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Life on the ground wasn't easy by any stretch of the word. There were trash monsters, toxic air, criminals, and more threats than you care to count. But this is the only life you've ever known and so navigating the danger comes as second nature. That doesn't mean that you don't think that the world couldn't be a better place.
It's why you joined the Cleaners in the first place: hope. Hope for a better tomorrow, one without trash beasts and human traffickers. It's a pipe dream and you know it, one that no one would live to see to fruition. You consider yourself a pragmatic sort even without that vague and vain hope.
Most of the Cleaners have some kind of hope going for them that carries them through the worst parts of No Man's Land. Not that you'll ever even go to the edges of such a place, without a jinki as you are. You're just a Supporter and not assigned to any of the frontline teams. Your job is managing the archives of information by Cleaners long gone, not fighting trash beasts.
It means you're present every time someone comes back brutalized by the world outside of HQ's walls. And every new patient reminds you that the world is and always will be a terrifying place. There's beauty in it, somewhere, but not among the trash heaps that rain down from the sky. No, the only bounty in the world comes from kindness, a limited commodity worth more than fresh fruit and three-tiered cake.
Your fellow Cleaners are divided neatly into Givers and Supporters, of which you rarely interact with the first and belong solely to the latter. And you're fine with that. The Givers are nice and you give your all to support them and your fellow Supporters also give their all at everything they do. It's a good arrangement and you have no real complaints.
Well, you have one complaint. And you know it's probably uncharitable of you to have a problem with one of your coworkers, but you do and there's no coming back from it. You, and you are aware that this is senseless, cannot stand the Supporter Gris Rubion. He's never done a single thing that offends anyone.
So why in the world do you dislike him so much? It makes no sense. The man is levelheaded and kind, steady in the face of danger, and the definition of an excellent Supporter. There's no reason for you to dislike him. You don't know why you dislike him so much.
Well, other than the fact that you can never do anything right when he's around. Files go flying or into the wrong places, you fall off of perfectly sturdy furniture, and so on and so forth. You go from being a completely competent Supporter to a bumbling fool the minute you so much as hear his name.
It's embarrassing to say the least.
Gris himself doesn't make a big deal out of it. He simply smiles softly and helps put things to rights, ruffles your hair, and acts like it never happened. It's just so infuriating that you can't stand it. He treats you kindly and fairly and it drives you mad enough to take your rage out on the training equipment.
If you look at this from a positive angle? You've never been in better shape and you all but aced the quarterly assessment with wide eyes and a fearless grin.
You're not incompetent. But the minute Gris is around? You're a hot mess.
Gris doesn't treat you different from the other Cleaners. He's very careful about that. Perhaps too careful, if he's honest with himself. But how else is he supposed to keep you comfortable with him? He doesn't want you to run at the sight of him or flinch whenever he tries to help you. So he treats you just like he does Enjin or any of the other people he interacts with on a daily basis.
He has to be careful, slow, and methodical. Being near you is like trying to lure a stray cat to eat from his hand. It's more difficult than it seems when you bristle at every move he makes. Though, he can't say that it isn't worth it when he gets to touch you at the end of every interaction.
That little touch, playing with your hair, is the most he'll allow himself. Gris has to admit to himself that the offended look on your face does wonders for his mood and is murder to his self-control. He can't stop doing it; like a boy on the playground tweaking the pigtails of the girl he likes. It isn't the right thing to do and he is perfectly aware of that.
Gris is hopeless and he knows that too. What else can he do to make you look at him, talk to him, pay attention to him? He playfully teases you just to watch you squirm and it soothes some strange beast deep inside him. There's no reason why he's doing this, lurking in the shadows like some kind of creeper, but he can't stop.
This isn't the right thing to do. It's nowhere near polite. But there's only so much he can do to be around you, bristling as you are, and he'll take what scraps of attention you're willing to give him. Sometimes (if you're feeling charitable), you let him pat your head, running the strands of your hair against his fingers so often that he's memorized the texture, and that has to be enough.
It isn't enough.
Frankly, if he's being honest with himself, it will never be enough for Gris. He wants to be with you, hold your hand in public, and do all the sweet couple things you deserve. the fact of the matter, however, is that you dislike him. Not your other coworkers. Just Gris. And he's been wracking his brain to figure it out.
Kindness comes easy for him when it comes to you, easier than it is with anyone else. He wants to see you smile, watch the way your eyes wrinkle at the corners as you grin up at him. Gris is a simple man with even simpler goals. And your happiness? That's one of his goals. So, his kindness is the price he pays for that vain hope.
You don't seem to want his help or his kindness. In fact, Gris would go so far as to say that you abhor his very presence. The thing is, and this is very important for Gris, he doesn't remember doing anything to gain that ire. Quite the opposite. He's been nothing but nice to you.
He leans on the dirty bar of a graffiti-covered dive of a joint, his elbows propped up and a battered glass in one hand. Gris can't even bring himself to sigh at the heavy thoughts that preoccupy his mind. He's too busy thinking about you. You're like a loose tooth that he can't stop tonguing at, a vexing thing that soothes the ache even as the action keeps making it worse.
"Dude. You have got to say something to her." Enjin, backward beside him at the bar, facing the door and the gaggle of patrons that eye him like a slab of meat, leans back with his glass dangling from his fingertips and frowns at Gris. "This is getting sad, even for you."
"It doesn't work like that."
"Oh, no, it really does. Chicks dig it when you, you know, communicate your feelings instead of moping around a dive bar with your best friend."
Gris spares Enjin a tired and withering stare. "I'm not moping,"" he tries in vain to defend himself with.
"This is totally moping. Look, there are plenty of other women out there who would love to do whatever it is your bedroom freak is into. You don't have to settle for this one."
"But I like this one."
