Part 3

"You mean you’ve only ever kissed?" Nathan muttered along with the song and cocked his head toward the ceiling as the old Rocky Horror soundtrack echoed through the broad confines of the launch bay.

"Wonderful," he muttered dryly. "If anyone’s tracking us, they only have to listen for Tim Curry and the Roxy cast." He pinched the bridge of his nose, bracing himself for the coming battle as he followed the slightly echoey old song.

The shuttle was easy enough to find. It was the one rattling in the docking harness.

Nathan sighed softly. Yep, definitely should have stayed on his island.

The main hatch was open and, as he neared, he could pick out a husky, richly accented voice singing along. He ducked his head in the hatch, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting.

A slim figure sat at an oversize computer monitor inset along one wall, occasionally tapping a drafting stylus against a set of complex plans that glowed in a dozen different colors. Dark sunglasses had been tossed haphazardly on the counter.

"Do you think we could turn the music down to a dull roar?" Nathan inquired politely as he stepped all the way inside.

Terry jumped, spinning in her seat. "I...Captain?" she murmured, squinting at his shadowed figure. She reached back and hit a button on the keyboard which switched the display to a computerized fishtank. As the display came online, a computer generated piranha wolfed down a passing angel fish.

Nathan pulled the rank insignia on his collar away from his throat to peer down at the tiny symbol. "Last time I checked."

Terry clicked the stereo off. "What can I do for you, or would you prefer if I made it easy for you, and just said right off that I’ll leave your first officer alone from now on?"

"How do you know that’s what I want?"

"Relatively simple process of elimination. What else would you want from me?"

Nathan considered the question and had to admit she had a point. "As it happens, you’re right."

"I usually am," Terry agreed. "Well, you needn’t worry, his virtue is safe from here on out. I got the hint the last time he leapt four feet in the air and couldn’t get to the mag-lev fast enough."

Nathan had to struggle against the grin that mental image produced. After all, he was there to chastise his young guest, not chuckle over her antics. He straightened his shoulders, then mentally slapped himself as he noted that more than a hint of black lace showing in the gap that ran down the center of her chest. "One other request," he sighed, thinking as he asked that this one wouldn’t be appreciated by the men of his crew. No sir, it wouldn’t be appreciated at all. On the other hand, if Kristin caught him staring at her niece’s chest again, that would be appreciated even less. And the harsh reality was that he was male enough that not staring (or at least looking like he wasn’t staring) was giving him a neck-ache. "Kindly button your blouse."

She blinked and looked down, then back up at him. "I sincerely hope there’s nothing here you haven’t seen before, Captain, particularly since Kristin and I have the same measurements until you hit the hips...bit narrower there..."

"That’s one of the reasons I’d really appreciate it if you’d button it," the last words were said with particular emphasis.

Terry peered up at him for a long moment, visibly assessing the situation

Nathan merely met her gaze with a firm look of his own.

Finally, she shrugged and began fastening the delicate pearl buttons that ran up the front of the silk shirt. "Right," she acceded disgustedly.

"Thank you," Nathan exhaled with heartfelt relief and ran a hand over his hair.

"Don’t worry, it’s still all there," Terry assured him.

Nathan blinked, and dropped his hand abruptly as it occurred to him that he’d been repeating the gesture more frequently than normal since breakfast. "I have no idea what you’re talking about," he denied.

"Yeah, right," the young woman snickered. "And you aren’t sleeping with Kristin, either...puh-lease....D’you think I don’t know how terrifying my grandmother can be. I’ve known the woman for better than twenty years now. She scares the hell out of me."

Nathan started to deny the charge, then realized it was futile. "She is a bit..intimidating," he admitted dryly. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Hm?"

"Did she really make one of Kristin’s ex-husbands bark like a dog on the floor of Parliament?"

Terry’s lips twitched upward in a sly grin. "That would be Kurt. Yes, she did and then...well, let’s just say he put his mark upon that venerable old establishment." She let out a low, evil laugh that sent a chill down Nathan’s spine.

"What are you saying?"

"Well, I assume she made him believe the esteemed MP’s were all fire hydrants."

"She didn’t," Nathan whispered with more than a hint of dread.

Terry only nodded.

Bridger hid his face in his hands. "Kristin was right. I really didn’t want to know."

"Look, if it’s any help, ignorance is generally the best policy when dealing with we Westphalens. It’s rather like going down a ski slope that has all sorts of boulders just under the nice, soft looking snow. If you know what’s ahead, you panic and run smash-dab into one," she smacked her fist into her palm for added emphasis. "Ignorance is also more fun...right up until you splatter your brains all over the place..."

Nathan stared down at the young woman for a long moment. "Charming sentiment," he murmured at last. "No wonder Jonathan couldn’t resist you."

Terry winced. "Low blow," she complained. "I was just trying to give you some helpful advice."

"And if a man would just as soon avoid smashing his brains altogether?"

Terry gnawed on her lower lip, then finally shook her head. "Truthfully?" she questioned.

Nathan nodded.

"I’d recommend he fall in love with someone else," the sarcastic tone dropped from her voice to be replaced by an odd note of sympathy.

Nathan started to deny that he was in love with anyone, but he abruptly snapped his mouth shut and sighed softly. "I think it may too late for that," he admitted at last.

On the computer screen behind Terry, a couple of goldfish abruptly began having an obscenely good time.

"My aunt is definitely not the bunny run," Terry murmured with a touch of pity.

Nathan’s eyes glazed over and he stared off into the distance. "No, she's not," he breathed.

Terry abruptly dropped her face into her hands. "I don’t believe this," she whimpered miserably. "I’m on a boat full of single, straight men, and am I having fun with any of them? No! I’m counseling my middle-aged aunt’s lover."

"Somehow, I doubt you usually lack for male company," Nathan murmured without a trace of sympathy.

"You’d lose that bet," came back the muffled response.

"Really?" Nathan questioned doubtfully.

"Really," Terry confirmed as she tilted her chin up, expression blazing. "Oh, I get plenty of offers for one night stands, but no more than that...and frankly, I’ve no great interest in being some chap’s quickie on the side."

Nathan stared at her for a long moment. The look in her bright green eyes was surprisingly free of guile. "Have you...er...considered that..." He tried to decide how to phrase his comment and finally settled on, "The look you’ve adopted may not be entirely conducive to finding what you want?"

She sighed heavily. "Gosh, y’think?" she muttered in a voice seething with sarcasm. "Look, it doesn’t matter. When I dress sweet and wholesome, they refuse to take advantage, kiss me on the forehead and send me on my way; business suits, I intimidate them; like this, they just run like hell. Frankly, I’ve hit a point in my life where I prefer that latter, purer sentiment. All things considered, it’s a wonder nice men ever reproduce. As for the rest, I can dress like a nun in the middle of a priest’s convention, and they’re still all over me." She folded her arms across her chest and stuck out her tongue. "I just wish I knew what it is about Westphalen women that only seems to attract the smarmy type."

"Gee, thanks," Nathan grumbled.

"Oh, I don’t mean you," Terry dismissed. "You’re one of the nice ones. It only took Aunt Kris..." she started ticking off on her fingers, then noticed Nathan’s increasingly nauseous expression as the numbers seemed to go higher and higher. "Several...tries...Which means if I want a nice one, I only have to wait about ... twenty years...." She dropped her head back into her hands and the whimper returned. "God, I’ll implode before then."

"What are you saying?" Nathan murmured, a sudden edge of suspicion entering his voice

Terry raised her chin to give him a dirty look. "Nothing," she growled dangerously. "And I suggest you forget everything you’ve heard here today," there was no or else attached to the sentence, but it was definitely implied.

Nathan just stared at his lover’s niece for a long moment, completely at a loss for words. Despite the threatening look in her eyes, there was an all too familiar uncertainty there as well. He remembered seeing that look in the mirror when he was still a teen, and something annoyingly similar since his wife’s death. "My God?" he murmured at last as the truth began to sink in. "You...you’re..." he couldn’t quite continue the thought running through his skull. It was just too unbelievable.

"Just stop that thought right now," Terry warned him.

Nathan’s eyes rounded and a sudden grin curved his mouth upward. "You’re a virgin," he said with absolute certainty.

"Not due to any intent on my part!" the young woman exploded.

Nathan couldn’t help it, he laughed.

"Oh, shut up," Terry snarled. "It’s not funny."

"Oh, yes it is," Nathan disagreed."My God, I thought virginity past the age of eighteen had been outlawed."

"I take it back. You are definitely not in the nice column."

"Oh, I’m nice," Nathan corrected. "So...how..."

"Well, it wasn’t planned," Terry snapped. "It just sort of happened...or rather, didn’t happen. There never seemed to be any time what with school...projects...all that." Finally, she raised her shoulders in an embarrassed shrug. Suddenly, she blinked and focused on Nathan. "You can’t tell Kristin," she said a little desperately.

