Work Text:
Every seedy bar, in Heinrix’s experience, was the same, no matter where in the galaxy they were located. Dirty floors and dirtier utensils, unscrupulous characters hunched over shadowed tables and tucked away in darkened corners, they were both a necessity and a nuisance in his line of work. The Martyr’s Endurance – or, to give it its current name, the Adeptus Amasecus – is no different with its lho-smoke filled air, loud, raucous conversations, the scent of stale beer and questionable food a sticky, lingering presence. He wonders why they’re still here, then hears the sound of Xinara’s laugh – bright, the edges tinted with the softest of smears from whatever liquor she’s consumed – and a frown enters his face as he takes in the scene.
The bartender is pretty enough – tall and red-haired, her easygoing manner a front for shrewd, sly eyes, dressed in tight-fitting clothes that are clearly meant to highlight her best assets. And yet, despite the many looks she gets from the other patrons, Heinrix’s attention is on her.
The Rogue Trader.
Xinara von Valancius.
Reckless, maddening woman that she is, she’s draped across the counter, one hand curled around a near-empty glass of amasec. Such delicate fingers, he notes, the nails painted a demure shade of pale pink that glimmers beneath the fluorescent lumens. He’s seen those hands wrapped strong and sure around the butt of a rifle, the gentle, careful way they handle wounds, knows the nervous tic that has her fingers trace patterns across her the pad of her thumb – and he has a fleeting, momentary thought about how it would feel to have those hands touch him.
To have them touch his bare skin.
Exhaling with annoyance – what on holy Terra has possessed him! – he turns his focus back to the barmaid, only to find her leaning halfway across in a mirror of the Rogue Trader’s pose. Octaviana murmurs something in the space between them, and Xinara laughs again, head tipped back, lips parted to reveal pearl-like teeth.
Something twists in his chest at the sight. His mouth thins with the force of his disapproval as he tries to move closer to them, only to be stopped by Idira. “Slow down, iceman. Let her have some fun for a change!”
“This is such a waste of time-”
“That’s not why you want to drag her away, and you know it.” The unsanctioned psyker taps the side of her nose and flashes him a wide, knowing grin, the implication of which has him clenching a fist.
“This is no place for a Rogue Trader to linger about; we’re already drawing attention.”
“It’s nothing we can’t handle,” Idira shifts to place herself between him and her. “Let her be.”
“She should have known better than to drink that Throne-awful concoction,” he mutters to himself, “I tried to warn her against imbibing it, but did she listen?”
“She’s still standing, yeah? You can’t tell me you weren’t impressed, I saw your face. Drank it in one go, without a wince,” Idira’s positively gleeful, “matched only by Calligos Winterscale himself.” She pats his shoulder, rolling her eyes when he takes a step away. “I think you’re jealous.”
“Jealous?” he scoffs. “Of what?”
“You tell me, iceman.”
Heinrix’s gaze returns to the conversing pair. Xinara’s cheeks and ears are flushed pink, her gaze sparkling, and that heavy, twisting, coiling feeling returns to his stomach. He's not seen her like this before, and – and he knows it shouldn’t, but it irks him that she’s bestowing such softness on someone wholly unsuitable and unworthy of her attention. He wants to look away, but he can’t; whatever annoyance is running through his veins increases when he sees her swipe the tip of her tongue over her – plush, full, pretty – lips.
It also makes Octaviana lean in even closer, her gaze now hooded, one hand reaching out to tuck a platinum strand of hair behind delicate ears–
Idira giggles.
Throne take the woman, Heinrix grumbles to himself, who knows what kind of information she’s freely giving away to that barkeeper– moving as surreptitiously as possible, he catches the briefest look of approval on Abelard’s face as he settles close-ish to the Lord Captain.
“You’ve such a pretty way about you,” he hears Octaviana purr. “Tell me again how much you like my hair?”
Groaning internally, he has to actually expend some measure of effort to keep himself from batting away Xinara’s hand as she reaches out to touch the aforementioned hair. “Like flame,” she admires. “Have you ever seen a wood flame? They burn with such warmth. Unlike promethium fires, they burn much hotter, hence the blue-white tint to them, but of course that’s what you need for a fuel material-”
Octaviana chuckles. “Hold on there, prettiness, I get the point.”
How dare you cut her off, Heinrix seethes, catching the blink-and-miss-it flash of chagrin on Xinara’s face. The Rogue Trader deserves her absolute respect – and then he remembers they’re here incognito. He can’t say anything, can’t berate the bartender as she deserves.
He huffs, the sound drawing the attention of the conversing women. Octaviana smirks, while the look the Rogue Trader directs at him is one of concern. When she’s satisfied nothing is amiss, she turns her attention back to the redhead. A more artificial smile – how does he know it's not real? – settles on her features.
“You’re the pretty one,” she murmurs to the bartender without much feeling. “This has been lovely, but I must take my leave. People to see, places to be – you know how it is.”
