The early morning light slowly seeps through the window and gradually illuminates the ultra-modern motel room. On the wall directly in front of me is an oversized, framed Escher print. The black and grey shades of the elaborate illustration stark on an otherwise pure white wall. I can't sleep and am lying on my back, propped up by pillows. For the past thirty minutes or so I've been half watching the print become clearer as more and more sunlight enters the room.
My inability to return to sleep does not concern me. I've already had a few hours and have no real desire for more. I can, and have on numerous occasions, existed on a lot less sleep than I've already had. Truth be told, I feel wonderfully content. I may not be home, I may be in yet another strange motel room in another strange city, but none of that matters. As long as he is by my side I think I could be happy anywhere. No, I know I could be happy…
Turning my head slightly, I take in the vision of the body that is lying fast asleep next to me and smile. Steve is on his stomach, his serene face turned towards me. One arm is thrown over my body in a way that can either be read as casual affection or as a sign of possession. Either way is fine with me.
My smile slips a little as I notice Steve' other hand. It's under his pillow and is no doubt wrapped around his Smith & Wesson. The same Smith & Wesson that he slips under his pillow every night. This cold, steel security blanket worries me. I know better than to raise the issue though. It worries me not because I fear that he may have to suddenly use it, but because he feels he needs it. I'd like to be able to replace this need, however I feel I don't have anything viable to offer him in return. The best I can offer is to not to give up; to hang around for the long haul and to be there if ever he needs me.
I bite back a sigh, not wanting to wake him, as I turn my attention back to the print. Lightly resting my hand over his, I let my mind wander to happier thoughts. Needless to say these thoughts involve Steve.
From the first moment I laid eyes on him, striding purposefully around the Miss hall talking to other naval personal during a dinner function for his Class the night after my finals. I knew I wanted him. Initially I didn't particularly care whether this want eventuated in the form of a relationship or a one night stand. Just as initially this want existed purely in a physical sense. I'm the first to admit that I am inordinately fond of the finer things in life, and Steve is very fine indeed tall and slim and with a smooth athletic body. Deep dimples appear in his cheeks when he smiles and he has wide spaced, slightly slanted, almond-shaped blue eyes. Like cats eyes they are. Short, spiky dark brown hair, full lips and an eternal paleness adding to the more than pleasant picture he makes.
To my utter delight and displeasure, we worked together in the Navy Intel. I bided my time, planned my moves and then we start to see each other, over the years to my surprise, my feelings gradually changed. They went from the basest of physical desires to something stronger. Working so closely together, I began to respect Steve and see more attributes in him than the purely physical ones. His skills, his professionalism, his loyalty and his determination being and a few of his characteristics I came to appreciate.
As more and more pieces of the jigsaw that is Steve McGarrett became apparent to me, I found that I would no longer be content with a one night stand. He changed in my mind from being a mere sexual object that I wished to consume to a person that I genuinely wanted to spend my time with. This confused, and to a certain extent, dismayed me. The apparent rule of no relationships on the job was not one I really wanted to push.
My feelings eventually came to a head after an assignment sent the pair of us to South Africa to look into the illegal firearm trade. Whilst we there our hired plane was sabotaged and we crashed into the desert. I will never, for as long as I live, forget the sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach as I staggered around the wreckage and saw Steve. At first look I thought he was dead. He was just lying there, unmoving. The relief I felt when he moved was unlike any I have ever known. Fortunately, in some ways, his main injury was only a broken leg. After fashioning a brace and a crutch, we set off walking. We had no choice. To remain with what was left of the plane would have resulted in the pair of us being nothing more than sitting targets.
As we walked, well, *limped* across the desolate landscape I had to have my arm around Steve in order to steady him. The gravity of our situation aside, I enjoyed the feeling of my arm encircling his body. The sensations this caused in me renewing and strengthening my dormant desires. If not for Steve' injuries and our barren surroundings, I would have liked nothing more than to have taken him on the spot. Remarkably, I controlled this feeling and after a few more misadventures, we made it back to civilization.
I didn't allow myself to fully relax until we were safely on an airliner heading back to the Sates. Then, on the plane, just after asking whether I cared to make a bet in regards to the meat substance in our alleged meal being that of a previously undiscovered brand of edible hiking boot, Steve simply thanked me…
Before I could query this out of the blue acknowledgment, he continued. Thanking me for my refusal to leave him and determination that we were both going to make it. He'd had his doubts and confessed that without me, he may have simply given up. He sounded so serious that I tried to make a joke of the moment. Telling him that if he began to sing 'Wind Beneath My Wings' I was going to ask to change seats.
