Meera:

It is so amazingly simple to kiss you. It is like raising a hand, or blinking. It is like a piece of me was sewn back on, good as new: a limb that was in a cast and that I have now regained use of.

You are utterly still, but I am swept up in what has been building for weeks, months, and has finally manifested. God, your heat. With a step over crunchy gravel, I press closer to let it seep into my very bones, contacting you from stomach to chest. My desire spikes at the feel of your wonderful muscles under that shirt and jacket. I wonder if I am being too forward, for you have yet to make a move.

Even as I think it, you seem to snap out of your chains, and you put strong, large hands on my waist and draw me even closer. With insistent lips and a tilt of your head, you turn the tide of the kiss, mouth moving softly against mine.

This feels like riding a comet, my skin being flecked with sparkles of glittering, frozen dust. This feels like a dream within a coma, somehow thoughtless but intense.

I am overcome by my love for you, finally given escape like a pressurized vessel, like a tea kettle. I have been waiting for what feels like forever.

There is no way I can turn back, now.

Barney:

I am so stunned by the sensation of your lips covering mine that I literally am frozen in place. I feel momentarily numb in my entire body, even though your body heat is palpable. I feel cut off, dissociated from my limbs and brain. All that I am is a beating heart, ready to burst with joy and love. All that I am is a soul, finally meeting its twin.

You step closer, undaunted, and your body welds to mine from taut stomach to rounded breasts. My body awakens from the numbness almost painfully, rushing into awareness like a sleeping limb given weight. I put my hands on your waist and pull the rest of you to bear, needing more of you.

Within a span of seconds, I have taken control of the kiss, taking upper, lower, or both of your lips in mine. You reach up and drape your arms over my shoulders, sighing softly through your nose. We are alone on this overlook, on this planet, in this universe.

There is such aching serenity in me, such beautiful stillness and such passive, muted chaos. I have never felt more alive.

Your gentle passion is like a match to my candle. Our flames are constant and manageable with the limited fuel, but that's perfectly alright. We have the rest of our lives. Right now, we are meeting for the first time. So we take our time.

With carefully controlled desire, I tease your lips, gums, and teeth with my tongue, begging entrance.

You make a small sound of surrender and instinctively open your mouth to me.

I explore your mouth carefully, brushing the top, stroking our tongues. Your taste is intoxicating, inebriating. When you tenatively mimic my movements, I want to go to my knees with happiness.

Even after all you've been through, you are not afraid of me, a man.

I don't know how long we kiss: even though we are living by a clock, I could guess hours as easily as minutes.

You pull back first, face covered in a blush of darker pigment that is the flush of your mixed skin, and balance your forehead against mine. "Whoa," you breathe, your voice vibrating the air we share.

"You can say that again," I murmur. I duck to steal another peck, then another that lingers, then a full-on kiss. And we're right back into the fray.

I could do this for days. It comes to my attention that I could do this for the rest of my life.

By the time reality clobbers me over the head with a Timex, I can't see much past my own face (which is squarely filled with your countenance). The stars, which we seem to have just bid goodbye to, and the moon, which seems to hang a little closer, are out.

"We have to get back," I say, not disguising my reluctance.

You laugh at the tone I use, insinuating yourself against me one last time. "Must we?"

I grimace, but not at the feel of your lovely form molding to me. "Yeah. I'm on mission in nine hours. I need some sleep."

You nod, and run a hand down my arm. The fingers of it seek the spaces between mine, and they slot together like bullets in a catridge. Like they were made to fit.

We walk back to the bike, away from the cloud of endorphins that we emanated, and motor into the late summer night.

The mood has degenerated into a warm buzz by the time we hit the hangar. We carefully keep from touching each other, if only to dissuade the inevitable meeting of our bodies. I need something to bring me home, after all.

We know, without speaking, that we cannot make love yet. This has been a long time coming, building, and has finally crested. Now, we have the rest of our lives to get it right. To become so intimate, just before I leave for weeks, would kill both of us even more than my departure already will. I would not be fit to do my job, I am sure: distracted by the thought of you sighing my name, arching under me, scratching my back, tightening...

Shit, Ross, back the hell up. I can't go down that road, or I'ma need a cold shower, not a hot one.

To settle down, I nurse a cigar in the hangar bay, not trusting myself while you're in the shower. When I hear you walk by the front door I take it as my turn and enter, stripping like my clothes are on fire, walking briskly into the shower line, avoiding looking at you all wet and smelling delicious.

There. Curtain pulled: safe. I try to lose myself in the beating of the drops on my skin, and have almost succeeded when you reenter.

There's a creatively wrapped towel on your head, and your BDU/pajama-clad profile is blurred by the shower curtain. "I just need to brush my hair," you announce. You are much more controlled than I am: you don't look the way of my shower at all. You flip your head forward, bending at the waist, and the towel unravels. With jerky and rubbing movements, you work your hair within the towel, and I soap the same portion of skin unconsciously, transfixed.

The towel comes off, and with a flip of your head that makes my heart stutter, the mussed and water-dark locks flick back. You shake your head, and they settle characteristically around your ears. You sidle over to the sink and pick up your brush.

I jerk the curtain back enough to make you jump, and you whirl to regard my dripping face from across the room. "Don't," I say, sounding a little beggy and a lot enraptured. "It's perfect."

You look momentarily comfused, but your expression softens into one of shyness at my request. You put down the brush, and rub the opposite shoulder. "See you in a few," you say quietly, and take your leave.

I finish my shower, towel off, trek to the closet, and get my nightwear. I hesitate at the door to the closet. What will the rest of this night hold, if not the passion we both seek to delay? Sighing, I feel the weight of the day's events as well as the ones to come. Elated at what has finally happened, but trepiditious about what is to come: a long separation. I walk into the living area, scratching my scalp sleepily.

You've achieved our nightly ritual: fans pointed, lights off, TV off. One difference: you're in my bed, the sheet up to your waist, your arm tucked under the pillow and the other twisting the covers nervously. "Can we...sleep together?" you ask, biting your lip anxiously.

I don't answer right away, weighing the possibilities, and you take it to mean uncertainty.

"You are going to be gone for so long," you rush on. "And I will miss you so..." Your tone is emotive, and your eyes are begging me to understand.

How can I say no to that face? I can keep myself cool enough to do this for you. "Alright," I reply. "Scoot over."

Your eyes light up, and you oblige. I sit down on the mattress and slide first one leg, then another, alongside yours. The bed is just wide enough for one of us on our back, or both on our sides. Our calves touch, and you are close enough to radiate coolness.

"You're cold," I say with a chuckle, coming over an inch to indicate it's alright that we touch.

"No, you are warm," you correct with a yawn, settling against my side. "Like a furnace." Dragging the covers up my chest, you whisper, "Thank you, Barney."

I capture the wayward hand on my sternum, and thread our fingers again. "No. Thank you."

You drift off quickly, and your coolness moderates the temp under the covers perfectly. I have a harder time falling asleep, shutting off my mind about you there next to me, you while I'm gone, you kissing me so sweetly, and the job that is to come. When I finally do sleep, however, it is the deepest and most fulfilling sleep I've had since childhood.