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When it came down to it, Ripley wasn't leaving much behind. No family. No roommates. No pets. Not even a houseplant that’d need an occasional watering in her absence. And since her job at the docks was a Weyland-Yutani contract, her manager had been informed of her possible absence a week ago. It would've been nice of them to give her some kind of warning, but no; they'd sat on their asses up in their office (as usual) waiting for the Company to send an exec all the way from the Core Systems to do their job for them.
Absolutely no one was going to miss her.
That didn't bode well for the type of life she was living. Maybe she should’ve felt depressed about that. About how ridiculously easy it was for her to drop everything and leave it all behind. But bemoaning her situation wouldn’t do her any good now, and she had hopes that the upcoming journey would help her in ways that no amount of self-pity ever could.
After finishing her shift Ripley returned to her apartment and packed a few changes of clothes and an extra pair of sneakers into a small canvas bag. Most other personal care items would be provided by the Company at no cost to her; the exec had explained as much during his brief visit before she'd shooed him away so she could finish working. After folding and packing each item inside her bag and zipping it securely closed, Ripley hesitated.
As an afterthought she flipped open a hatch above her bed, over her pillow, and reached inside, pulling out a photograph. She gazed down at it and her mother smiled back at her from behind a network of white crisscrossed seams, her face framed by a corona of dark curls. A nine-year-old version of Ripley sat next to her on a metal bench, looking petulant and bored by the entire affair. She’d been forced into pigtails for this photo. She’d hated those goddamn pigtails. The image had been laminated and placed in a plastic sleeve, but the protective measures came too late; by that point she'd folded and bent it hundreds of times. The white lines in the glossy paper stood as evidence of the years it spent being carried in child-sized pockets and tucked under pillows. Should she bring it with her on the trip? She didn't have many original copies left. It would be a tragedy if one got lost somewhere, confiscated in customs.
Ripley lost track of how long she stood staring down at the dog-eared image. She probably could’ve stood there all night if not for the cheery beep of her comm on the other side of the apartment. Carefully, she set down her mother's picture on the disheveled sheets of her bed. Weaving around piles of laundry and stacks of equipment manuals, she strode across the room and flipped a switch to the right of a wall-mounted screen. It flashed to life and after a moment of static, the screen cleared into a familiar face.
"Ripley, it's Samuels," on the other side of the comm link the exec from this afternoon sat at a desk in what looked to be a sparsely decorated but clean hotel room, "Did I catch you at a bad time?"
"No," she said. "What is it?"
Unfazed by her blunt greeting, he began, "I realize you were too busy for it this afternoon, but we still need to go over your registration paperwork and a few mission specifics before we depart. I wanted to know if you’d have time to review them with me tomorrow after your shift?"
Ripley studied the man on the screen. She hadn't quite managed to categorize him yet. Hadn't worked out his angle. If first impressions were to be believed, Samuels was simply a concerned Company employee who'd taken the initiative to do a bit of extra research. But Ripley had learned that trusting first impressions was a very, very bad idea, especially when it came to Company men. Agreeing to meet with Samuels again would help her gather more information, both concerning her mission and the man who’d encouraged her to join it.
Samuels' polite smile had faded slightly as Ripley stood analyzing him. She folded her arms over her chest and decided, "Okay. I'll be done at 19:00 tomorrow. Meet me in front of the docks."
"Wonderful," Samuels' expression lifted, "I'll see you then. Good night, Amanda. Please try to get some sleep."
"Sure. You too," she hastily flipped the switch and Samuels disappeared from the screen. She'd severed the connection before absorbing what he’d actually said. 'Get some sleep...' was it really that obvious how badly she needed it? Shaking her head, Ripley walked over to the automatic dispenser behind her kitchen table and poured herself a cup of coffee. She walked back to her bed with it held tightly in hand, sitting with it next to her mother’s photograph.
Sleep? No. Ripley doubted she'd be doing much of that tonight. But she'd manage somehow, like she always did. She was about to spend an entire month sleeping in cryo, anyway.
---
Ripley finished her shift the next day twenty minutes late and coated in a thin layer of axle grease. A quick shower corrected the latter, but only exacerbated the former. She left the docks in a damp, angry huff, dreading the task that awaited her: hunting down Samuels in the sprawling transit complex. Instead she found him standing dutifully in the steel archway marking the dock entrance, just as instructed. As he caught sight of her, he waved.