"I really don’t think she’d be all that upset. The older generation is like that about the younger one. We hate to think that they might be making the same mistakes we did...or maybe, we hate to think they might be having as much fun," Nathan mused thoughtfully. He refocused on the young woman, who was staring at him pleadingly. "However, since it’s so important to you, you have my word. She won’t hear it from me. I doubt she’d believe me, anyway."

Terry exhaled, shoulders slumping in relief. "Thanks."

"No problem," the captain of the seaQuest murmured dryly.

"This is some weird sort of bonding moment, isn’t it?" Terry questioned as she dropped her head back into her hands.

Nathan shook his head. "We are not bonding," he said firmly. As he spoke, he levered himself up to sit on the counter and abruptly flinched as he felt something give way under his hip.

A crunching sound echoed through the confines of the launch.

Terry didn’t look up, but there was a sick sort of resignation to her voice as she asked. "That was my sunglasses wasn’t it?"

"Ah...yeah..." Nathan confirmed as he pulled the shattered frames out from under his hip. The bows were twisted nearly off and the arch over the nose was badly misshaped.

Terry uttered a low curse, but still didn’t look up. "Let me guess," she sighed. "They’re now officially unwearable?"

In the computerized fishtank, a shark abruptly tore into a tiny diver.

"I think we can safely say that," Bridger certified.

Terry uttered a curse that sounded colorful even to Nathan’s ears, then sighed softly. "Of course they are," she grumbled and suddenly tilted her chin up.

Nathan held up the badly damaged frames. "Sorry. I forgot they were there."

Terry winced and mumbled another curse as she twisted in her chair and clicked open a nearby drawer. An eyeglass case lay on top of a stack of notebooks, and she quickly retrieved it, slipping an identical pair out. She tucked one of the bows in the collar of her shirt, so that the lenses dangled down the front. "Just one more wonderful moment in my life this year," she groaned.

"It’s only a pair of sunglasses," Nathan pointed out.

Terry seemed about to say something, then cut herself off. "That’s right," she agreed blandly. "And, if that’s all, Captain, I really do have work to do," she clipped forbiddingly, her tone such a perfect imitation of Kristin’s that Nathan almost did a doubletake.

His brows arched high on his forehead. Something was very wrong with this picture. He frowned suddenly as he noted that the image on either side of the lenses in his hand, didn’t line up with the one in the center of the glass.

Terry noted his look and abruptly pushed out of her chair, reaching for the dented frames. "I’ll just take—"

"Ah-ah..." Nathan clicked his tongue as he blocked her with one arm and held the glasses at arms length with the other. "You little faker," he murmured as he stared through the lenses. He looked back at the frustrated young woman. "You’re blind as a bat."

Terry snarled a curse under her breath. "Yes, I am," she hissed angrily and reached again for the damaged sunglasses. Nathan let her have them this time. "Look, you can’t tell them," she half commanded, half pleaded.

Nathan shook his head, his expression wry. "You aren’t padding your bra too, are you?"

"NO!" came the outraged reply.

Nathan shrugged. "Just thought I should ask," he commented. "All things considered. I mean, you don’t quite seem to be living up to your image."

"Look," she explained as she held up the glasses. "It started when I was eleven. I was embarrassed to have to wear glasses, so my dad let me get sunglasses instead and promised he wouldn’t tell anyone..." She turned away from him and tossed the wrecked frames into the drawer she’d pulled the second pair from. "The habit just sort of stuck after...that."

Nathan heard the genuine sadness and longing in her voice, and sighed heavily. "Your secrets are all safe with me," he assured her.

"Thank you...and on that note, I really do have a great deal of work to do," she said with a loose gesture toward the computer screen.

"What," Bridger questioned. "Programming demented screen savers?"

"Very funny," Terry quipped acidly. "But as it happens, it’s a design for a low cavitation undersea jet turbine for small craft. The U.E.O. and the British and U.S. navies are all interested, but there are still a few bugs that need to be worked out before a new prototype can be built."

"You’re an engineer?" Nathan said in a startled voice.

"No," Terry assured him as she turned back to the computer screen and rapped the stylus against one corner. The fish were instantly replaced by a complex array of mechanical plans. "I just spent all that time in school in an desperate effort to avoid those crucial years of sexual experimentation."

"Cute," Bridger dismissed as he leaned over her shoulder, staring at the design with curious eyes. "So, why work for Anklam?" he murmured distantly, already tracing the logical flow of data on the screen.

Terry shrugged. " They need some poor idiot to keep all the technical equipment in running order and act as a chauffeur. Celine’s a bear to work for, but she pays well, and I graduated with three hundred grand in student loans."

Nathan let out a low whistle.

"Building the first prototype was bloody expensive," Terry swore defensively.

"Not that," Bridger denied. "This." He pointed at the screen. "If this works..." There was more than a touch of respect in his voice as he studied her work.

"Yes, well, at the moment it doesn’t. At least not for long. The prototype developed a shimmy after a little over one hundred hours of wave tank testing. Despite everything it keeps coming back. I think part of the housing is developing a sympathetic vibration, but I can’t find the locus."

Bridger frowned as he studied the plans, his designer’s instincts fully engaged. "Have you tried rerouting the main...."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ /////\\\\\\ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Darwin was very much aware of strange things going on aboard the seaQuest. As the most intelligent member of the crew, he considered it a serious responsibility to keep track of the activities of his less advanced friends. After all, they might need his help, not that he was overly confident that they would be smart enough to take his advice. Bridger might. For a human, he was reasonably developed. Even Kristin might. She had, after all, been intelligent enough to rely on his information in times of crisis on more than one occasion—though, with her pod in the area, she did seem to be behaving somewhat erratically. Also, those two were so caught in mating lust (Darwin experienced a touch of envy of his human friends—if would be nice if the seaQuest could kindly add an attractive female of his own species to the crew roster for a bit of companionship) that they probably weren’t thinking too clearly. Their near coupling beside his tank proved that quite nicely. If he hadn’t interfered, he was quite convinced they’d have mated right in front of him. Hardly civilized conduct.

Mind you, Darwin somewhat regretted the missed opportunity to get a look at this aspect of human behavior. He’d always had a certain curiosity about just how they achieved the act on dry land. On the other hand, he was far from certain he wanted the image of that particular sight bouncing around in his brain for the remainder of his life.

The arrival of Crocker and one of the newcomers brought the dolphin’s head up out of the water. Darwin blew a disgusted spout of water from his blowhole in a gesture of mild annoyance. Crocker was far from his favorite member of the crew.

"Zhew well go to get my lunch," Celine Bovare ordered Manilow Crocker as she strode over to the side of the moon pool and dropped the huge multicolored bag slung over one shoulder to the deck.

"Ma’am, I really can’t leave you alone in here," the security chief argued.

Darwin looked askance at the newcomer as she peered over the side of the pool. He’d been watching the strangers and already decided he didn’t like this one.

Bovare waved a hand dismissively. "Go, go...I weell be fine here. Zhor dolphine, already he likez me...Zee ‘ow he smilez at me."

"Ma’am, I really—"

"I must to be withz heem alone before we speak...we must to...’ow you zay...commune."

"You really aren’t supposed to know about the vocoder Ma’am," Crocker muttered, growing increasingly frustrated as she continued to ignore his every word.

Celine turned on Crocker, eyes blazing. "I am personal friends withz zhe president. ‘E wizhes me to speak wthz zhis animale. Ahnd zhew," she punched a stubby finger into his bulky chest for emphasis. "Ahre not to interfere, or zhou weell," she slammed that single finger into his chest again. "Be hauling garbage through zhe Canale Panama for zhe rezt of zhor carheer...Do I make myzelf perfectly clear?"

"Perfectly," Crocker moaned.

Jelly fish, Darwin thought disgustedly.

"Good, zhen zhew weell go to get my lunch...turkey on rhye, withz mayo and swizz cheez...and take at leazt twenty minootz."

"Right," Crocker murmured with resigned acceptance.

Sea anemone, Darwin lowered his opinion of the human another notch.

Celine folded her arms across her ample chest, tapping one foot rapidly as she glared at Crocker. "Whell...go on..."

"Right," Crocker sighed and moved away, his expression hangdog.

Coral, Darwin decided at last as the security chief exited through the main hatch. He turned his head enough to eyeball the woman who had remained behind.

"Nice little fishie," Celine Bovare murmured distantly, her accent suddenly altogether different. Darwin wasn’t certain, but he could have sworn she suddenly sounded like she came from Queens. She ducked her head and opened the bag sitting next to the tank. Several minutes of fumbling produced a considerable array of electronic equipment.