Enjin returned Gris' glare with one of those too-knowing looks of his. He breaks the stare-off with a roll of his eyes. "Then either shit or get off the pot, man. Make room for the rest of us."
Gris very carefully sets his glass down on the sticky bar-top, staring into the cheap moonshine and debating if it was worth it to sucker-punch Enjin in the mouth. "Don't you dare," he warns with a low growl. "She's not your type." Any attractive female with a pulse was Enjin's type and you fit that bill far too neatly.
"So make a move before I do," Enjin shoots back, downing his glass of that same cheap liquor and pushing himself off of the bar to head to his next conquest. "Good talk, buddy."
Sometimes, Enjin was an absolute asshole. But he wasn't often wrong.
It's ass o'clock at night and Gris finds himself at odds with himself. On the one hand, he's got enough liquid courage in him to fight a trash beast by himself. On the other (and much more important) hand? He knows that you won't appreciate being woken up at ass o'clock to be subjected to his drunken confession.
So, instead of heading to your room in HQ, he fumbles his way back to his own room and bunk to sleep off the alcohol-induced haze. He's not a dumb teenager anymore that can just drink his body weight and shrug it off. Gris already knows that he's going to have a terrible hangover in the morning and so he acts accordingly. A bottle of water, a couple of painkillers on his bedside table, and another bottle of water down his face will help with the hangover.
And as he lays himself down to sleep, head heavy with weary thoughts—thoughts that turn to you the moment his head hit the pillow. He wonders if you think of him the way he thinks of you. Probably not. You hate him, after all. Maybe it's the alcohol or Enjin's words getting to him, but he can't stop thinking about you. You and him, said in the same breath and stuck together like a Giver and their jinki.
He could love you until his last breath and you would never know unless Gris said something about it to you. Enjin won't do it. Not out of loyalty but because it would ruin Enjin's own chances at getting you to fall into his bed. With Enjin, it's all a matter of one night stands and depravity, not love. He appreciates his friend, really he does, but he knows better than anyone how Enjin operates.
Somehow, thinking of you and Enjin in the same breath just upsets him. Gris would rather think of other things. Other things like the curve of your smile or the way you chew on the end of your pen when no one is looking. The long line of your throat as you turn your head to glare daggers at him. Or even the way you say his name like an unexpected curse.
Thinking of all the ways he loves you is enough to keep Gris warm at night on a normal evening. That's without the alcohol buzzing in his veins, turning his chivalrous love into a sordid affair. He can't help it, can't stop it no matter how hard he tries. Gris exhales heavily into the night air and bites back a curse when he realizes the failures of his flesh before all else.
His cock rapidly hardens under the thin sheet and heavy bedspread, and there's not a thing he can do in his drunken state. Gris loves you, wants you, likes you, loves you, and you hate him. That reason is more than enough to make him bite his lip and cover his eyes with his hands. He buries his want under a layer of self-denial and self-flagellation, feels his cock brush against the fabric of his boxers, and chokes back another curse.
The things you do to him are just pure torture and the worst part is that you don't even know any of it. In fact, you'd probably take the chance to laugh at him as he lay suffering in his bunk. He wouldn't put it past you. Nor would he judge you for it. You hate him, plain as day, and Gris doesn't begrudge you a single thing. He might not die for you but he'd certainly fight for you against all comers.
Even against Enjin. If he had to. He doubts it, but he'd do it if he has no other choice. Gris gets the feeling that Enjin only said what he said to motivate Gris to do something with his quiet devotion.
Fuck, that killed his boner faster than a bullet.
"Fuck," he hisses and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. "Enjin had a point." Gris will never live it down that Enjin of all people was right about something related to a relationship. "Fucking—fine," he mutters to himself. If he's doing this?
Then he's going to do it his way.
Gris has it out for you. You don't know what you did to deserve this, what mistakes you've made as a Supporter, but Gris is suddenly everywhere you want to be.
Breakfast in the mess hall? There he is, pulling out your chair for you and passing you a cup of your favorite tea. Gris even has the audacity to smile at you from under his cap as he holds up the tea pot like a threat.
After that, Gris carries all of your file boxes from the front desk to the archives for you without complaint. You can't stop him (why would you bother to stop him) from doing all of the heavy lifting for you. And you can't stop yourself from staring at the way his muscles bulge and flex under his uniform.
Then he disappears while you get to work.
And he reappears around lunchtime with an actual lunchbox that he hands you with a strange look on his face. Your muttered "thank you" seems to appease the man and he fucks off to wherever he came from. You have no clue what's going on, but the clearly handmade lunch is delicious enough that you can't really complain.
Though you should probably do something about this. Tell him to cut it out at least. Not just eat and drink whatever he hands you.
Here's the thing: you're not a mean person. Some might even hesitantly call you "nice" to your face and mean it. You don't have it in you to crush this grown-ass man's happiness and hope. Hope for what, you have no idea. But he's certainly full of hope and optimism. You'd be a monster to crush that.
Just because you don't like him doesn't mean you're about to start repaying his kindness with vitriol and ire.
Even if you've fallen off of your ladder four times since he's shown up and he's caught you neatly every time. Especially since he's caught you so many times. It's embarrassing to say the least.
He shows back up at night, right when you really hit your stride usually, and leans against your desk with an expectant look and a quirk of one blond brow. "We need to talk," he says and you flinch.
Those four little words are enough to make you panic. If anyone said those words, Gris included, you'd panic.He says those words so seriously that you pause with your pen in the air, eyes darting around to note the exits, already calculating the best way to vault your desk and make a bid for safety. "Uh—," you manage before your brain catches up to your mouth, "I don't think we do."
Gris just stands there stoically, those massive hands grabbing the edges of your desk as he angles himself to block your escape. "We do," he rumbles. "This is important to me. Please, just listen."
