A/N: Thank you for the lovely reviews and words of support! Writing and escaping into this story - which is a little more manageable these days as work and life has settled a little more into a routine, albeit a crazy one - has helped me tremendously in coping over the last few weeks. I hope you too, are all staying well (and sane). xx

This scene has been in my mind since, quite literally, the beginning. A little bit of longing, a little bit of fluff. Hope you enjoy, and would love to hear your thoughts.

The Deck, Under the Stars

The days at sea passed uneventfully enough. Despite Georg's concern that the fall weather might suddenly turn, it was a brilliant and unforgiving sun that accompanied them from morning till night, reflecting everywhere in every direction on the water. The sun was more ruthless out at sea than on the island, Maria quickly learned, her uncovered neck and shoulders red and flaming after half a morning sitting on the deck, deceived too was she by the cool, brisk sea breeze.

There was no schedule, but she and Georg eased into a comfortable pace. They came together and drifted apart throughout the day, Georg to the helm and Maria into one of the books she'd borrowed from his small onboard collection. Georg woke early and never ate breakfast, but he'd join her on the deck with a strong cup of coffee. They both liked to shower in the morning, and after the third day Maria learned to keep busy during his turn when she caught him exiting the small bathroom with a fluffy towel wrapped firmly around his torso. On some days she'd make lunch and bring it to him at the helm. Sometimes she'd stay. Maria found she had a certain fascination with the equipment and learning about the yacht. She wasn't sure if part if it stemmed from Georg's evident passion for sailing, or perhaps from some remote awareness that if she could master it, she could control it - control what happens to her on the water. Georg was patient in his explanations, but Maria sensed his default at the helm was silence. That was fine by her. She liked watching him sail, as natural to him as breathing.

When she was alone, Maria spent most of her time hunting for shade on the deck, with her book or with her thoughts. While the galley was covered and cool, Maria found she was much more comfortable above deck. When she could see her surroundings and see where they were headed, she didn't feel as uneasy on the water.

Maria didn't think she was afraid of sailing, and she knew she wasn't afraid of water. She trusted Georg, and was confident he wouldn't let anything happen to her. She liked the yacht, and even more, liked the pared down routine of being at sea. It was as though time had slowed, as though she were suspended in this moment, unburdened by a past or troubled by a future. It was a refuge, and she understood why Georg had turned to it.

But the nights. Oh, the nights!

They seemed unbearable, at first. Maria had no idea, had never imagined, that being on the water would cause her to relive that accident in vivid and terrifying dreams. She did occasionally have nightmares about drowning, disorienting snippets that had her waking gasping for breath, but not even in the early days had she dreamed about the accident. She had been unconscious for so long after it, and then, the grief of everything catching up to her had pushed aside fear of the accident itself.

That first night, after Georg had shaken her out of her nightmare, he'd held her against the bed long into the night. Terrified, Maria had clung to him, the vestiges of the dream too real to shake. She had lost so many people, she thought blindly, she couldn't lose Georg, too.

Even when she had calmed at last, the relentless pounding of the waves made her unable to even entertain the idea of sleep.

She must have dozed, here and there, for she woke to a pale dawn, alone on the bed, sheets tucked firmly around her. She felt sluggish, unsettled, but the pinkish light filtering through the porthole was soft and gentle, and Maria found she was no longer gripped by the deep, visceral fear that had haunted her through the night.

Nothing was going to happen to her, to Georg. Of course not.

During the day, in the light, it was easy to believe.

Georg was waiting for her in the galley. He was drinking a coffee, scrawling into a notepad, but the way he looked her over made her feel sure he had been waiting – worried yet not wanting to disturb her. Maria gave him a small, tired smile, and he made no reference to their night as he served her breakfast. After all, what was there to say? It had been more feeling than thought, more instinct than foresight. She'd had a nightmare, and he'd come to offer comfort.

Maria managed to put the night behind her during the day. Georg introduced her to his collection of books – books he'd read hundreds of times, judging by their tattered spines and worn pages. He had diverse taste, from American literature to British poetry to German philosophy, and Maria felt a strange thrill as she thumbed through the volumes as though he had granted her access to something precious and forbidden. She let herself get lost in the books, the lapping of the waves against the hull more soothing than distressing during daytime. But after the sun set and night rolled around, a vague sense of dread overtook her again. Maria found herself sitting on the deck, unwilling to subject herself to sleep and the nightmares that might come with it. The complete darkness beyond the yacht was disconcerting, and her eyes strained to make sense of it, but it was better than the alternative.

