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He checks the time.
0214.
A groan escapes, a weak punch to his pillow, his fist descending into fluff, into what’s supposed to be a comfort for his weary mind but isn’t doing the job tonight.
He wasn’t supposed to be grateful when Captain Batel left, stormed out of his quarters once they parted from their kiss and he suggested spending the next thirty minutes talking about captaincy and stress and how the gift she gave him helped him come home to Enterprise and the duties he cares about so much.
But if she doesn’t want to talk with him about captaincy, what are they supposed to talk about? He does like her. She’s forthright, spunky, doesn’t take crap from anyone. She’s pretty and, ok, the sex wasn’t exactly fireworks, but he didn’t want to let his libido get in the way of something that could have been good.
Did he push her away on purpose, though? He could have suggested a quick roll in the hay, but it didn’t feel like the right time. Their emotional connection seemed tenuous and he wanted to shore that up first and —
His legs swing and he’s out of bed, sleep shirt sliding down his ribs, pyjama pants-clad legs in motion, bare feet padding across the deck plating of his quarters. Thinking in circles hasn’t done a damn thing for him all night, and he may as well pee and maybe get some work done.
In the bathroom, Una’s door stands watch across from his, and it’s good to know she’s back from those terrible months apart, months when he was so worried about her that his own problems seemed to recede into a singular focus that repeated in his brain like a mantra: get her back, get her back, get her back.
So, uh, yeah, it’s good to know she’s there.
And she’s probably asleep so he really shouldn’t think about the signal as he pees, then washes his hands, soap bubbles and running water soothing in consistent consistencies. He shouldn’t dry his hands slowly, just in case she steps into the bathroom, hair all sleep-tousled as she blinks in the illumination he keeps extra low in the middle of the night because she prefers it that way, their pee schedules probably in sync because their duty shifts are usually in sync and that’s normal, right? To hope someone will have to pee at the same time in the middle of the night just to be able to see them again for a few drowsy minutes even after seeing them all day?
His just-dried knuckles rat-a-tat against her bathroom door. The signal. Muted taps. Morse code: three long taps for “o,” long, short, long for “k.” If she’s awake, she’ll know he’s ok. If she’s asleep, the signal won’t bother her. And that’s fine, she should be asleep, rest is important and this isn’t a usual pee time for either of them, so —
The door opens. She’s bleary-eyed, hair adorably sleep-tousled — sleep-tousled, just sleep-tousled — and he’s long since trained himself not to look lower, just a cursory glance — black tank top and the short sleep shorts tonight — because Una is his friend and friends don’t take a chance on making each other uncomfortable with lingering glances below the neckline.
Her eyes narrow. “You’re not ok.”
He’d ask what gave him away, but she steps into the toilet area, closes the interior door, and he needs to wait, needs to sit on the fluffy rug that takes up most of the middle of the bathroom. At first, he’d wanted a thinner rug with a kind of wavy pattern that was different from the other options in the store on Starbase 12, but Una had pointed out the value of softness under bare feet, and this rug is extremely thick and soft. So he sits comfortably, criss-crosses his legs, lets his elbows find his knees as he hammocks his forehead in his hands.
The door to the toilet area opens and she walks around him to the sink. “What did you do, Chris?”
“Tried to talk to Captain Batel.”
Una doesn’t say anything, just washes and dries her hands, then starts brushing her teeth, no pause to her movements, no indication that she has anything to say — which means she thinks he’s not done telling her what happened.
His cheeks warm with embarrassment. “Tried to talk to Captain Batel about, uh, stress and captaincy when we had just half an hour together, so she stormed out.”
Una’s eyes roll, but she’s still brushing her teeth, so he may as well get the rest of it over with.
“I know what you said earlier, and I don’t think I pushed her away. I think it just wasn’t a good match. Sometimes things don’t work out. This is good.”
Una spits into the sink. “Bullshit.”
Is it?
