Traffic Light Night

They stood at the bar, four battle-weary soldiers hovering at the brink of exhaustion. No one argued when Serena’s money hit the counter first. Once served, they spent a few more minutes in silence, taking hefty swigs of their beverages, their eyes glossy and far-away. Serena drained her glass with a final swallow, and a sigh that seemed to break the seal around them. Their focus adjusted to the present, the very real, very un-bloody, very welcome, Albie’s.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll still share,” Serena shot at Bernie’s arched eyebrows. Bernie shrugged and held out her glass for a top up.
“Right, I see where this is going,” Fletch chimed in, grinning.
“After today, Nurse Fletcher, could there possibly be any other way?”
“Fair enough,” he drained his pint in a few glugs, and reached for Raf’s glass.
“Well, I’m not complaining!” Raf handed over his almost empty pint. “But maybe it’d be for the best if we sat down now.”

Fletch waited by the bar as the other three scouted a table and unceremoniously dumped themselves at it. When he returned with the drinks - “how can yah really drink this stuff by the bottle?!” - he was followed by a grinning blonde. He shrugged, clueless, at the questioning glances as she thrust a small device into everyone’s hand then disappeared.
“Oh!” Fletch exclaimed, gesturing to the poster on the bar hatch. “Traffic Light Night.”
“Again?” Serena asked, flipping her device over disinterestedly on the table.
“The first one was a roaring success, by all accounts,” Bernie added. She was thrown haphazardly into a chair, and Serena couldn’t help but marvel at how artfully exhausted decorated her.
“Ah comes you know that, Mrs. Botticelli?”
When three sets of eyes turned on Fletch in wonder, he raised his hands. “What?! She’s sittin’ there, all draped like, in she? Like a paintin’ or summin’.”
“Botticelli?” Raf questioned, incredulously.
“Yeah,” Fletch nodded, defensively. “I remember studyin’ ‘im at school. Renaissance, like– what?!” He rolled his eyes, more so when everyone chuckled at his, “It was just an observation. I do know some culture, yah know!”
Serena was secretly thrilled that Fletch had made the comment. She had, after all, been wondering at Bernie’s beauty herself, and was grateful of the excuse to now casually drink her in.
“Anyway, Venus Wolfe,” she was inordinately satisfied when Bernie blushed rather profusely. “How do you know it was wildly successful, hmm?” Serena arched her eyebrows over the rim of her wine glass, and Raf whistled quietly.
“Oi oi, lover’s tiff!” he quipped, his and Fletch’s chuckles quickly becoming forced as they tried to determine which woman coughed, spluttered, and generally awkward-ised more. Bernie recovered swiftly, stretching forward to place her glass on the table.
“Oh, come on, you’d have to be in a coma to even have a slim chance of escaping the whispers in this hospital.”
Everyone laughed, Serena loudly and rather high-pitched as she buried her face in her wine glass and resolutely refused to meet Fletch’s mirthful eyes.