Darwin watched it all with something akin to suspicion. He commented on the fact, but without the vocoder to offer even its simplistic translations, it was nothing more than meaningless clicks to the human.

"Yeah, right, Fish," Celine addressed the dolphin as she began gathering the equipment in her arms. "Y’think it’s easy being the number one psychic in D.C....hah!"

Darwin worked his lower body in order to pop his head more than a foot above the water and watch what she was doing.

"Nope, and that faker, Harry Westoff is making inroads with the senate leadership...hmph..." She pivoted and met Darwin’s curious gaze. "Gotta give ‘em a show, Fish...Gotta give ‘em a good show, or you’re out on your ear." She started hiding several small boxes all around the room. "And I am not gonna be out on my ear...hah...nosiree, not me."

If Darwin had had eyebrows, he’d have raised them, but then, if he’d had shoulders, he’d also have shrugged them. As it was, he just watched the human go about her business with his perpetual dolphin smile and distinctly narrowed eyes.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ /////\\\\\\ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 Lucas Wolenczek leaned over Andrew Westphalen’s shoulder, intently studying the images the former admiral was sketching out on the back of an official memo. "So, you’re saying the explosion should be more directed?"

"Mhm," Westphalen confirmed and started to take a drink from a can of something Lucas had dug out of an entirely illegal mini-refrigerator hidden under his bunk. The remains of the cola were warm and flat and Andrew set the can aside with a look of disgust, then rapped his pencil against the table. "When the materiel bunker explodes." He made a quick notation. "The fire should start here, then plume outward like this." The old man’s fine-boned hands moved sharply over the paper, showing the ways the fire and force would travel.

"I see what you’re saying," Lucas murmured. He was about to ask another question when he was forestalled by a light knock on his cabin door. "Let me just...ah...get that," he muttered as he stepped over the junk strewn floor in order to reach the hatch. He pulled up short as he swung the hatch open and found himself face to face with a pair of piercing dark eyes.

"Hullo," Jessica Westphalen said with an inviting smile. "You must be Lucas. I’m sorry I didn’t realize who you were this morning, but I’m never any good before ten a.m."

Lucas just nodded. "I’m, uh, sorry, I woke you. I...uh...didn’t know you were aboard," he stammered. He could feel the admiral’s eyes burning a hole in his back and he glanced over his shoulder to meet that glitter-dark gaze.

"Jess," the old man exhaled forbiddingly.

"Don’t worry about it, Lucas," Jessica said dismissively, ignoring her husband altogether as she patted the boy’s arm in a soothing gesture. "We got in late last night. You couldn’t have known." She stepped past the boy into his cabin, eyes running over the packed contents with motherly good humor. It was definitely the residence of a teenage male. She ambled over to glance down at the drawings and notes her husband had made in his precise handwriting, eyeballing the choice of notepaper with a raised eyebrow. "Well, I suppose it’s better than a napkin," she murmured thoughtfully.

"Jess," Westphalen repeated her name on a warning note.

His wife only chuckled at Lucas’ questioning look. "He tends to get into arguments at dinner and over drinks...when napkins are the only paper available. He and General Seally planned the entire South Sea campaign on cocktail napkins. Of course, as I remember the story you were both half tanked at the time," she directed the last comment to her husband who flushed.

"We were not half tanked," he corrected with icy formality. "We were falling down drunk," he threw out the challenge. "And it was a hell of a campaign."

"Lucas, why don’t you go on and let me speak with my husband alone," Jessica instructed the teen quietly.

"His cabin," Westphalen blustered, suddenly seeming almost nervous. "Seems he should be the one who asks someone to leave."

"Lucas," Jessica repeated the boy’s name and nodded toward the door.

"I...um...should probably go check on...some...thing," Lucas stammered and bolted, yanking the hatch shut behind himself.

Jessica watched him go with a hint of a smile.

Andrew turned back to the computer and reactivated the program, this time, with a joystick, rather than the extensive Virtual Reality equipment hooked up. "Don’t know why everyone’s convinced I’m the pushy one in this relationship," he complained under his breath.

"Because you are," Jessica pointed out with deadpan practicality. "Whereas I merely make politely phrased suggestions."

"Hmph....and woe betide the man, woman or child who ignores one of your ‘politely phrased suggestions’."

Jessica picked up the cola her husband had been drinking and eyed it with a raised brow. "If you’re looking for a heart attack, why not just stick your finger in a light socket?" she grumbled as she noted the amount of caffeine in the drink.

Westphalen spun his chair around and snatched the can out of her hand. "I am not a child, woman," he growled, then tipped his head back and downed the remainder of the lukewarm cola in one gulp. As he straightened, it was a struggle not to make a face at the taste.

Jessica noted the gesture with a raised eyebrow, but made no comment as her husband pitched the the now-empty can into a nearby trash can, then turned back to the computer, pointedly ignoring her. She stared at her his stiff back for a long moment. "Do you know," she murmured at last, a trace of hurt threading its way through her voice. "I rather thought you might like to spend a bit of time together after two months apart, but I get the distinct feeling you’re avoiding me."

"We weren’t apart by my choice," Westphalen grumped.

Jessica stiffened and sighed heavily, folding her arms across her chest as she glared at the man she’d been married to for more than forty-five years. "No," she agreed, locking a firm hand on her temper. "You know my work is very important to me."

"Damned—"

"Silliness...Yes, I know, Andrew. I’ve heard your opinions before," Jessica clipped angrily.

Westphalen spun the chair around to face his wife again. "Besides," he snapped, "it’s not as though you’re here just to see me. I realize you came to keep ‘slightly potty old Andy’ from making a scene."

"Well, you did cause a bit of a dustup from what I’ve heard," she shot back.

"I suppose she went running to you," Andrew complained.

"No, actually, she didn't say a word. No one did...until now," his wife said sharply.

Westphalen’s jaw muscles pulled taut. "That’s a bloody rotten trick, Jess," he accused bitterly.

"Perhaps," she allowed. "But as it seems to be the only way of getting anything out of either of you..." she trailed off suggestively. "Care to tell me what happened?" she asked.

Andrew looked away, his voice disapproving as he muttered, "She’s sleeping with that captain...Bridger."

Jessica nodded. "Yes, I know. But she is over the age of consent...quite a bit over, in fact."

"It’s not right," Westphalen growled as he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees as he stared down at his interlinked fingers.

"For God’s sake, Andy, you’re starting to sound like someone’s maiden aunt. In case you’ve forgotten, we didn’t exactly wait until things were official. In fact, we barely waited until the fifth date."

Her husband sighed disgustedly. "Not talking about sex," he dismissed in a low voice.

Jessica frowned in genuine confusion at that one. "In which case...I think you’ve lost me entirely."

"I confronted them with it, in front of Noyce," he admitted, without looking up from his hands.

"Good Lord, Andrew, why would you do something that—"

"He denied it," the admiral cut his wife off angrily as he tipped his chin up. "Made up some damn fool story that she’d been sick and needed him to nurse her through it."

"Well, of course he did. What was he supposed to do, tell the truth and get her booted off this ship?"

"Boat," Westphalen corrected automatically as his eyes dropped back to his hands.

"Boat," Jessica agreed, then leaned forward to pin a hard gaze on her husband. "I’m beginning to have a very nasty suspicion," she murmured.

"You have a suspicious mind," Andrew muttered without looking up.

"Usually with good reason," Jessica agreed coolly, then accused. "You tried to get her thrown off, didn’t you?"

"Noyce is a spineless jellyfish," the admiral complained, completely ignoring his wife’s question.

"Right," Jessica exhaled. "Hard to argue that, however..." she trailed off, intentionally giving him time to say something."Andrew," she prompted when he didn’t take the hint.

"You don’t understand," he grumbled at last. "If he cared about her, he wouldn’t want her here. This boat is nothing but a floating target for every crackpot, terrorist, luna—"

"Andrew," Jessica cut his tirade off as she drew nearer and brushed a tender hand along his brow. "She’s chosen to be here. Perhaps he respects that. And perhaps you should as well."

Westphalen shook his head. "You’re both bloody idealists," he growled. "You don’t understand what it’s like...what combat is.... People die..." he rasped the last word, barely managing to force it past the knot in his throat.

"I know that," his wife exhaled with surprising practicality. "I have spent too many nights wondering if you were still breathing not to be aware of that fact. But the harsh reality is that, just like I had to let you do what you needed to, you cannot interfere with the course Kristin has chosen for her life."

"DAMMIT WOMAN!" Westphalen bellowed and shoved to his feet, stomping forward until he was nearly nose to nose with his wife.

"DON’T YOU YELL AT ME!" she shouted right back, then demanded at a slightly reduced volume. "Don’t you think I worry? Believe me, I do. But there isn’t any place safe left. At least here they know how to protect themselves..." Her voice choked off.

