"Hey -- I want in on that!", Andy called in from the backroom.  "Maybe then - I won't have to make my living in this ridiculous manner!"

"Oh shush Andy - you know you love it!  Gets you in with all the girls being Mr. Hot-shot War Producer!", Bette teased him fondly.

Andy pretended to look offended - a look that didn't quite fit at all.  Young, brash, and confident that he was. 

"Well - I'll leave you boys to it - come up with some soap watch a news-feed get trashed whatever - wish I could stay but if I don't get some rest soon - I may just pass out!" she said as she headed back towards the door.

"Bette - you are going to pass out because you haven't eaten a thing all day - have you?", Andy asked concerned.

"No she hasn't!", Mo chastised.  "Man - she's a better Muslim than I am! - and she isn't even Muslim!"

"Very funny Mo -", Bette threw him an appreciative look.  "I'm not very hungry right now actually -" and before the boys could lecture her further - "I promise I'll come down and get a bite later right now all I need is my bed "

She looked around the quiet room --- and took note of all their worried faces.

"I promise guys really.  I promise"

And with that, she left the bureau.

Fast forward.  Five hours later.

Room 415.

"Ahhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!..."

She forcefully thrust her fingers one more time into the wet, eager cunt, and was greeted with the long-coming release.  The body underneath her shook powerfully, and warm, sweaty arms struggled to stay wrapped around her torso.

"Oh God Bette - what you do to me!", Julie managed to whisper.  "God."

Unceremoniously, she pulled out of the soldier's moist core, and fell onto her back next to the still-quivering red-head. 

The sound of the satiated woman's heavy breathing blended gratingly with the loud whirring of the room's old heater; Bette thought she would suffocate from the claustrophobic cacophony.

Slowly, she felt rough fingertips trail their way across her flat stomach then down past her belly button.  Julie turned, and tried to lift herself up on her elbow to get better access to the silent reporter. 

Wordlessly, Bette grabbed hold of the trespassing hand, and halted its exploration. 

"Why not Bette?... What's wrong?" 

But the soldier knew that was a pointless question.  There was never anything "wrong"; Bette just never let her touch her.  Ever since their first time together, Bette always made love to her well she knew it was never 'making love' - Bette Porter fucked her.  And that was all.  The kisses were rough and hungry - full of passion but never tenderness.  Bette's caress was purposeful and insistent - but never loving.  They always undressed each other impatiently - but that was all the reporter ever let her do: undress her.  And then, Bette took sole control.  She set the pace, the rhythm the rubbing, the writhing, the penetration.  Until she came; Julie, not Bette.  She'd never seen Bette come.  She'd never made Bette come.  It pissed her off.  It hurt her.  But she took what she could from these nights with Bette Porter.  And if all the reporter needed was to be in control and fuck - then she would let it happen that way.   No matter how much it hurt.

Bette turned to look at her, and gave her a sad smile.  Those beautiful, beautiful coffee eyes thought Julie.  Socold

Bette could feel the perspiration rolling off her; she'd need to shower again the minute Julie left.  Between the decrepit, but functioning heater, and the body heat coming off of the naked, sweaty soldier -- the room had become uncomfortably hot.   And yet  and yet she couldn't kill the cold inside her. 

She felt nothing - but cold. 

"Uh Julie I'm sorry - I really need to get some sleep tonight I don't know what tomorrow will be like and I may have to put in another 48-hour day so"

"I know... I know don't worry - I'll take a quick shower and let you sleep "

She hated this part of their trysts there was no awkward 'morning after' with Bette.  There was no morning after.  It was just mind-numbing fucking and then a graceless dismissal.  Oh sure, it was cushioned in all sorts of ways by the wordsmith reporter - but it always amounted to the same thing  -- wham, bam, thank you ma'am.  But the lonely, enamoured soldier put up with it this was Bette Porter after all.  And she knew she was in love with her - even if the feelings weren't reciprocal.  From Bette, and for Bette, she'd put up with just about anything. 

She rose from the bed to make her way to the bathroom... then turned to say one more thing to Bette - but again, there was no point.  The reporter had already fallen into a quiet, deep sleep.

Jump cut.

Scene:

Ali had just finished cleaning up the kitchen, and sat brewing his final pot of chai for the evening.  Before the kettle could sound its whistle, he removed its lid, added more cardamom, and began to stir the brown leaves. 

He stirred. And he stirred and he stirred.

Outside, the harsh winter wind was rising and beginning to wail - the dust gathered together in whirls and tunnels

"Alhamdulillah ", he said into the brew.  "It is coming ", he stirred. 

"The end to the winter's darkness it is coming"

tbc