"Hand me the turnscrew. The cross-head one." She stretches her arm out until the tool, warm from his grip, lands in her hand. "And don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"You know like what." She pops the hatched cover to the air shaft out of its casing only to reveal a second vented plate wedged further back.

"It's true, I'm not used to taking orders when it comes to my ship."

"Mm-hmm." She jiggles the plate without success. "Here, you give it a try."

"Oh, now you need my help." He scoots next to her and peers into the heating duct. "Yep, I'd say that's a classic two-vent problem."

"Was it designed that way on purpose or is it one of your so-called optimizations?"

"I only have one answer to that question." She catches the corner of his smile before he slides his hand under her shirt and kisses her until they are both breathless.

"It only required one answer."

"And now you have it."

It's another hour before the second vent is pried off and the apparatus refitted with a clean grate. In the meantime, she has arranged the tools off to the side, leaving a space on the bunk just large enough for two. He wipes his hands with a rag and looks around in feigned surprise. "How'd we find ourselves here?"

"Someone decided to bolt a bed right below a heating duct."

"Seemed like a good idea at the time." He lifts her braid off her neck and replaces it with his mouth. "I got an even better idea."

"Thank the gods for that." She closes her eyes and submits to his touch. "All your other ones are starting to wear me out."

-000-

By unspoken agreement, they meet in the rear hold every afternoon. It is their daytime retreat, a comfortable distance from the common area and more private than the cabin. The mat stays unfolded on the deck plates and each day another item accumulates along with it: an oversized blanket in an undefinable shade of greenish-brown; three cushions that might have been originally intended for the cockpit chairs; a lumpy pillow deemed unworthy of the bed. The haphazard arrangement betrays no plan for a finished product and one day she asks him what exactly he has in mind.

"Just want you to be comfortable," he says between kisses. "Like someone of your station deserves."

She fingers his collar and weaves her fingers through his hair. "I'll ignore your sarcasm for now."

"I wasn't being sarcastic." He pulls back and looks at her seriously. "We're stuck here, you've been doing a bunch of work. The least I can do is dig up a few pillows."

She can't help smiling. "Then I'll just say that's very generous of you."

"That's better."

She is hungry for him but they have not progressed beyond what a couple of experienced teenagers would label as tame. It is the opposite of what she has always predicted and can't figure out how the two of them, passionate and impatient to a fault, have managed to remain in this relatively chaste state.

"Besides." His lips trail down her neck to the open collar of her shirt. "There's nothing sexier than ship talk."

Despite all of the work they have undertaken, there is little discernible difference in the overall state of the ship. Decades-old durasteel and spray foam age poorly even under the best of circumstances. Given her efforts, she can't decide whether she's disappointed with the lack of visible improvement or relieved to spend her time on more pleasurable pursuits instead.

"The ducts are almost finished," she says. "Maybe we should tackle the stove in the galley next."

"That's a terrible idea." He undoes the top button of her shirt. "The worst you've ever had."

The notion that she is intent on fixing the ship instead of what's broken inside of her is too obvious to acknowledge. Surely, she thinks, she is more complicated than a headstrong woman running from a past beyond repair and a present trapped in stasis. Surely she's not doing everything she can to distract herself from a future that promises no certainties and no guarantees.

His hot breath on her skin and his fingers, coarse and gentle at the same time, overtake any rational thought about who and what she is. She shivers under the assault and reflects that there must be an alternate universe out there where everything is simple and unclouded and the promises he whispers onto her body are ones that can actually be kept.

-000-

The 'fresher shower has developed a blockage that reduces what little water pressure existed to a mere trickle. Each sputtering drop that manages to escape from the head retreats back up the arm where it meanders lazily down the wall until gravity rouses itself and tugs it toward the drain.

The prospect of going the rest of the trip without being able to properly clean herself makes her snappish. Marching through the ship, she overturns crates and rifles through storage cubbies in search of anything resembling a plumbing tool.

"I'm not sure the paint scraper is gonna help," he says. He is trailing behind her and trying not to smile every time she turns around and glares at him.

"Why am I even doing this? It's your ship. You should know where things are." She yanks open a drawer to reveal a rubber mallet and a handful of rusty screws.

"Sweetheart, I couldn't stop you if I tried."

Eventually, an adequate assortment of tools are collected and deposited on the 'fresher floor. She's too short to contribute to the actual effort and has to settle for standing next to him bare-footed, pant legs rolled up, handing things back and forth.

