This Time: A Love Story - Curator (2024)

Chapter 1: Old Patterns

Chapter Text

“Vulcan ship approaching to port. Not science or exploration, probably a passenger vessel.” Erica calls out the alert, fingers quick on the piloting console that once was Una’s. “This is weird.”

On the viewscreen, the small craft leaps through space, grasshopper-like, quick evasive maneuvers except there’s nothing to evade.

If La’an were at her station, Una would ask for an analysis. But La’an just left the bridge, seemed disoriented, out of uniform and unusually disinterested in security.

Looks like it’s going to be one of those days.

Una could step away from Chris, move toward the security station and run theanalysis herself.

Una should step away from Chris, move toward the security station and run the analysis herself.

But all those months of talking to him through a video screen in the holding cell, her hands so often clasped behind her back so she wouldn’t reach for him, tell him too much, make things worse for both of them. Then what she did at the party he threw last night to welcome her back to the ship ... and her cowardice in not apologizing to him just a few minutes ago in the ready room.

It’s better to stay close.

Or is it worse to stay close?

Old patterns, old patterns. How can Una and Chris break old patterns?

“I know that pattern.” Did Chris somehow read her mind? His seat cushion shifts as he leans forward to better see the viewscreen. “I designed that evasive maneuver when I was a test pilot. Starfleet rejected it, said the sequence wouldn’t work for larger spacecraft.”

Ah. Una had been considering behavioral patterns. This push-pull she and Chris have been caught up in for all these years, getting close and pushing away, getting close and pushing away.

“Your test piloting days? You mean when crews used whale oil to light the warp core?” Erica’s chin peeks over her shoulder, a teasing grin to reinforce her joke even as her hands stay busy in flight. “Or had kerosine already been invented?”

Chris chuckles, but Pelia’s back straightens. “You shouldn’t knock whale oil. All these fancy inventions and as long as people can find light and movement, it’s all the same.”

There’s a dismissive wave, curly hair bouncing as Pelia steps to the engineering station.

Well, the Vulcan ship’s maneuvers certainly let Pelia evade the conversation about Pelia’s plundered items from the past.

For now.

The command chair armrest computer lights up with an incoming hail. That’s odd, for a hail to be routed directly to the command chair instead of through communications.

Chris’ gaze meets Una’s.

Don’t think about missing him from her holding cell.

Don’t think about the party or the ready room.

Focus on work, give him a slight nod to indicate agreement with his unspoken plan — he should tap to accept the hail — and the bridge crew can listen and work together to figure out what’s going on.

His finger lowers on the button to route the transmission through the bridge’s main speakers.

“Hi there.” The hail is a computer-generated voice. “We’d like permission to dock for just a few minutes in your shuttlebay, talk privately with Captain Pike and Commander Chin-Riley, and be on our way.”

The bridge becomes quiet.

No.

Not quiet.

Loud.

Loud with the hum of computers. Loud with sensor beeps and chirps. Loud with a crew saying nothing because the last time Chris and Una were called somewhere, just the two of them, Una was transported away, arrested, and Chris told her later, over the screen in her holding cell, that he hadn’t returned directly to the bridge. Instead, Chris had gone to his quarters, slammed his fist into a bulkhead and commed Admiral April to lodge an official complaint. Then Chris had made a shipwide announcement to promise the crew that he would get Una back.

And he did.

She’d found the audio file when she resumed her duties, listened to Chris’ voice breaking, anger and fear and righteousness all furiously intertwined, and Una had closed her eyes and tried to find comfort in the darkness.

It’s as if the flat, computer intonations from the Vulcan ship understand the blizzard of emotions inside her. “We promise the commander that she’ll be kept as safe as her Book of Vaultera, and we promise the same to the captain, and that what he was thinking about in the turbolift this morning will, indeed —”

“You have permission to dock.” Chris terminates the comm connection. “Commander Pelia, have the shuttlebay prepare for the vessel — incoming only, no exit without my order. Erica, you’re in command. Number One or I will radio in from the shuttle. If we say everything is fine, believe it. If we say everything is going well, send in a security team.”

“Got it, Captain.” Erica turns from the helm, worry-tension in the jerk of her chin but mischief alight in her eyes. “What if you say everything is hunky-dory?”

Chris gives Erica a tight-lipped smile. “Then decompress the shuttlebay.”

It’s unusual that Chris didn’t check in with Una for a decision, and he doesn’t look at her as he stands or as she steps with him toward the turbolift. His knuckles are tight on the handle as he calls for the shuttlebay.

Chris had called for the transporter room the last time a hail had them report to part of their own ship, just the two of them. The lift had descended and he’d asked her if she knew what was going on. Una had said no, one last secret — a lie, gutless, yet another falsehood he didn’t deserve and hasn’t mentioned since even though he saw the trial, he knows she knew she was going to be arrested — but he still trusts her even after everything she kept from him.

“Book of Vaultera?” The sides of his lips rise, an unnatural smile, the smile that means he’s trying to break tension. “I’m hoping that’s something kept very safe.”

“Not always.” Not often. “But mine was.”

A tiny book, hard blue covers, thin pages, a traditional gift upon the birth of an Illyrian child, the story of the great Vaultera and the wonders of genetic engineering that Vaultera taught to the Illyrian people. When her parents told her to pack her things to move to the non-Illyrian side of the city, Una had used her best scissors to carefully cut the seam of a teddy bear. Her small fingers had pushed the book inside, then she watched a video to learn to repair the damage she had done, precious book inside a stitched-up teddy bear carried across the border to where its teachings were considered heresy.

Are considered heresy.

Just like on Enterprise — the book’s teachings remain heresy. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? The problem that set the pattern, which makes it so that no matter how close she and Chris get, they’ll always fall back into the same old —

Stop it.

Don’t think about that. Duty requires attention to detail, not daydreaming.

The Vulcan ship’s computer voice had said something about Chris’ thoughts this morning. It’s best to ask him about that, to increase shared knowledge before encountering the unknown. “What were you —?”

A gentle stop, a hiss of turbolift doors, and Una could try asking again but Chris strides forward, quick steps pausing only to pull two phasers from a weapons storage locker. A phaser is cool in Una’s hand as they reach the shuttlebay, the Vulcan ship already through the entrance and turning to land.

The landing sequence is familiar.

“Chris, that’s your landing sequence.” A bank starboard, overcorrection to port, then a lean to starboard again. “Do you see it?”

His jaw twitches. Not nervousness. Recognition.

He sees it.

The vessel sets down easy. A wide gangplank lowers from the aft, and there’s no sense putting off the inevitable. They’re invited in.

Why isn’t Una nervous? Her boots almost seem to dance forward, Chris by her side, shuttlebay deck plating giving way to the upward slope of the gangplank, rising, rising, until the gangplank ends and there’s a curtain that presumably signifies the entrance to the main compartment of the shuttle.

The curtain fabric is delicate embroidery, a slight shimmer of stitched-on leaves and flowers — undoubtedly, unmistakably Illyrian.

Una needs to tell Chris. Needs him to know the significance of the cloth. Not for herself. Not for the stinging in her eyes to see part of her book come to life. No, not for that. This is tactical information relevant to the mission they seem to be on. This is something Chris should know as captain.

Except, it seems, he already does.

Because his hair is even more grey and his mouth has a few more lines — laugh lines, they’re laugh lines — and, even though the same Chris as ever stands next to Una, this new Chris’ head pokes out from around the edge of the curtain. “Hi, guys. It’s good to see you both. Come on in and we’ll give you a quick briefing.”

The curtain pulls back to reveal a living area with an oversized sofa, a kitchen, and dining chairs around a table topped by a too-small white tablecloth with dark purple polka dots. Brightly colored children’s toys are scattered on the floor, and there’s another Una, also slightly older, belly large with pregnancy and a toddler hitched on her hip. The toddler clings to the other Una, shy, the child’s DNA obvious with not only dark hair like Una’s and the shape of Chris’ eyes, but also with the subtle signs of genetic engineering even the youngest Illyrians are taught to recognize — a certain puff to the lips and length of the fingernail beds. The family’s clothing isn’t Vulcan or Illyrian, though. All three have on t-shirts and sweatpants, and the other Chris steps over to the other Una and his arm hugs her waist, comfortable, his hand resting on the child’s tiny rear end.

What ... what would that be like? For Chris to be all around Una like that — his warmth on one side, his child on the other, his baby in her belly? Una’s own belly twists with possibility, and she looks to the Chris standing next to her to check in, to see if he’s all right, but he’s looking at the other Una, his jaw hard.

“So you’ve both figured out that we’re you or, to be more precise, we were you a few years ago.” The other Una’s face is full — bloating from pregnancy, most likely, but also ... joy? “A piece of equipment from a future section of Starfleet — the Department of Temporal Investigations — was activated about eight minutes ago on another timeline’s Enterprise. The equipment wasn’t activated correctly, though, which meant it formed a chronometric bubble in the area of the ready room. Our time period and at least one other was affected. Due to an extensive debriefing with the Department of Temporal Investigations once we got back to our own time, I can tell you that everything is fine, we’ll stay out of your way, and we told the little one here that you’re Aunt Una and Uncle Chris, which seems about right since the intricacies of the malfunction across time periods duplicated you both and sent us back in time while you two were unaffected.”

“I’d hardly call this unaffected.” Chris — the one in uniform, not his sweatpants-clad near-doppelgänger — holsters his phaser, his gaze steadfast on the other Una. “I’m looking at what could have been my future — again — and there’s a child and another on the way. I don’t know what this means for my fate and —”

Does Chris look at her the way he looks at the other Una? There’s something so ... intent. Purposeful. It’s easier to see in observation than as a participant. As if the other Una has more than his attention, more than his concern.

His ... devotion?

Patterns, patterns. How did this other Chris and other Una get close, stay close,break the pattern?

The other Chris clears his throat. “Believe me, we sympathize with what you’re going through. I prepared some mushroom ravioli. Like Mom used to make. How about we all sit and eat, and my Una and I will explain everything you both want to know?”

His Una.

The twist in Una’s belly deepens. Yearning. Not like at last night’s party. This is different — this is yearning for what someone else has, the wholeness of belonging, not my first officer or my friend, but my Una.

When the hell has Una ever truly belonged?

Don’t think about that.

Holster the phaser, get plates from the obvious cabinet — okay, these are nice, a human design, dark blue geometric shapes on a white background — and sit next to ... herself? ... as the two Chrisses settle on the other side of the table, one comming Erica — “Pike to Ortegas. Everything is fine. For now.” — while the other doles out ravioli, then fills water glasses from a ceramic pitcher.

The Chris in uniform studies the pitcher, cream-colored with red flowers, probably Earth tulips. “I broke this when I was nine years old. Dad told me I was careless for destroying a family heirloom. I tried to glue it back together, failed, and cried in my room. How the hell did you get it back?”

“Certain things — and certain concepts, like time and fate — may seem fragile, but are, in fact, highly adaptable to circ*mstance.” The other Chris’ eyes dart from Chris to Una, and it’s as if the other Chris can see ... everything. Every insecurity and fear. Every false front and forced bravado. Every secret, including the ones Una keeps from herself.

Don’t look at him.

Focus on the mission. This is a diplomatic function that requires table manners anddecorum.

It’s not going to be possible to eat with her throat aching, though. Frustration. Anger. Jealousy. Una was going to check on La’an after shift. Not get shoved into a rabbit hole of a life that isn’t her own.

The other Una seems to know just how mind-bendingly bizarre and difficult this is — of course she does — and the toddler is snug on her lap as the other Una leans toward Una, her whisper too quiet for human hearing. “It’s going to be all right.”

Should Una swallow the ache in her throat and whisper back, something like How do you know? No. This other Una has so much, Una can’t give the other Una even more by surrendering hope at the altar of supposed wisdom.

The other Una doesn’t seem to mind, though. She just angles her fork to section off a piece of ravioli, gives it to her child, and speaks loudly enough for the humans to hear: “From your perspective, it would have been earlier today that I went to the ready room with a security report — and my heart hammering in my chest. I tried to play it cool, but ...”

“Captain.” The padd is hard in Una’s hand. She’s doing her job, crisp, professional, stepping into the ready room and over to Chris’ desk because this is an important task. Not because she wanted to see him without the hurt in his eyes, the hurt she left him with at her welcome home party last night. “I think we need to have a chat with Commander Pelia. Theft isn’t acceptable on the Enterprise.”

His hurt isn’t there. Chris is in command, captainly, strong.

Okay, the hurt is there, his gaze lingering on Una’s face, his eyes rheumy. But, reliably, personnel needs come before personal needs, so his shoulders square he stands. “I’m game if you are. I’ll read over the security report while you call Pelia to the bridge. We may as well have crew eyes and ears on alert in case the situation continues.”

He moves to the side of his desk, hand outstretched to take the padd.

This is good. They’re finding a rhythm again with Una back from prison.

A rhythm or an old pattern? Wasn’t part of the point of turning herself in to gain the ability to break old patterns — secrecy and this push-pull of closeness that constantly dashes her dream to truly be known?

There’s an urge. A dangerous urge to apologize for what she did, all of it, to tell him every secret, every truth she sullied with a lie because she’s sorry, truly sorry that she’s hurt him for so many years and again so damn unfairly last night.

But it’s better — or is it just easier, short-term cowardice yet again? — to be professional, to get herself and Chris — and their starship — on an even keel to move forward.

Old patterns, old patterns.

Una’s hand extends, padd proffered for Chris’ perusal.

Chris reaches for the padd, fingertips outstretched ... closer ... closer ... contact.

Una’s hand loosens, about to let go.

And, with the padd connecting Una and Chris standing by the side of Chris’ ready room desk, everything becomes brilliant white.

Chapter 2: The Riverwalk

Chapter Text

It’s like falling.

Not falling down.

Or up.

The brilliant white is like falling inside, tumbling through layers of ... something ... the way it might feel to be pushed through a too-small filament except there’s no actual motion. Only falling.

“Una!” Chris’ hand is tight on her wrist and he yanks the padd from her grasp. It’s impossible to see in the brilliant white, but there’s the sensation of Chris tossing the padd away, his arms wrapping around her shoulders, pulling her close.

Don’t think about when he hugged her in the transporter room. Don’t think about the comfort of hugging him back, his heartbeat so close to her own. Besides, this isn’t a hug in the brilliant white. This is protection.

From what? What’s happening?

As if she had jumped over a hurdle, Una’s boots slam onto solid ground. A hard surface. Warm air tickling her nose, humid, a slight breeze that dances on her cheek, and it’s a good thing Chris is holding onto her because acid rises from her stomach, legs wobbly, a sheen of sweat on her skin.

She’s not going to throw up, she’s not going to throw up.

“Don’t fight the nausea. Just wait until it eases.” Chris doesn’t let go, a slight buckle to his knees proving his own queasiness as he leans on Una, balance in each other’s imbalance, mutual weakness held up in mutual strength. “It’s natural.”

“Why?” She needs to see his face. Can’t see his face. Can’t do anything but hold on. Where are they? What just happened?

He’s steady, certain. “Time travel. There’s always a moment of temporal realignment. Feels like getting kicked in the gut. This is a bad one.”

Time travel.

There are voices, other people, conversations in passing, not sounds of fear or alarm. That bodes well for safety. The warmth feels like it’s from a sun, not an artificial environment. Breeze suggests a healthy atmosphere. So they’re probably on a planetoid or moon.

But when?

Blurry forms take shape. A blue sky, puffs of white clouds, people talking to each other while strolling on a boardwalk. Una and Chris are on the boardwalk, too. Along the other side of a safety fence is a stretch of water with ripples of blue waves.

Blue sky, blue water, chatty people with smooth foreheads and round ears.

Earth?

“I think we’re on Earth.” Chris reaching the same conclusion suggests they’re both correct. And he must be able to tell that Una’s nausea is ebbing because he just barely loosens his grasp, stays close, murmurs into her ear so they won’t be overheard. “Pre-World War III. There’s a Florida Maple tree over there, one of the plant species that went extinct during the fighting. They’re drought-tolerant, like flora in Mojave. I learned about them in school.”

Una could turn and look at the tree, but Chris knows this planet better than she does.

Besides, he’s still holding onto her, keeping her enfolded in his arms, protective, cautious about where and when they are but trusting her to keep up with rapid-fire information.

“Okay.” Una’s voice stays low, just loud enough for his human hearing. “Why? Who sent us here? And how do we get back to where and when we belong?”

His shoulders rise and fall in a shrug, not quite helpless but not quite sure of what to do next either.

Maybe Una should test their communicators. Or pull off her badge and recommend Chris do the same. Or ask why he threw away the padd — the device’s computing power might have been useful.

There’s something about being in his embrace, though. Something that calms her nausea, clears and muddies her mind, a juxtaposition of unearned peace that loosens the fear always knotting in her belly, secrets told and untold, an ache that never goes away but becomes recognizable whenever he holds her.

His chest rises and falls on hers, a shaky breath. Because they’re out of their time period? Because they need more information to be able to get back to when and where they belong? Because they’re still holding each other, arms curved ... the smell of him, that scent of soap and clean and Chris that’s so intoxicating in proximity?

“Excuse me.” An unfamiliar voice, polite, inquisitive. “Would one of you mind taking our picture?”

A quick pulling away — old patterns, old patterns — and Chris steps back as fast as Una does, a careful glance to check in and make sure she’s okay and, sure, yes, Una isn’t queasy anymore. An ache from loss of contact isn’t a real problem. Don’t want to worry him over something like that.

“I can do it.” Chris turns toward the unfamiliar voice, faux-pleased smile plastered on his face. “Happy to help.”

The voice belongs to a woman who stands with a group — friends? — all in similar attire: tight shorts, loose shirts with jagged rips to the sleeves, multicolored bracelets, and headbands that encircle choppy haircuts in an array of lengths and colors. Their backs are to the safety fence and the water beyond. “Thanks. You two here for the protest?”

Protest?

Figuring out what the group is protesting might help narrow down geography and timeframe.

“I hadn’t heard about the protest. What’s the cause?” Chris accepts a thin rectangle the woman gives him. The rectangle is about the size of his hand. A computing device. Una saw one in Earth History class at the academy.

“Freedom.” The woman crouches. The whole group crouches, arms out, biceps flexed as if in a display of strength. “Regional militias should have the right to self-determination. The federal government wants to scare us, make us think Augments will kill us all. But this is a matter of personal access to proactive justice. If some militias want to self-fund to kick genetically enhanced ass, then that should be their right. If other militias aren’t ready for the retaliation, then that’s on them.”

Augments.

The Augments are already in power.

Moddie.

Freak.

Augment.

The slurs Una was called as a child, almost audible in the sunlight, visceral, fear catching, legs twitching to run but where — when? — can she go?

Chris must have paid attention during the computing lectures in Earth History. He taps the rectangular device’s screen and takes the picture. It’s a good one. The women are smiling, arms lifted, boisterous, a fun day out.

“Oops.” Chris’ finger swipes away the camera function. “Sorry. Camera was turned the wrong way. Let me delete that one and try again.”

