Part Eleven

Neil studied the captions under a row of astronaut photos. "So when are you going to get your picture in here?" They were at the Air and Space wing of the Smithsonian, Neil's idea. "Only if it isn't too much like work," he'd qualified. Clare confessed she'd never been either, so they'd decided to check it out after lunch.

"Odds are against," Clare informed him. "You either have to hold some kind of a record, like most hours on spacewalks or something, or be the first to do something remarkable." She paused. "Or die on the job," she added quietly, glancing in the direction of the Challenger display.

Neil took her hand as they wandered over to the Skylab exhibit. "I suppose that's something you can't really allow yourself to think too much about."

"Not often," Clare replied. "I think it's probably at the back of everyone's mind, though. We joke about it sometimes, gallows humor. But statistically I have a better chance of wiping out on my bike, careful as I am, than I do getting killed in space. At least that's how I rationalize it."

"But," she went on, "that's one of the improvements on Orion. The shuttle has no escape system. Orion won't be fail safe, but it's a hell of a lot better than what we have now. And to answer your question, I'd like to have my photo up there for being on the first manned Orion flight." She looked at her watch. "And we need to be thinking about getting back." The reception was at five-thirty; with luck they'd be out by seven-thirty or eight, she hoped.

Neil draped an arm over her shoulders as they left the museum and kept it there for most of the eight or so blocks back to the hotel. "Nervous?" he asked her. They walked slowly, more of an amble really. The fall DC weather was a little on the chill side and Clare leaned into Neil, her arm around his waist.

"About what?" At first she thought Neil was still on the topic of spaceflight, then realized he was asking about her impending speech. "Nah. Don't want to do it, but I'm not nervous. It's not the public speaking part I hate. It's all the glad-handing and backslapping and fake-ass conversation and bullshitting. No one's going to pay a bit of attention to what I have to say. Truthfully, you could get up there and recite the lyrics to "The Ball Of Kerrymuir" and no one would notice. Crap food, which no one eats any of, and open bar, which everyone drinks too much of. I'm glad," she told him earnestly, "that you're enough of a sport to tag along with me."

Neil kissed the top of her head as he pushed open the hotel's door with his free hand. "Don't mind at all. I'm curious, for one thing. It'll be nice to watch someone else perform for a change, even if it's only for, what did you say, six minutes?"

"Six and a half, thank you very much," Clare corrected him. "But I expect you to jump up and down and shout and cheer and sling your drink all over the people next to you and just generally make a spectacle of yourself. Also it would be nice if you could keep from running to the bathroom during the boring part, which, by the way, is all of it. No yelling "Free Bird!" during the pauses. There won't be an intermission, but I'm not doing an encore either."

Neil grinned at her references to concert behavior. "So it won't do to turn the house lights off and hold up a lighter? Wing random objects, such as shoes, at the performer?"

"Not unless you harbor some bizarre urge to be tackled and arrested. Drugs, on the other hand, might just make you very popular with the rest of the audience." The elevator jerked to a stop on their floor and Neil walked Clare to her room, around the corner from his.

"Will you stage-dive at the end? And am I allowed to actually touch the performer?"

Clare slid her key card in the slot and waited for the click. "You are allowed to touch the performer. Encouraged, even." She stuck her foot in the doorway to keep it from closing and bounced up on her toes to plant a lingering kiss on Neil's mouth. "In fact, I'll give you a private meet and greet."

"My. Can we just skip the show entirely and get straight to that?" Delivered with an unmistakeably impish grin.

"Sorry, it's a command performance only. Now go. And hey," Clare reached out a hand and caught Neil's fingertips just as he turned to go to his own room. "I'm so glad you're here with me," she said softly.

The impish grin widened. "Lass, me too. Me too."

At five o'clock she tapped lightly on Neil's door, then remembered what he'd told her. The "crew knock", used by the band and its associates on tour. She made a fist and banged the door sharply, once.

Neil's reaction upon seeing her was a long, appreciative, "Wow." Clare, of course, blushed obligingly.

"Thanks. Elliott and Fiona dragged me out shopping; they picked out almost everything I have on." The wine-colored silk cocktail dress had been Elliott's find, and Fiona had coaxed her into buying a matching pair of four-inch heels. She stepped inside and made a little turn. "They'll be pleased to know you approve." The heels did have one thing going for them, she discovered: she didn't have to jump up on her toes to kiss Neil. "You clean up well, yourself."