He didn’t panic. But was his gratitude when Captain Batel left his quarters a relief from panic that he didn’t realize he’d had?
“Chris, what’s the real reason you pushed her away?” Una sits in front of him, her legs criss-crossed like his, her knees only a few centimeters from his knees, and the scent of her — it’s not a shampoo or a soap or a perfume, it’s just Una — seems to tilt the room, a momentary loss of equilibrium, a buzzing on his skin that’s pleasant, familiar.
Though he needs to pay attention and answer her question.
“I didn’t push Captain Batel away. I wanted to talk with her. She chose to leave.” His hand tugs on the back of his neck. That usually helps his equilibrium return faster. Dr. M’Benga said it was something … something about tension? “And I’m glad she did.”
Una’s head tilts and she’s looking at him the way she did in the transporter room just before he hugged her — hopeful, almost shy, expectant but with a trust and openness that tingles his chest, twitches his arms with want to hold her close. But he shouldn’t give in to that instinct again, shouldn’t wonder what it would be like to let himself enfold his body around hers because they’ve been friends for two and a half decades and what kind of an idiot would he be to risk losing that?
***
Chris is the most brilliant, tenacious, generous, kind, thoughtful, beautiful idiot she’s ever known.
She needs to talk him through this breakup the way she’s done so many times for him — and he’s done so many times for her — when yet another person who seemed like lasting partner material turns out to be just another transient through their lives.
Maybe Chris didn’t push Captain Batel away on purpose, but something clearly went wrong even though they seemed well-suited for each other. And why wouldn’t Captain Batel want to discuss the stresses of captaincy if that’s what was on Chris’ mind? Chris processes his emotions verbally, and it’s usually interesting to hear his thoughts and feelings.
Okay, it’s also nice to watch him share his thoughts and feelings. His eyes shine with care for whatever he has to say and those eyes are like a whole universe of light and dark that exist in exquisite harmony with his exquisite nose and his exquisite chin and his exquisitely high cheekbones and his exquisite …
Focus, focus.
Chris’ hand is tugging the back of his neck, which means he’s tense but not too tense — too tense means pacing, dangerously tense means barely talking. And tonight’s sleep shirt is stretched tight across his chest, muscles shifting as he breathes, and she could rock herself forward until the plush of the rug is under her knees and she could touch his chest to push him down, slide her hands under his shirt, warm skin, his chuckle lifting in delight as he figures out what she wants from him, her hands roaming, her mouth roaming, touching him, touching him, touching him …
No. She needs to stop fantasizing. It’s easier to control during the day, but sleep hasn’t come easy tonight, not with damage reports and memory gaps and her hope that Captain Batel was smart enough to finally be someone who could give Chris the love he should have as he worries about his fate.
“I believe you.” She does believe he’s glad about this latest breakup. Chris doesn’t lie. It’s more that he gets hopeful or depressed or scared and sees things through those lenses. “But also I maintain that some level of bullshit is going on because if you truly had no concerns about the breakup or pushing her away, then we would be talking about this over breakfast, not in the bathroom in the middle of the night.”
His chuckle isn’t like the one in her fantasy. It’s more rueful. “Believe me, there’s nowhere else in the galaxy that I’d rather be than sitting on this bathroom rug with you right now.”
That … that was a strange thing to say.
And she’s known Chris for twenty-five years, so she’s heard him say a lot of strange things, things that made her wish he wasn’t her friend at all so she could make a pass at him without fear of losing the person she most wants to see every day, the person she knows will always do his best to protect her and keep her safe. Even before she told him her species, she never worried about prejudice from Chris, never feared his reaction.
So why is cold fear pooling in her belly right now?
***
It’s true. Sitting on the bathroom rug with Una in the middle of the night is better than any date he’s been on since … ever?
He, uh, needs to think that through, figure out why he never thought about it that way before.
Maybe it was those terrible months apart that led her to look at him that way in the transporter room, though she also had just won her case and got to keep her job.