Georg, coming down from the helm, found her there. With the intuition that came of sharing the same space, she sensed him before she heard him, sensed him watching her for long moments before coming to sit down beside her. Maria leaned back against her wrists to look at him, his trademark white shirt a beacon in the night. Georg had vanished into the control room after a hurried supper, his sailor's sixth sense telling him they had gone off course, and had remained there for several hours.

"I didn't want to sleep," she told him sheepishly, although he had put no pressure on her to talk.

"I didn't think you would." His voice was warm like a blanket around her shoulders.

Maria sighed. He'd been unusually gentle with her all day, and she felt herself respond. "I feel… betrayed," she admitted. "I thought I had moved past it."

Georg made a sound of acknowledgement, then said softly, "Maria, just because it's in the past doesn't mean it never happened."

"I know," she said quickly. Because she did know – of course she did. "I just wish I hadn't… that I had known – "

What? What did she wish she had known? That the accident still had the ability to terrorize her? That she was not as strong as she'd imagined? That somehow… losing Georg would be the most unbearable of all?

Maria bit her lip.

"In war they call it post traumatic stress," Georg murmured. "It manifests differently for everyone – dreams, flashbacks, hallucinations… it was normal, expected."

And had he comforted them the way he had comforted her?

"You get to know your men's triggers," Georg continued. "We don't expect them to get over it, but if your team can't spot and mitigate it, it may just kill you in battle. Someone freezes, someone loses control, someone falls out of rank… and everyone dies. It is not a weakness. In fact, every unit is stronger because of it."

"And you? Do you have triggers?"

He looked at her. "Not from war."

And Maria knew the rest. Georg's demons were not external, and she already knew how he dealt with them. Drink and women.

But come to think of it, she hadn't seen Georg drink since his return to the island, hadn't seen him drink at all during their time onboard. "You don't keep any alcohol on the yacht," she realized suddenly.

"No, I don't," he confirmed.

She hesitated briefly. "Why don't you?"

"Well… mostly to resist temptation," he said, a careful edge in his voice. Maria felt a surge of sympathy. "But that was before. Now, well – I suppose I don't want it, anymore."

She felt a swell in her chest, a warmth that ached in its intensity. "Oh, Georg," she could only say.

The look in his eyes matched how she felt. "How could I ask you to give up your life on Milos for the unknown, only to take the coward's way out night after night? You've called me out on it once. Only you were too kind. I wasn't just running. I wanted to forget. And if I couldn't forget, then I wanted to destroy – destroy who I was so I wouldn't have to be that man. It was despicable, and it was you who made me realize it."

"Me?"

"Yes, you Maria. You are like a nevalyashka doll that can't be toppled, always finding your way upright." A smile crinkled his eyes, and Maria couldn't help a grin at the imagery of the little roly-poly Russian doll.

"I suppose it's become something of a habit," she said. "Although I have no idea how I'm going to overcome something that only manifests in my sleep." She shrugged with a small, rueful laugh. "I'll just have to stay awake the entire journey…"

Georg chuckled. "Lie back," he told her, scooting back against the cushions himself, stretching his long legs in front of him.

"I'm not convinced I'll have any better luck sleeping out here," she protested even as she did as told, carefully leaning back beside him.

"I wasn't going to suggest that we sleep," he said, chuckling again, the sound a low rumble in his chest.

Maria blushed. "Then why…" she began, nestling against the cushions.

"Look up."

She followed his gaze into the night sky, where a sliver of moon was lingering low near the horizon. The velvety dark space above them was sprinkled with stars, a twinkling tapestry that spread infinitely in every direction. The sea was wide, but the night sky was wider.

The stars were the same stars Maria saw from her apartment on the island. It was an impressive view, countless twinkling points and dusty white streaks, and she had learned to appreciate them in a way she never could growing up in the foothills of the formidable Alps. But even as the view on the island had been expansive, now on the boat in the middle of the sea, it felt like the sky was coming down to meet her, the stars close enough to touch.

Soothing, but also something wild, a little intoxicating. Bit by bit, she felt body unlock, felt herself relaxing, giving in to the night.

Maria turned her head slightly to glance at Georg, lying with his hands underneath his head. She could even see the stars reflected in the blue of his eyes, a blue made deeper by the night.

Enveloped by darkness, blanketed by the night sky, it could have been another world.

He tilted his head toward her when he felt her looking.