"I hope this wasn't a black-tie thing; I did almost bring a tux," Neil told her as he fastened his watch. He looked sharp, if not quite himself, in a dark suit. "So I hope I won't be a source of embarrassment to you." He gave the knot on his tie a last adjustment. "Ready?"

Cocktail parties were hardly anything novel in the capitol. Even so Clare couldn't help noticing that she and Neil were getting their share of attention from onlookers as they passed through the hotel lobby. She held Neil's elbow lightly, concentrating on hiding her discomfort in the heels. The House Committee on Science and Technology, whose shindig this was, had a car waiting for them outside.

"Dr. Lefebrve? I'm Barry with the Space Exploration Subcommittee, and I'll give you a quick briefing on the ride over." The man standing next to the car with his hand extended in greeting couldn't have been more than twenty-five, probably an intern, she guessed. Clare shook his hand lightly, and Barry turned his attention to Neil. "And you, sir, are you with the Astronaut Office as well?"

The question took Neil by surprise. "Um, no, I'm not, I'm with her though," he half-stammered. Clare saw his discomfort and stepped in. "This is Neil, he's my guest," she said firmly, "approved in advance by both my office and yours." A relieved Neil leaned over to shake Barry's hand. "Nice to meet you, and thanks." Polite and confident, if not exactly warm. Clare caught his eye and shot him a reassuring wink. There was no real reason to expect that Neil would be recognized by anyone attending; still, she supposed Neil had been ambushed a few times when he least expected.

Barry took advantage of the short drive to brief Clare on the evening's activities. She was speaking fairly early on (good, maybe they could sneak out early)and Barry informed her that, "there are several people who would like the opportunity to meet you, possibly get some photo ops, so it would be appreciated if you have room in your schedule to stay for a bit." He looked hopefully at her.

"I think he has a crush on you," Neil whispered. They had arrived at the conference center, and Barry had gotten out of the car to walk around and open Clare's.

"Shh, he'll hear you," Clare hissed and tried not to laugh at the same time. "Besides, I'm probably ten years older. . ."

"Can't say as I blame him. You look stunning. You are stunning."

Before they went in, Clare suggested a photo outside with Barry, which clearly made the younger man's day, and Clare had to concede that Neil might be right. "Still," she teased, taking his arm again, "are you suggesting that I'm arm candy?"

"Would it help if I said you're by far the smartest arm candy in the room?" Neil smiled down at her. "Look around" - he lowered his voice - "everyone in here is watching you. Especially Barry. You definitely have an admirer. Besides, of course, me."

It was true. The aide was clinging to them like a limpet to a rock, unwilling to let Clare out of his sight. "Maybe he's just taking his job seriously," she suggested.

They checked in at the entrance to the ballroom, which required photo identification. There was no question of registering under a pseudonym, and Neil produced his Canadian driver's license with obvious discomfort. The woman who checked him in noticed. "Oh, Canadian, are you, Mr. Peart?" she asked, somewhat loudly. She was trying to be welcoming, and she didn't exactly fit the demographics of Rush fandom, but Neil winced. "Don't look so worried; we let your kind in. The last time I checked our two nations are friendly." They weren't approached by anyone who'd overheard the exchange and made the connection, though, and as soon as they were through he grabbed Clare's hand and held it tightly.

"Ow. Relax a little, Neil. These people are caught up in themselves. If they can't readily identify you as a person of political influence, they'll lose interest."

"Okay," he muttered, easing his grip on her hand. "Sorry, I'm being a bit of a twit, I know. Oh, shit." There were at least a hundred people in the ballroom, milling about and drinking. It was loud. "I thought you said this was a small event?"

Clare stared at the scene in front of them with dismay. "I thought it was." Behind them, Barry cleared his throat.

"Gate crashers," he said. Neil and Clare looked at him quizzically.

"Gate crashing," Barry said again, pleased to have their attention. "It's sort of the regional pasttime around here. Probably fifty or so of these people aren't supposed to be here. Don't worry, we'll take care of a lot of them, and they're harmless, mostly freeloading college students." He looked at his watch. "But right now I need to show you where you're sitting, and introduce you to the Committee Chair."