Another round of drinks later saw them all comfortably Renaissance at the table. Serena rolled her eyes as she leaned in to top up her’s and Bernie’s glasses.
“I swear, if that man continues to flash his green light and repulsive teeth at me, I shan’t be responsible for where that bloody device ends up– don’t look!” she hissed, as three very relaxed bodies hastened to turn, shuffle, and stare at the man by the bar.
“Oh, come on, Ms. Campbell. He looks like a good sport," Raf reasoned, his eyes sparkling.
“He looks like he avoids good sport on penalty of visiting a good oral hygienist,” Serena quipped.
“Nuffin’ wrong with a man that likes 'is food. Least you know the way to 'is 'eart,” Fletch added with a wink.
“Yes. Through Jac Naylor’s operating theatre soon, no doubt.”
Bernie smirked. “Come on, Serena. I bet he knows some cracking pick up lines. Cheer us all up.”
Serena blinked. “Oh, well. Right, then. I’m sorry, I forgot that my potentials in the dating pool should be measured by how much amusement it provides for you!”
“I bet you’re a sucker for a bit of cheesy charm.”
Serena barked a laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry. Serena Campbell, have we met?” she stuck her hand out at Bernie, who’s smirk only grew as she took it.
“Bernie Wolfe. Unrelenting.”
They loosened their grip but held fingers for longer than would ever be necessary.
“Yes, quite,” Serena replied, sternly, her eyes dancing.
There was a moment of silence before Raf started with a whisper. “Is that a ladder in your tights…”
“Oh, Lord…”
“Or…” Fletch leaned exaggeratedly on the table. “A stairway to heaven?”
Serena worked hard at her resting face.
“I don’t wear tights.”
“I’m looking for treasure,” Raf continued, and without missing a beat, Fletch delivered. “Can I look around your chest?”
At this, Bernie couldn’t contain a prolonged snort.
“Don’t encourage them further,” Serena shot at her, barely containing her own chuckles.
“Well,” Fletch pretended to contemplate, his hand rubbing his chin. “She ain’t swoonin' at the one liners.”
“Maybe he’s more of a limerick guy, anyway,” Raf mused, quirking his eyebrow at Fletch.
“Maybe I’d be halfway to solving his dentistry requirements by the second line,” Serena supplied. She caught Bernie’s eyes – inevitable, really, given the amount of sly glances she’d been throwing at her, her brain insistently sketching her out onto a bed-shaped canvas ever since that bloody Botticelli remark – and when Bernie gave her the subtlest of winks, she momentarily lost her breath.
“Maybe he’d redeem himself with a good limerick,” Bernie said mildly, eyebrows raised in challenge to the boys. Serena groaned.
“There was a young man from Nantucket,” Fletch and Raf began simultaneously. They paused to grin at each other.
“I’m blaming you for whatever I’m about to endure!” Serena threw at Bernie, who held her hands up in mock defence. Raf and Fletch sniggered.
“Who had a-” their eyes met again, and they looked anywhere but at Serena. “No, never mind. Can’t do it.”
Serena huffed, mostly to cover a snort.
“And this is the standard you think I’m deserving of from a date, is it?” she asked in almost-completely mock indignation. They laughed. Bernie, too, the traitor.
With Serena glowering fondly, they all sipped their drinks.
“No, no, you’re absolutely right, Serena. I apologise,” Serena eyed Bernie suspiciously, who stared back, and carried on innocently. “You are thoroughly deserving of… the most beautiful poetry,” Bernie’s tone was full of sincerity, and not a little bit of sex, really. Serena blushed profusely. Again.
“I bet our Major knows some beautiful poetry, eh, Ms. Wolfe?” Raf asked, slyly, from behind his pint.
Serena rolled her eyes dramatically and threw herself back into her chair, mostly to cover the fact that Bernie’s sultriness, dripping from her eyes as well as her mouth, had swatted Serena in the heart. Again.
“Oh, marvellous. Let’s lower the tone even further!”
Bernie’s eyebrows shot into her fringe as she bestowed an “oh, really!” glare onto Serena, who resolutely – “Yes, really, Soldier,” – glared right back.
Bernie took a deep breath. Leaned in close to the table. Lowered her eyes, and her voice.

“You dig.”

Pause.

“She digs,” Bernie’s voice was breathy, and not quite gravelly but definitely deliberately sandy, and whilst the boys sat back, intrigued, Serena was completely hooked on the tone, her body leaning in almost imperceptibly.

“They dig,” she almost caressed each letter, oozing them slowly over her lips, as fascinated by Serena’s reaction to it as Serena seemed to be by the slow, deliberate movements of her tongue.

“We…” she licked her lips, tongue peeking out quickly as she fluttered her eyelashes, and smirked as Serena practically shivered, her thumb unconsciously stroking her arm. “… dig.”

As her eyes raised enough to meet Serena’s, she allowed a couple of seconds of the blazing stare, her own heart almost matching the fluttering vein she spotted in Serena’s neck. Then, she cleared her throat and sat up loudly and abruptly, causing three surprised jumps and shattering the atmosphere.

