Smoggy gray light filtered weakly through the stained windows of the tavern. It was midday on Archeti and the dive bar held only a handful of people: the sleepy bartender, wiping down the greasy counter, and a few mumbling alcoholics slouched in their seats. Normally Corra would have been intrigued to find their life stories and talk up the whole bar — but today, she was distracted. She sat beside Finn and tapped her fingers on the counter, waiting for their new business contact who was supposed to meet them here. Thirty minutes ago.

“He’s late,” said Corra. As usual, Finn did not look bothered: he rested a forearm on the bar and drank from his beer.

“Yeah, Callahan’s the kind of guy who’s either an hour early or an hour late,” he mused. “It’s kind of a toss up.”

“Speaking of late.” Corra frowned. “Did you hear that the Dionysian was supposed to be here yesterday? Why d’ya think they’re coming to Archeti at all?”

“Fiear misses me terribly.”

Corra rolled her eyes and reached to slide her drink closer. “I really hope we don’t leave before the Dionysian gets here,” she said darkly, which made amusement come to Finn’s eyes.

“Corra, we haven’t even been apart that long.”

“Well it feels like ages.” Her eyes snapped towards the door. “So who is this guy again? How do you know him?”

“Callahan? We met in the Genesi casinos a few years ago.” He lifted his chin, looking a little proud of himself. “We made a killing for awhile counting cards in blackjack, beat the house a few times.”

“You counted cards?” she laughed.

“Well, he was way better at it than me — trust me, this guy’s a genius. A real freak.”

“If he’s such a genius, how come he’s wasting his brains at casinos?”

“He does plenty else,” Finn laughed. “Runs the vessel black market. Ships, ship parts, tech, and the like. Runs the smoothest and most complicated operation out of Archeti from his console at home and has never been caught. All the corrupt politicians want him on their side. And so do we. We ever got a shot on doing more than break even with the Beacon, this guy — he’s our ticket. Ah, and here he is.”

The door opened and in stepped a tall, wispy man with short dark hair, his hands tucked into the pockets of his crisp dark jacket. Somewhere in his mid-thirties, he looked rather like a strong wind could have blown him sideways. Corra would not have pegged him a seedy criminal thug, but then again, Fiearius’ old network of associates tended to be more burly, less brainy.

His face was pale and clouded, until he spotted Finn — then, he perked with mild interest and wound toward the bar.

“Finnegan Riley,” he said, smiling gently and holding out his hand. “It’s been too long for us.”

“No kidding. I think you’ve owed me a drink for a year now. How the hell are ya?”

“Never better, never better,” said Callahan lightly, before turning to Corra. His angular face was almost handsome, except there was something distantly cruel in his eyes.  “And you must be Corra? The first mate.”

“Co-captain, actually,” said Corra, and Callahan blinked slowly. He did not look like someone who was regularly corrected by anyone else.

“That so? Well, I do apologize. It’s nice to meet you, Corra. I hope you’re enjoying Archeti so far.” He lowered to his barstool, his grey eyes resting on her face. “Finn seems to believe you and your ship would be a good fit for my exporting operation.”

“Definitely,” Corra said with confidence. “I’ve been in the ‘exports’ business for years now on the Dionsyian. And the Beacon? She’s new, but I’m sure she can manage.”

“Mm.” Callahan was not looking at her, but examining a cocktail list. “What core did you say she runs on?”

Corra opened her mouth, then closed it again. She’d heard Cyrus say something about the Beacon’s core, but hell if she could remember the specific model. “Um…”

“I mean to ask, how fast is she?” Callahan clarified, lifting his eyes, which had grown much cooler. It was then Finn intervened.

“Fast and getting faster, mate,” he said briskly, swigging his beer and sighing. “Runs a 50-80 stabilizer, and I just hired an engineer to help me with some hotwiring.”

“Mm,” said Callahan again — it was an affirmation that he heard Finn, not that he was impressed. He laid down the menu and glanced again at Corra. “And what is it you smuggled on the Dionysian?”

Corra was certain he was baiting her. Carefully as she could, she said, “We moved weaponry.”

“Ah yes. Guns and ammo.”

After a short, uncomfortable pause, Finn said, casual as ever, “And they were pretty damn good at it too, eh? Corra and Fiear built up quite the reputation toge– “

“Certainly,” said Callahan, his eyes now on the ceiling. “Moving weaponry is just not what I do. In fact, pistols and bullets are nothing, nothing like the challenge of moving whole ships. Do you realize that? Every time you take apart an engine, every nut and bolt is marked and recorded somewhere.”