You sit back down with a heavy thump. All of your exits are blocked by Gris and you have nowhere to go. Well, you could go through him. Or, at least try to go through him. Gris would have your ass on the floor in seconds flat. The only thing you can do is sit down and listen to what he has to say. "Fine," you bite out. "Say your piece."
"I like you," he says, steady and unwavering.
You freeze. "I'm sorry. I think I heard you wrong." There's no way he just said that. You definitely heard that wrong. There's no way he just said that he likes you.
Gris leans down, reaches out to gently grab your chin with his finger and thump, and turns your head up so he can look you dead in the eye. "I like you," he repeats. "I want to date you."
Your brain is a mess of static and fuzz. Gris likes you. Gris? Likes you? When in the history of the Cleaners did Gris of all people decide that he liked you of all other people? How? You haven't done anything to warrant such a thing. You'd remember if you had.
"But… what?"
"I like you and want to date you," he repeats calmly as if he wasn't trying to shatter your entire worldview. "Is that so hard to understand?"
You stare at him like he's grown a second head. "Yes. Yes it the fuck is." That's the very simplest of ways to put it. It's the hardest thing on the ground to understand, and you live in a world of trash beasts and jinkis. There's a boy who converts literal trash into weapons against said trash beasts. This? This is beyond your ability to comprehend. "But… why?"
Gris rubs the back of his head with one hand and sighs. "Is it so difficult to understand?" Then he sighs again, heavy with promise, and leans in to kiss your forehead tenderly. Like a lover, he lingers, breathing in the scent of you. As if he's memorizing the feel of you. A lover's kiss, a long goodbye, a careful hello. A kiss that means something. A promise, one that you can't help but give a wistful sigh of your own over.
Gris lets you go with closed eyes and a wistful whispered apology. "Sorry, I overstepped." He steps back with a sad and soft smile. "Won't happen again." His promise is everything to you, the weight of his worldview collapsing and coalescing around you.
"Why," you say, grabbing his arm by the edge of his sleeve to keep him from running off. "Just tell me why. All you have to do is tell me why you like me so much. Please?" You want him to make it make sense.
He looks down at you and the heat in those ice blue eyes is enough to take your breath away. "Don't you hate me?"
"Hate is a strong word," you mutter. You don't hate him, just very strongly dislike him. Or, practically, you dislike the circumstances he puts you in.
Gris grunts, using his other hand to scratch at his cheek. There's a faint blush beginning to spread across his face, turning his ears a slight pink and his nose ruddy. "Ah. Well, this is embarrassing. Are you sure that you want to know?"
Well, now you have to know. "Tell me," you order him lowly.
He doesn't look away, ice eyes boring into your soul. And then he opens his mouth and, in a hushed tone, begins to talk about the first time you had ever met.
A long time ago, when you were still new to the Cleaners, you had been assigned your first foray into the field. Gris had volunteered to help the newbie get acclimated to the job and so he was coming with you along with his usual partner, Enjin. At the time, you didn't understand their dynamic. You were just excited to be in the field, recording everything you could about the trash beast in question for the assignment.
Trailing along behind the pair of friends, you scribbled furiously, dedicated to your job. Gris, ever the gentleman, had opened the car door for you as you were too busy recording the minutes of your journey. Absentmindedly, you tripped your way out of the car with your nose all but glued to the spine of your notebook. And that was fine.
Enjin grinned at you, poking at the top of your notebook to get you to pay attention to him. "Hey, Little Miss Bookworm. Eyes on the field."
You'd looked up just long enough to look at the piles of trash on the sides of the road. "Why? There's no trash beast to record yet."
Gris snorted and hid a chuckle in the palm of his gloved hand.
You were in for one weird time and didn't even know it yet. Enjin bent at the waist just enough to look you in the eye over your notebook, walking backwards without missing a step. "Can I help you?"
"Yeah, actually," he said with mocking cheer. "Do you wanna get drinks after? Get to know each other a little better?"
There is no world in which you would ever go on a date with Enjin. You might be new, but his reputation preceded him. "No, thank you. You aren't my type." That much was the truth. You like your men loyal and hardworking, not flighty and prone to flirting with other women.
Enjin sputters and Gris laughs, as if at the best joke he's ever heard. "Whaddya mean I'm not your type," Enjin whined morosely.
But it was Gris slinging his arm over Enjin's shoulder that defused the moment. "She's allowed to be picky. Besides, don't you have better things to be doing?" He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at a rapidly approaching dust cloud. "Like, oh I don't know, your job?"
You peered around Enjin and Gris to see a herd of rapidly approaching trash beasts, nothing so dangerous as what came out of No Man's Land, but plenty dangerous enough to require a Cleaner team to intervene. "Oh," you muttered, neatly side stepping the two men to hide behind the car. "Good luck!"
Without even a second thought, you had turned down Enjin and left the men to deal with the trash beasts while you rapidly wrote and sketched out every possible detail of the trash beasts. Even then, you were focused on your work over making friends and date arrangements. And Gris found that admirable.
But that wasn't why he liked you. Well, it was part of it but not the whole.
Calmness under pressure and a willingness to get the job done made you appealing but the careful way you sidestepped Enjin and trash beasts alike made you just a little bit admirable. Combined with how pretty you were? Gris didn't yet know how doomed he was.
It was a chivalrous love, a courtly devotion of a man grown before the ideal of the perfect partner. And the longer and more often he thought of you? The more times he could help you and feel your fragile body in his arms? Love grew like a weed in the gaps of his concrete heart and there was nothing he could do about it. What was worse was that he didn't want to do anything about it.
You were the last thing he saw before every mission, the first person he went to see when he returned. It was ritual, a dog's habit, just as intrinsic as his praying on his amulet. And, as the years went by, the more he learned about you, the more that habit became a necessity.
