Surprise

He awoke warm and comfortable. There was a tickling in the back of his mind that told him that something was wrong, but it was smothered by the stubbornly heavy blanket of deep sleep and his instinct to stay in bed as long as possible. Even though his head was lying on bare mattress, the way he'd unconsciously arranged his pillows gave him something to cling to and more than made up for the lack of neck support. His mom must have cleaned his sheets recently. They were warm and smelled nice, almost floral. Why would he be in any rush to wake up? It was the weekend and he had no plans, so there was absolutely nothing to stop him from sleeping in. John squeezed his pillow again. It had such a nice give to it, pliant but full, conforming to his hand while pushing back against it ever so slightly. He didn't remember having a pillow this soft. Did his mom buy it for him? It didn't matter. With his half asleep mind firmly made up, he snuggled his pillows tighter, determined to return to sleep. Maybe if he fell asleep fast enough, he could resume the dream he was having. He already couldn't remember what it was, but it was nice. Something with a girl, something soothing, something that drained his stress away. Moira came to mind and it seemed right. What a thought - Moira being soothing. Now that was a laugh.

Wait… Moira.

John opened his eyes to a sea of red hair. He couldn't see anything beyond it without lifting his head, slow as molasses, to look down over his body. There were no pillows in the cramped tent he and Moira were sharing, there wasn't even a bed. Instead, he was on his side, wrapped around the Warden from behind, embracing her with his whole body. One arm rested snugly across her waist, bent at the elbow so his hand could gently cradle her left breast. She stirred, and John's blood chilled to ice in his veins.

Oh. Fuck.

John's mind raced for ideas of what to say when Moira's eyes opened and she flew into a vengeful rage. He knew full well that neither of them could be held responsible for what happened while they were asleep, but would Moira think that? No, not likely. She'd most probably say he was only pretending to sleep, or that his **** actions spoke to his inner, perverted desires. Yeah, that sounded about right. In that case, what possible explanation could he come up with that she would accept? The harsh truth was that there wasn't one. Nothing short of divine intervention could spare John's skull from being caved in. He clenched his eyes shut in preparation and prayed that his **** would be swift.

But no such **** came. Several agonizingly long seconds later, John realized he could hear the slow and steady rhythm of Moira's breath, still fast asleep. He carefully released his own, gradual and quiet, unaware that he'd even been holding it. While it was true that Moira could wake up any second, the sense of imminent doom lifted and John reopened his eyes. All he had to do was delicately extricate himself from the situation, roll over, and pretend to be asleep until Moira woke up and saw what a good little boy he was being. Easy as pie.

But… but titty, though.

John cursed his stupid lizard brain with all of his higher reasoning. It took actual effort to prevent himself from giving Moira's breast a gentle squeeze. When would he ever have this chance again, the chance to feel up the glorious chest of Moira Brighton? It was no secret that she had a fantastic rack despite her conservative attire, but feeling it in his actual hand felt almost like a transcendent experience. He didn't need to grope her to appreciate the shape, the perky firmness, how it neatly filled his palm, or the bump of her tiny nipple beneath the fabric of her top, so what heavenly secrets would a few tender squeezes reveal? John was teetering on the edge of a deadly threshold and he knew it, but that didn't stop his dick from beginning to stiffen. If anything, the danger made it even more tantalizing, but it was also enough to snap him out of his reverie of admiration and lust. The Goddess was probably laughing at him right now, urging him on, but John resisted giving her the satisfaction. He wasn't going to **** a girl in her sleep, risk of bodily harm notwithstanding; he was better than that. With a steady inhale, John slowly lifted his arm, rolled over, and closed his eyes once more. He was grateful to be safe and proud of his self control, but more than anything, he missed Moira's soft warmth. Its absence left a tangible chill along the front half of his body, so he tucked his limbs in to retain heat. It was lacking as far as substitutes for spooning a pretty girl went, but it was all he had.

Only a few minutes of uncertainty passed before Moira woke. She was quick about it, unlike John. All it took was one girlish groan and a little shifting before he heard a sharp intake of breath. She sat up quickly and patted around herself for something, from what John could tell by ear alone, then stopped and exhaled. He didn't need to see her to know her eyes were on him, he could practically feel them scanning him, searching for signs of indiscretion on his part. John's heart was pounding, but he did his best to keep his breathing slow and muscles relaxed, hoping for all he was worth that she'd believe he was still asleep. It was a skill he'd perfected growing up, staying up late at night playing on his 3DS or phone. With the brightness down and volume low, he could hear his mother coming to check on him from down the hall, and quickly sprawled out into a semblance of sleep, game safely hidden beneath his pillow. It worked then and it worked now, but Moira's response came as a surprise. He'd expected her to shake him awake or maybe launch into some kind of morning prayer. Instead, he heard a long, soft sigh, and felt her slowly lay back down.

She was still awake. Lost in thought, maybe, from the sound of her breathing. She was inhaling deeply and slowly, then holding for a second or two before exhaling all at once. That and the quiet tapping of a finger on the ground beside her told John that she wasn't going to return to sleep. He could only guess what was going on in her head, but that was less important than the fact that he'd survived his first trial of the day. The interior of the tent fell into an uneasy peace as John debated the appropriate length of time to wait before pretending to wake up.

He decided it was time when Moira's breath settled down to a normal rhythm. He faked a weak, semi-conscious stretch first, along with a quiet grumble. Moira snapped back to attention, rising to sit once more before John could catch her lazing about. By the time he yawned and opened his eyes, she was reaching into her shield for something.

"Good morning, Newman," she said. "I'm surprised. I'd taken you for a late riser, and yet you awoke only shortly after I did."