For the next thirty minutes Barry took them on the rounds, introducing them to Committee and Subcommittee members. Nearly everyone wanted a picture with Clare. Neil was politely ignored for the most part, which seemed to suit him just fine. He had relaxed visibly by the time they were seated for introductions and opening remarks. And then it was time for her to speak.

Neil gave her knee a quick squeeze when she was introduced to polite applause. She rose, steadied herself on the uncomfortable shoes, and took the podium. As the applause died down, she took a few moments to look around the room. The crowd was indeed considerably smaller than when they'd arrived; apparently the gate-crashers had been identified and shown the door, as Barry had promised. More likely, they'd gotten their fill of free food and drink and left of their own accord before the formalities started.

Her gaze settled on Neil, who was beaming with pride. He had to have known beforehand that he'd be uncomfortable in this setting, yet here he was. Simply because he wanted to be with her. Suddenly all she wanted to do was grab Neil and leave. Go back to the hotel and spend the next twenty-four hours locked away with him. Maybe longer. That notion prompted a recall of what had happened earlier, or almost happened. The feel of his bare skin hot against hers was still fresh in her mind, and she felt a definite twinge of desire.

Her focus derailed, Clare stared awkwardly at her expectant audience. The opening remarks to her speech, which thirty seconds ago she could have recited in her sleep, seemed to have deserted her. She was about to apologize and dart back to her seat to retrieve her notes from her purse when Neil caught her eye again. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards in a nearly imperceptible smile and he mouthed "Free Bird!" at her, then mimed holding up a lighter. It worked; she was back on track. She ducked her head to hide her amusement and fiddled with the microphone, stalling while she composed herself. She redirected her smile towards the crowd and began speaking, her voice clear and confident.

"Good job," Neil whispered as she slid gratefully - the tall heels were really starting to hurt - into her chair ten minutes later. "By the way, it was a little over the seven minute mark, not six and a half." He winked at her.

"Consider it bonus footage. I think it went okay, myself. You really liked it?" Clare reached under the table and took his hand. "And thanks for bailing me out at the start. I don't know where my mind went." A lie, but no way was she going to make that confession right now.

"Happens to even the most seasoned of performers. You hid it like a pro." He gave her hand a little shake, then laced his fingers with hers.

So much for getting out early; it was after ten by the time Clare had been introduced to everyone, hands were shaken and pictures snapped. Neil hung back patiently the whole time, accompanied by the (according to him) besotted Barry. At last, though, they were free and making a beeline for the car as fast as Clare's now murderously painful feet would allow. She was starving, and the fact that she'd been up since three a.m. was beginning to manifest itself. She hadn't dared drink so much as a glass of wine for fear of passing out on the spot.

"I'm sorry," she groaned to Neil as she yanked her shoes off in the cab. "Augh, much better. I really, really didn't think it was going to last that long." She turned and waved goodbye to Barry.

"He looks positively wistful, as if he's really disappointed you haven't asked him to join us." Neil slid over on the seat as far as the safety belt allowed and put an arm around her. "Ach, no worries, lass," he reassured her. "Hungry?"

Clare let herself relax against his warmth. "Desperately," she admitted. "I was hoping we could go somewhere nice after, but honestly I don't feel much like going where we'll have a wait. I'm not sure about room service, though, but really, at the moment I'm not picky."

"How about diner food?" Neil suggested. He kissed the top of her head before releasing his grip on her, then leaned forward and had a brief exchange with the driver. Clare saw him hand forward some bills, and the car made a u-turn at the next light.

The driver's choice of diner was typically nondescript. "He says the food here is wonderful," Neil assured. "More importantly, under the circumstances, it's fast."

Clare flexed her aching ankles and grimaced, then glared at her shoes. "Right now I'm trying to decide which of my self-preservation instincts is stronger - the instinct to eat or the instinct to avoid pain."

"That bad, huh? I don't envy women and their footwear," Neil said sympathetically. "Want me to carry you in?"

She gave a tired little laugh. "No, I can make it. But I really am going to beat Fiona to death with one of these shoes. She picked them out and talked me into buying them. Swore they wouldn't hurt." She clambered out of the car and hobbled the short distance to the door in her stocking feet.