Gris hadn't meant for his professional admiration to turn into fascination, from fascination to adoration, and from adoration to something akin to true blue affection. There was no turning back once his heart decided. And he would have left well enough alone, stuck with the status quo of liking you from afar while you hated him. Could have kept his crush to himself.
Except Enjin had to stick his big fucking nose where it didn't belong: Gris' personal business. Once Enjin got involved, things tended to get weird. So, in order to spare you that farce, Gris had decided to make his affections known in the least offensive way possible.
You can't help but blink at his explanation. "That's insane," you say slowly, still trying to digest what he'd said.
Gris very carefully avoids looking at you, as if ashamed of what he's told you. He's still blushing and he's almost beet red at this point. A reserved man like Gris doesn't enjoy talking about himself, exposing his deepest and darkest secrets, especially not to the person he likes. But he did it and there's no coming back from it. Defiantly, he stares you down. "Liking you isn't insane."
"Liking me for years and saying nothing is," you point out, dragging the words out as you think about them, "a little bit insane."
He shrugs one shoulder, as if he's being careful not to break what little contact there is between you. "It made sense at the time."
"Made sense? You just admitted that you've quietly had a crush on me for years? And the only reason you said anything at all was because Enjin told you to!"
Gris turns his wrist in your grip and takes your hand in his without breaking his desperate stare. There's a heat in his gaze, something desperate and yearning, a gateway to a devotion and mindless devotion, that pure and unadulterated affection which could lead to madness in a breath.
"What the fuck," you whisper on a confused breath. "You're in love with me. But—but I didn't do anything! I don't even like you!"
"Does that matter?" He's blunt, voice thick with unspoken frustration and love. "The heart wants what it wants."
Your hand in his is the only thing keeping you from fleeing into the streets. "And what's your plan now that you've told me? Going to guilt me into liking you back? Fat chance of that happening." There's no way you'll love him, let alone like him. (No matter how the butterflies in your stomach flutter around him.)
His thumb rubs soothing circles on the back of your hand and Gris looks at you like you're the last thing he wants to see before he dies. It occurs to you that there's not a damn thing you can say to stop him from liking you this much. "While I would like it if you liked me back, I'm not about to ask for the impossible. All I want is a chance to prove that I'm worth your attention."
"Are you kidding me right now? There's no way that's it."
"I'm asking permission to court you." And when he says your name it's like a soft exhalation, a promise to keep his love going until miasma destroys it. You have no doubt that he'll love you until the end of his days, his gloved hand hot around yours and his eyes burning into yours. "Just that."
Who, you think to yourself, even says "courting" anymore? Is there something wrong with him? Too many whacks to the head, maybe?
You have no idea what possesses you to relent. "Fine," you say and you barely recognize your own voice in the quiet of the archive. "Go on, prove that you're worth it."
The smile Gris gives you is all satisfaction and heat as he raises your hand to his mouth, pressing a chaste kiss on the back of your hand. His stubble brushes the tops of your knuckles and makes you shiver. "Thank you," he exhales against your ink-stained and paper-cut laden skin. "I'll make this chance count."
You've never been courted before. You have no idea what to expect but it certainly isn't whatever the fresh hell Gris is doing.
He's lost his damn fool mind and, what's even worse, is that you might just actually like what he's doing.
Gris makes it his mission in life to make you happy. He brings you things, gifts and loans, that tell you more about the man than you ever thought of. Books and knickknacks, small things for luck and hope. It helps you think of him as not just pain in your backside but as a living, breathing member of the Cleaners. A man underneath the uniform. The concept alone boggles your mind.
And yet, he comes every day to see you. Multiple times a day, if he can. Every time he comes, he brings something new. Whenever he leaves for a cleanup? He comes back with something he found in the trash, repaired, and cleaned up just for you. You've never had anyone be this attentive before in your life. It's… really nice.
More than nice, actually. It's mildly intoxicating. You suppose this the first time you've been in a relationship like this, where the other party just wants to know you better and make you happy. It's wholesome, healthy, and you don't remember why you disliked Gris so much.
Then he comes by, you whack your head against the side of the stacks, and you remember all too well why he's a problem in your life. It isn't that you dislike him, you realize, but that you dislike what he does to your sense of reason while you're around him. And, more importantly, you dislike the grace you lose when he's around.
You're a competent and grown woman, you can handle yourself. You don't like the disgraceful mess you become when Gris shows up, the way that you keep on hurting yourself by accident. It's got nothing to do with Gris at all. This is a problem all of your own making.
The least you can do is apologize to the man for making him feel like he needs to make up for your misgivings. Even if doing that makes you cringe.
Gris is, as far as he's concerned, a fairly easy going guy. He tries to be, at least. But he can't be easygoing when it comes to you. Every time he looks at you, he gets this strange desire to monopolize your attention. Not just to be around you but to be the only person you look at. He knows that it's silly, but, Gris wants it all the same.
He brings you things that remind him of you. Silk flowers, their petals mended one by one, sprayed with his cologne for lack of anything to make them smell fancy. Books from his own shelves and shiny bits of glass and gems from the shops. And he watches what brings you joy and what makes you laugh. Watches and waits to find out what you like.
And then he brings you more of it, along with anything similar. Gris is courting you and he'll do it properly. But he's not expecting what you do with that courtship attempt.
It's easy for him to deliver his gifts, take his comfort at your touch, press a kiss to your temple, and go about his business. Courting you has become his new lucky lodestone, his prayer to luck itself that can't be broken or stolen away. He's not afraid to say that he loves you more than he did at the start. Not afraid at all.
What Gris is afraid of that, one day, you'll figure out that there are better men out there for you to be dating. courting is what you deserve but dating is what you want more than anything. Just, of course, not with Gris.
