"It didn't feel like success."
"Healing isn't linear. You'll have moments where old wounds surface. The measure isn't whether they surface. It's how quickly you recover and keep functioning." I stroked her hair,feeling her gradually relax against me. "And you recovered in three seconds and then saved thirty-eight lives. That's extraordinary."
"What if?—"
"Nowhat ifs. You did the work. You succeeded. End of analysis."
She was quiet for a long moment, processing. "I'll talk to Dr. Senna when we get back. Process this properly before it becomes a bigger problem."
"Good. That's exactly the right response." I kissed the top of her head. "I'm proud of you. Not just for the medical work, for recognizing when you need support and asking for it."
"Learned from the best."
We sat together while the medical bay continued its post-emergency wind-down around us. Other staff handled cleanup and patient monitoring, giving us space to simply exist in the aftermath.
Eventually, Captain Tor'van's voice over the comm: "Medical teams, prepare for departure in twenty minutes. Colony situation is stable. Well done, everyone."
The transport ride back to Mothership was quieter than the journey out. Everyone was exhausted, processing the intensity of the rescue, feeling the weight of two losses against thirty-eight successes. Standard response, the emotional aftermath of emergency medicine that never quite got easier no matter how many missions we completed.
Bea slept against my shoulder, finally surrendering to exhaustion. I watched her face, still beautiful despite the linesthat trauma and hard living had carved, still fierce even in sleep. My mate. My partner. My home.
In six months, she'd transformed from broken to whole, from barely functional to leading trauma teams. Had learned to accept care, to ask for help, to believe she deserved happiness. Had become not just my bonded partner but my equal in every way that mattered.
The transport docked at Mothership precisely on schedule. Medical staff filed out toward their quarters, most too exhausted for anything except immediate rest. But Bea woke as we entered the ship proper, that immediate alertness that marked her as forever a trauma surgeon.
"Home," she said softly.
"Home," I agreed.
We walked toward our quarters hand in hand, nodding to the crew members we passed. Mothership had shifted into full night cycle, the ship quiet except for essential operations. Peaceful. Safe.
Inside our quarters, Bea stripped off her blood-stained uniform and stepped into the cleaning unit. I joined her, and we stood together under the warm spray, washing away the physical evidence of the mission while emotional processing would take longer.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
"For what?"
"For being patient. For not judging me when I had a trauma response. For understanding that healing isn't linear."
"Always." I cupped her face, made her meet my eyes. "I love you. All of you. Including the parts that are still healing."
She kissed me then, deep and grateful and full of everything we'd built together. When we finally broke apart, she was smiling despite the exhaustion.
"Take me to bed. Real bed this time. With proper sleep."
"Demanding again."
"You love it."
I did. I loved everything about her. The strength and vulnerability, the fierce determination and quiet fears, the way she'd learned to let herself be loved even when it terrified her.
We collapsed into bed together, tangled in each other and the quiet security of home. Tomorrow would bring new challenges—the mental health training program to develop, Elena's deteriorating state to address, the endless work of healing a galaxy full of traumatized beings.
But tonight, we had this: each other, our shared quarters, the peaceful darkness of Mothership's night cycle.
Bea's breathing evened out quickly, exhaustion claiming her. I held her close, feeling her heartbeat steady against my chest, and thought about how far we'd both come.
She'd arrived broken and convinced she was temporary. Now she was proposing training programs and building legacies and talking about creating something that would outlast individual contribution.
