"Perfect," she says, and her voice breaks on the word. "You were perfect, Crash. Not me carrying you, not me directing you. Just you, being exactly who you've always been."
I catch her face in my hands, ignoring the protest from my shoulder. "We were perfect. Partners. Equals."
She rises on her toes to meet me halfway, and the kiss tastes like salt and relief and the kind of love that makes both people stronger without making either one weaker.
When we finally break apart, both of us breathing hard, I glance at Jitters, who's turned a smug shade of gold that somehow manages to convey "I told you so" in ways words never could.
"Thank you," I tell him seriously. "For taking care of her. For bringing her back to me."
Jitters pulses once—acknowledgment—then promptly turns an exhausted grey and puddles on the console like melted wax.
"He used himself as a living circuit to bypass the EMP," Zola explains, her voice full of affection and worry. "Burned through half his mass doing it. He'll need a week of rest and about six pounds of sugar cubes."
"We'll get him a whole crate," I promise, then wince as my ribs remind me they're cracked. "Along with a medical kit for me and probably a stiff drink for both of us."
"Actually," Zola says, and something in her tone makes me pay attention. "Speaking of which, we need to talk about what happens next."
Before I can ask what she means, the comm crackles to life with a familiar voice.
"Well, well, well. The Golden Viper lives, and apparently, so does his death wish." Mother Morrison's rasp carries across the connection like sandpaper on silk. "I hope you two lovebirdsenjoyed your zero-gravity dance party, because now comes the fun part."
"Fun part?" I echo warily.
"Paperwork, honey. So much paperwork." She sounds far too pleased about this. "Unauthorized combat in quarantine zones, diplomatic incidents with Exoscarab warriors, potential violations of about sixteen different trade regulations..." She pauses for dramatic effect. "And oh yes, the little matter of two OOPS employees who are now biochemically bonded to each other, which raises all kinds of interesting questions about workplace safety protocols."
Zola's groan of dismay matches my own.
"How long?" Zola asks.
"How long what, sugar?"
"How long until we're cleared to leave the station?"
There's a pause that feels deliberately theatrical. "Well now, that depends on how cooperative you two want to be with the investigation. Could be a day. Could be a week. Could be..." Another dramatic pause. "Indefinitely."
"She's enjoying this," I mutter to Zola, who nods in agreement.
"She's definitely enjoying this," Zola confirms.
"Damn right I am," Mother Morrison says. "You kids just made my shift interesting for the first time since Polly West needed saving from those corporate assassins. Now get that fancy ship of yours docked properly and prepare for the most tedious twenty-four hours of your lives. Morrison out."
The comm clicks off, leaving us in silence broken only by Jitters' exhausted gurgling sounds.
I look at Zola. She looks at me. Through our bond, I feel her emotions cycling between relief that we're alive, irritation at the bureaucratic nightmare ahead, and underneath it all, a deep contentment that has nothing to do with the situation and everything to do with us.
"We survived an ancient gladiator and his warship," I say slowly.
"And now we have to survive the paperwork," Zola finishes.
And despite everything—the pain, the exhaustion, the looming bureaucratic nightmare, the fact that my ribs feel like someone replaced them with broken glass and my shoulder's starting to go numb again—we both start to laugh.
Because we faced death in the void and emerged victorious.
How hard can a few forms be?
(Spoiler: Very hard. Forms are, in fact, the worst.)
16