He doesn't understand why you're apologizing to him. "Just, stop. It's fine."
"It's not fine," you say and slam your book closed, right before wincing at the possible damage to your new book. "You deserve better."
"I don't want better, I want you," he says plaintively. "Is that what you think of me? That I would just give you up for some random person who shows up?"
You stare at him for a long moment, fingers running down the spine of the book Gris had given you yesterday. It's like you're thinking things over, contemplating how best to break up with Gris when you're not even dating. "You're too nice," you say, finally burying your face in the palm of your hand. "How are you real?"
"I… don't understand," Gris says slowly. "Are you turning me down?" He doesn't know if he can handle it if you turn him down.
You laugh, a bitter little sound in the silence of the archives. "No. I'm not that stupid as to do that. I'm trying to say I'm sorry. For treating you so badly." You look up at him, really look at him for what feels like the first time, and your eyes gleam brightly in the fluorescent lighting.
Gris makes it a point not to smile, hiding it behind his gloved hand. "It's fine. Funny story for later. Apology accepted, not that it needed to be had." There's a quiet hope in his voice that can't be stifled. "Dinner then?" Maybe he's gotten through to you after all. Slow and steady won the race.
You smile at him and he can feel his face beginning to heat up. Maybe Enjin had a point after all. Maybe, just maybe, there's some truth to his oldest friend's ribbing and mocking of Gris and his little crush. He likes you, really likes you, and that hope won't be stopped.
"Dinner would be nice." You smile as you speak and Gris can't help but smile back. "Your place or mine?"
Gris winces. "I'm not taking you to the barracks for dinner. I know a place." He doesn't mention that he knows the place because of Enjin's many indiscretions. But the fact is it's a good place to take a date and be discreet. He gets the impression that you wouldn't want to have this fragile new relationship broadcast to the Cleaners' rumor mill.
More importantly, Gris doesn't want to share this new thing with the rest of his coworkers. This tenuous thing, new and fragile, is bigger than the small minds of these childish coworkers. He won't let them spoil it for the both of you. Gris is determined to do what is right and in the proper order: courting, dating, marriage.
He can't afford to fuck this up, not like Enjin does.
"Dinner at a restaurant sounds nice," you say carefully, hesitant. It's adorable.
Gris smiles behind his palm, trying not to laugh. Seriously, how can you be so cute? A restaurant? You've been reading too many novels from the Sphere. The best he can get you is a clean and cozy dive bar that Enjin swears by. "I know a place that's kind of like a restaurant."
"Good enough."
Gris lowers his hand to smile at you. "Great, then I'll pick you up at seven."
You do your absolute best not to panic like an idiot schoolgirl. You're going on a date with Gris this very evening. There's no reason to panic and, yet, here you are pacing the length of your room and wringing your hands while you wait. You hope that you've dressed nicely enough (but not too fancy) for wherever Gris plans on taking you.
A knock at your door startles you out of your quiet contemplation and worry. "Yes?" You can only hope that this is the start of a wonderful date as you go to answer the door.
Gris smiles fondly at you when you open the door, dressed down in a casual navy jacket and a white shirt, his mullet slicked back with care. He looks good out of uniform, more relaxed, and you can feel your mouth go dry at the sight of him. Softly, he says your name, looking you up and down. "You look… wonderful," Gris says fondly.
"Thank you," you say with a faint blush. "You too."
You wince and Gris just chuckles. You're being awkward, so very awkward, but he doesn't seem put off by it. "You ready to go?" He holds his arm out to you, ever the gentleman, and you take it. "Man," Gris, mutters, "you really didn't have to dress up for me."
You're wearing your nicest dress, the soft fabric swirling around your knees, and you know that the color makes your eyes pop. At least, that's the idea. You dressed up and it seems Gris appreciates it more than you're thought he would. "You didn't have to dress up for me either."
"A pretty girl like you? I absolutely did," he says with a laugh. "Don't want any guys getting any funny ideas."
You can't help but blush at his words. The dress, then, was a good idea. "So, where are we going?" You let him lead you to the garage with no end of anticipation.
He takes you to his car, the beat up old jeep that's Gris' pride and joy, and opens the door for you. Gently, he leads you up into the passenger seat and lingers as you buckle yourself in. "Not far. Just a little hole in the wall that has the best burgers this side of the trash heap."
He closes the car door firmly after you're all buckled in, crossing to the other side of the jeep to climb into the driver's seat. Gris buckles himself in and turns to you with a soft smile, all ready to go. "Hang on tight."
Despite your nerves, the ride is buttery smooth. The radio plays one of those underrated smooth jazz stations, setting the mood and the pace of the short trip. You're not ashamed to admit that Gris' careful driving is enough to lull you into a dozy state, the care he puts behind the wheel soothing your nerves and making you feel like precious cargo. When you steal a glance over at him, the soft smile on his face has yet to fade.
He really does like you. Really and truly, beyond all shadow of a doubt. And, for just a moment, you wonder if you can like him back. Gris makes it easy, too easy, to think these things in the quiet of the road and what lies at the end. You cling to your dislike like an old friend but even your grasp on it has become tenuous and just plain old stubborn. You'll give him one date, you think to yourself, to prove himself.
But you get the feeling that the answer is a foregone conclusion.
Gris pulls up to a place that is the epitome of a hole in the wall joint, the signs outside battered and timeworn. The place can't be called nice from the outside, the brick facade peeling in places and the doors a rusty green-painted mess. Like so much down on the Ground, the place looks like it was eked out of the trash that surrounds it. You'll give it a chance, just the one, to change your mind.