"No shirt, no shoes, no service," Neil read aloud from the sign on the door.

"No shit," Clare muttered and yanked the door open. The man who showed them to their booth made no mention of Clare's unshod feet; he either didn't notice or had seen enough shoe-crippled women to recognize the symptoms.

Their driver was right; the food was both good and fast. Clare had to restrain herself from inhaling a huge plateful of pot roast, gravy and mashed potatoes, while Neil faced down an equally large serving of chicken fried steak. For the first few minutes the only sound from either of them was clinking flatware.

Neil spoke first. "You were impressive tonight. I got a bit of a kick watching you. You handled yourself well."

"Thanks, I guess." Clare took a long swallow of soda. She was feeling a little revived now that she'd eaten something. "Look, I could tell you were uncomfortable there, and I feel kind of bad for dragging you through that. I hope you didn't hate it too much. I did, so I can only imagine. Sorry."

Neil reached over and touched her hand. "Stop with the abject apologies. You hardly "dragged me through that", for one thing. I was the one who originally suggested it, remember? It was a little more than I expected, I'll grant you, but it wasn't at all horrible. No one gave a damn about me; they were all focused on you. That's as it should have been, and it was fun to people-watch. I just couldn't do it. To me it's the equivalent of going down and mingling with a concert crowd after a show. Terrifying."

"Except that the concert crowd are, on the whole, probably a better class of people," Clare quipped. "I'm not crazy about that part of it either. I have to do it. These people can influence our funding to one degree or another, so as much as I hate it, it's kind of a job-assurance thing. Believe me, it's a great motivator."

"But you're good at it," Neil pointed out. "And by that I mean to say that you may not like doing the duty, but one wouldn't know that. You manage to look at ease. Poised, I suppose, is the word I'm searching for. It's a skill, or perhaps something a person is gifted with, but I can't do it. It's awkward to me, and then I feel as if the awkwardness is obvious to everyone else, which compounds the problem and perpetuates a vicious cycle of self-consciousness. I just stand there embarrassed, with no clue as to how I am supposed to be behaving. I've been called everything from shy to standoffish and a snob for it." He shrugged, then picked up his fork and resumed eating.

"Shy, I can maybe see," Clare mused. "Standoffish and a snob, no. Still, it wouldn't be the first time those terms were confused. Have you always been like that, or is it a Rush-fame thing?"

"A little of both, I guess." Neil looked thoughtful. "I suppose part of it's just my personality. But some people handle celebrity well. They're hardwired to attention-seek. I'm not, in case that hasn't become apparent yet," he said wryly, then took another bite before continuing. "Anyway, I tend to be somewhat wary of strangers, especially at a time like now when Rush is touring and we're all a little more visible. Fans are looking for us, I think, more than they would during downtime after touring and before a new release. Most of them are perfectly nice people, and I venture to guess that I get left alone by those who recognize me more often than I get approached. It's the odd occasion when I get accosted for an autograph, which is always when I least expect it, that makes me uncomfortable. I know that sounds strange, it's just a signature, but I've never got used to it and it just doesn't make sense to me that anyone would place value on my name signed in Sharpie. And sometimes they want to chat, or worse, they start asking really personal questions, and I stand there feeling like a perfect fool with no idea of what to say. I don't want to be rude, so I usually just keep quiet, one word answers and the like. I gather it's garnered me something less than a flattering reputation. Michael tells me that some people think I'm a real dick." He spread his hands in a gesture of befuddlement.

Clare couldn't help the snicker Neil's description elicited. "I'm sorry," she apologized immediately. "That just sounded funny. Does it bother you, really, what people who don't really know you think of you?"

"Well, sure, I think everyone's a little conscious about that sort of thing. But I'd go insane if I let it get to me too much. I can't just rework my personality to be more like, say, Alex, who is the definition of extrovert, or Geddy, who just sort of quietly absorbs everything and deals with whatever comes his way. It'd be like asking you to act more like a bimbo. Just so you know, I don't want that from you, so don't even think of trying that." He grinned at her, then turned serious again. "How I got the nerve that day to ask to see you again, I'll never know. That was about as out of character as it's possible for me to get." He shook his head in amazement.