As though sensing her patron’s loss of interest, Octaviana ups the ante. “Why don’t you stop by after your day is over?” she murmurs, the sensual invite blatant to all those who hear it. “Maybe we can find some work of our own.” She throws Heinrix a taunting glance from the corner of her eyes, as though she’s won something he hasn’t; he bristles against the feel of it. “Assuming your chaperones have no objection, of course.”
Abelard straightens, making an indignant sound as he mutters a vague protest. Idira laughs, as Argenta grumbles beneath her breath, while Kibellah continues to glare at anyone who so much as gives her a passing glance.
“Well,” Xinara reaches out to brush the tips of her fingers against Octaviana’s knuckles. It’s such a gentle, delicate movement, and to his surprise, it has the barmaid blushing. Though he can’t blame her, really – there’s an innocence and an earnestness to the action that he hasn’t seen in a long time. Heinrix is reminded of the elegant formalities of interaction between the nobles of Guisorn III, how one could tell intentions with but a single look or touch. And what he reads from Xinara’s fingers is…
… he wants to be on the receiving end of that touch.
He shivers, whether from the inappropriateness of his thoughts or the slight dip in temperature (was he the cause of it?) he doesn’t know.
“I’ll see what I can do,” the Rogue Trader smiles and withdraws her arm.
Octaviana flashes him a wide, triumphant grin as Xinara turns towards the rest of the party. “Shall we?” she announces casually, as though she has not just made a spectacle of herself. “We have an appointment to keep.”
Abelard leads the way, as he always does; Heinrix follows after the Rogue Trader, and, in a moment of sudden daring, places his hand on the small of her back to guide her out of the crowded entrance. She looks at him over her shoulder, surprised; he withdraws his touch immediately, waiting for a reprimand, but instead she smiles at him.
God-Emperor have mercy on him, for he will not soon be able to forget that smile, nor the way she looked at him. Not with distrust, or with a grimace, nor with disgust – she looked at him as though – as though – as though he was a person. As though he was allowed to touch her. It was– he shouldn’t– surely she had not meant to react in such a way–
“We knew Vladaym had ties to the Kasballica, but he is not the only Cold Trader on Footfall,” Xinara says as they make their way to the Atrium. “Octaviana is one, and the third is a woman but I could not make out her name. She and Vladaym are at odds, however – perhaps we can use that to our advantage.”
“How did you learn all that?” Abelard asks.
She gives him a puzzled look over her shoulder. “I’m a psyker,” she says, brows knitted together as though she can’t understand her Seneschal’s question.
“You read her mind?”
He notices the way Argenta’s fingers twitch, the small step she takes away from the Rogue Trader. Idira does too; the unsanctioned psyker scoffs beneath her breath, muttering something indecipherable.
“No, that would have been too obvious.” Frown deepening, she stops walking and turns towards Abelard. “I’m a diviner, Abelard. Surely you know this?”
When it’s clear that he does not quite grasp what that means – unsurprising, really – Heinrix coughs quietly and clears up the confusion. “Psykers trained in divination have limited sight into the past, a feat they achieve through touch.”
Xinara’s fingers curl inward in what feels like a protective motion. “As Master van Calox said,” her voice and expression are cautiously blank, her gaze trained on Abelard, body held tense and ready for – he glances at her. For violence, he thinks. Telepaths and diviners are not popular for the simple reason that they can intrude where they are not welcome.
It is something he has to keep in mind.
“I see.” Abelard gives him a fleeting look before turning his attention back to Xinara. “I did not mean to make you uncomfortable, my Lady.”
She blinks, her caution slowly dissipating with it. “I do not use it on-,” she hesitates, lip tucked between teeth as though she’s trying to think of the appropriate thing to say. “On allies,” she says at last. “Unless I have… good reason to.” Heinrix doesn’t miss the way her eyes dart to him for the briefest of moments. Was it meant to be a reassurance? Or a warning? “So you have nothing to worry about, Abelard.”
The Seneschal starts a speech about his lack of concern and his abundance of trust in the Rogue Trader but he doesn’t bother to pay attention, his mind too busy analyzing.
Psykers trained in divination have limited sight into the past, a feat they achieve through touch.
So, the whole scene had been a clever set up. He hadn’t imagined that light chill in the air earlier – and neither was he the cause. That she’s capable of such a convincing deception is both impressive and concerning; from what he knows of her past she did not seem the type. Had she always been capable of it, or was it a new development? How many other ways had her new title altered her? Thus far, she’s acted in accordance with Imperial law – with some deviation, of course, nothing that was too alarming – but that could change at any time. He knows well how corrupting power can be, and she has been gifted a great deal of it – and the fact that she has broken protocol so many times already (he can still recall the tingling and foul fever that spread over his skin when he donned the heretic’s robes) has raised not just his concerns, but also those of the Lord Inquisitor.
A telepath. And a diviner.
She has the potential to glean the Inquisition’s secrets if he is not careful. He must not forget that, he cannot afford to forget that. He cannot touch her. He cannot let her touch him.
He watches as the Rogue Trader laughs softly and pulls off her glove once more, as she reaches up to touch first her seneschal’s face, then the unsanctioned psyker, then the death cultist. Only Argenta shakes her head, though the battle sister manages to keep from saying anything offensive. The Rogue Trader then turns to him, and what remains of the smile she wears falls away; her hand falls back to her side just as her gaze meets his.