Beside you, Gris unbuckles his seatbelt with a click and climbs out of the jeep. He's quick to cross the vehicle to the passenger side and opens the door for you. Ever so polite, to a fault perhaps, he offers his arm to help you out of the car and escorts you to the dive bar's front doors.
"Nice place," you say drolly. It's far from a nice place, at least on the outside. Oh, who are you kidding. The place is a dump. Gris has brought you to a literal dump in the middle of the middle of the outskirts of the city. The outskirts are a dump on a good day and this place blends right in.
Gris winces and rubs the back of his head. "Yeah, it's a mess on the outside. I swear, it's real nice and cozy inside. Just think of the burgers. Promise they're worth it." He leads you toward the place, arm in arm, the warmth of him a steady bulwark at your side. "I wouldn't take you to a total shithole on our first date."
You trust him, oh, you trust him. And when did that happen? Somehow, letting him lead is as easy as breathing and you follow him into the place without hesitation. Through those janky doors, down the dimly lit stairs, and past the wooden double doors you follow his lead. And, as if by magic, the place opens up to a cozy little dimly lit restaurant with vinyl seats and dingy chrome accents.
"This is the place?" You ask just to make sure.
Gris nods and leads you to a seat. The tables are too small for a man his size, his legs tangling with yours under the chrome and over the linoleum. It's cozier than you're used to and it makes your heart beat triple time, Gris smiling at you all the while as the waiter comes over (all smiles and banter).
"Good evening, folks. Can I interest you in one of our specials?"
Gris leans forward and peers at the menu with interest. "I'll have the burger special. Medium rare, fries on the side."
"Very well. And the lady?"
"I'll have what he's having," you say lowly. You'll follow Gris' lead. He hasn't led you astray thus far. You can trust him just a little bit farther for a good meal.
The waiter nods and bustles away as swiftly as he approached, leaving the pair of you alone with only the other as company. There's no shortage of things to talk about, but for some reason you're content to just sit in silence for a little bit.
It's nice, companionable even, and you smile at Gris. "Come here often?" It's a terrible start to a conversation and you know it, but what else do you have?
Gris takes your hand and simply holds it for a moment, looking deep into your eyes as he speaks. "Not very. Just with Enjin. Sometimes the kids. Not with anyone special. Not like you."
His words make you blush all over again, the heat spreading through your cheeks and up to your ears. "Me? I'm special?"
"There's no one I'd rather be with," he says lowly, lifting your hand to his to press a tender kiss to your knuckles. Gris lingers, never breaking eye contact, and smiles fondly at you. "Just you."
His words are enough to set your heart aflutter. That and the tender way his fingers interweave with yours. Your heart can't take this for very long. It feels like you're going to explode from your heart's palpitations. But it's so good that you don't want to stop.
Gris doesn't stop holding your hand. If anything, he winds his fingers through yours and squeezes just once. "I mean it. You're everything I could ever dream of and more."
You don't want the night to end, but all good things must.
It's half past eleven when you finally make it back to the Cleaners HQ. The night air is chilly enough that you shivered a bit before Gris neatly shrugged his jacket off and draped it over your shoulders. You keep it on in the car, wrapped in his warmth and the smell of his cologne, for no reason other than warmth. That's what you tell yourself as you cling to it.
The evening is rapidly reaching its end and you don't want it to.
You want to stay with Gris just a little bit longer.
He parks the car neatly in the garage and cuts off the ending with a sigh. "Well, we're here." Gris sounds just as reluctant to let the evening end as you are. He turns to you with a sigh and that soft smile that's all Gris. "I had a lovely time tonight," he says in the quiet between you.
The words hang heavy with promise and you seize the chance with both hands. "It doesn't have to be over."
Gris exhales, a short breath that cuts off as quickly as it begins. "You don't mean that. You don't like me, remember?"
"Oh." Yeah, right. You'd almost managed to gorget such a simple truth. You don't like Gris. No matter how nice the evening went, you don't like this man.
"Yeah. Oh," Gris says with a chuckle, unbuckling his seatbelt to climb out of the car. His legs eat up the distance as he rounds the car to open the passenger door for you. And, ever the goddamn gentleman, he offers you his arm to get out of the jeep. "I've had my chance."
Unspoken is the implication that he had his chance and blew it.
But, has he really?
You stop and consider the evening you've had: lovely, warm, and filled with unexpected compassion and closeness. The date had been enough to make you forget that you disliked him. If just one evening could do that, what could more time do?
You take his arm with a gasp, letting him lift you bodily out of the car. For a moment, he just stands there with you in his arms. As if he's memorizing the way you feel in his embrace. And, for some reason, you don't want him to let you go. Not now, not ever.
It's a tender moment that you're loathe to let end.
Funny, that.
You stand on your tiptoes on the tops of his heavy boots and stare into his blue eyes. They're beautiful things, those blue eyes, and you could lose yourself in their depths. Are lost in those depths, if you're being honest with yourself. It comes to you, silent on the wings of epiphany, that the reason why you forgot that you disliked him was because you'd never really disliked him at all.
It's like a Giver looking at their jinki, the way he looks at you.
And it's about time you start looking back.
You stand on your tiptoes and wraps your arms around his neck in the closest embrace you can stand to manage in the diesel-reeking garage. It isn't the most romantic pace in all of the Ground, no, indeed it is not. But you lean up and press your lips softly to his anyway.
It isn't romantic, not at first.
Then you break away from him long enough to take a shaking breath to steel yourself against the thumping heart in your ribcage. That, then, is love in its purest form, you realize.
You're in love with Gris Rubion.
The realization comes to you like a thunderclap. And now that you've had it, you realize that you can't stop thinking it. You like him, love him, have always liked him. You're the one that's been ten times a fool.
