She wished, not for the first time (nor for the last), that ink could flow from his fingertips, that the words he traced on her skin would be tattooed there, indelible. Permanent markings of his love. Words that he etched and inscribed, their story on her skin.
He was not careless with words. Those that thought him reserved, aloof, were wrong. He merely kept his words, his voice (and now his hands) for when they were needed, for when it mattered (with her it always mattered). This mattered, this time they had started taking (making, creating). All as a result of him discovering her reading the book he had been narrating during her treatment that day.
"Seeing other chapters behind my back?" he had teased, feeling faintly slighted until her sheepish admission that she fell asleep two, three pages in when he was reading (so soothing his voice, his presence) that she re-read on her own to catch up to him. He had commented no more, simply sat down and reclaimed the book, giving voice again to the familiar words, his gift to her, his way of loving. He would read the same lines a thousand times as long as she was there to hear them (could he ever tire of this, of her, this act? Never.)
A new ritual was born. After dates with diloxin, harsh lights and the prying eyes of sickbay came ones of couches, comfort and privacy. Dangerous hues colouring the edges of both, but for entirely different reasons. Chaperoned dates while they battled against death to unsupervised time while they wrestled their desire (one fight they would gladly lose).
And so it went. Sitting close became sitting side by side, became her head resting on his shoulder, became her fingers caressing the hairs at the base of his neck and her bare legs strewn across his, his fingers tracing her skin as he spoke. The words he read and those he felt kneaded into her feet, her calves, her knees. She listened and watched and felt the phrases of their life flowing from him to her and back again. Wishing for ink, for all to see.
They would later tell themselves that they were courted to this point over weeks, when days was the truest (and still generous) description. Sometimes he would reach a familiar paragraph, words he knew by heart and would turn his head so slightly, the words spilling from his mouth onto her forehead, each a tiny feathered kiss, a drop of love washing over her. His hand would lift to turn the page and she would hate the momentary loss of contact. So much (too much) of her day spent without her skin touching his. As he approached the end of another page she stilled his hand and held it captive where his fingers were writing on the underside of her knee. She released him only to turn the page herself. He read on. She kissed the side of his jaw. He traced further. She turned the pages.
His hand bypassed the hem of her skirt, not much, not far, fingers lost beneath the fabric. She wondered if he would start writing a new chapter for them that night, move their story forward. But no. Not now, not then. Not quite their time. They were still building the narrative (neither liked skipping ahead). A chapter to go before the climax of their story. They were still railing against the tragedy theme imprinted on their cover. It ends with a death. But for now he traces his love and their love on her skin. And reads on.