Greetings, all! After my two previous SF:E fanfics, I felt like Selene needed a break. This is a direct continuation of "But the Sky Above Us Shoots to Kill," so I'd suggest reading that before this.

Besides that, it's absolute and total fluff-which after all the angst, was strangely difficult to write.

The title is taken from "Dust It Off," by The Do.

Selene's blessing in the end is from a Maori whakatauaki-a proverbial saying. I'm not sure why I decided on Maori as part of his heritage, but the idea stuck.

Comments are always appreciated. Enjoy!

"You're what?"

Selene had come to the bridge long before the other Navigators had arrived, when the space was dark and tangled with the shapes of chairs, of sleeping console-screens and silent keys; the incredulous hiss of his breath slid itself around the room, an ugly sound.

Keeler, feet spread firmly in the doorway, blocked his way. He uncrossed his arms and laid his hands on the other man's terse shoulders. "It's only been two days since the transport ship came in, Selene. Since you and your Fighter made a midnight trip to the training room. Didn't you think we'd know exactly what simulation you two ran?"

"So?"

Keeler closed his eyes a moment—watered eyes, it seemed, tied together only in the spark within the pupil's depths. "We're going to arrive at the Alliance base today, so the survivors can receive the care they need. Selene . . . look, you need a break. You work yourself too hard as it is, but this . . . let me be honest with you. There's some concern that this might have triggered . . ."

"Damn it, Keeler, I'm telling you—I'm fine. I'm not a headcase. Now just let me get back to work, would you?"

"Didn't you hear me? You're off-duty for today. Maybe for tomorrow, too, if you keep this up. You need a rest, Selene."

A moment's pause, and then: "Commander Hayden's orders. So don't get so upset with me—this wasn't me, this wasn't Encke. Hayden saw what you two did, the same as us—it's his judgment call. Okay? So go down to the mess hall, have a nice breakfast with your Fighter—"

"I've already—that isn't the point—"

"Selene." Keeler shook him slightly. "I'll call Hayden in. I will. I know you have good intentions but we can't have our best Navigator falling to pieces because he doesn't know how to take care of himself."

'Our best Navigator'?

"What— . . . What did you say?"

"Between us, Selene, just us. You heard."

Helios has always said—but Keeler?

"I notice all the work you do, Selene. I see how much it means to you. And . . . seeing the VR scores with Encke . . ." Keeler smiled sadly. "Truthfully—off the record, do you understand?—it kind of broke my heart; I remember when you were in training, when the psychologist wondered if you'd ever make it through because of what had happened . . . and then the transport came and . . . Well. You were down in Med Bay, helping people, saving people anyway—it must have hurt, to see it all again. And when I saw those scores, I've never been more surprised—and more impressed."

Selene closed his eyes. This wasn't right—he couldn't put his finger on it—hadn't he always chafed and bristled, if guiltily, at the praises heaped on Ethos, Abel? But hearing it from Keeler . . . and like this . . . as if to soften the fact that he was being forcefully kept from duty—and those damn empty platitudes, the sickly-sweet tone with which he dared to bring up the raw horror of the Swift—

He'd only really given Helios that right—Keeler had no more than Alliance data and some years-old memory—

"You're making a mistake," he muttered finally, struggling to keep the desperate tremor from his voice. "Keeler, if you want to keep me sane, then let me work."

"Helios is off today as well. Encke saw to it."

"Damn it, Keeler! Stop trying to fix me!"

Keeler stepped back, then, hands slipping from the taller Navigator's shoulders. His face was pale. "Get off the bridge, Selene, or I will call Hayden. Do you understand?"

Encke was in the training room, inspecting the equipment. He straightened up when he caught Helios approaching from the corner of one eye.

"Helios. How are you?" A pause, a half-second, then, "How's Selene?"

"That's why I'm here, Encke."

The head Fighter nodded, slowly, motioning Helios over to a corner where they leaned back against the wall, where their words wouldn't carry if someone else came in. "What's up?"

"That's why I'm here. The VR sim . . . was his idea . . . he . . . it happened before I realized it, Encke, and . . . I worry about him."

"If I were you, I would. He's very good at pretending everything's okay, at least on the Bridge. Or so I'm told."

"Yeah, well." Helios ran a hand through his hair, the thick tufts and the stubbled skin. "He—I don't think it's that good, though. He's overworked. And this . . ."