Corra did not know that at all, but she said nothing.

“I’ve been in the smuggling business since I was eighteen years old,” he went steadily. “And never once — not once — have any of my ships missed a drop. That’s how strict this business is.”

He stared right at Corra, eyes glinting. She was determined not to look away even though disappointment was sinking through her: there was simply no way this man wanted to partner with them. He was practically laughing in her face.

But then, to her shock, Callahan looked down at the bar and mused, “But I may have a job that’s just right for you. A simple lift, you pick up goods for me, move them successfully, I compensate you, fuel included.” He pressed his lips together in thought. “If you wouldn’t mind coming back to my office, we can discuss finances?”

“Hell yeah we can,” Finn said at once as he slapped a hand on his bony shoulder and beamed his most charming grin.

Following a step behind the pair, Corra did not feel like smiling at all; most especially when she heard Callahan say quietly to Finn, “In the future, you might want to keep your first mate more informed.”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

From his spot atop the Dionysian’s ramp, Fiearius looked over the gritty maze of the Genesian streets and inhaled a deep breath of atmosphere. The smoke-thickened air of Archeti’s failing terraform certainly served as a reminder of the benefits of spaceship living. And there was nothing like Desophyles Cordova complaining nearby to serve as another reminder: why it was important to be a little more picky in who lived aboard that spaceship with you.

“We should have gone over the details by now,” Dez was saying as Fiearius stalked down the ramp, ignoring him as much as he could. But Dez kept speaking in his ear, machine-like and automatic. “There is a multitude of information that we must bring into consideration when we meet with Utada. It would have been wise to recount it all this morning.”

Fiearius barely glanced backwards. “I was busy.”

“We are unprepared,” he informed him matter-of-factly. “Utada will not offer assistance if we are unorganized. Perhaps it would be in our best interest to reschedule.”

At that, Fiearius let out a laugh. “It’s just Quin, Dez. Relax.” He threw him an amused glance. “You’re not nervous, are you?”

“Quinida Utada leads the most extensive and powerful gang on all of Archeti,” he said, marching along at his side. “She commands a small army and single-handedly wrenched all control of Archeti’s span-wide trade relations from her predecessors. She demands a great deal of respect and I feel no shame in approaching her with caution.”

There was something satisfying in witnessing Dez, a force of Society fear-mongering for so long, actually shift with unease now that he was in Fiearius’ territory. He couldn’t help but grin.

“Oh don’t get me wrong, she’s terrifying,” Fiearius admitted with another laugh. “But she likes me. We’ll be fine.”

He spoke with confidence, and Fiearius purposely did not let on that, actually, he was exhausted — Dez certainly didn’t need to know just how little sleep he’d gotten the night previous, and why, and with whom.

“Dance with me.” He held out his hand. “Since we didn’t get to at the party.”

Leta stared at the open palm of his hand. Then her gaze lifted to stare at his face, and all she could mutter was, “You really think you’re something, huh?”

When he smirked uncertainly, her head tilted with sudden suspicion. “Wait. Are you trying to seduce me?

Fiearius laughed. “Does that affect your answer?”

After a contemplative pause, Leta admitted, “Not really,” and then tilted her champagne glass to her mouth, drank deeply and set it carefully on the counter at her side.

Then she hazarded toward him, her slightly shaking hand slipping into his calloused one. Her other hand came to rest at his shoulder and she set her bare feet steadily. A safe distance, she assured herself — though she nearly laughed at herself a second later. With him, there was no safe distance.

His hand came to her waist, gently drawing her closer.

“I’m out of practice,” she warned.

“I’ll go easy on you.”

He eased a half-step closer so her wrist rested on his shoulder. The music was low and bluesy, and it led to a gentle sway of their feet. Fiearius was light on his feet, undeniably a better dancer than she was, and she expected him to point it out any second, but when Leta looked up, Fiearius was watching her, thoughtful and bemused.

“Remember the last time we did this?”

“How could I forget? You were wearing a gigantic feathery bird mask.”

“Hey,” he defended, “I liked that thing. So did everyone else at that party. They were all staring in admiration.”

“That wasn’t admiration.”

He grinned and gripped her hand more tightly. “From you, it was.”

