The BLTS Archive- Revisions #5: This Is It by Ellen Milholland (pretyclose@aol.com) --- Archiving: ASC fine. Others, please ask. Feedback: PLEASE DO! Author's Note: Part 5 of my "Revisions" Series. In chronological order, the stories of this series are: All But Gone, Don't Be Sorry, If We Make It Through This, The Wine of Promise, This Is It, and So Many Scars. --- Dreams they spill out of us... They soak through these fields of rust They come back beautiful and new for us. Love is scattered and hungry But it is the only real thing We hold it tight, for better or for worse tonight." -"Hand to Mouthville," Kacy Crowley --- DAY 146 --- You're laying down, one arm flung over your face, covering your eyes. The other arm lays across your stomach, and I know that it's an unconscious way to protect your wounds. You're wearing nothing but a pair of standard issue shorts, and golden skin shines against the dark fabric of the rough sheets. You are so beautiful. Even with scars, even in the midst of battle, you are beautiful. And I don't think you understand that. For so long, you were taught to think so little of yourself. You were taught to believe that you were nothing, that you would amount to nothing. You still believe that, I think, in some ways, and you cannot explain why. I lean against the doorjamb, drinking in the sight of you, completely undisturbed. You are lovely, muscular and sinewy. Tousled hair, loving hands. You are beautiful. "You know," you say, and it startles me, "It's not a good thing to go sneaking into the captain's quarters like that." I smile. "Tom, I *am* the captain." "Oh," you say, moving your arm away from your face, revealing lightly bloodshot eyes and deep, dark circles. You are still beautiful. "Never mind then." "What are you doing here, Tom?" I ask quietly. "I. . ." you start, and then you shake your head, "No, it's stupid." "It isn't," I assure him. Nothing you could say would be. But how could I ever explain that to you? "How do you know? I haven't even told you yet." "I'm sure." You smile a small, wry smile, and you look up at the ceiling. What are you thinking, Tom? What's going on inside that head of yours? "I feel safe here," you say quietly. There is a long pause, and all I can hear is the sound of your breathing. "See," you speak again, breaking the silence, "I told you it was stupid." "No," I say gently, moving towards my bed. . . the bed you lay in so calmly, so comfortably. "That wasn't silly at all." You shrug a little, and a little wince passes over your features. "Oh Tom, are you alright?" I ask, concern lacing my voice. "Yeah, Kathryn, I'm fine." "You aren't. Don't lie to me, Tom Paris." Another one of those tiny, askew smiles. "Yes, ma'am. Well. . . it hurts a little." "I can imagine," I say sincerely. "I know you can, Kathryn." There is a note to your voice, and I can almost hear what you're not saying. You're not telling me you wish I never had to feel this kind of pain. You're wishing I didn't have to bear the scars of suffering like this. Little do you know, I want nothing more than to take your pain as mine, to rid you of this ailment. To take you in my arms, and. . . "Can I do anything, Tom?" You shake your head, and mumble, "No, not really." I nod slowly, standing near the edge of the bed, looking down at you. "Well," you add after a moment, "one thing." "What?" Anything for you, Tom. Anything. "Stay here. Stay with me." Could I leave Tom? Could I really? "Of course, Tom. Of course." "Sit here," you say, and pat the bed next to you. I sit down on the edge of the bed, working open the worn clasps of my boots. I toe them off and pull my legs under me as I turn to sit next to you. Your eyes are open, watching me, and your lips are curved into the most beautiful smile. "What?" I ask you, feeling a little flush creep up my neck at your scrutiny. "You are beautiful," you say slowly, savoring the feel of the words on your tongue. Oh, Hell. I cannot stop the rush of heat that floods my cheeks. I smile softly, and run gentle fingers down your cheek. "So are you," I say honestly. You shrug and look away from me. "Don't do that," I say softly, clasping my hands in my lap. "What?" "What you just did. Shrug me off. . . like you think I'm lying." "I'm sorry," you say, and there is almost bitterness in your voice. I sigh. "Stop apologizing." Your eyes open. "Kathryn." There are tears in your voice, and my heart melts at the sound of my name on your lips. "What, Tom?" I place my hand over yours, on your stomach. Your fingers are warm, your skin soft, and I'm trying to help you understand that you are the only beautiful thing in my world now. Could I explain that to you in a single touch? Convey so much feeling? "You are so beautiful, Kathryn. The most beautiful woman I've ever met. And when you say things like that. . ." "You deserve it," I stop you, "I'm not lying, Tom. I wouldn't lie to you." I couldn't lie to you. Never. You almost open your mouth to disagree, I can tell, but you bite your lip instead. "Oh, Kathryn," you say finally, "you are so beautiful." Your voice is husky and rough. There is a long moment of comfortable silence, and you kiss my palm. "I love you," you say, and the words are so soft I almost didn't hear them. "What did you say, Tom?" "I said. . . I love you," you say sheepishly, averting your eyes. "Oh God, Tom. . ." You're looking back at me now, trying to tell if you've hurt me. But you can't understand, can you? That you've just completed me, healed me. The words I haven't heard for so long. . . from anyone. All I want now is to be loved by someone. To feel beautiful again. Very gently, I lay myself next to you, my chin on your shoulder, my lips to your ear. "I love you, too." And you shudder, your entire body trembling. "Kathryn," you say, and you swallow hard. "You could not believe what you're doing to me . . ." And I know what you mean, but I do not shy away. "I want to find out," I say, against touching my lips to your ear as I whisper. You turn your head slowly, and I do not move. I do not draw away. I am not afraid. The kiss is slow and sweet. You taste like melons and snow and grit and hope. You taste like I always knew you would. Your lips are just as soft as I knew they would be, and your tongue is gentle in its exploration. And I'm drowning in this moment, in this kiss. There is nothing else but here, now, you, me. . . There is nothing else in the universe. I hear your soft moan, and I gently break the kiss. "Christ, Kathryn. . . You're killing me," you say, a smile on your lips. I smile back. I answer you only with my lips on yours, and I hope you can understand everything I'm trying to tell you. Love, Tom. This is it. We've found it again, in each other. Let's never let it go. You run a hand through my hair, and I move closer to you, aching for your touch. And slowly, languidly, your hands are touching me, and your mouth is touching me, and I am crying out to you, and you are giving me what I want, and what I need. Love, Tom. This is it. -- The End