choked out. Placed another messy kiss to his chest because she was grateful and she loved him, and he loved her and that meant compromise.

Even when it hurt.

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“You’ve got to finish it,” Hana reminded him. Again.

She’d even started pressing Armen about it.

Because they were coming back, didn’t they realise that? They were already late this quarter, and the office wasn’t finished, and she understood they wanted to keep it open while they figured out their next project, but how would it look if they’d devoted their energies to an entirely new building without first making sure the wardens had a decent place to settle?

“Tired of working out of the warehouse?”

Hana crossed her arms. Huffed out a breath and glared, but she didn’t immediately deny it. It was dark. Ominous, as supplies were put to use and the careful stacks grew meagre.

“I want this to go well,” she said instead. “As best it can.”

Armen was grumbling something beneath his breath, but Ellion paused in his work to move toward her. Place a kiss to her unhappy mouth, not that it was particularly welcome when she was working herself into a proper snit, but it was all he could think to do.

Little gestures that crept outside their cupboards. Armen said it was obvious they were together, so they were fooling no one by keeping their supposed proper distance. Which was twice as close as most friends would stand, so they were ridiculous anyway. Never mind the hand holding.

“It’ll go how it goes,” Ellion reminded her.

“And then what happens?” Hana pressed. Eyes a little wild. A little too bright.

“Then we build another one. Attach it to the dormitory if we have to. Keep building until we get to keep one.”

He said it easily, but there was a weight in his stomach. They only had so many supplies. And unless they were replenished by the ship, they would need to delve into Hana’s books to learn how to prepare lumber. Make their own blocks from minerals and earth. He rubbed at his forehead. Took a breath. Whatever it took.

There was always jumping the wall and making a hut by the river. Because it was good to have plans beyond the other plans, no matter how preposterous.

She stared at her ground for a long moment. “Just... finish up the office. Please. It’ll help. Promise.”

Ellion turned to Armen. Who shrugged. He’d become resigned to going back to the farmlands, but Ellion was holding out. Making plans for the dormitory. Not elaborate, and maybe just the second floor, assuming there was enough desire for them.

“Help me,” Ellion countered. Hana looked up, obviously in confusion. Because surely he was asking Armen rather than her. “If you want it,” he clarified. “Help me finish it.”

She gave Armen a helpless look, and Armen shrugged.

“I’ll make it worse,” she declared, shaking her head as Ellion moved toward the warehouse for what was needed. There was so little left to do. Just enough the guards couldn’t argue it looked enough like the other walls.

“Oh, really?” Ellion countered, trying to sound serious. Mostly teasing. “You can’t mix pigment and water?”

Hana flushed, her shoulders slumping. “I’ll spill. And then there won’t be anymore, and that will be my fault.”

She really was in a state, her hands shaking as he held out a pail and a bag of powder. “I’ll get it on my shirt,” she whispered, entreating him to take them back.

He snorted. “Can always take it off,” he murmured back, waggling his brows so she wouldn’t think him serious.

She glowered at him, and her grip on the pail tightened. “We’ve discussed that,” she reminded him primly.

A grin, because he insisted she start playing with him. Having fun with this last task that might mean no more tasks at all about the compound. Back to his real work. Following her about. Back down into tunnels, plucking out some. Leaving others. Back to assigning others to their arbitrary roles that were beginning to be anything but. Volunteer sheets. For different tasks, posted in each dormitory. She hadn’t wanted to leave a pencil, certain it would be stolen. Certain the entire sheet would be. So she’d stationed herself beside them, petitioning others to come and put their name at a task they preferred, but none would approach her. Or him.

Or perhaps it was the two of them together that was so objectionable.

They tried the mess hall next, which was better. He could keep an eye on the list and the pencil, while giving enough room for the first brave souls to approach. Scribble out a name. Looking all the while they were signing a death warrant instead, waiting to be pounced on and executed.

Which of course never happened.

It just meant more lists. And others saw that Hana made good where she could. So when the lists came out a second time, more people approached. Slots were limited—that couldn’t be helped. There was only so much need in so many places, and Hana watched it all with a helpless resignation that fighting would begin when they realised it mattered who was first on the list.

But it was working. She’d even received a few nods that were not accompanied by glares. Appreciation.

Which left her teary-eyed when he held her that night and she whispered to him how much it meant to her. That he was right, and she didn’t mind, honestly she didn’t, and it wasn’t wrong to hope, was it? That things could be better?

And he’d smoothed his fingers through her hair, and held her to him, dreaming of their bigger bed and the home he’d made for them, if she could just be brave enough to move there with him.

“Of course it isn’t,” he’d murmured, and she’d shivered and turned her head up so he’d kiss her.

And if they loved, it was later. When she’d had enough of comfort and wanted a different sort. Shoving the blanket back and somehow managing to take his trousers with it, and her eyes were devious as she leaned over him, tickling him with her hair as she kissed down his chest and left him far too interested when her hand crept into his smalls and wrapped about him.

Distracting him. So he wouldn’t ask about moving. Ask if she’d changed her mind.