Something about the way he was standing struck her as odd. A moment later she realized why: he'd chosen to wait in the exact center of the entryway, out in the open instead of sitting or leaning on something. She imagined him calculating the correct place to stand by pulling out a roll of measuring tape and triangulating the distance between each wall and support beam. Ripley held in a chuckle; the image seemed almost too plausible.
"Hello, Amanda," he said once she came within earshot, "I hope your day went well?"
"Fine," she stated, hoping she wouldn’t have to elaborate and worsen the lie. She peered down at the briefcase he was holding. Samuels followed her gaze down to the case and lifted it slightly.
"Yes, I believe I have everything here," he said, "Do you have a place in mind where we could sit down? I saw a courtyard with some suitable tables a ways back."
"Courtyard's good," she told him with a nod. She knew exactly which one he meant and took off in that direction. Samuels followed closely beside her. After a short stroll they came across the courtyard in question: a gap in the utilitarian architecture with a skylight above it that provided a view of the barren grey planetoid the station orbited. All the tables sat empty; Ripley chose one below a fiberglass oak tree surrounded by a thicket of artificial ferns. Samuels stared up at the cratered surface of the planetoid for an extra second before taking the seat across from her.
"First time on CC Station?" she asked as he settled in.
"Yes," said Samuels, "It's been fascinating so far; I wish I had more than a few days to explore."
Ripley scoffed at that. "You're not missing much. That’s about how long it takes to get boring." She set her bag down on the seat next to her. Samuels took this as a cue to place his briefcase on the table between them and begin sorting papers.
"Really? I've never had the chance to visit a mining system before, so it's all been new to me," one of his hands rose and rubbed at his chin; a nervous, self-comforting gesture, Amanda noted.
"What've you been up to on the station? When you're not lurking around the docks, that is," she shot him a smirk and eased further into her seat. Joking tone, relaxed body language; cues to help put him at ease. A moment later his fidgeting stopped.
"I've been making arrangements with Captain Verlane of the Torrens, along with Miss Taylor - the other exec who will be joining us - she's from the legal department and-"
No off-the-clock fun for Samuels, apparently. "So what do you need from me?" Amanda interrupted what was turning into a lecture she had zero interest in.
"Right," Samuels allowed himself to be redirected without any sign of offense, "Routing numbers, a few signatures. Here."
He pulled out the necessary documents and went on to explain each one in what Ripley was coming to recognize as his characteristic soothing, precise manner of speech. He paused awkwardly every few sentences, but met her gaze throughout the entire conversation, not showing any of the aversion to eye contact typical of other socially anxious people that Ripley had met. One more mark against her current theory. She listened to his explanations, signed on the dotted lines, and wrote down her ID and account information in the appropriate boxes. As it turned out, Samuels had arranged for her to receive an overtime salary rate for the duration of their trip to Sevastopol. When she learned this, Ripley's brows knit together in suspicion. Weyland-Yutani was not known for generosity toward its employees.
"You seem surprised; I thought it only appropriate, considering the circumstances. It wasn't difficult to arrange."
Somehow Ripley doubted that, but she went along with it. "Is that it, then?"
"I believe so, yes," the exec began packing up his paperwork, "I'll let you know if anything else comes up. Would you be interested in taking a tour of the Torrens?"
"Not really," Ripley turned to grab her bag on the seat next to her and climbed to her feet. She'd traveled on dozens of courier ships in her career. Just like this station, it didn’t take long before they become dull. But apparently Samuels didn’t think so. Ripley realized, "But you want to."
Samuels followed her lead and stood as well. "It isn't necessary; I have full faith in this captain and her ship. It's just that, with the rest of the preparations finished, I'm at a bit of a loss of what to do with myself until tomorrow."
Ripley's apartment was in the habitation decks along with the hotels and other short-term housing, so the two of them walked toward the transit station together. Samuels passed the time by providing more details about the Torrens and her crew, or commenting on the cargo ships passing the station on their way to the planetoid below, while his companion listened in impassive silence. Once they reached the station, Ripley walked up to the gate and punched the call button. Half a minute later a transit car rumbled into the station and the two of them entered, trailed by a few straggling dock workers.
"You know, I expected you’d be more difficult to convince than this," Samuels commented out of the blue as the tram lurched into motion. They sat next to each other on the plastic benches lining each side of the transit car, "I even budgeted several hundred adjusted dollars for unexpected expenses for that reason."
