Two #3
They slip into easy chatter. Training rotations, mutual complaining about the cold, then a story about some idiot in B Company who tripped over his own rifle and sprained his ego. I eat just enough that no one nags me, all while watching the way Varrik’s eyes move.
When Niko talks, Varrik looks at him like he’s listening with his whole body. It’s not obvious, but there’s that attentive tilt. The kind that says ‘you’re important data, don’t miss anything,’ and it bothers me.
“Problem?” Niko asks lightly.
“The cook is a criminal,” I say. He nudges my knee under the bench. ‘Behave.’ “For the record,” I tell Varrik, “he’s only efficient because they never promoted him high enough for the power to go to his head.”
“Keep talking, I’ll put you on latrine duty.” Varrik’s lips quirk into a smile that he tries to hide, and fails.
After a moment, Niko stands abruptly, scraping his chair back. “Coffee,” he declares. “Before I have to listen to another minute of you complaining like a bitter old woman.”
“Who’s complaining?” I ask.
Niko rolls his eyes. “Want some?” he asks us both.
“Yes,” I say reflexively.
Varrik shakes his head. “I’m fine, sir.”
“Suit yourself,” Niko shrugs, wandering off toward the urns. And just like that, we’re alone at the table — well, alone in the middle of a noisy hall full of men, which is practically private by military standards.
I curl my hands around my mug, even though the coffee’s cold. “You stare too much,” I say conversationally.
“Sergeant?”
“You watch people. A lot,” I say blandly.
“I’m trained to be aware of my surroundings,” he says, swallowing hard.
“That’s the official answer. But your awareness is... selective.” I flick my gaze to Niko’s empty chair, then back.
“I wasn’t—”
“Yes, you were,” I cut him off. “I don’t care. Much. He’s very watchable. Always has been. Bits of him you probably like, bits that confuse you, bits that make you feel better about existing, yes?”
He looks at me like I’ve slapped him with a personnel file. His fingers flex around his fork. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Relax,” I say, leaning back. “I’m not interrogating you. I’m just telling you something most people are too scared to say out loud.”
“And what’s that, Sergeant?” he asks quietly, staring at me.
“People notice what you look at,” I say. “If you’re going to keep staring at my brother, you might want to get better at doing it sideways.”
His gaze sharpens. “With respect,” he says, voice dropping, “you’re not exactly subtle either.”
I tilt my head. “Oh?”
“You’ve been watching me,” he says. “Since the briefing. And the training yard. And now.”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
A laugh slips out of me before I can cage it. “Maybe I have,” I say. “Difference is, I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“Why?” he asks.
There it is — the question. I could give him the real answer. Instead, I shrug. “Because I’m bored,” I lie. “And you look like you might do something interesting if someone pokes you hard enough.”
“Is that how you treat all your allies, Sir?” he asks.
“Only the useful ones,” I say.
His mouth opens, probably to say something he’ll regret, but Niko returns, dropping a mug of coffee in front of me. “What did I miss?” he asks cheerfully.
“Nothing,” I say at the same time Varrik says, “Nothing, sir.”
We both stop, and the overlap hangs in the air.
Niko squints at us over his mug. “Right,” he says slowly.
“That’s very convincing.” He sits, and the moment passes.
We slide back into safer conversation. Training schedules.
Equipment complaints. Niko tells a story about some disaster on a joint exercise in Germany that makes Varrik wince in sympathetic horror.
On the surface, it’s just dinner. Soldiers at a table in a noisy hall, but something’s shifted. Every time I say something, I can feel Varrik take note of it and add it to whatever invisible matrix he’s building in that head of his, and every time he speaks, I listen for cracks.
I finish my food — or what passes for food — and push my tray away. “Well,” I say, standing up. “This has been educational.”
“You’re not staying for dessert?” Niko asks. “We have cake.”
I look at the rectangle of beige sponge on his tray, sagging under an insultingly thin smear of icing.
“That’s not cake. That’s propaganda.” Varrik’s eyes do that half-crinkling thing when he’s trying not to laugh.
I point a finger at him. “Consider what I said,” I murmur.
“About your eyes.” His jaw tightens, but he nods once.
“Understood, Sergeant,” he says.
“Good boy,” I say lightly, turning away before I think too hard about why I said it.
The hall noise swallows me as I walk toward the exit.
I step out into the chill corridor and let the door swing shut behind me.
From the outside, it was nothing. From the inside, the beginning of a slow, quiet catastrophe.
And for reasons I don’t want to examine yet, the thought of pushing him until he breaks makes me feel more alive than any exercise or explosion I’ve had in months.