Andrew Westphalen froze, and his eyes snapped shut. "Dammit," he hissed angrily.

"I just have to keep reminding myself she’s where she’s chosen to be," his wife whispered very softly.

"Dammit," Andrew hissed again, though some of the anger drained from his voice to be replaced by guilt-ridden sorrow. "I cannot go through that again."

"I know," his wife exhaled and leaned her forehead against his shoulder. "But when you try to control people, you just push them away."

There was a long moment of silence between the two. Finally, Westphalen curved fine boned fingers to the back of his wife’s head, using his thumb to rhythmically brush the downy soft hair at her temple. "I’m a fine figure of an idiot," he exhaled derisively. "I just..." he started to speak, only to trail off, unable to give voice to what he was feeling.

"I know," Jessica sighed again.

"And what about this captain?" James complained, shifting gears with his usual suddenness. "What if he’s just....I mean...bluntly put, Jess, Kristin has absolutely no common sense when it comes to men. And, while I might enjoy your little parting stabs, at this age I’d just as soon avoid the chaos."

"You worry too much," Jessica murmured blandly.

Andrew narrowed his eyes, studying his wife’s perfectly neutral expression with flinty intensity. She was much too serene over the whole question, particularly considering what she had done to her daughter’s previous husbands. "All right," he demanded at last. "What did the background check turn up?"

"I have no idea what you’re talking about," his wife responded innocently.

Andrew smiled. That ploy probably would have worked on anyone who hadn’t spent the last forty-plus years married to her. "Like hell you don’t," he accused. "Giving your moralistic little ‘don’t interfere’ speeches, and you had a check run—don’t try and deny it," he cut her off when she would have said something. "Now, what did you find out?"

Jessica started to disavow the charge again, but after another look at the expression on his face, dropped the act entirely. She shrugged slim shoulders. "It was obvious from her letters she’s been growing closer to this man, so I had Theresa run a background check on him." She flashed a slightly embarrassed smile at her husband’s raised brow. "What’s the use of having a grandchild, who understands current technology, if not to investigate your daughter’s potential romantic liasons?"

"To program your computer, automobile, PDR, and home entertainment system," the admiral answered dryly.

"That too," Jessica allowed.

"Well?" Andrew prompted when she didn’t immediately continue.

"Married twenty-seven years, by all accounts totally faithful—she died several years ago now—a fistful of combat decorations, makes a reasonable bit of money off of his engineering patents, pays his credit cards on time, and owns his own island." She shrugged. "Hardly the profile of your average ax murderer."

"He owns his own island?" the admiral repeated.

"Uh-huh."

"I’ll give him credit, it’s more unique than an expensive sportscar," Westphalen exhaled as though he’d been punched. "I think you’re telling me that he’s..."

"More than merely comfortable." Jessica nodded to confirm her own words.

Andrew sighed heavily. "Do you think she’s in love with him?"

"I think it’s a strong probability."

"Well, at least if there’s a divorce, she won’t have to pay alimony this time," Westphalen murmured philosophically.

"And on that note," Jessica murmured as she leaned against her husband’s chest. "I would just as soon not talk about children, grandchildren, or their requisite romantic problems anymore."

Andrew Westphalen slipped his hands around his wife’s waist. "Really?" he murmured with a hint of a smile. "Umm, what would you like to talk about then?" he asked with mock seriousness.

Jessica slid her arms around the back of his neck and leaned close to his ear to offer a suggestion.

The admiral’s eyebrows shot up. "That’s definitely a...pleasant topic of conversation," he admitted.

His wife grinned. "Well, we have been apart for two months...and I got in rather late, you went out rather early..."

"And we do have so very much to talk about," Andrew murmured. "However." He cast a jaundiced eye on the junk-strewn surroundings. "This isn’t a very conversation inducing environment."

"Mm," she agreed.

Andrew started to disengage from his wife’s loose hold. "I’ll just—"

"Let that young man worry about the computer. He seems quite capable." She leaned close to her husband’s ear and made another comment.

"Right," Andrew exhaled. "Conversation it is. The bloody computer’s on its own." He barely remembered to lock the door on the way out.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ /////\\\\\\ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

One of the problems with her family, Kristin Westphalen decided as she stalked the corridors of the seaQuest, was that when she wanted to avoid them they were everywhere, but whenever she was searching for one, that person immediately disappeared as if he or she had ceased to exist. She had already checked everywhere she could think of in search of her niece (guest quarters, sea deck, the gym, and the men’s changing room attached to the gym), and come up empty. One last try, then Ford was on his own. She stepped onto the launch deck, and ran a searching gaze across the interior.

And halted suddenly as her eyes landed on the young man seated on a nearby stack of cargo containers, his angular face aimed downward, his shoulders slumped in defeat. She frowned slightly, warning buzzers going off in the back of her brain. "Hullo, Tim," she spoke to get his attention as she drew near.

O'Neill's chin popped up, eyes going wide as he abruptly leapt his feet. "Doctor," he stammered and automatically straightened his shoulders.

Kristin noted the instant response with a faintly raised eyebrow. "Something wrong?"

O'Neill experienced the by now familiar bolt of nervousness he seemed to be cursed with in Westphalen’s presence. "Ah, no...wrong...nothing," he responded none too believably. "Nothing at all," he added to bolster the claim. Unfortunately, he only made it sound even more false.

Kristin’s brows rose another notch, and a hint of a bemused smile appeared at the corner of her mouth. "Right," she exhaled doubtfully. "Care to tell me what’s really going on?" she inquired politely.

Tim opened his mouth, and started to answer nothing, but faced with the almost motherly, chiding look on Westphalen’s face, he couldn’t get the lie out. His shoulders slumped and he sank back down on one of the cargo barrels. "Your niece," he exhaled.

Kristin nodded. She’d already guessed as much. She turned and sat next to him on another of the barrels. "I thought that might be it," she admitted with a fair degree of sympathy.

"She’s aboard the Anklam launch if you’re looking for her," Tim informed her with a wave of his hand.

Kristin didn’t move. "She can wait. You, however, look like you could use a friendly ear."

Tim sighed heavily and was silent for a long moment before he spoke up. "Do you think she might—forget it," he cut himself off miserably. He rolled his eyes at his own temerity. "She’d never look at a guy like me."

"Tim!" Kristin snapped, her tone effectively cutting through his bout of self-pity. "You’re a very nice young man," she said more gently when he looked up at her.

"Yeah," O'Neill sighed disgustedly. "That’s how people always describe guys like me when they’re trying to set them up with women who look like your niece."

Kristin shook her head. "You’re also very nice looking," she argued.

It was Tim’s turn to look doubtful.

Kristin tried another tack. "Look, why don’t you just ask her to have dinner with you tonight. She’s an engineer. She’d probably find a lot of things you could talk about very interesting."

"Sure, right," O'Neill grumbled. "Ten ways to thrill a woman with a lecture on long wave radio communications."

"Well, no...I wouldn’t suggest that," Kristin admitted hesitantly. "But there are other things you can talk about. You speak a half dozen languages. You’ve been all over the world."

"I’ve been all over the world...underwater," O'Neill corrected, then thought about it for a moment before asking hopefully. "Does she speak any foreign languages.

"Ah...no," Kristin said wishing she hadn’t brought that up. She shrugged a little embarrassedly. "Most days, the rest of the family is grateful if she speaks English."

O'Neill's shoulders slumped again. "What was I thinking?" he muttered out loud and started to rise. "We have nothing in common and she is never going to—"

Kristin caught his sleeve and tugged him back down. "Don’t," she cut him off mid sentence. "Look, Theresa is a relatively attractive young woman, but—"

"She’s gorgeous and you know it," O'Neill corrected.

Kristin shook her head. "I really don’t see it," she denied, then looked cross-eyed down her own nose. "Besides, she’s got the same nose I do...that alone prevents—"

"She’s got the same everything you’ve got," Tim interrupted.

Kristin blinked. "Bit narrower in the hips, actually."

Tim didn’t appreciate the joke. He folded his arms across his chest and stood. "This was a bad idea," He grumbled.

Kristin snapped to her feet and dropped firm hands on his shoulders. "Tim. You. Are. A. Very. Nice. Man," she said sharply, emphasizing each word. "What is the worst thing that could happen if you just ask her to dinner?"

"She laughs in my face and says, 'Yeah, get real, geek-boy,'" O'Neill answered without pause.

"I see you’ve given this some thought," Kristin muttered. "However, if nothing else, I’d like to think she’s been a bit better raised than that."

Tim blinked. "I...uh..." He thought of several responses to that statement, but was fairly certain none of them would be well received. He was admittedly caught in the throes of love, lust, and hormones. That didn’t mean he was stupid.

Kristin saw the look in his eyes and sighed heavily, her voice rife with resignation. "I realize it sometimes seems like she must have been raised by wolves, but she really has had some semblance of the social graces beat into her, and I've never known her to be intentionally cruel."

