Racquel Benetnasch was tired of pre-graduates.

Never mind that it was graduation day, the ceremony proper behind them and nothing standing between the Senior Classmen and their official ranking but four words from the Gebler Commander-in-Chief and one dismally traditional formal dance. They were still pre-grads, dammit, if only in spirit. The whole lot of them, tossing their caps in the air with deliberate maliciousness.

She'd been a pre-grad herself, of course, but she had minded her history books and her weapons-training and her movement strategy lessons. She had been ranked first in her class, Jugend's pride, headed for the stars-- never mind that she was still at Jugend, one of two dozen post-grads designated to supervise the student body until they could appoint her to that promised high Gebler position. She had always known her place as a pre-grad; she had known better than to try to socialize with the post-grads who were hopelessly out of her league, as they should be.

And she had never, ever tried to ask one of them out. Not even on graduation day. Especially not on graduation day. No matter how cute he was.

Though none of the pre-grad crushes she'd had had ever been quite as cute as that loud-mouthed one with the silver-pale hair...

No. No, no she was firm. She ran one hand through her dark hair, chewing on the inside of her lip. Like hell. So firm that she dreaded going to refill her punch glass, because she could see the one with the glasses standing by the refreshments table, and really didn't want him to ask her to dance. Again.

She sighed. The only graduation dance she'd enjoyed less had been her own-- but that was another matter entirely.

It had been a long afternoon, and now the citylamps beyond the Hall were getting dimmer, familiar artificial evening scheduled for 1900 hours. She closed her eyes briefly. Not too long till curfew, right? Just... four more hours. She could only pretend to sip out of any empty glass for so long, though.

A few instructors passed her, nodding politely, and one of the younger ones held out his hand curiously, as if he wanted to ask her something--

She fled, rather irrationally-- seeking only freedom or fresh air or at least the company of a nice wall that wouldn't try to make conversation with her-- and found herself alone, outside, on one of the plexisteel balconies ringing the Hall.

Tentatively, she took a long breath. The lights had dimmed another notch or two; it was getting later, and out here beyond the din of the music and the graduates, it was quiet. Blissful.

Someone coughed.

She was too well-trained to jump, but she couldn't help the noise of frustration that escaped her lips. Good god, now what? Turning to see who had dared infiltrate her hard-earned solitude, she saw a uniformed figure, leaning in the shadow of a pillar and smoking, the lamplight glancing pearl-bright off messy silvery hair.

Her mouth fell open.

He took a long drag on the cigarette, looking profoundly in the other direction.

"Classman Blanche," she regathered her wits and spoke snappishly, all her nerve-endings feeling raw. He flinched a little bit, and she advanced on him. "Smoking is prohibited at all Jugend functions, you know that."

He still didn't look at her, grinning out at the streetlights below with the cigarette held loosely in his teeth. "Yeah. I know."

She pursed her lips, not having expected agreement. "You shouldn't--" she began.

"You came all the way out here to yell at me?" He sounded a little too uncertain to be bemused, and something about his smile looked terribly young.

"No," she angrily, quick to clarify. Heaven forbid he though she was seeking him out, because there was no way in hell she was trying to initiate anything. At all. Absolutely. "I came out here," she said to his unresponsive profile, her voice rising, "for some peace and quiet."

"Well," he drawled, flicking light ash from the end of his cigarette and watching it drift lazily downwards. "So did I." And he did look at her then, one silver eyebrow raised.

The bottom fell out of the rant that she'd been building up to, and her shoulders fell a little. "Yeah," she whispered. "Sorry." Maybe she could leave, sneak out of the Hall and crawl back home and try to start again fresh tomorrow. It wouldn't be so hard to take after a good night's sleep, or at least a couple of cups of coffee. Her eyes flicked up and over the cityscape spread before them. Maybe nobody would notice if she just--

"Hey," he said, suddenly standing behind her, his hand at her mouth, and the warm end of a proffered smoke pressed against her lips. She started. "You look like you need this more than I do."

Never mind how long she had sworn off nicotine. She took the cigarette from him and inhaled thirstily; it was tremendously soothing.

He looked self-satisfied.

