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Greg was exhausted. He had spent the day going between IDs, and when he wasn't someone else trying to survive the hell that was this life, he was dealing with a too close Ryoshu, or an excitable Don, or a pissed off Heathcliff. And to top it all off, during today's fighting, Dante has been very hands-off. A thing that might have been nice if Greg had been willing to think a little, but instead it just meant that he got hit more than he had to.
So tonight. He hoped tonight. He hoped he read Outis meerkating more than normal correctly, Manager Bud being less attentive to her suggestions in the fight. How noone followed her suggestions in the field. She was just as stressed, just as hurt. But in the opposite direction.
“Offizier Outis,” Gregor quietly mutters as he passes her by on the way back as soon as the close of business is announced. His haste is unusual, but he plays it as desperately wanting his bed, which is also true. She glances up at him, and something settles in her eyes and agitates in her shoulders.
Greg moves on quickly. Sliding into the back, to his room, and going through his routine. Efficient, simple, quick. And he lets himself drop to the bed, sitting, legs off the side. Outis will knock once the communal areas have emptied, not everyone keeping their meetings as quiet as this, but this is not… Greg doesn't want the others thinking of him like that, and assumes Outis doesn't want that either, for whatever her reasons may be. He knows she meets with some of the others at times but. Rarely in private or if so, with stated reason, he knows her and Ishmael sometimes meet to chat, and she plays strategy games with Meursault, but sex? Not as far as he knows. And that's also not why she knocks on Greg's door.
A crisp two knocks, and Greg gets up and stands at rest. She gives him 3 seconds before she opens the door. The door slams shut. “Alright, Private. Let's see what kinda mess you made,” she struts in, steps sure and strong. She starts with him, eyeing his form, checking his uniform. His shoes sit at the door of the bed, cared for and cleaned from the day's work. She hums approvingly. Greg relaxes into it. “Well done.” If Gregor is desperate enough to approach her, he doesn't need a scolding. She knows, sometimes she needs that, someone who buckles to her tongue, that harsh submission. But right now, she needs someone who follows orders, and Greg needs someone to tell him what to do.
She grabs the chair from his desk and places it in the center of the room. Makes herself comfortable in it. “You took good care of your own boots. Do the same to mine, don't bother talking them off.” Instructions clear, firm.
He gives an adorable salute before rushing to grab the needed supplies. It takes 47 seconds for him to get back with everything and be kneeling at her feet. He starts with cleaning the day's dirt from them, a brush long stained a dark brown, scraping off the dirt and viscera. He works with care, taking time to make sure things are done properly. The top is brunched, the sides scraped, and eventually the sole picked free. They breathe. Outis sits above him, watching him, approving. He kneels below her, serving her, obedient.
He rests the booted foot he just cleaned on his thigh, and gathers the dirt that flaked off. Breaths. Looks up to make eye contact with her knee. “Do you want something, Private?” he leans forward, and she rests her hand on his head. “Well done. Sit. I will tell you when to start on the other one.” They sit in silence. Outis counts out 47 seconds before removing her hand, “Begin.” Gregor switches feet.
He brushes the top. Around the back. Gently scrape the dirt and blood from the sides, pick the soles free. Clean the dirt that has fallen to the floor. Breath.
His commander wanted her shoes cared for, so that is what she will get. Cleaned and polished and shined if she let him.
He switches to his polishing brush, starts with the shoe he just finished picking rocks and worse from. Carefully, gently applies polish, using his claw to gently cradle Outis’s foot. She relaxes, settles the weight of her leg on his claw, trusts him. Not because he's beaten. She doesn't trust him like this when he's beaten down.
He smooths out the polish, spreading it even. Has to contort a little to get at the back and the right side, but he manages. Switches feet again. Repeats the process as Outis gives a content sigh, pushing down gently on the claw she's using as a foot rest. “Well done.” The two sit like that for a while. Just two survivors playing at a format the war taught them. Trying to find safety.
It's when Gregor starts to shift his weight, trying to get blood back into his legs, that Outis lifts her feet from his claw. She gets up and rests her hand on his head again, “Well done, soldier. See you in the morning.” And she walks out, gently closing his door behind her. Gregor slowly picks himself up, puts away his cleaning supplies, and crawls into bed. Sleep comes easier, for tonight he can pretend he knows the rules.
***
She leaves the room and makes her way to her own room. Quietly, but surely. Her insecurities soothed for the night, her bed empty. She awaits the day she doesn't sleep alone again, but till then, these gentle evenings will have to do.