"So you’re saying I should just nerve myself up and ask?" Tim clarified.

"Yes!" Kristin confirmed, a touch of exasperation sneaking through.

"I don’t know," the young lieutenant waffled.

"Oh, bloody hell," Kristin grumbled and grabbed his sleeve, dragging him along after her as she stormed toward the Anklam launch. At some point along the short journey, Tim suddenly started pulling against her hold, bracing his feet with roughly the same determination as a cat she’d once owned every time she’d tried to get it in its transport cage to visit the vet. "Tim," she hissed his name as she spun on the hapless young man.

"I really don’t know about this," O'Neill whispered, panic showing in his eyes.

Kristin let go of his sleeve and folded her arms across her chest. "Look, you’ve got two choices. One—come with me. I will introduce you, and you might just manage a pleasant dinner with an attractive young woman, or...Two—run out of here like an absolute and utter coward, and spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been." She knew she was being a bit melodramatic with the last part, but Tim was too far gone to respond to subtlety.

O'Neill swallowed hard as he considered his options. "I don’t suppose there’s a third choice?" he asked hopefully.

"No."

Tim gnawed on his lower lip. "Okay," he exhaled at last.

Kristin caught his sleeve again, tugging him along after her as she muttered several choice invectives concerning the young and innocent under her breath.

Tim pulled up short again as they reached the side of the launch, his eyes wide. He froze in place, his body perfectly motionless.

"Breathe, Mister O’Neill," she ordered.

He bent over, suddenly gasping for air.

Kristin patted him on the back and waited.

Pink cheeked, but breathing again, Tim straightened at last.

"Okay now?"

He nodded.

"All right, then," Kristin murmured and straightened her shoulders, stuck her head inside the launch and froze.

Light from a computer monitor set two figures in silhouette. One seated in a chair, the other broader and taller, and kneeling beside the chair, one long arm stretched across the back.

"That’s got to be it," Nathan Bridger’s voice echoed through the tiny craft as he leaned forward, pointing at the image on the screen with his free hand.

"If you’re right, I’ll just have to alter the mounting angle a bit," Terry murmured in agreement

Tim was still behind Kristin and she spun, slapping a hand across his mouth before he could say a word. Her palm still flat over his mouth, she twisted and stuck her head tentatively back inside the launch. Yes, it was definitely Nathan and Theresa. O'Neill leaned past her shoulder to stare at the scene, eyes wide over the edge of her hand.

Nathan suddenly pushed to his feet and the eavesdropping pair jerked back guiltily, until only two pairs of equally round eyes were peering around the corner.

Nathan turned so that he was facing his lover’s niece and hitched one hip over the edge of the counter.

Lost in her design, Terry barely noticed. She tipped her glasses up, leaning forward to study the confusing array of plans, then lifted the drafting stylus to a section of the drawing and changed a line, studying the alteration with focused intensity.

Nathan folded his arms across his chest and cleared his throat to gain her attention.

"You want something?" the young woman murmured without looking away from the monitor.

"Yes," Nathan confirmed, without elaborating.

After a long moment of silence, Terry raised her eyes. "Well?" she prompted impatiently.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Anything," Terry waved him on as she turned back to her drafting. "Well, almost anything," she amended before Nathan could get a word out.

"What do you think would happen if I asked Kristin to marry me?"

Terry lost her grip on the stylus and it went skittering across the counter while she chased madly after it. The moment, her hands landed on the narrow pen she froze, then slowly turned her head to peer up at the captain of the seaQuest with a frankly disbelieving expression. "Are you serious?" she questioned carefully.

Nathan’s eyes swung from side to side, though he didn’t notice the doubly shocked expressions watching the scene from the open hatchway. "Maybe," he exhaled warily.

Terry canted her head to one side as she got a grip on the stylus and straightened. "Well," she murmured, only to trail to halt and ask again. "Are you serious?"

Nathan massaged the back of his neck. "You already asked that."

"I just want to be absolutely clear before I even consider trying to give you an answer."

"I think I might be," Nathan admitted, though he sounded more worried than thrilled by the prospect. "So, what do you think would...y'know...happen?"

"Before, during, or after the fight?"

"What fight?" Nathan asked, plainly confused.

"The fight," Terry responded as though it should have been perfectly obvious. When Nathan still didn’t appear to have any idea what she was talking about, she tried to explain. " All major Westphalen family decisions...marriage, divorce, birth, funeral arrangements...breakfast...involve some manner of a fight. That’s how we do things."

Kristin jerked out of the hatchway and Tim distinctly heard her mutter. "I will kill that weasel-child."

"You are joking, aren’t you?" Nathan questioned nervously.

"Not really, no," came the somewhat droll response. There was a long moment of silence, then Terry spoke again. "Look, I just think you should know what you’ll be up against. Grandfather will blow a gasket. It’s traditional. Grandmother will begin plotting exactly what hideous form her revenge will take should it be necessary. Cindy will probably be relatively mature about the whole subject because, well...she tends to be the most mature of the group."

"She is dead," Kristin hissed more to herself than Tim.

If he could have, O'Neill would have fled, but the doctor suddenly had a death grip on his collar, so he could only stand there and be grateful the fury glittering in her dark eyes wasn’t directed at him.

"Of course my brother and sister will probably be relatively calm about the whole thing. I can’t see them doing more than issuing the odd threat, and you needn’t worry about it. Ian’s a total wimp, and Carrie doesn’t really know how to do any of that karate stuff or swordplay she does in those low rent flicks she’s in..."

"You aren’t an only child?" Nathan croaked, sounding vaguely nauseous.

"No...sorry...and the worst part is, I’m the responsible one."

"I see." Nathan’s voice cracked mid-word.

"Doomed," Kristin whispered so dangerously that Tim was becoming a little worried that she might strangle him just to let off stress.

Terry continued as if Bridger hadn’t spoken. "And of the stepchildren, the only one you really need to worry about is Jason.... He’s a tackle with the Bears."

"Jason McAffery?" Nathan queried.

"That’s the one."

"He has no neck," Bridger muttered.

"I’ll break her neck," Kristin muttered as she continued eavesdropping.

"Not a trace," Terry agreed. "He’s quite fond of Kristin. Broke his father’s jaw when they got divorced."

There was a funny whimpery sound from inside the launch.

"Still contemplating such an act of utter suicide?" Terry asked conversationally.

"Uh-huh," Nathan mumbled, though he sounded quite shell shocked.

"I rather thought you might be," she commiserated.

The hand on Tim O'Neill's collar loosened fractionally, and a funny hint of a smile lifted one corner of Kristin’s mouth.

Suddenly, she spun, hauling O'Neill along as she called out, "Theresa," and stepped into the launch.

Several things happened at once. Panicked by the sudden arrival of her aunt, Terry lost her grip on the stylus again and it went flying. She grabbed for it, but her boots slipped on the slick decking.

Nathan caught her before she could go careening face first into the computer console. "Kristin," he croaked, his head swinging around as he realized several things at once; he’d caught Terry by several key portions of her anatomy, she really did have the same measurements as Kristin until you hit the hips. And—judging by the way his lover was suddenly tapping one foot—he was dead.

Terry got her feet under her and twisted to stare at Kristin with wide, terrified eyes. She swallowed hard as she got a look at the flinty expression in her aunt’s dark eyes. She was doomed—it was just that simple—doomed, dead, soon to be deceased. She squeezed her eyes shut, praying the end would come quickly.

Nathan snapped his hands away from the young woman’s torso, the very suddenness of the gesture making him look even guiltier.

When death still hadn’t arrived a heartbeat later, Terry opened one eye. "Aunt Kris," she squeaked, tamping down the urge to hide behind Nathan with considerable effort. She opened her other eye and backpedaled a step.

Kristin’s dark eyes touched very briefly on her niece. "Theresa," she murmured forbiddingly.

"Terry, I prefer Terry. Can’t anyone in the family get it right?" Terry complained, momentarily forgetting her imminent demise.

Kristin arched one neat eyebrow and folded her arms across her chest in a classic pose of adult disapproval. "Theresa," she repeated.

Terry blinked, noted the look on her aunt’s face, and remembered her imminent demise. "On the other hand, I like Theresa. Theresa’s nice," she babbled.

Kristin sighed heavily and her niece fell silent, still braced and ready for her impending doom. She was a little surprised when it didn’t come.

"Why don’t you and Mister O'Neill go get a bite of lunch," Kristin suggested as her sable gaze landed on her lover again.

Terry’s eyes darted back and forth between the two of them. Kristin was going to kill Nathan Bridger—there wasn’t much question in her mind about that. On the other hand, better him than me, was her motto. She ducked past Kristin, staying as far out of range as possible.

