For answer, she pulled me down into a kiss.
Not careful. Not tentative. Fierce and desperate and absolutely certain, her free hand fisting in my medical gown, dragging me closer despite the monitoring equipment protesting between us. I kissed her back with equal intensity, tasting the medical bay's sterile air and underneath it something distinctly Bea as salt and determination and survival.
When we broke apart, both breathing harder than our recovering lungs appreciated, she was smiling. Small. Trembling. Real.
"I meant everything I said," she whispered against my mouth. "You're mine, if you'll have me."
"I'm yours." The words came easily. Should have been terrifying, commitment, vulnerability, all the complications that came with choosing to build something with another person. Instead they just felt right. "Completely."
Her smile widened, and tears tracked down her cheeks. I wiped them away with my thumb, memorizing the way she leaned into the touch.
"We nearly died," she said.
"We didn't."
"We could have."
"But we didn't." I pressed my forehead against hers, breathingher in. "We survived. Together. And now we figure out what comes next."
"The complicated part?"
"The good part."
She laughed, shaky but genuine. "When did you become an optimist?"
"When I fell in love with a trauma surgeon who refuses to accept defeat." I kissed her again, softer this time. "You've been a terrible influence on my emotional distance."
"Good. Your emotional distance needed influencing."
We sat like that for a while, foreheads pressed together, hands clasped, monitoring equipment continuing its steady beeping around us. Two people who'd survived impossible odds, who'd confessed truths while facing death, now trying to figure out how to live with those truths.
The medical bay door opened. Kessa entered, took one look at us, and sighed.
"Chief. You're supposed to be in your own bed."
"Medical consultation," I said without looking away from Bea. "The patient required immediate attention."
"The patient looks adequately attended." But Kessa's tone held amusement rather than reprimand. "I'll document this as therapeutic intervention. Try not to damage any equipment."
She left us alone again.
Bea's laugh was stronger this time. "Therapeutic intervention?"
"Empirically proven that emotional connection accelerates healing in trauma cases." I shifted slightly, trying to find a position that didn't make my bruised ribs scream. "I could cite seventeen studies."
"Of course you could." She tugged me toward her bed, larger than mine, designed for Zandovian proportions. "Get in here before you collapse. Doctor's orders."
I climbed in beside her carefully, mindful of our respective injuries and the monitoring leads still attached to both of us. The bed wasn't designed for two, but we made it work. Bea curled against my side, her head on my shoulder, her body fitting against mine like missing pieces finally aligned.
"This is highly irregular," I murmured into her hair.
"You're the Chief Medical Officer. Make it regular."
"I could write new protocols."
"Do that."
We lay there in sweet silence, healing together in more ways than the physical. Outside the medical bay, Mothership continued its endless journey through space. Rescuing the stranded. Protecting the vulnerable. Carrying its found family forward.