Encke pursed his lips a moment, mulling something over. "Look. We're about to rendezvous with the Alliance's Earth Orbital. It's a station—do you understand? Sure, it's an Alliance base but it's also a trade center, a place to relax. Hayden's going to take twenty-four hours to give everyone a shift. Eight hours. So . . ."

"I think the time away from here—"

"He needs it. He won't ever say it, but . . ."

"I want to do something nice for him, you know? I don't know what. Encke, I don't really know that much about him, if I think about it."

"Listen." Encke reached into a pocket, pulled out a tiny keycard, slid it into Helios' hand. "There are rooms on the station reserved for—well, for officers, for head Fighter/Navigator teams. You understand? Nice rooms, nicer than this, than any bunk; there's real food and plenty to keep you occupied—plenty that has nothing to do with the Kepler or the Colterons or even the Alliance."

"But—"

"Keeler and I have never been. Can you believe that? Never. We might not ever . . ." Encke shook his head. "Take that keycard, Helios. You'll get a whole day, I can promise you—I'll go talk to Hayden, Keeler will back me up—Hayden's not unreasonable, hm?"

Helios studied the keycard, a nondescript slip of magnetized plastic, rolling it across his palm, mental wheels already set to motion.

Helios was waiting in the hall outside their room, hands shoved into his pockets, shifting his weight on idle feet—uneasy. He half-murmured "Ho, Selene" before dragging the Navigator through the door—someone (Encke, probably) had already alerted him to Hayden's orders. Selene stomped across the room, head bowed, hands clenched; Helios watched carefully from where he stood, making sure the door was locked.

"I heard about—"

"I don't want to talk about it, Helios."

In a state of minor shock, the Fighter watched as his Navigator turned to kick the bunk, then reached in vain for Helios' pillow, hurtling it across the room with a decidedly anti-climactic flump.

A strangled growl erupted from Selene, frustration far beyond coherent speech.

"Here." Helios slid to the desk where Selene had left a glass of water. "Here." Draining it, he put the cup in the Navigator's shaking hands. "Throw this."

Sensing a retort, he shook his head, stepping closer, pressing himself against the smaller man until he could feel each shuddering breath the latter drew. "Don't fucking think. Just throw it."

But it's glass, Afon.

"I'll clean it up, Selene."

Selene rubbed his fingers over the glass, cupping it in one hand, memorizing the shape of it, the smoothness, the slightly-less glossy surface of the rim. Where Helios' lips had been—lips which now brushed his cheek. A glance out of the corner of his eye found the Fighter gazing at him, levelly, a wounded sort of desire gathered in the shadows of his face.

Helios wrapped an arm around the Navigator's narrow hips. "You need something to get the anger out, Selene."

"Better things than breaking glass—" His breath caught and he shifted, shaking, trying to turn around, to lean into that burning touch.

But the Fighter shook his head. "Not like this. Trust me."

And you always treat me like glass, Selene. Always. Just fucking break something for once. (I won't.)

Selene bit his lip, raising the cup to fully catch the artificial light, distorting it, a savage reflection of reality—a mockery. He remembered Keeler's words, his audacity, what he said about Selene and the Swift (as if he could understand it—any of it). He remembered Hayden's orders, too, and thought that if the CO really cared about him, he'd have summoned him himself and asked what might be done to help—if Selene needed help at all. Not deny him active duty, certainly—

"—our best Navigator—"

Helios disentangled himself, feeling the Navigator tense, feeling the knotting of his form as he shifted his weight to one foot. He took a step back, slowly, heart keeping up a quick tattoo; his mouth was dry; he ached.

The glass exploded in the far corner of the room, flung with all the strength Selene could gather. And when the swelled ocean's swill of his breathing calmed, the first sound to reach his ears was of his Fighter, laughing.

Helios forced Selene to sit at the desk while he kicked the shards of glass together, wrapping his hand in a dirty shirt to fish for the smaller pieces, until the summed measure of the Navigator's rage was captured there in a glittering, deceptively alluring pile. He rummaged for the refuse bin, a tiny thing tucked into a corner: there was little room for waste on board the Kepler. Deftly he began to toss the pieces in, fingers quick, shards flashing.

The Navigator shifted sharply. "Be careful. Please."

"There was a lot of broken glass where I come from, Selene."

. . . Afon?

The Fighter straightened up, dropping the bin with little ceremony. Tossing the shirt aside as well he moved to crouch before Selene, hands outstretched for inspection. "See? I'm just fine. Don't worry so much."