Leta opened her mouth to refute, but a smirk came to her face instead. Then he drew her closer with his palm at the small of her back, his chin against her temple, and a comfortable rhythm found them.

It was then that, abruptly, the music cut out. The speakers crackled noisily, and the bridge plunged into silence, and she and Fiearius were still holding one another without reason now.

“Ah, shit,” he muttered, unsurprised. “Go figure. I never asked Cyrus to upgrade the sound system.” He threw a sideways dirty look toward the speaker on the wall. Instead of moving away, however, he lowered his head toward the arch of her shoulder, turned his lips against her hair, and started to hum the song in her ear.

A shiver electrified Leta’s spine. Unthinkingly, as if she needed to hold herself to the ground, her fingers in his hand laced around his.

But lest this go too far — as it always did before — Leta made herself go still against him.

“Fiearius,” she demanded quietly. “What is this? What’re we doing? This. All of this.”

He glanced sideways at their intertwined hands, then down at her. “We’re dancing, aren’t we?”

After a moment, his hold relaxed and he eyed her seriously, more seriously than Leta could have ever anticipated, a furrow in his brow.

“Alright,” he exhaled sharply, as if preparing himself. “Here’s the thing. I’m really sorry about what happened the other week. It was inappropriate since you’re my crew and it was uncalled for and I’m just real sorry it happened like that. But — if I’m being perfectly honest? I’m really only sorry that I forgot to shut the door.”

Leta opened her mouth in surprise, but he kept going.

“I don’t mean that in the creepy way either,” he went on quickly. “I just mean that…well –” He lifted his eyebrows in earnest admission. “I don’t find you quite as awful as I pretend to. In fact, sometimes — not always, mind you — but times like today for instance, I genuinely enjoy your presence. I’m better with you around. And not just healthier, though thanks for that too. But when we’re together, I’m actually better.”

At first Leta could think of nothing to say; he’d never spoken to her like this before. She felt nearly gutted, cut open with shock.

“So to answer your question,” he finished, “that’s what we’re doing. That’s where I’m at. I don’t — presume to know what’s going on with you, especially considering the last few months, but I thought you should know. Know that if you wanted … I wouldn’t mind being together a bit more than we have been in the past.”

Several long, heavy seconds passed before Leta found her voice, which had buried somewhere in her chest.

“I wouldn’t mind that either,” she admitted softly.

A beat of expectation passed between them. His eyes danced over her face, then went to her lips. Just as his hand found the angle of her face and tilted her mouth toward his, she raised herself to tip-toe. Her mind was a fog, but even still, she registered how different of an embrace this truly was: less of a kiss, more of a brush. It wasn’t urgent, fervent. Certainly she never would have considered, not in any realm of possibility, that kissing Fiearius could ever be slow and soft. It certainly couldn’t ever be sweet. And yet…

Of all the ways the night could have gone, she thought in amazement, as their kiss deepened and grew heavy, his fingers slid up into the back of her hair, and his hand pressed against her back, pulling her in.

But before Fiearius could step closer and knock out the guard, before Leta could yell to warn him, his foot caught on one of the velvet ropes that surrounded an exhibit and within a moment, he fell face-first to the ground. For someone usually so quick and sharp on his feet, he made a particularly gruesome thud.

The guard spun around at once, sloshing coffee all over himself.  Slapping her hand to her forehead, Leta stood up, and locked eyes with the guard, who looked thunderstruck.

“What in the — devil’s name — you!” he gasped, hurrying to unlock his nightstick.

For a split second, Leta stood still. Her mind filled, at once, with an endless supply of ready lies: they were sneaking up here for a midnight stroll; they’d gotten lost on their way out of the party. Certainly she could weave together the proper words to get them out of this.

But instead, Leta acted: she suddenly brushed forward, seized a large clay pot off a shelf, lifted it in an arch above her and cracked it hard against the guard’s head.

With a groan, the man went still, then slumped to the ground at her feet, unconscious.

Shocked with her own daring, Leta slowly lowered the pot, grimacing in apology.

Fiearius, meanwhile, was pushing himself to his feet, already recovering with a grin on his face.

“That,” he said, eyeing her significantly, “was hot.”