Quick taps, options appearing and disappearing until the device displays a calendar.

Seven months. They have seven months before World War III spills over from skirmishes into annihilation that will eventually kill more than thirty million people and lead to extinctions of more than six hundred thousand plants and animals — very nearly including humans. Seven months before radiation from new weapons will light the skies ... and Una. Bioluminescence from her immune system reaction to the radiation would shift danger from internal to external, an Illyrian-red alert signal that could inspire humans to employ the century’s finest torture methods until Una gives up Augment secrets she doesn’t know to people who will explain her presence with the same misplaced hatred their descendants will wield centuries later. Does that even matter, though? The radiation could kill Chris outright.

No, no, no, they’ve got to get out of here.

“No worries.” The woman laughs, a slant of sunlight — the device’s clock indicates late afternoon — shining bright on her perfectly white teeth. “I do it all the time. We just need one good picture to post to the socials. There’s a bar crawl after the protest if you two are interested.”

Chris’ fake laugh always comes from high in his throat. “We can’t make it, but that sounds like a good time.”

He toggles to a map. The tree was a good indicator — they’re in Florida, the peninsula not yet scarred by the Xindi attack in the twenty-second century. The computing device’s location becomes more and more precise. City name: Tampa. They’re on what’s called a Riverwalk. Place names on side streets suggest stores, restaurants, hotels. A tourist district. Chris seems to be looking for something in a larger and larger search radius.

“Got it!” Chris dismisses the calendar and map, returns the computing device to its camera function. “Everyone looks great.”

“Thank you!” The group sing-songs, giddy, as Chris returns the device. Some of their backsides wiggle as they leave. A dance of joy on a planet about to be nearly torn apart.

Chris leads Una by the elbow, gentle, guiding her, setting her walking with him in the opposite direction from the protestors. “Okay, there’s a public library about a mile from here. If my math is right, that’s a little over a kilometer and a half. There should be computer access. Can you create fake ID cards and generate credit chips so we can get phones?”

Phones, that’s right. The rectangular computing device is commonly referred to as a phone. Identification and credit chips both can be stored on phones.

“Yes.” The computer security algorithms of this time period should be simple enough. “We’ll need shelter. I’ll arrange for that, too.”

Time-appropriate attire would be a concern, but people on the Riverwalk are clothed in a kaleidoscope of fashions, everything from punk-like leather to almost Victorian-style linen suits. Starfleet uniforms don’t seem to attract unwanted attention. Even so, Una’s hand moves at the same time as Chris’ hand to each detach their badge and hide the delta in a pocket.

“It’s my fault we don’t have a padd.” Chris’ head turns and he squints into the sun glinting off the waves. His jaw gets tight. “It was a gut feeling that the padd had something to do with time travel, and I believe getting rid of it stopped us from going back even further. An early exit from time travel also could explain why we felt especially sick when we first got here. I wish we had our own technology now, though.”

“Chris, you did the right thing.” He did. The padd would be nice, but in a situation with unclear dangers, he tried to mitigate the immediate danger as much as possible.

The tension in his jaw lessens. He blinks, hard, the way he does when he needs to push forward, strategize, calm himself down by captaining up, his work a necessary yet welcome distraction from something else on his mind. “If the crew could track our location in time, I have to believe they would have rescued us already. We were talking about Pelia when we were pulled from the ship, but since her species doesn’t control time, they just live through it, I have to believe our discussion about her was a coincidence. But, even if it wasn’t, we have no way to find her, much less any of the other Lanthanites, Vulcans, or El-Aurians we know are here and hiding under various government radars. So, if we can’t somehow create a temporal communicator to signal Starfleet for help, then how do we find our way off this rock?”

That’s not like Chris — to refer to Earth pejoratively.

But at least he didn’t mention trying to contact Illyrians of this time period. He’ll think of the option eventually, though.

Safe in her pocket, Una’s delta taps against her communicator, metal on metal.

Starfleet on Starfleet.

“We know the Vulcans are monitoring the planet, in addition to Vulcans here on the surface. Assuming our communicators work, it would burn one out, but we could send a message to the Vulcan High Command and ask to be taken in as temporal refugees.” Asylum. Una would be asking for asylum — again. “If they’ll give us a ship, we could slingshot around the sun and get home.”

The plan’s pitfalls should be obvious to Chris.

Without subspace transmission boosters, it would take months for the message to arrive on Vulcan.

The Vulcan High Command could say no, the logic of rescue outweighed by the Vulcan Science Directorate’s lack of belief in time travel.

Losing a communicator due to overload — forcing a short-range device to do the job of a long-range device — is a significant tactical risk.

It’s not a very good plan.

“Good plan.” Chris’ nod is decisive, but there’s something ... off ... about his voice. Too high. A slight strangled sound. “Glad you’re with me this time, Number One.”

Oh.

He’s probably thinking about his two recent time travel experiences — both to the future and both times Una wasn’t there. He hasn't told her much about the second time, just a summary of events over the video screen, his shoulders hunching in self-protection, proof yet again of his tendency toward privacy. Not secrecy like Una. Moreso a quiet stillness, things he doesn’t say or starts to say but trails off in mid-conversation. He’s a complicated man, in his way. Talkative yet shy. Deep-feeling for those he cares about yet wary of his own depth of emotions. His contradictions are part of what makes him compelling, though, so easy to be with and so difficult to be without.

From the Riverwalk, there are a few turns down skinny streets to get to the library. Chris’ spine straightens as the building looms, a stucco exterior and large windows with a mirrored coating that makes it impossible to see inside.

A door that seems to be the main entrance has no handles, no reaction to stepping close.

Chris’ fist raises in front of the door. A glance toward Una, her nod of approval for his plan, and his knuckles are tentative at first, then louder as Chris knocks on the locked door of a public library that doesn’t seem to be open to the public.

Una could try to force the door open. But that’s not exactly blending in with this time period of Earth’s history.

It doesn’t matter. There’s a slide sideways, the door ajar, Chris’ head blocking Una from seeing the face of the person who might help them.

“You need to scan your ID to enter the building.” An irritated voice, masculine, low-toned.

“Of course.” Chris is smooth, cajoling. “My friend and I can show our IDs once we can access a computer. Unfortunately, our phones fell off the Riverwalk and into the water. We need to order replacements.”

There’s a derisive snort. “Your misfortune is a symptom of a greater societal dependence on technology. But, without IDs, the library is closed for you.”

Her jump forward is instinctive, a flex of Una’s hand — strength within human norms — to stop the door from closing. “I’m so sorry we troubled you, sir, but I promise we just need to order our replacement phones and we’ll be on our way.”

“Holy sh*t.” The man’s eyebrows leap up. The door slides open. He’s muscular, wide and crab-like with a strong chin and weak nose. His gaze seems to wander Una’s face, travel from her neck to her boots then up again, pausing at her chest. “I suppose it would be within my purview as head librarian to make an exception. I tell you what, you can use a computer and, in return, you’ll consider dinner and drinks with me tonight. You can show off your new phone. Or whatever else you want. Maybe even help me redecorate my bedroom, if implications of that particular idiom strike your fancy.”

What?

Is redecoration ... a customary recreational activity for this time period?

Chris’ hands form fists again, white knuckles and a tremor before flattening, his arm hooking over Una’s arm to step into the library together, a blast of cool air from the environmental control system and the pleasantly familiar buzz of Chris’ touch. “She’s with me.”

The crab-like librarian skitters backward, his thick, squat finger waggling toward Chris. “You said, ‘friend,’ my friend. And if your very pretty friend wants to get to know me better, that’s her choice. You are not at liberty to be a patriarchal asshole and drag her around by the arm while telling other people whether or not they have the right to extend a perfectly reasonable offer for her time and upfront, sex-positive, consensual preferences.”

Oh.

Redecorating a bedroom. Like with clothes on the floor.

Disgust oozes like grease on Una’s skin. This person let them into the library because he liked her appearance, not because he wanted to do his duty as a librarian. He speaks in flowery language to distract from lecherous behavior.

Annoyance stiffens Chris’ arm.

Una needs to handle this.

“I’m busy tonight and we leave tomorrow.” Her boots click on the hard floor. Most people in the library sit clustered around what looks like an internal coffee shop, some with books in hand, the air thick with the sweet scent of pastries. Around the perimeter are tables with computer terminals, so it makes sense to move toward the closest one. “Thank you for letting us in, though.”

The librarian follows them. “Busy doing what?”

“The protest downtown.” A lie to confuse someone, to blend in with human activities and expectations so Una can achieve what she wants — some things are the same in every time period. “I’m sure you understand the importance of civic action.”

There’s a sting of loss of contact as Chris’ arm retracts, sitting in separate chairs in front of the same computer, a login process that fortunately is explained on the screen.

“Huh. I wasn’t planning to go to that, but perhaps I’ll exercise my right to freedom of speech. Look for me. If one of us finds the other, it’s meant to be.” The librarian’s hand rests on his heart but in retreat, possibly an attempt at a backwards saunter until his disappearance into a room labeled for staff only.

Chris’ exhale is slow and jagged, his unease apparent, but Una has to hurry. The login process says she has fifteen minutes before having to log in again. An interruption to computer access might undo whatever etiquette seems to keep the librarian away.

The machine is crude, barely a step up from stone knives and bearskins, but it’s enough to backdoor into the government’s identification database and add two profiles, generate facial images, and input names and required information.

Christopher Riley. Una Riley. ID codes that match the system’s parameters for birthplaces in Mojave, California, and San Francisco, California.

Married ten years. It makes sense to build in possible legal protections associated with partnership, and Chris must agree because he’s quiet.

Permanent address in San Francisco, an apartment within a building on the future site of Starfleet Academy.

Enough credit chips to be comfortable, not enough to be wealthy given the extreme ranges in the database.

Save and exit the government files. Load a shopping search. Order two phones from a store a few blocks away. Ready time in two hours. Edit. Override. Ready time in five minutes.

A quick glance at Chris to make sure everything on their computer to-do list is done, and his cheeks are flushed. Not in illness or overheating. In embarrassment. Una’s head tilts to ask why and Chris’ eyes close — he doesn’t want to talk about it.

Okay.

Not enough time to arrange for shelter. They can do that from phones. It might be possible to counteract the computer’s time limitation but it’s not necessary, they’ve accomplished what they needed to do.

The screen goes black except for a message in large, bright green type: “The Tampa-Hillsborough County Public Library System thanks you for accessing your right to public library usage! Do you have your credit chips ready for a tasty treat or cool drink at the café? Remember, café proceeds help fund this location: Your money stays at your library. Books are on the lower level. Please remember to collect your belongings and take young children by the hand. Again, from your public library system: thank you!”

That’s ... weird.

Chris’ chair scrapes. “Nice work. Let’s get the phones.”

Una’s boots click on the hard floor again but, just before reaching the door to the outside, the crab-like librarian skitters toward her and Chris.

“I inquired with a few friends. The protest is supposed to be centered outside the gate to the old Sanctuary District. I’ll see you there. You can tell me your name.” The librarian ignores Chris, reaches toward Una as if to take her hand. “We can dance to protest music under the moonlight.”

Maybe this guy isn’t just a creep. Maybe he’s a starry-eyed, romantic creep.

“If it happens, it happens.” Una’s hands stay by her sides. She won’t be anywhere near the protest. “Goodbye.”

A slide of the door and the outdoor heat is steady despite the sun setting. There’s birdsong from the trees — aren’t birds supposed to sing in the morning? — and Chris doesn’t say anything as they walk to the store.

The phones are in a pickup locker that springs open when Chris enters his ID code.

“These things are more addictive than nicotine, alcohol, and most narcotics.” One of the small, smooth computing devices slides from Chris’ hand to Una’s. “We’ll have to be careful.”

The pickup locker slams shut by itself, a metallic clang that reverberates.

“Sure.” The phone screen illuminates. A welcome message notes Una’s name and ID code, as well as the number of credit chips in her account shared by Christopher Riley. A small, red heart joins her name and Chris’ name.

The heart is silly, right? An affectation of the time, not ... absolutely adorable, a warmth in Una’s chest for a small, ridiculous heart that connects her alias to Chris’ alias.

He’s tapping on his phone, intent, eyebrows furrowed. “There’s a hotel a few streets away. The check-in process is asking if we want a queen room or a king room. Do you know what that means?”

“You know this time period better than I do.” Una’s shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. Chris winces. Whatever is bothering him is getting worse. They should get to shelter as soon as possible. “Maybe it pertains to parts of the building, like king and queen on a chessboard?”

Through his wince is a nod, more tapping. “That makes sense.”

An alert pops up on Una’s phone screen, a hotel logo and the message: “This device is now your entry key for room 910. Enjoy your stay, Mr. and Mrs. Riley!”

There’s no small, red heart this time. Is it irrational to miss the small, red heart?

Okay, Chris is looking at her, a tilt of his head to indicate they should go to the hotel. It’s a short walk during which street lights flick on, an overhead glow that cascades downward, sky seeming more dark in contrast. Restaurant window signs welcome visitors. Other people on the sidewalk and in ground vehicles seem ... normal. As if they could change their clothes and stride down a starship corridor or lecture at a science conference centuries later.

A child’s laugh, joyful, carefree, curls up, up, up into the night and Chris’ pace quickens.

The hotel is a tall slab of a building, maybe fifteen stories, wraparound windows mirrored with the same privacy covering as the library’s windows.

What are the reflections of life outside supposed to suggest for the inside of the building? Safety? Serenity? Detachment? The sensation is mostly unnerving, the distraction of a slightly distorted self walking toward a lobby door that opens to reveal slim sofas, potted palm trees, a long front desk with computer kiosks, and a bank of lifts.

The lifts’ doors are mirrored, too.

A man who seems to be part of a family — another man with a matching wedding band and three kids, all damp and in towel-wrapped swim attire — pushes a button between lifts. The family discusses dinnertime options, a loving debate on the health benefits of pizza versus burritos, until a ding and slide of doors signal a lift’s arrival.

“Which floor?” The smallest child angles closest to a vertical grouping of buttons. “It’s my turn. I had good behavior and earned the right to push the buttons.”

Buttons to choose a floor, not voice command. Good to know.

“Nine.” Chris’ arms cross. “Thank you.”

The family steps off on the fifth floor.

And Chris is trying not to crumple, all quiet with tense shoulders and self-protection in the inward curl of his posture.

On the ninth floor, directional signage makes it easy to find the room. Both phones light up and a circle around the doorknob turns green.

Inside the room is a wall of windows, the darkening of the early evening sky only slightly distorted by the mirrored privacy screening that prevents people from seeing in. In front of the windows are two chairs and a table. A screen hangs on a wall to the right with a low chest of drawers underneath. To the left, an interior door is open to a bathroom. A few steps forward to see what else is in the room and one large bed dominates the area.

Oh.

That’s, um, that’s all right. Sharing a bed with Chris is hardly new — there have been diplomatic missions, ship repairs forcing crew to double up, a few shore leave mix-ups. No need for a flush of heat to blossom in Una’s chest, to creep up her neck, warm her cheeks. Maybe this time will be different.

He locks the door, the thunk of deadbolt and click of bar latch as near as they can get to safety in this time period, his stride across the room purposeful. But Chris’ flop into a chair is marionette-like, as if invisible strings had been cut. His hand reaches into his pocket and he sets his communicator and phone side by side on the table. “Help me figure out what we need to say in the message to the Vulcans.”

Yes, Una can do that.

She can drag the other chair to sit next to Chris and breathe with him, same as always. They can hunch together over the communicator and she can focus on work, on the delicate balance of encoding a text-only message that explains their situation without too many details, why it would be logical for the Vulcans to assist, a few respectful but effective counter-arguments to the Vulcan Science Directorate’s stance on time travel, and specifications for non-Earth metals to scan for in Starfleet delta badges. The message’s data file needs to be small enough to fit into one transmission, but she can include that they have another communicator on the same subspace frequency, as well as how to contact them by phone to discuss the situation. Consultation is unlikely. The Vulcan High Command tends to value its own input, not seek the input of others. But offering communication options makes sense, just in case.

“Do we include that you’re Illyrian?” Chris doesn’t look up from encoding the message. “Proof that you shouldn’t have to be on his planet if you don’t want to be here?”

“No point. Their scans couldn’t confirm, and the logic of not interfering with the timeline would probably be more important for their decision.” Especially to Vulcans, so often split on sentiment when it comes to Illyrians.

And Chris obviously wants to get this done, to cradle the communicator and shrink the data file, to trade the communicator warm from his hands to Una’s hands as she shrinks the file again and again as he stands, paces.

“Una.” He’s jittery, a peripheral vision blur that moves back and forth. Focus on the communicator, the work, not trying to calm whatever is bothering him. “Don’t the Illyrians have warp in this timeframe? Why don’t you want to signal them?”

She never said she doesn’t want to signal the Illyrians.

But he’s right.

“It’s not a good idea.” Shrink the file again. Smaller, smaller. Make the data fit where it was never meant to be. How could Una predict what frequency to use or where Illyrian ships might be deployed? Illyrians probably wouldn’t be close enough to receive a message, but there’s no way to know for sure. Chris wouldn’t understand. His human nature is by birth and by upbringing. Most of what Una knows about Illyrians is from a book.

Her Book of Vaultera sewn into her teddy bear. The seam opened and sewn shut again and again, only at night. Mom and Dad would worry if they knew. But the book held wisdom: Illyrians adapt, modify, never dominate. Illyrians engage in rituals including genetic engineering to give purpose and direction to their union with nature and the gift of creation. Illyrians are a proud people that create thriving colonies where others would find conditions too harsh for life. The book held intricate Illyrian design illustrations, musical nomenclature for Illyrian prayers — text and pictures that kept alive memories from before her family hid behind the veneer of safety that cost them the truth of who they were.

But how could Chris believe a story so farfetched — her own culture taken from her by her parents’ fear, too risky to research on Federation computers, an unknowable core of self essential to who she is, yet gone from her life in any practical way since she was a child?

“Understood.” He sits back down, a twitch of his hand as if he’d like to hold hers, as if his touch could somehow ease the coldness inside that should be the warmth of Illyrian rituals that became too dangerous for her parents to share.

Don’t reach for him.

Don’t think about the cold.

Besides, the task is done, data file small enough to transmit — a logical plea for rescue from a planetary past where she and Chris don’t belong — so it’s the communicator that she slides into his hand, Una’s hands empty while Chris taps to confirm her work.

The data file is their best hope.

And they need hope, need to believe they won’t be left to die in this timeframe, the mystery of what brought them here not nearly as important as surviving, leaving again, getting home. The message to the Vulcans is sensible, clear, not too specific about how far in the future Chris and Una come from or the dangers imminent on Earth. It should work, though, with the added benefit of following Starfleet regulations to not interfere with the timeline other than a signal for rescue. Once the war truly begins, Vulcan ships of this era won’t be able to scan through radiation in the atmosphere, so it’s important to send the message as soon as possible, get the Vulcans’ attention and await their help.