"That was pretty bold, I guess," Clare concurred. "I mean, I wasn't exactly radiating smiles and charm that afternoon." She winced inwardly, remembering how she'd sworn at him and threatened to leave him locked in the bathroom to talk his way out with security.

"You weren't that bad," Neil smiled. "In retrospect it's funny, I guess. I was feeling awfully awkward under the circumstances, you know. Think about it. Locked in a public bathroom, of all things, while technically committing an act of trespass? Once I got past that, though - and you calmed down a little and stopped threatening to have me shot at sunrise - well, there was just something about you. Sharp, yes, a little full of yourself, but not in a bad way at all. Confident. Smart. Dare I say sexy, even."

Naturally, Clare blushed, but it occurred to her that it was the first time in several hours. Hmm, maybe I'm getting the hang of this, she thought. "No, I don't mind at all, it's flattering that you think so. But it's interesting that you read so much into all of that. I just wanted to get home."

"And I messed that up for you pretty well, didn't I?" Neil reflected. "Well, there you were, out on the asphalt about to go roaring off into the distance, as it were, and it just occurred to me for some reason that I had this one chance. After that I wouldn't see you again, and I knew I would never have the nerve to try to look you up and call you." He hesitated before adding, "I also thought you were just stunningly beautiful. I still do." Suddenly self-conscious, he lowered his head and picked up his fork, twisting it deftly between his fingers as she'd seen him do with his drumsticks.

Clare just watched him, not quite knowing how to respond or even if she should. She offered up a timid, "Thanks. I'm glad you think so."

Neil raised his head a little and looked steadily into her eyes. "I could fall so hard for you," he told her quietly.

"Shit!" The expletive was punctuated by the sound of Clare's fork clattering loudly off her plate and bouncing onto the floor. "Oh god, I'm sorry," she stammered. "You just caught me"-

"Off guard," Neil finished apologetically. "I'm sorry." She risked a glance at him as she bent to retrieve the fallen flatware. His expression was one of surprised disappointment.

Still stunned, more at her own reaction than at his remark, she groped futilely for words to reassure them both. "Neil, no, don't," she said quickly. "I mean don't be sorry. No, I mean, it's okay, I just wasn't expecting, well, I don't know what I was expecting, oh fuck, I'm not helping here, am I?"

"Ach, it's all right." Neil was trying to cover his own distress. Way to go, Lefty, overreact much? she thought disgustedly. For there was absolutely, positively nothing upsetting about what he'd said. It had simply startled her, but why was she having such difficulty conveying such a simple explanation?

A heavy silence ensued. Neil toyed with his napkin, twisting it into some sort of abstract origami, and Clare racked her brain for something, anything to say that would break through the awkwardness.

But it was Neil who finally said something. "Should we get the check and go?" He sounded tense now, careful. She could only nod. What in the hell is wrong with me?

Neither of them said anything on the ride back to the hotel, either. Clare passed the time by silently berating herself for overreacting - again, she thought to herself. Neil gave no clue as to what he might be thinking, as he kept his head turned to look out the window most of the way. Once he did turn to look at her, and the look was unmistakeably one of tense regret. She opened her mouth to say something - what? - but just as quickly he looked away again.

Wordlessly, he helped her out of the car and waited as she collected her handbag and shoes(these fuckers are going in the nearest trash can, she thought grimly); as she hobbled towards the entrance, her left foot cramped badly, bringing her to an abrupt halt.

Neil saw it and stopped. "Ah, Clare," he said, so softly she couldn't tell if he was expressing concern for her or regret at his earlier remark. "Here. You're not walking any further like that - it's hurting me just to watch." He bent and wrapped one arm round her waist, looped the other behind her knees and lifted her easily. As he did so there was a long, loud sound of fabric tearing. The sudden breeze on her rear end confirmed the source; the tight skirt of her dress had just split up the back. And it wasn't a small tear, either.

She and Neil stared at each other. Clare felt the familiar dull flush of embarrassment creeping up her neck to her cheeks. Neil just looked mortified. For a moment, anyway. Then his lips twitched just the faintest little bit, and he unsuccessfully tried to stifle a snicker.