You know that I can't help it.

"Hm."

Selene picked up Helios' hands, cradling them for a moment before pressing the palms against his lips. The latter closed his eyes against the wave of bliss as he felt the Navigator tracing patterns there with lips, with tongue—but he'd made a promise—and if Selene always kept his, then he had just as much an obligation—

"Selene," he panted, "please—don't—"

Grey eyes snapped wide to meet his with a confused, dangerous intensity. Only once had they refused each other, and that had turned out to be a wise decision. But—why this? Why no—why now, when it was clearly all Helios could do to get the words out?

But Selene, being Selene, gently let the Fighter's hands drop to rest against his thighs—a temptation, still, but bearable. When he looked at Helios again, his face had lost its lustful edge, replaced with the same concentration as when he was working on the bridge. Sometimes I'll never learn to read you.

Which was saying something, given how open Helios usually was—to a fault, perhaps even to his danger. Well—

Weakly he smiled, squeezed the hands again, stood up to stretch. "We should be there soon, I think."

"Huh?" Helios blinked a few times, still trying to get his mind and body back from how close Selene had been. "Yeah—it's an orbital station, isn't it? A little city."

"It orbits Earth, surprisingly."

. . . Pretend you never talked to Encke . . .

"Wow—really? You know, I've never seen—"

"Earth's not . . . it's just a planet, Afon. Like any of the others—any of the colonies or uninhabitable worlds." Selene pursed his lips, startled at the macabre phrase. "I'm sorry. I saw it with my mothers, once, when I was small, but . . . I don't know. I'm cynical, sometimes . . . and anyway, the people down in Med can get the help they need . . . thank God."

"Heh. Thank Mother for the Kepler's engines, then. That was quick."

Selene nodded absently, refusing to acknowledge that they were because he'd modded them, well enough the Fighter knew: he wouldn't take the bait. "It was, I guess."

Groaning, Helios rose from where he'd been crouching to put a hand on the Navigator's shoulder. "I know," he offered finally, sure that Selene couldn't shake the ghosts of those they hadn't saved—those whom the salvage ships would find—the bodies they'd reclaim and tag and clean and, eventually, return to their respective homes for burial. "I know.

"You haven't slept," he added gently, "since . . . No wonder Hayden called you off." He reached out with a thumb to brush an olive cheek. "There are shadows underneath your eyes."

Selene half-turned, dropping into the Fighter's arms, head resting on one shoulder, suddenly aware of just how damn tired he really was. Even after the VR sim, after they'd made love, he hadn't slept—that much was true—not that night or the next—because the ghosts were too damn real: they walked into reality and talked to him if he gave them that much room—if he so much as closed his eyes—

But now it was the day-cycle on the Kepler, and here was Helios, and there really wasn't anything else he could do—nothing to run from or run to. Just this, the Fighter's solid warmth, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the scent of regulation soap heavy about his skin. I just need you was at his lips but he couldn't say it; he'd broken one glass already and Helios had told him no and he'd be damned if he'd risk breaking any more.

"Come here . . ."

Helios stepped backwards, half-carrying the Navigator with him, until he sat on their desk, back against the wall, and Selene all but crawled into his lap: his body began to relax, the ghosts to step back, to be silenced, as the world grew dark and it was damned hard to keep his eyes open between blinks. The last thing he remembered was some half-hummed melody—an old, old Russian lullaby that Helios didn't know as much by word, but tune.

The ship stirred like a hive in summer when the Kepler finally docked with the Alliance's Earth Orbital. Once the patients—and the dead—were ferried from Med Bay, under the cerulean surveillance of the MO, Commander Hayden called all Fighter/Navigator teams to the briefing room—and it took a few minutes more for everyone to calm down enough so he could speak.

"You've been working hard," he began, "and your efforts have been commendable. Therefore, while the Kepler is undergoing routine maintenance—something which would have happened next month, before the transport was attacked—I'm granting you all, in shifts, eight hours on the station."

The room shivered with excited murmurs; the station was first and foremost an Alliance base, but it also served as something of a crossroads between all travelers: colonists, recruits, mercenaries, traders.

"You will of course be required to stay with your assigned Fighter or Navigator after leaving the Kepler, but besides that—the station's yours. You represent the Alliance, men, remember that—any transgressions will result appropriate disciplinary actions. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Good. Then return to your bunks; your assigned shift will be forwarded to your datapads. Dismissed."

"Helios—this isn't right."