Chris checks in about their plan, a long glance and Una’s nod of agreement to go ahead, burn out the communicator. Something is still bothering him, a thunderstorm behind his eyes. But there’s a tink of hard surfaces meeting as Chris lays the communicator on the table and starts the message transmission.

There’s a whirring. Garbled beeps, too high, too low, and just wrong. Sparks, more sparks, communicator heat that fizzles and pops, burn marks freckling the table, chairs scraping backward to get away, Chris angling his body in front of Una’s, he doesn’t have to do that, she’s all right, a wan beep of confirmation that the message has been sent, sparks coalescing into a flame that burns like a Vulcan meditation lamp — a good omen?— and the fire lowers ... lowers ... lowers, and snuffs out.

It’s safe to take a closer look.

The table damage isn’t too bad. Credit chips can pay for repairs and a cover story about candles and a romantic dinner should work if they’re questioned.

Don’t think about why a lie about a romantic dinner is so appealing.

The communicator has become a lump of metal, essential systems welded together, useless except the device exceeded its original purpose and sent the message.

At the rate of transmission, the data file should take three months to reach Vulcan.

What do they do until then?

Chapter 3: To Dirt

Chapter Text

Dinner is room service, two orders of baked chicken, peas, and mashed potatoes. Chris’ nose crinkles in disgust at his first bite. “This tastes like dirt.”

There is a ... muddy ... flavor, possibly a result of soil erosion affecting the food chain.

It’s late, hours spent reading manuals to better understand how to work the phones, technology in the room, various hotel services. So it’s lamp light that glints off the tines of Una’s fork, her mashed potatoes lifted as if in a celebratory toast to good fortune. “To dirt.”

Chris’ forkful of mashed potatoes meets hers. “To dirt.”

There’s a clink.

And a smile. “Thanks, Number One.”

“Anytime, Captain.” The dirt isn’t as bad when he smiles. “I was thinking that next we should familiarize ourselves with the various news sources, be aware of the issues of the day.”

His wince from earlier returns. “Can I say I’d rather eat dirt?”

“If you did, I wouldn’t argue.” Hatred for Augments is sure to be in the news, slanted stories about genetic engineering that will set in motion the mistrusts and misunderstandings that persist centuries later. “But, in the interests of blending in, we have a duty to —”

His hand rises, fingers splayed up, palm open, defeat. “After we finish our dirt.”

But his brow furrows above his jaw that’s chewing, chewing — not just food. Thought. Little sighs that mean he’s mulling something. And it can be beneficial to push Chris to talk about what’s on his mind, to crack open his hesitancy and let his worries emerge. But it also can be good to let him work through things on his own, let him keep up his pretense of peace, forkful after forkful of food feeding his decision-making process until the tension in his forehead eases and —

“It’s like seeing a picture of yourself at your worst, you know?” Chris’ glance up from his plate is self-effacing, almost shy. “The humans of this time are so caught up with their ‘rights’ that they don’t consider the higher purpose of a shared humanity. I wonder, sometimes, if the goal in creating the Augments — that idea of upgrading humans to be better — made more sense in this timeframe. An ideal born out of frustration with the selfish, adolescent posturing of a planet of people who refused to reach their potential.”

That ... seems harsh. Every planetary population has growing pains.

He keeps talking, his usual inspirational speeches inverted by frustration. “I try not to hate these people. I try to remember that they don’t know any better. But it shouldn’t have taken almost annihilating themselves for humans to understand their need to unify for the good of all.”

“All who agree with them.” The words slip out, a clear assessment aided by a mouthful of muddy food that proves humans’ shortsighted abuses of their own ecosystems. “Not with cultures that practice genetic engineering.”

Chris’ mouth droops. His shoulders droop. A push to his almost-empty plate and he’s standing, stepping over to the bed, sitting with his elbows on his knees and his head cradled in his hands. “You’re right.”

He’s more upset than he should be, fatigue intensifying his melancholy at her low blow at the end of a long day.

But righteousness squares Una’s shoulders as she moves toward him. Humans often prioritize their own ideals instead of recognizing a variety of cultural options as simultaneously worthy of admiration. For too long, Una kept that opinion to herself, her favorite human unable to receive correction on his all-too-human failing.

So she sits next to him, mattress dipping, a slip-slide toward each other, the outer sides of hips and thighs touching through uniform pants, her hand out and Chris grabs on, holds tight.

It’s like being on a choppy sea and having one thing, one good thing to hold onto, her belly twisting with guilt the way it has so many times before. So an apology slides out, heartfelt, not for the hard truth he needed to hear just now ... but for the lack of truth he didn’t deserve last night.

“I lied to you after the party you threw me back on the ship. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” His quarters had been empty except for the two of them, dishes nearly done, her fingertips pruny from washing. “It’s true I wasn’t hurt that La’an didn’t come. I know how she feels about parties. But I lied when I said she was lucky to have missed your speech. I, um, I appreciated what you said.”

He’d said, as part of some adorably long-winded and possibly whisky-fueled remarks of praise, the party in full swing and attendees’ eyes on him, that he couldn’t imagine a better first officer, a better friend, than Una.

And Una’s relief — he doesn’t just think of her as exemplary, as he’d said all those months ago in his ready room, he thinks of her as the best friend he could imagine — became entangled with an ache in her chest that didn’t match the stiff smile on her face. Wanting more from him was unfair, an overreach of hope that didn’t correlate to reality. Especially when, at the sink washing up later, her lie had set the same old emotional pattern in motion: get close, push away, get close, push away.

They’re close now, his hand squeezing hers, body heat from his thigh so good, so right, even through clothes, the mental fuzz of sleepiness creeping closer, soothing.

“I know. I knew then and I know now.” He’s careful, measuring his words the way he does in delicate negotiations, his gaze flicking to take in the soft gasp of surprise that escapes from somewhere high in her throat. “You have tells, Una.”

Tells? Like in a poker game when someone’s body language makes it obvious that they’re bluffing?

With his free hand, Chris motions upward, toward Una’s face. “Your eyebrows move more when you lie. You crack more jokes. Sometimes you get bristly. You breathe from your chest instead of your belly and your voice sounds different. Like when we had to go to counseling after Alfa 177. I wasn’t going to tattle on you, but it was obvious you weren’t telling the truth every time the counselor asked about your family or your upbringing.”

Alfa 177. The classified mission. The transporter accident. That was when they were posted to the Chatelet.

Chris has known every lie she’s told for close to twenty years.

And he never admitted it until today?

Old patterns, old patterns. New information but old patterns, and Una is scrambling, standing, dropping Chris’ hand, the room tilting, seeming to spin, get close, push away, light-headedness, she must have stood up too quickly, get close, push away, it’s not that unmoored feeling from loss of contact with Chris, not lashing out because she’s tired and upset. “I understand. I guess I’m just an open book, then.”

“Una, stop.” Chris stands, too. Sways a little. Could he also be light-headed? Get close, push away. “Don’t —”

Don’t what? Don’t be angry that he withheld this from her? Anger would be wrong considering the secrets she kept from him ... keeps from him. Don’t be hurt that he didn’t trust her? Again, she’s the one who proved herself untrustworthy. Don’t wonder why he’s being honest with her now, the two of them out of time with only each other, her truth spawning his truth and they could keep going like that, honesty begetting honesty, until what, exactly? Where would that end? Someplace good and sprawling and wonderful?

On the table, both phones emit a high-pitched whine.

Danger.

Starfleet training. Running for a red alert, steps in sync, adrenaline, phones scooped into hands, displays identical: “Breaking News: Three lives lost at downtown Tampa protest. Police confirm area is now safe. Percentage of bar crawl profits to be donated to cover funeral expenses.”

What?

Who died?

Why were the police involved?

Oh God, the librarian wasn’t going to go to the protest until Una said she would be there. What if her actions resulted in him getting killed? What if that librarian was someday supposed to give a young Zefram Cochrane a book on warp theory? Or help a young Lily Sloane learn the properties of titanium? What if the librarian is an ancestor of Trip Tucker? Was that family in Florida at this time?

“The news outlets aren’t releasing information about the dead pending notification of next of kin.” Chris must be thinking what Una is thinking, his fingers flying across his phone screen the way they would a scanning console, information, information, he’s accessing information. “I’m trying to get into the police database, but can’t. Can you try from your phone?”

“On it.” The simplicity of these small computers can make them more difficult to use. File systems are usually easy to crack, though, and the police database’s security algorithm is outdated, even for the era. “I have an incident report that includes ID matches for the three people who died, as well as for the person who accidentally killed them.”

A member of a militia, confused by surface-level fireworks set off by protestors despite a prohibition on fireworks in the protest zone. Shots fired. No one involved even resembling the librarian.

Una didn’t wreck the future.

People didn’t die because of her.

They could have, though. Time is delicate. That’s what Temporal Mechanics professors teach at the academy. Una could have broken the timeline. Una was thoughtless, careless, incredibly stupid to be blasé about what could have cost the librarian his life.

Chris must be able to tell what’s on her mind because he swivels her hand gently, so gently, to tilt her phone screen so he can read details in the police database. His shoulders sag in relief for a crisis averted, not even the protestors whose picture he took as included among the dead.

“Una, you couldn’t have known the librarian would be in any danger. And it worked out. He wasn’t involved.” Chris is stating the obvious, a verbal check-in that they’re in agreement. “We’ll both be more careful from here on out.”

“Generous to say that as if we both did something wrong.” Ridiculous to have the urge to shove the phones aside and step into Chris’ arms, seek reassurance in the comfort of his embrace. They were about to have an argument. He can tell when she lies. He’s been able to tell when she lies. Her secrets were never fully kept and she messed up with the librarian and Chris is taking some of the blame, a habit from before he was captain that became commonplace as he took charge of people he wants to protect as much as he wants to command.

Get close, push away.

Leave her phone in his hands.

Step into the bathroom, shut the door. She and Chris both self-isolate when upset. Una needs to be by herself, to find calm in the familiarity of bathroom levers and knobs. At least this technology hasn’t changed much. A splash of cool water on her face. No toothbrush or toothpaste. No nightclothes. No clothing refresher. How will she clean her uniform?

Worry about that tomorrow. Undershirt and underwear are fine for sleeping. And she needs to sleep, hot curls of crankiness coiling tight, smothering what should be relief — the librarian is all right and Una is stuck here with the person who knows her best.

A person she can’t lie to anymore.

Which means, for now, it’s wise to say nothing except goodnight, a soft “Goodnight, Una” in response. The mattress is appropriately plush on the same side of the bed she usually takes in these situations, her hip and shoulder sinking a little to turn away from where Chris will sleep — maybe this time will be different — and it’s surprisingly easy to relax with the sound of running water in the bathroom as he washes up.

Maybe a heavy, dreamless sleep is typical for this time period. Some quality of the air or food. Or perhaps not drinking enough water during the day is why she didn’t even need to pee in the middle of the night. But the slow climb to wakefulness, thick blackness of peace and unconsciousness parting for sunlight streaming through the window, is the same as ever when Una and Chris share a bed.

A sheen of sweat on her cheek where she’s pressed up to the warmth of his back.

Her arm slung over his waist, her hand secure in his hand.

Her knees tucked into the backs of his knees, his breathing rhythmic, tranquil.

Old patterns, old patterns.

Old comforts, too, ensconced in blankets, in cradles of soft skin that form the gentle bends of his body.

There was something ... something yesterday. In the confusion of adapting to this time period, the stress, the fear, there was something critically important.

Oh.

Chris can tell when she lies.

Coldness prickles Una’s spine.

Well, fine. Then she won’t continue her usual lie of omission when they wake up like this. Una will start today with honesty.

“Good morning.” Her growl is into his back, that gentle slope between his shoulder blades that she won’t press her lips to because truth and instinct are different. “I know you’re only pretending to be asleep. You always do that.”

When Chris is really asleep, there’s a slight wheeze to his breathing, a vestige of the asthma he had as a child.

“Good morning to you, too.” He’s stalling, not confirming or denying, his voice morning-gravelly and low. “Sounds like someone woke up feisty.”

Feisty.

Damn, that’s a sexy word first thing in the morning.

Pain blossoms where her teeth dig into her lower lip. Focus. Fight it. Fight the visceral temptations almost searing in intensity — a bite to his shoulder, rocking her hips against his ass, lowering her hand to find out if her suspicions over the years are true and he has an erection. Feisty. Oh, hell yes. She’ll show him feisty, a tightness between her legs and heat in her chest.

No.

No.

The pattern is get close, push away. If they get too close, there’s more to lose when one or both of them pushes away.

“I’ve been thinking about safety.” Chris keeps talking as if Una isn’t spooning him, a tiny tremor to his hold on her hand the only indication that he’s scared, doesn’t want her to break contact. “It’s too dangerous to go back to the Riverwalk. If our badges fell into the water, I’m not sure how we could recover them. We should prioritize pockets in any clothing we purchase so we can keep our badges close at all times. The Vulcans could be making metallurgical scans of the planet or a Vulcan on Earth could have heard our message and used a long-range communications system to contact the High Command right away. We should be ready to stay here for a few months, but also prepared to leave on a moment’s notice. First priority should be educating ourselves on the news of the day — as you suggested last night — then shopping for toiletries and appropriate clothing.”

It’s a good plan.

His ribs shift as he breathes, as his hand holds hers.

“Agreed. We might want to buy a bag or bags of some kind so we can carry the communicators and our uniforms, too, plus our phones.” It’s smart to talk strategy. Cool the libido with the art and science of mission planning. “That way, if we leave suddenly, we’ll have everything we need.”

“Good thinking. Also, the nutritional qualities of the food aren’t what we’re used to. We’ll adapt to that if we stay for much longer, but we may as well conserve our energy this morning.” He’s trying to prolong their time in bed. It’s obvious.

It’s not a lie to agree — “May as well.” — and to hold him, contentment loosening the usual knot in her belly, thick blankets like a cocoon, tactile comfort in the curves and planes of him. His breathing slows into the usual syncopation, his two breaths for her every three. And drowsiness creeps back in, a periphery of consciousness and unconsciousness, blurry, indistinct, liminal yet essential to keep holding him, keep him close.

He’s so warm.

Sweat forms a damp line between her breasts, beads along her upper lip.

Her arm not slung over his waist becomes tingly with loss of circulation, trapped, immobile.

The need to pee takes on more and more urgency.

Oh, but she could stay like this all day, enfolding yet enfolded, boundless by the very nature of being bound to someone, quiet because if either of them speaks there’s a risk of common sense prevailing to get out of bed.

Though, of course, one sense does prevail — urgently.

“Chris, I need to pee. I’ll leave the bathroom door unlocked so you can pee while I shower.”

His dozy grunt is appreciation, letting go of her hand so she can turn and roll — careful, don’t want to move the blankets, he might get cold — and it’s not quite a sprint to the bathroom, but thank goodness he put the toilet seat down last night.

Are these tiny shampoo and conditioner bottles concentrated formulas? How else could this be enough for two people?

The stream of shower water is normal, but the soap is ... scratchy. That’s strange.

On the other side of the shower curtain, there’s movement and a flush of the toilet. “I’ll add toothbrushes and toothpaste to the shopping list. And a razor and shaving cream for me.”

Good. Chris with a beard usually means he’s depressed, lack of self-interest in his appearance a symptom of deeper worries churning in his mind. Once that inner storm is soothed, he gains the energy and perspective to care for himself again.

“Do you want me to keep the shower running?” That’s their usual procedure. And she’s clean enough, an oddly chemical-like coating from the soap and hair care products washed off, the air thick with steam.

“Yes.” A towel pokes in at the edge of the shower curtain, Chris’ fingers tight on white terrycloth. “I started a breakfast order on my phone. If you want to change anything, go ahead.”

A quick grab of the towel, his step to the far side of the shower so Una can wrap the towel around herself and exit as Chris enters, his underpants on the counter instead of the floor because she’d warned him that time on Alpha Braga VIII but he hadn’t listened and, even though the odds of running from enemy fire in shower-splash soaked underpants are slim, he’ll probably never take that risk again.

The breakfast order is perfect, delivered by the time Chris is out of the shower and they’re both in uniform again, a coffee toast-tribute to a dirt-omelette and dirt-waffles. The coffee actually tastes all right but is unusually strong, as if one sip is as much caffeine as a whole pot of black coffee back home. Neither Una nor Chris take a second sip.

And there’s quiet, phones passed back and forth to share news articles and videos that ... don’t quite make sense. One media source deems last night’s protestors accidentally killed by militia fire as “innocents harmed by out-of-control militarization,” while another media source describes the same protestors as “agents for needless change deserving of their discrete disposal by the sensible, gun-toting hand that fed them.” There’s no mention of the illegal fireworks.

A talk show host implores Augments to seize power in more nations, to take over industries and public services that could benefit from “abilities demonstrably more superior than the yahoos we have now.”

Another talk show host claims to have a message for Augments, then holds up a middle finger to the cheers of a studio audience.

“I can’t keep doing this.” The storm clouds from yesterday gather in Chris’ eyes. “I hate these people. I know I shouldn’t, but I do and I don’t want to.”

He’s not just upset about Earth’s past, though. It’s obvious from the way his Adam’s apple bobs, his phone dropping onto the table with a clunk, his hands flexing as if he’s trying to hold imaginary sand that falls through his fingers.

Don’t pressure him or he’ll shut down. “Chris, is there something else you want to talk about?”

He’s not actually shrinking, just sitting in that way that makes him seem small, fragile, all crumpled shoulders and chin that’s trying to be brave.

“I feel like ...” His voice falters and he tries again. “Ever since I found out about my fate, my future seemed inevitable unless I purposefully tried to change it. But I feel like my fate is ... uncertain. I could sense it the moment we got here, but I told myself I was imagining things. I keep trying to push the feeling aside, but it keeps coming back no matter what I do. My fate, Una. It’s not a fate anymore. And I don’t know what that means.”

It means he’s free of the fear that’s haunted him.

It means they could die here.

It means what Una always believed — his fate isn’t inevitable, there’s another way — could be correct at the expense of Chris’ surety that his fate was sacrosanct, his life’s course altered not by something he did but by something that happened to him.

“It means,” her hand finds his, holds on, “we figure it out together.”

There’s a tremor of fear like he had this morning, but this is the kind that dissipates, his worries ebbing.

“Thanks, Number One.” A flush of embarrassment. Because he talked about his fate? Because she’s holding his hand at the breakfast table? “I know I couldn’t do this without you.”

He’s referencing the future he saw on the Enterprise and she wasn’t there. Did he break her fate? Or was her imprisonment in that timeline part of what was wrong? It would be typical of Chris to change someone else’s future for the better but not to improve his own.

“Good.” A squeeze, letting his hand go, soft fingers and a palm receding, the familiar sting of loss of contact. “Because we’re going to have to stay together in case the Vulcans call early. My ride is your ride.”

Staying together should be okay, right? No old pattern of getting close and pushing away because this is duty, not personal. Just take it task by task, day by day.