"Is this what you do when you can't sleep?" The question was quiet, half a sigh.

Georg smiled. "The sky at night is a sailor's map and a sailor's bible." His voice was equally soft. "The naval academy teaches you to read them but you learn to trust them at sea. I see them even when I close my eyes." She watched his lids flutter closed for a brief instant, before his eyes focused back on her. "So I suppose you might say I count stars like other people count sheep."

"I don't count sheep either."

A silent shake of laughter from him. "What is it that you do?"

"I sing the do-re-mi."

He chuckled out loud. "I should have guessed."

"I wish I could read stars. The only one I know is the North Star." She pointed into the night. "The brightest star in the sky."

There was a beat of silence. A blink. A soft smile. "That one is Venus, actually."

Maria's brow furrowed. "Venus?"

"Yes, the planet Venus. The one they say represents love, sometimes fertility. The brightest in the night, after the moon."

How could her breath catch when they were talking of stars and planets? The air felt like it was condensing around them.

"You see how the light is so steady?" Georg continued. "It doesn't twinkle like the stars. That's how you can tell it's a planet."

He pointed above them, drawing her gaze high into the sky. "That one is Polaris, the north star."

Maria's eyes searched the area he indicated, her head tilting toward his so she could see the sky from his angle. "That one?" She asked at last, pointing as well.

He nodded. "Yes."

"It's not very bright at all."

He smiled. "It's a misconception that the North Star is supposed to be bright. There are many stars in the sky that are brighter. Sirus, for example." Georg drew a line with his finger down to another star, which Maria found easily and could see was indeed significantly brighter. "Polaris is useful as a navigation tool."

"Because it's always… north?" Maria guessed.

"Because the entire sky spins around it."

Maria drew a breath. "Oh," she said softly.

"The North Star doesn't move. It doesn't rise or set. It remains in the same spot every night of the year, the only constant in the sky, an axis around which everything else spins."

Maria couldn't tell if he was speaking about stars or something else entirely.

"They say if one can find the North Star, one can find their way home." Though his voice was steady, Maria could hear the heaviness, the sorrow beneath.

What they don't say is it may take years, and even then, you may never reach it.

No, that wasn't true. Georg would. They both would – find their way home.

"Could you teach me?" She said out loud instead. "How to find Polaris?"

A few breaths later, and Georg's voice lightened. "Polaris is a part of the Little Dipper. See that?" He traced something in the sky. "It's in the handle of the spoon."

Maria squinted at the dusting of stars. "There's a spoon there?"

Georg smiled. "Have you ever looked for constellations?"

Maria shook her head. "Shapes in clouds, maybe."

"I'll show you. Let's find the Big Dipper first." His finger jabbed at the sky. "The big spoon."

Maria gazed upward, trying to imagine a bigger spoon.

"There are seven stars." He reached for her hand, a mere press of his thumb against her wrist, over her pulse point. "And they make a shape like this – " Lightly, he traced the shape of a boxy ladle into her palm. His trailing touch burned like the tail of a shooting star.

She couldn't help a slight shiver. Georg felt it, and paused.

Determinedly, she looked upward. "There?" She asked, shakily pointing with her free hand. She pressed into his touch, leaned in toward him until their heads were touching.

Surrendering to the night.

There was little space left between them. Still looking skyward, Georg slipped his arm around her shoulders, and drew her closer still. He repeated the constellation against her palm.

She closed her eyes, felt him. His presence warm, solid, enveloping like the darkness above. When she finally opened her eyes, she saw stars.

Maria concentrated until the stars came into focus, until at last, she could spot the shape of the spoon. "I found it!" Maria turned to him excitedly. Felt his lips brush her hair.

"Good," he chuckled, his voice a murmur above her ear. "Now, let's find the Little Dipper. Same shape."

He let go of her hand, only to take the arm she had been pointing with, guiding it slightly to the left. "There."

Maria managed to make out the Little Dipper, and she found Polaris twinkling along its handle.

They spent the night stargazing, Georg drawing constellations into her hand. The hunter. The swan. The harp. The queen. Until eventually they fell silent, her head against his shoulder, his hand making absentminded circles along the back of her arm.

Like the constellations themselves, they seemed to be part imagination, part fantasy. A part of the night sky, a part of another world. Fleeting as starlight.

And so she allowed herself to press her lips against his shirt, at the edge of his collarbone, and felt him exhale into her hair.