Selene's brow was furrowed, the shadows of his face contrasted the silken-sweet dye in his hair. "There are three shifts of eight hours—but my datapad says we're slated for—"

"All three? We are."

The datapad was flung from Selene's hands, an exasperated scowl wrinkling his forehead further. "What? You know already? Did Hayden put you up to this?"

"No. Just me. Just an idea—something they all agreed on."

"Who—Keeler? Encke? Him?"

"Yeah. Now come on, Selene—let's go. Don't overthink it." Helios hefted a bag over his shoulders, smiling broadly in a way which Selene found incredibly unnerving.

"You aren't keeping secrets from me, Afon?"

"You never asked me where I went this morning, while you went to drag it out with Keeler . . . so, no, I don't think I am."

"Should I . . ." Selene still paused, glancing helplessly about the room, his voice caught in trepidation in a way Helios found indescribably adorable: cool, collected Selene suddenly at a complete and total loss. "Helios, should I pack something? A change of clothes, or—"

Despite himself, he laughed. "Well, we're not required to wear uniforms."

"Oh." A heated flush slipped across the Navigator's face. "Oh, no. Don't you dare wear that—"

"I won't! See? Just regulation casuals—and that's all I've packed in here for you." His hand slipped across a narrow shoulder. "Leave your datapad—I know you store work files on there—and come on, Selene. It'll be okay. This isn't a plot to make sure that you're—whatever the fuck Hayden wants to see, Selene, I don't know. It's just us, I swear. I'm not his fucking . . . thing."

Gently, reverently, he nudged Selene's chin up with a hand, dropping a chaste kiss against his lips. "Eh, forget all that. It'll be okay. Come on."

There were more people on the station, though it was far, far bigger than the Kepler; Fighter and Navigator, hand-in-hand, threaded through the throng, surveying the stations levels: there were areas reserved for the Alliance forces—specialty trainers for the Fighters, various gadgets to test the Navigators' wits—prototypes, some of them—but Helios and Selene kept well away from those. No, they wanted this, the everyday ebb and flow of the human current, the colorful people in even brighter garb: no more the monochromatic blur, the grey-and-black-and-white nauseous blur of uniforms—but rich earth-tones and garish hues and subtle patterns. Beauty.

Helios watched Selene drink it in with an expression bordering on rapture; he stopped often at the kiosks and shops selling cloth, selling clothing—real clothing, anyway—dresses, coats—finely-tailored things. Ruefully he smiled when the Fighter held a shirt up for his inspection—Helios thought it matched the Navigator's eyes.

"I couldn't wear any of these—hm—they're all too nice." He ran his hands across the storm-grey silk. "They're beautiful. That's why I like them, Helios—they're art."

"They are, aren't they?" Helios stepped closer, the shirt now slung across one arm—much to the kiosk-keeper's disapproval; the Fighter was a veritable bull in a china shop. "Shouldn't . . . uhm."

The words sounded ridiculous, inadequate, now that he was on the brink of saying it. But Selene—I know why he wouldn't wear this. He doesn't think he's—beautiful, or worth it, or— (However fucking stupid it sounds coming from me, I have to say it—)

"You're beautiful, Selene. You are. And every day, even on days off, you still wear regulation shit. You . . . deserve something just as . . . Something that's a work of art."

Helios could feel his face burning—he'd never been good with words, least of all around Selene, who could be eloquent if the mood was right—but God, he'd needed to say it just as much as the Navigator needed to be told. And it's true. Every fucking word. You are beautiful—incredible—

So why are you afraid?

The station continued its satellite's course; the artificial windows placed along the major walkways in the merchant's levels began to taper towards dusk at the last, the sun a fiery smear across the sky. Along the left-hand wall, where indigo and lavender lauded the efforts of the day, a deep, full moon was rising—bright, even in the half-light; bright, the sun's reflection.

Helios and Selene, pockets still full of credits, dropped down from the merchant levels to find their senses assaulted by the scents of foods they'd long forgotten: dishes that might be served as rations on the Kepler but were so mutilated by that time that they were nothing like the real thing.

"Do you miss anything from home?"

Selene smiled briefly, shook his head. "Not really. My mothers didn't cook much—I pretty much grew up on rations, same as now."

"Ugh. So help you . . ."

