"What were you talking about with Will and Wesley?" I kiss my husband's chest after late hours of languid lovemaking. I linger, breathing him in; I love the way that he smells. I've always said that I thought he smelled like soap, but after we make love that scent is enhanced and it becomes headier, sharper, enthralling. It's so characteristically him and I love to shroud myself in it; I love to surround myself in him in any way that I can.

His free arm moves over my abdomen and comes to a halt. I'm only 5 weeks pregnant, but he's still enchanted that there's another life growing inside of me. "I'm sure Deanna told you," I feel his thumb move in circles, "that She and Will are leaving Starfleet – or at least thinking about it."

"You sound tentative."

"I am." He pauses. "Beverly, you and I left Starfleet because we wanted to settle down and start a family." I feel his idiosyncratic gesticulation behind my back. "But I can't help but get the feeling that Will and Deanna are running away."

"Deanna said the same thing. She said that they're torn. But she also said that Starfleet is not the same place." I sense a hesitancy and I prop myself up to look at him. "Jean Luc, what is it?"

"I don't know, I-"

"Are you thinking about going back?" My stomach sinks.

He looks closely at me and in a second he is jolted to action as his body covers mine. One hand props him over me and his other hand moves to cup my cheek. "No. No. Not a chance. Beverly, I have a different life now and I don't miss that one in the slightest."

My hand moves to trace the furrowed lines on his brow. "Then what are you worried about?"

"I don't know. I suppose I'm just disappointed, really, to see all of this going on."

"Me too. But, in the end, it will work out." I have to believe that's the case. So, I say it, hoping that the words will make it so.

/

"Already?"

"Yes, apparently they're just as eager as we were," I kiss his neck as he continues shaving.

"Where are they getting married? Ow!" He jumps as I move away from him.

"Jean Luc?"

"I cut myself," he chuckles, dropping the razor into the cloudy water in the sink.

"Oh," I feel bad. "Jean Luc, I'm sorry. Let me get the dermal regenerator." I see his reflection applying pressure to the nick as I rummage in the drawer for the device. "Here," I approach his front. "Let me."

"This is your fault, you know," he breathes through a serene smile, his breath exuding the scent of cool mint. "You're very distracting…"

He tries to divert me with his hand at the closure of my robe. "Jean Luc Picard! You are incorrigible. Let me heal this cut first! Stay still."

For some reason whenever I tell this man to stay still, he takes it as a cue to be naughty and move around. Playfully I take his chin in my hind. "Still, young man."

The hum of the regenerator indicates its work as a small light traces over the superficial cut, erasing the abrasion in its wake. "There." His hand continues it's previous path. "Unh, Unh! First things first!" I smirk as I pick up his old fashioned razor, continuing what he started. There's something sensual about the feeling of the blade on bare skin. Using one is a delicate procedure. And when shaving a man's face, a whole other level of alacrity and precision is required.

Though I used one on a cadaver during my first semester of medical school, I've never really used a straight scalpel on an actual patient during surgery. During my wet labs, though, I enjoyed the organic and very physical feel of manipulating the skin with the simple blade. It took a few tries to determine the exact amount of pressure needed in order to make a good cut. Too hard, and you slice through the sub-dermal layer and into the muscle fascia, making for a poor cut and one that could endanger important nerves in the vicinity. On the other hand, too light and you'd have to go back and remake the cut and possibly risk a sloppy outcome.

Now, however, we use laser scalpels, which are essentially dummy-proof. They're good, though and assure a superior outcome every time. However, I feel that they take away from the drive of the surgeon to develop his or her own skills and finesse. I smile to myself; now I sound like Hope.

I slide the blade over the contours of his face, removing the soft, fluffy mélange of shaving cream in my wake. He's smiling at me, amused by my focus. I imagine the look on my face is one of amused concentration. As the larger segments of lather start to disappear, I step forward, now focusing on the smaller regions that I've left for the end. "Jean Luc!" In the heat of my attentiveness, I failed to notice how fully he's undone my bathrobe, which is now gaping open. He steps closer to me and I can't resist pulling away the towel fastened around his own waist, revealing what looks to be a painful arousal.

I ignore him for the moment, wiping his face with the towel that I removed. He closes the small distance between our bodies. "Now, where were we?"

I slide the back of my hands down his now-smooth cheeks and relish my handiwork. It's hard to think coherently when he's like this. "Uh," I fumble, "we were talking about Will and Deanna's wedding. And," I fleetingly regain my focus, "we were saying how we were going to take Saoirse and Wes and drive to Pomona for the wedding since we don't want to take Saoirse and junior over the transporter."

"Mmm," I hear his wordless agreement as his hands yank my robe off the rest of the way. "Sounds fine." He mutters as he kisses across my bare clavicle. I pull his face to mine, wanting to taste him, feel him. Within moments I've been swept up onto the counter, "Jean Luc, I have to be at work in 45 minutes."

He's standing between my legs, his arousal still painfully evident, "Uh huh". His kisses are tickling my neck and driving me to insanity with need. All I can manage with a breathy moan is "be quick."