"Theresa," Kristin clipped and Terry skidded to a halt in the open hatchway. "Stay with Tim. He’ll show you the way," she ordered and gave O'Neill a short push in the right direction.

"But, Kris—"

Kristin flashed a glare over her shoulder, pinning her niece in place. "Consider it an order," she said very softly.

"Right," Terry exhaled and a nervous half smile curved her lips. She waited until Tim was standing just behind her in the hatchway before sedately descending the two stairs to the deck.

Tim O'Neill looked at his captain with a certain wide-eyed discomfort, but didn’t say anything, just followed Terry onto the deck.

Nathan watched them go with increasing nervousness. He knew what it must have looked like he was doing when Kristin entered and he was pretty sure that any protestations of innocence would only make him look even guiltier.

As he watched, Kristin closed the hatch behind the two young people. Probably to keep them from hearing his screams of pain. "Now, Kristin," Nathan said as he backed away from her. "This was completely innocent."

Kristin nodded, "Really?" she murmured as she advanced on him.

Nathan continued backing away until he bumped into the computer chair. "I was just helping her with an engineering problem," he valiantly tried to explain. He slipped into the chair, turning to face the screen. "There’s a vibration in the prototype," he explained nervously and pointed at the screen. He was hyper-aware of the woman as she drew near to his right shoulder. "I think we..."

She leaned down, peering at the screen.

Nathan’s voice rose a note as he pointed at the plans. "Found the prob...lem...here," he stammered.

Kristin slipped one arm around his shoulders and leaned close to his ear. "Nathan?"

"What?" he questioned worriedly.

"Would you like to know what I really think?"

That one stumped Bridger. Probably not—but then again, no way was he going to tell her that. He was still breathing. He’d just as soon keep it that way. "Ummmmm," he answered in a brilliant moment of conversational skill.

Kristin chuckled softly and pressed a slow kiss on one high cheekbone. "I think that was the sweetest thing I’ve seen in a long time."

Already geared up to defend himself, Nathan didn’t really register what she said. "Kristin, you really should know me well enough to know that I’d never—sweet?" he questioned, instantly changing tacks as her words sunk in.

"Sweet," Kristin confirmed.

That wasn’t the response he’d been expecting. Not at all. Not even close. "Ummmm," he repeated his earlier comment. "You mean you aren’t jealous?" he asked, sounding almost disappointed.

Kristin chuckled. "Not in the least. I know my niece well enough to be quite certain that if nothing else, her sense of self-preservation would have her haring out of here if you so much as looked at her cross-eyed...and as for you..."

"And as for me?" Nathan questioned, still wary of her mood.

Kristin trailed her lips down to the corner of his mouth, kissing him slowly. Nathan was drawn in despite himself. He turned his head toward her, mouth opening against hers. When the kiss broke they were both breathing hard.

"And as for me?" Nathan prompted again.

Kristin chuckled. "Let’s just leave it at, I know you well enough to know you didn’t do anything you shouldn’t have."

"I’m not sure that’s a compliment," Nathan grumbled.

"Besides, my niece could use a bit of responsible male influence," she added quite practically.

"And I know that’s not," Bridger complained.

"Poor baby," Kristin teased as she kissed him again. "Responsible and trustworthy. How will you survive the humiliation?"

Nathan harrumphed, looking at her askance. "So, why the angry act?" he asked after a moment.

Kristin grinned mysteriously. "I have my reasons."

"Brat," Nathan growled and slipped a hand around her waist, pulling her over and down onto his lap. Kristin straddled his hips as she settled on his thighs, then looped her arms around the back of his neck. She leaned down to kiss him slowly.

He slipped his hands up, spreading his fingers across the narrow expanse of her back. "Wretch," he muttered when the kiss broke. "You scared the hell out of me." He angled his head up to nip the point of her chin very lightly. "I thought I was dead there for a moment."

Kristin laughed deep in her throat as she nibbled on his ear, and worked her fingers through the overlong hair at the nape of his neck.

 The slow, heady kisses and caresses went on for a long time until Nathan suddenly broke his mouth from Kristin’s, leaning his forehead into the curve of her shoulder as he caught her hips in strong hands.

"Don’t move," he gasped.

"Nathan?" Kristin panted.

"Let’s just say this jumpsuit was never designed for this activity—and if you move, I’m going to be the one on the bridge giving orders in a falsetto."

"Oh, dear," Kristin exhaled and froze in place. "What do you...um...want me to do?"

"For just a moment...nothing...then we’ll talk," he murmured. Finally, he tightened his hold on her hips, lifting her up as he gingerly eased her off his lap.

"Sorry about that," she apologized.

Bridger kept his hands on her hips as he pushed to his feet. "Hazards of the game," he dismissed.

"Nathan, what are you..." she gasped as he suddenly lifted her onto the counter at her back. "Oh," she exhaled as he grinned knowingly and stepped forward to stand between the spread of her thighs. She pressed her hands flat against his chest as he leaned forward to taste the smooth curve of her jaw. "I think I should remind you," she panted, eyes rolling upward as he found a particularly sensitive spot in her throat. "That we’re aboard a launch at the moment." Callused hands tugged her shirt out of her waistband and slipped underneath to mold to velvety skin. "And it’s not even a seaQuest launch."

"I realize that," he agreed cheerfully. The top button of her jeans slipped free easily enough, as did the second and the third.

"Nathan," Kristin voice rose nearly an octave and she clutched at his shoulders. "I also feel I should remind you that if we get caught, this will be several times more embarrassing than the other morning."

"Uh-huh," he agreed, then kissed the tip of her nose.

"I don’t think you’re taking me seriously," Kristin complained.

"Not particularly," Nathan agreed. "Does this bra fasten in the front or the back?"

"The front," Kristin informed him, before continuing with her previous comments. "We are two mature adults, both of whom have beds and need not go about fooling around in a shuttle craft."

"The undersea equivalent of a ‘57 Chevy," Nathan murmured against her skin.

"Nathan," Kristin hissed his name, then trailed off into a low moan as his hands slipped over her body.

Bridger straightened enough to peer down into her dark eyes. "I’ll quit," he allowed solemnly, though his hands were still moving against her skin. "If you really want me to."

Kristin opened her eyes again, blinking up at her lover. Her pupils were dilated, making her already dark eyes near black with passion. Nathan Bridger had talented hands.

"Just say the word."

Very talented hands.

"And we’re out of here."

"Oh, shut up," Kristin growled as she slipped her arms around the back of his neck and tugged his head down.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ /////\\\\\\ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Um, Can I get you something to eat?" Tim O'Neill queried politely as he stared at Terry’s downbent head. They’d arrived in the mess hall together and while he was putting together a reasonable meal, all she seemed to have acquired was a tray, napkin and silverware. Upon doing that, she’d dropped into the nearest chair, and seemed to be intent on using her napkin as scratchpaper. Tim frowned as he tried to make sense of the indecipherable sketches and numbers she was scrabbling with what appeared to be an antique fountain pen.

She never looked up as she answered. "Some paper would be better...oh, and some chips or something like...and something with caffeine...preferably sweet. If all they have is coffee, loads of cream and sugar."

O'Neill's jaw worked soundlessly for a moment, then he shrugged, left his tray and went in search of what she’d asked for. He knew the course of true love was seldom easy, but he’d never realized before that it was inclined to be weird.

Focused on her sudden brainstorm, Terry never noticed when he left the table.

"Just waiting for your handsome prince to arrive," Ben Krieg oozed some minutes later when he dropped into the chair next to hers . "And here I am."

Across the room, Katherine Hitchcock abruptly stiffened, scowling at her ex-husband.

Ben preened a little more, enjoying the attention.

"Go away, Mister Krieg," Terry grumbled without looking up.

"Now, is that any way to talk to the love of your life...or at least the lust of the week."

Terry barely seemed to hear him as she leaned back in her chair, gnawing thoughtfully on a thumbnail as she drummed a loose rhythm against the tabletop with the pen in her hand. "If I reorient the angle of the housing and adjust the thermal coupling..." she muttered to herself, then fell silent as she did a series of mental calculations.

Ben’s hand landed on her knee. "You won’t have time for wild nights of passion with me," he quipped.

Hitchcock’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

Terry’s brows rose and she flashed an annoyed look at Ben as she peeled his hand up and dropped it back in his own lap. "Yes, well, every cloud has a silver lining, doesn’t it? Go away, Mister Krieg."

"You wound me," Ben claimed dramatically.

Terry massaged her temple. "I’d like to," she muttered, then refocused on the scrawled figures on the napkin.

"So, what is—" Ben said as he started to reach for Terry’s impromptu sketch pad. "OW!" he yelped loudly as he suddenly found his hand grasped and bent back double.

"Don’t touch!" Terry snapped and glared at him.