"'Unexpected expenses?'" she shot him a sidelong smirk. "You can call them bribes. I won’t tell anyone."
"What? No, nothing like that," the humor was apparently lost on him; he seemed mildly scandalized by the insinuation, "I simply expected you'd need to hear more specifics before agreeing to come along. An affair better handled over dinner or something similar. I suppose we could still do that if you'd like - dinner or drinks - the funds will go back into a flexible spending account if I don't use them during this voyage-"
In Ripley’s head, something clicked into place.
He was still speculating about the destination of the unused money when Ripley put a stop to his tangential commentary. "Samuels."
"Yes?" his hands froze mid-gesture.
Completely deadpan, she asked, "Are you trying to ask me on a date?"
'Trying' being the key word there, because if Ripley hadn't said anything, there was absolutely no chance in hell he would’ve succeeded.
Her companion went very still, then drew his hands against his body and was silent for several long, uncomfortable seconds. An expression like restrained panic slowly crept over his face.
"Well... that wasn't exactly my intent when I said that," he said carefully, "Not... not to say that I'm opposed to it, or that I wouldn't ever consider it; or that... you aren't a perfectly lovely and appealing woman to be around, or..."
Somehow Ripley managed to resist the urge to facepalm. God, he was even more hopeless than she could have imagined. She would have laughed if it weren't so endearing. Before the Company exec could come up with a coherent response their car pulled up to its destination and its heavy steel doors slid open, setting its passengers free. Ripley stood and retrieved her bag as the rest of the commuters filed out around her. She turned to face Samuels as he picked himself up from his seat, studying his (still stricken) expression.
She was surprised by how amenable she felt to this idea. A date with someone educated and polite could be a nice change of pace for her; she'd had her fill of dating boisterous meathead pilots and mechanics. Samuels was attractive in an unpretentious kind of way; tall, long face, soft brown eyes and neatly combed hair. After a few drinks she might even be able to forget that he was here on behalf of the Company responsible for destroying her entire childhood. And best of all, after their mission was over she'd never have to see him again. No drama. Done and done.
"Okay," Ripley decided.
"I'm sorry?" the panic had managed to creep into Samuels’ voice, too. He was still lost, not being privy to the result of Ripley's internal debate.
"The restaurant across from your hotel mixes some pretty good drinks. Let’s go there. Or did you change your mind?" she raised a questioning eyebrow at him.
He hesitated, rubbed his chin, that nervous habit or his resurfacing. "No, I would very much like to go; but Ripley..."
"Then let's go," she aimed a little smile of challenge in his direction and turned abruptly to exit the transit car. A moment later she heard Samuels hurry to match her pace. Once he caught up to her Ripley caught a glimpse of him smoothing out his (already immaculate) hair with slightly-too-much enthusiasm. Ripley still hadn’t stopped smiling. It had been too long since she'd had this much fun.
---
Two drinks, one appetizer and an hour later, Ripley was pleasantly buzzed and Samuels was just as charmingly flustered as he'd been when they'd arrived. In short, she was having the best night out in years.
Her reluctant date was currently in the middle of a story about his last interstellar trip and the bad hypersleep reactions the rest of the crew had suffered through. Not exactly an ideal dinner conversation topic, but talking about it seemed to comfort him. It probably took his mind off the awkwardness of the situation at hand. Well, Ripley couldn't have too much of that. Keeping him off-balance was far too much fun.
"Are you gonna eventually drink that?" she interrupted his story, motioning at his full glass with her near-empty one, her ice clinking softly as she waved it in the air.
He paused to look blankly at his gin and tonic. Ripley bought it for him after her second round; it was something of a tradition for her to buy drinks for her male dates, just to see how they would react. Just to see if they would sink into a fit of masculine indignation. Samuels had handled it graciously with a smile and a 'thank you, you didn't need to,' but hadn't touched his drink since.
"I'm not one for drinking, normally," he explained as he absently stirred the clear, fizzing liquid, "I didn't want to be rude about it though. I apologize if it came off that way."
"It didn't," she assured him. The blue-tinted light fixtures around the bar made it difficult to see whether or not he was blushing. It wouldn't have surprised her; his eyes darted away from hers sheepishly. "Just making sure you weren't avoiding it on principle."
"Why would I do that?"
