Pants

A Story by Lemunculus2

Chris is really bad at talking to girls.

"Take off your pants."

"What, no foreplay?" he joked.

"Hush and do as I say."

Chris took a moment to examine her very serious expression and the impatience of her posture--arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, the only thing missing from the image she presented being one foot tapping in an irritated rhythm on the hard floor. He caught himself rubbing at the back of his neck, an old habit he seemed to fall into whenever he felt self-conscious or confused. He forced himself to drop the arm down to his side and peered at her doubtfully. "You mean...you actually want me to take off my pants."

She cocked her head at him, white-blond hair draping delicately about the contours of her face. "Was I not direct enough?"

"Uh. No. Hell, no." Chris groaned, drawing his hands down over his face in embarrassment. "Look, lady, I can only guess that doing...what you want me to do...entails other things happening in succession. And that's, um. Why you want me to do what you said you wanted me to do. Look, I'm no good at this." Oops, there was his hand back up on his neck. He didn't bother removing it this time. "Talking to girls, I mean. Just--Good Lord, why me?"

Her lips curved quite fetchingly around the small, coy smile she allowed to grace her features as her arms came uncrossed. "Why not you?"

He held out his hands, prepared to count on the fingers of one of them the reasons why this wasn't going to happen. His libido protested boisterously in the back of his mind. He ignored it. "Hmm, let's see. Well. Let's start out with how we met not even a full three days ago. That's a good one. And we're going to be jumping into possible death a few hours from now, so neither of us need this kind of...distraction. Oh," he added, tapping another finger, "and I don't even know your real name. I just know it's not what you say it is." He left off the fact that she scared him, and could probably kill him with her pinky finger if she was motivated enough.

Pim tapped thoughtfully at the side of her head with one slender finger, thoughts churning quickly and efficiently behind her stoic expression. She met his eyes a few seconds later, nodding confidently. "Very well. When we have finished, and if I still find you acceptable, I will tell you my name."

Chris's jaw dropped to the floor. How could she not pick up what he was putting down? Also, what the hell? "You're saying that after we...take off my pants, and everything that follows, you might tell me what your name is?"

She nodded once again, not catching on to his disbelief.

Squinting his eyes tightly shut, he ran his hands furiously through his hair. "That's backwards. That's so backwards. This is so messed up. I didn't sign up for this." He held his hands up helplessly, pacing the room, gathering his wits from where they had flown about the room during the conversation. "It's not that you're not attractive. Hell, you're all kinds of attractive. But we just met, and it's not right."

He continued walking around restlessly, trying to think of a way to reject her without offending her, and somehow stay alive in the process.

Finally, he came back to her, looking her seriously in the eyes. "Okay. I have a better idea. How about we don't take off my pants--OR your pants," he added quickly, catching her hands as they went to her belt, "And we talk about this a really long time from now. How does that sound?"

He found himself very uncomfortably caught up in her emerald gaze as her eyes flew back to his once again. It came as a shock to him how watery they suddenly became. Sadness lingered lightly in her features, graceful brows gently furrowed, worry lines appearing on her face, making her look older, more jaded. But something else lurked in her expression. Something made the lines deeper, made the whites of her eyes stand out harsh against the deep green irises ringing her pupils.

He knew that look. It had captured his own features many times since leaving the debriefing room.

She was afraid.

At least as afraid as he was, if not more. That was why she was here. She didn't want to deal with the fear alone this time. She just wanted to be comforted. To be held. He saw her now, as she really was: terrified. He swallowed, seeking to direct his eyes somewhere else, anywhere else, fearing that if he looked for too long his own panic would rise to an uncontrollable level.

Her fingers squirmed in his grip, and he realized he had been squeezing the life out of them. Without thinking, without speaking, he loosened his hands and put his palm on the back of her head, hugging her to his chest.

She resisted at first, muscles stretched taught with anxiety. But then he felt something in her snap and she melted into him, hands fisted awkwardly to her chest. She didn't sob. Didn't wail. But he felt the cotton of his shirt grow slightly damp with her tears as she shook in his arms, pale little wisps of hair on the tip of her head tickling the growth of stubble on his chin.

He couldn't help her. He couldn't undo what had been done to her. But whatever came next, she wouldn't have to face it alone.

He would make damned sure of it.