1Sputtering when water went down the wrong way, Abby clung to King's shoulders as the last of their spasms passed. Her inner thighs burned, and her body throbbed coming down for the second time this session, what she knew would have to be the last for the evening, or she would just die. King's head dropped backwards, smacking on the window behind the curtain.

"Woo-hoo," he cheered, weakly.

"I'm inclined to agree," she shifted in his lap, trying to get comfortable without separating. "I'm glad you told me about those pocket-things."

"The pocket is a miracle of modern science," King approved. "I didn't have the option of stuffing rubbers in my underwear like some people." She guessed he didn't; he wore boxers. He pinched her side; she slapped away his hand. "It might have fallen out on our little jaunt this evening. I can just imagine explaining the birds and the bees to this crowd."

"Zoe knows already. Sommer tells her everything."

"I was talking about Hedges."

"Jerk," she huffed, unhappily. She let her gaze drop to where her fingers, of their own accord, played with the pendant on his necklace. Thinking about Hedges woke her unpleasantly from her hormonal delusion that they would be able to keep this rendezvous quiet.

King grabbed her chin between thumb and forefinger, lifting her head up. "What's up?"

His expression was earnest enough to merit a confession. "I think I've blown it as far as secrecy goes."

"We were shooting for secret?" He was silent for a moment. "You mean you planned out the warehouse stunt because you didn't want the others to know."

"Yeah, a bit."

"Because we're not supposed to?"

"No, not that."

Her father had always been - rather hypocritically - against mixing business and pleasure. Sommer and Dex were in violation of that policy, but such things weren't taboo among the Nightstalkers. However, she doubted, even with King's forgiving sense of humor, he would appreciate the truth.

"Because I didn't want this to be awkward." It was as good as she could articulate the feeling without being hurtful.

"What part of this is awkward?" King smirked. The knowing tilt to one of his eyebrows irritated her. How could he possibly have known? "Or maybe you're just worried about the locker-room talk."

"It hadn't crossed my mind," she lied, lips thinned with the effort to refrain from choking him. "You do talk a lot."

"You don't think I'd have something nice to say about you?" King feigned hurt. "My mother always said that if you can't say something nice…see where I'm going with this?"

She didn't have a comeback for that, which left them in a protracted pause, filled only with the steady drum of water from the dutiful showerhead.

"So," King's mouth filled the vacuum, "just how much are you afraid of Hedges and Dex anyway?"

"Huh?" She leaned back to look him in the eye, surprised to find the warm honey-brown orbs completely lacking any artifice or mockery. His words might have been intended to provoke, but the intent was utterly sincere. "Oh."

"That bad, huh?"

"No. I mean, it's not like-"

"It's okay, I get it. I'm used to women with terminal senses of humor. You don't like being teased. I get it. I've learned to be good about that."

The words were jovial, the implications macabre. Abby pulled back, glancing down at his glyph tattoo, marring the skin just above where their bodies met.

"Do you still think about her?" It took more guts to ask the question than it had to make the first move this evening.

"Danica?"

"Yeah." She ran the pad of her index finger over the mark, stubbornly annoyed when it didn't wipe away. He didn't even react to the touch, and she wanted to laugh; so much progress made in such a short time.

"Sure. Not in the past few hours though, if you were wondering."

The invitation for her to find fault, to chide or to scold, his cure-all for the serious talk, was strangely endearing. Unlike her, he liked teasing. It gave him an excuse to show off. But she wasn't taking the bait that easily.

"What about when you saw the familiars tonight?"

A shadow, a flicker of untruth crossed his blandly honest expression before it solidified into flippant defiance.

"Whistler, all I care about is I took out five bad guys tonight."

"Four," she snapped, tweaking his nipples as punishment.

"Hey!" He twisted her arms behind her back, closing his hands over hers to protect himself. "That smarts."

"Then behave."

"I was. Whose fault is it you went psycho hormonal on me after swatting a few familiars?" She gritted her teeth as he wagged his eyebrows in an exaggerated leer. "I must be getting pretty good if you're watching my ass that close."

"And who do we have to thank for that?"

"Dex."

"King."

"Well, Hedges helped, too. A little."

"King."

"I'm just giving credit where credit's due. I should write the eight-minute abs people a thank-you note."

He broke her, finally, and she chuckled, unable to help herself. He took the opportunity to steal a kiss, releasing her hands so he could wrap his arms around her back. She leaned into him, sucking lazily at his lips.

Foreheads touching, she nudged him with her nose.

"Is this awkward?"

"Look at us, Abby." She looked and liked what she saw, and King noticed, too. "Am I really going to say, 'yes,' to that?"

