Aidric nods—a single sharp movement that communicates agreement without enthusiasm.
"Approved."
One word.
Maximum efficiency.
Typical Aidric—minimal verbal communication, maximum emotional repression.
Tom's smile suggests satisfaction with our acceptance, like he'd anticipated resistance that didn't materialize.
"Excellent. I'll draft the official documentation and circulate it to the crew. You can begin coordinating leadership responsibilities immediately."
Immediately.
No transition period.
Just thrown into shared command and expected to figure it out.
He makes a dismissive gesture—meeting concluded, time to actually implement the decision rather than continuing to discuss it.
We rise simultaneously—synchronized movement that speaks to pack bonds affecting our behavior without conscious awareness—and exit his office with professional composure that lasts exactly until the door closes behind us.
Aidric immediately launches into grumbling that would be almost endearing if it weren't so clearly rooted in wounded pride:
"This is ridiculous. Shared command creates confusion in the chain of authority, undermines decisive action during emergencies, introduces unnecessary complications into a straightforward operational structure?—"
"You mean it forces you to cooperate with someone rather than maintaining complete control," I interrupt cheerfully, unable to resist needling him. "Challenges your preference forautonomous decision-making, requires considering alternative perspectives, demands actual communication rather than just issuing orders."
Teasing.
Definitely teasing.
His reactions are too entertaining to resist.
His scowl deepens, but the color rising in his cheeks suggests embarrassment rather than genuine anger.
"I communicate perfectly adequately when the situation requires it."
"Sure," I agree with theatrical skepticism. "And your crew definitely doesn't spend half their time trying to interpret your grunts and minimal verbal cues."
We reach the elevator, my hand pressing the call button while Aidric radiates indignation beside me.
The doors open with mechanical precision, revealing an empty car that we enter with continued bickering that's becoming almost comfortable in its familiarity.
This is our dynamic.
Verbal sparring that borders on foreplay.
Tension that keeps everything interesting.
I press the button for the ground floor, anticipating a smooth descent and continuation of our argument.
Instead, the elevator lurches violently, grinding to a halt between floors with a sound that immediately triggers every emergency response instinct I possess.
Stuck.
We're stuck.