Your breath hangs between you two like a promise, a punctuation mark on a sentence you didn't know that you had written. But you can't stop now, not when he sighs so sweetly against your lips. You love him, truly and deeply, and you almost made the biggest mistake of your life by pretending to hate him.
You lean up to kiss him again and he leans down to kiss you back.
Where the first kiss was a soft nothing, this second kiss is a proper one. Deep and lingering, as if you're both trying to memorize the touch and taste of the other. There, in the garage where everyone could walk in and see, you kiss Gris like it's the last thing you'll ever do.
It's lips touching and tongues pressing, the scent of him heavy in the air. And it's good, so good, enough that you do it again and again. You love him, fiercely and totally now that you've admitted it to yourself. It's so easy to fall into him like this, in the quiet darkness of the garage.
He parts from you, panting like he's run a mile, presses his forehead to yours like a prayer and a benediction all at once. "We can't. Not here."
"Why not?"
"Because," Gris says slowly and carefully, as if he;s chewing on the thought. "I don't want to share this. Not yet."
You don't want to give this up yet either. Not that your love is much of a secret,m not when even Enjin has you all figured out. You sigh, put out of having to stop kissing when you've just discovered that it's so wonderful with Gris. Now you've started, you don't want to stop. "Fine," you mutter petulantly. "Kiss me later?"
"Oh, my pretty girl, I'm not going to stop kissing you," Gris promises with a lusty sigh and a rasp all his own. "I just don't want Enjin to see and give me shit for this. Not yet."
"Or the kids," you say with a low laugh. "They'll give you hell." The kids of Gris' usual squad would do just that.
But you're not ready to let the evening end with just two kisses in the garage and the realization that you're head over heels in love with the man. Not now, no, not when you've tasted the fruit of forbidden passion. "Come back to mine." And you don't mean for a petty drink or two. You want more.
"Yes. Oh, fuck yes," Gris growls. "There's no way I'm stopping now."
In this, at last, you're in agreement.
He slams the car door shut and all but spins you around in his joy. There's no stopping this love from overflowing and taking everything with it. No way you'll let anything come between the two of you and the affection you share. You've already lost so much time as it stands right now.
Gris takes you by the hand, entwining his fingers with yours, as he finally puts you down. You're dizzy with want, giggling like a teenager with a crush, and you know he feels the same way when he looks at you and grins. You've messed up his hair, that perfectly gelled mass of pale blond, and you feel no guilt for it.
You pull on his hand, dragging him away from his beloved jeep, and you can't help but laugh at the starstruck look in his eyes. "What's the matter? Never done this before?"
"Make out like a teenager in a garage? No, can't say that I have." He watches you carefully, as if afraid you'll disappear when he isn't looking. "But are you sure that you want to do this? I don't want hope and false scraps." Gris stops you in your tracks with his words and you've never felt more sure of anything in your entire life.
"I love you," you manage and it feels like a secret, finally allowed to see the ground for the first time. "Isn't that enough?"
He freezes in place and stares at you, cheeks flushing and his mouth gaping open and closed. "You love me?" Then you watch as he covers his lower face with his hand, trying and failing to hide his blush. "Don't lie to me," he growls.
"I'm not lying," you snap out. "I love you." Wasn't that a good thing?
Gris takes one look at you, the earnest way you stare at him, and it's as if the world stops just for the two of you. "You really do love me," he says slowly, as if you've just given him the best present, and you don't regret it at all.
You'd apologize for taking so long, but, you've got other things in mind for the evening. Like, for instance, more of that wonderful kissing. Making out like horny teenagers is one thing, but you think you want something more than that. Something lasting and permanent. "I think… I always did," you admit lowly so that only Gris can hear.
Gris groans. "There's no man alive who wouldn't be affected by that. Come on. Your place is better than mine." What he doesn't say, and he doesn't need to, is that your room won't be visited by Enjin or the kids.
You'll have Gris all to yourself for the night.
And you couldn't be happier with that thought.
But that's not a surprise to you, not when you've just realized your true feelings for him. What is a surprise is how he lets go of your hand, bending down to scoop you up with one arm around your thighs. You give a little scream of delight and wrap your arms around his neck to steady yourself as he effortlessly carries you through the halls of HQ like something precious.
It's not surprising that he can lift you. Not when you've literally seen him run from trash beasts with one of your fellow supporters slung over his shoulder. What is surprising is the urgency with which he moves, as if something has gotten under his skin and he needs to deal with it right now.
That's something is you.
If there is anything on the ground that can make stoic Gris lose his composure, it's you. Judging by how quickly he's walking toward your room, something you said really got to him. What's worse is that you don't regret even a second of the long evening you've spent with him, not even a little bit.
He carries you all the way from the garage to your room, bending just enough to let you unlock the door, and then he carries you inside with little fanfare. Gris closes the door and locks it with the hand not supporting you, then braces you against the door. One leg between yours, the skirt of your dress riding up, he has you caged in with his arms on the cold and sturdy metal. "Stop me if you don't like it," he says roughly, all trace of gentlemanly behavior vanishing in the dark of your room.
Gris leans in to kiss you and you lean in to meet his hungry mouth. It's like you're magnetized to each other, desperate and wanting, and you wouldn't trade it for anything. He devours your mouth, the air you breathe, and what little rationality you have left. The world narrows to the feeling of his lips against yours, his tongue playing against the flat of yours, and the heat of him against you. Everything about this is a long time coming and a frenzy of mouths and limbs.
Your legs are wrapped around his waist and one of his hands drifts down to cup your backside, pulling you impossibly flush against him. And, oh, you couldn't have wanted anything else. This, this frenzied heat, is perfect.
He parts from you with a heavy sigh and there's a wild passion in his eyes that takes what little breath you have away. "Hi," he says lamely, "come here often?"
The words break what little tension there is between the two of you and you can't help but laugh. "Yeah," you say between giggles, "I live here."