Instead of laughing, as I hoped he would, he looked straight at me, slowly blinked those beautiful eyes of his and quietly yet firmly reiterated his thanks.
That was it. I lost it. I declared vehemently that I never would have left him. That I would have preferred to have died with him before I abandoned him and that it was because I cared for him greatly and not just because of never leave a man behind… The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.
Steve' eyes immediately widened and he whispered, "Neat,". I watched, embarrassed, with increasing disbelief as he grinned at me. A Cheshire Cat smile that merely added to his feline-like appearance. I couldn't help but grin back. He appeared to be sincerely happy with my declaration. This was further proven when his hand suddenly slipped under my tray and come to a gentle rest on my leg.
I had so much more that I wanted to say but Steve, having said his piece and made his point, leant his head on my shoulder and immediately fell into a contented sleep. I was so delighted in the feeling of his hand, warm on my leg for the remainder of the flight that I forgave him for his medication induced dribbling on my leather jacket. Greater love hath no woman than she sacrifices the quality of her leather jacket in order for it to become a glorified pillow case.
Upon arriving at Pearl Harbor, we detoured via his place and for the second time in a week, Commanding officer had to wait. Steve, although still injured, exhausted me. Until then I - mistakenly - thought I knew all the tricks of sexual pleasure. As we lay sated, wrapped around one another for the night and that was almost a year ago.
For the first six months we skirted around commitment issues. Ensnared in the throes of predominantly sexual passion, nothing else seemed relevant. I was still confused, couldn't differentiate between my carnal desires and other, stronger emotions. My track record with relationships was not stunning and I usually went through lovers quicker than I went through toothbrushes. This had never really bothered me. I told myself that it was because I liked to always have the newer, better, brighter models of everything - lovers included.
From the onset with Steve it was somehow different. I don't know whether this was because I'd desired him first as an object then as a person for so long or whether it was because we worked so closely, so perfectly together. I couldn't tell. All I could tell was that there was something special between us and that it confused the hell out of me. The never ending, comforting cycle of work and sex helped keep my mind off my inability to commit for a good half of a year.
Then, like the fateful South Africa expedition, something happened that helped me see the light.
Late one night I returned home from a week long solo survival exercise and thought that I had entered the wrong house by mistake. I am, by nature, an ordered, tidy individual. I do *not* like mess. I most definitely do not like coming home and discovering what can be best described as the aftermath of a small tornado in the living room and I knew that Steve could not stand it. It was a navy thing as our family and friends always said.
Clutching my overnight bag tightly, I stared in disbelief at the mess. The glass-topped coffee table was covered in what appeared to be a medium sized rain forest's worth of newspapers. Scattered haphazardly amongst this mass of paper were numerous coffee mugs. I thought I could also just make out the matt black lump of a lap-top computer sitting precariously close to the table's edge. To my infinite disgust, half empty take-away packets were also amongst the debris.
Gritting my teeth, I stalked over to the coffee table to try and make sense of it all. A minor amount of welcome sense was obtained when I saw handwritten notes on small scraps of paper amongst all the news print. I didn't need to look too closely to know that the handwriting was Steve Sisters.
I sighed as I narrowly avoided sticking my foot in a half eaten tray of fried-rice and made my way out of the room. I could vaguely understand the mess now as it appeared that for reasons best known to her-self, Marry had decided to work on whatever he was working on, in the living room. For all I knew a note explaining her motives could be hidden somewhere on the coffee table but I lacked the inclination to look. I was already having a hard enough time trying to keep my temper in check without the pessimist in me telling me that under all that paper were probably stains, if not cracks, that I or Steve didn't need to see.
My ire raised a notch as I walked past the bathroom on my way to the bedroom. The door was open and by the dim light of the full moon glowing through the small window I saw yet more things that I didn't really want to see. I switched the light on and my fears were immediately realised. At least three sodden towels were lying discarded on the floor and if my eyes didn't deceive me, there was a toothbrush in the shower… That did it!
Regardless of she been Steve sister, I was going to kill her. I could hardly believe what she had done to the house. Half reaching down to pick up the towels, I was suddenly reminded that I was still carrying my bag. Straightening up, I decided to deposit it in the bedroom before tidying the bathroom at least before I went to bed. I doubted irrationally that I could possibly sleep with the knowledge that I had that mess to wake up to.