She clears her throat. “May I,” the slightest hesitation, “Master van Calox?”
Taken aback by her polite request, at the friendly, earnest way she asks for permission, he stares suspiciously at her. Is it another ploy? A deliberately planned farce to get him to lower his guard by showing she’s not a threat? Or is it some kind of test, perhaps, a means of gauging his opinion on her?
The wisest course of action would be to refuse. To let her keep her apprehension about the Inquisition, to keep her guessing about what he thinks of her. She should be aware that the Inquisition is always watching, always judging – it is what will keep her in line, keep her safe -
The Rogue Trader – Xinara – waits for his response. Her hand is still ungloved. Her fingers twitch momentarily when his gaze drops to them; he waits for her to rescind the offer, to turn away and dismiss him – but still she waits, calm and patient, even as the others huff and shift and silently urge him to make a decision.
He should deny her. It would be too intimate, and he, abomination that he is, is undeserving of being graced by the God-Emperor’s chosen. She would sully those hands if she touched him, and he cannot – should not – allow her that.
She waits, watching him with those silver eyes that seem to understand, offering him a tiny, hesitant, encouraging smile as his gaze locks in with hers.
Throne help him, he cannot restrain himself – he must know, he must know…
“If it pleases you, Rogue Trader,” his voice is so strained it seems a wonder anything comes out of his throat at all.
Xinara searches his face with a frown. “Are you comfortable with it?” she asks. Pushing him to decide. Allowing Heinrix the man, and not van Calox the Interrogator, to choose. It is a generosity he has rarely – if ever – been afforded. When was the last time he was allowed to pick for himself?
He cannot remember.
Before he can change his mind, before logic once more takes control over his wildly erratic thoughts and emotions, he nods and follows it with a soft, decisive, yes – and is bestowed with a smile so wide it brings out a hidden dimple, lifts the apples of her cheeks and crinkles the corners of her eyes, and in that moment, for the span of a heartbeat, Heinrix would deliver her a dozen stars if she but asked.
Time slows as she raises her hand; he follows the movement intently, bracing himself for the moment of touch. Her scent, so quickly familiar and more comforting than it has any right to be, surrounds him, envelops him, his heart following the rhythm of her pulse. And far too soon, but far too quickly, her fingers are on his jaw – her bare skin is pressed against his – and it feels like a burn, a brand, a permanent, indelible marking. Heinrix has to suppress the shudder running up his spine, swallow the sound bubbling in his throat – resist the urge to press deeper into her. Beneath the rasp of calluses her touch is gentle, as though she’s afraid of hurting him – her touch is gentle and her fingers are warm and she’s looking at him like he’s a marvel, like he’s something precious, and he cannot seem to look away from her, and she cannot seem to look away from him as her fingers slowly start to slide down the line of his jaw, until her littlest finger just barely brushes against the very corner of his mouth, and the way her breath hitches at the sensation sends his pulse careening – and he wants more, more of this contact, more of this connection, more of her – he wants to touch her, to pull her into his arms and know that it would feel like to have her pressed against him-
Abelard clears his throat in disapproval, and the spell is broken.
Heinrix moves away rapidly, looking everywhere but at her. Xinara’s hand remains in the space between them, hanging in the air for several moments before she slowly draws it back. A faint dusting of rose sits atop her cheekbones, but she remains poised in all other ways. “As I said,” she murmurs, “I do not use my powers on allies.”
He tips his head in acknowledgement, his skin still throbbing from the ghost of her touch.
She gives him one last, searching look, a look that seems to see beneath his skin and flesh, a look that settles into the marrow of his bones – and instead of alarm, he is filled with – with relief, as though she’s searching for him, as though she seeks to understand him.
It’s concerning that he wants her to see him. Wants her to understand him. Wants her to know him.
Too many wants. Too many. He cannot, he should not-
“Master van Calox?” Her hand is upon his arm, leather against cotton. He misses the warmth, the sensation of skin, the gentle almost-caress. “I’m honored you trust me enough to let me do that.”
Honored? He should be telling her that. Does she not realize, does she not understand how valuable her favor – how valuable she is? That she feels honored by his trust… he should tell her he doesn't trust her. Because he should not. He needs to remind himself that this was simply a demonstration, a display designed to demonstrate how harmless she is, but that isn’t true. She isn’t some soft, defenseless layperson; she is a psyker and she is the Rogue Trader, and she is dangerous.
I shouldn’t trust her, he tells himself. Instead he finds himself speechless, resorting to giving her a forced, awkward upturn of lips – it can’t be called a smile, not really, he’s long forgotten what it feels like to genuinely smile – but it’s enough for her. Giving his arm a gentle squeeze, she gives him one small, private smile – just for him, just for him – and resumes their trek to the liege’s residence.
Throne forgive me, he thinks as he takes up his position by her side. She is a Rogue Trader, one of the Emperor’s chosen. He cannot think of her in any other way. He should not. He must not.
His jaw aches for her touch.