I rise from the dark and calm seas of sleep like a sperm whale coming up from a hunt with a bellyful of squid. Even as my brain flips on, my eyes remain closed.

There. Half against my side, half on top of me, a warm body heavy with slumber. You are softly breathing and hopelessly peaceful. There is nothing in this world but the movements of your chest at the behest of your lungs, the warmth of your body, and the utter serentity that envelopes us both.

I could stay this way for eternity. Forget whatever heaven I am threatened with, or whatever hell I am promised. This, now, I would happily take as my pine box repose.

So I milk the moment for all it is worth. Every nanosecond, I try to commit to memory. It is an ideal form of meditation for my categorizing mind, which, although at ease due to your proximity, still has a job to wrap itself around.

I mentally go through my bags, tally my gear, and make a pre-flight checkoff list for Santa. A doggedness settles in my bones like marrow, and the very beat of my heart changes pace to reflect it. I have a job to do today, and for another three weeks.

You must feel my heart switch gears like an old Bronco, because you take one deep breath and I can feel you wake up. You realize you're half on me, and your instinctive shyness and modesty overcomes you. You raise your head from my chest, and move to gingerly slide off me. In response, I wrap an arm lazily around your waist, keeping you in place. You stiffen a bit, but realize that it isn't me coping a feel. For the first time, I open my eyes.

You are looking down at me with sleepy mirth, your chocolate hair a mussed and wild headdress. "Good morning," you say. Your voice is throaty and makes my ears prick up (and maybe another part of me, just a little).

"It's about to be," I reply. I sweep a hand up your back, lingering along your sensitive spine, and entangle it in your hair. Asking permission with my eyes, I hesitate, communicating my longing with a gentle massage of my fingertips along the back of your neck.

Your pupils dialate. With measures of eagerness and caution, you dip your head to indulge me. Our lips meet again, and like last night, electricity sparks.

Your lips move with utter gentleness, impossibly soft. I respond in kind, slow in deferrence to you and because I don't want to make you uncomfortable due to my...excitement.

I nuzzle the kiss to a close, and you bury your nose in the junction of my shoulder with a happy sigh. "Now," I say, cradling you there and by the waist. "It's a good morning."

You make coffee and shit on a shingle. You must have been paying attention that first time I cooked it in front of you, because you nail it the first time. I don't even realize you are cooking until I wander out of the closet, dressed in fatigues, to see you bellied up to the stove.

"Steak and eggs are traditional to the advent of a soldier's deployment, yes?" you ask, looking over your shoulder.

"Yeah," I say. I save the debate on the term 'soldier' for someone else. Instead, I walk up behind you, rest my chin on your shoulder, and cross my arms at your waist. You hum contentedly and tilt your head against mine. I watch you mind the eggs with an artful twist of a spatula.

Forget that I have to leave. Forget that I have to face danger, and elements, and tempt fate. You seem at ease with putting that aside for a few minutes more, and I am grateful for the chance to wring a few more minutes of peace out of our time.

"Grab the toast?" you ask.

I disengage without any real haste, grab a towel, and open the oven to withdraw the pan of browned slices. You plate up the proteins, I pour the coffee, and we sit down.

"Have you got everything?" you ask, the epitome of nonchalance.

I chew, and glance towards the front door where the pile of gear is ready and waiting. "Yeah. It's a pretty straightforward cold-weather job." Except for one little wrinkle, that is: Church. I chase the steak with a swig of coffee, and turn the tables. "Have you got everything?"

Following my train of thought, you stab at a glob of egg, presumably imagining it is Church's eyeball. He's the thundercloud looming over my departure, and it's a cloud we both feel weighing the atmosphere like a building storm. "I will put the gun on after breakfast. I know where the ammo is if I need more than what is in the chamber."

I nod. A thought occurs to me, and I half-smile at it. "Think you can hit a bottlecap from twenty yards by the time I'm back?"