“Thanks,” said Leta sarcastically, hiking up her dress and turning for the door. “I think. Grab the thing, please, so we can get the hell out of here.”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

After a mad dash through the hall, down the street and through the Tarin main square, attracting more than a few stares from Ordenians and Tarinians alike, Leta was thrilled to find the safety of the Dionysian’s bridge. She kicked off her shoes and sunk into the co-pilot’s chair, her dress draping over the seat. Fiearius threw himself into the captain’s chair beside her, looking like he’d never had so much fun in his life, a dog who had been let out to play at last.

“Aren’t your legs aching?” she demanded, still out of breath; Fiearius both scoffed and grinned.

“I told ya, I’m all healed up now. Piece of cake.”

“You,” said Leta, “are completely insane.” But she was laughing, too, as she looked down at Cyrus’ gift in her lap. “So when are you going to give this to him?”

“For his birthday. It’s next week. I think? Probably.” Fiearius leaned over the dashboard, flipping one of the dials to set a new course. The floor of the cabin began to vibrate — the engine hummed to life, the ship was lifting off the ground, the landscape outside the window was beginning to show the night sky. And this, surely, was Leta’s cue to say goodnight; their long day together was over.

A lingering sort of lightness filled her chest: she wasn’t sorry at all she’d left the Dionysian this morning.

“Hey,” she said quietly, catching his curious eye. “Thanks.” She stood up, raising her bare feet to tip-toe to set Cyrus’ gift down in one of the Dionysians’ smuggling cabinets. “Today was — surprisingly fun.”

Her mouth quirked to a half-smile as she turned for the door. But she didn’t make it into the hallway before Fiearius lifted one hand and pushed himself to his feet out of his chair. “Wait, hang on. I’m not done trying to impress you yet.”

“What?” Leta laughed. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. One more thing.”

Leta watched, bewildered, as Fiearius started to bustle around the cabin: first he snatched a mysterious long green bottle — champagne — from a cabinet, followed by two flute glasses.

He filled her a glass, then handed it to her, which she accepted in confusion. Then, as if this weren’t enough, he reached to press a dial on the dashboard. Suddenly, an inviting crackle of big band music filled the cabin, warming the whole room like a bonfire.

But even this did not make Leta believe what would come next. No, of course he wasn’t…he wasn’t really…

“Oh, you’ve never heard of Ordenon?” said Yseltin, tugging at fabric near her knees. “It’s a city on the other side of Tarin. A very wealthy, lavish city. Colonized by those who apparently thought the high streets of Tarin Proper weren’t high enough for them. It’s quite a sight to behold, I hear. Great mansions and sweeping hills, no expense spared. The Ordenians are thought to be the wealthiest in the Span.”

“But,” he went on, “as wealthy as they are, they’re certainly no craftsmen. They fly into our own humble city so often to trade that they set up their own district on the east side. Nowhere near as extravagant as Ordenon itself, but dov’ha gia’me, it’s something! Very closed-off though. Need all the proper documentation to get through the gates.”

“From what I hear, there’s a group of them in town tonight,” he went on as though imparting some scandalous gossip. “They’re known to throw quite the elegant soiree. Now I don’t claim to ever know what that ti’eh waré is thinking, but if I were you, I’d be excited.”

“A soiree?” Leta muttered. “Fiearius wouldn’t want to attend a soiree — ”

“Too true,” came Fiearius’ voice. He paused in the doorway, hands in the pockets of his slacks — which lacked the grease and blood stains of his normal wear. A dinner jacket sat neatly around his shoulders, and he looked clean and put-together in a way Leta had never seen before. She was about to comment on his appearance, but then she noticed the odd, appreciative look brimming in his eyes. His gaze roamed over her bare freckled shoulders, down her dress, a faint smirk curving the side of his mouth.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Leta snapped.

Yseltin came to her aid. He spun around with his hands on his hips. “You’re not supposed to be back here. I’m not ready for you yet. And where’d you find those clothes?!” he gasped.

“Rack on the other wall,” Fiearius said, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder, still without breaking his line of sight.

“Did you just…get changed in the middle of my store?”

“Yeah.” He wound into the room and held out his hand for Leta. “So. Ready to crash a fancy party?”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Yseltin had been right: it was an elegant soiree. Ordenians in long richly-colored gowns and stiff jackets circled through the hall, chatting and laughing and toasting champagne. Sparkling chandeliers hung from the ceiling and a string quartet played near the dance floor. It had been a long, long time since Leta attended an event like this: it felt like stepping into her youth.