When Maria woke the next morning, it was past sunrise and her back was pressed against him, head still pillowed against his arm. She didn't remember falling asleep! Heart hammering, Maria flung herself upright, twisting to see Georg lying on the deck beside her. He blinked at her, her sudden jolt surprising him.

"You're awake," Maria said blankly as her moment of panic subsided. Of course he was. Georg was the earliest riser she knew. Why hadn't he pulled away? Everything, everything, should have faded with the darkness.

"I didn't want to wake you," Georg said simply. No mention of the night. No mention of their predicament. No mention of how they were mere inches from each other, his arm still wrapped around her. "You looked like you were having a restful sleep."

And she had. She felt more refreshed than she had in a long time, at peace, and –

" - no nightmares," Maria realized then. She stared at him, a startled smile on her lips.

"Good," Georg said, smiling back, pulling himself up and getting to his feet. He stretched a hand toward her, helping her up.

There was no hesitation, no sense of awkwardness. He didn't seem phased at all by what transpired between them. Bad dreams in exchange for a night of stargazing, of sleeping together on the deck. They were safe, tucked away in the darkness, thought perhaps not as fleeting as she thought.

They spent every night thereafter on the deck. Dinner was an afterthought, sunset always magnificent, but night – night was the masterpiece. Maria would watch as dusk turned to twilight turned to night, stars emerging one by one, then all at once. Georg would join her later after the night's navigation checks had been completed. Knowing how the nights would unfold, he'd bring a blanket to throw over their legs as they stargazed, to be pulled up to her chin as she fell asleep.

The lion. The ram. The bull.

Sometimes Maria would make up her own constellations, fingers dancing across the sky, connecting stars in a way that would make any astronomer turn in their grave. The mountain. The dancer. The guitar. It amused Georg. Made him laugh. An affectionate tousle of her hair before his fingers tangled themselves against the strands.

The twins. The snake bearer. The scales.

"Libra." Georg paused for a long moment, even after Maria had found it. She was getting good at this.

"What is it, Georg?" She asked finally, lifting her head from where she was resting against the crook of his arm.

"This is the one that haunts me."

"Of all the fearsome myths, Libra is the one that scares you?"

"I did not say it scares me." His chuckle reverberated against her cheek. "It reminds me I have tipped the scales so far that when the day of reckoning comes, they won't know what to do with me."

"You were a fiend," Maria agreed irreverently. Vienna. Austria. It seemed so far away. Another world away. She remembered thinking it before, but now she told him boldly that someday, he would need to face the destruction he'd left in Vienna, make apologizes and amends with the immaculate Baroness Elsa Schrader – who at the moment could have been a character in a book.

She felt his hands move in idle strokes across her back as he murmured his agreement.

The crab. The archer. The virgin.

Georg rubbed aloe vera into her burnt shoulders, teasing her for her fair Austrian skin. The area was tender, and Maria winced.

"Sorry," he murmured. "Too much?"

She shook her head. His fingers dipped beneath the collar of her shirt, his touch feather light, and she felt her back arch in response.

She felt him gently blow across her skin, cooling it, and made a sound that was half sigh, half hum.

"And your feet?" His voice sounded the slightest bit unsteady.

"Yes." She'd forgotten that accidently stepping barefoot onto the deck that day had burned her soles, but in that moment, she would have said yes to anything.

Georg shifted so he was level with her outstretched legs. He applied the lotion to her feet, his hands steady. His touch along the arch of her foot sent a jolt straight through her. Like he had done with her shoulders, he bent his head with a cool breath along her feet. He ended at her ankle, a touch of his lips.

"There," he said. She sensed him twisting around to set aside the aloe vera. "All taken care of."

But it wasn't. Oh, it wasn't.

On their last night onboard they did not look for constellations. Instead, Georg showed her the figures in the moon, bright enough now to obscure the stars. Maria asked if he'd studied selenography in naval school. He laughed, telling her the craters on the moon were of no use to him. But in the way the Greeks had woven mythology in the stars, the sailors he'd sailed with during his time in Southeast Asia had told him their stories written in the moon. Georg pointed out the dragon, and the rabbit, compounding medicines on the moon with his pestle.

He traced the shadow of the moon Goddess, a wife separated from her husband after she drank his elixir of immortality to prevent a man from stealing it. Even after flying into the heavens, she chose the closet object to Earth to be near her husband. He, in his grief and love, laid out food for her and dined outdoors under the moon for the rest of his years.

I will never forget you.

You will be forever in my heart.