We left the medical bay together, nodding to staff as we passed through corridors that had become as familiar as our own heartbeats. Mothership had settled into the evening cycle, lighting dimmed to simulate planetary night rhythms that helped crew maintain circadian stability. The ship felt different at this hour, quieter, more intimate, like the entire vessel was holding its breath between one day and the next.
Our quarters occupied a private section near the medical wing, `close enough for emergency response but isolated enough for genuine privacy. Bea had designed the space during our bonding preparations, combining Zandovian efficiency with human aesthetic sensibilities. The result was uniquely ours: practical but beautiful, functional but warm.
Inside, she kicked off her boots and collapsed onto the seating area we'd cobbled together from standard-issue furniture and human improvisation. I joined her, pulling her into my lap despite the size difference. She'd stopped protesting months ago, had learned to enjoy being held even when it meant feeling small and vulnerable.
"Tired?" I asked.
"Exhausted. Satisfied. Happy." She shifted to look at me directly. "How did you know? About the training program being exactly what I needed to propose?"
"You've been restless lately. Energized but unfocused. Usually means you're ready for a new challenge." I traced patterns on her back, feeling muscles gradually relax under my touch. "The current program is running smoothly. You need something complex to solve or you'll start inventing problems."
"I do not invent problems."
"You absolutely invent problems. Last month you reorganized the entire supply chain because one medication took forty-eight hours longer to requisition than optimal."
"That was legitimate inefficiency!"
"That was you needing to build something because standing still makes you nervous." I kissed her forehead. "I'm not criticizing. Your need to constantly improve systems makes you excellent at your job. I'm just observing that you were ready for the next project."
She was quiet for a moment, processing. Then: "The training program isn't just about solving a logistics problem."
"I know."
"It's about ensuring no one else has to suffer like I did. That every being on every vessel in this sector has access to mental health support that actually works."
"I know that too."
"And it's about building something that lasts. Creating a legacy that matters beyond just individual patient care." Her voice had gone soft, vulnerable in the way that meant she was sharing something she hadn't fully articulated even toherself. "I came to Mothership convinced I was temporary. That I'd work off my debt and move on, find some other place to belong. But this is home now. And I want to leave it better than I found it."
The words hit deeper than she probably intended. This was the woman who'd arrived broken and convinced she was unworthy of care, now talking about legacy and permanence and building systems that would outlast her individual contribution.
"You already have," I said. "The trauma protocols you developed. The therapy integration into standard care. The way you've trained staff to recognize mental health crises before they become emergencies. Mothership's medical bay is transformed because of your work."
"We transformed it. Together."
"Yes. Together." I cupped her face in my hands, thumbs brushing along her cheekbones. "That's what bonding means. Your victories are mine. Your legacy is ours."
She kissed me then—deep and hungry and full of everything we'd built over six months of healing and learning and growing together. I responded in kind, pulling her closer despite physics that made our size difference challenging. We'd learned to navigate those challenges, and had developed a physical language that worked for both our bodies.
When we finally broke apart, she was breathless and smiling. "Take me to bed."
"Demanding."
"You love it when I'm demanding."
I did. I loved everything about her, the confidence she'd built, the vulnerability she'd learned to show, the fierce determination that burned in her gray eyes. Loved her enough that the depth of feeling sometimes scared me, this total dependence on another being's continued existence for my own happiness.
But fear was worth it. Love was worth it. She was worth everything.
I carried her to our sleeping area, another human influence. She preferred horizontal rest to Zandovian recharge pods, and proceeded to demonstrate exactly how much she was loved. Thoroughly. Repeatedly. With infinite patience and careful attention to every sound and response.
Later, lying tangled together in the dim lighting, I felt her fingers tracing my healing markings again. She did this often, and seemed fascinated by the visible proof of our bond.
"Can I ask you something?" she said quietly.
"Always."
"Do you ever regret it? Bonding with me, I mean. Tying yourself to someone who came with so much baggage and trauma and complications?"