She rolled her eyes, but seeing as she'd gotten her answer anyway, she let it slide. Fighting lax muscles, she pulled herself up to her feet, extending her hand to him.

"Up, big guy."

He smiled at her, at her choice of words - they already had their own language of meaning as lovers. King accepted her help, seeming as unwilling to move as she. Towering above her again, he hugged her.

"This awkward?" He asked in her ear.

"No, actually," and that was a surprise. It might be later, when they'd had enough time to get comfortable and, as a direct result, take each other for granted, but not yet.

"Why is that?" She wondered aloud.

"It's a sexual tension thing, cutie-pie. Same reason to give yourself a little manual polish now and then. No sex, loads of tension. Look at Hedges. That guy's two blow-jobs short of a Chernobyl."

She chuckled against his body, wishing she could stop. It wasn't kind, his humor, though she knew there was no heat or rancor against their favorite weapons jockey. Still, it hit a little too close to the truth, and, desperate though he might be, Hedges was still her friend.

"You must have been close to dying then. It's been, what, six months?"

"You're fooling if you think I've been a priest since Danica, Whistler." He scratched the thick hair at his jaw. "How d'ya think I grew this out in a week?"

"Hair club for men."

"Cute. Testosterone. See, jerking off doesn't give you hairy palms or shit like that, but it does grow it other places." When she stared, mouth ever-so-slight agape at this, he nodded emphatically. "True story."

She blinked up at him. "I hope the things you say make sense to you, at least."

"Not really," he admitted, unconcernedly. "I mostly get them out so I can think clearly."

"I thought you 'released tension' for that reason."

"It's very cluttered up here." He tapped his temple. "Must be the high altitude."

She stepped aside, turning off the tap and leaving him in the last few drops as the shower died. They each toweled off more or less as they'd done after a few other strenuous hunts or workout sessions, each blithely aware but indifferent of the other. King had a marked immodesty when it came to nudity, not altogether undeserved given his dimensions, whereas her comfort derived from practicality trumping privacy. The Nightstalkers were going to be together for a long time, so what did it matter who saw whose tit in the shower?

Still, if whatever resumed peace between her and King were to last – and for the sake of concentration, she needed it to – how were they to behave? Same old, same old?

"So, how do we do this?"

"Do what?" King asked, head bent over while he roughly ground a stark white cotton towel into his short hair. He emerged from the scrubbing with little peaks of hair sticking out in all directions from his scalp, looking very adorably like a puppy that'd just shaken himself dry.

"Us."

"We're a we?"

"I might need to get laid again, yes," was all she would give him. She crossed her arms to draw the line; he read the body language, saw the boundary, and, for once, did not step over it.

"Don't think it'll be a problem, much," he jerked his head to the side hard enough to dislodge his brain, wiping at his ear to get at the water sloshing around inside.

"Why is that?"

"For one thing, you make it very clear when you want a little action, Abby." He ogled her appreciatively, smirking when she yanked her towel up in response. "There're guys three miles away still sniffing out the estrogen and humping the door to the ladies' room."

She grunted, unimpressed, reddening with embarrassment. "You're saying that as long as there's no question I want to fuck, it all works out."

"Pretty much."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"How do I know if you want to get laid?" It seemed a fair question. He nattered on about sex incessantly, but up until she found his lips meeting hers halfway in that first kiss, she hadn't had any clue he'd been serious about having it with her.

King pursed his lips, his expression one of intense and almost certainly false contemplation. The cocky swagger of his relaxed motions as he ran his towel over the muscles of his back gave him away.

"I'll let you in on a little secret, Whistler."

"Yeah, what's that?"

"If I'm breathing, chances are good I want to get laid."

"I'll keep that in mind," she dismissed him, wrapping her towel up and over her breasts, folding it under her armpit to keep it tight against her body. King sighed dramatically, casting faux wistful glances at her until she couldn't see them. She could, however, feel his eyes on her ass as she left the shower room.

"Hey, Whistler!"

She crooked her head to glance over her shoulder. His grin would have glowed in the dark.

"How many was that again?"

Almost immediately, she blurted out, "Four!" before she realized what he meant. Damn him, it had been four.

"Come again?" Now he was chuckling at his own stupid pun, and she seethed, wishing nothing more than to haul off and hurt him. No wonder Danica hated his fucking guts so much.

Before she could answer or head back for the slaughter, Dex stalked by her, shoulders raised and rigid, Hedges' catcalls echoing from far off. He gave her an uncertain, skeptical raised eyebrow, but retreated without comment.

Instead of a verbal reply, she held up four fingers in King's direction, pinching her thumb behind her palm. He nodded, supremely pleased with himself until she folded down three of her fingers, hiding all but the important one.