Imperfect Communion

Summary: Janeway and Picard. Semi PWP. Shades of J/7 and J/C.
AN: Edited end conversation.
Disclaimer: Don't own these characters, aren't profiting because of them.
Rating: A hard R.
abbey@repunk.com

Fingers on her thigh and she hisses. Drops of wine pool on her lip, and she licks them away prudently.

Warm, careful kisses. A comfortable cloth sofa. Ancient artifacts on various end tables. His ship is being repaired. Hers is a museum.

"Kathryn?"

The question is quiet and distinct. Like him.

"Yes." She commands.

She does not trust her voice to explain, to speak further.

The bed is low and flat. No ornaments. It is definitely better without the illusion of normalcy. Better that the bed is not built for pleasure or for sleep.

Four pips in a row on the nightstand. Clothes folded and put on the wingback. The sheets are Starfleet standard.

The bare head rests on her jaw. Fingers on her thigh and she hisses. No flesh has touched her thigh in eleven years. Nubs of steel on his hip. Technology has improved. She is smooth and keening on the sheets, neck stretched and falling.

She is eager to return the kiss that splits her lips open. Not like the others. Here in his Drydock it's much too late for that, it would hurt too much.

He smiles gently. Delicately lifts her hand to his chest. She breathes quick, grins. These days, she doesn't touch anyone's chest. His leg is taut under her palm. The ache of her breasts fulfilled, hurting so openly now.

The finger inside her could be latticed with steel. A strong push and she sees blue eyes in the glow of his lamp, burnished gold hair in its streams of light. Her mouth is open, hip bucking. Inky lines in the shadows, brown eyes. No love, not angry. Blank.

Faster then. Ridges and cocky slender hips, leggings and hibiscus, a fountain of hair and spots, blue hands that beamed under her touch, hands chained to a chair, the curl of a dark palm on her shoulder, thoughts of strength streaming into her body. Air catches in her throat, nails scrape his back. The sweep of warp stars and port nacelles and all the ways she couldn't love them.

She is naked without her rank bar. But hell, she's naked already. Her stomach moans, pushing its protests through her mouth. Her hand is on his hip now, and draws lower, gives the comfort only a survivor can recognize.

Steel on her belly. Two fingers and her legs struggle.

"Jean-Luc, not-"

"Let me. I won't hurt you." The flicker of a smile.

She comes. The flyer taking off, Justin's head on her chest, the first time they'd done this. This breath and steel is all she can see.

Fingers on her thigh, spreading, and she hisses. Not voluntarily, not in anger, but because she hasn't been touched like that in years. Not in anger.

His jaw bobs into her view. She likes it, she's decided. Angular and strong, yet vaguely comforting. Lips on her thigh, and she breathes quickly. Closer, on her center, she twists, ribs bare.

Here, together, on this blank bed, in this blank cloudy night. Four gray-blue eyes and bitten hips shaking steadily onward, until their weakness becomes strength, again and again.

They could assimilate each other, could spring tubules open from their wrists, wrap them tight around their thrusting necks. Could spread the plates of steel into their shoulders, encase their chests. Could flood their bodies with nanoprobes like the fluids they now share.

But a collective of two would be an imperfect communion as well.

Her legs are sticky and short around his body. The sheet is wet with sweat, semen and blood. She stretches up over his shoulder, searches his neck and their surroundings.
He shifts off of her, brushes a strand of hair off of her collarbone.

"Are you staying?"

She nearly smiles.

"I probably shouldn't."

"Early, briefing, Admiral?"

"No, that's not it. I...don't fully-"

"You're going to have to let go of them. It only hurts you."

"Doesn't hurt me more than anything else would."

His breath is pithy. "You do not have an objective viewpoint."

"I'm the sum of my voyage. I don't let go of that."

"If you were brave, you would."

"I could say the same thing about you."

"The difference is," he says wryly, "is that in six months I will have a ship, and you will not. I do not have to let go yet. I am sorry Kathryn, but Voyager is not your responsibility anymore. And neither is her former crew."

"Maybe I did try, here...tonight, whatever..." She waves a hand in the air, draws a knee up to her chest. "It didn't work. Maybe that should upset me."

"Things take time. I appreciate your command style, but try to employ a more measured, rational approach."

She pulls her other knee up. Her wrists grip each other. Her voice is low.

"You can rationalize the hell out of anything."

"Yes. I suppose you can. But how that relates to your current situation, or your previous-"

She grits her teeth, relishes the throbbing of her temple. Trains a shard of that face onto his smooth, angular jaw. His face draws forward, he steps back, unwilling to be caught waiting.

"The sonic shower is in the bathroom over there if you'd like to use it. I am going to get another glass of Chateau Picard."

He wraps a robe around his body and pads into the hall.

Janeway sits and watches the threads of blue and white light splay off her toes. It's not too late, but why shouldn't she sleep? Unraveling the sheet, she closes her eyes, light, wine and blood pulsing in front of the lids.

END