Editing Commissar Techpriestess love story (section)

=== Chapter 7 ===
The night had been long for Rogal. He had tried to sleep, to no avail. He had done push ups, chin ups, carved half a regicide set, polished his… laspistol, and finally managed to get to sleep. Blearily he had dragged himself to the mess hall, and grabbing mug of recaf, he flopped down at the officers table. Resting his head on his arms, he let the smell of hot recaf slowly fill his mind.
“Morning Sir,”
Tiberius beamed down at the tired commissar, “I brought you some breakfast.”
With a grunt, Rogal pulled himself up to sitting, as the vox officer slid a tray piled high with hot food in front of him. 
“Thank you, Tiberius. Much Obliged.”
Clapping his friend on the shoulder, Rogal grabbed his fork, oblivious to the pained look that flashed across his Tiberius’s face. Gingerly, the vox officer rolled his shoulder a few times, trying to ignore the pain from the bruise that had just been hit. He sat down beside Rogal, and dug into his own plate. 
“So, Sir, I hear you had a date last night?”

Rogal stopped mid chew, his fork dropping into the pile of scrambled eggs. He swallowed nervously, and took a swig from his recaf.
“What?”
Tiberius grinned, he and Rogal had been promoted to officer and full commissar at the same time, due to some rather fancy work they had done with a damaged voxcaster, a truck full of explosives, some paint and a rather irate cultist. He knew what he could get away with, and this was one of those things.
“There’s a whisper on the voxnet that you had a date last night.”
Rogal forced himself to keep a straight face, taking up his fork once more, “Oh, really?”
“Yes, my friend, really.”
“And with whom did I have this, date?”
Tiberius raised his mug in respect, “They say, you had a date, with her.”
“Her?”
Tiberius nodded towards the serving station, and the two robed figures there. Octavia had filled her tray with bacon and hash browns, her a couple of ploins wrapped in mechadendrites, a cup of recaf in another, and a third feeding her a slice of toast. Beside her, Caelistis stood with her own tray, a large bowl of the hot porridge steaming, as she added spoonful upon spoonful of the sweet brown sugar that sat at the condiments table. Rogal just watched as the pair walked off, before slowly resuming his chewing.
“Her. The darling girl of the Mechanicus, she who saves our asses and makes our lives easier. Emprah on earth, it’s like a gelt romance. So, is it true?”
Rogal set his fork down, “It is true that we shared a meal.”
“So it was a date?”
Rogal tried not to smile, “No, she just brought some food with her when she came to drop off a report I had asked for. I was starving, so, she stayed, and we ate, and then she noticed the time and she left.”
“That’s it?”
Rogal nodded, taking another mouthful of food and chewing happily, he turned his mind to the tasks for the day.
“There’s also a whisper, Sir, of there being another rendezvous between yourself and the priestess tonight.”
Rogal nearly choked. Coughing loudly, he drained his mug, and stood, “We’re not finished here,” He growled to Tiberius before he went and refilled his mug. This mug was drained, before being filled again, and Rogal returned to the table. Tiberius grinned at the commissar as he sat down once more,
“So there is another meeting?”
Rogal looked around, feeling like he was back at the schola, before he leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “Yes, we’re meeting again tonight. You tell anyone,” Rogal patted his holstered laspistol, “You explain yourself to him on earth.”
Tiberius just laughed, “Fine, fine, this stays between you, me and the Emprah. But, if I may, sir,”
Tiberius saluted, “Damn fine job.”
Rogal just sighed, “Actually, I could do with some help, there are some, items, I need.”
“At your service, sir”.

The day passed without incident, Rogal continued to work, that day making bunks for the new barracks that were being raised. Octavia placated the hydra, rebuilding its targeting core in record time. Both, however, seemed to always be not quite with it, despite their excellent work. Day passed into night, and Rogal dropped into the quartermasters shed. The grizzled, bearded quartermaster looked out with his one good eye and grunted a welcome.
“Evening Atticus,” Rogal said, nodding at the scruffy man behind the counter, “Did those items arrive?”
Another grunt, and the old man disappeared back into the rows of shelves behind him. He returned with a crate, thudding it down on the counter top,
“Don’t this constitute some form of abuse of authoriteh or sommat?” Atticus grumbled, pushing the requisition form across to Rogal, who just sighed,
“It would be, if I wasn’t trading you three bottles of amasec,” Rogal retorted, signing the form and pushing it back across the counter. He then reached down and grabbed the box at his feet, placing it on the counter beside the now completed requisition form, “And there’s an extra one in there, just between friends,”
Atticus laughed hoarsely, “You have fun tonight now sir,” He croaked, taking his items and returning to the darkness of the shed.

Octavia sat in the corner of the mess, watching as guardsmen and women came and went about their nightly duties, waiting patiently. Her mechadendrites absentmindedly stroking at her robes, as she pondered how she would exactly conduct herself tonight. Her cognitor had not stopped running situations since she had awoke, and her fleshbrain had been chattering near incessantly, only placated by a quick… recalibration inside the hydra. She could feel her fleshbrain exerting its control, once more, as she ran a hand through her hair. She heard a polite cough behind her, and turned in her seat. Standing with a crate almost as big as her over his shoulder, stood Rogal. He smiled warmly down at her, “My apologies for keeping you waiting, priestess.”
Octavia smiled timidly, “Your early commissar, nothing wrong with being efficient”
Rogal offered his hand, “Shall we?”
Her small hand dwarfed in his gloved one, he helped her to her feet, “I was thinking we could have a picnic, there is this wonderful spot over by the vox tent,” Rogal explained as they walked from the mess, oblivious to the numerous pairs of eyes watching them.