"Just touching a drink a woman bought is like poison for macho idiots. But you passed, so good job," she tipped her glass to him before draining the last swig and raising it into the air to catch their waitress' attention. The other woman nodded from across the room and walked over to the bartender to place their next order.
"You know, if you'd drink something it would probably help you relax," she turned back to Samuels and smirked, "Even though I promise I'm not gonna bite. Scout's honor."
"I should certainly hope not," he said with a shy smile. God, that was adorable.
Samuels went back to staring at his drink for a moment before deciding to follow through with her advice. After picking up his glass he considered it before tilting it back to take a sip. Ripley watched raptly, but was disappointed when he failed to react or pull a disgusted face. He simply mulled over the taste of the drink before taking a second small sip.
Ripley considered her date from across the table as the mellow, vaguely electronic music that droned from the speaker behind the bar switched over to a new, more upbeat song. She knew she wasn't finished teasing Samuels completely, but the more time she spent with him, the more she found herself genuinely liking him as a person. Maybe it had been a streak of bad luck that landed him in the vaguely unscrupulous profession of "Employee Liaison". Ripley could sympathize. She'd become intimately familiar with streaks of bad luck herself.
She decided to exercise some pity and turn the conversation back toward something he'd be comfortable with. "So how long do you think we'll end up staying in Sevastopol?"
"A day, most likely. Maybe two. Less, if the captain of the salvage vessel cooperates." Samuels paused here, gave his gin and tonic another round of scrutiny, and tilted the glass against his lips to drain it completely. Once empty he set it back down, examining the cubes of ice as they rattled inside it. "I think I'd like to try another."
"Yeah?" Amanda raised an eyebrow, restraining a gleeful grin. She couldn't wait to see what this straight-laced certified lightweight would do with a few drinks under his belt.
"Yes," he sounded surprised by his own words, "Something with a higher percentage of alcohol." Who the hell says it like that?
"...Are you sure about that?"
"Thank you for your concern, but yes, I'll be fine."
"Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you..." Well, if Ripley ended up having to drag him out from under the table at the end of the night, that would only make their date more memorable. "This one's on you though. I’m not gonna be held responsible for getting you totally sauced."
Their waitress returned with Ripley's third jack and coke. She didn't usually hit the bar this hard; but then again, she wasn't the one paying, and drinks with real alcohol instead of synthahol were a rare and expensive treat. When the other woman saw Samuels' empty glass, she turned to him expectantly.
"Straight gin this time, please," Samuels told her.
Ripley's metaphorical jaw dropped - he really had no clue what he was getting into, did he? – but outwardly she just smiled behind the rim of her glass. Oh, yeah, this was gonna be fun.
---
"Hey. Hey, " for some reason Samuels wasn't looking at her - it definitely wasn’t because he was busy holding her upright, or because she was having trouble getting her eyes to focus - in any case, it made Ripley upset. She repeated herself insistently. "Hey. Samuels. "
The exec finally glanced up from the sidewalk. "Yes?"
She donned her most serious frown. "I'm very disappointed in you."
His face fell. "Why is that?"
"I was supposed to be the one carrying you out of there." Ripley wrapped both arms around his bicep as the world around her began another session of crazy, tilt-a-whirl spinning. She swayed, and his other arm, held behind the small of her back, tightened its hold to steady her. Ripley laughed at herself. "What the hell happened?"
"I'm made of sterner stuff than I seem, apparently," Samuels said, his eyes brightening. "And you seem to have overestimated your abilities."
"Whatever. I'm not that drunk. Just need to walk it off."
"Walking seems to be the part you're having the most difficulty with..." he observed. Ripley elbowed him in the ribs in retaliation.
"You shut up," she grumbled without real malice. "I thought you were trying to get on my good side."
"Did I succeed?"
She snickered. "I'm taking you home with me. What do you think?"
They rounded a corner, passing a cluster of men smoking outside another bar. They'd made it through the central hub of the habitation sector, past the neon signs and storefronts, but still had a ways to go before reaching Ripley's apartment. Her building was tucked away in the back of the sector with the rest of the low-end efficiency housing. As they kept walking Ripley needed to focus most of her concentration on keeping her feet moving steadily forward, but she turned back to her companion after a few minutes as she turned his name over in her mind. Samuels. Samuels.