Maybe it was the way she laughed and ate and hugged crewmember after crewmember at her welcome home party — joyful hugs, but not the way she hugged him, not lingering or holding on tight.
Maybe it was any one of the missions where they saved each other’s lives, saved each other’s careers, saved each other’s sanity.
Maybe it was all those things and more that brought them here tonight.
But his time is running out. The clock of fate is ticking and she knows that, he knows that. So he has to take note of what he said — there’s nowhere else in the galaxy he’d rather be than sitting on this bathroom rug with her — and stop panicking at the possibility of losing her friendship and start letting that friendship withstand a test or two.
“This might sound kind of weird, and please say no if you don’t want to, but would you mind closing your eyes so I can look at you without you looking at me?” His cheeks are hot with embarrassment, but it’s not bad to ask for a test. He’s not going to touch her. He just wants permission to look at her without making both of them uncomfortable.
And her forehead doesn’t furrow in confusion.
Her arms don’t cross in self-consciousness or modesty.
She doesn’t even ask him why.
Instead, she closes her eyes, a fluttering of eyelashes and a soft exhale.
He takes his own deep breath to steady himself.
Then he lets his gaze drop lower than it has in years.
Dark tank top straps on pale shoulders, collarbone dips that his fingertips could trace.
Her shirt curving around her breasts. Holy shit. He could … he could cup those breasts with his hands, feel her, make her feel good, maybe even bite her if she would like that. He would like to do that. If she would like it.
And her, uh, her shorts are really short and her legs are really long and he’s not a feet guy but her feet are really, really nice, and his hands could skate up her legs, find out what she would want him to do as he touched higher and higher and — ok, ok, the whole loss-of-equilibrium thing is extreme right now.
Queasiness churns his belly.
He’s in love with his best friend — mind and body. And he might not have figured it out if she hadn’t been taken away or if he hadn’t been dumped or even if she hadn’t heard him tap out the signal on the bathroom door.
But he did figure it out.
And he needs to do the right thing.
“Una?”
She hums, an invitation for him to keep talking, her eyes still closed.
“Una, I, uh, I understand if you don’t feel the same way or if you need time to think about it. And this isn’t a rebound thing, I’m sure of that because I figure it’s been cooking for a couple of decades now. But I figured I should tell you …” His throat seems to close and the room seems to spin, but he’s gotten this far and he needs to finish.
He doesn’t get the chance, though, because Una’s eyes open and her pupils contract even in the low light and she stares at his face and she says it for him: “You love me?”
***
Fantasies aren’t supposed to come true.
Her best friend isn’t supposed to ask to look at her while she can’t see him and the cold fear in her belly — what if their feelings aren’t in sync? what if they lose each other? — isn’t supposed to melt into warmth, into hope, into surety, her enjoyment growing at the sound of his breathing hitching as she wonders which part of her body he likes so much that he can’t regulate his inhalations and exhalations.
Ok, she never thought of that particular fantasy.
But it would have been a good one.
“Yeah.” He doesn’t look away, doesn’t flinch or seem to panic. He even smiles a little, tentative, his own gentle confidence in a change that he must be able to tell she wants as much as he does. “Yeah, I, uh, I love you.”
They’ve loved each other for a long time, supported each other, helped each other become better people. That’s what best friends do.
And he’s still her best friend, even if a new facet of their relationship begins. She won’t lose that part of him, not after fearing the loss for so long.
But if fantasies she’s never dreamed of are coming true, if their love is changing in a way she never thought it would, if he was brave enough to tell her how he feels, then she may as well make her feelings clear, too.
She may as well rock forward so the bathroom rug is under her knees.
She may as well let her fingertips find his cheek, her heartbeat like a too-fast metronome because this is real, this is happening, not a fantasy, the soft skin of his cheek pinpricked by rough stubble she can’t see but she can feel because she’s touching him, touching his cheek, exquisite, and he’s leaning into her touch, his eyelids closing because he knows what she wants to do.