Octavia looked up at the crate on Rogal’s shoulder as they walked, marvelling at the size of it. He showed no sign of difficulty in carrying it, but judging from the reinforced nature of the crate, Octavia guessed it would have taken a couple of guardsmen to carry it. Looking further up, she saw the twin moons slowly drift behind a cloud, bathing the small hill they were climbing in diffused light. Her emerald eyes shone in the darkness as they crested the hill, dwarfed by the huge voxspire beside them. Releasing her hand, Rogal lowered the crate to the ground and popped the clasps, the crate unsealing with a hiss.

Octavia drank in the view, as Rogal busied himself with the crate. She heard clinks and pops, and as she turned, Rogal presented her with a glass of amasec.
“It took a little work,” He explained, as he rose to his feet and stood beside her, “But I think you will like dinner tonight. The Pair looked out over the base, unaware of the clouds rolling in behind them. The wind picked up slightly, blowing Octavia’s robe against Rogal’s leg, and she reached down to pull it away. Their hands met, gingerly at first, before Rogal’s huge hand once again enveloped hers. Octavia looked up at her companion, and found him looking back, his lopsided smile plastered to his face. “How was your day?” He asked, as he led her back to the picnic he had set up, a checkered blanket lying in front of the crate, laden with food. Sitting on the crate, Rogal patted beside him, and Octavia obediently sat, pressing herself close to the burly commissar. He leant down and grabbed a plate, loaded with small green fruits and thinly cut cheese. With his free hand he pulled one of the fruits from its stem and offered it to his guest. Octavia’s nose twitched as she sniffed at the morsel,
“What is it?” She asked, as her cognitor scrambled to identify the fruit,
“It’s called a grep, apparently,” Rogal said, twisting the small sphere between his fingers, “They’re very nice,”
Timidly, Octavia opened her mouth, and took a bite from the offered fruit. Her face lit up with delight, as she quickly chewed and swallowed, opening her mouth for more. Rogal laughed, 
“I take it you like it?”
Octavia nodded happily, “Yes. More please.”
Rogal gently pushed the rest of the grape into her mouth, the leather of his glove caressing her bottom lip, causing her to shiver. Her fleshbrain tittered happily, as her cognitor quickly dismissed the idea of sucking on his finger.

Rogal smiled, offering the rest of the plate to his guest, as he put his arm around her. She seemed so fragile and delicate, he thought, despite knowing she was more durable than him. He looked out to across the base, the lights of the tents and buildings like a patch of stars fallen to earth. A small cough brought him from his thoughts, as Octavia offered him a grep rolled in the cheese,
“Sir, you must eat.” She said, her emerald eyes looking up happily, her face lighting up as he carefully took the cheese wrapped fruit between his teeth. Her fingers softly brushed his stubble as she pulled her hands away, and Rogal chuckled,
“That tickled,” He said, noticing Octavia’s puzzled look, “You touched my stubble, it tickled,”
“Oh…” Octavia said, smiling happily again, “Does that really tickle?”
Rogal nodded as he lifted another plate, this one piled high with a salad filled with leafy greens, chicken, bacon and cheese, “Yes, it really does tickle. Would you like some salad?”
Octavia nodded, taking up one of the forks that had been stabbed into the meal. She offered the mouthful to Rogal, smiling happily, “You really must eat, such a body must require a lot of nutrients,”
Rogal smiled around the fork in his mouth, nodding happily. He chewed and swallowed, and Octavia offered him another forkful of salad. He took it gladly, and the forkful after that, and the one after that. Octavia beamed, now kneeling on the crate as she fed her host. With the plate nearly empty, Rogal stopped, “Shouldn’t you have some?”
Octavia tilted her head, “Oh, yes. I suppose I should, shouldn’t I?”
Rogal took the fork and speared a mouthful of salad on it, “Yes, you should. My turn,”
Octavia opened her mouth, wrapping it around the forkful of salad offered to her. She suppressed a happy sigh as she chewed, the crisp greens and tender chicken flavourful in her mouth.

A cold drip interrupted the happy pair. Looking skyward, dark dark clouds stared back. Another drip, this one patting on Rogal’s peaked cap. A third, then a forth drip, as the rain began. Rogal cursed inwardly, how could he have been so stupid as to forget to check the weather. He near leapt from the crate, bundling food quickly back into the collapsible containers that were their plates. Octavia stood, her mechadendrites grabbing the checkered blanket and folding it, as her host quickly threw the now full containers into the crate. The rain started thudding down, droplets the size of stubber bullets pounding down. Rogal pulled his coat from his shoulders and wrapped it around Octavia, who looked up at him, her eyes glowing from under her hood,
“The Mechanicum complex is closer, come with me,” She called, grabbing Rogal’s hand and pulling him forward. With a grunt Rogal pulled the crate up under his arm, and the pair began running through the rain. Octavia nimbly moved down the hill, her augmented legs letting her keep pace with the thudding boots of the commissar behind her. The rain beat down as the pair ran under the cover of the main Mechanicus building, leaving a trail of water behind them. Octavia slowed, leading Rogal past the secutors at the main bulkhead, and down the maze of corridors that lead to her room. Opening the door, she let her guest in, and with a thought activated the glowglobes, bathing the room in soft even light. She turned to face her guest, and her fleshbrain squealed with joy. His chest heaving, soaked to the bone, Rogal stood in the doorway, crate over his shoulder, his white shirt plastered to his chest. He took his hat off and wiped his brow with his arm, a futile gesture, as it just moved the water around. He smiled sheepishly, “Do you have a towel?”