Malevolent thoughts of what I'd like to do to Marry to teach her the rights and wrongs of good housekeeping entertained me on my way to the bedroom. These thoughts died a quick and painless death as I entered the room and encountered my Sleeping Beauty splayed out on his bed. The room was bathed in moonlight and the fairy tale vision took my breath away. Steve was lying, sound asleep, on top of the duvet. He was clad only in a pair of my hand made, silk boxers in olive green and my favorites black Ralph Lauren shirt. I swear my mouth gaped open and I stood there, staring, like an idiot. He looked so exceptionally beautiful that my obsessive need to tidy was immediately obliterated. I also swear that an epiphany occurred. I forgave his sister for everything and realized with a start that my days of search for love are done.
Sex ultimately had nothing to do with it. All I suddenly wanted was to forget the admittedly insignificant mess and to crawl onto the bed alongside Steve. That was what I did. Quickly stripping down, I climbed onto the bed and curled around him. Without waking, he wriggled closer and I soon fell into a blissful sleep.
The following morning, after we had languidly and at length re-acquainted ourselves with each other's erogenous zones, Steve sheepishly admitted that His sister as taken over the house because she missed him which mean that she needs something from him. I, in turn, had to explain the perfect moment of clarity I experienced when I first saw him lying there.
There was therefore no more avoiding it the time had come to tell my father and He was, after all, our Commanding Officer and between us we felt that it was only right to let him know about our relationship.
After much discussion on the matter, we also decided that it might be for the best Steve to ask for transfer to the Seals. The reasoning behind this was vague but none the less relevant. We felt that others might think that we'd put our interests before that of Navy. Not that we ever would… but still, we decided we wouldn't be completely happy until he knew. Allowing My father the ultimate decision seemed the best way to tackle it.
Later that day, after I'd managed to get Steve's sister to begrudgingly help clean the house, Steve and I presented a united front in my father's office. Our distinguished looking boss watched with barely a raised eyebrow as I locked the door to his office to insure against any unwanted interruptions from others. He waited until we were both seated before asking the obvious question, "So, what can I do for you?"
Steve replied quickly and stated our request that we would like Steve would like transfer to the Seal. I then added, before my father had time to react, that it was because we were in love and we like to make ago of it. For a moment the words hung carelessly in the air. I don't know why I was surprised by this typically American desire to lay all the cards on the table without any real preamble but I was. Steve was smiling broadly and I got the impression that he was actually enjoying himself. That by blurting out our reason before we'd agreed to he was showing to my father that everything was, in fact, fine. It was almost as if he was daring him to comment in the negative.
He need not have worried, and more to the point, I need not have worried. Father took the confession as one would expect a father to savour a fine scotch. He leant back in his chair, clasped his hands under his chin and replied that he had wondered when we were going to get around to telling him…
It was at that point, electrical hum from the computer notwithstanding, that you could have heard a pin drop in the office. I was dumbfounded, stunned by Malone's own confession and even Chris' grin slipped. Only my father seemed nonplussed by it all. Then again, I don't think I had ever seen father fazed and wondered what immense vanity on my behalf made me think he wouldn't know about us. The man knew everything, that's why he was the one of superior in Navy.
For a while, seeing as determination was one of our strong points, we pushed on regardless and tried to get father to accept our reasoning. We were wasting our breath though, he wouldn't have a bar of it. We listened closely as he told us his *non-negotiable* reasons for insisting our partnership stay as it was. He had some good reasons too. Better than ours and a lot less vague however he would approve the transfer.
Neither of us could find an argument to counter commander's theories. Everything he said was right. Yes, we did work exceptionally well together. No, we would never jeopardize the assignments. I managed to control myself when I heard that but Steve held his breath. Yes, it would be preferable to only have to worry about each other without having the added concern of whether the new partner was as adept as us. Yes, we were sorry that we hadn't felt that we could have told him earlier. And, no, we most definitely did not know that the two best naval officers of the late Seventies and early Eighties, Bodie and Doyle, were also man and wife. Father's trump card was that he was happy for us and that now he knew how Cowley must have felt.
With no other real options available, we admitted defeat gracefully and promised to continue to do our best for Navy. The situation was too peculiar to do anything but. Truth be told, I was glad. I'd never really wanted to change partners. It had just seemed the right thing to do. Now however, it was as though we had the navy's seal of approval. Which inane as it sounds, was immensely comforting. To me it meant that I could have both Steve and the job - in that order - and, yeah, I felt as though all my Christmases had come at once. By the happy expression on Steve' face, it appeared that he felt the same way.