A walk to what’s called a drugstore but there are mostly non-pharmaceutical products for sale, all the necessities, and Chris even adds extra shampoo and conditioner so they won’t have to ration, plus soap that hopefully won’t be scratchy. No one tries to help them or talk to them, which is a relief. At the payment computer, Una’s phone chimes a sprightly ding and displays the number of credit chips charged, and her thumb traces the small red heart joining the names Christopher Riley and Una Riley.

Chris’ phone chimes, too. A tilt of the screen so Una can see, and the text-only message is from the hotel. Do they want to check out or modify their room reservation?

A silent discussion of his look up from his phone and her slight head shake. No need for any changes. Even though their research into the hotel taught them that there are rooms with two beds, not one.

In that one bed, the night’s sleep doesn’t come easily, waking up pressed against him again and he actually is still asleep this time, a whimper in his wheezing that suggests a nightmare but holding him more closely — “Chris, I’m here. You’re safe.” — calms his breathing.

A walk to a store her phone identifies as offering “classic styles and up-to-the-minute trends” for clothing. That should help them feel more fresh, at least. Third-day uniform isn’t anyone’s best look.

Turns out, most of what’s in the clothing store isn’t Una’s best look, either. It’s strange because Chris is slightly taller than she is with a wider chest and he doesn’t have a problem, even finding knapsacks for them both. But the pants Una tries on are too short and shirts that fit across her chest billow at the waist and shirts that fit at the waist are too tight across her chest.

Maybe she needs a different store?

“Hold on.” A sales clerk taps a phone so large it almost looks like a padd. “We have some talls in the storeroom. I’ll be right back.”

No.

Going to the storeroom isn’t a good idea.

What if a box of clothing falls from a high shelf and hits the clerk in the head and the clerk dies when the clerk should have lived? Timeline broken, world destroyed. Fear chokes a plea to stop, don’t go, no, but the clerk is already gone. And this is the librarian all over again only worse, Una should have learned her lesson, interaction is dangerous. Eyes stinging. Throat too big. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.

“Una, relax.” Chris’ voice is low in her ear, his hand steady on her elbow.

He’s right.

He’s right.

Oh, he’s definitely right, the clerk returning with a stack of folded pants and shirts, the clerk’s eyebrows rising at Una’s effusive thanks.

And everything fits.

Sleepwear that night is proper pyjamas — shorts and a sleeveless shirt — and maybe it’s because she and Chris aren’t getting enough movement during the day that unconsciousness is elusive. Again.

There has to be something they can do to improve their sleep.

The next morning brings a walk to a store that has bathing suits. The hotel pool should be safe enough for exercise, and maybe exercise will help them get better rest.

Why does nothing fit right in this timeframe? One-piece bathing suits chafe at the legs and shoulders. If a two-piece bathing suit is comfortable at the chest, then it’s too small in the hips. If the fit is good at the hips, then the bathing suit is too tight across the chest. Chris waits, patient, his back leaning against a rack of swimwear, his eyes watchful for safety as Una chooses the maximum of six bathing suits at a time to enter and exit a fitting room, enter and exit, enter and exit, sternum burning with hot pinpricks of frustration. She could program any synthesizer to produce perfectly sized clothing within minutes.

If synthesizers existed yet.

Another clerk looks up from another padd-like device. “We sell tops and bottoms as separates, if that’s easier.”

Yes. That is easier. Grab a top size and bottom size that each fit before. Don’t talk with the clerk any more than necessary. Don’t accept the discount the clerk offers in exchange for posting pictures wearing the bathing suit on “the socials.” What does that even mean? What criteria determine who can receive the discount? Don’t ask. Don’t break the timeline. Just be relieved that shopping interactions should be done for now and Chris was able to find something so quickly, a swimsuit that hugs his waist and stops a few centimeters from his knees.

And it’s nice to sit in a chaise at the hotel, ignore anyone who tries to start a conversation with her — time is delicate, don’t break the timeline — and watch him swim.

Really nice.

A flutter of feet splashing, as if he’s dancing, almost weightless.

Water droplets clinging to his arms, muscles hard with exertion.

His head turning as his lips part to pull in air, the perfectly pink lips she can’t see in the mornings when she wakes up spooning him — they don’t talk about it, they never have — and what would those lips feel like touching her lips, lingering along her neck, a push backwards on the bed upstairs as his perfectly pink lips slowly find their way down to her —

“Una?” Chris stands in front of her, hotel towel knotted around his waist and another hotel towel slung around his shoulders. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” She’s fine. It must be her turn to swim and his turn to sit with the knapsack that holds their badges, communicators, and uniforms.

And if it feels like he might be watching her swim, too ... well, maybe he is?

That night, there are hours of trying to fall asleep. Don’t think about the timeline. Don’t think about how isolated they are. Don’t think about anything.

Another day.

Another night, restless.

Another day, cleaning clothes in the sink and hanging damp fabric over the shower rod and towel bars. Everything dries stiff but serviceable.

Another night, and why is sleep so elusive?

Another day.

Another night and, in the dark, Chris’ hands form fists over his eyes, his shoulders tight with frustration. “I miss the sound of the warp core.”

So Una hums the low tone, a reverberation that’s not quite music, not quite memory.

The mattress bends as he shuffles toward her, toward the reminder of home, his shoulders loosening, and it’s instinct to open her arms, to hold him close, soft skin and Chris-scent and the comfort of his pretty body. And his breathing slows, goes rhythmic with the slight wheeze as he falls asleep, as she falls asleep, all thanks to a lullaby-hum imitating the warp core.

Beautiful, beautiful sleep.

Another day and no errands means less risk of accidentally hurting anyone, just a trip to the pool for exercise. Except Chris, as usual, doesn’t want to check the news, doesn’t want to strategize arguments if the Vulcans challenge their story, doesn’t want to look over her lists of knowledge gleaned about this time period. The only thing he seems to want to do is to sit by the window and watch the breeze rustle the branches of trees that died out centuries before he was born.

Another night without rest. Some unconsciousness, yes, but not rest.

Another day without errands. Dirt-food. Pool. Dirt-food. Good night. Good morning. No talking any more than necessary to people in the hallways or elevators. Not enough dirty clothes yet to wash. Chris asks if Una is all right — again — and of course she is, just ... just ... nothing. Never mind. He suggests taking a walk outside, but what does he recommend if they do something to disrupt the timeline? A walk outside isn’t worth the risk unless there are errands to run. Dirt-food. Good night. Darkened ceiling and why can’t they sleep?

In the morning, Chris lingers in her arms, his warmth a comforting constant, and he holds her hand the way he always does until one of them has to get up to pee. But he doesn’t shave, just lets the scruff of beard stay in place. He gets dressed when she does, long pants and short sleeves for both of them, Starfleet boots a reminder of who they are. He barely eats his dirt-breakfast, though, just pokes at his pancakes with his fork. There’s a long exhale from his side of the table, then he takes in air to speak.

“Una, I’m worried about you.” He’s worried about her? Isn’t that backwards? Worry about him glistens in every glimmer of the stubble on his cheeks, hides in every bite of food he doesn’t eat. “Whenever you speak to someone who isn’t me, you get so scared that your whole body tenses up. And you don’t talk with me about how you’re feeling, just practical stuff like mission planning. I’ve tried opening up — telling you how I’m dealing with the people here and with my fate — but you don’t share back.”

“Oh.” There’s a tight clink of her fork settling onto the table. The table they burned their first night here. Before days stuck in this room and nights that crept by and fatigue that’s sparking now, too, catching like flame on a match and flashing into anger. “I didn’t realize I’m so difficult to spend time with.”

“Una.” The rise in Chris’ voice is a warning that he doesn’t appreciate her escalating his concern into an argument.

Too bad. Annoyance straightens her spine, lights up her mind that had been slow from too many nights without enough rest and too many days with nothing to do.

“Sharing and expecting reciprocity as opposed to talking to me because I’m truly your friend, that makes a lot of sense. A shade manipulative for you, though, don’t you think?” She’s being unfair. He’s not manipulative. He’s right. But the pattern is happening. Get close, push away. If they were on the ship right now, she would try to set him up with someone, anyone, to distract him, give him somewhere else to focus his energy and care and ... love? Because he’s telling her a hard truth and he wouldn’t do that if he didn’t think she was worth his feelings that run so deep. But where those feelings could lead is ... don’t think about that. Don’t think about something that could be good and right. Think about his incorrect assessment of their situation. “I guess my apology for what happened at my party back on the Enterprise doesn’t matter. I guess me finding out that you’ve been cataloging my ‘tells’ for at least twenty years is something I’m supposed to just shrug off and use my newfound inability to lie to you to confess my most secret thoughts.”

Una should stop. She’s made her point, the slump in Chris’ posture signaling defeat.

But the words tumble out, too hot and fast to think first. “I guess we’re supposed to ignore the fact that pretending to be human for most of my life has had some goddamn repercussions on my ability to be myself.”

His mouth hangs open, a half-moon of hurt and ... self-reproach?

No, no, no, no. Push away, push away.

A blur of scooping up her badge and communicator — did she mean what she said? does she really believe her self-expression was stunted by decades of stuffing herself into the supposed safety of something she’s not? — and Una is supposed to stay with Chris in case the Vulcans contact them but she can’t trust herself to stop talking so Una needs to go.

May as well grab her phone, too, anger curling and twisting in her belly like something alive.

She’s too jangled for the lift — elevator, the hotel services guide calls a lift an elevator — so it’s best to take the enclosed fire stairs, concrete and grey and ugly. Up, up, up, boots pounding, heart pounding, get close, push away, get close push away. Does she ever truly let him get close, though?

Top floor, chest rising and falling, pulling in air, hard doorknob immobile, the door to the roof is locked, no sense in possibly breaking the lock just to see the view and feel goddamn alive in the open air.

Fine.

Down, down, down, echoes of her boots hitting the next step, the next step, the next step.

What’s the next step? She and Chris aren’t meant to be stuck in a small room for months. They’ll worry about each other, fight, get close, push away. They're people of activity, action, star-streaks outside viewports and new missions, fresh challenges, not stuffy air and waiting around to be rescued. Besides, the message sent to the Vulcans had no location information, only how to track Chris and Una by their badges. They don’t have to stay in one place.

Grey stairs, grey walls, need to get out of here. Can’t think with echoes of her own bootsteps, her own gasps for air. Where should they go? What should she do? What should Chris do? Which of their skills could give them something to think about besides survival and each other? The computers and aircraft of this time are too simple for her, and she can’t manage people for fear of interfering with the timeline. His cooking is to relax, not for a job. And they need to work, they both find fulfillment in work. A job could take a wage from someone who needs it, though. How can they work without disrupting the timeline?

Bottom floor, a yank of a doorknob that turns easily, the lobby, just a few more steps, brighter light, another doorway, and the pool beckons relief. Only a few people are in lounge chairs, no one is in the water. A rush of air on her feet as Una pulls off her boots, rolls up her pants legs. The pool deck is rough through cloth covering her rear end, but the water is cool on her legs dangling into the pool.

The smooth edges of Una’s phone are in her hand.

Tapping. Research. This is a problem that can be solved. Chris is worried about her. She’s worried about him. They can’t stay here. Can she be herself somewhere else? Can she learn how to do that — to be herself with the person who truly does know her best? What does she want? What does he want?

There’s a rustling. Chris. His boots in his hands and his pants legs rolled up. A muted splash and his legs dangle next to hers.

Maybe Una should apologize.

Maybe Chris should apologize.

But the answer alights on her phone screen — search parameters met. A less urban location with fewer people to possibly endanger. Close enough that their progress learning local culture won’t go to waste. Work opportunities, especially for him but she should be able to find something given what he’s taught her over the years. Evading a salary can come later. They can pack their knapsacks, check out of the hotel, take bus transportation, and be there later today.

“I think we should start fresh. How about this as a place to go next?” Her screen tilts so he can see.

His low whistle is of admiration and agreement.

The phone’s display reads: “Ocala, Florida: Horse Capital of the World.”

Chapter 4: The Good Friends Ridership Academy

Chapter Text

The bus isn’t bad. Better than a shuttle mission overstuffed with sweaty lower deckers. Worse than ... just about anything else.

Inertial dampeners haven’t been invented yet, of course, but is this form of transportation supposed to be lurchy, inspiring waves of gratitude for not having had much dirt-breakfast?

Also, phone hardware and software includes volume control, so why don’t bus riders choose to keep their phone sounds at an appropriately low level?

At least Chris uses his phone wisely, searching for hotel options in Ocala and horse stables that allow visitors.

It would be nice to see that pure, gentle smile Chris gets when he’s near a horse.

He had apologized, his face freshly shaven as they packed their knapsacks — “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Una. You’re my, uh, you’re my favorite person. I’m sorry I made you feel bad. I should have been more careful with what I said.” — and she had apologized, not looking at him, folding a shirt and sliding it into her bag — “I’m sorry I called you manipulative. I didn’t mean that. You’re my favorite person, too.” Had she ever actually told him that before? Trying to open up is like a crack forming in an eggshell. How far will it go? Is there life inside or just a slimy mess?

He looks up from his phone and out the window of the bus, almost imperceptible flexes of his hands a sign that he’s trying to work through a problem.

The bus reaches the Ocala depot with a sigh.

Ocala is very ... green. Leafy trees and manicured grassy areas. There’s a sensation of swaying but that’s probably from stepping down and away from the stuffy lurches of the bus.

A possible hotel is a few kilometers’ walk. Even with pollution from motor vehicles, the roadside breeze is a relief. Other people stride past on the sidewalk, scraps of conversations, bursts of music or talk from phones. Lampposts every few meters have informational flyers attached — a lost dog, a sale on horse feed, low-cost medications for those who need them.

Lamppost. A furniture store is liquidating a supply of sofas.

Lamppost. Kittens need a home.

Lamppost. The coffee shop a block away will have a poetry reading.

Lamppost.

Intuition is a unique sensation. Tingly fingers. A lightness in the chest. Something important is about to happen. Something good. Something that has to do with why they came to Ocala.

“Hang on a sec.” Chris lingers in front of the newest lamppost. “What do you think of this?”

The flyer has no pictures, only words: “Seeking volunteers to help close down what was the Good Friends Ridership Academy. If you’re willing to take small packages to the post office, muck out stalls, and handle equine water and feed — WE CAN USE YOUR HELP. No financial remuneration due to the dissolution of our business and person-to-person payments for labor made illegal by Supreme Court ruling. However, we encourage you to exercise your right to deduct volunteer time contributions from your taxes at the living wage hourly rate. No-cost, no-frills cabin housing available on site. Great for gap year students and retirees. Call Paul and Amy Jacobs for more information.”

It’s perfect. Something to do. Not taking a job from someone who needs the income. Minimal risk of timeline disruption, in part since consistent shelter would mean encountering fewer travelers than at a hotel.

Una nods and Chris taps out the phone number from the flyer. There’s an address, too — about eight kilometers away according to the map on Una’s phone.

“Hi, Mr. Jacobs. My name is Chris Riley. I’m calling about your advertisem*nt seeking volunteers. My, uh, my wife Una and I would like to learn more about helping you out.” Chris’ cheeks flush. Because of calling Una his wife? Because of lying in general? Is it warmer than usual? Are Una’s cheeks flushing, too?

A truck with horses in a trailer drives by, rumbly, as Chris listens to Mr. Jacobs.

“Yes, retirees. We worked on a, uh, a ship.” Chris’ eyelids flutter — self-awareness that his lie isn’t exactly the best. But Mr. Jacobs must believe it. “Yes, a cruise ship out of the Port of Miami, that’s right. So living in one of your cabins wouldn’t be too much of a change for us.”

Chris’ uncomfortable, please-find-my-joke-funny laugh shouldn’t be so adorable, all lifted eyebrows and those lines that form on his forehead. Nor should his chuckle of relief that his ship-cabin land-cabin humor must have worked.

“Sure, Mr. Jacobs ... all right, Paul. We’re not too far to get to you on foot, so ... that’s right, we don’t have a car, but we can ... no, we don’t have any linens.... Okay, uh, sure.” Chris’ finger swipes on his phone, toggles the tracker to share his location. “We’ll see you soon.... Blue truck, yes, we’ll watch for it.... Uh, yes, knapsacks. We left everything behind when we left the ship, but that can be good. Not having as much stuff can help what’s important shine through.”

That look Chris is giving her — his chin tucked in, bashful, eyes glistening — that’s, um, that’s nice, actually. As if Una is what he means by something important shining through. That’s, um, really, really nice.

The phone call terminates.

Focus.

“You said he’s picking us up in a blue truck? Is it safe to get into a motor vehicle with someone we don’t know?” Una could probably overpower any human, but personal weapons at this time are already dangerous.

Chris’ shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. “He sounded okay. Older. I think it’ll be all right.”

It doesn’t take long to find out, a blue truck with a for sale sign in the back window, mud-flecked wheel wells, and a stocky man with a ring of white hair on his mostly bald head who waves as he pulls up. “Chris, Una, hop on in. I’ll give you the rundown as we go. My wife is getting your cabin ready if you’re still interested once you learn more. If not, I can drop you off wherever you say.”

That seems promising.

It’s a step up into the vehicle, Chris going first, sitting next to Paul. And there should be consideration of tactical advantage or potential damage to the timeline or some other strategic need — the knapsacks on Chris and Una’s knees could be used as weapons or shields, if necessary — but it’s difficult to be concerned as Paul starts talking, his voice pure love in baritone.

“It’s been my wife’s and my honor and privilege to own Good Friends Ridership Academy for the last forty-two years. We’ve lived and worked on the property all that time, and our three kids spent so much of their childhoods with the horses, it’s a wonder none of them speak equine.” Paul’s smile seems rich in memories as he turns right at a stoplight. “Anyway, Amy got sick a few years ago and she’s mostly recovered, but the medical costs got to us and we’re both slower than we used to be. So we sold the property to some neighbors. The neighbors want to expand their stables, and Amy and I want to move to be closer to our kids and grandkids in Baltimore. All the paperwork is done, and our neighbors have kindly exercised their right to rent back the land to us while we get the horses ready for their new homes, plus clean out the house and cabins. We had a horseback riding summer sleepaway camp for a while — no bunk beds for you two, though. The head counselor cabin has a kitchenette and its own bathroom. We sure would appreciate the help, if you feel up to the work.”

Chris’ head swivels to check in, the truck seems to bobble with Una’s a slight nod, and Chris clears his throat — emotional, he gets so emotional — “We’d be honored to help.”

Paul’s lips lift in a smile again. “Thank you.”

He points out the post office and explains the camp had a tradition of awards at the end of a session, things like “most improved cantering” or “best jumper.” Pictures of generations of campers receiving their awards hung in a cafeteria that’s already gone, but campers used to look at the photos with pride, sometimes years later when bringing their own children to riding lessons or camp. Amy feels a connection to those former campers, so she wants them to have the pictures, which means finding their current addresses and mailing the photos.