“Not really my kinda party,” Fiearius admitted, smirking at her as they descended the staircase into the hall.

“No kidding. Hey, you never told me,” Leta realized with a start, looking around at all the guests. “Who are we pretending to be, exactly? These people will sniff us out.”

“Oh, right,” said Fiearius quickly. “I researched this. You are Adinia Roledai, the rebellious young daughter of Venian Roledai who passed away a few months ago. She ran off to Vescent actually when she was thirteen. No one’s seen her since. No one would recognize her. And I. I am your unworthy Vescentian husband with no noble blood and a measly two million a year income.” He smiled innocently. “Fitting, right?”

As they wound toward the bar, she side-stepped closer and slipped her arm around his. Fiearius shot her a look of interest.

“What?” she teased. “I’m playing the part.”

“Right,” he said, curving his arm around hers. His grin was almost blinding. “The part.”

They weaved their way into the hall. As they walked through the crowd, Fiearius kept exaggeratedly greeting people as if he’d known them his whole life.

“ — and how’s the wife? The kids?” Fiearius was saying to a puzzled older man, before stealing his glass of champagne, downing it one gulp and then handing it back to him. Leta, snorting to herself, quickly steered him toward the bar. It was a much safer bet than leaving him loose around these people.

As their drinks were slid smoothly across the bar into the hands, Fiearius’ attention span was already thinning. “We should dance,” he said, then downed half his drink in one shot. “Dance with me.”

The orchestra was just beginning a new tune; couples were melting onto the dance floor, hand-in-hand. A tug in Leta’s chest told her she would’ve liked to join, but she turned away from the dance floor. “You shouldn’t even be on your feet right now at all, Fiear. Your legs are barely healed.”

And besides — this night was such an odd turn of events; she’d gone too long without answers. “Fiearius,” she sighed in exasperation. “Why are we even here? You haven’t told me a damn thing, just that you need my help to get a gift. We got the gift. So what are we doing now?”

“The painting wasn’t the gift I was talking about,” Fiearius said, reaching for his martini once more. “That was just step one. Now I need your help with another gift. Which is around here somewhere … “ He glanced over his shoulder around the hall.

“So we’re stealing yet again. Who is this gift for?” she asked impatiently.

“Still not you.”

“Then what is it? Just tell me that at least. Tell me something. You’re killing me. Because this is just about the absolute weirdest date — or non-date,” she amended hastily, careful to avoid Fiearius’ eye, “that I’ve ever been on.”

“Date?” Fiearius laughed like he’d never heard anything so outlandish. “Who said anything about this being a date?”

Leta cocked her head to the side, full of innocence. “Oh? So it’s not a date then.”

Amusement sparkled in his eyes. “No,” he said simply. “I mean — “ he added mockingly, “I certainly don’t expect that.”

He was using her own words against her. Naturally.

“Very funny,” Leta responded dully. She traced her finger around her glass, then looked up at him. “This is just getting ridiculous you know. You and I.”

He simply rose his glass in agreement. “Yep.”

“Do you want to talk about it then? About what happened between us.” About what is still happening between us, Leta added silently.

Fiearius looked momentarily surprised. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he claimed innocently, for about ten seconds — before he lowered his glass to the bar and looked at her seriously. “Yeah. Actually. I wouldn’t be opposed to revisiting the terms of our arrangement. But not here, alright? Not around these … stiffs … “

He drew his brow together and cast an uncertain look around the hall, while tugging uncomfortably at his collar. “You’re used to this kinda thing, aren’t you? What’s there to do at these classy parties?”

“Well,” Leta sighed, “we probably should be interfacing with our wealthy contemporaries … “ She turned back to the bar. “But I’m going to keep drinking.” As she lifted her glass to her lips, she couldn’t help but notice the bartender and a few people nearby were throwing them lingering, questioning looks.

“Our disguises might be failing,” she muttered, averting her eyes. “We’re drawing some stares … “

“Pretty sure that’s just you,” Fiearius teased, toying absently with a ruffle of fabric around her waist and grinning at her. With his other hand he polished off the rest of the drink and looked around: the hall was more crowded now, the music was louder and the dance floor was full.

“Alright,” said Fiearius briskly, thudding his drink down to the bar. He watched in amusement as a well-dressed older man stumbled over himself on the way to the dance floor. “Showtime. These people are officially too drunk to figure out what we’re up to. Let’s go.”