Krieg tugged his hand back and tried to massage the feeling back into it. "Sheez," he muttered, purposely sounding far more hurt than he actually was. "I was just trying to be friendly."

Terry flicked a glance his way, a hint of worry showing in her eyes. "Look, I’m sorry if I hurt you, but these figures are important," she explained guiltily.

Ben continued to rub his hand, and his expression became even more hangdog if such a thing was possible. He knew a soft-hearted sucker when he saw one. "It’s nothing," he whimpered and turned a sad-eyed look on her as he subtly scooted his chair a little closer.

Terry’s gaze narrowed suspiciously. "Good?" she murmured darkly.

"Still," Ben said thoughtfully as he slid another notch closer and slipped an arm across the back of her chair.

Terry noted the gesture with an arch look.

"You could make it up to me."

"Let me just guess how," Terry commented, then proceeded to elucidate. It wasn't a long list, but it was definitely an explicit one.

Ben’s mouth turned up in a lazy grin. "I knew we were simpatico."

Tim O'Neill's heard did a funny lurch as he rounded a corner into the mess hall just as Ben Krieg leaned close to Terry’s ear. He started to hurry away again, but Terry glanced up and instantly waved him over. "I’m...uh...sorry...to interrupt," he stammered as he drew near. He had a legal pad under one arm, and a coffee cup and bag of chips clutched in his other hand.

"Don’t worry about it," Terry said sweetly as she ducked out from under Ben’s arm and stood to help rid O'Neill of his burden.

With Terry’s back to him, Krieg motioned for O'Neill to go away. The lieutenant J.G. shoulders sagged in defeat. There was no way he could keep up with Krieg in any competition for a woman’s attention. The other man was better looking, smooth talking, confident, experienced. In short, he was everything Tim O'Neill wasn’t. "I’ll just go," he muttered haltingly and started to turn away. Terry’s hand wrapped around his palm, tugging him back before he could get more than a step. Tim’s eyes bugged faintly as they dropped to where her fingers were twined around his hand, the warmth of her skin making his pulse-rate accelerate.

"Mister Krieg was just leaving," she intoned as she twisted to pin a hard gaze on Ben

"But, I thought..." Krieg stammered.

Katie had noticed the interplay between Terry and Tim, and the anger drained from her expression to be replaced by curiosity.

Terry shook her head. "Still not interested. I’m having lunch with..." she paused as her brain blanked on Tim’s name. "Mister..." she swung her head back around, staring at Tim as she rifled through any available memories in search of an answer. "O’Neill." she exhaled suddenly, and turned back around before she caught a glimpse of the relief on his face.

Ben’s jaw dropped. "O’Neill?" he repeated as he glanced past her at the communications officer with a look of raw disbelief. He looked back at Terry. "O’Neill?" he said again.

"Yes," Terry growled, annoyed at the disbelief in Krieg’s voice. She looked back at Tim and saw the hurt on his face and made a fast decision that Krieg really needed to be put in his place. She turned back, still holding the lieutenant's hand, so that his arm wrapped around her waist as she moved. "I find..." she paused suddenly as she realized she had absolutely no idea what O'Neill's first name was.

"Tim," he whispered near her ear.

"Tim...enormously exciting."

Krieg’s eyes seemed about to bug out of his skull. "O’Neill?" he croaked again. "You’re joking...right?"

"Not at all," she drawled suggestively.

"O’Neill???"

"Mmhm," Terry agreed and turned in Tim’s stunned hold.

Panic glittered in O'Neill's eyes as he felt her hand glide up around the back of his neck. Her mouth twisted into a teasing grin, and he realized what she intended even as she tugged his head down. Tim’s brain went blank the instant he felt the first touch of her mouth against his. Instinct, however, is a mighty source of knowledge. It filled in the blank spots when his brain shut down. He tightened his hands on her slim waist, and his mouth warmed against hers.

Terry blinked, surprise showing in the crystal depths of her eyes as her breath caught. The kiss had only been meant to deliver a short upper cut to Krieg’s ego and gain this sweet-eyed man a bit of revenge. Suddenly it became something else entirely as an electric buzz went off at the back of her skull. Her eyes slid closed again and she promptly forgot all about Ben Krieg.

Krieg pushed out of his chair as he watched the two people kiss hungrily. "Real cute, guys," he muttered acidly.

They didn’t break apart.

"You can stop now. I’m suitably chastened."

The kiss went on.

"Look, a joke’s a joke, but this is getting ridiculous."

They never even heard him.

"I’ll just...uh...go...and you two can stop...this..." Krieg muttered as he stumbled away. He turned back at the doorway to stare at the two, still intertwined figures and shook his head. "I really don’t feel so good," he mumbled.

A soft snicker drew his attention and Ben turned to find his ex-wife watching the scene with an evil grin. He abruptly turned bright red with mortification. This was not at all what he’d intended. "This is not what it looks like," he blustered.

"Really?" Katie drawled. "You mean, you didn’t just try to pick up a woman, only to have her wind up checking out Tim O'Neill's tonsils instead?" She snickered again as Ben growled a curse under his breath.

"Which just shows how much you know. I was...helping the kid," he lied none-too-believably.

Katie’s grin only broadened.

"Giving him a little...advice..." Krieg sounded mildly nauseous as he noted the two were still glued together. "You’d think they’d need to come up for air," he said darkly.

Katie giggled.

Ben muttered a curse and hurried out, all too aware of the sound of his ex-wife’s laughter following him all the way.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ /////\\\\\\ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Weirder and weirder, Manilow Crocker decided as he exited the galley cooking area into the mess hall and came face to face with the entwined couple. This tour just keeps getting weirder and weirder. He considered ignoring them in the very real, but undoubtedly vain hope that the problem would just go away. He sighed heavily as he eyed the boxed sandwich for Celine Bovare, then looked back up at the still necking pair. That’s what they’d reduced him to—waiter and playground monitor. Next time the doc’s family decided to visit, he was seriously considering taking retirement, effective immediately. He was still debating his next line of action when Hitchcock broke in dryly.

"Y’think maybe they’re going for a record?" she questioned, tapping her watch as Crocker looked over.

Crocker noted her smirk with a disapproving look. "Seems to me you might want to worry about your own personal affairs instead of someone else’s," he deadpanned. "Wasn’t that Krieg I saw headed out of here?"

Hitchcock’s smirk disappeared instantly. "Yes," she grumbled.

Crocker shook his head. He really did not understand those two—and common sense told him that probably spoke well for his mental health. "Have you ever considered just following him and putting us all out of your misery?" Crocker ventured, half expecting Hitchcock to make an attempt on his life for the suggestion.

Katie’s jaw dropped in shock, not so much at the suggestion as the fact that it was the security chief who made it.

Crocker decided to beat a hasty retreat while he was still breathing and hurried toward the still clinched pair. As he reached them, he tapped O'Neill lightly on one shoulder.

There was an answering groan from somewhere in the general region of the lieutenant’s mouth. It had the same rhythm as, "Go away," though it actually sounded more like "Mpho Glay."

Crocker arched one heavy brow, and decided he’d had it. "Lieutenant!" he barked in fair imitation of a drill sergeant’s voice.

The hormonally excited pair broke apart and Tim O'Neill jerked back, automatically snapping to attention. "Sir?" he exhaled raggedly as his brain kick-started itself back to reality with an earth shattering thud.

Her equilibrium completely and totally shattered, Terry leaned against a nearby chair. Swallowing hard, she struggled to catch her breath, while staring at Tim with wide, disbelieving eyes. "Whoda thunk it?" she murmured at last.

Crocker snapped a hard glare on the young woman and she instantly fell silent. "Having fun?" he inquired overly-politely.

O'Neill turned bright cherry red and appeared to be having trouble getting air into his lungs.

"Breathe, Mister O’Neill," Crocker ordered and waited while the young man got his lack of ventilation under control.

"I...um...that is...ahhhh..." Tim’s voice trailed off into an appropriately panicked whimper when he could speak again.

Crocker turned his gaze on the young woman standing next to the lieutenant, noting as he did so, the distinct glaze over her eyes. "And you?" he questioned. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

"I...uh...well, yeah," she admitted at last. "I think I did." She looked up at O'Neill with an expression of disbelief. "And believe me, that is not the answer I would have predicted a few minutes ago."

O'Neill groaned as though he suddenly wasn’t feeling at all well. "I...ah...this is not what it looks like," he stammered nervously, and was treated to twin stares of doubt from both the security chief and the woman he had been kissing only moments before. "That is...could someone just shoot me now...please?"he moaned at last.

"Tempting a thought as that might be," Crocker mused aloud and Tim quailed under the disapproving look the security chief turned on him. "I have a better punishment in mind." He handed the boxed lunch to O’Neill. "From now until your next shift, you have a new assignment, look after Celine Bovare. You can start by taking her lunch."

