promptfic: uldren/jolyon, game

[sword_logic]

“Jolyon,” the Master of Crows purrs in a tone that Jolyon knows from experience means danger, “bet you I can catch the cartridge.”

The Supremacy booms. Across the frigid slush fields of Ceres, a lone Vandal scout stumbles and falls, lost to an environment not even the Great Machine was able to fully tame. The cartridge sails through the pitifully thin air, and the dark leather of Uldren’s glove blurs as he moves. He doesn’t open his hand.

Jolyon sighs and props himself up on one elbow. Uldren’s eyes are bright above the scarf he’s wrapped around the lower half of his face, covering the glint of his respirator.

“What kind of a bet is that? It hardly moves at light speed.”

He dislodges the Supremacy from its perch and reattaches the sling. They’ll need to move to hit the next patrol in time. Uldren is still watching him.

“It’s the principle of the thing, my good man. Loser owes the winner.”

“And I suppose that, by nature, I’m the loser.” Jolyon plucks the cartridge out from between Uldren’s fingers. It’s still warm. He pockets it, then pulls his cloak snug. “Come on. We’re moving.” Uldren finally deigns to stand along with him, and the wind blows a shock of dark hair messily across his face. Jolyon thinks it looks much nicer disheveled like this. Maybe it’s this particular brand of thinking that prompts him to ask, “So what exactly does the loser owe, then?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Uldren replies, and his eyes say I know exactly. His boots strike out on frozen ground, unerring in their path, and Jolyon follows as he forges on towards their next waypoint. Uldren tosses a look over his shoulder, and the slightest crinkle to his eyes belies the smile that’s undoubtedly playing across his lips. “Maybe a kiss.”

Jolyon’s foot slides straight into a pothole filled with sub-zero brine.