"You're laughing at me!" She tried to make it sound like an accusation, but her own laughter came bubbling to the surface, and "me" came out in a funny-sounding high-pitched waver.

The unbearable tension of moments before vanished. Composure did a flyer as both of them dissolved into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, so much so that Neil had to put Clare back down for fear of dropping her. In spite of the fact that her feet were once again protesting loudly, Clare was laughing so hard she almost couldn't breathe. She clung to Neil for support, but he was nearly bent double himself, so she staggered across the thin carpet and grabbed one of the poles that supported the awning.

"Ohgodohgodohgod," Neil choked out, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. "For a second there I was really afraid you'd be mad."

Clare scrubbed at her own face. "I was just afraid you'd think I farted. . ."

"A blast of that nature would've left scorch marks on the street," Neil added, and the image sent them back over the edge into fresh convulsions of mirth. Another couple, forced to sidestep them on their way out, fixed them with a look of distaste before continuing to their waiting car.

"We look like a couple of pathetic drunks." Clare's observation tempered the hilarity somewhat; laughter gradually diminished to a series of gulps and hiccups, though neither dared look at the other for fear of triggering another round of hysterics.

Neil exhaled slowly. "Ready?" he asked carefully.

Clare nodded weakly and took a firm grip on her shoes and bag. "I think. Um, can you walk behind me, though? Kind of conceal the blowout?" She bit her lip hard as more giggles threatened.

"Stop it, now," Neil chided, and his own voice indicated he was still struggling for control. But he did as she asked. "Actually it's not as bad as you think, just a longitudinal tear, not a big gaping hole." He waited a beat, then added, "Nice panties, though."

"You'd better not be making a joke, mister," she warned, looking back over her shoulder at him. "Or I'll, I'll. . ."

"Make me wear those shoes?" Neil suggested. He cocked an eyebrow at her, and she felt her heart do a funny little thump.

"Now that's a threat to keep you in line and behaving." Clare punched the elevator button. "Thanks for the reminder, though." She teetered over to a strategically placed trash can and unceremoniously dropped the shoes in one at a time. "There. Good riddance."

"But now what are you going to beat Fiona with?" Neil asked lightly as they stepped onto the elevator.

"I'll find something, don't worry."

He did carry her down the hall to her hotel room; thankfully this time nothing ripped. "Okay, then, there you are." He set her back down in front of the door, but didn't let go of her. "So." One arm encircled her waist and Clare felt his fingers rubbing slow gentle circles on her lower back. It felt good.

She looked up at him, unsure. "Are you, um, do you, ah, want to come in?" she asked.

Neil regarded her for a long moment. "Do you want me to?" he asked. "To be honest, after my earlier lapse, as it were, I was sure you were going to tell me to get on the next plane to Toronto. But now. . ." The question hung there in the air between them.

Clare took his free hand in hers. "I overreacted," she said simply. "Badly, but it startled me is all. I'm sorry. And yes."

Neil's features relaxed - he looked relieved.

"Remember what you're dealing with here," she reminded him lightly. "Nerd-girl who hasn't had a date in three years. There's a reason engineers are stereotyped as socially backwards."

"You know what? You can no longer say you haven't had a date in three years." He clasped her other hand and leaned forward, so that his forehead touched hers.

"Good point. Here." She dropped his hands and rummaged through her bag, handing him her extra key card. "Give me a few minutes to take care of a couple of things, dispose of this forlorn rag?" She indicated her dress.

She'd brushed her teeth and was in the process of changing out of her torn dress into her usual sleepwear (one of her dozens of utilitarian NASA t-shirts and some thin cotton shorts) when her cell phone rang. Shit. It had to be Elliott, demanding an update.

But it wasn't - the screen displayed Fiona's contact information. Clare flipped the phone open. "This had better be an emergency."

"No emergency, sorry. Clare, look, I'm just giving you a heads-up. You guys might want to charter a flight back or hitch a ride on a government flight."

Clare was mystified. "What? Why?"

"It's too much to explain right now, but here's the short"-

Crew knock, followed by the sound of the key card clicking the lock open.

"Shit, Fi," Clare hissed. "No time, you'll have to tell me later."

"But"- Clare snapped the phone closed, cutting her off. She'd apologize Monday.