Walking out of father's office, I felt lighter than air. Less that twenty-four hours ago I'd still been confused about what I wanted and the knowledge that everything now seemed to have fitted perfectly together was simply amazing. There was no other way of looking at it. I was staring at what I hoped to be a life-long, constant source of happiness. An uncomplicated sense of happiness that I doubted I'd felt since childhood.
This happiness, I'm pleased to say, is still with me. Lying next to me, asleep, in fact. I know Steve loves me. He tells me frequently with his actions and most importantly, I believe him. I'm somewhat envious of the ease in which he does this, declaring his love so freely. I put it down to his believe of what he thought how it was between his father and mother before his mother was killed. I respond in kind, He even goes so far as to tease me about it sometimes. I 'm confident he knows how I feel though as they are just words and I'm a firm believer that actions speak louder than words.
Love is not blind and I'm not foolish enough to claim otherwise. We both have our quirks but they are mere drops in the ocean. Niggles as opposed to true annoyances. I personally wouldn't have it any other way. Imagine how dull it would be if true happiness lay in mirror images of ourselves. It doesn't bear thinking about.
Steve and I, might not go so far as to say I enjoy cleaning but as I appreciate its results, am willing to do it. Our biggest differences I suppose are cultural. Steve is of the opinion that 'theatre' is something soapie stars do over Christmas and 'good theatre' has Andrew Lloyd Webber's name somewhere on it. So far I haven't managed to rectify this startling acknowledgment of tastelessness. I mean, this is the man who, when we were last in France wanted to go to Euro-Disney to reintroduce himself to Mickey Mouse. What could I do? I offered the Left Bank or the Louvre in lieu of a trip down crass American memory lane but to no avail. In a way I'm glad I went as it was an… experience. To my surprise, I actually kind of enjoyed myself. Steve' pleasure in being able to forget the horrors we encounter everyday turning out to be infectious. I choose not to think of his threat to print the souvenir photograph of myself with Donald Duck onto postcards and then send them to every naval officer that he has worked with…
Slowly I come out of my reverie as I become aware that Steve is awake and looking at me quizzically. He blinks a couple of times and yawns sleepily before speaking.
"Cath, has it told you the answer yet?"
As I have no idea what he is talking about I can only offer a less than eloquent grunt in response. Steve laughs, props himself up on his elbow and tilts his head in the direction of the Escher print. "You were staring at that print as if it was the Delphi Oracle and I wanted to know whether it's told you what you wanted to know." It's my turn to laugh now. He's right. I was staring intently in the print's general direction but I wasn't really seeing it. Too lost in my thoughts to concentrate on anything else.
Shaking my head, I smile at Steve and tell him the truth. "I was actually thinking about you."
"Oh…" As he speaks, his hand that has been resting on my chest pulls out from under mine and lightly trails down the rest of my torso. Down through my navel, across my stomach before coming to a stop down south. Steve looks up at me and mock pouts. "You can't have been thinking about me, or if you were I'm losing my touch." He smiles at me.
"Good. Now let me give you something even better to think about."
This promising sounding comment is punctuated by an enigmatic smile. Before I can ask for elaboration, Steve disappears under the sheet. Wriggling quickly he slides down the bed, coming to a halt with his head just below my hip.
I raise my leg that is nearer the edge of the bed in hopeful anticipation of giving him better access. Steve braces himself by placing one arm either side of my hips. The feeling of his wet, rough tongue sending exquisite shivers up my spine. This sensation intensifies as Chris nuzzles around, I clench my fingers into the sheets and feel as though I am drowning in sensation. All I can make of Chris is a shapeless lump under the white sheet but his touch is so wonderfully familiar that I would know it if I was blind. There was once a time when I felt that familiarity translated into boredom but I don't anymore. It's more special than that. We know each other's bodies as well as we know our own if not better.
Satisfied, His eyes are bright and he takes the opportunity of my slow recovery to cover my body with his. Steve quickly kisses me on the lips, intentionally sharing my taste and then drops his head on my shoulder with a happy sounding sigh. I feel as though I have become a full size, human pillow and bring my arms around Steve to hold him in place. Comfortable, he looks at me through half-lidded eyes, whispers, "Wake me in half an hour," and settles down to sleep.
I stare down at his clean, sandy colored hair and feel so caught up in it all that I can't help myself. Like the time on the plane so long ago, the words come out of my mouth as though I have no control over them. "God, I love you." Steve rouses himself slightly, murmurs, "I know… I love you too," before pressing himself down on top me once again.
Smiling to myself, I close my eyes to the motel room and follow Steve - as I would anywhere - into the land of sleep.