A shadow crossed the Navigator's eyes—he knew enough of where Helios had grown up—rations were a feast compared to whatever could be scavenged. The Fighter's flippancy was harsh, only because Selene knew the truth—that part of why he'd joined the Alliance, apart from following Valentina, was the assurance of subsistence. Of—at least to a higher probability—survival.

"Whatever you choose, Afon."

After some cajoling, Helios convinced Selene to drop the extra credits: they walked away from a kiosk specializing in luxury and antiquated foods with sausages and cheeses, bread and wine. No doubt they were paying more than they should for something which wasn't quite the real deal—the cheese had not come from those animals—bovines—and the sausage, well, was something. The grapes for the wine had never known their native sun. But it felt nostalgic, in a way that neither of them understood; Selene, carrying the bags of bread and cheese, found himself glad that he'd let Helios talk him into it.

"Where should we go?" he asked, glancing around the rapidly-darkening corridor. "It's almost the night-cycle here."

"It's an Alliance base—they have quarters for us here. This way—ugh, I think—"

Nervously fingering the keycard Encke had supplied him with, Helios pulled the Navigator back toward the lifts; up three floors, past the merchants and the areas restricted to Alliance personnel—and then a fourth, the highest level of the station.

"I don't think these are meant for us—"

"Just wait."

Encke, you could have given me directions . . .

They found themselves in a narrow hall, softly-lit and framed with the same windows as let in the amber glow of the fabricated sunset. Doors sporadically invited them inwards, but Helios kept moving, searching—

There, the last door at the end.

While Selene struggled to find words to ask just how Helios had clearance for quarters obviously intended for an officer, he fished out Encke's keycard and touched it to the lock.

The room was sparse, but beautiful. An entire wall was full of a single artificial window, giving them a spectacular view of Earth's marbled rotundity below and, above, the searing multitude of stars.

Selene let go of Helios' hand, setting the bags down carefully, walking around the room—a bed, a desk, soft lights. A private bathroom. Simple comforts—downy blankets on the bed and a lamp on the nightstand. Pieces of childhood nostalgia for some, maybe—or unimagined luxury for others.

"Explain this to me, Afon."

Selene's voice was low, but the face which looked up earnestly into the Fighter's wasn't marred with indignation—just a weary kind of wonderment.

"Please."

Helios smiled slightly, putting his bag of wine and meats next to the ones of bread and cheese. Wordlessly he took the Navigator's hand, and they moved to stand before that great, great window—big enough that it seemed as if the stars might swallow them. Selene reached out to touch the glass; Helios did likewise.

"When you told me about the Swift . . ." Helios swallowed, throat suddenly run dry, suddenly anxious, suddenly sure that this wasn't the right idea after all. "You said that you were on board just after you turned fourteen. And the Swift happened ten years ago, as of the other day. That's what Praxis said . . ."

"He's right." Selene leaned forward, rested his forehead against the glass. "Go on."

"And I realized that . . . well, I don't know when, but your birthday was sometime not too long ago. Was it?"

The Navigator sharply turned, caught somewhere between disbelief and a mass of anger he couldn't explain or swallow down. "No one gives a shit about that anymore. No one. Children, I suppose, if they're the lucky ones. Do you ever celebrate your birthday, Helios? Do you even remember it? Or is it just another day to you?"

"Well." Helios licked at his lips, unable now to look at Selene directly—his reflection in the opaque glass would have to do. "I didn't, but now I think I have a reason to. And . . . I have a reason to be glad of yours. To celebrate. Selene—"

He stepped back from the window, spread his arms. "Look, this morning I got to thinking, and went to talk to Encke. He's . . . he's a good guy, you know? I know you and Keeler don't always agree, but Encke . . . Anyway. He told me about us coming here, to the orbital station, with eight-hour shifts away from the Kepler . . . and he said that he and Keeler technically have access to this room because they're the head Fighter/Navigator team."

"They've been in here?" Selene peeled himself from the window, looking around a second time, gaze fixed finally on the bed. "This is—Afon, we shouldn't be here—this is for them—this is private—"

"They haven't been here— Look, someone's been in our bunks, too, before we got them. Is it really different?"

Selene shrugged, uncomfortable.

"Listen." Helios shook his head, sinking down to the bed, wishing there was a way to explain himself. "I swear to you, Selene, I didn't do this because anyone asked me to. I did it because . . . seeing you go through . . . everything . . . with the transport . . . hearing about the Swift . . . and the VR sim . . ."

"Afon."