"Um," she said, but found herself smiling, pressure not-quite easing beneath her heart. "Thank you, Classman Blanche."

"Officer Benetnasch," he pronounced her name with the utmost formality, "smoking is prohibited at all--"

Damn but it felt good to laugh.

Still chuckling, she moved to slap him but he ducked, deftly snatching the still-burning cigarette from her fingers. "Hey!"

"Wouldn't want to get you in trouble," he said, mischievously. "You wanna dance with me?"

So swiftly did he change the subject that she almost didn't follow, her eyes widening. The automatic negative stalled on her tongue, and she looked up at him with undisguised curiosity. "What is it with you two? Do you have a bet on or something?"

He bridled instantly, though he didn't take his eyes from her face, aware of her measuring gaze. "What'd you tell him?"

He looked so earnest, something faltered inside her. "That I... don't dance with undergraduates."

Half his mouth quirking upwards, he risked a grin. "No? Well, that's easy enough." The grin was growing, in spite of his efforts to maintain a respectable façade, and he fingered the insignia button on his collar. "They've already announced rank, you know," he said conspiratorially. "That's why it's called 'graduation'..."

She made a face. "I don't really want to dance with anyone," she said honestly, not knowing why. She straightened the tunic of her dress uniform, self-conscious. "I'm only here because it's two demerit conduct points to miss a function--"

Rolling his eyes, he interrupted. "Geez. Live a little, why don'tcha?" He beamed openly, hands spread a little. "Will you give me a dance if I tell you my rank?"

She narrowed her eyes, feeling mean. "Yes," she said slowly, but held up a finger before he could exult. "If."

"If," he echoed, unable now to hide his smile. "I can do if. If what?"

"If..." she let the word hang there for a moment, just to be sadistic. His twitch was most enjoyable. "If you rank higher than Classman Stein," she concluded.

Darkness flickered behind his eyes for a second, his easy smile faltered. "And if that weasel ranks higher than me?"

She smiled primly. "I'll... dance with him," she said, imagining the student by the punchbowl and the way his determined stare made her feel ill.

Shaking his head, he seemed to remember the cigarette still in his hand and stubbed it out on the pillar. "You drive a hard bargain, Officer," he said. "Our grades were fucking close. Surely you know that."

She chewed on her lip, but kept her shoulders squared under his keen gaze. "Good for you," she said, businesslike, and watched him out of the corner of her eye. "Let the grades decide. I... I wouldn't want anyone to win a bet based solely on something so subjective as a lady's opinion."

"There is no bet--" he started, but in a moment he grasped her meaning, and his eyes shone fiercely blue. She was obscurely glad to see him smiling again. "And what is the lady's opinion?" he asked carefully.

"I'd rather not dance," she said off-handedly, "with a weasel..."

He laughed out loud, carelessly catching up her hand. "That's more like it! And don't worry, you don't have to. We were neck and neck for a while, but I aced the history final and he only got eighty-seven percentile." He squeezed her hand cockily. "So you're stuck dancing with me, ne?"

She schooled her expression, fingers cold in his. "I suppose I am." But he saw the laughter in her eyes this time; and his good mood was infectious.

"You can be awful callous with a man's heart," he said sternly. "No wonder you don't dance much."

She raised an eyebrow. "What," she said dryly, thinking he meant her narrow brush with Stein. "Don't you think his weaselly heart can take it?"

"It was not his heart to which I was referring, Racquel." His voice was different somehow, and it was the first time he'd used her given name. She shivered.

"I wouldn't presume to tease-- Jesiah," she said, unsteadily, acutely aware of his warmth, the smell of cigarette smoke and cinnamon that lingered on his skin.

Wordlessly, he put her hand in the crook of his arm and nodded towards the balcony door. She saw years on him then, years in the cloud-wisp curls of his unruly hair, years in the icicle blue of his eyes. Then he winked, just eighteen years old again, and she found herself blushing.

"Jessie," he said, leaning his head down towards hers as they walked onto the dance floor. "Please, call me Jessie."

Neither of them noticed the brief commotion at the refreshment table, when one graduate managed to crack the punchglass in his hand and had to leave the Hall for medical attention.