"Did I ever tell you that when I assumed ownership of the ship there was no shower at all?" He unscrews the shower head and directs a metallic snake down the throat, rotating it this way and that as it is slowly ingested.

"Please tell me you rectified that as soon as possible."

"Probably not by your standards. After a while I had a buddy help me put this unit in. I was pretty new to plumbing but I picked up a lot from him." He slithers the snake out clog-free and tries again. "Though there were times during that project I wished I had settled for a wooden tub next to the sink."

"You wouldn't pick up many passengers with that strategy."

"Never picked up many passengers anyway. That's how I like it." He drops the snake at his feet. "Here, help me get this off."

They pry off the back wall of the shower stall and inspect the jointed columns of copper. Turning the faucet to its hottest setting, he runs his fingers up and down the diverter pipe. "Here." He takes her fingers and places them above his. "It starts to get cooler right at this spot."

She holds her fingers in place as he whets the blade of the pipecutter. Sparks pop when he makes the two slices, one above and one below where her fingers rest. They wrench out the section of pipe and take turns twisting a brush in and out until the bristles come out clean.

He holds up something resembling a slimy excretion from an exotic species. "Something tells me the water recycler is going to be next on our list."

She wrinkles her nose. "You're on your own for that one."

He wedges the section of pipe back where it was housed. "Got the soldering gun?"

She has used this particular tool so frequently that its grip is as familiar as that of her blaster. Aligning it on the first cut, she circles the thin slit, sealing the incision as she goes.

They test the water flow before remembering they're fully dressed. Lukewarm water comes rushing out of the head and she jumps and shrieks and tries to dart around him to the opening of the stall. He laughs and holds her fast and blocks her attempts to turn the faucet off. She counters by jamming her elbow into his ribs until he finally relents. They are a soggy, soaked pair sporting equally stupid grins.

"While we're wet, how about we clean out the drainpipe?" He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. "Sound like a good time to you?"

"One that you can do without me. I need to change out of these clothes."

"Happy to help you with that too."

She throws a smile over her shoulder but doesn't slow her progress to the cabin. "One of these days, hotshot."

-000-

With the list of repairs dwindling, it is becoming more difficult to stick to a daily routine. She starts to feel strands of her psyche loosen from their moorings where they run the risk of escaping to places from which they cannot be retrieved. An itch for something concrete and tangible takes hold of her and doesn't let go.

She suggests a card game after dinner. Best of five. Or seven. Maybe nine. He raises his eyebrows at the escalation but shuffles and deals out three stacks. They establish rules, challenge the order of the turns, criticize his technique of running the cards.

She finds herself getting caught up in the game. Going through the steps of ante and raise and call and fold. Cards are swept into piles and re-dealt, exchanges are offered and rejected, taunts start out tame and increase in specificity.

"I've seen better playing from a three-fingered wroshyr toad."

"That move was so sad even a droid would be ashamed."

At first she thinks he is letting her win but then they both start losing consistently. The trash talk fades and is replaced by triumphant growls that drown out the mutters of regretful losers. Insinuations of cheating start up and elevate the manufactured tension to a new height.

When the victor finally stumbles off to bed with a roar, the two remaining players stand and sway and orient themselves in the direction of the cabin. She finds herself light on her feet and not just from the whiskey. A wave of happiness washes over her, one that threatens to infiltrate the well of despair that took up residence long ago.

-000-

In the middle of the night she floats up from a plotless dream only to find herself trapped in a tangle of limbs and sheets. She blinks in the darkness as distorted shapes of shadow and light evaporate from her subconscious. There is no meaning attached to them but she regrets them leaving all the same.

"Did I wake you?"

Even in the dark he sounds clear and alert in contrast to her own fuzzy state. She clumsily rubs his shoulder, tries to transfer some of her drowsiness to him.

"You weren't asleep?"

"Nah," he says. "I was for a while but then I woke up. But not because somebody was kicking me in the shins," he adds lightly.

His voice seems to emanate from inside her head so tightly wound together they are. After numerous crowded nighttime configurations, they are forced to admit his bunk is not nearly wide enough for both of them to sleep comfortably. At a time like this, however, she is grateful for the cramped space; his voice is a tether that anchors her to the living world.

"Tell me something," she whispers.

He plays his knuckles along the base of her neck. "Something in particular?"

"Anything."

He is quiet for a long minute. She can feel him turning over discarded memories, searching for something suitable.

