When it's over, she thought, she would take him to an island.
Somewhere that would make all of this seem impossible again.
They could lounge by the water- she couldn't remember the last time she'd lounged.
She burned easily; she'd have him rub copious amounts of lotion into her skin (with hands that had almost killed her the night before).
Maybe she'd roll over and kiss him, slowly.
Maybe she wouldn't.
They'd stay for a few days, maybe a week, or maybe they would spend the rest of their lives there in the shade of a palm tree, humming vague island music and forgetting what it was like to worry (to be terrified).
She communicated this in one touch of his beautiful, deadly arm and 36 hours later they were leaving aliens and wreckage behind and heading for the Caribbean.
