Confession, Part 1

Month 14 Day 25 (day before wedding)

1825 Hours

Smythe

 This was hardly what Smythe had had in mind whenever he thought of getting his fiancée to his quarters, alone together. But from the trembling she was doing in his arms, a cuddle on the sofa was about all she could deal with. How often has Bugalu caught her alone somewhere and distressed her with threats of telling me her secret? I thought I was keeping her too busy, that I had warned him off strongly enough. And now to threaten to tell another crew member! So what if he got her pregnant? The real problem—which reflects poorly on him, if he'd only realize it—is that he's not man enough to own up to it, and he's too self-centered to let her go when she turns to another man for help.

A butterfly of a touch on his chest made the arm around her pull her a centimeter closer, his only thought to give some sort of comfort. Any kind of comfort. "Smit?"

He had barely heard her, she had spoken so softly. But if she was able to speak, perhaps she was beginning to calm down. "Yes?"

He could actually feel her swallow, and his free hand came up to caress her hair, which was flowing free, the way he liked it. "Could I... have a drink?"

"Of course, my dear." He let go of her to rise and head for the liquor cabinet. Half way there, he remembered her condition, and thought better of the idea. He grabbed a glass and turned to ask, "Would you like water?"

She blushed. "Actually, I could use a whiskey."

She's a heavy drinker, I know that. And I wouldn't mind, if not for... Has she been drinking despite her condition? I hope not. "I really think water would be a better choice."

She sighed, possibly in frustration, and looked away, rubbed her hands down her thighs. "Okay."

He got her the water and brought it to her. As he sat down again, she surged to her feet and walked across the room to stand next to his desk. "Darling," he protested.

She raised a hand to signal him not to get up, not to follow her. "No, stay over there."

"But why? All I want to do is help you calm down."

Her eyes downcast, her mouth twisted into a wry smile. "I'm afraid 'calm' is not what I feel when I'm in your arms. Or anywhere near you. No, I need to be able to think, so, please, let's keep this distance between us."

"I haven't noticed you having any difficulty thinking recently," he remarked.

"Not about engineering," she agreed. "Because I finally figured out you appreciate a person who has a working knowledge of engineering. But I need to be able to talk coherently about something that has nothing to do with that."

Talk? Not about engineering? What she usually means by 'talk' always makes me want her in my bed. And except for actually coming to my bed, she's always been amenable to the foreplay. Unless... Is she actually going to confess her condition? Cutting it close, isn't she? He sank back into the sofa cushions. "Okay. I'll stay here. For now."

But she didn't speak, not right away. She sipped from her glass and made a face at the unaccustomed taste. She looked anywhere in the room but at him. And she twisted her glass between her hands over and over again in a show of great distress. "This isn't as easy to say as I thought it would be," she muttered.

"Just take a deep breath and say it," he encouraged.

She took a deep breath, let it out. "Smit, I—" He plainly heard something crack, saw water pour over her hands and cascade to the floor. She stared at the 2 pieces of her glass, at blood seeping from her hands.

Smitty bolted across the room, startling her so that she rammed her thigh into his desk in surprise as he approached. The desk threatened to move, but was bolted to the floor. He took hold of her hands to look at them, carefully removed the 2 pieces of glass and laid them on his desk. Each hand had a line of blood across the palm. "I'll get MacGregor," he stated, and headed for his bedroom, the closest path to MacGregor's quarters.

"No, don't," she called after him, and moved forward as if to stop him. As he approached his bedroom door to the corridor, he heard a thump from behind him, and turned to see her falling to the floor as she crossed the threshold to his bedroom.

He turned back in renewed consternation, knelt beside her. "What happened?" he asked as he raised her head. He could see a thin, straight impression down her right cheek, but the skin wasn't broken.

She gazed at him with a confused look for a moment before her countenance cleared, somewhat. "My leg gave out," she remembered, and raised a bloody hand to her cheek. "I hit my head on something. Maybe the doorjamb."

"That's what it looks like," he agreed, tracing the line down her face with his gaze, through a smear of blood. "Your hands are still bleeding, I've got to get MacGregor."

"No, not right now," she insisted. "Just bring a towel. I've got to get this said tonight, or I won't get it said."

"But—"

"Please, Smit."

He took another look at her palms. The cuts didn't seem to be deep. "Alright. But I reserve the right to change my mind, if you keep bleeding."

"Just give me a chance to get this said. Tonight."

He helped her sit up, and move over so she could lean against the foot of his bed. "I'll be right back." He went to the bathroom and got a towel, realized he had blood on his hands. And she's got blood on her face, as well as her hands. I'll need a wet washcloth, as well.