"Well. On the theme of sleep," he begins. "I actually used to sleep well. Despite the occasional scrapes we'd find ourselves in. You know, being fired upon in the middle of the night. Things like that. It didn't happen a lot but occurred often enough that I knew there would always be another one coming. And yet I was still able to sleep soundly."

"But not anymore?"

"Not sure what happened. Maybe it's old age." She smiles at the sincerity in his tone. She has been around older beings her entire life and he doesn't come close to qualifying. "I don't think it's because I'm distracted, or thinking too much —"

"Of course not."

"—but for whatever reason I've barely slept a full night in over a year. I wake up, try to get comfortable and can't, so I end up moseying around the ship for an hour or two until I'm tired again."

"The ship calms you," she suggests.

"Maybe."

"Were you a good sleeper as a child?"

The silence stretches around them. "I don't remember," he finally says.

She smooths a clump of his hair and averts her eyes.

"I'm sleeping better than I have in a long time," she hears herself whisper. The guilt twinges and she presses her face into his arm. "Despite everything. I never thought —," she swallows, "I never thought I would again."

Warm skin envelops her, warm lips cover her own. She sinks into his arms, into the absolution that he offers for the sins she has taken upon herself. The darkness within is gradually chiseled away by wordless understanding and compassion.

What begins as comfort inevitably turns into something else. She runs her hands down his back and dips them under his shorts exploring a new territory of taut muscles warm to the touch. Long fingers slip inside her underwear; they tease and soothe, advancing and retreating in turn. His touch is so different from her own, rougher and firmer and unpredictable, that she is soon twisting and writhing in response to the spreading heat. She curls her fingers around his rigid flesh and he bucks against her palm with a bone-deep groan.

She settles into a steady up-and-down motion that falters when his fingers increase the pressure, dip in and out, light up her nerves. Soon she reaches the point where she can no longer focus on anything but her impending climax. Her hand slows around his shaft but he is still thrusting sloppily into her fist, gasping into her hair, dragging his thumb again and again over that spot until their fevers break, one after the other, in a sticky release.

She lies limp and depleted and winds her arm around his waist to hold him to her. "I'm staying, I'm staying," he murmurs, and in the midst of their satedness she wonders if he realizes exactly what he promised.

-000-

In the rear hold another blanket not any larger than an oversized towel has joined the collection. She is partway beneath it, her top half having escaped its scratchy texture while her legs swim ineffectually in an attempt to free the rest of her.

She arches as his mouth closes over her breast. He is licking, nipping, sucking first one peak and then the other as his hand works between her legs. She has given up returning the favor; she is helpless except to move her body in response to his ministrations.

She moans as a single finger enters her. The evidence of her wetness, the slick sounds of flesh on flesh, fills the hold. The finger curls slightly and she bucks against it, increasing the friction against his thumb swiping over her clit. In and out and in and out, his mouth works the same pattern, a devastating rhythm that resonates deep in her abdomen. She feels a stretch and realizes he must have two fingers in her now, working the nerves that lie low and flat. His thumb has slackened and she searches for it blindly, twisting her hips to recapture the pressure.

"You like that, huh," he mumbles into her chest. She tugs his hair in frustration and feels him smile in return. His hand rights itself and then she is focused only on the sparkling fuse centered on her clit that builds and builds into a brilliant burst of light and radiates wave after wave until it exhausts itself.

Threads of pleasure are still rippling through her limbs when he gently withdraws his fingers. He nuzzles her neck as she comes down from her high. "We can always do more. Just say the word."

"Oh, now you think I'm ready," she teases. In her current state she is generous and forgives easily.

He has the decency to look chagrined. "It wasn't the smoothest line, I know. At the time you just seemed —." He stops and tries again. "Every other version of me would have said yes."

"So you're saying I'm stuck with a defective version."

"No." He pulls back reluctantly. "I don't think either of us were in a good place at the time." He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. "Just didn't want to screw things up before they started."

She thinks maybe this version isn't so defective after all.

"I forgive you," she whispers. She undoes the buttons of his shirt one at a time and traces the outlines of his muscles as they are exposed. When his shirt is open, she slowly kisses down his chest and abdomen, relishing the sharp intake of breath when she reaches the waistband of his pants. His skin is taut and she trails her tongue along the quivering flesh lying just under the fabric.

Her hands slowly undo the buckle of his belt as he gently strokes her head, winding his fingers in and out of her braid. She peeks up at his face where his eyes flutter open and meet her own, and she considers that maybe in that alternate universe he might not be so beautiful and so loyal and forgiving of her too.