He points out a feed store that has “the best hay and alfalfa in town.”

He points out a shopping center where they can buy “organic stuff and those fancy vitamins and supplements.”

He points out another shopping center where they can buy “expensive things like jewelry and designer purses.”

He doesn’t have to point out the sign — “Good Friends Ridership Academy” — with a large ribbon overlaid that reads, “Closed.”

The long, skinny driveway is a grey path through green pasture, and horses on either side look up from late afternoon grazing as the blue truck heads for a cluster of wood-clad cabins.

There’s a low sound from Chris, probably too low for human hearing, an unspoken murmur of joy, his face relaxed in a way it hasn’t been since he took command of Discovery and encountered the time crystal. Have his cheeks always curved this gently in appreciation, his reverence for horses beyond time or place?

The blue truck rolls to a stop in front of a cabin. Paul keeps the engine running, possibly still concerned that Chris and Una might ask to leave. “This one is yours for the duration, if you want it.”

The building is unremarkable, small, a pine-looking exterior with screened windows. A front door swings out, and a woman about Paul’s age bustles down the three steps, dyed red hair falling in waves to just below her ears.

“Chris, Una, welcome! I’m Amy. Paul said you didn’t have linens so I put in sheets and towels, plus a few other things. Keep them if you want. Everything is pulled from the charity pile.” Amy tugs open the truck’s passenger door and motions for everyone to disembark. “Not that you’re charity. You’re wonderful. Clean as a whistle for background checks. Not that we wouldn’t understand if something came up that needed to be discussed. The right to recovery from mistakes is important. We just want you to be happy to be here.”

An interesting marital contrast — Paul, so careful and organized even in his speech, and Amy, energetic, not quite scattered, but effective in a very different way from her husband.

The jump down from the truck is onto grassy earth that’s squashy under Una’s boots. “We’re very, very happy to be here.”

Chris’ head swivels away from the horses. His eyebrows and lips lift and his gaze goes soft. He’s looking at Una in ... wonderment?

Um, because she meant it when she said she’s happy?

That’s, um, that’s nice of him. They had that fight this morning, got close and pushed away, and while it’s in no way a surprise that he still cares so much about how she feels, it’s just ... just really good that, even without running a starship keeping them together, that they can find their way toward getting close again.

Amy’s head tilts, her eyes shifting from Chris to Una and back to Chris.

Paul turns off the truck’s engine. He steps down, a taller man than he seemed behind the steering wheel, and he pulls a phone from his pocket.

“How about you two take the rest of the day to settle in, look around, and get whatever you need?” Paul taps on his phone. “I’m setting the truck to accept your phones as keys. You should know — we’re trusting but not stupid. The geofencing won’t let you drive outside city limits and the collision detector will limit your speed. My gut believes you’re good people, but my brain doesn’t take chances.”

Security. Paul could be an excellent Starfleet security officer. Even La’an would be impressed with his precautions.

But the war is coming and Paul, even if he survives, won’t live long enough to see Starfleet founded.

Don’t think about that.

“Thank you.” Chris shoulders his knapsack. “We look forward to proving your gut right.”

Up the steps and through the front door and the cabin is ... cute, actually. One ceiling light to illuminate the entire room, a lazy fan spinning, rings and knots in wood-style paneling that wraps the walls. The kitchenette hugs one side of the interior, a skinny refrigerator and a two-burner stove that sits above an undersized oven. A small table has a white tablecloth with dark purple polka dots, and the bed that’s across from the kitchen is smaller than the one at the hotel but still big enough for two people, a black metal headboard and blue and green plaid bedding that looks soft. The cabin windows are curtain-framed squares and the ceiling is all exposed wooden beams and rafters. An interior door leads to a bathroom, and a slightly crooked chest of drawers is more than enough to hold their clothes. Una doesn’t have to ask which drawers Chris wants and which ones she should take — his preferences on that haven’t changed in more than two decades — and unpacking doesn’t take very long.

“I’m going to order groceries for delivery.” Chris’ finger dips and swoops on his phone screen. “The usual?”

“Yes.” Inside a cabinet is a fry pan and a stock pot. Inside a drawer is a pile of mismatched silverware. A slim matchbook sits on top of the fridge, which seems odd but perhaps is normal for this time period? “Extra onions.”

So he makes breakfast for dinner, omelettes that still taste like dirt but not as much as the ones from the hotel. There aren’t any plates, so it’s angled forkfuls directly from the pan, and the dish soap he ordered works fine but they don’t have any sponges so cleanup is sort of rubbing the pan and silverware with the soap under running water from the kitchen sink.

“I’m surprised you haven’t wanted us to be out with the horses.” Is Una teasing or serious or both? Chris wouldn’t abandon shelter setup for horses, especially in a time period when he and Una don’t belong.

Is his smile for her? His smile for horses is gentle. This smile seems more ... hopeful? “This is more important.”

He’s right.

And there’s not too much tossing and turning in a bed that’s somehow more comfortable and less comfortable than the one at the hotel, a dreamless sleep and waking up just once in the middle of the night as he whimpers from a nightmare — “Chris, I’m here. You’re safe.” — then tactile closeness with him in the morning, his hand in hers, don’t kiss the nape of his neck, don’t nuzzle his back, don’t give in to temptation, just get up, go pee, eat the breakfast he makes, and put on the closest she has to work clothes to stand next to Chris in the stable as Paul explains the day’s tasks, starting with how the horse stalls should be mucked out.

It feels good to have a tool in her hands, a purpose. The stench of horse manure that crinkles her nose will give way to something better for these horses.

These horses that will probably die from radioactive fallout from the war.

Don’t think about that. Just work. Paul is already leading the horses out to pasture.

One horse stall.

Two.

Three. Sweat beading on her back, her underarms.

“Una.” Chris is on the far side of the stable, working faster and sweating harder. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you’re doing that wrong.”

She’s following Paul’s instructions. Use the pitchfork then the shovel to remove old hay and fresh droppings. Put the mess into the wheelbarrow. Let dry shavings stay. After the stall airs out, add new shavings and replace and refresh the water and feed bowls. There are thirty-six horses on the property, down from the fifty-six horses Paul said were here at the ridership academy’s peak.

Chris’ bootsteps make their way toward her. “I know you’re strong, but repetitive movements make or break how long anyone can keep up this kind of work. You’re holding too much tension in your knees. Keep them loose. And your shoulders are doing too much lifting. Let your biceps assist by moving your elbows instead of keeping your arms straight.”

Okay. She can do that. Loose knees. Loose shoulders. Loose elbows. Is the manure smell — ammonia and dirt and sticky fermentation — getting worse?

“Try easing up on your grip.” Chris’ back rests against the closest stall post. His arms cross. Not in anger. In thinking, concern, problem-solving.

Una is the problem.

Grasp the shovel more lightly.

Knees tensed, loosen them up again.

Keep both elbows relaxed.

She’s not getting it. The furrow between Chris’ eyebrows means he’s thinking even harder, trying to figure out how to explain.

“I can try to ...” Chris’ arms uncross, and he motions toward her to ask to put her in proper position.

Um, okay.

Hay crunches under his boots as he maneuvers behind her, an inverse of how they wake up every morning except this is conscious, purposeful, his stomach and chest pressed to her back, his knees tucked into her knees, his elbows bent around her elbows.

Oh.

Oh, um.

Flutters in her belly. Proximity. Wonderful, wonderful proximity.

“My grandfather had a few horses that couldn’t tolerate stall cleaning technology.” Chris leads, a dip in the knees, a generous swing of arms to scoop up soiled hay, movements together, flowing, graceful, like a dance with his chest nestled against her shoulder blades. “I got pretty good at this.”

The way Chris is holding her, positioning her, every bend and breath falling into sync ... it’s like an old movie when someone helps someone else shoot pool or hit a baseball, a sweetly romantic scenario for two people who want to be close to each other, mentally and physically.

Except she’s not shooting pool or trying to hit a baseball. She’s shoveling horsesh*t in a stinky stable.

And Chris is her friend.

Get close, push away.

Her friend who usually is a bumbling idiot with women he’s attracted to, so something out of a movie might inspire him, give him a guidebook to follow for a skill he lacks.

Get close, push away.

Why now? They’re in a new place, out of time, having just left the previous place where they were out of time because they needed to find the satisfaction in a job well done that they both crave. But what happens if they find another kind of satisfaction by actually talking about ... everything?

Get close, push away.

And it’s effort, real effort, to keep fear from stiffening her body, from wrecking this moment of him guiding her movements because she could wreck it all so easily. She could breathe wrong or say something dumb or laugh and hurt his feelings.

“That’s better.” She means it. For the task. For him doing this for her. For all of it.

“Good.” He steps back.

The step back is a push away — an emotional push, not a physical push except in absence, the warmth of him gone, the little cough of him clearing his throat echoing in the empty stable. And it’s awkward, his walk too fast back to the stall he had been mucking, and no, no, no, why does this always happen?

Get close, push away.

A recognizable pattern of behavior should be controllable. But two people locked in a pattern, each too afraid to lose, to change, to take a chance, means the pattern tumbles and bumbles and repeats.

Get close, push away.

Scrapes of pitchfork and shovel. The job is easier thanks to Chris’ help. Maybe other things will get easier, too?

The stalls are done for the day — clean with fresh hay and shavings, old odor lingering, an olfactory echo of mess — so it’s time to shower. Una in the unfamiliar shower first, as usual, ever since that mission on Alpha Braga XVII when Chris couldn’t figure out the tub controls and they ended up dodging disruptor blasts from the local security forces. This bathroom is even smaller than that one, too small to switch with him giving her a towel so she grabs one on her own, keeps the water running for him because he likes that, likes a hot shower ready for him and, as he steps into the steamy shower, it’s natural to listen from the other side of the door.

For safety.

To make sure he’s all right with her placement of the soap and hair care products they brought from Tampa, to know that he can find everything he needs or he can ask and she’ll help.

Not to think about water flowing down his shoulders, his chest, skin ruddy from work, muscles tight, water curling around the curves of his chest, his hips, his ass, his thighs, his calves.

No, don’t ... don’t think about that.

They’re supposed to help Amy with photos.

“We should buy boots just for mucking out the stalls.” Chris steps out of the bathroom, clothes on, hair damp, cheeks flushed from hot water. “That way, we won’t have to clean ours as often.”

“Yes.” Work, yes. Mission planning, efficiency, yes. Una and Chris are good at that.

It’s a short walk to a cabin with photos spread across mattresses on bunk beds, at least a hundred photos, children smiling with ribbons and prizes, stoic horses and Amy and Paul becoming younger, his hair darkening and thickening, hers turning blonde, brunette, fiery red, blonde again, waistlines shifting and faces becoming younger, older, young again.

The photo paper doesn’t lay flat. There are waves that vary in size and frequency. Chris picks one up, fingertips careful on the photograph’s damaged edges.

“I can explain.” Amy’s reading glasses reflect the laptop screen in front of her. “The superlatives photos were in the cafeteria. Layers and layers on the walls. Hurricane Miranda took it all down. I’m sure you saw her on the news — ferocious storm, a real mean one that barreled in faster than the weather predictions could keep up. Anyway, that’s when I got sick. Rebuilding the cafeteria wasn’t an option, which meant the camp couldn’t operate anymore. But I’ve been meaning to send these pictures out for years. I post some on the socials every day and it’s been good for the soul, actually, to have campers write back and say they want an old picture of themselves from a special time in their lives, even with water damage to the photo paper. Sometimes they tag their friends and work together to find out who someone is. You should have seen the stacks when I started.”

Hurricanes ... don’t make people sick. Even in this timeframe. Did Amy intend to suggest causation or was the timing a coincidence?

Amy points toward the top of a far bunk bed. “Padded envelopes are there. Photos with a letter folded underneath go inside, then the label with the address needs to be stuck on and the envelope sealed. Not as sexy as working on a cruise ship, but it’s a final goodbye, so I appreciate the help in getting it done.”

Right. Chris said they worked on a cruise ship. They should research what that might be like in case Amy asks questions.

But Amy doesn’t ask questions about their supposed jobs.

Amy asks questions about their lives.

With so much travel, where is home?

Oh, San Francisco is a great city. Amy has been there a few times. What brought them to Ocala?

Well, Amy certainly understands Chris’ love for horses. Maybe a few more envelopes stuffed and ready for the post office, then Amy and Chris can go for a quick horseback ride. Did Una and Chris have horses at their wedding? Amy and Paul rode horses down the aisle. Everyone said they were crazy, but it was a great ceremony. Boy, that was a long time ago.

A simple wedding aboard ship is great, too! And certainly no horses on a cruise ship, that makes sense. Horses, horses, horses. Amy and Chris should go riding now, shouldn’t they? That’s enough letters for today.

It’s barely a dozen letters.

But the door swings and Amy is off to the stables calling for Chris to follow her.

He checks in. And sure, why not? Horses are why they’re here so he may as well get to enjoy them. Una could try to ride, too — goodness knows Chris has encouraged her over the years — but it’s better to sit on the grass, sunshine warm on her face, and watch Chris ... is that a gallop or a canter? Whatever it is, he’s got his pure, gentle horse-smile so it’s good.

“Let me guess. Somebody mentioned horses and, next thing you knew, she wanted to saddle up?” Paul grunts a little as he sits next to Una, an affectionate nod of his head toward his wife on horseback.

“You’ve got it.” The communicator in Una’s right pants pocket and the badge in her left pants pocket aren’t noticeable. She doesn’t have to worry about Paul seeing them. Especially with her phone tight against her communicator. “Amy said something about a hurricane damaging the photos?”

Paul’s face tilts toward the sunshine, his profile seeming older somehow. “The hurricane damaged a lot more than photos.”

It’s strange to have a chill sitting on a green lawn on a sunny day — sad, something very sad happened with that hurricane. Is Una supposed to ask personal questions the way Amy does or would that be inappropriate? Human culture in this timeframe is confusing.

Amy’s laugh bursts out from across the pasture. It’s a nice laugh. Light and free. Chris must have said something funny.

“We’re taking three of the horses with us to Baltimore, including that one.” Paul motions toward the horse Amy is riding. “A buyer for up to six more was supposed to get here today. Delayed by this Augment nonsense. He rescheduled for next week.”

Augment.

Moddie.

Freak.

“What’s your opinion on the Augments?” Is Una crazy? Why is she asking what Paul thinks of the group of people that will become so seared in human hatred that their name will become a slur for Illyrians, the cruel taunts of her childhood and the prejudice that didn’t want her in Starfleet, her stomach twisting even now to hear the word that signifies accusations, sneers, danger?

“They’re just people.” Paul shrugs in the sunshine of a world about to be torn apart. “Genetic engineering, eugenics — whatever anyone wants to call it, an Augment is as human as anyone else. Whoever decided to call them ‘supermen’ was a fool. It doesn’t matter if Augments are stronger or smarter. They’re people and people want three things: happiness, safety, and love. Why do you ask? What do you think about the Augments?”

Augments ... as human? It’s strange how humans in the centuries since this time almost seem to forget that fact, looking back on Augments as abominations, mistakes, more a result of technological interference than human DNA. But Paul is right, and La’an would probably call Una an idiot for needing a reminder that Augments were humans — genetically engineered humans, but fully and unmistakably human.

Is there a flaw in Paul’s thinking, though?

“I think it’s too soon to tell. But what if the rumors are true and Augments want to rule the world? What if they think their happiness is worth more than other people’s safety?” That’s what everyone always told Una — Augments were bred for domination. Not like Illyrians, the seam on her teddy bear broken and repaired, the Book of Vaultera explaining that Illyrians never seek to dominate. Illyrians collaborate and learn from nature so Illyrians can live on worlds other species deem too hostile for life. Because creating life is the gift that, aided by genetic engineering, can sustain a people in harmony.

Paul’s head shakes. “World domination is a delusion of grandeur. Never works out in the long run. People say, ‘Augments will kill us all,’ ‘Augments will save us all and lead us into a new day.’ ‘Augment’ this, ‘Augment’ that. Empathy is human nature. Therefore, happiness at the cost of someone else’s safety isn’t happiness. The point of all of this is —”

“Una! Paul!” Amy shouts from across the pasture. “Get some saddles. I want to show Chris the pond but he says he doesn’t want to be too far from Una.”

Chris said that?

Oh, um, right — in case the Vulcans communicate with them. No reason for a happy-flutter in Una’s belly. Proximity is for mission safety, not personal preference.

Besides, it takes every bit of what Chris has told her over the years to get Una up and onto the horse that Paul saddles for her. Feet in the stirrups. Hands not too tight on the reins. The ride is about a kilometer from the cabins to a pond with an aerator in the middle that looks like a fountain. The blue of the pond water is unnatural, though, too clean for this time period.

“It’s a swimming pool made to look like a pond?” Chris squints at the too-blue water.

“Very nice.” Paul holds his reins in one hand to applaud. “Most people can’t tell. The pool was behind a house we razed when we bought acreage to add to the property. Couldn’t bear to fill it in, so we used to ride out here with our kids and the campers to swim. Last time she visited, all our youngest granddaughter wanted to do was throw rings for her big brothers to dive and catch — in the same pool where her mother used to do the same.”

“There used to be a playground over there.” Amy points to a grassy area. “We had swings and slides, some playhouses and climbing structures, too. The older campers would play Gatorball. It was great to watch them run around and have fun on their own two legs, not just on horseback. Our last year, a mother who had been one of our campers had her daughter wear the same camp t-shirt the mother had worn to take a picture swinging on the same swing. That one was a big hit on the socials.”

The nostalgia-tinged pride that Paul and Amy have in their accomplishments — horses, kids and grandkids, campers and the property that encompasses their home and riding school — it’s almost as if witnessing that pride is part of the work.

A beautiful, meaningful part of the work.

Starfleet puts so much emphasis on first contacts. Watching a series of almost-last contacts ... seems important in its own way.

So days blur into weeks and more weeks, mucking out stalls for horses that don’t get sold and stuffing envelopes for children that are now adults. Amy’s photos and letters to former campers vary in postage by which militia controls the region where the envelope is headed and, for the first drive to the post office, Chris’ knuckles go white on the steering wheel as Una coaches him with reminders gleaned from how-to-videos and the online version of the Florida Department of Highway Safety and Motor Vehicles’ Official Florida Driver License Handbook. With practice, though, the automotive process becomes simple enough, and it’s nice to have transportation to buy things like dishes, glassware, and groceries that don’t have to be delivered. There’s a barbershop for Chris and the store next to the post office seems to have almost everything, even new work boots and a little machine that hooks up to the kitchen sink to clean clothes. Chris gets to ride a horse when they finish their work early enough in the day, and it’s nice to sit on the grass and watch him relax in the saddle, his posture falling into rhythm with the horse. Peaceful. Good. Pasture grass that seems to go on forever. Their cabin nearby. Paul and Amy’s house in the distance. Sunshine that’s warm and bright.