Before you, actually.

"Yeah, no," John yawned again, for real this time, "ordinarily, you'd be right, but I guess my body somehow knew today was important enough to **** me awake." He tried not to grimace at the thought of what would have happened to him had Moira woken up first. Luckily, she was too busy pulling out whatever she'd been searching for to look at him. Once retrieved, she tossed them his way: another bottle of water and calorie bar.

"Breakfast," she said. Her lips tightened as she caught sight of John's frown. "No complaining. These are enough for us to get by, and we don't have any other options. Besides, that one is peanut butter flavored."

"Yeah, yeah, thanks," John sighed as Moira began to silently nibble at her bar. He could never in a million years consider one tiny bar of food a full meal, let alone breakfast, the greatest meal of the day. He accepted that he had no other choice, but he didn't have to like it. She was right about the peanut butter at least, it was pretty tasty.

It had been about two hours since they had finished breakfast. John spent most of the day’s trek in his head for lack of any real conversation, drifting between thoughts of his life, June, how to use his skills, Erica and Adelle, the Order, Liam, and, annoyingly, Frank. Unfortunately, too much time alone with his thoughts tended to go south more often than not, so he decided to pull himself out of it and pay more attention to the environment around him.

The caverns had opened up dramatically, so much so that John could no longer see the ceiling. Clusters of the luminescent crystals seemed to prefer growing at ground level, scattered densely enough to match the brightness of a full moon’s night, but their number grew fewer and size smaller the higher above head John looked. He noticed for the first time that, even though the combined effect suggested bluish-white light, each crystal emitted their own unique, pale hue. Beyond that, he caught the faint trickle of water before it came into sight. Curiously, a small stream of water flowed down a wall to his left, descending from somewhere far above, beyond sight. It gathered in a modest pool of water that had no runoff nor immediately visible drain, fully illuminated by the refracted light of several half-submerged crystals. The gentle glow washed over the area, a soothing sight that gave John pause. In less dire circumstances it would be a nice place for a break, a book, or even a nap.

"Hey, Moira," John said. She didn't answer, but she looked his way to let him know she was paying attention. "When we get out and back to your manor… is your dad going to kill me, or will he be merciful enough to sentence me to life imprisonment?"

That actually got a quiet chuckle out of the Paladin.

"He won't kill you, nor will he imprison you." Moira shook her head. "So long as I vouch for you, that is. I will, of course, provided you successfully guide us out of the Abyss. You'll already be dead in the alternative, so there's no reason to fear reprisal from my father in either case."

"Yay." John rolled his eyes. "Thank you for the encouragement."

“I’m simply being realistic,” Moira replied. “If I want my words to bear the weight of truth, I have to say what I mean and mean what I say. There is no room for hollow encouragement, nor confidence inspired by delusion.”

“Ouch," John said. "That’s a rough outlook, not really the-” He cut himself off before he could finish saying ‘best way to make friends.’ Even he was smart enough to realize how disastrous that would be. Moreover, thinking about it, John realized he couldn’t name anyone at school he’d consider Moira’s friend, save one, maybe. He occasionally saw her speaking with a tiny blonde he didn't know, but their conversations didn't look congenial. Did that count? No, not likely. That left, what, exactly? Moira was respected by the staff and student body alike and she worked with a lot of people who seemed to like her, if not admire her, but as far as he could remember, she didn’t interact with anyone outside of an official capacity. Then again, he hadn’t exactly been keeping track of Moira’s comings and goings until a week ago, so what did he know?

“No, it’s not the best way to improve morale. I know,” Moira finished for John, incorrectly. “But it means you can believe what I say, and that I believe it too. I value that more highly than I do charm and appeal.”

Evidently.

“Fair enough.” John shrugged. History had shown countless times how successful a terrible but charismatic leader could be, but he could admit that she had a point in the value of honesty. “You’re the Warden, not me. I’m not about to tell you how to do your job.”

Moira’s eyebrows rose perhaps a millimeter in surprise, and her lips formed what might be a curve when inspected under intense scrutiny.

“Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate your understanding.”

“Just being realistic.” John cracked a smile. Moira stopped, and when John looked back he saw her staring back at him with a quizzical expression.

“You are a mystery, John Newman,” she said.

“Pardon?” he replied.

“Your demeanor shifts with frustrating frequency, as unpredictable as a leaf in the wind. One moment you’re trite and boorish, but in the next it feels as though you are terrified of me. Another moment later? Brash and braggadocious. The next? Bitter determination, followed by immaturity and sarcasm, then yet still followed by respect and earnestness. You are as much a cynic as you are naive and full of hope.” Moira crossed her arms and sighed. “I cannot for the life of me understand what goes on in your head.”

“That makes two of us, Moira.” John offered her a cheeky, if disingenuous, grin. “I’ve been a coward all my life, but I’ve done more reckless shit in the last week than I ever imagined. I’m on edge, and to be completely honest I’m really bad at talking to people. Simple conversations feel like fight-or-flight encounters sometimes, and I have a million and one ways to cope.” He ran a hand through his hair and realized he was sweating as his grin grew ever more fragile. Where did this all come from? It felt like he was vomiting word soup on reflex. He turned back around and inhaled sharply. “I mean, Jesus Christ, why am I even telling you all of this? I have no idea!”

Moira was taken aback. Her brows were knit and a half formed word rested between her open lips. It never made it further than that, because she slipped into a guarded posture as John froze in place.

“Wait.” John crouched and equipped his daggers. He caught something with his last breath that raised the hairs on his neck. Sniffing the air again confirmed it, the faint but distinctive scent of rotting garbage. Gnolls.

“Well,” he said. “Fuck.”