You put down your fork and eye me thoughtfully, looking game. That tilt of your eyes and the confidence mingling in your posture warms me up more than the coffee. "I can do that," you say, gaze even. Challenge accepted. Now, at least, I can pretend I know what you'll be up to while I'm gone.

I clear the table, trying to ward off the mission-mindset for a while longer. But the job is tapping at the door of my mind, growing impatient for my attention. I can't hold it off for much longer.

I prop up on the sink, and the door of my mind shakes in its frame at the force of the job's surge. Not yet. I want just a little longer...

I turn around, and your chin is in one hand and your coffee cup in another. Your eyes are sparkling.

"What?" I ask. Never seen that look before.

You smile and your cheeks darken. A duck of your head reveals the nature of your blush. "Nothing."

I sidle forward, fixed on that blush predatorally. "Ain't nothing," I reply, enjoying your ever-deepening complexion.

You shake your head, still not looking at me. I can see your coy smile, though, and I'm encouraged by it. "No, really, it is nothing," you weakly insist.

I slide my palms across the countertop, and get up under your ducked head to meet your eyes. "Oh, it's something."

You make the prettiest blush/lip bite/eye flutter combo ever to grace a human face. Your accent is thick with contractions, and I revel in the effect I have on you. "It's just that...you're incredibly handsome, Barney."

I have to smirk at that. Score one for Barney Ross. "You wanna know something?" I query, inching closer. "You're - " I kiss your neck. "Incredibly - " Another kiss, under your ear. "Beautiful, Meera." The last words are against your lips, and you press into my kiss with a faint whimper that makes my gut coil pleasantly.

The kiss heats up unexpectedly. I lose track of what I'm doing, and forget I'm trying not to push you too far, or get to a point of no return. When I come to my senses, I'm standing between your knees, framing you with my locked arms, knocking the barstool with my shins, and have you half-bent backwards over the counter with the fervence of my lips on yours. You mewl, and it draws a primal growl out of me, and I span your ribs with one greedy hand. You are pawing at my shoulders, and I can't tell if your touch is lusty or if you're trying to push me off. I take it as the latter and rip away from you, breathing heavily. Dread at what I've done hits me like a bucket of cold water. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I gasp, wheeling away. Shit, what have I done?

You are equally shaken, and you drag the back of your hand over your mouth. "It's okay," you reply with a slight tremble to your voice.

"No, it's not," I say, angry with myself. I let my control slip for just a second, and I nearly eat you alive. Christ, you're a drug: body and soul.

"Barney, look at me," you say, with a bit of a quake.

I can't. I don't want to see the disappointment on your face.

"Look at me, Barney Ross." Now, your voice is stern enough to catch me off guard. I find myself obeying it, despite my dread.

Your countenance is still dark with blush, and your lips are kissed-up and your hair a little messy. One elbow is on the countertop I nearly laid you out on. Your eyes are intense, in accord with your next words. "Barney, I want you to kiss me," you assert with gentle passion. "I want you to touch me."

"What if I hurt you?" I ask in a whisper. I don't necessarily mean physically. What if the feel of a man's body against yours brings back memories of your rape? What if you freeze up, and I don't catch it in time? What if I misread you, and take you too far?

"This may come as a surprise to you," you say with more than a hint of sarcasm. "But I can be more than Sally Sob-Story, fragile as glass." You hop off the barstool and reach up, cupping my face with both hands. "I am strong enough, Barney," you insist, your upward gaze an earnest parody of my earlier one. "I am not going to break."

I wrap my fingers around your wrist almost unconsciously, like the reflexive grasp of an infant. Searching your eyes, I find no blame, shame, or hint of the sadness that I fear haunts the recesses of your heart. I see only fading lust and a whole lot of love, mingled with concern for me.

I sigh, and run my thumb over the veined underside of your wrist, eyes flickering away. "I don't deserve you," I mutter, giving in.

You quirk a smile. "I do not deserve you, either." With that, you slide your arms around me as best you can, and hug me tightly.

I bend my arms at the elbow, and the bizarre twist on our usual embrace comforts me. It's strange to be held by you, but not disagreeable.

