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It was 6:13a. Somewhere else on the ship, the military types were already up, and probably making breakfast. Nicholas Rush reached down a hand in the dark to the space between bed and bedside table, and after a little bit of fishing, found what he was looking for. He pulled it up, and rested it on his belly, turning it until the smiles were right-side up, and popped open the stand before returning it to the bedside table. The sound of frame-on-table caught her attention, and she stirred beside him.
“What are you doing?” Chloe's voice was thick and wispy as she turned to face him in the bed.
“Just... Returning your husband to his rightful place.” He adjusted the portrait, so that it faced them properly. She let out a weary sigh and buried her nose under an arm.
“He's not my husband,” she grumbled.
“Not yet,” he answered, a barest whisper.
When she chanced a glance at him, his eyes were full of that quiet sorrow that he liked to pretend didn't exist. He protected himself under layers – coding, snarky comebacks, thermal-shirt-waistcoat – so that you would think he was nothing more than the asshole he portrayed himself as. After seeing him work in even closer quarters as part of the research team, she realised this was more a learned tactic from his work in the scientific world than anything, but Gloria had a little something to do with it.
Chloe had managed to very carefully peel away those layers, and even now he lay divested beside her. She wrapped an arm around him and pulled herself to him, resting her brow on his shoulder. “He's not my husband,” she declared again, even as she too looked to the portrait.
The warm, smiling faces of herself and Scott looked back at her, reminding her that they had been happy, once. Perfect. All she needed. The sun was shining, the trees were green, and Earth said 'hello'. Funny how she didn't feel very warm looking at it.
Nick's arm moved around her, and his long fingers played at her skin. She looked up at him, and he looked down at her, his eyes dark and haunted, his mouth buried under stubble and growth so she couldn't see. He leaned down to kiss her, and the taste of them still lingered. She kissed him back, sighing as she pulled herself on top of him, and his hands wrapped around her, one brushing the hair from her face. They tasted one another, their bodies warm and welcoming, and when they ceased, it was with a pleasant sigh, and she curled up on his chest, resting her chin on her crossed arms.
He stroked her hair, looking at her with a resigned reluctance, a reverent adoration that he didn't think he was worthy of. It made her smile, and then he smiled.
Another sweet kiss, and then he patted her arm. “Come. I will be missed.”
She moved to let him, and moved back to her side of the bed, curling on her side. He slipped out of the sheets, but she left them draped over her hips. She propped her head on one hand, and watched as he stood, his frail frame a black silhouette against the blue of the FTL, listening to the rustling as he collected his garments.
The bed groaned as he returned, his weight a familiar pressure as he worked his legs into the denim he'd always favoured. Belts and zippers, and when he bent down to pick up a shirt, she slipped behind him, snaking her arms around his torso.
“Stay,” she whispered, not for the first time, her voice soft against his skin.
He hesitated, and she wanted to think it was a bit longer than usual, but he still put on his boots.
“You know I can't,” he answered, the script in place. His brogue was thick in self-restraint, and she tugged insistently.
“But you can.” She kissed him, knowing there were scars she was touching, but needing to touch. “Please.”
He sighed, pulling away to bend over and grab his shirt, but when it was in his lap, she snatched it up and pulled away. “Hey!”
She clutched the garment to her chest and stared at him, defiant, from the other end of the bed. “Stay,” she insisted, and she felt childish for doing it, but if he was going to be so stubborn, she would have to.
He made a soft, desperate sound. “Chloe...”
“I want you to stay, and I've asked you to stay, and now I'm making you stay,” she answered, and if her lip jutted out a bit, so what? Maybe he would find it beguiling. But the pain on his face didn't vanish.
“Come on, Chloe,” he whispered. “You know I can't.”
His eyes darted the portrait on the bedside table, back where he'd put it, and she snatched it up and threw it across the room. The sound of shattering glass rang against the walls. He stiffened, doubtless in panick that someone would hear, and she genuinely hoped that someone had.
He lowered his head, and she knew he was biting his lip. A hand covered his mouth, as if he could rub away the bitter words coming up. He closed his eyes, and pressed a fist to his jaw. He then sighed, tossing his head back. He made a rather fetching picture against the blue of the FTL.
“You really want me to stay?” There was an accusation, there, and part of her wanted to hate him for using what she thought of as his 'professor' voice against her, but she would let it be.
“I really want you to stay,” she answered, but her fingers still tangled up in the fabric of his shirt. She didn't know if she truly believed he would dress and leave anyway, but she couldn't take the chance.