"Am I safe to come in?" Neil wanted to know.

Clare shut the phone off and tossed it back on top of her suitcase. "Hey you."

"Doing work?" Neil nodded towards the phone.

"No, it was Fiona being all alarmist about something. Don't know what. Don't care. I'll find out Monday." God, but he looked good, stripped down to a plain white tee shirt and shorts. He'd showered - his hair was still damp. Again, that funny flutter.

"You look much. . .happier," Neil told her. "More comfortable." He kicked his shoes off and scooped her into his arms for a hug. "Mmmm, that's better." He tilted her face up, kissed the tip of her nose and her eyelids, then brushed her lips lightly with his. Clare felt his hands behind her, tugging on her braid. No, wait, not tugging, exactly.

"What're you doing?" she half-whispered.

"I want to see what you look like with your hair down." His long fingers worked patiently, nimbly, unweaving the plait and pausing every so often to smooth out the strands. The effect on her was soothing, almost hypnotic.

"It'll tangle like mad," she told him, resting her cheek against his chest. He smelled good; she breathed in deeply, savoring it.

"So we'll comb it out," he replied. "There." He ran his fingers through her loose hair several times so that it fell in heavy, rippling waves, a thick dark curtain ending just past her waist. "Stand back?" he asked. "Let me see?"

Clare dropped her arms from around Neil's waist and took a slow step backwards. Neil's eyes widened and his mouth opened slightly in amazement.

"My god," he said, his voice low and warm and full of wonder.

"What?" Nervously; she couldn't tell what he was thinking.

He shook his head slowly. "My god." Now he whispered. "It's. . .you're almost like a different person. Amazing. You're so beautiful anyway, but this. . ." The words trailed off and he reached out a hand to brush her bangs from her eyes, then stroked her cheek slowly as he moved in to kiss her again. More slowly this time, gentle, sensuous. He traced her lips softly with the tip of his tongue, still cupping her face between his palms.

Clare's pulse quickened. She reached up and tangled her fingers in Neil's damp curls, pulling him closer to her, then ran her hands down the long muscles of his back and under his shirt, pulling it up and off over his head. His skin was silky smooth, and she marveled at the feel of it beneath her hands.

Neil tugged at her shirt and she obliged, shrugging it off over her head. As she tossed it over onto her luggage she saw him smile. "What?" she asked.

"No bra to struggle with this time," he said, then turned serious again. "Look at you," he whispered. "Pretty girl." Placing his hands on her shoulders, he steered her gently to the bed and sat so that his face was level with hers. His green eyes, so serious and intent, looked deeply into hers. Clare felt her breath catch in her throat and knew the answer to the unasked question.

Neil said nothing, just lifted her hand and placed it on his bare chest, closing his eyes. Beneath the smooth skin and firm muscle his heart fairly raced. God, he's as nervous as I am, Clare realized with not a little surprise. He opened his eyes again as she touched his cheek, watching as she folded her legs and slid beside him on the bed. With her free hand she fumbled for the light switch on the wall above them and snapped it off, leaving the entry foyer lamp as the only source of light.

"Neil, I" - Her voice faded and she swallowed hard.

"I know." His voice was a hoarse whisper. "Lass, are you sure?"

Clare just nodded, her eyes never leaving his face. "Ah, Clare, beautiful, so beautiful," he murmured. She was lying back now, and he moved over her; she could feel the heat radiating off his body, inches from hers. He was still wearing his boxer shorts and she reached up and felt his erection, thick and long, through the fabric. He groaned softly at her touch, then slipped out of his shorts. He was big, no question, and she caressed his hard length, tentative at first. Her strokes grew more confident and Neil reached down and grabbed her wrist with a short laugh. "Careful there," he warned. His breath was shallow in his throat as he slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of her bikinis. She raised her hips off the bed and he tugged the panties down around her ankles. Clare kicked them to the floor as Neil kissed and stroked her breasts. She tangled her fingers in his hair and moaned just a little.

He stopped. Looked at her, searchingly, asking again, wordlessly. "You're sure?" he asked again finally. "It's okay, really, if you aren't."

Clare couldn't tear her gaze from his face. His expression was so sweet, so gentle and full of concern. "Yes," she whispered, aware that her voice was nearly inaudible. "I'm sure."

