Confession, Part 2

 Month 14 Day 25 (day before wedding)

1909 Hours

Smythe

 Previously: He helped her sit up, moved her 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.

He hurried back, was alarmed to find her eyes closed, afraid she had lost consciousness. But her eyes were clear when she opened them upon his arrival. He placed the towel between her hands, then twisted the towel around them both, almost as if he were trying to incapacitate her, but he wanted some pressure on those open wounds. Having accomplished that, he took the washcloth and wiped blood and tears from her face. "How do you feel?"

"Foolish," she whispered. "Scared."

"There's nothing to be afraid of," he told her softly.

"I haven't told you yet."

She is trying to confess. That's all it can be. It can't be easy, telling your fiancé that you're pregnant, and obviously not with his child. If I had a brain in my head, I would have told her it didn't matter long before now. Right now, she's got herself into such a tizzy, she's injured herself, and still I'm waiting for her to say something that doesn't matter!

She swallowed and raised her towel-coated hands to gently push his hands away. "Smit, I'm—"

"It doesn't matter," he told her hurriedly. "I already know, and it doesn't matter."

She blinked and stared at him for a long moment. Obviously, she was having some trouble believing him. "What?"

"I said—"

"I know what you said," she interrupted, as joy sprang to her face, despite the red line going down her cheek. "I hoped and I hoped..."

"But you were afraid it would matter, that I'd call off the wedding." He leaned forward and kissed her gently, although passion quickly coursed through both of them, despite the ball of toweled hands that sat between them. He forced himself to break it off. "You're in no shape for any of that right now. Besides your cut hands, you've got this thin mark down your cheek that I suspect may become a bruise in a day or two. And what do you mean, your leg gave out?"

"My right leg," she answered. "I jammed it pretty badly against the desk when you startled me, racing across the room when I stupidly cut my hands."

"Okay. Forget MacGregor. I've got to get you to sick bay, and get you checked out."

"No," she told him. "Please. Not yet. Let me just rest for a while, and I'm sure I'll be fine. I'm sure I've done worse damage to myself fighting a pool table."

Not sure what she means by that. She's pretty decent at playing pool, from what I've seen. But I suppose I can give her a few minutes to get her wits composed. "Let me check your hands, see how badly they're bleeding."

"Well, help me get off the floor, okay? I'd be more comfortable."

He lifted her up so she could sit on the end of his bed, considered the distance to cross his living room to the sofa. "Do you think you can walk to the couch, with my help?"

She leaned forward to look at the distance herself, sat back again. "No, let's not bother with that," she told him. "This is fine. Computer, bedroom lights on." The bedroom remained dim, the only light coming from the living room.

"You don't have the right voice," he told her. "Bedroom lights three quarters." The lights came on soft enough that there was no glare. "Now, let me see your hands again." The cuts seemed to be seeping a little blood, but it was no longer flowing. He suspected there would soon be scabs forming, if she avoided using them long enough. He told her as much.

"Good." She made an awkward effort to get him to sit next to her without flexing her hands.

"No, now, I told you, you're in no shape for that. And if I got you in my arms again, I'm not sure I'd remember that."

She looked disappointed. "But I'm not as injured as you thought I was, when you said that. Certainly there's no permanent damage done."

"Colleen, you have to take care of yourself." She's been through a lot this evening, and I sure don't want to add any more trauma. Well, not trauma, I suppose, but exertion.

"Smit, why don't you want to... talk?"

Why is she still trying to play the innocent? But the sight of her lovely face, despite its temporary blemish, made him smile down at her. "Colleen, what we've been doing in the evenings hasn't been talking."

"I know that." She smiled back. "But you said you wanted to help me calm down, and—"

"And you said 'calm' was not what you feel when I hold you."

"That's true, but it is an enjoyable feeling, when you hold me, and frankly, I could use the distraction."

She was driving him to distraction, as she always did when they were together and not on duty. He had impatiently been waiting for their wedding day—which was scheduled for tomorrow— but didn't know if he could resist his urges, here in his bedroom, under these circumstances. "Colleen, we aren't married yet."

"I know." Her fingers tugged at his sleeve. "I'm having second thoughts about waiting that long," she whispered.

She's picked a fine time for second thoughts. He reluctantly sat down, but warned her, "If we get started with our usual activity, I don't know if I could stop. This time."

There was a moment's silence, and then her green eyes glinted. "Really? I thought it was just me."

He didn't have time to think about that, for she leant forward and kissed him. For a moment, his mind said he should stop, before he aggravated her injuries, but then he pulled her closer, and the matter was settled. When he realized he was pulling open her uniform tunic, he managed to pull his mouth from hers to ask, "Are you willing?"

"Have been for months," she answered breathlessly. "Keep going."

At least he had enough wits to say, "Computer, lock my doors," before he completely got lost in the joy of their long-anticipated activity.