So she leans forward and carefully, delicately, she kisses him.
***
Una is kissing him!
And he’s kissing her back!
And it’s like drifting together, floating, existing in soft lips and low murmurs of joy, the person he knows best in the galaxy opening up to him in this new way, showing him how she feels, her kiss somehow like home even though they’ve never done this before, and his heart is hammering like crazy in excitement, in want, his dick stiffening and his stomach tightening, and he’s drifting, drifting with her, pulling her closer, instinctive, his thumbs tracing the peaks and valleys of her collarbones, her shoulders. More, he wants more, and hot breath meets hot breath and her tongue slides along his, minty fresh — that’s right, she brushed her teeth earlier — and this is so good, so right, so easy to be with her like this, and she nudges him backward, a push to his chest, and he’s letting himself fall, letting himself fall, letting himself fall.
His shoulder blades land in the fluff of the rug.
But not for long.
She’s on top of him, her ribs pressing against his through their pyjamas, her weight like a promise because she’s always known how to balance — friendship, duty, listening, teasing, and now herself on top of him. She chooses a different kind of balance, though, sliding sideways, dropping so she’s next to him, and he rolls to face her, to hold her in his arms, and a long leg hooks around his hip to pull him even closer, and is it her low murmur of pleasure or his to be wrapped up like this, her chest and stomach curving on his through thin fabric, her fingernails in his hair, little scratches to his scalp, her kisses so intent, so loving that while he’d like to hear her say the words the way he did, she doesn’t have to say she loves him if she doesn’t want to — and his hands ache to touch her breasts, her hips, her ass, every part of her all at once, and his dick is getting so hard and the only weird thing is he wants to talk with her about this even though she is this.
“Hey,” a fingertip catches cloth along his shirt over his chest, her touch like a stone that skips along a lake, ripples of happiness, what seemed still brought to life by her attentions, “I want to touch your chest, ok? With your shirt off. Is that all right?”
He doesn’t mean to grin — some pride, yes, some excitement that she wants to touch him more. And also he likes to see her laugh and he thinks she might laugh at his reply: “Definitely ok, and I’d like your answer to the same question.”
She does laugh. Not the biggest laugh he’s ever gotten from her — that would be when he told her that joke after the mission to Gamma Braga IX, though she was in sickbay hopped up on painkillers so it might not count — but this is a new laugh, a sexy laugh that tilts her lips and lights up her eyes, delight and seduction and a little bit of glee, a laugh he wants to hear again and again.
Why isn’t this weird?
Why is it so natural to sit up with her as he shucks off his shirt, cool air on his ribs and back, his gaze eager as she pulls the hem of her tank top higher, higher, a glimpse of her stomach, more, more, not yet, not quite, almost, almost, almost … and realization hits him with a jolt of excitement — “Are you going so slowly to tease me?” “Yes. Is it working?” — and it’s his turn to laugh because of course this would be fun with her. She’s still his best friend, even as they become something else, too.
That’s why it’s not weird.
And it would be nice to reflect on that, but he can see her breasts now — she wasn’t wearing a bra or her tank top is one of those ones with a bra built in — and complex thought becomes impossible as she tosses her shirt somewhere behind her.
“Has, uh, has anyone ever told you that you have damn near perfect —”
She’s kissing him again, smiling on his lips — “Yes, but it’s nice to hear it from you.” — and she’s pushing him down again, her palms warm on his bare chest, his back re-finding a place on the rug, and she’s a blur of dark hair that tickles his neck and breasts that fit just right in his hands, and she’s pinching his nipples, spikes of pleasure-pain, yeah, ok, wow, yes, and her hips move in counterpoint to his, perfect pressure from her pubic bone on his erection, hardening him even more, almost pitiful sounds of joy escaping from him because this is already better than any sex he’s had in a long time, and there’s no more discussion, just a tilt of hips and hands as pyjama bottoms and sleep shorts slide down, and he wants to slip fluid-slick fingers inside her, wants to taste between her legs with her inner thighs hugging his ears, wants to give her every kind of orgasm she wants and maybe even new ones they can figure out together.
