He made no secret of what he was: the brown coat, the military bearing, the red scarf at his throat, the desolate look in his eyes. Even if she'd been untrained, naive and blind, she would have known. Most of the rest of the planet was celebrating. He was sombre.

"Come in, Sgt. Reynolds. Would you like some tea?" She's a smart woman, he thinks. Knows her role.

"No, thank you, ma'am."

He'd let her take his coat and scarf and hang them up, and talk to him, going through her pretty, meaningless little rituals. Oh, but she was a lovely thing. Dripping in opulence and grace, the trappings of the conquerers, the regime he'd fought against, seen friends die opposing. The regime she'd sold herself to for wealth, protection and comfort.

No matter how beautiful she was, no matter how she soothed the raw wounds on his body and soul, he couldn't forget that.

He had her touch herself before he would lay a hand on her, watched her slim fingers disappear into her body, standing at the end of her bed, his face like stone, his cock harder still. He had her touch herself, shudder, stretch a little, because he didn't want her tight and pristine. He didn't want to forget he was fucking an Alliance whore.

He stayed with her until U-Day was done with for another year, twisting his hands in her dark curls, fucking her until they were both sweaty, gasping and weak. He lost the day in her, pushed the ghosts away as he pushed into her, let her cries and whimpers drown out the screams of the dying that still echoed in his mind.

Finally, he left her, kissing her hands, her lips, her forehead, whispering apologies and closing the shuttle door behind him.