But everything tastes more or less like dirt, sleep isn’t great, and it’s been almost four months since they sent the message to the Vulcans. Starfleet regulations are clear that proper procedure is to await rescue. Regulations don’t specify how to wait, though. So maybe it’s okay for two people to sit on the front steps of their cabin most nights after dinner and stare up, up, up toward stars twinkling through a polluted atmosphere. No bright streak of a shuttle. No glow of a ship in orbit. But the Vulcans will save them, it’s the logical choice even with Vulcan bureaucracy likely slowing the rescue effort.

Chris has nightmares more and more often.

“Chris.” Disorientation, just for a moment. He’s whimpering in his sleep again. Una can help him, a murmur, not too loud, just enough for him to find what seems to be comfort in her voice. “Chris, I’m here. You’re safe.”

He usually quiets down without moving, but in the darkness he reaches for her, his arm pulling her close, his leg hooking warm and strong around her hip.

Oh.

Oh yes.

He’s wheezing. Unconscious again.

It’s like falling asleep already in a dream. A wonderful, beautiful dream of skin tingling with excitement, no loss of contact because he’s asleep and holding her and is this what it’s like for him waking up every morning in her arms? Except this is better, chest to chest, the curl of his leg possessive, entrancing in possibility. Is this what life could be like if they could just ... get close and not push away?

The blackness of sleep shakes loose to the light of morning. Chris startles awake, eyes darting, confusion furrowing his forehead.

“You had a nightmare.” Don’t smooth his eyebrow with her thumb. Don’t hitch his leg up higher on her hip, roll him onto his back, and press a kiss to his pretty, pretty lips. Don’t do anything that might break the delicate magic of waking up in his arms. “It’s all right.”

“No.” Chris scoots back, the ache of loss of contact, harsh reality, it’s cold in the bed without him, and he stands and walks to the bathroom.

Get close, push away.

But there are stalls to muck and letters to take to the post office and it’s just the two of them in the truck, uncomfortable silence stretching, and Una has to say something, has to get back to the middle ground between pushing away and getting close because Chris is her friend and the hunch of his shoulders means her friend is deeply, deeply upset.

“You can tell me what it is.” She won’t touch him. She’ll just talk from her side of the truck.

“I’ve told you.” A twist of the steering wheel. “I’ve told you about my fate, how I feel like it’s slipping away. I’ve told you how much it bothers me when I share and you don’t share back — so I’ve been trying to take it day by day, trying not to pressure you because I understood what you said about pretending to be human having repercussions on your ability to be yourself. But it’s like my body doesn’t understand what my brain is trying to say and I don’t want to break something that I don’t even know is there.”

What?

He parks in front of the post office, turns to face her as he continues talking, all hurt eyes and angry jaw. “What’s it like in your head, Una? I’m asking because I want to know and I’m trying to get a handle on things, I really am.”

“It’s, um ...” She can do this for him. She can open up, explain, ignore the searing pain in her sternum of fear, regret, worry that Chris has been mulling this for a long time, his strong emotions coming out garbled because he cares so much. “It’s a lot of, um, ‘don’t.’ ‘Don’t do this.’ ‘Don’t think about that.’ That’s what it’s like.”

Because of fear? Fear of getting caught ... freak, moddie, Augment ... fear of loss? Fear of not even knowing who she is after hiding for so long? Is that why she keeps herself in check?

Chris’ glance downward is contemplative. “I’m sorry.”

Wait. What does he mean by that? Sorry for what?

His door swings open and slams shut, Amy’s envelopes clenched in his hand as he strides off, a push away, not even getting close but Chris can’t go to the post office by himself. They have to stick together.

It’s a run to catch up with him, the usual clerk weighing letters and assigning proper postage to Paul and Amy’s account that has a little red heart to join their names.

The little red heart is important.

“Chris.” Una follows him out of the post office, letters sent, and into the store that sells almost everything. His fast pace is a sign that he doesn’t want to talk, but they need to talk because the conversation isn’t over.

“Una, stop.” Chris pivots left, turns down the aisle where they bought their dishes, dark blue geometric shapes on a white background that they had both reached for at the same time, the best design on the shelves.

He must be headed for the dry goods. The pasta he’d said he wanted.

“Chris, what if there was no ‘don’t’? What if ...” No thinking, just talking. “What if ‘don’t’ doesn’t —”

He’s at the end of the aisle and spins to face her, anger splaying his hands wide.

Too wide.

There’s a crashing sound, like dried clay shattering.

A display she can’t see, move closer, Chris’ mouth open in horror as he looks down, a mess of broken ceramic pitchers on the floor, there must have been a shelf full of them and he knocked one into the other causing a chain reaction.

“Oh my God.” He drops to his knees. “Oh no, no, no, no. Not again.”

Again?

Should she try to comfort him? Breaking pitchers could theoretically damage the timeline, but no one should die. So that might mitigate some of the despair he seems to feel. And they’ve made so much progress on allowing themselves to interact with this time period, conversations with Paul and Amy actually often pleasant.

Approaching squeaks on the floor are probably from the rubber-soled shoes of an employee on their way to assess the damage.

Una can help Chris get through this.

But she doesn’t have to.

He exhales a long breath and grabs a chunk of broken ceramic as he stands, a reedy store manager rounding the corner, eyes widening at the damaged goods on the floor.

“I’m deeply sorry.” Chris motions toward the shards of pitchers, a cream-colored edge jagged in his hand. “I’ll pay for the broken merchandise and assist in cleanup.”

The manager’s head shakes, sympathetic. “It would normally be your right to pay, but store insurance will only cover the incident if there’s no other remuneration. And allowing you to clean up would be a potential liability. If you got hurt, you could sue us. Just relax, man. These things happen. I do need you to return to your regular shopping, though, so my team can dispose of any hazards and get our safety rating back to standard.”

That’s ... good news, right?

So why does Chris’ chin wobble, just for a second, like a scared little boy?

“Thank you.” Chris kneels, returns his broken piece of ceramic to the floor.

They’re supposed to leave this area.

But Chris’ gaze casts toward unbroken pitchers still on the shelf, each one the same — cream-colored with red tulips, a smart merchandising choice given the tulip festivals that have been in the news. The pitchers are probably intended as inexpensive items to catch a trend, then be given to charity or thrown away.

Chris grabs two unbroken pitchers and moves toward checkout at the front of the store. Since he lets Una match his stride, he must not be as angry as he was before.

“My Great Aunt Laura had one of these, original, from before the war, and my dad inherited it when she died.” Chris’ voice is rough, low enough not to be overheard. “When I was nine years old, I accidentally broke it. Iced tea all over the kitchen floor and my old man saying stuff like, ‘When the hell will you stop being so goddamn careless, Christopher?’ and, ‘Things are more fragile than you think,’ and, ‘It’s your fault if you break what can’t be put back together.’ I wanted to prove I was sorry. Cut myself pretty badly trying to glue the pieces back into something resembling a pitcher. But my dad was right: ‘It’s your fault if you break what can’t be put back together.’ That’s been with me my whole life.”

Oh no. No, no, no, no, no. It’s as if the store is compressing, spiraling into a pinprick even though Chris is paying for the pitchers at a computer terminal, the little red heart displaying on his phone screen. He opened up, told something important to him and Una has to ... she has to reciprocate. But not here. Not surrounded by human society that’s about to turn against the very technology that allows her to live, to breathe ... to love?

“But what if my dad was wrong?” Chris takes the pitchers, carries them out of the store and toward the truck. “What if a fragile thing only seems fragile because we’re nine years old trying to put a full pitcher on a too-high kitchen counter? Who the hell expects a nine-year-old to be able to do that, anyway? What if things — not just objects, but concepts like fate and time and friendship — what if those aren’t as fragile as we think?”

Flutterings in her belly. Hope. Fear. How does a pattern of get close, push away get broken? Literally in a mess of ceramic on a store floor and two pitchers Chris puts on the driver’s seat of the truck?

He’s standing in front of her, eyes shining.

He’s close enough to touch.

Don’t mess this up.

Don’t mess this up.

No. No more “don’t.” Be brave.

“Chris,” her hand trembles, her voice trembles, everything trembles but Una is going to do this, “will you go out on a date with me? I want us to talk about, um, about how you’re not at all careless and how maybe we’ve both worried too much about breaking a friendship that isn’t fragile. I’ll talk about myself, too. I promise.”

Her hand finds his shoulder and holds on. For hope. For strength. For balance. And his hand rises, slowly, carefully, to hold on to hers, his palm clammy, and he’s trembling, too.

But he steps even closer within the small distance between them — get close ... don’t push away? — and his breath curls warm in her ear. “I’d like that, Una. I’d like that very much.”

Chapter 5: A Prayer Over Comfort Food

Chapter Text

A date is a good idea in theory.

But where can they go in this time period and talk freely? There’s really only one place.

So it’s in their cabin after the next day’s work and grocery run that Una tosses a salad and Chris makes mushroom ravioli. He had asked at the store whether they should buy a bottle of red wine or dessert, but alcohol might be as unusually potent as the coffee they don’t bother drinking anymore, and when everything tastes more or less like dirt, sweets somehow taste worse. Candles seemed like a good idea, though, and the polka dot-tableclothed table becomes full with water in one of the new pitchers, two glasses, a serving bowl of salad and one of ravioli, plates, silverware, and a stout candle that Chris lights with a match from the matchbook that was on top of the fridge when they moved in. His cupped hand protects the flame until it catches, burns bright.

There’s no need for Una to adjust the paper napkin on her lap. Everything is fine. Don’t be nervous.

No. No more “don’t.”

It’s okay to be nervous.

It’s okay to watch glimmers of candlelight dance along the lines of Chris’ perfect nose, brighten the curves of his beautiful cheeks, and shine in his thoughtful, hopeful eyes as he sits across from her.

“So ...” He adjusts his own napkin on his lap, chuckles — nervous, Chris is nervous, thank goodness Una isn’t the only one who’s nervous. “We’re on a date.”

“Yes, we are.” Serve out the salad. Focus on roughage, not on wanting to touch him, to let her thumb trace his jawline or her fingertips slide under his shirt. Talking is more important and she promised she would talk with him.

“Yeah. We are.” Chris coughs slightly, that adorably panicked cough that means he’s around someone he finds attractive, and it’s not going to be easy for Una to eat with more and more flutters in her belly.

His fork rises, lettuce and carrot and tomato moving upward. The food disappears into his mouth and he chews. A nod of thanks and a lift to his lips means he likes the salad she made.

That’s good. That’s good.

Little rips to the napkin on her lap. Her pinched fingers are tearing little rips. Four, five, six, keep going, more. She isn’t shredding the napkin, exactly, just, um, little rips.

Chris is done chewing his bite of salad.

His unripped napkin dabs either side of his mouth. “Are you not hungry?”

“I’m too nervous to eat.” No point in lying. He can tell. And she needs to talk, needs to prove to Chris — and to herself — that she can open up. Back in Tampa, Una had said that so many years of hiding had repercussions on her ability to be herself. The months since then have proven what she should have already known — she doesn’t need to hide ... anything ... from him anymore.

From across the table, his hand extends.

Is it ridiculous to reach for his hand and hold on tight? His grasp is familiar, yet there’s a different kind of strength in him tonight. Calming. Because he’s nervous, too? Because their friendship is strong enough that even if this date doesn’t go well, they’ll be okay? There’s something ... unbreakable ... about his hold on her hand.

Which begs a question about the pitcher between them and an identical one in a kitchenette cabinet.

“I meant what I said yesterday about you being not at all careless.” A squeeze to his hand, his warm, strong, wonderful hand. “So there has to be a reason — and I’m wondering what it is — why you bought two pitchers instead of one?”

Even by candlelight, his flush is obvious.

“I wanted to get one for me and one for my dad to apologize for breaking the one he inherited. Realized the impossibility of that when we were almost to the checkout computer.” Chris’ dad has been dead for years. “But, hey, now if I break another one, we have a spare.”

We.

Does he mean shared property temporarily ... or permanently?

Permanently would be, um, really nice.

“My turn for a question.” He shifts in his chair, his hand still in hers. “Why didn’t you want to contact the Illyrians when we first got here? I’m not asking out of mission planning. I’m asking as someone who cares about you — and as someone who worries that it was because of me, because the Illyrians wouldn’t want to save you if you were with a human.”

Oh.

So, um, blink back the stinging sensation. Eyes do that when someone is upset. And there’s no point in being upset, in appreciating the care in his question through a haze of guilt that he blamed himself when he didn’t have to — a typical reaction from Chris that Una should have considered at some point but didn’t.

Just tell the truth now.

“I have no idea how to contact the Illyrians. I don’t know the old frequencies or ship deployments. I don’t even know how Illyrians of this time period would feel about other species. I was just a kid when we had to pretend to be human, and my parents were so scared that I never asked them questions after we moved.” Tell the rest. Tell it all. Hold his hand, her tether to hope, and keep talking. “I had this book — a children’s book. I hid it in a teddy bear when we moved. At night, I would break my own re-stitched seam on the teddy bear and read about what it was like to practice Illyrian rituals and live an Illyrian life. The book helped me remember melodies to prayers and what Illyrian designs look like. But that’s all I have — a child’s understanding of what it is to be Illyrian.”

Chris’ mouth naturally forms a flat line. That line curves now, downward. “I’m so sorry, Una.”

That’s all he really needs to say. Genuine, heartfelt sympathy. He believes her, he doesn’t feel guilty anymore, he understands that she’s proud of her people even though her experience with them has been limited.

But he keeps talking.

“From the two Illyrian colonies I’ve been to, I can see why you would have pride in where you come from. Maybe someday we could spend time together on an Illyrian world. You could find out more about your culture. And if there’s anything you ever want to teach me before then, I’d like to learn.” Candlelight caresses his cheeks, glitters in his eyes. “I want to regain your trust.”

That’s, um, a generous offer — dizzying, actually, beyond anything she could have expected — but what does he mean regain her trust?

“Chris, I trust you.”

Why would he think she doesn’t trust him? Not mentioning why they couldn’t contact the Illyrians isn’t a matter of trust because the outcome was the same regardless of whether he had the information. To Chris, trust is deeper than that, anyway. And he wouldn’t perceive a lack of trust because she lied about her species. She lied to everyone, and Chris of all people would understand why she had to protect him from legal jeopardy. They talked about that months and months ago back on the ship, back when he said Illyrians are misunderstood and he had called her exemplary, an attempt at praise that landed like a slap, stoking the worry that she wasn’t a person to him anymore, she had become a representative of a people she barely understood yet would fiercely defend.

Chris ... Chris had wanted to help with that defense.

Chris had said he would welcome discussion with the Federation, would worry about Starfleet so she didn’t have to, his reassurances helpful until she got to her quarters and into her own head and she —

Damn.

This isn’t exactly a first date discussion.

But, if she’s going to be unbreakable with Chris — get close, don’t push away — then Una needs to try to mend what she evidently damaged all those months ago on the Enterprise.

“Do you think I don’t trust you because I turned myself in?” His tight nod of regret proves she’s on the right track. “Chris, that wasn’t me not trusting you. I was tired of lying, tired of not being known for who I was. I made and deleted a personal log entry, then I broke down and sent Starfleet the anonymous tip. I didn’t want to be exemplary. I wanted to be just another Illyrian. But I didn’t think through how much that would hurt you, and I’m deeply sorry. When you made that speech at my welcome home party, I knew then that you saw me as your friend, not an exemplary Illyrian. I should have been honest instead of continuing the pattern of keeping secrets and getting close to you only to push away. I wish I had done better.”

There’s a freedom to telling the truth. A sort of terrible freedom, like a helium-filled balloon that could be overfilled and float too high, or spring a leak and fall too low. But his hand is her tether so she’ll be all right.

Except his hand withdraws, elbow bending, tether gone, the reassurance of his touch inching back to his side of the table.

No.

No, no, no, no.

Cold, it’s cold without him. Her fingers trembling, curling from loss of contact, his chair scraping as he stands — get close, push away; no, it had seemed different this time — and Chris picks up his salad and his fork with one hand and his chair with the other hand and he ... carries them to Una’s side of the table?

“How about we both do better, starting with eating this delicious salad you made?” He sits next to her, holds her hand again, his food in front of him as his fingers twine with hers.

A different kind of stinging in the eyes. Gratitude. Understanding. Love.

“Okay.” Get close ... stay close? “I can do that.”

And the salad is good, actually. Adjustment to dirt-food has its perks.

He dishes out ravioli, one-handed unsteadiness causing the spoon to tap the plates with a clink, clink, clink. The sound isn’t exactly like the melody of the Illyrian prayer of thanks for food grown from the soil. But something about the music — about him — is home.

It’s too much.

Even for this weird first date, it’s too much that he’s her home and both of them want to do better for each other and she loves him and has loved him for so many years and they might become unbreakable together. Her legs twitch to run — get close, push away — and his gaze meets hers. He’s checking in, can tell she’s scared, his eyebrows peaking to ask her to explain.

Don’t run away, be honest.

Wait. Does no more “don’t” mean ... to go ahead and run, figuratively at least, in a different direction? Toward him?

Her throat sticks. Can’t talk. But just like all those months ago when she hummed the warp core to help Chris feel better, Una hums tonight to help herself — the Illyrian prayer of thanks for food grown from the soil.

His head lowers. He can tell the melody is a prayer. Chris almost always bows his head for a prayer.

Holding his hand is Illyrian, too. Not that it seemed that way until now. But her book’s illustrations of clasped hands were accompanied by explanatory text for forms of union among or within people, Illyrian closeness with each other as important as their union with nature and the gift of creation.

“This is a lot for a first date.” Her legs have settled, but he should know how she feels. “The last time I heard that prayer, I was maybe ten years old.”

“Then this should be perfect.” Chris motions toward the ravioli with his free hand. “My mother used to make it when I’d had a tough day at school. Comfort food.”

Una hummed a prayer over Chris’ comfort food?

Well that ... that has to mean something good, right?

The ravioli tastes good, too. Really good. Has he made this for her before? He probably has. But, even with the dirt overlay, his ravioli is especially good tonight.

“Yesterday, when you were talking about ‘don’t,’ I understood what you meant, Una. I do that, too. ‘Don’t mess up the future.’ ‘Don’t cheat fate, stay the course, save their lives.’ ‘Don’t tell Una that you know when she lies, she has to have her reasons.’ ‘Don’t make a mistake, your crew depends on you.’ It’s a lot to keep inside.” Chris spears a forkful of ravioli, chews thoughtfully and swallows, the muscles in his neck shifting. “Do you remember what you said to me in the transporter room when you were arrested and I tried to stop it?”

Of course she remembers, her belly twisting with realization of what he’s trying to point out. “I said ‘don’t.’”