"No—let me—Selene . . . I tied all this together because I love you, I want you to be happy, I wanted you to have some time away from the Goddamn Kepler and all that work the CO heaps on you. It's too much, Selene, for just one person. You—I thought that you might like this. Just us, and nothing else."

The Fighter raised his head, suddenly aware that he'd been holding his breath. Selene was laughing, crossing the room, sitting next to him—close to him—their bodies flush.

"Afon, you . . ."

He shook his head. There's too much to say, too much that could ruin this, too much that shouldn't need saying anyway because I do overthink it—

But I am happy—

And Afon, love, you balance me out perfectly—

And the thought was so sublime and absurd that it left him reeling; he wrapped lithe arms around Helios' shoulders, trembling, still chuckling. "Afon, thank you, love . . ."

They found an extra blanket and spread it on the floor; the sausage and cheese and bread was picked apart by hand, was shared, was slipped into each other's mouths because tonight, if for one night, if for the only night remaining to them, they felt like giddy teenagers again who could suffer such delicate innocence: like the sky outside the window was benevolent, the stars their guards, the moon their guide and the sun their anchor. They took slow pulls from the bottled wine—Helios found it too sweet and Selene thought it too strong—and so they drew real running water from the tap in the bathroom, finding—of all things—shot glasses in a drawer.

"We got too much," Selene observed, idly turning over a half-eaten loaf of bread. "I don't think they'll let us take this back to the Kepler."

"Of course they won't." Lulled half-to-sleep, Helios stifled a yawn and stretched back on the floor, legs crossed, hands folded neatly up behind his head. "Well. We'll have it for breakfast. It's cold in here—it'll keep."

Selene smiled, wrapping the leftovers back into their packages. "The bags feel insulated, anyhow. Hm. So . . . Helios."

"Hm?"

The Fighter blinked, watching the Navigator retrieve the bag he'd brought over from the Kepler.

"You mentioned casuals, but . . . what else is in here?"

"Nothing and everything."

Suddenly awake and serious, Helios stood and joined Selene, who was daintily shifting through the bag. There wasn't much—changes in clothes for both of them, Helios' datapad, a jar which usually dwelt in their bedside drawer and most certainly hadn't seen this much light.

"Ah. So—earlier—you said no to me because—"

A sly smirk crossed Helios' face. "I . . . wanted to wait, you know, until tonight."

"Right. In Encke and Keeler's—"

"Don't think about it like that, okay? Look, since we've been in the Alliance, we've slept somewhere that someone else has, and I'm pretty damn sure that this room was someone else's, once, and I'll bet you they—" Helios shook off the coarse word, determined now to get through the night with as much finesse as he could manage. ". . . Well, someone's been here at some point.."

"Ah! Afon, no, let's just stay here . . ."

Selene pulled at the Fighter's hand until they lay on the floor, the plush, carpeted floor without a trace of cold metal or rubber matting or utility—just softness, softness . . . Helios rolled over onto his side, just to feel the softness on his cheek, only to find Selene's lips on his, burning and insistent—to feel the Navigator's strong and slender leg hook around his hips—to find that their bodies ached for one another, as if it had been so long—too long—

Selene's hands began to trace his arms, his chest, to curl up into his hair, while he fumbled with the Navigator's shirt. What surprised him, though, was Selene's fervor—he could be assertive but this . . . it was as if the morning's denial had been as good as weeks- or months- or years-long separation—and God, Selene was incredible this way—

"Don't—don't be so gentle this time—"

Selene paused in pulling off his pants, face flushed. "What?"

"I love you for that—honestly—but sometimes—Selene, sometimes it shouldn't be—you're always so careful with me—but I promise I won't break—I'm not like the glass—"

Helios' hands couldn't stay still when his tongue gave up on forming the words he couldn't really say—he grabbed the Navigator's shoulders, pulling him down, pressing their bodies together, relentless.

"What I said—before—" he gasped, "Selene, don't think—just—"

"Promise me you'll tell me if—"

Selene's hands were hot, traced burning trails along his skin; Helios dug into the touch, teeth clenched. Arguing back wouldn't do him any good, he knew; before he thought about it much, his mouth was pressed against the Navigator's, chewing at a lip. Grey eyes were wide, were dark; Helios could feel him shuddering, could feel nails convulsively prickling his back.

They both fumbled for the jar, both reeling; Selene was almost whimpering and Helios didn't even know that, over and over, he kept whispering, "Selene—I want you—I need you—I love—"

Afon didn't shatter, didn't break into a million pieces, like the glass.

