Page 81 of Dead Drop

He knows I'm there. He always knows—his senses run wider than mine, catching my footsteps on the branch path before I've reached the aerie entrance. But he doesn't stop.

I sit down across from him. The morning light is warm through the canopy gaps, turning the aerie floor to a patchwork of gold and green shadow. A breeze carries the smell of the stream from below—clean water, wet stone, the faint sweetness of the canopy moss that grows along its banks.

Through the aerie wall I can see the wasteland stretching in every direction. The old towers softened by vine. The river catching the light. The places where the world used to be and isn't anymore.

From up here it's almost beautiful, in the way that only ruined things can be—the destruction has had thirteen years to become scenery, the hard edges of the old world buried under green.

I watch his hands.

His claws are weapons. I know what they can do—I saw them open a canopy boar from sternum to pelvis in a single stroke. Right now they're making something. The controlled micro-movements from hands that could tear through a wall.

Each cut shallow, deliberate, shaping the wood with the patience of someone who has done this many times and doesn't need to think about it.

"What is it?" I ask.

He turns it so I can see. The wood catches first light through the aerie walls—pale hardwood, the grain running clean, the shavings curling on the aerie floor around his crossed legs. It's a hook. A climbing hook, curved and tapered, sized for a human hand. For my hand.

The grip is wrapped in thin strips of bark, shaped and smoothed until it fits a palm smaller than his.

"You're making me gear," I say.

He glances up, eyes steady—the wood shavings dusting his red skin, catching in the ridges of his forearms. "You need to be able to climb without me."

Not without my help. Without me. It's not the same thing. He's not building me tools because he wants me dependent. He's building them because he understands what it means to a combatant to be able to move through terrain on her own terms.

He held territorial command. He knows what mobility means. He's giving me mine back, one piece of carved wood at a time.

"The bark grip," I say. "How did you know the size?"

Something moves at the corner of his mouth. The almost-smile, the one I'm learning lives in the narrow space between what his face used to do and what the mutation left it capable of. "I've held your hands," he says. "For three weeks."

I don't have a response for that. I sit with him while he works.

The quiet is the thing that undoes me. Not the sex—not the standing fucks against the aerie wall, not the way he growls when he comes, not the feeling of his cock inside me when I wake in the middle of the night and he's already hard and reaching for me. Those things are devastating in their ownway. They are also things I understand. I understand want. I understand need. I understand the mechanics of a body that has been rewired for his and doesn't apologize for what it wants.

This I don't understand. The quiet. The fact that we can sit in the same space without speaking and it feels like enough.

I was a gate watch commander. I spent years in silence alongside people I trusted with my life. I know what comfortable silence means—the ease of it, the lack of performance, the way your body stops holding itself for someone else's benefit.

I didn't think I'd find it here. In a canopy aerie with a nine-foot Shade, sitting in the spot where he fucked me into the furs six hours ago, shavings between us. The silence should be complicated. It should be loaded with everything that's happened—the three weeks, the pregnancy, the withdrawal that still comes in waves, the fact that I'm carrying a child that is half of something the old world didn't have a name for.

It's not complicated. It feels like a Tuesday. The kind of morning where nothing needs deciding, where the light is warm and the work is quiet and the person across from you is someone you don't need to perform for.

I haven't had a morning like this since before the asteroid. Maybe not even then.

He finishes the hook. Tests the edge against his palm—the curve of it is exactly right, the taper matched to the angle of a canopy branch. He holds it out.

I take it. It fits perfectly. Of course it does—he's been holding my hands for weeks. He knows my grip the way he knows the inside of my body, from sustained and thorough attention. I test the point against my thumbnail. Sharp. Good work.

I clip it to my belt next to the knife.

He starts on another piece of wood. A second hook. Because hands come in pairs, and he's thought of that.

The distance between us is enormous. He is not human. He was, once—an officer, a soldier, a male who thought in full sentences and held a sector for six years. The mutation took that. Took his species, his face, his body, his language down to fragments that are only now rebuilding.

I am human. I will stay human. I am carrying something that is half of each, and I don't know what that means yet.

We sit across from each other in a nest above the wasteland. The fire has burned to coals. The canopy is doing what the canopy does—growing, reaching, swallowing the old world one building at a time. The distance between what he is and what I am should make this impossible.