Interlude, Season One
by ragpants ©
July 2004
He is pulled from the depths of slumber by the itching feeling he is being
watched. He knows it's impossible, but still he feels restive. He tosses
in his bed, rolling from one shoulder to the other in an attempt to reclaim
his calm. As he settles, grunting, onto his right side, he notes there is
a darker patch amid the dimness of his room. As his eyes adjust, he realizes
that the blot outlines a woman.
"Ca..." he begins, but the syllable freezes in his throat. He feels ridiculous
addressing her as Captain, when she is in his bedroom in the low hours of
night watch, with her hair loose and inviting, the dim starlight pearling
her bare shoulder above a peach satin negligee.
He can't call her Kathryn either. She has never been one to invite
familiarity. She prefers being called "Captain" over "Ma'am", or "Sir". And
never once in all the months they have served together, even after hours and
hours of private and unofficial conversation, has she offered, "Call me Kathryn"
"What's wrong?" he manages at last.
She moves silently to his bed and sits besides him. The mattress bows under
her slight weight, reassuring him she is not an illusion or dream.
She leans closer and places her finger against his lips. "Shhhh. Don't talk."
She curls against him. Her head rests on his shoulder while arm curves across
chest and her leg is thrown across his hips.
He is embarrassed at how quickly his manhood lifts to throb against her
thigh; she is not.
She bisects his body with her fingers: throat, chest, stomach, around the
thimble of his navel, then lower tracing the fine line of hair that leads
to his penis. She measures the length and breadth of his cock with her fingers,
pausing to spread the first sticky drop. Desire erupts through him like a
disruptor blast. She is right: there is no need for words. He rolls her under
him and makes love to her with his hand, his mouth,, his whole self.
He has wanted her so long and so strongly he cannot remember when his desire
first began. Was it their first argument over how to merge their crews? Was
it when she saved his life and risked her ship to save him from the Kazon?
Was it when her face appeared on the viewscreen ordering him to halt in the
name of Starfleet and the Federation? Or was it long ago, so very long ago
he can't remember how long now, when he first dreamed of the possibility of
someone like her?
He loves her so well, so completely, that he forgets to hold close that
central core of himself, that private place he keeps hidden inside. He empties
that place for her. He gives her his hopes, his dreams, his deepest fears,
his most desperate losses.
She sprawls sated, limp and boneless across his chest. There are no need
for words, only rest.
He is roused from sleep by a light touch upon his arm. She is dressed in
her nightgown and again sits beside him on the bed. Her hands trace the curve
of his jaw and she leans down for a slow kiss. Her hand rests there, cupping
his face, her thumb stroking the fullness of his lower lip.
"I have to go," she tells him. She looks away, toward the starlight that
slips through the window beside his bed. Her hand remains on his cheek, though,
caressing the strong line of his jaw. "I won't be back. I can't. It's too
dangerous. I could fall in love with you so easily. I'm halfway there
already. And I can't allow that. The lives and safety of the whole crew depends
upon me, upon my judgment. Nothing must risk that." She looks back at him
and the grief and regret that he sees in her eyes is echoed in his heart.
"I'm sorry."
She gives him another kiss, a final, fatal kiss. And when she leaves she
takes with her a piece of his soul.
The End
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