A thought struck her, and with her internal filter out of commission, it immediately left her mouth, "Y’know what? I just realized I don't even know your first name. Pretty pathetic, right?” She laughed at herself again, even though there was little to find funny about it. Deciding to sleep with someone before even knowing that much about them? Pretty fucking pathetic.
"It's all right, Amanda. How could you have known when I never told you?" Samuels reassured her gently. His hand tightened slightly on her waist, then his lips tightened as well, going serious. "It's Christopher. But my coworkers rarely use it, so I'm not in the habit of giving it out."
"Why not? I mean... why don't people use it?" It seemed odd that someone who'd been so free with her given name wouldn't want others to handle his own name the same way.
"It's... more professional, I suppose. Keeps things impersonal," Samuels said. More quietly, he added, "Keeps me in my station."
"That's bullshit, " Ripley spat with sudden vehemence. "Want me to use it?"
"My response time may be slower if you do, but..." he said, then paused; the exec glanced at her and an odd flash of worry passed over his face, but he continued, "I have no preference. Whichever you'd like."
"Maybe I'll try it out sometime." she leaned closer and squeezed his arm affectionately. Maybe she was still slightly drunk, despite her assurances a few minutes ago. The gushes of maudlin affection were a dead giveaway. Still, there were worse people they could’ve been aimed at.
"You're a nice guy," she announced without preamble.
"Why thank you," he said. Ripley caught his smile in profile this time. She liked that one even more than the others she’d managed to draw out of him. An important realization suddenly dawned on her.
"You know what? I don't even care," she declared, her voice rising.
"About what?"
She steamrolled over his question. "You didn't need to come find me, or invite me to come with you. Things would've been a lot simpler for you if you hadn't. But you did. You remembered..."
Her eyes began to prickle uncomfortably. She'd come close to tears over this yesterday, for the first time in years; and now again, less than a day later? God, she was going to have to pull it together if she wanted to get through this mission. She blinked the tears away and kept plowing forward.
"You remembered my mother. You read about her, and you fucking cared." her voice dropped lower, and she leaned even closer against him. "It's been a long time since somebody's done that. The Company... they like to sweep people like her under the rug. And people like me."
Her laughter turned bitter. "I'm the loose end nobody wants to deal with. But you came out here and dealt with me anyway."
That gave him pause. His lips fell open, then closed again; his brows knitting, then smoothing out.
Finally, with deliberate care, he said, "I am so very sorry, Amanda. I'm sorry that the system failed you so badly. You never deserved for any of this to happen to you." his posture straightened and, filled with resolve, he concluded, "I want to make it right."
"See? That, right there!" she cried, shaking his arm for emphasis, " That's why I don't care. I don't care why the Company actually sent you, or if you're just here to fuck me over, because at least you tried to care. At least you tried to make me feel, for a little while, like someone cared."
His steps slowed to a crawl.
"Amanda, I..." his eyes went wide, and he searched her face, searched for something , "I'm not-"
"Stop talking" she interrupted, placing one finger against his lips. "Don't lie. I don't think you've lied to me yet; so don't start now. I'd rather you say nothing at all."
So he obeyed, saying nothing, and let Ripley lead him onward.
---
Ripley opened the main doors to her apartment complex with her keycard and led Samuels up a narrow flight of stairs to the third floor. Her unit was at the end of the hallway; an ugly, battered, enamel-coated door bearing a serial number on a metal plaque. As Ripley stepped inside the exec stood in the doorway, craning his head to examine the dimly lit room beyond.
"Come in," she said, smiling at his uncertainty, "And lock it."
He did so, turning the latch on the doorknob, and he followed Ripley further inside the apartment.
Maybe she should have been more ashamed of her apartment's size, or the mess scattered across her kitchen table and floor, or her unmade bunk crammed into the far corner - who knew what kind of lodgings a Company exec was accustomed to? - but if Samuels was surprised or dismayed by it he gave no sign. He took in everything without judgment, paying special attention to small details like the spines of books and notes taped to cabinets, as though he was trying to commit them to memory. Ripley leaned against the edge of her kitchen table, and as he picked a spot opposite her she pulled a set of two glasses and a half-empty bottle of scotch from an alcove behind her.
"Want any?" she lifted the bottle in his direction.
"No, thank you; but Amanda-" she poured two fingers of amber liquid into one of the glasses as she listened, "-I don't think this is a wise idea. Hypersleep sickness is worsened by hangovers, or so I've been told..."