"Oh, yeah, right." Gris gives you a lopsided grin, barely visible in the dark of your entryway but you can feel it against your cheek. His stubble rasps against your skin and you can't help but laugh brightly at him. "Hey, I'm just happy." Then he peppers your cheek with soft little pecks and you laugh again.
Making out against the door is wonderful but you can't wait any longer. You want something more, an ache inside you yearning to be set free. To be filled, loved, and known. You can only wiggle so much in the space between Gris and the door but you take that space to writhe in his hold.
"What's that, baby? Not enough?"
The husk of his voice against your ear makes you shiver with want and need. You can't manage to speak, only arch your back so that your breasts press against his chest, and gasp. Baby, he called you. And you can't say that you don't like it. You want to be his, want him to be yours in every way possible.
You love him, he loves you, and just kissing is not enough to soothe the ache inside you. More, you want so much more, and Gris is the only one who can give it to you. You cling to his shirt, wrinkling the fabric between your fingers, and sigh as you turn your head. With your mouth against his, you only have the sense to kiss him. You're a whimpering mess against this door and you like it.
Oh, you really like it.
Your hips grind down without your consent, pressing your weight against the firmness of his thigh. The low moans you make at the pressure has Gris chuckling in a purely masculine way and you can't help but moan again. You grind your hips again against his leg and his fingers grip hard enough at your backside to leave marks. And, oh, you really like that too.
You like it so much that you do it again and Gris bends his leg up so that you can ride it better. You're leaving a wet spot on his pants and you can't bring yourself to give even a single shred of a fuck. This is the more you crave, need so very desperately in your bones and soul. You hitch your hips again and again with a series of staccato whimpers.
"That's my girl," Gris all but sighs against your mouth, frantically kissing you as you rut your hips. "Come on, I want to see you fall apart, baby." His hand, hot and large, rucks up the skirt of your dress and cradles your hip gently.
But you don't want gentle. Not right now. You want him to like you, love you, mark you for all the Ground to see. (You have no idea where this is coming from, but you're not all there at the moment, so you don't much care.) You want and want, grinding and grinding until you're just barely at the precipice of something greater.
It isn't enough.
Gris can feel your frustration through the jerking of your hips against his leg. There's no rhythm, no pace, just desperation. He grips your hip a little harder, forcing you still against his leg, and you mewl at the loss of friction. Want is the only thing you know and understand and Gris is keeping you from what you want. "Baby, you need to settle. That isn't how to get what you need."
Then relief, sweet and sudden, as he begins to guide your hips in a slow slide back and forth to the beat of your trembling heart. He knows better than you what you want and need, that sweet release after a slow climb to that precipice. "That's my girl. That's the way," he rasps in the space between you before he closes the distance and kisses you filthily.
The pace he sets is slow and sensual, at odds with the fevered way he kisses you. It's not bad but it's not good either. You want it harder, faster, more and more. Gris makes you a wanton and greedy mess, no stopping this evening's heated passions. Something about this makes you break the kiss. "More," you pant against his mouth.
He shakes, shivers, and the arm beside your head flexes and slams into the metal door with a bang. "Oh, fuck, the things you do to me, baby," he growls. But that hand on your hip slides across the elastic of your prettiest pair of panties, those thick fingers dancing across the fabric before hi s thumb presses against the soaked cotton above your clit.
Then he presses his thumb up where you need it most and you sob out a scream into the velvet darkness. "Yes," you hiss, your head knocking back against the door.
"There you go, baby," he says soothingly as he turns his head to mouth at the long line of your throat. Gris scrapes his teeth teasingly against your skin as his stubble scratches enticingly, and he growls huskily against the soft expanse. "You tell me what you need and I'll give it to you."
Those clever fingers circle and press, faster and faster until that precipice rapidly approaches and you can taste stars on the back of your tongue. You're making strange sounds, wild and needy, biting your lip to stifle the way your moans punctuate ever scream and gasp. He crooks his fingers against your core, empty and aching, the thin fabric of your panties the only barrier to keep them from slipping in.
You shatter into a thousand pieces, dust in the still night air, and you feel your legs tense against and around Gris' waist.
He's hard and wanting against you and you can feel the way his abs flex at your orgasm. But Gris makes no move to take care of himself. Instead, he slides that clever hand back up your hip, resettling your dress and setting your clothes to rights. He smooths two fingers in circles against the curve of your thigh and presses a kiss to your forehead. "There you go, baby. You did so good for me."
Your body is an overstimulated lightning rod, tuned to his frequency and hanging on his every word. It's all you can do to keep from sliding down the door. If not for Gris, you would be a messy puddle on the floor. Words are beyond you, so instead you turn your head to press a sloppy kiss to his throat in thanks.
Gris balances you on his thigh, a steady bulwark as you come down from that high. He gathers you into his arms, like a princess out of a fairy tale, and carries you away from the door toward your bed. Surprisingly, you only feel warm and safe in his embrace, sated from the evening's activities. He turns down the blankets and sets you gently into the warm and waiting nest of your bed.
Then he tucks the blankets around your shoulders. "Feel better, baby?" Gris pats the blankets and settles in around you, your twin bed creaking at the added weight. He folds his legs over yours, one arm thrown over your middle in the coziest embrace.
You nod and smile softly. "I'm good. You?" Your words are slow, lazy, and quiet in the darkness. There's nothing better than this, the closeness after such an intimate act.
"I'll be fine," he says lowly, his hand absently smoothing circles over your hip. "Just rest." Gris tucks your head under his chin so that he can press a tender kiss to your temple, letting you pillow your head on his warm arm.
You shift beneath the blankets, wiggling until you can get into an even more comfortable position. Like this, safe in his embrace, you fall asleep.