I've had some experience with the press, but that was a long time ago. When I was in charge of Starfleet Medical, we had one very high profile case just two months before I left to go back to the Enterprise. The Vulcan ambassador had taken ill during an important trade negotiation. He had required immediate surgery and soon after, I had to make a statement in font of the press corps. However, it was a small event. I remember being photographed with several Vulcan officials, and asked a few questions. That was it. This, though, nothing could have prepared me for this.

Hundreds of people line every entrance and exit of the courthouse. There's an unmistakable, distinctly and palpably precarious energy generated by so many gathered in one place. Leaving and immersing ourselves in it, reminds me of the old Earth tale about the parting of the Red Sea. We are told that "no comment," is an acceptable answer to almost every query. Personally, I think that all of us are too stunned even to care to formulate two words. Therefore, silence is chosen.

Wesley wipes his hands on his shirt, imparting a semblance of dryness to his now nearly constant clamminess. "Do you think," he looks drearily out the window of the hover-car, reporters and journalists banging at the reinforced glass. "That it's like even at home?"

Jean Luc rubs his tired eyes, willing away the bright spots brought on by the intense flashes of the holo-cameras. "I don't know what expect, Wes. I'd assume so, otherwise they wouldn't have had to forewarn us…"

"Do you think Aaron and Saoirse are okay?"

I lay a hand on his knee in an effort to comfort and ground not only him, but myself as well. "Wes, I'm sure that Hope wouldn't let anything happen to them."

The hover-car ambles slowly through the vast throng until finally open roads are reached. "Eh," Jean Luc slides forward in the seat. "We need to get to a transporter station-"

The shorter man turns in his seat, and faces us. "Don't worry, Captain, we've got you covered." He looks forward and then back to us, gathering his thoughts. "The press," He looks over his sunglasses at Wesley (after experiencing the flashes from the cameras, I now understand the need…). "Is as you suspected; they've been camped out in your hometown since you were discovered there."
/

Having so many people crowded on our lawn, trampling our garden, itching for just a statement from us feels like a new type of transgression entirely. This plot of Earth, this home, is our private sanctuary. Hardly anyone comes to this lonely place. Secluded far away from the road and wandering eyes, this is where we've built our life together. I'm sad to be leaving it again, if only for a while. I tell myself that it's necessary though, and where we're going is almost home in and of itself.

"Jean Luc?" I'm too tired to pack. I find myself just throwing random bits of clothing into a bag, not really scrutinizing and discerning each piece.

"Beverly?" I look over at him as he peruses his own closet. His profile has changed in the last week. Like myself, he's grown gaunt. He's tired, weary, and it shows. But, no matter how tired, thin, or lanky he's become; he's still incredibly handsome. I'm drawn to him from across the room, like a body falling under the influence of gravity.

It's the first time we've been alone in days... Well we're not truly alone; Hope is with the kids in the other room while Wesley packs his own bag. "Jean Luc," I say it again, moving closer to him.

"Beverly?" His back is still turned to me as I wrap my arms around his waist, lay my head on his shoulder, position my nose against the delicate skin of his neck, and draw his body close to mine.

I hear his light laugh as he turns around, reversing our positions and enveloping me against him. For a long moment, we say nothing. We are content to look, to hold, and to memorise. Because, what is there to say? Too much; there are too many words that need to be spoken. So, for now, we choose to be content with silence.

Peripheral background noise of Saoirse's merriment, Hope's cooing, and Aaron's subtle laughter colour the air surrounding us. I smile through my fatigue and unfurl one of my arms from around his neck. In doing so, I allow my hand to linger over the sparse hair at the back of his head. Then, I snake a curved path around his skull to his face. For the second time today, I trace the fine lines of his forehead down the bridge of his strong nose, in through the smooth divot of his cupid's bow, and over his lips. The lips are one of the most sensitive areas on the body; their thin, soft skin is littered with a distinct type of pressure receptor, making them receptive to even the slightest of touches. So, I allow the back of my finger to investigate every concavity, each smooth unevenness, and every slight curve before I slowly move to taste him with my own.

The kiss meant to be chaste, an offering of comfort and solace. It's meant to be a quick gesture. But, what began as conciliatory quickly becomes much more. His tongue slides lightly and effortlessly over my own bottom lip, beseeching entrance.

It's been too long since he's kissed me. The last I remember, Jack Crusher had repeated this same gesture. Then I had been cold, stalwart, closed off and revolted. My kisses, I promised myself, are only reserved for one man. This man. So, before I register his tongue, I open my mouth to him. I didn't anticipate how aggressive or how voracious I'd be - but some things can't be helped. I notice that he feels it too when I find myself pushed against the wall, his knee insinuating itself greedily between my legs as he opens me to him. There's that undeniable, addictive heat flowing effortlessly between our bodies. He presses at me, his hands moving from cradling my jaw, down over my shoulders, gingerly over my sides and up under my shirt to rest on the sensitive, ticklish skin of my waist.

I could have lost him, I think. Forever. So, I grip him tighter, hold him as close as I can as I plunge my tongue past his teeth, mingling with his own, tasting him, loving him.

The urge to breathe combined with the sound of footsteps breaks the moment. "Mom, Dad?" Wesley knocks at the door.

"What is it, Wes?" He pulls away from me, but stays connected as he holds my hand.

He pokes his head in, his bag on his shoulder. "I don't mean to interrupt," A smile perks up and dances across his mouth. "But we need to get going."

Later, I sigh, looking down as I try to hide the blush on my pale cheeks. Later...