Chase the Bad Away

It's late, nearly 2:00 am. Or, more correctly, it's early. Way, way early. Much too early.

Chris' chest is pressed against my back, his head lays near mine on a shared pillow, his legs bend around the curve of mine. I carefully inch my shoulders, torso, then legs, scooting away and closer to the edge of our bed, in order to spare him my ongoing cycle of reposition, squirm, repeat. Generally he sleeps deeply, rarely waking before morning. Unless there is the slightest change in the vibration of his ship. If Enterprise sighs, her Captain notices.

A strong arm arrests my movement, wrapping around my waist in a split second, rooting me firmly in place. A drowsy voice fumbles, "Where you goin'?

"Can't sleep," I explain, "Didn't want to wake you. Sorry."

Withdrawing his arm and possessively resting its hand on my waist, Chris' nose brushes across my ear before he whispers into it, "Asleep, awake, I always know when you are no longer in my arms, if you are no longer nearby." His index finger rubs the engagement band I wear.

I never doubt this, but hearing a reminder always flushes my cheeks and spreads warmth throughout my body.

He smooths hair away from my eyes, kisses my temple then props on an elbow. "You haven't been yourself all evening. Which did and does concern me."

I roll onto my back. "How can you …" The words stop. Chris is preternaturally aware of his environment and those in it.

Another kiss, this time deposited on my forehead. "I know your tells sweetheart." His hand rests on my chest. "Sleeping in my shirt, one I've recently worn. At dinner, pushing your food around on the plate rather than eating. You're skilled at that by the way."

"My parents never noticed," I mumble. Yes, this is my eloquent response.

"I'm more observant than the average mare," he replies in a matter-of-fact tone.

In the low light of the room I can just make out his grin. "That's bear," I correct. "The saying is bear. More whatever than the average bear."

"Really? Hmmm." Chris rubs his chin then shrugs. "Who'd want to be compared to a grizzly rather than a horse? Horses are graceful, refined, nuanced while bears are … well, not." A pause. Like an autopilot he immediately resumes his original course. "What's wrong? Should I call Phil?"

"No. Definitely not." I emphasize my answer with a negative head shake.

"Is it work? Your Captain has been driving you hard lately." His cheek nuzzles mine. "I should have a word with him."

The joke successfully hits its target. I chuckle then repeat, "No."

"So tell me, what's bothering you," Chris' voice is edging towards the low, firm tone uses with cadets. He softens it. "What's going on in that beautiful head of yours?"

I reach up, running my fingers through his hair. Not for the first time I send out a little prayer of thanks for Chris' presence in my life.

Eyes narrow then he says with genuine and complete sincerity, "We are both lucky." His forefinger taps the tip of my nose. "Someday I'm going to come across the person who bruised your heart leaving you feeling unworthy, and he and I will have a long and … robust conversation."

The statement is not a boast but a promise. At times Chris reads my thoughts too well.

"Tell me what's wrong so I can chase the bad away."

"Nothing's wrong, at least nothing specific. Unlike you, not all of us can announce, 'I'm going to sleep' and then immediately do so." I sigh. "Feeling a little low, am a bit overtired. My body won't relax, it's achy. So rest sits beyond reach. Just my usual insomnia."

"There is nothing just about it," Chris grumbles letting his frustration slip through. He finds it difficult to hide annoyance when I downplay my struggles.

Leaning forward he holds my gaze as his mouth hovers centimeters above mine. A minute later, our lips meet. When we part the palm of his hand cradles my cheek while the thumb traces its bone. He smiles.

Unhurried, Chris' fingers stroke where his lips brushed seconds before. My jaw. My neck. The spot where my neck and shoulder meet then the shoulder's rounded edge. My collarbone. My wrist. The palm of my hand. My abdomen. My hip. The back of my knee. My inner thigh. The side of my waist. Between my breasts. It is a cascade of relaxation. I coo, my body shifts back and forth. His touch is gentle, caressing rather than fondling, careful to give pleasure rather than exacerbate the tenderness I experience …

Oh, he's tracking my menstrual cycle, I think. Sex with Chris the week before my period has never been uncomfortable or painful, why didn't I catch on to this before now?

His continued ministrations distract these thoughts. "Keep going?" he murmurs.

I miss the words. "Huh … what?"

Another smile. Dimpled this time. "Are we going all the way?"

Sleep is creeping closer and when I nod this is evident. Chris coaxes me onto my side then lies down on his. His hands cup my face. Our next kiss is intense, with him guiding it, with him giving more than receiving. When we part, I am breathless, my lips are swollen.

Our limbs entangle. Every movement, every sensation is leisurely and easy, intimate, and mutual, the perks of an established lover: no guesses, no distrust, no hesitations. Afterwards he settles my head against his chest, my leg sandwiches between his. As I drift into sleep I hear him whisper, "I love you."