"You told me to get some sleep," she interjected. "When I absolutely need to sleep, this is how I do it."
"That's-" he watched helplessly as she tilted back the glass and drained it in one swallow. "Amanda..."
"See, I'm doing the right thing," the molten burn of the scotch left her voice hoarse. With a soft clack, she set her glass back on the table. "I’m being good. I can be nice, too."
Slowly, she stood, and circled around to his side of the table. Samuels took a step back for every one she took forward, trying to maintain a professional level of personal space. The wall behind him quickly put a stop to that. She sidled up to him, tracing the WY logo patch on the front of his jacket with one finger.
"You came to this station to do nice things for me," she murmured with a playful smile. "Now I want to do nice things for you."
She pressed herself against him, leaning close, tilting her chin upward to reach him - he carried himself so modestly that it was easy to forget how tall he actually was - an inch in front of his face she paused, sharing a breath, giving him a moment to speak or turn away. But he said nothing; he only watched with a dazed expression as she closed the distance between them.
She gripped the lapels of his jacket and pressed her lips against his.
The kiss was warm, gradual, pleasantly soft. He let her lead the way completely. After noticing this Ripley smiled against his mouth, nudged his nose to one side, and deepened the contact. He allowed her to slide their mouths into different configurations, let her suckle at his lower lip, following wherever she led him. Watching with half-lidded eyes all the while as though captivated by everything she did to him. Well, if he was that easy to please, he was gonna love what she had planned for him later.
Ripley slid a hand over his shoulder, up the back of his neck, fingers trailing through his thick, neatly styled hair, leaving it satisfyingly mussed. As she kept running the tips of her fingers over his scalp, she brushed her lips over the plane of his cheek, leaving a line of feather-light kisses. He smelled nice, very clean, like freshly laundered cotton with just a hint of leather; and his face was addictively touchable, completely smooth, not even the slightest hint of 5-o'-clock shadow. When Ripley pressed her lips into his again, she dragged her teeth over his bottom lip, her tongue soothing over it a moment later. She caught the first taste of him, a bitter tang of gin.
And with that, Samuels' eyelids fluttered closed, and she felt him sigh. Drawing that first, tiny reaction out of him, knowing she was the one who made it happen, sent a sharp, zinging thrill through her. Then, finally began to move , and it got even better. He tilted his head, perfecting the angle of the kiss, and parted his lips for her. One of his hands (the other still held stiffly at his side) reached upward, but not to grab her ass, not to possessively clutch at her. No, all he wanted was to touch her hair, just her hair, with heartrending tenderness, tracing two fingers above her ear. That tiny gesture made her stomach do flips. God, she wanted to drown herself in that sweetness.
Ripley clutched at the nape of his neck, nails digging in, and slipped her tongue past his lips.
His eyelids flickered again as he let her inside, and she lost herself in that taste, that pleasantly watery taste, that faint hint of alcohol. And he yielded so beautifully, his lips were so warm and soft and moist that she almost didn't notice the strange coolness that waited just behind them, deeper inside his mouth. It was like he'd just finished eating an ice cube; odd, since he’d finished his last drink at the bar more than an hour ago. But Ripley was well past caring by that point. She only wanted to keep drinking him in, to savor this for as long as she could before it was over.
When they finally parted, it was only with the greatest reluctance. As Ripley drew back to gaze up at him, those soft brown eyes blinked back at her in wonder. As he licked the taste of her from his lips, she carded her fingers through his hair and smiled.
"Come on," she whispered. Her hands slid down to his lapels, then lower, gripping the front seam of his jacket. She leaned in and spoke against his ear. "Come to bed, Christopher."
As the first clasp came apart with a sharp, metallic click, he tensed.
"Wait," he said. "I- wait. Please."
"Why?" she fingered the cloth of his jacket absently, but stopped once his expression registered. The wonderment was gone from his face, replaced with a worrying blankness.
"I can't..." he began, before switching gears, "You're drunk. You don't realize what you're asking of me."
"Not that drunk," she assured him. She felt coherent, felt confident, felt ready. She slid her palms over the plane of his chest. "Believe me, I want this."
He chuckled softly, but the sound held no mirth. "Believe me, you do not."