“As poems go,” Bernie almost drawled, fingering the rim of her glass. “It’s not amazing, but it is very… deep,” her eyes flickered to Raf, and they managed to contain their snorts for a whole three seconds.
Serena barked a heartening belly laugh, swiftly burying her face in her hands, but betrayed by her shaking shoulders.
“That was beautiful!” Fletch chuckled, wiping his eyes.
"Lower the tone enough for you?" Bernie asked, as deliberately low and heated as she could manage whilst Raf and Fletch were busy laughing.
“Quite,” Serena clipped, internally congratulating Bernie on the subtle double entendre. She schooled her features into her best surgical dispassion, and waved her red light at the still ogling man at the bar. “A level of intricate beauty that I doubt Mr Flasher there could hope to attain. Mercifully. Though,” she frowned. “I do rather hope than I can expect more from my dating future than quirky poetry. However beautifully read,” she added, natural as anything.
“Well,” Fletch said, downing the dregs of his pint and slapping Raf on the shoulder as he stood. “That’s the limit of our expertise, then, I’m afraid.”
“It’s a wonder you’re both still single,” Bernie jested with a smirk.
“Alright! Well, we’ll leave you in the obviously superior hands of Ms. Wolfe, then, Serena. Maybe she’ll bag you a Shakespeare. With a nice set of pearlers on ‘im.”
“Delightful,” Serena muttered, setting them all to chuckling again. “Thank you, gentlemen!” Serena and Bernie dipped their glasses at the retreating waves.

They polished off the wine and relaxed back into their seats, shuffling subtly so that their ankles brushed. Their eyes met, half lidded and sparkling, until Serena looked away, afraid that they were saying far more than her brain was ready to part with.
“So… um…” Bernie cleared her throat, her fingers fiddling with the traffic light device. “Would you? Er… be up for it? A date, I mean?”
Serena groaned and buried her face in her hands.
“Oh, God! He’s not still looking, is he?!”
Bernie blinked rapidly, then once she had processed what Serena actually said, let out her breath in a shaky laugh.
“No! No… um… Serena I…”
When Serena gingerly peeked through her fingers, it was to find Bernie with a shy smile. When she fully, slowly, dropped her hands, it was to find Bernie holding up her traffic lights, set to a determined green. She utterly failed to conceal a huge grin, which sent Bernie’s heart soaring. Bernie gave her light, and her eyebrows, another little wiggle at Serena.
Minutes – weeks, actually – too late, Serena nevertheless attempted nonchalance.
“Well, it all depends, really, you know–”
“Busy, are you?” Bernie interjected, jerking her head towards the bar.
“You’re not endearing yourself, Ms. Wolfe,” Serena’s voice carried jovial warning, in the octave that consistently weakened Bernie’s knees. An effect she knew, for definite now, that she could also replicate in Serena.
“Please, Serena,” she added extra gravel on the plea, watching, awed, as Serena’s eyes darkened. “I’ll… err…” she dipped her head, smiling gently through her fringe. “I’ll read to you.”
“More beautiful poetry?” Serena joked, her voice, its almost-whisper, matching Bernie’s.
“I could read you the phone book, if you’d like?”
So intently was Serena lost in Bernie’s voice, that it took her a moment to catch up.
“Someone’s cocky!” she huffed. Briefly, she wondered when it had become the most natural thing to stare at each other as they were, exactly when their eyes had decided to form a relationship quite separate to their reality. Briefly, Serena thought about what it would be like, if they actually caught up with their eyes, which she now rolled, fondly. She picked up her traffic lights and fiddled with it a little, before turning it and flashing her green at Bernie. Bernie’s grin almost matched Serena’s.
“Dinner?”
“With a Botticelli? How could I resist?”
Bernie laughed, radiating warmth and relief.
“Erm…” Bernie’s cheeks tinged pink, and Serena melted. “Maybe… tonight?”
Serena didn’t even think to panic.
“Well,” she quirked her eyebrows. “Who am I to defy the historically roaring success of Traffic Light Night?” She gathered her things as Bernie watched her indulgently. “Aren’t you coming, Shakespeare?”
“Well,” Bernie quickly shrugged into her coat, grabbed her bag and they strolled out, their arms brushing. “That all depends on your pick up lines. I’m not easy, you know.”
Serena blushed to the roots of her hair, and coughed.
“What did happen to the young man from Nantucket, anyway? Got his head stuck in a bucket?”
Bernie’s easy laughter trailed them down the street.