TART!

All it takes is one word. Just one thing said in jest, in spite, in passion, or in anger, but it festers. It fills your mind with echoes, reliving it over and over until it’s the only thought allowed in your head. Lukhanyo’s mind has been filled with one word. Four letters that make him grin every time he thinks them.

TART

After a sevenday of being haunted by the word it was becoming obvious enough that Fyffe commented on it during chores. For the fourth time that day there had been a spontaneous and rather badly timed snort of amusement and no amount of flattery could cover it up. Something had to be done, and soon.


“Your mouth says no, but your eyes tell me yes.” Lukhanyo leaned against the counter in the kitchen, voice soft as he watched the young baker working, “And they are such pretty eyes.”

“Y’know I can’t. Cook’d get mad.”

“You break my heart Gwendolyn.” There was only so much of a guilt trip he could lay into his voice before he felt guilty and he was getting very close to that limit, “But I understand. I would never want to get you into trouble. Well… not that sort of trouble.”

“Oh you are terrible.”

“And wonderful.” And modest too.

“I ain’t goin’ t’promise a full dozen but I’ll see what I can do.”

With a grin he grabbed her hand, lowering his head to drop a lingering kiss to the back of it. “I knew you could never let me down, dear heart.” He leaned closer, dropping his voice to a whisper dangerously close to her ear, “And as soon as I’m free from candidacy I will spirit you away for dinner to repay you.”

The young cook shivered slightly, which only cause him to grin more, even as she protested, “Away wi’ you.” With a bow he released her hand and headed out of the room. Part one of the plan successfully in motion.


Gwendolyn came through, though as predicted without the full dozen pastries. It was mere luck that the package was delivered before a barracks inspection, and that Lukhanyo escaped to ‘chores’ before it could be commented on or confiscated. But then came the issue of making the delivery. One too many questions and word would get to the wrong ears before he managed to pull of the gifting. In the end it was through bribing two small children that he found out the shift rotation he needed to know, and recruited an unsuspecting rider to do the drop off.

TART.

The word still made him grin, and now all he had to do was sit back and wait for the yelling to start.



From: Lukhanyo
To: Aerza
Subject: An IC Delivery

It arrives one day without any warning or fanfare - a simple white box, tied up with a pretty blue bow. There're no markings on it, no name to attribute it to, in fact nobody could even say who it was that delivered it to your weyr. Inside the box, carefully snuggled in individual little paper cups, are six little fruit tarts.


For the respose see: BEWARE...the Tarts?

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