Ripley furrowed her brows in confusion. If he was so sure of that, why come here at all? Did something change his mind? She'd fucked things up again, hadn't she? Did she look like an alcoholic? Was using his first name a turn-off? Maybe she was just too pathetic and desperate for someone like him to sleep with, not even as a pity fuck.
"Samuels-"
Both his hands rose to grasp her shoulders. He held her at arm's length, and the abrupt separation left her cold, left an ache in her chest. Samuels' hands possessed a peculiar solid, unwavering strength, despite his unremarkable frame. His elbows locked rigidly, like a gear shaft locking into place, and a sudden, unwelcome idea intruded into Ripley’s thoughts: if Samuels decided to keep her pinned she would not be able to escape.
"Believe me," he repeated, "You do not."
But before the mental image could progress any further his grip relaxed, his masklike expression easing into a regretful smile.
"Besides," he continued, his hands steering her around the kitchen table toward her bunk. "Your time will be much better spent sleeping. You'll need your rest for the journey." They wove between the piles of clothing and boxes of half-assembled electronics stacked next to her cot, and he helped her into it, pulling back the sheets and blankets to make space for her.
"I'm sorry," Ripley murmured as she wrapped her blankets around herself. It was easier to burrow into the bedding and pretend to disappear than look at him at that moment.
"For what? You have nothing to apologize for," his hands were gentle as the pulled the comforter up around her shoulders, and she wanted to believe him. It certainly seemed like he felt nothing but understanding for her. "Rest. Trust me, you'll be glad you did."
The words somehow helped ease her embarrassment. "You're just no fun at all," she teased in retaliation for his kindness.
"No one's ever accused me of the opposite," he smiled again, apologetic.
"I'm just kidding, Samuels. I had fun with you tonight," A pause. She continued, faintly surprised at the boldness of her own words, "Maybe... we could do this again? After the mission..." And she meant it. Looking back, she found that if she'd known the night wouldn't end with anything more than a kiss, it wouldn't have affected her decisions in the slightest. Same with the hypothetical next date, and the ones after it, too.
Samuels blinked with a surprise that seemed to match hers.
"If you'd still have me? Even though I couldn't-" for just one flicker of a moment, she saw him falter; a hint of something heartbroken, genuine despair leaking through his placating, apologetic expression, "-can't give you what you wanted?"
At that, Ripley frowned. The thought had never occurred to her that she wasn't the only one struggling with self-doubt.
"Don't know what you're talking about." She caught his sleeve, her fingers trailing up his arm, trying to convey reassurance in a way she usually couldn't with words, "I got exactly what I wanted. I got you."
Samuels didn't seem to know how to respond to that, so she beckoned in with her other hand, returning to her coy, playful persona from earlier.
"Hey. C'mere," she suggested gently, "One more, for the road?"
He leaned back in, still hesitant, so Ripley cupped his face in both hands and kissed him, gently but surely, leaving no room for doubt. To her surprise he responded immediately, planting a hand on either side of her pillow and surging against her. His tongue was cool and strange as it glided over her lips, sliding inside when she parted for him, somehow gentle and exploratory but urgent in the same moment. By the time he drew back, he left her breathless, humming with energy.
He retreated into the darkness with his fingertips against his mouth, fondly remembering the imprint of her lips.
"Good night, Amanda."
Feeling warm and sated, she closed her eyes. She heard his footsteps trail away through the kitchen toward the door, but she couldn't remember hearing him leave; maybe she'd floated off into the first stages of sleep before he made it that far. As she drifted, her mind filled with memories of him. The strength of his hands. The misplaced coldness inside his mouth. How even though he denied, over and over, the possibility that Ripley could want him, he never once mentioned what he wanted for himself.
"Sweet dreams," she murmured, unsurprised that no response came; even if he'd still been there to answer, she was starting to wonder whether he needed to sleep at all.
---
When Ripley woke the next morning groggy and rumpled, still in yesterday's uniform but less hung over than she'd expected, she found a handwritten note on her table. She recognized the author's cramped, nondescript handwriting from the stack of paperwork he'd guided her through the day before. The note read:
Check-in is at 09:00, briefing at 10:30. I hope all your dreams were pleasant ones. -C
Ripley smiled at that closing initial. She folded the note and slid it into the side pocket of her travel bag, zipping it halfway closed before she remembered.
She had one final item left to pack.
She opened that storage compartment above her pillow one last time, took out her mother's photo, and tucked it next to Samuels’ note, where both would be kept safe.