“You said ‘don’t.’ And I had just come back from another future without you, a journey through time that was supposed to be a warning but felt more like a punishment because I had been so focused on a fate that showed me two cadets that don’t make it, plus my own injuries, that I pushed back against what I had promised to honor. Maybe time seen through a crystal is fragile like a crystal, and time visited through whatever got us here is more tough? Maybe temporal toughness is a difference between traveling to the past instead of the future? I’m not sure. But I know that thinking in ‘don’t’ can be stifling. Not always, of course. I don’t hate the people here anymore. I’m embarrassed by many of them and I’m angry about what they’re going to do to each other and to the planet — all these trees and animals I’ve never seen before, not even in history books or videos. But, since my fate isn’t clear anymore, I’ve been trying to figure out what I do want instead of what I ‘don’t’ want.” He’s uncertain, strength in his voice a contrast to shyness in his eyes, his hand trembling in hers.

Chris hasn’t decided what he wants.

“Remember Alpha Braga XXIV?” Does Una really need to tell him this? Probably not, but Chris knows what it’s like to think in ‘don’t,’ so he should know more of her ‘don’t’s. “When you stood in front of that senate assembly and convinced them to allow their subjugated minority to receive the privilege of literacy, I felt this crack of pain in my chest, this recognition of how much I loved you and was proud of you. And when we were in that ship-to-ship phaser fight with those pirates in the Beta Zeta system and you stumbled and fell into me at the helm, I wanted to keep you there, sit you on my lap, hold you close and safe. And when I almost got hit by disruptor fire on that rogue Klingon ship where we were in disguise and the guards caught us accessing the computer, their shot missed because I was still dizzy from fighting the urge to tell you that you looked cute even as a Klingon, so my running was a mess and I accidentally stumbled out of range. And when we —”

His hand tugs her closer.

“When we —” Why can’t she finish this one? “When we —”

Most of her life has been spent hiding, frightened. Opening up is confusing, overwhelming, everything wobbly and unsteady. Is she saying too much? Too little? How is this supposed to work?

He takes over. Helps her find balance the way he so often does.

“When we first got to this time period and that librarian made a pass at you, I knew it made no sense but I wanted to punch him in his smug, self-righteous face.” Chris tugs her even closer, gentle, he’s so gentle, giving her a chance to push away that helps reinforce why pushing away is the last thing she wants to do, skin tingling, hope alighting. “When you outsmarted that sentient computer to free the humanoid slaves trapped in a chess game on Alpha Braga XXIX, I was so impressed that I got whatever the opposite of a headache is, a sort of fuzzy feeling in my brain that made me smile like a fool. When we woke up on the Antares after the captain asked for volunteers to double up because of the ship’s damage from that nebula cloud monster, I wanted to roll over in your arms and hold you the way you were holding me — like I was someone worth protecting. I’ve felt that way so many times since. When you overloaded that database in the —”

There’s a time and a place for “don’t.” “Don’t” can keep a person out of trouble, a useful warning to be heeded.

There’s a time and a place for the reciprocity of openness Chris had said he wanted back at the hotel, his jumble of memories shared out of order proving a resonance and truth borne from fear of breaking what’s only becoming stronger.

And there’s a time and a place to wish he could keep talking, tell her every time love burned bright only to be dimmed by worry.

But there’s also a time and a place to be tugged closer, closer, he’s decided what he wants, truth and proximity dizzying, her thumb tracing the smooth arc of his cheekbone, his fingertips shaky on her cheek — he’s eager, frightened, change is scary even when very much wanted — and his touch is like the match he lit, a flame of desire that catches in her chest, burns low in her belly, blazes tight between her legs.

So there’s no need for “don’t,” only leaning toward him, the cabin tilting, blackness as her eyes close. And existence is a blush of breath, a slide of noses, and his lips pressed to hers.

Oh God, yes.

Yes, yes, more.

Oh yes.

All those years of surety that this would be good, that physicality wouldn’t be a problem if they could just get close and stay close, all that becomes certainty, breathing his air, her lips tingling on his, an almost desperate cry of happiness from deep inside him reverberating, joy spiraling higher, higher, his neck soft, his hair spiky in her hands.

Bells.

It’s as if bells are ringing, music and motion and ...

That’s not bells.

Those are chirps. Familiar, but not heard in months. A sound that used to be common but ...

The communicator!

He must realize at the same time, kiss broken in a flurry of scrambling, chairs falling, both of them standing, he has the working communicator today and he pulls it from his pocket, a flick of his wrist and, “Pike here.”

There’s a harsh burst of static.

No Earth technology could possibly access subspace communication in this timeframe. Even the planet’s rudimentary space missions use artificial satellite-enabled communication channels.

“This is Captain Christopher Pike, please respond.” His fingers that had touched her cheek, her neck, her hair, now grasp the communicator more tightly, knuckles white, his hair askew and lips kiss-swollen.

The static goes staccato, a Vulcan-accented word breaking through: “... inadvisable ...”

No.

The logic of rescue is foolproof — completely advisable, not at all inadvisable. Vulcan debate is normal, expected, but the resolution of that debate should be to advise rescue for two people trapped out of time, two people with badges that can only be found by Vulcan scanning equipment before war-borne radiation renders sensors unable to locate small amounts of out-of-place metals.

“Number One,” Chris pushes the communicator toward her, “can you determine location or distance? Are we dealing with a delay or can we respond and they’ll hear us almost instantly?”

“On it.” Quick taps to isolate what he wants within information pouring into the communicator. “It’s a delay. Probably close to two months, maybe more. And possibly an accident. The communication seems to be from the High Command to a Vulcan ship with a feedback echo to the last frequency the ship accessed.”

She doesn’t have to explain that the ship likely heard their message and asked the High Command what to do next.

And a feedback echo indicates the ship isn’t very advanced, even for this time period, so likely not a science vessel or other spacecraft crewed by trained personnel. In this era, Vulcans on such ships usually observed spatial phenomena to determine if more study was needed. That meant the ships, while capable of warp, often held position for sometimes months on end.

More taps. “Distance is ... not far. Possibly just outside the Sol system. And, Captain, the subspace signal suggests an open channel.”

An open channel means a message back would likely be received — by Vulcans who may or may not have made up their minds about a rescue mission. The message back also would be received sooner than a message to the High Command if the ship is still relatively close, but the transmission would almost certainly burn out the one communicator that still works.

“We’re going to encode a message back.” Chris checks in even as he outlines his plan, his eyes that had been shy, then careful to ensure that she wanted to kiss him now ensuring that she agrees to destroying their only device capable of subspace transmission. “We’ll tell them we’re from more than two hundred years in this planet’s future and require rescue due to upcoming warfare we know will cause extreme casualties. We’ll remind them that we won’t interfere with Vulcan temporal events. We just want to go back to our own time.”

Adding specifics is risky. Even though other species shouldn’t be able to intercept the subspace frequency, regulations aren’t clear on whether telling the Vulcans about an upcoming cataclysmic event on Earth would interfere with the timeline. And willful interference with the timeline is unacceptable. Every Temporal Mechanics lecture at the academy was consistent: Time is delicate. Interference can lead to catastrophe.

“Una.” Chris’ hands grasp her shoulders, warm and comforting, but imploring, too. “The timeline is stronger than we’ve been led to believe. Time, fate, people — they can adapt to change. So unless there’s a way to create a temporal communicator and signal Starfleet directly for help, this is our best chance to get back to our own time.”

Strength.

Adaptability.

Proof that some things are unbreakable.

“Okay.” She can do this. He’s right. Don’t be scared. No. Be scared. Do it anyway. Tell the Vulcans the truth. “I’m encoding the message now.”

It is logical and, indeed, advisable to assist temporally displaced people requesting asylum. The process to return home via time warp is achievable via existing Vulcan technology.

Knowledge from more than two hundred years in Earth’s future lends urgency to rescue. The planet will become increasingly unsafe with a three-month window until severe danger. Phones will become their only form of communication after this message, but precise mineral information for non-Earth badges should make them easy to find on the planet — for now.

After all, only two people require rescue, a human and ... an Illyrian.

“Una.” Chris sounds worried, that little catch softening his voice even as the flash of insight cracks across her chest. “Are you comfortable telling them that?”

Yes.

Una doesn’t know much about Illyrians. But she is Illyrian. As Chris said, time, fate, people — they can adapt to change. She needs to adapt to telling the truth as much as possible. And this truth, while probably not tactically necessary for the mission, still means everything.

“It’s an insurance policy.” Shrink the file. Again. Again. “Logically, the Vulcans should rescue us. We’re living proof that time travel exists, and service to ‘the needs of the many’ would include prioritizing saving our lives above any internal debate. But just in case the Vulcans decide they don’t want to help us for a reason they won’t admit is illogical, then this information might lead them to contact the closest Illyrian colony and ask if the Illyrians want to save us. I wish I’d thought of it earlier.”

Keep shrinking the file. Again. Almost there, almost the perfect size to fly away and bring back a ship to take them home.

Shrink the file one last time, encode, check in with Chris who nods his assent. He takes the communicator and pulls a stock pot from a cabinet, sets the stock pot on the kitchen counter and puts the communicator inside. One of his hands holds the stock pot’s lid like a shield. His other hand moves deep in the stock pot. “Transmitting message now.”

There’s a clang of the stock pot lid slamming down and muffled whirring and beeping from the communicator. The stock pot jerks and jolts and Chris needs to get away from the danger, not keep holding the lid in place, a tug to his elbow to remind him to step back, move with Una to safety, the sides of the stock pot denting inward, heat from the overloading communicator too much even for cooking equipment. Popping sounds. A lone curl of smoke snaking out from the edge of the stock pot lid. More popping sounds. More jolts. And a smothered, sickly sounding beep to confirm the message was sent, the sides of the stock pot holding, fire inside probably minimized due to the lid limiting the supply of oxygen.

Um, when did Chris put his arms around her, holding her close? And when did she enfold him in her arms, both of them watching and listening and ... doing their best to keep each other safe?

His heartbeat presses to her chest, his stomach nestled on hers. This embrace is more than protection, more than affection.

This is love.

Love in the bends of his arms and the turn of his head toward her, transmission achieved and fire not a danger so it’s okay to relax a little.

“If, um, if the Vulcans contact the Illyrians, I do think the Illyrians would help both of us, not just me. But I wouldn’t go with them without you.” Hold him. Breathe in his perfectly Chris scent. Get close, stay close.

“Never a doubt in my mind on that.” More bends, movement, he’s guiding her with him to check the communicator, the warmth of his arm gone — for a moment, just for a moment — as he lifts the lid from the stock pot. The communicator inside is welded to itself in a thick slab, fire already out, acrid odor of burned metal dissipating as he lowers the lid again. “And it seems clear we can still do our jobs even if we’re, uh ... uh ...”

Chris’ shyness can be so adorable, his chin lowering, cheeks flushing as he searches either for what to say or the confidence to say it.

Una can wait, stay quiet.

“Involved.” The warmth of his arm returns, his embrace secure. “Together.”

“Never a doubt in my mind on that.” Echoing his words isn’t purposeful. It’s natural. Agreement. Of course they can still do their jobs. They’re too well trained to let anything interfere with duty.

Another bend, his head dipping, tilting, lips warm on her neck — oh God, oh God, it’s so good — and want cracks like lightning, legs wobbly, chest tight. She could tug him over to the bed, lay him down, make love with him. She won’t because Chris usually needs to think through personal decisions, so he’s probably not going to be ready for that tonight. But, oh, the temptation of those kisses to her neck, soft but getting rougher, yes, yes, his breathing hot and ragged on her skin, desire-fueled growls of joy, his fingers splaying on her neck, tangling up and into her hair, oh yes.

“Una ... Una, I need to slow down.” He’s telling her but also telling himself, his hands dropping to his sides even as his breath is hot on her neck. “Is that okay? So much ... so much has happened tonight and I’m happy about us — I’ve wanted this for a long time — but I need to get used to the changes.”

“Yes.” There’s comfort in the predictability of him. Not for everything. Those neck kisses were a wonderful surprise. But Chris can be a moody guy, in his own head a lot, and it’s nice to be reasonably sure of where his thoughts will lead. “I understand.”

His shoulders sag. Fatigue. Relief. Possibly a little disappointment at his own cautious nature. “Thanks.”

Slowing down doesn’t mean stopping, though, and a small kiss of companionship is good, really good, and a few lukewarm ravioli are good, too, Chris blowing out the candle on the table because there was enough fire for tonight in the stock pot. And washing up together is familiar, his hold on slippery plates and cutlery as firm yet gentle as ever, his dish towel slip-sliding, a little clack and click with each item he returns to a cabinet or drawer. Maybe it’s strange to find the comfort of home in a place that never should have been home and can’t be home for much longer. But this is home. Because he’s here.

Getting ready for bed is different, alone in the bathroom, spitting minty toothpaste into the sink. The mirror. Her reflection. Yes, Una’s hair is askew from Chris’ hands earlier, but something else is off. What is it? Lean closer to the mirror. Squint. Maybe it’s something small.

Oh.

It’s the opposite of small.

The buoyancy of happiness that lifts her chest, the elation shining in her eyes — she’s ... joyful? Even though she’s temporally displaced, time ticking to existential danger as she awaits rescue?

Yeah. She’s joyful.

Joyful as she climbs into bed, joyful as he takes his turn in the bathroom then joins her under the blanket, joyful as he asks — of course he asks, he’s Chris — “Can I kiss you goodnight?”

“And good morning and anytime you want.” Una can help him, help them both, as their old pattern becomes a memory and they adjust to what it means to be unbreakable, a change that’s exciting in theory but not yet familiar in practice.

Unless they’ve always been unbreakable? Service together for so long and love that has always been there in some form?

Oh, but his lips are soft and he tastes of minty toothpaste and it’s easy to scoot even closer, to unfurl under his soft sighs of pleasure, to let her fingertips find his jawline and bump along the night-stubbly curve and slide into his hair, he’s so pretty, so pretty. Get close, stay close. A kiss of expansive care, knowing him so well and getting to know him in this way, his hand on her hip tensing because he doesn’t want to do more than kiss tonight but neither of them is breaking this kiss — touching him, breathing his air, so good — and she can do this, a little bite to the puff of his lower lip, a nip of love and goodnight.

And sleep.

Thick, wonderful sleep. Not as good as on the ship, but the best since the first night they got to this time period.

Waking up curled along his back, he’s holding her hand just like always, no fear in his grasp or worry in his shoulders. A sweet sigh of good morning. He’s not pretending to still be asleep. That means she can ask something she’s often wondered.

“How long do you usually wait like that?” A quick kiss between his shoulder blades. It’s okay to do that now, soft skin and his chuckle reverberating.

“The record is probably around two hours. Usually not as long. Maybe twenty minutes. You hold on tighter when you’re asleep. It’s nice.” Um, her strength. Her genetically engineered Illyrian strength. He likes it. Despite a habit of hiding so entrenched that it takes conscious thought to activate her musculature instead of tamping it down ... he likes her strength. “My turn for a question.”

He doesn’t roll to face her, which means he’s shy as he continues talking.

“Which hypo did you have before we were taken to this time period? Our vaccinations must still work or I’d have gotten sick by now and your immune system glow would have activated to stop you from getting sick. So our hypos must still work.” He’s talking about contraception hyposprays. Tingles tighten her chest. Flutters dance in her belly. Yes. This is good. And he’s got to be right about effectiveness. “Well, yours might still work. I, uh, was on a monthly one-way hypo so I’m out.”

A one-way hypo prevents pregnancy as long as one person has received a dose.

A two-way hypo prevents pregnancy only if both people have received a dose — a strange choice for risk management, even though many younger officers seem to prefer the two-way system.

The three- and four-way hypos for certain species are too much to contemplate. Never mind the additional options beyond those.

“One-way. Annual. Last dose three months before we were brought here.” Does she sound too official, as if this is a personnel report? This is most definitely not a personnel report. Better tease him a little. “Do you want to inspect where I got the shot?”

Contraception hypos don’t leave a mark.

But they’re usually — not always — injected in the neck.

And he must be thinking what she’s thinking because last night’s neck kisses were his idea, and he lets go of her hand, rolls so her arm stays slung over his ribs, keeps rolling, her back falling onto the bed, his weight on top of her, oh yes, his head dipping, breath hot on her neck, his erection stiffening on her thigh through nightclothes. “Looks good, but additional inspection is needed to be sure.”

A kiss. A lingering kiss that sends heat blossoming low in her belly, and it’s as if the air is too thin, the room spinning in the morning light, spiraling up, up, up, small gasps of excitement, yes, no, and she shouldn’t have teased him. They don’t have enough time for morning sex even if he’s comfortable with the idea. There are stalls to muck out and probably a trip to the post office and oh God, oh yes, he’s humming with pleasure as he kisses her neck.

“We need to get ready for —” Is she crazy? Is now the time to be dutiful?

“I know. To be continued?” His head lifts, cheeks flushed, the bashful smile. “I’m getting used to this faster than I thought I would.”

Thank goodness.

It’s a flurry to get ready but mucking out stalls is mostly the same, two more horses sold, at least a dozen saddles boxed up to take to the post office. Paul found buyers and shipments are starting to take longer with protests splintering and more skirmishes as preludes to all-out war.

According to the news, some protestors want individual militias to attack Augments.

The news describes other protestors as agitating for Augments to seize power and re-unify disparate regions under control of a single militia.

One prominent talk show host called for all Augments to be brought to court to stand trial for intent to commit crimes against humanity.

Another, less prominent talk show host suggested Augments be declared above the law and named superior rulers of humanity’s best interests.

Was Paul right when he said all people want is happiness, safety, and love? It’s easy to believe that when cocooned with Chris in a cabin that seems separate from a world the cabin is most definitely part of, a world three months away from hostile skirmishes tipping into catastrophe.

On the walk home, pasture grass bends under Una’s boots and bounces back.

“You okay?” Chris has that concerned furrow between his eyebrows.

“With us, yes. Seeing the saddles boxed up and ready to go just reminded me of some ugly realities.” Her arms cross in fear, worry, frustration. “I hope our logic bus arrives soon.”

“Me, too.” Chris’ arm finds Una’s waist, rests there as if there’s no place else as natural for his arm to be. “Me, too.”

And two heads tilt toward the blue sky with puffy white clouds ... and not a Vulcan ship in sight.

Chapter 6: Appreciation

Chapter Text

It’s normal to have damp hair from showering when walking into the cabin where Amy stacks letters, photos, address labels, and envelopes on fewer and fewer mattresses as she progresses through her lists. Going straight from mucking out stalls to the shower to the letters cabin makes sense, and Amy knows their schedule.

It’s not normal for Paul to be there.

“Chris, Una.” Paul looks up from the laptop in front of him and Amy. “Good morning.”

It has been a good morning. Mostly. Waking up together and neck kisses. Existential fear of survival on a planet about to be engulfed by war. More kisses before rushing to meet Amy ... and now Paul.

“We figured we owed you two a little update.” Rectangular reflections of the computer screen shine on Amy’s glasses, her smile more tentative than usual. “You have to be wondering about the future.”

That’s an understatement.

Paul turns the screen and the display is a to-do list, most items marked complete. “A buyer signed a contract this morning for the last of the horses, plus the truck and a horse trailer. He should be here in a week or two. With buyers or charity donations arranged for most everything else, we have less than a month before packing it in here and leaving for Baltimore. Our neighbors said they can give you another three or four months in the cabin, no charge, but we need your help on this.”