There's a sound of a motorcycle's engine echoing in the bay, and it brings us out of reverie. "Time to go to work, love," you say, not moving.

I inhale heavily, and let the mindset finally overtake me like a rogue wave. Like a surge of electricity, all the facts, facets, stats and parameters of the job flood my mind. My blood is set to simmer with tenacity, my synapses snapping quicker, my nerves sparking with energy. "Yeah," I reply. "Time to go."

Christmas has rolled up and is hauling his bag up the stairs of the plane when we come into the hangar. "Mornin' Barney, Meera."

"Good morning, Christmas," you reply with a bright smile. "Need help with your bags?"

"Nah, s'just this thing and my guns," he says. "Barney, your bags aren't up here."

I snap back to reality: I had been thinking about your 'good morning' to me. "Oh, yeah." I stride back to the living quarters and start looping straps over my shoulders. Faintly, I hear you walking away, then boots on the plane stairs. I pause and listen, but can't catch anything meaningful.

Laden with my gear, I walk as quietly back into the hangar as I can. I am just in time to hear you say, in your most beseeching tone, "You have to promise me, Lee Christmas."

"Meera, if it were a promise I could keep without fail, I would make it," he responds, clearly disappointed he can't promise what you're asking, whatever it is.

"I need you to promise me he'll come home safe," you say, your boots clomping across the plane. "Please, Lee, I am going to have a hard time while he is gone. I need to know someone is looking out for him. He is distracted by...well, by me." You sound guilty as hell, and I can picture you folding your arms self-comfortingly over your belly.

Christmas pauses. "You mean you and he - ?"

"Just kissing," you assert. I can practically hear your blush. "But I want to go a lot further than that." Good. I'm glad I'm not just making this up. You hesistate, and the next words come so softly I strain to hear them. "I love him, Lee."

My heart soars into what feels like orbit. I want to run up the stairs of the plane and embrace you as tight as I can. I'm absolutely elated, until I realize you didn't intend for me to hear the words of devotion.

Christmas sighs. I can envision him scratching his stubble. "Alright," he conceeds. "I'll bring him home. I promise."

I hear you take three brisk steps, and Christmas makes an 'Oof!' sound. You must be hugging him. "Thank you!" you say with obvious relief.

I make a show of clomping noisily up the steps. "And here I thought we were exclusive," I say without ire.

You free Christmas with a laugh.

"No, mate, I'm afraid I'm seeing someone else," cracks Christmas.

We share a laugh at that, and as it dies, I hear a trio of motorcycles in the distance. Sticking my head out of the plane, I see Yang and Gunnar rolling up, with Toll not far behind. Even as they park, throw dust covers over their rides, and greet us with bags and weapons in hand, Ceasar tools in and completes the team.

"Alright, we're all here," I say, eyeing them proudly from the plane door. "You all look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and ready for action, so I'll make this quick. This may seem like another job to us, but it's not. It's another opportunity to prove our dominance, our excellence. We are the best, boys. So let's show it."

There is a chorus of "Yeah!" and "You know it!", and the men start to file onto the plane. I step down one last time, and you meet me halfway. Our hug is fierce, and our kiss fiercer. So fierce, in fact, I don't hear the men snickering until it is too late.

I throw a middle finger and a dirty look over my shoulder, and their catcalls escalate. You bury your head in my chest with embarassment, but laugh anyway, the sensation vibrating in my ribs.

You pull back, and beg me one more time with brown eyes and emotive words, "Please come back to me."

I cup your soft cheek, and run a thumb over your lips, memorizing their curve. When I reply, it is with soul-deep promise. "I will."

Then, with aching slowness, I turn, ascend into the plane, and close the airlock behind me. Your face is obscured by inches of metal, and soon, it will be obscured by miles of ocean and mountain.

I settle into the cockpit where Christmas is waiting, and start my pre-flight. "You wait," says my friend by way of consolation. "Three weeks will fly by."

Toggling some switches, I bring Santa to life with a chug that morphs into a roar. "I hope so," I reply.