She was dark where he wanted her blonde, small where he wanted her broad, restrained when he wanted her wild, and he didn’t care anymore.
She was sharp where he wanted her soft, angry when he wanted her laughing, neat when she should have been joyfully messy, and he buried his face between her too short legs, with her too starched smell and her too alive pulse thundered against his too desperate tongue.
Fight and flight and frak and fumble and none of it came to anything much.
Just harsh words in the dark, hurt feelings made worse by someone who wasn’t. Who lacked, just like him. Who made do, just like him. Someone dead on the inside, just like him. Someone murdered by their own decisions and just biding time. Just. Like. Him.
Finger nails, too long, dug into his back. Teeth, too white, bit blood from his lips. He thrust into a body that could have been, should have been, back on that base ship.
Lost in the blaze. Of glory. Of Necessity. Of clinging to duty when everything fails. The Harbinger of Death fell at his command. His words in her ear killed her. Her place in his heart kills him.
And now there’s just silence and regret and nothing. There’s nothing. Nothing but tangled and long and sliding through fingers as she pulls and he pushes, she scratches, he snarls, she swears and he bruises, he bruises and bruises and hurts and is hurt until there is numb.
Release as a condemnation shudders them both. They lie in the dark, he on her, not caring. She moves without words, he rolls without thought. They tangle together in not-love, in mourning, in a shared tomb on a doomed ship in a shrinking fleet on a futile mission.
Their hearts beat together. Not in time. Failed connection. Her's tells him nothing, but his beats a truth. Not her. Not her. Not her. Not her.