He should care.

Did care.

Decided he would care later.

She hadn’t even gone inside their apartment yet. Assured him she loved it. Would stand in the doorway while he showed her the daily progress. Pigment on the walls. The door to their private lavatory. They had the corner apartment on the upper floor. More windows, but ones that couldn’t be crawled through.

It was driving him mad.

Hurt him more than he cared to admit. Her hesitation. Her doubt.

Not in him, but of the life he wanted for them. That it would be allowed.

And he tried to understand. Did, in his way. But it curdled with his urge to please her, to prove to her he could make something good of their situation, and his patience was not unlimited.

He didn’t urge her to help with the office to punish her. Truly he didn’t.

Impressing her, however...

That he couldn’t disclaim. To show her what he’d learned. That he was proficient in something other than shoving off ill-intentioned fools.

He took the bucket. And the pigment. And there was a little too much relief in her expression for him to be comfortable pressing the point. “You don’t have to learn if you don’t want to,” he assured her. “I just thought it might be nice, that’s all.”

Then he trudged off with both, a brush in his pocket and a stick in the other. He hadn’t been a proficient painter, but he wasn’t a bad one, either. Pigment got on the walls. And if he laid down enough protection, it avoided most of the floor.

Hana followed. Caught up to him. “I just don’t know how,” she insisted. “Or, at least, I’m not any good. You should have seen the mess I made in my flat when I tried.” Her face twisted. “I didn’t get any help, either. But he certainly had a lot to say about how bad a job I did.”

Ellion paused. “You think I’d do that to you?”

Her shoulders slumped. Her expression grew sheepish. “No.”

Ellion nodded. Made it to the valve in the outer wall of the washroom. “You can sit and watch if you’d rather. I won’t make you do anything, you know that.”

She watched him fill the bucket. Add the pigment. Then pick it up again to carry it to the office, where he would stir until it was dispersed. Armen was very clear on that. It hardened to a protective shell, kept all the laments out. Couldn’t do it properly if there were powdery bits to clump and chip off afterwards.

There was more to do inside than out, but he hadn’t grabbed the tarps, so he’d start outside. If the dirt surrounding the building got a few drops of pigment, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Hana approached when he set down the bucket. Slipped the brush from his pocket and took a deep breath. “Not a lick of criticism,” she warned.

Ellion smiled. Shook his head. “How about instruction?” He stepped closer and brought his hand to hers. Slid it down from his awkward position at the handle, letting her cup closer to the bristles. “You’ll have more control this way,” he explained. Felt a little foolish because he’d only learned this himself less than a month ago. But he felt the warmth in his chest when she looked at him for answers, and he wished there was more he could teach her. More that he knew.

Maybe he’d delve into those books of hers. Or take a shift in the kitchens now that someone was producing something worth replicating.

Surprise her with a meal in their own apartment. Something cooked by his own hands. Something shared, their trays the same, only with a nutri-bar on hers simply so he could see her eyes sparkle when she saw it.

He hadn’t acquired a taste for them, despite her efforts to show him how wrong he was.

But that meant getting her into the apartment. Which he’d failed to do.

“You’re frowning.” She’d made a first stroke against the side of the building, pausing to look at him for approval. Her eyes swivelled back to the single stroke, the watery consistency causing it to dribble down in streaks. She frantically followed, trying to smooth them out, and Ellion sighed. He would not laugh at her attempts. Nor her frantic need to please.

It would be a private amusement, that’s all.

“It’ll do that,” Ellion assured her. “Just move quickly from the top to the bottom. Long, even strokes.”

She gave him a look, thinking of other strokes, no doubt from the way her eyes glittered with amusement.

Better than the panic they held just a moment before, by far.

“See? You’re already great at it.” Her cheeks flushed, but she was smiling, and he wished there was more to do out here. That they could work side by side, if just for the moment. It felt odd to stand and watch her. Which he wasn’t doing. Because she’d grow nervous, and then it would make it worse.

So he sat down and looked to the sky instead, casting surreptitious glances every so often to make sure she was making good progress.

“I need a ladder,” she declared, looking at the corners just out of reach. “Or one of those hover boards that stick to your feet so you can’t fall off.”

Either sounded dangerous.

He went to her instead. Grabbed her about the waist and hoisted.

She shrieked. Because of course she did.

He waited for her to remind him she weighed too much and he was going to hurt himself, and all she needed was for him to fetch her a ladder from the warehouse.

He felt her shudder. Then reach out her arm.

Trusting him.

“To the left,” she instructed, a little tremor in her voice. She worked quickly, not being quite as meticulous as she’d been before, but she did both corners.

Let him set her down again.

Didn’t meet his eye for a moment while she collected herself.

She was dripping on the dirt, and he pushed the bucket over with his foot to save pigment.

She blinked.

Stepped forward.

Kissed him. More peck than anything else, but more than he expected.

They didn’t talk about it. Didn’t poke and prod and force her to expound on what had happened. He’d picked her up. And she’d let him. They worked together.

And he liked it.

He hoped she liked it, too.

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