But he’s not exactly in the prime of his youth anymore.
And he’s an old-fashioned guy at heart.
So his grasp on her hips isn’t quite desperate, pulling her down even though she’s already flush against him. “I know it’s not the most exciting, but are you ok with —”
“I know Boy Scouts grow up, yeah.” Her grin is devilish, desire-flushed cheeks and her hair somehow even prettier messy and framing her face. She dips as if she’s going to kiss him again but she stops just before she does and her breath is hot on his lips. “If I want something else from you, I’ll ask so we can figure out together what we’re both comfortable with. Same goes the other way. Ok?”
Her kiss is gentle, trusting, and he nods. He would argue a little — he’s old-fashioned, not boring — but her hands slide onto his erection and oh God that feels good, not too tight or too loose as she guides him toward her, and no matter how slow this seems he won’t let his hips rise until he’s in because she wouldn’t tease him now, wouldn’t mess with him about something this important, and it might have been a long time since she’s done this, she hasn’t mentioned anyone in a while, and he doesn’t want to risk hurting her.
But he can’t help trembling with anticipation at getting closer, closer, closer to exactly where he wants to be.
***
Chris is better at this than she expected.
Thank goodness — both now and before — because if she had thought that Chris had moves — hot kisses and firm hands and little gasping sounds that get her even more worked up — then she might have made a pass at him years ago and who knows how that might have ended up? Knowing her best friend is hot and knowing he’s fun to fool around with are very different spheres of knowledge.
Though learning that her fantasies have sold him short is sublime.
She’s so wet for him, aches of want in her belly and tightness between her legs, fluid gathering as she got to touch him, slim spaces between his ribs and puffiness in his biceps, and it was fun to play with his chest, watch him get into to a little pleasure-pain, and his hips are so narrow compared to the rest of him but just as powerful, and he’s strong for a human, giving as good as he gets, which is a good starting point.
So she trembles with hope as she guides him toward her, his erection a respectable size but that’s not always a reliable indicator, and he doesn’t try to speed this up, which is good. It’s been a while since she had a partner she wanted to actually savor, and she needs to ease him in carefully and — oh holy shit, he feels amazing.
He’s barely in, mostly out, and her interior muscles are already tightening around him, waves of pleasure, her legs shaking as he looks up at her, all hot and disheveled, and this is going to go quickly whether she wants it to or not.
But she needs to check in with him first.
“Ok to go faster?” Her fingers flex around his erection, thick veins seeming to harden even more under her hand.
“Please. Yes.” His arms reach for her, as if he wants to hug her, embrace her even now when she’s trying to take him inside her body.
And friendship and affection and knowledge of how they each want to be treated in so many facets of their lives — overlapping forms of closeness — all converge and she’s in love, she’s in love, she’s in love! She’s taking him inside her, fast, twinges of pain be damned, waves of pleasure more important, getting stronger, harder, yes, she’s in love, he hasn’t even had a chance to do much yet, but yes, yes, and the orgasm hits like a thunderclap, undulations of pleasure between her legs that curl her toes, warm her belly, and she’s crying out, shouting, needs to be quieter because soundproofing even on officer quarters is lousy, and she’s falling forward, her chest on his chest and his arms encircle her and he’s holding her, holding her through it, holding her as she shakes with the thunderclap of a sudden and fast orgasm, every rumble reverberating inside her, and it’s — it’s —
It’s exquisite.
***
His ear may be ringing for the next few days, but shouts of ecstasy are worth a little discomfort.
Her trembles are slowing down and she murmurs instead of shouting, “That … that doesn’t usually happen without a lot more work.”
