The tile feels cold against the legs, but it doesn't register as I slide down the white wall, holding myself, shaking, as I try to navigate the vast labyrinth of my thoughts.
I don't think I've ever felt as feckless as I do now. Nothing makes any sense, allies are fluid, and what Owen is proposing is too much. Moreover, trusting Owen again is a leap of faith after what happened last year. Intuitively, I understand why he did what he did, and I understand why he couldn't help us – his own family's safety was at risk. But still, so many questions eat at me; so much is still shrouded in mystery.
"Beverly?" A warm voice pulls at me from the other side of the door. "Beverly," there it is again – that same compassionate, lulling tone beseeches me from my desolation.
"The door is open, Jean Luc," I mutter back.
"Beverly," he smiles down at what must be a pathetic scene – his wife folded against the wall like a petulant 13 year old. "I was wondering where you went."
"About to send a search party?" I smile up at him.
"No," he slides down the same wall. Brushing down my arm and radiating his heat onto me, he settles into the same juvenile position.
I'm content to say nothing; I'm happy just to be with him – to draw strength from his mien and allow it to infuse me. My head falls onto his shoulder of its own accord, and he responds automatically by kissing my hair.
"I'm scared." He breaks the silence with a subtle whisper. Me too, I think; I'm terrified.
"I know," I whisper. "Nothing is simple anymore."
He smirks, "Was it ever?"
I pull away to look at him before we both burst into belly- aching laughter. Because, what else is there to do? "I love you," I cackle, even amid the tears of frustration meandering paths past my nose and down my cheek.
A warm thumb brushes under my eyes to absorb the warm saltiness. "I love you," he counters softly, turning my bout laughter and my bitter amusement into a moment of tenderness where, like a moth to a flame, I am hopelessly drawn to him.
I think I'll always be surprised at the newness I feel when I look at him; when I touch him. Maybe, like I've always said, it's because I spent so long wanting him, so long lusting after him, so long needing him.
His warm exhalation warms my lips, tingling small nerve endings, and building my expectancy as his hand moves to brush a stray piece of hair out of my eyes.
It's not romantic or overly sensual: making out with my husband on the cold tile floor of the bathroom. Nor is it the right time, with too much happening and so much to deliberate. But, for a moment, to urge to be a part of him and to feel his confirmation is overwhelming.
Lips meet and fit together, but tongues stay separate. This is not the kiss of a lover – it's the kiss of a friend.
"Ahem," A certain mousy-haired young man insinuates himself in the moment, breaking it and starting a new round of laughter. "Really you two? The bathroom?" He cachinnates. "Is no room in this house sacred?"
"Not a one," Jean Luc keeps my gaze, that lately-forgotten laughter and merriment dancing in grey-green irises.
"I should have known," he shrugs, sliding down the adjacent wall, his long legs splaying out in front of him, bumping Jean Luc's. His own smile lingers, "Aaron and Saoirse are sound asleep." He looks out the door, "I just looked in on them."
Jean Luc yawns, "I'm thinking that's not a bad idea!"
The yawn is contagious, spreading to all three of us and reminding us of our fatigue. "It's 1600 hours," Wes looks at the chronometer on the wall. "I'm inclined to agree…." He turns back, jumping on the elephant in the room. "Do you think Paris is telling the truth?"
"Do you?" Jean Luc counters immediately.
"I don't know," he shakes his head, rolling his eyes behind closed lids. "I think it's reasonable after what happened in France. Everything that he said sounds like the truth... And unless there's a 'third level' to this whole plot and Paris is really trying to deceive us…" He laughs morbidly at that alternate possibility. "I'm inclined to go along with what he's planning."
"Wesley, no." I'm adamant. "You're not going back to San Francisco – you're not going back to Starfleet." I look to my right, "We'll go. We'll try something else."
"There is nothing else, Mom!" He argues, drawing his right leg into his body. "I just want this to be over, once and for all. Then Dad and I can go back to UW, he can go back to work, I can continue my degree, you can go back to the practice, things can be normal again, and we can try to put this behind us," He's exasperated, looking at us pleadingly as his eyes hop with so many possibilities – so many distantly favourable outcomes. "I'm willing to go through with Paris' plan just for that."
"But you don't know how to do what he's asking, Wes. And if even you did," He's emphatic – not wanting to chance the poor outcome. "The risk would be too great. No," He shakes his head in an effort to put his foot down. "I agree with your mother."
"Well," Wesley shrugs again and rolls his eyes. "Too bad. I'm doing it anyway. It's the best we've got."