He kissed her, softly now, over and over as he moved over her, resting his body weight on his elbows, "I don't want to squash you," he whispered.

"It's okay, I won't break," she assured him, reaching up to run her fingers through his hair. "Just go slow. It's been. . .a while."

His movements as he entered her were deliberate; he eased himself in gently as he could manage, mindful of not hurting her. The feel of him against her, and inside her, made Clare gasp softly, and Neil froze. "Are you okay, love?"

"I'm great," she whispered, and it was true. "It's amazing, you're amazing." Then he was inside her and they were moving together, slowly at first, almost awkwardly until they found each other's rhythm. Clare arced her body up to meet his, lifting her legs to brace her ankles behind his calves, pulling him deeper into her with each thrust.

She gasped once, crying out softly and burying her face against Neil's neck, nipping at his shoulder with her teeth. As she came she whispered his name over and over: "Neil, Neil, yes, Neil." She arched against him and heard him groan once through clenched teeth, "Ah Jesus, Clare, beautiful, sweetheart. . .I can't, god yesss"- A sudden sharp intake of breath and she felt him go, spasming deep inside of her. A final shudder; she felt his breath on her cheek as he gave a quiet sigh and let his body settle on top of hers. She wound her arms around him tightly and tucked her face into his neck, feeling his breathing slow to match hers. He was still inside her, and Clare shifted slightly, trying to get closer yet.

"You're okay?" Neil broke the silence first, raising his head to see her in the dim lighting.
Clare studied his face for a moment, seeing tenderness, surprise, exhilaration and perhaps a touch of anxiety mingled there. She loosened her tight grip on his torso and propped herself up on one elbow to bring her face closer to his.

"Neil," she whispered, "I can't say exactly, but I am most definitely far better than okay." She kissed his lips softly, lingering for a bit to confirm it.

"Me too," Neil said, and smiled. "That's the nicest thing that's happened to me in a very long time. And I don't just mean, well, you know." He nuzzled her neck affectionately and laid a line of kisses along her shoulder, up her throat and along her jawline, then rolled to one side, pulling her with him so that she lay half across him, her head resting in the small hollow between his shoulder and collarbone.

"That wasn't exactly my plan, you know," he told her after another lengthy but comfortable silence.

Clare trailed her hand up along his arm to his shoulder. "How so?" she asked.

"That feels good." He kissed her temple and continued. "I'd kind of thought I might hold off till after the tour was over and we could spend some more relaxed, unhurried time together. Maybe I'd coax you off to the mountains in Quebec or somewhere for a vacation and do the slow seduction routine there." He chuckled quietly. "So much for good intentions."

She found that somehow profoundly sweet and thoughtful, and told him so. "But with my schedule it might end up being the spring equinoxe or something before we managed to coordinate it that way. Worse, if there are launch delays."

"Too true," Neil agreed, yawning. "So this was good, then."

"Just about perfect. Maybe the lighting is a bit harsh, but that's a minor detail." Clare tried unsuccessfully to quell a yawn of her own.

"Ah, but there's no such thing as a minor detail. And I can take a hint." He hopped up and switched off the entry light. "Why are hotel rooms always so dark, do you think?" He climbed back into bed. "More importantly, can I find you in the dark? Ah, there you are." He curved his body around her, slipping an arm around her waist, and kissed the back of her neck. "I don't know what to say, love." Neil was whispering again, his lips close to her ear. " 'Thank you' seems so wrong and so inadequate but it will have to do because I'm too tired to come up with anything better. So thank you. Inadequately." He was smiling; she could feel it, and it made her smile too.

Clare found his hand and tangled her fingers in his. "You're welcome, and an inadequate thanks in return." She yawned again. "One more thing. What you told me earlier? At dinner?"

"Mmmm?" Sleepily.

"Just. . .me too, is all," she whispered, just loudly enough for him to hear. "Me too." Neil didn't answer, but his arm tightened around her. Curled in the warmth of his embrace, the steady rise and fall of his chest against her back, Clare let sleep overtake her.





TO BE EDITED FURTHER. . .WRITER IS OUT OF GAS. SEX SCENES ARE TAXING!