He’ll take the compliment.
Though he has other, uh, pressing matters to attend to.
“Will you be ok if I, uh … uh …” How is he supposed to remind her that he’s painfully erect inside her? He doesn’t need much more, and he would consider this a win even if she wants him out and he has to finish himself off, but he would like to … with her … would like to …
If I want something else from you, I’ll ask so we can figure out together what we’re both comfortable with. Same goes the other way. Ok?
That’s what she said and he agreed.
So he needs to ask, hot embarrassment on his cheeks be damned.
“Una, I need to … I, uh, I need to finish. What do you want for that?”
Her head lifts and she’s blissed out, eyes glazed and cheeks rosy with afterglow, her hair a tangled mess. And his chest aches with gratitude that he gets to see her like this — beyond beautiful, beyond gorgeous. Something else. Something new.
“I got what I want, sweetie. Now it’s your turn. Tell me what you want.”
Sweetie?
Una is a “sweetie” person?
Unless she meant “sweetie” with an almost sarcastic affection? Sarcasm mixed with affection would make sense from her.
But he, uh, likes being called sweetie. It’s nice.
Almost as nice as telling her what he’d like them to do next. “I want … I want to …”
His entire face is hot with embarrassment.
He can’t do it.
He can’t talk dirty.
But her smile is soft, understanding. “We’ll work on it, all right?”
“All right.” It is all right. Really. He’ll keep trying.
And she begins to move again, her hips setting a rhythm that he matches, erection slip-sliding inside her, lighting him up, and it’s good, it’s good. It could be better, though, so he speeds up and she stays with him, his skin tingling, the pulses starting in his groin, and her interior muscles grip him more tightly and, oh, this is going to be so, so good. He speeds up even more and she stays with him, his erection moving more roughly inside her, his hands grasping her back, so warm, and she seems to understand what he likes even if he can’t quite bring himself to ask for it yet, grinding against him even harder and the pulses get more intense, blacking out everything else, he only exists in this moment, and he’s —
He’s —
He’s there, he’s in ecstasy, not quite crying with relief, contentment and joy in the best orgasm he’s had in years — including the ones he’s given himself — his muscles spasming inside her, his whole groin seeming to pulse with needed release, and her movement slows above him, helping him prolong his pleasure, and he’s babbling. Oh God, he’s babbling through his orgasm, what the hell is he saying?
“This is so great, and you’re so great. And you don’t have to say it back if you don’t want to, but I want to be sure that you know how much I love you. I guess our timing is weird — friends for so long and we could have just talked about things tonight or just kissed — but everything kept feeling so right and so good and so great, and I think I’m the luckiest guy in the —”
“Chris.” She’s giving him that look that means she thinks he’s adorable but he needs to stop because it’s her turn to talk.
And he knows.
He knows a second before she says it, just like she knew before he said it, and he needs to focus because he wants to be able to replay this moment in his mind every day, wants to have this moment in his mind when he saves the cadets, wants this moment in his mind always.
“Chris, I love you, too. You tap ‘ok’ on the door and I know you’re not ok. You like to talk about everything. You get self-conscious. You’re loyal and funny and smart — and you’re so hot that we didn’t even go to either of our beds that are less than a dozen meters from here because I was so ready to be with you after finding out how we feel about each other that we did it on the bathroom rug. You tell me you’ll work on something, and I know you’ll work on it until you get it right. I love you, I love you, I love you.”
Her smile is like a sunrise.
And he needs to give her something in return for the best love proclamation he’s ever gotten.
“Hey,” he exaggerates a frown, “all that and you didn’t mention my cooking?”
Her laugh is even better than it was in sickbay after Gamma Braga IX. Her head tips back and her stomach shakes and he can see her back molars.
And they both need to get cleaned up, they have alpha duty shift, but he pulls her close for another kiss because she was right.
He’s not ok.
He’s the best he’s ever been.