Her attention is again drawn to the man on the outskirts of the large packed noisy room. The one attempting to shrink himself into a corner, as if he were trying to hide.
It wasn't going to work. Not just because of his striking blue eyes and handsome face. Not because of his well-built physique. There is an air about him, he has presence. The media calls it 'star power.' But for him it is different. Not attention seeking. Rather he exudes confidence and authority. Leadership and competence. People are drawn to it, like moths to a flame, like Ferengi to gold, like Klingons to battle, like Vulcans to anything that piques their curiosity.
Of course those charming dimples are also tempting, she thinks.
Yet beyond the good looks and compelling aura, if one takes the time to look deeper, there is sadness. Tired eyes. A smile that is polite but not spontaneous. Shoulders that droop slightly despite the straight posture as if his responsibilities are too heavy and recent experiences have been harsh. He has an untouched drink in his hand, likely a prop to prevent fidgeting.
She knows that look of weariness. Has seen it before in her brother after a tough deployment and it calls to her protective instincts.
It takes time and finesse to weave through the crowds, but she manages to reach his side. Leaning in to be heard above the music and conversation she says, "You look like you could use a wingman."
Chris is staring miserably at the ongoing party. How did I let myself get talked into this? A planet-side friend dragged him here, insisting Chris needed a diversion. His friend had explained it more colorfully, but he had outgrown that type of language after high school. He had also outgrown referring to a woman he wanted to take to his bed as a 'target.'
His high school buddy left an hour ago with a very willing companion. Some friendships are better left in the past.
Yes, sharing the night with someone would be … nice. And end one of two ways – a fast furious ten minutes resulting only in his own release or an exhausting forty minutes holding back as he gave his partner the pleasure she deserved. Neither would be kind to her. Neither beckoned him at the moment, the first unsatisfying after those few brief moments, the latter too much … He thought about it and finally admitted to himself, it requires more than I have to give tonight. Yet he craved the intimacy found in the companionship of a lover.
I should leave. Go back to the ship. Though that was unappealing. On board, even parked in orbit, there were always a multitude of items and people vying for his time and attention. He wanted, needed a break from that tonight. Sighing, he decided on a long walk to clear his head and work out the lingering soreness in his muscles before beaming back to the ship to catch-up on work.
Lost in his own thoughts and caught off-guard Chris asks, "Excuse me?"
The woman now standing beside him – the one he noticed earlier, ok to be honest the one he watched, purposefully, several times during the evening, the one whose body language and playful manner with her escort telegraphed familiarity and closeness – smiles impishly and tilts her head slightly before answering, "Technically that should be an anti-wingman. You look like you could use one."
All he manages is a confused expression.
"You turned down several offers for a …" She smiles before continuing and quiets her voice, as if sharing a confidence, "ah, shall we say a romantic liaison. Therefore it is logical to conclude you are not looking for seduction tonight."
"But … you mean …" Chris stammers.
"I happen to excel in being a pretend companion. I'll stand here with you which will deter the propositions." She stops and narrows her eyes as if considering. "Well not all of them, some won't deem me competition."
Chris finally manages to utter a complete sentence. "But you are here with someone."
"Oh that." He noticed? Warmth spread through her at the thought. No, she tells herself firmly, he needs kindness and nurturing, not someone else clamoring for attention and affection. "I was his shield date, but our mission has been accomplished. I am now on my own."
She moves to stand in front of him and looks up into his eyes, her expression kind. "We can talk or not, your choice, silence doesn't intimidate me."
The response is a smile. His first genuine smile of the night. "Alright, thank you. I should introduce …"
Her mischievous look is back. "Don't wingmen have nicknames or handles? I'm not a pilot, but it might be fun to invent a handle." I know who you are, but I think the flagship commander deserves the gift of anonymity for a few hours.
"This should prove enlightening."
"Hmmm." She taps her chin with a forefinger. "I could choose Amelia."
Chris raises an eyebrow.
"As in Amelia Earhart. She was impressive. A bad ass. A little on the nose though. And I'm not much of a bad ass." A pause. "You're thinking CrazyChick is a better fit."
That prompts a chuckle. "Not really, but why?"
"Because I offered to be your fake date," she answers as if it were obvious. "Has that ever happened to you before?"
"It is a first."
Seeing two women approaching with a hungry leering glint in their eyes she touches his arm possessively and stretches up balancing on the tips of her toes, whispering in his ear while shooting the pair a look that communicated – back off he's mine!
Automatically Chris places a hand on the small of her back. To help her balance, he tells himself.
There was that warm feeling again. She pushed it aside and waited for his next cue.
They lapse into silence. For a brief time he seems lighter, but then the weariness returns. He takes a sip of his drink, grimaces, and places the glass on a nearby table. It had been a prop. Afterwards he clasps his hands together behind his back, frowns as if in pain, crosses his arms in front of his chest, and then not knowing what to do next, lets them drop to his sides. His eyes dart around the room like he is searching for a threat.
He surrenders to the inevitable, a lonely night. "I should go."
"Me too. It's much too noisy and busy for my taste."
"Talking to you was the best part of the evening."
"Thank you."
Chris calls after her as she turns to leave. "Wait, how are you getting home?"
"I'll walk, it's not far."
"No." It comes out like a command. "It's late. I'll see you home."
How sweet and old-fashioned. "That's not necessary." She assures him.
He offers his arm, crooked at the elbow. "This is not up for discussion."
She puts her arm through his. "Then I accept."