A/N: This one goes out to annejoy who has been one of my most faithful reviewers. Folks like her keep folks like me writing.
"I just want to be a real person again, just for a day," she tells me in an uncharacteristic moment of honesty. It doesn't take long for me to realize what she means. Because, of course, she hasn't been anything but a captain since we left the Alpha Quadrant. With little prodding, she admits as much to me as we sit with our drinks after dinner.
"I remember when I would come home to Mark and my friends. After being away for months at a time, all I wanted to do was tuck my uniform out of sight and be me again. Not a commanding officer, not a subordinate officer, not someone constantly at the beck and call of duty and bound to the Prime Directive."
I nod, knowing all too well what it is to lead a dual life.
"It's been six years since home and five since I've felt like anything remotely close to the 'me' I was before Starfleet. I'm starting to lose the part that doesn't live in a uniform."
I do the math in my head. "Five years is a long time," I reply.
She swallows her drink and looks at me. "I'm sorry," she says. "I really shouldn't be putting all of this on you, it's just that you asked what was wrong and –"
"Don't apologize," I permit her. "Captains are allowed to be sad, it's nothing to be ashamed of. I know you feel you need to hide this kind of thing from the crew, but you don't ever have to hide from me."
She nods with a slight smile. "I know. And that's why I told you. To be honest, I feel a bit better already."
I consider her for a moment. It would be easy to let this conversation slide back into normal, safe territory. But, she's opened up more in the last five minutes than she has since our time spent on New Earth - the brief, respite of civilian life that she just so gently alluded to. She needs to talk about this. And in a way, I do too.
"So, you say you want to be a real person again. What does that mean?"
She leans, reclined against the sofa and rests the back of her head on the cushion. "It's a silly notion," she replies and already I can see her walls being built back up.
"No, it's not. Describe to me the day of a real person."
She fixes her gaze on my ceiling. "A real person wakes up in the morning and takes a shower. And when she looks in the mirror she doesn't see someone who's responsible for any life other than her own."
"Okay, then what does this real person do?"
"Well, she has breakfast. With her sister. Or maybe her mother."
"And?"
She sighs, still staring upwards. "And, they eat fruit and sticky cinnamon buns and drink coffee and talk about absolutely nothing at all."
I can't help but feel a smile spreading across my face at her carefree vision.
"After breakfast?"
"Well, that's where her day gets to be really fun." I can see that my smile must have been contagious. She closes her eyes lightly, fingers barely holding on to her wine glass.
"She goes out with her girlfriends. They go window shopping and try on clothes. They talk about what makes them feel beautiful, and whose boyfriend is better in bed and why on Earth one of them hasn't moved out of the apartment with the yapping dog next door."
"Sounds like enlightening conversation."
"Oh, it's very serious stuff."
The vision she's creating is uncharacteristically, stereo-typically feminine - yet simple and wonderful. I want her to continue. So I ask, "What's next?"
"One of the girls says that they're hungry and calories be damned she wants to eat at the Italian restaurant. After a little deliberation we decide, screw the restaurant, let's just go to Italy!" she finishes with a flourish.
"I hope there's a transporter terminal nearby," I say, getting into the spirit of things.
"Oh, of course. It's right down the street."
"I'm glad to hear that." I pause to let the fictional moment catch up with both of us. "How's the gelato?"
"Chocolate. Creamy. And cold," she says without hesitation. Eyes still closed, she licks her lips.
"Then what happens?"
She gives a low chuckle, it's the closest I've ever heard her get to a giggle. I can tell her imagination is now running completely wild. "Oh, what the hell," she says throwing caution - and almost her wineglass - to the wind. Then, she gives me an incredible, throaty moan. "A group of tall, honey-skinned men with dark hair come in. We whisper about them like schoolgirls. It's completely inappropriate."
"Because?"
"Because we're hardly schoolgirls."
"But you are real people," I state for the record.
"Yes, of course we are. So we wave them over to join us."
"I hope you have enough chairs."
She purses her lips into a sulking pout. "We don't, it's crowded in the cafe. Instead, we pair off and go our separate ways."
"Oh, so now you're alone with one of these Mediterranean strangers?"
She nods.
"And I'm assuming you're strolling through either a vineyard or along a canal?"
"Canal," she says and her response is a sigh. Oh, what I wouldn't give to be that fictitious suitor.
"Does he even speak English?"
"Not a word," she says with a devilish grin. "It's just the two of us and it's dangerous and romantic and completely intoxicating."
"But you just met this man," I say. I wonder, is it crazy to be jealous of a daydream?
She shrugs. "All in good fun."
"Ok, so what does your real person do next?"
"After a day like she's just had?" she asks me rhetorically.
I'm completely transfixed at this point. The tale we've been weaving is so personal, so palpable I feel my breath hitch in my throat. I can only imagine what it's done to her.
I watch as slowly a smile pulls her eyes open. She looks almost drunk with calm. Her glass is set down down with a clink.
I'm not at all surprised when she leans forward and my hand is taken from my lap. Fingers wrap around mine and I trace a pattern with my thumb on her skin. I'm hypnotizing both of us while we watch the movements.
Her flesh is so smooth, so soft. Cool to the touch, so I believe I must feel quite warm to her.
It is her eyes that give her away as they lock onto mine.
A hand on her cheek.
Lips brush together.
Soft, sweet breath.
Fingers in my hair.
And we…
Like real people do.
A/N: This was written in response to Tumbler prompt: "Give me more chaste moments." Also, I was listening to "Like Real People Do" by Hozier (you should too).
Reviews inspire, and are always welcome.