The world did, though, in the end.

Selene had seen the beasts that dwelt within most Fighters but he'd forgotten, somehow, that the same creature slept in Navigators, too. And never had he once considered that this . . . primal, reckless lovemaking, bordering on violence, tempered with their love and Helios' promise . . . could be so beautiful, so soft, so wild, all as his Fighter was. Never had he thought that they, seized as they were with rapture, would both scream—

But when Helios kissed him, gently, gently, when their hands had ceased their wanton roaming and traced small, intricate patterns on each other's skin, when the vicious passion ebbed to simple closeness, he decided not to care.

Afterwards, they didn't speak: there wasn't strength or energy for words. Still curled up on the plush, warm floor, Selene laid his head on Helios' shoulder, weary—so, so weary—

And found that the ghosts, from ten years or two days ago, did not return.

They knocked on Keeler and Encke's door: Helios first, a deep, resounding sound, a bell, with Selene dropping in an extra tap because—he didn't really know—because he could.

It was Keeler who admitted them, who let them sit at his desk until Encke came back from a meeting with the CO. The head Fighter's eyes were bright, a smile twitching at his lips that he wouldn't quite let form.

"Here's your keycard back."

Selene slipped it from Helios' pocket, held it out. "Thank you—both of you, thank you."

"Are you feeling better, Navigator?" Keeler, in contrast to Encke, smiled broadly.

"Yes." A flush crept across Selene's olive skin; he felt Helios reach out to brush a strand of hair back from his eyes. "I . . . you were right, Keeler."

"Good, then." Keeler held out a hand; Selene reached to shake it, startled at the head Navigator's trembling grip. "You're fit for duty?"

"Please."

"Good man. We'll let you back today—but I still expect you to report to the MO for a psych exam—"

"I understand—"

Together they left for the bridge, Keeler touching Encke lightly on the shoulder, Helios reluctant to let his Navigator go. So—that was it, then? Back to the daily grind of life aboard the Kepler?

"Where are we going next, Encke?"

"Back to the border, where we were before the Derelict, before the transport."

"Sir—"

"Just Encke, kid. When have you ever called me 'sir'?"

"Encke. I . . . thank you."

"So you've already said." Encke sat down on the bunk. "Helios, I gave you a keycard. Everything else—whatever happened—that was all on you. And him. You understand?"

Helios felt heat creep across his face, remembering everything from the clothing kiosks to the simulated sunset and the rising moon; from the feast and the too-sweet wine to his beautiful, brilliant Selene, entirely undone.

"It was both of us," he answered finally, and the larger man allowed himself to chuckle wryly.

"Yes—with you two, I should have guessed. Helios—I'm glad." The head Fighter stood up, stretching, heading for the door. "Keeler's dropped a word or two about Selene being the best Navigator, hm? Well, don't short-change yourself either, kid. There's a reason you have the highest compatibility score."

"Uhm." Helios shifted. "Encke, honestly, thank you, but . . . but I don't really care about that so much anymore. It's a score, it's not about the sims or even what it'll mean against the Colterons—"

It's just us, that's all that matters to me now.

When Selene came back from the bridge, it was late. Helios roused himself from his post-PT exhaustion and they wandered to the mess hall, ravenous, ruefully remembering the bread, the cheese, the meat, the wine. They got bowls of salted stew, and tooth-breaking bread, and a weak, weak tea that Selene couldn't bring himself to drink.

But there was a small square of chocolate for dessert. A rarity: a gift, perhaps, after what had happened since the Kepler had last settled down at an Alliance base.

Helios slipped his into his pocket as they wandered to the bunk.

"I hear that it's an aphrodisiac," he said, slipping an arm around the Navigator's waist, leaning in to whisper in his ear. "You think we need it?"

Selene smiled, shouldered into him, the both of them staggering into the wall, fumbling for the door, for the lock and the key-code. "Really, Afon? Not at all . . ." He reached into the Fighter's pocket, tore the square loose from its wrapping, struggled for a moment to split the slightly-sticky chocolate in two.

"Whāia te iti kahurangi," he whispered, the words running from his lips like water—words one of his mothers had said what seemed like a life ago, when she'd looked out at the Martian dessert and broke down weeping for the sea.

A touch to Helios' now sweet-and-sticky lips stilled the question.

"Shh, Afon."

The kiss was slow, was deep, was gentle—as Selene so often was.

"Pursue that which is precious."