His finger taps the text of a to-do list item: “Find out how to thank Chris and Una for everything. Job recommendations? Non-financial gifts that comply with the tax code? APPRECIATION IS NOT ENOUGH.”

“We know everyone in this town.” Amy takes off her glasses, fingertips dabbing under her eyes. Is she crying? “Name a horse farm and we can get you a job interview — if that’s what you want. It’s your right to decide, of course. I just have no idea know how we would have gotten through these last few months without you both. I could have relapsed. Paul might have hurt himself doing too much. You’ve been ... you’ve been a godsend.”

Guilt and pride twist in Una’s belly. Guilt is unreasonable, though. The timeline is stronger than she and Chris were taught. How could it hurt the future to help Paul and Amy? How could it hurt the future for Una and Chris to help themselves with the routine of work and the comfort of consistent shelter and a semblance of safety in this place that let them break their old pattern?

A new pattern is forming, Chris’ arm finding her waist again, resting there to comfort them both through a strange situation.

“We’re still figuring out next steps.” Chris checks in, understands her nod of approval is for whatever story he’s about to tell. Una is the better liar, but lying to Paul and Amy is too reminiscent of lying to friends back home. Chris can do it without the weight of memory. “Life on the cruise ship was all we knew for a long time. Being here has been a gift already. Truly.”

Okay, that was pretty good. Replace “cruise ship” with “starship” and Chris told the truth.

Amy’s head tilts, her gaze seeming to dissect what Chris said. Paul’s hand rests on top Amy’s hand and he addresses both Chris and Una. “Thank you.”

And Paul helps assemble letters and pictures into envelopes, helps load boxed saddles onto the truck. It’s easy to forget that Paul is an old man for this time period, but his head gets red within his bald spot and he grunts with effort to lift one of the larger boxes.

It’s a good thing Paul and Amy will be with their children and grandchildren by the time the war becomes dangerous for them.

The post office takes longer than usual, new rates again with militia changes, and each pair of saddles is a separate wait in the line.

“Oh, hey.” The voice in the parking lot is familiar, bulky box with a saddle inside swiveling as Una turns to see who’s speaking. “I owe you an apology — and a thank you.”

The librarian from Tampa, as wide as ever, a bag in his hand from the store that sells almost everything. The woman by his side has a bulbous nose, ashy hair, whip-smart intelligence shining in her eyes — and the mid-sized belly bump of a few months’ pregnancy.

Pregnancy.

Something that happens to other people. Something that was never worth Una potentially losing her commission. The Starfleet directive against mixing Illyrian and non-Illyrian blood is intended for medical personnel, a rule to counter the perceived danger of discoveries made through genetic engineering, a technology considered dirty, wrong, even though such technology could save lives lost to diseases and conditions that affect so many species. Which means no directive or regulation prohibits an Illryian officer from naturally mixing her own blood with someone else’s. Like most laws, Starfleet regulations and directives are — will be? — reactionary, not anticipatory, and Starfleet didn’t anticipate an Illyrian officer hiding in its ranks. So Una’s personal life was never bound by regulations. Instead, her personal and professional life were bound by fear that an obstetric doctor or nurse would discern irregularities not noticed for regular checkups, irregularities that would lead to species detection, then prison or worse. Except that fear was taken away a few days before arriving in this time period. Una has asylum now.

And the Book of Vaultera tells of the creation of life as a gift, a union with nature that is sacred, genetic engineering assisting with Illyrian fetal viability and safety.

What would a baby look like with Chris’ eyes?

Don’t think about that.

No. No more “don’t.” Think about it some other time, though. The librarian is talking.

“I'm not sure if you remember me. If you do, I’m sure you’re great but, on the way to the protest, I met Gwen.” The librarian’s grin is lopsided, lovesick toward the pregnant woman who must be Gwen. “I never made it to the protest. We talked for hours. She helped me see that exultation of women is another form of objectification, and choice doesn’t negate pressure. The intrinsic worth of all peoples requires recognition of the consequences of the right to speak freely. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable or came on too strong.”

Next to Una, Chris clears his throat but the librarian doesn’t hear Chris or chooses to ignore him, pontifications continuing as if Chris and Una aren’t holding bulky boxes.

“Respect, to be worthwhile, calls for perception of individual purpose. I shouldn’t have disrespected the rules of the library to allow you entry. You shouldn’t have disrespected etiquette and generally accepted expectations of clarity regarding your true entanglements.” The librarian finally acknowledges Chris, a tight nod, and is the librarian suggesting that Chris and Una were romantically connected at the library? That’s not ... well, it’s complicated. “Gwen and I would have met a few days later — a pub trivia night we individually planned to attend — so everything worked out, including our babymoon to horse country. But I hope we’ve all learned critical lessons toward personal betterment.”

That ... was an apology?

The librarian rocks on his heels, expectant.

At least he’s alive.

Smug.

Self-centered.

But alive.

“Thanks. It’s good to see you, too.” Una means it. “Best of luck to you both.”

Seemingly satisfied, the librarian turns to leave. Gwen stays back, though, her gaze steady on both Chris and Una.

“He’s a handful, but he’s my handful.” Gwen’s head tilts, thoughtful. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m glad Archer saw you again. He’s apologized to a lot of people. You got a pretty good one. If you’re ever back in Tampa, please consider exercising your right to look us up. We could have dinner.”

Wait.

Archer?

As in an ancestor of Jonathan Archer, future Starfleet captain and president of the United Federation of Planets?

No.

Yes?

No. It’s not even clear whether Archer is the librarian’s first or last name — would Gwen refer to him by his last name? — and the two of them are leaving, walking away, getting into a car and driving off.

“Can’t be a relative.” Chris must be thinking what Una is thinking, mentally in tune as they fall into step toward the post office, bulky boxes in hand. “Or could he be? I’m trying to remember the official portrait at Starfleet Command.”

Get back in line for postage. Let Chris lean against her, a chance to offer help for what’s easier for her physically, the familiarity of his body a support for her racing mind. Did Una almost kill an ancestor of Jonathan Archer? No. Yes. No. Yes. No? Yes? “I miss alcohol. I could use a drink.”

Maybe alcohol wouldn’t be like the caffeine of this time period — too potent — but it’s not worth the risk.

Chris’ lips brush her cheek, tingles, he gives her tingles, his murmur quiet in her ear as the line shuffles forward. “Time is strong. We’re okay.”

And they are, his arm finding her waist as they go back outside for more saddles in more boxes, a task that may be tedious but it’s important, service to others, gratification in sending used saddles across a fracturing country, a fracturing world that will survive and become something better. Far from perfect. But better.

Dusky orange and pink streaks of sunset barely light the sky as Chris parks the blue truck on the driveway near their cabin.

“Join me?” He points toward the truck’s cargo bed, empty with all the boxes gone, fatigue from the day falling away with an impish glint in his eyes. “I want to kiss you back there. I’ve thought about it since we first saw vehicles like this, and I thought about it every time we went back for more saddles.”

He did?

Warmth blossoms across her cheeks. Pleasure. The distinct joy of perhaps unintentional flattery. Not only did he think about kissing her for months, he’s also getting more bold about wanting to touch her, less shy.

That’s good.

That’s very good.

It’s a big, unsteady step up into the cargo bed. The surface is hard plastic with stray pieces of hay, and Chris sits with his back against the divider to the passenger area so Una sits next to him, legs stretched out toward the open tailgate.

“Any other fantasies I should know about?” She’s almost teasing, his hand finding hers, warm and strong. The cargo bed isn’t comfortable — all rough, fixed materials — but Chris is. “Nothing about Jonathan Archer or his potential ancestors, I hope.”

All those years ago, on Talos IV, Chris had seemed not to hear when the Talosians told him that she fantasizes about him. He might have been protecting her feelings, though. Or guarding his own.

A thoughtful hum, he’s taking her question seriously, hearing her now the way she wants to be heard.

“Only you and me, no historical captains. But we can go in chronological order the best I can remember.” Chris starts counting on his fingers, beautiful, long, thick fingers of the hand not holding hers. “There’s under the elm tree near the parade grounds at Starfleet Academy. Any of the academy flight simulators. My bunk on the Antares. Your bunk on the Martin Luther King Jr. and your bunk on the Antares. The armory on deck eleven on the Antares. That weird Jefferies tube way out of the way on deck fourteen on the Antares. The conference room with the long table on Starbase One. The biobed in the surgical bay on the Antares with the bio-monitors on ... am I boring you?”

His question is definitely teasing. She’s the opposite of bored. This is like a continuation of their talk yesterday about missions when they had been especially attracted to each other, eerie replication in many of his fantasies to hers. Bunks are obvious, of course, but the armory on deck eleven was always slightly overheated due to proximity to a plasma conduit. The idea of him sweaty in there, phaser rifles and laser pistols clanging against the inside of weapons lockers as he would bite her shoulder, help pull down her uniform pants ...

“Not bored at all. In fact, I’m quite interested. Especially given how many of those places I’ve thought about for us, too.” Get close, stay close, get closer. They’ll probably argue eventually, but this new normal of talking about attraction is already easy, fun, an implicit surety that even if there’s a problem they’ll figure out how to solve it. “Tell me another one. Tell me the last one before we were brought here.”

Maybe when he hugged her in the transporter room when she got back to the Enterprise. Or maybe when they were washing dishes before she hurt his feelings at her welcome home party, her lie in response to his attempt at praise even more unnecessary in retrospect, but her apology for that lie helped bring them to this place of mutual honesty so that’s good, that’s really good.

His exhale is jagged, nervous, but his hand stays secure in hers.

“It was the morning before duty shift on the day we were brought here. I was in a turbolift going up to the bridge, and I was thinking about signs and fate. I wanted a sign that I would have a chance at love before my fate came to pass. And I wished you were in that turbolift with me. I had this almost blinding moment of courage to tell you how I felt. Then the lift stopped, a couple of yeomen stepped in, and they seemed so young and bright-eyed and innocent. I stood up straighter, captainly, not wanting to be some creep in a turbolift. And I thought, ‘Don’t keep doing this, Chris. Don’t keep wishing for more with Una and wasting your life away.’ Because I didn’t tell the full truth at your welcome home party, either. I said I couldn’t imagine a better friend than you, but I imagined so much more and was always too afraid to do something about it.”

That ... wasn’t exactly a sex fantasy.

It was better.

So much better.

A hum of happiness bubbles up from her chest, her chest that aches for him even though he’s right here, right here with her in mind and body, and her thumb arcs across his cheekbone that’s heat-flushed in the near-darkness, a curl lifting his lips because he’s proud of himself for telling her, proud to see how his honesty makes her want him even more — an irony to examine another day — and his head is tilting, eyes closing, yes, yes, and his lips are so soft, gentle, a kiss of vulnerability — she’ll tell him about her fantasies, too, he told first, but she’ll tell him everything he wants to know — and he’s sliding her down, down, down to the hard plastic of the cargo bed.

The bend of his arm becomes a pillow for her head, he’s holding her so close, his hand splayed on her back, a sigh of contentment in his kiss.

This is what it means to belong to someone, to be wrapped up in love and care, the other person’s belonging just as profound, just as essential.

Unbreakable.

For how long does he kiss her, for how long does she kiss him, softness and breath, his sighs deepening, small cries of want, the ache in her chest for him growing, expanding, flowing low in her belly, racing, rushing, as if the ache for him is in her veins, her marrow?

Does he push his knee between her legs or does she pull it there?

Does the tight, almost frenzied sound from the back of her throat — so good, need more — help him know what she wants — yes, his thigh rubbing against the crotch of her pants, rougher, rougher please, the curves of his rear end in motion under her hand grasping him, moving with him, yes — and does he understand just how much she wants him, all of him, his kindness and his moodiness and his honesty and his fears?

“Una ... Una, I want to take off my shirt. Is that okay?” He’s breathless, starlit, the perfect curve of his cheek facing upward, his eyes dark.

“Not here.” Not outside. “Let’s go home.”

“Indoors only for clothes off? What about my Starfleet Academy elm tree fantasy?” He’s joking. Mostly. Scooting fast along the cargo bed, his hand tugging her with him, joy in motion along the hard plastic. “And I didn’t even get to tell you about my fantasy about us on a hotel pool lounge chair from when we first got to this time period.”

He thought about fooling around outside at the hotel pool? And he thought the elm tree could actually happen, not just the fun of an impractical fantasy? It must be all that camping and fishing he likes. That would explain his comfort at other activities outdoors. And her discomfort — growing up in the city, staying home to minimize the chance of discovery as Illyrian. Except he already knows she’s Illyrian and, tonight, everything is beautiful.

And a real bed is more comfortable than a cargo bed.

“Oh, really? You’ll have to tell me about that one.” A jump down onto the grass, her hair lifting and settling, his hand in hers, not having to break contact, touching him, learning more about how his mind works, so much in sync and yet also surprises. “Especially whether the fantasy takes place before or after swimming.”

The metal of the truck is cool as Una helps Chris push the tailgate shut, a deep thud that’s somehow meaningful, unbreakable, a hard vehicle designed to do hard things that can still be a place for kissing and softness.

So much can change even when nothing changes.

The fun of friendship, the physicality of romance, two sets of boots rushing up the few steps to their cabin. He closes the door and turns on the light. “After swimming. Details later. Okay to take off my shirt now?”

Last night, he just wanted to kiss.

Tonight, his eyes are as dark as they were outside, want-dilated and shining with excitement.

“Yes.” The ache for him flares, heat and need and — oh God. “Take off anything you want.”

A curl of his lips. Understanding of what she means — he can take off anything he wants from either of them.

He shucks off his shirt, and is it silly for her eyes to sting with tears because the curves and planes of his arms and chest ... those muscular arms, that broad chest, the arms and chest she loves ... aren’t just his anymore, they’re also hers to enjoy?

“Una.” Her name sounds different the way he says it now. Belonging. He must feel it, too. She’s herself — she’s finally able to be herself — but she’s also part of something more, a love that thickens his speech, presses his chest to hers as he stands close, bows his head to bring warm kisses to her neck and oh, neck kisses good. Neck kisses very good, warmth that flows and grows and aches low in her belly. The beautiful bumps of his chest and biceps and holy sh*t those obliques are hard under her fingertips — all very, very good.

And his hands are cool, a slide up her back and a gentle pinch to unclasp her bra, the Starfleet one, easier to unfasten, a lucky coincidence of laundry, shoulder straps falling, catching on the fabric of her shirt.

“I can play?” His fingers skate along her skin, skim her stomach, move higher, dip under the bra that’s already open for him.

The guttural, eager sound that comes out of her would be embarrassing if he were anyone else.

But he’s Chris, so his own grunt of want is an invitation for both of them to keep going, his hands tightening on her breasts — yes! yes! — compression that sends heat between her legs, a pinch to her nipple that pulls a delighted gasp from deep in her throat, clothes falling away, the need to touch his skin, all of his skin, the long dip of his spine and the soft hairs on his arms and his erection hard in her hand, oh yes, he’s so pretty, hot hands on her breasts, her ribs, warmth and goosebumps, little cries of excitement, he’s panting, he likes watching how much she likes to touch him, how much she likes to be touched by him, oh God, and the heat and the ache and the tightness between her legs is too much. Too much foreplay. Enough foreplay. And she’s holding him, his bare ass in her hands, his legs cool around her waist, she’s never held anyone that way before but he seems to like it, love-strangled cries of joy as his hips jut toward her, dampness of his erection leaking, his back curved so he can keep kissing her, kisses almost frantic with the intensity of desire, his fingers tangled in her hair, cupping her head, protective even as she carries him, even as she’s so wet for him, so tight with need that walking is difficult but he’s worth it.

Lay him down carefully, just a little bounce on the bed. Make sure he wants what he seems to want, his hands already pulling her hips toward his. “Yes?”

“Yes.” Whimpers of need, his eyebrows peaked with want, all of him hers to touch in transcendent belonging. “You?”

“Yes.”

Her knees find the soft bedding on either side of him, his hand hot as he tugs the nape of her neck, oh yes, his lips pressed to hers again, opening under her, a kiss like a current of electricity, the thrill of being so clearly wanted, so lusted after by the person who knows her best, and no more waiting, she rocks backwards, he tips forwards, working together to help his erection push inside her — oh, oh God, yes, yes — and he ... laughs? A laugh of pure joy and pleasure and happiness flowing up from underneath her.

“Oh, what a difference a day makes.” He’s sing-songy, punch-drunk, expansive laughter undulating on her stomach, contagious, fun. “Twenty-five years of wanting this, and a day after we figure things out, here we are.”

“Here we are.” Some neck kisses for him, long muscles shifting under her lips, laughter melting into groans of excitement, enjoyment, his hands grasping her ass — so tight, yes, push into his hands, let him know that’s good — hips finding rhythm, erection angled just right for some cl*toral rubbing, oh God, oh God, so good, yes, yes, trembles of joy, bliss building between her legs, and she’s not going to last long. Ripples, yes, the ripples of pleasure growing, getting stronger, holy f*cking sh*t yes, more, harder, yes, do it again, the ripples growing, growing, legs starting to shake, yes, just like that, yes, yes, that’s it, right there, again, yes!

Is she crying out in ecstasy? She might be crying out in ecstasy. Waves of org*sm between her legs. Bliss radiating up into her stomach. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. So good.

He’s saying something, talking as she falls forward, chest to his chest, her legs quivering, trembling, everything trembling, and he’s holding her close, his breath warm in her ear. “Good girl.”

Chris is a “good girl” guy?

Of course, Chris is a “good girl” guy. Praise means so much to him. It makes sense that he offers praise to someone when she’s vulnerable, gasping for air, love-blitzed and shaking. And, of course, Chris is a “good girl” guy when he hasn’t even hit his own org*sm, praise for her pleasure, for her feeling good even though he isn’t there yet.

He’s almost there, though. Prolonging her org*sm with his “good girl” and his arms around her and he must know how tempting he is on her skin, his hips rising and falling faster, faster, his little gasps and grunts underneath her, slippery, sweaty, he’s so good, pushing into him, tightening inner muscles around his erection, make it good for him, make it so good, he’s so good, everything should be good for him, and —

His cry of release is a new kind of joy, a gift she helped give him, his hips jerking, so good, so pretty, and his hold on her is different, almost as if he’s holding on to keep himself from bursting apart with happiness and, yes, she can give him another gift.

“Good boy.” A kiss to his temple, the soft place near where his beautiful mind works.

Laughter again, gratitude. She’s figuring out what he likes, he’s figuring out what she likes. He likes being called a good boy. That’s easy, she can do that — he is a good boy.

“That was amazing.” He’s slurred, scrambled, mental barriers brought down by org*sm. “I love you.”

And there is no “don’t,” no fear of breaking anything, no getting close only to push away. All of that is done, finished.

So there is only, “I love you, too,” and a kiss of forevermore.