The alarm went off.
It was dark outside.
A small hand reached from under the duvet, felt for the snooze button and hit it.
Five minutes later, the alarm went off.
This time the hand retrieved the spime. From under the duvet a voice told it “Sshhh. Half an hour.”
Thirty minutes and three more snoozes it was still dark outside. The alarm went off.
A foot snuck out the bottom of the duvet, and tested the air.
Cold and dark. Great combination.
With a groan, Mercy unhooked the arm round her, pulled on a red wooly gown, that had seen better days, and padded, sleepily, to the bathroom.
She stared at herself in the mirror, waiting to finish pissing.
She thought she looked old. Old and tired.
Oldandtiredandfat. She should tell him that. He’d love it.
She grinned, wiped and flushed.
“Cawfee.”
Placing one of the mugs of rocket fuel on the table, she took hers to the window, skillfully avoiding being tripped by the hungry assassin cat weaving between her feet.
“That’s not nice, you know. Why should I feed you if you keep trying to kill me?”
She bent to pick him up but he dodged her hands and pranced away, figuring it didn’t want to be fed so much if it meant being cuddled.
“Little shit.”
“This mine?” He asked.
She nodded. His hand found her waist, his lips the top of her head, then her neck.
“It’s too early and too dark.”
“And too cold.” She replied, shivering.
“And in September,” the both finished, giggling.
“Can you do the cat?” She asked, on her way to the bathroom.
He nodded at her back and grabbed the bowl, taking a few seconds to admire her body as she slipped off the robe.
The water started, and he powered up his spime to check the news.
He was still reading as she came back. “World still standing?”
“Barely. It says it’s quite bad out there today, I don’t think you should take the bike.”
“Oh, come on! I know these streets. It’s not like I don’t do it every day.”
“Take the truck. Do you want me to worry about you all day?”
She stuck out her tongue out and deliberately wiggled her arse at him as she went to get dressed.
Back in the bedroom she checked the time. “Shit.” She was going to be late.
She pulled on her bra, adjusting the cups so she wasn’t in danger of falling out, but still looked great. Matching thong and then the ritual of standing outside the wardrobe.
T-shirt. Tight, with obligatory smart arsed comment. Check.
Combat pants. Grey…and check.
She pulled them on. He walked passed her, leaving a trail of wet footprints. They kissed.
“You have to hurry if we’re leaving together.”
She pulled on her boots, checked herself in the mirror. Looking good.
Finally, she turned and typed in the code for the secure wardrobe.
It hissed open.
She pulled her flack corset and strapped it on. Next her back and shoulder holster, flexing so they sat comfortably.
She bent and fitted her ankle holster.
“I’ll put the cat out and get the lights.” He walked past, naked still.
“Thanks, love.”
She checked the ammo in her hand guns and, finally, the shot gun and packed them all.
She had never fired in anger and never shot anyone. Well…not dead. But the ankle gun had saved her life more than once.
Finally she shouldered her bag, with the spime slotted and powering up on a shoulder strap. It was designed to allow the shotgun to be pulled quickly and easily.
He came out in a tight black combo, all zips and pockets, a pair of goggles hung round this neck. As powerful as she looked, he looked lithe. He was checking his needle gun.
“All set?”
“Uh huh.” He slung a bag over his shoulder.
One final kiss and they left the house to face the day.
The door burst open two minutes later. There was a mad hunt for keys, that were eventually found on the side, under some paper.
“When’s young’un back?” He asks.
“Tonight – you’ll be here to meet him?”
“Sure.”
One final kiss and they left the house to face the day.