/
"Is this ever going to end?" I whisper into the darkness.
Jean Luc's steady, even breathing behind me tells me that he's fallen into torpor, a plummet I wish I could take myself. His hand hasn't moved from my abdomen – it's stayed still, strong, and steady against the silk of the nightgown.
The two legs bumping mine haven't stirred for the last hour. No, I sigh, it's just m-
"Eventually," his sleepy voice murmurs into my hair.
"You're awake?" I turn myself against him until my breath intimately warms his face. Jean Luc Picard, I grin: Master of the Unexpected.
"I can't sleep," he smiles. "I didn't want to talk to you, though-"
"Oh, company that bad?" I cut him off with a laugh.
"I wanted to let you sleep," he breathes back. "I thought I was being courteous."
"I can't sleep," I mirror gravely.
"Are you angry?" The question is pointed – as if he's been mulling over it for a while.
"Angry?" I repeat, still ciphering the meaning. What is there to be angry about?
"Yes. Are you angry?" He asks again, allowing me to figure out his implication on my own.
"If I really thought about it, which I haven't, then I would say…" I move back from him a bit in an effort to think. "Yes, Jean Luc, I'm angry."
"Me too," He props himself against the pillows. "I suppose I'm angry that Owen is using us. I know, well I understand," He rolls his eyes. "I'm beginning to understand, but that doesn't make it right." He pauses and looks at me for a moment in the moonlit darkness before he movies to brush a portion of matted curls away from my cheek. "I can't remember, were things on the Enterprise this complicated?"
I draw my leg into my body and bump his thigh in the process. "I'm trying to think," I close my eyes. Q, yes Q was complicated – but not like this. Spatial phenomena, they were what they were: predictably unpredictable. Devolving, well that was something new...
"I'll take your silence as my answer," he smirks as his hand moves down to settle on my knee.
"No," I swat him. "I'm thinking… yes. Jean Luc," I look up from his chest. "Things were complicated but now things are different because it's our family – not our crew, or our colleagues."
"Yes, you're right," he looks at me for a long while. "If you knew this was going to happen, would you have still done it?"
"Done what?" I notice an almost bitter hint to his voice.
"Would you have married Jack?" There's the crux.
I look down again, avoiding his piercing gaze. "Would I have done it?" I repeat. "No." I answer honestly. "But," I look back. "If I hadn't…"
"Wesley would be here, with us, regardless… He's an old soul, Beverly – some people were always meant to be." He smiles, redirecting my gaze to meet his.
"Would you – what about you, Jean Luc – if we'd gotten married you maybe never would have been captain of the Enterprise. Would you have resented me for that?"
He shakes his head, laughing at me almost. "Resented you? Would I have chosen the Enterprise over being your husband? No." His hand moves to cup the sharp lines of my cheek. "But our life would have been different, and to be honest, I like it the way it is."
I hold him to me. "Me too." Yes. For all the hardships and the frustrations that the recent month has bore, I still wouldn't trade it. I wouldn't trade my son, I wouldn't trade my family, and I wouldn't trade this man just as he is.
"Do you think Paris' plan will work?" I change the subject as the tracks of my thinking jump along perpendicular lines.
"Wesley," He lies back. "Is capable, I believe, of doing almost anything. But," He draws me against him. "So is Jack. Paris wants to use Wesley as bait to lure Jack, corner him, and expose the Advancement program before the trial starts…"
"Do you think it will work?" I ask again, hoping that at least he has the answer.
His sigh warms my hair. "I hope so."
Thank you thank you again for nagging me to get this up! You guys are the bomb.
Reaganomics: Here you go! I know - so many questions and so many answers coming soon! Aghhh! My head is spinning with all the possibilities.
Maximillion: Here you go! I hope you like this chapter
Megling: I'm getting into your territory - hopefully I'll have at least one more before we wrap this baby up!
Lydia: I have actually never seen Dr. Who. I can't cipher out what the hype is but a lot of trekkies seem to love Dr. Who! Enlighten me maybe? I can't find anyone who can!
Martin: Here you go. I preemptively struck and posted a chapter for you! So, whaddya think? -Becca
Linds: Here you go! Thanks for nagging me! I hope you're having a super relaxing sunday!
Sashsters: Goodness I am becoming so lazy in these last dog days of summer before school starts... but I did get a chapter up today after I took a nap and watched the Hobbit. Yes - that is how exciting my life is.
To my unnamed guest: Thank you! So glad you're in on the story! :) Hope you like the latest chapter! -Becca