Tim stared at the box with mute horror. Everyone aboard the seaQuest had already heard the rapidly spreading horror stories about the psychic. "Couldn’t you just shoot me instead?" he murmured hopefully.

Crocker grinned at the young man, suddenly feeling much happier about the day as he foisted the much hated duty off on someone else. "Nope, sorry. She’s on seadeck, communing with Darwin, so you’d better hurry."

Terry abruptly shook free of the post oral daze and demanded, "Good lord, don’t tell me she’s started holding séances with long dead evolutionists?"

"Darwin’s a dolphin," Tim explained as he stared at the box in his hands in dull disbelief. The priests were right. God really did punish you for impure thoughts and actions. Frankly, he suspected he’d have preferred the lightning bolts they’d promised.

"Dolphin? You’ve got a dolphin aboard and you left Celine alone with him?" Terry demanded of Crocker.

"Well, yeah...I mean...she wouldn’t hurt him or anything, would she?" Crocker asked, sudden worry showing in his voice and eyes at the thought.

"Hurt...no," Terry dismissed instantly. "Severely annoy...yes. I keep telling her it’s not politically correct, irritating endangered species like that, but..." She shrugged helplessly.

"Maybe we should go check on them," Crocker said worriedly.

"Probably a good idea," Terry agreed as she reached for the napkin with its scrawled notes. She folded it and tucked it in a breast pocket as she considered the problem. "You’re dolphin isn’t prone to high blood pressure or anything like that, is he?" she asked at last.

"Maybe we should hurry," Crocker muttered and started toward the door, shepherding the young woman ahead of himself.

"Wait for me," O'Neill muttered, hurrying after them. Having at last found an attractive female responsive to his masculine charms, he had no intention of letting her out of his sight.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ /////\\\\\\ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Ben Krieg spun the lock on the door to his cabin with extra force as he glared at the smooth grey steel. It was bad enough that he’d bombed out not once but twice with Kristin’s niece, but the second time, Katie hadn’t even been jealous. She’d laughed. Laughed at him. At him. Ben Krieg.

Krieg growled a curse and began stripping off his uniform. HA—he’d show her. He’d...

Ben froze, uncertain exactly what it was he’d do.

There had to be something. He mentally searched for a way of putting his ex-wife in her place.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

She’d gotten him. She’d finally, completely and thoroughly gotten him.

By refusing to be jealous (of course, she’d had help in that area—how jealous could she get of a woman who’d been busy checking Tim O'Neill's dental work), she had completely put him in his place—then added insult to injury and laughed about it.

Ben rapped his forehead into the wall several times. It wasn’t likely to help him think up a way to get back at Katie for the egregious sin of not being jealous, but it made him feel better.

He’d been enjoying the game just that morning when Katie had turned green and looked like she’d have enjoyed a chance to fire Theresa Westphalen out the nearest torpedo tube. He’d figured to have another fun round, but somehow it all blew up in his face—Terry wound up merrily kissing O'Neill instead of him...

And Katie wasn’t even jealous.

Ben rapped his forehead against the wall a few more times for good measure—and almost didn’t hear the similarly timed knock on his cabin door.

"Be there in a sec’," he calling, rubbing his, now-sore skull as he moved to unlock the hatch. He pulled up short as he recognized the slim, dark-haired figure standing in the corridor.

Katie.

And she was grinning.

"Look, you’ve already had your laughs," he growled. "So, if you’ll excuse me, I’d just as soon lick my wounds in peace." He started to close the hatch and turn away, but she blocked the door with her hand.

"Are you sure you couldn’t use some help?" she asked huskily.

Ben frowned. She’d almost sounded—no—he cut that thought off really quickly—the last thing Katie is ever gonna do is—

"Licking your wounds, that is?" Hitchcock added, and this time her voice had a distinctly sultry note to it.

Ben’s brain went absolutely blank as he slowly pivoted back around to face his ex-wife. "Huh?" he exhaled as though he’d been punched.

Katie’s mouth turned up in a suggestive grin and she reached out to play with the zipper tab on the front of his uniform.

"Very funny," he seethed, deciding that this was just some twisted idea of a joke on her part. He peeled her hand away, not wanting to admit, even to himself, how much he wished the offer was for real. With his head down, he completely missed the brief expression of disappointment that crossed her face before it was replaced with hostility.

She jerked her hand back with a solid yank. "Just offering a quickie out of pity. After all—"

"Pity?" Ben cut her off angrily. He thrust his face forward until they were nose to nose. "Trust me, I don’t need any pity. I think you’re just looking for an excuse to get your hands on my body."

"Excuse?" Katie repeated. "To get my hands on your body. Why you arrogant, egotistical, overblown, blowhard! The only excuse a woman needs with you is ‘hey wanna—"

Ben kissed her.

Hard.

Katie knew she should jerk back and slap him.

Hard.

But...

He really did know how to kiss. She’d forgotten just how well he knew how to kiss...and while...of course...she couldn’t stand him...really, was there any sin in enjoying the kiss for just another moment?

It occurred to Ben Krieg that he was rapidly getting in over his head as Katie’s hands dug into his lapels, dragging him even closer, and making him very aware of the press of her breasts against his chest.

On the other hand, there were worse places to be.

He dropped his hands to the easy curve of her hips, dragging her pelvis against his.

Katie broke the kiss suddenly, swallowing hard as she looked up at him with wide, passion glazed eyes. "Ummm," she gasped. "I...is that?"

Ben grinned and tightened his hold on her hips.

"I still won’t respect you in the morning," she warned him.

"I wouldn’t have it any other way," Ben admitted.

"Good," Katie sighed and hauled his mouth back down to hers.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ /////\\\\\\ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Manilow Crocker pulled up short as he skidded onto the seadeck. Celine was folded into a lotus position in the middle of the room, her eyes closed in a pose of studied serenity. The only clue that something wasn’t right was the sight of Darwin’s dorsal fin rapidly circling the tight confines of the moon pool. "Maybe we should activate the vocoder," he muttered at last. "I have funny feeling we’ll learn more from that than from Ms. Bovare."

Terry raised an eyebrow. "Vocoder?" she repeated the unfamiliar word on a questioning note.

"It’s a sort of translator," Tim stammered.

"For what?" Terry demanded.

"For Darwin," Crocker said flatly. "It lets us communicate with him, and him with us."

Terry’s eyes swung back and forth between the two men. "Let me get this straight. You talk to your dolphin...and you think he answers back?" she chuckled softly and rolled her eyes.

Tim crouched down beside the pool, and reached out to flip a switch on the walkie talkie-like device. "Uh, chief," Tim inserted before she could say anymore. "It’s already on."

"Of course it is," Terry agreed with the same tone one might use while addressing someone laced tightly into a straight jacket. "Guess Flipper’s not in the mood to chat, huh?"

Darwin’s silver head broke the surface of the water and a series of emphatic clacks and whistles echoed across the room.

Suddenly, as if in response to the dolphin, Celine’s voice boomed across them all. "Zhew are an old zoul!" She chanted in a trance-like tempo.

"Darwin not old!" the vocoder proclaimed .

"What the hell was that?!" Terry yelped.

"Flipper," Crocker answered with a satisfied smile.

"Oh."

"Born at zhe beginning of time!" Celine continued with her transcendental proclamations.

"DARWIN NOT OLD!!" Darwin repeated in frustrated fury.

"Guess Flipper’s part of the twenty-nine-for-life crowd, huh?"

Darwin arced up out of the water to stare at the three newcomers. The perpetually smiling dolphin appeared to be gritting his teeth and glaring. This was not a good sign. "Make bright haired, black-box lady go away!" Darwin ordered through the vocoder.

Terry shrugged. "Guess that means you’re telling the truth about that translator," she commented. At Tim’s questioning look, she elaborated. "That’s how everyone reacts after being locked up alone with Celine for a few minutes."

"What do we do?" Tim questioned his superior.

"What black boxes?" Terry questioned Darwin.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ /////\\\\\\ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"I do not believe we just did that," Kristin groaned as she returned to conscious awareness.

Nathan grunted something incomprehensible, but didn’t turn his face away from her shoulder.

Kristin shifted slightly as she realized a keyboard was starting to make an uncomfortable dent in her lower back. "Er, Nathan," she whispered at last, and pushed lightly on his chest with one hand. "Do you think you could move over a bit?"

He groaned softly, lifting a hand from her hip to brace it against the wall at her back and push upright. "I think we may have finally pushed the envelope a little too hard," he wheezed and rolled his shoulders, trying to work the kinks out.

Kristin didn’t argue, just twisted around and yanked the keyboard out from behind herself, tossing it aside with wordless vehemence.

Nathan noted the gesture with a raised eyebrow. "Was that back there the whole time?" he asked.

She nodded eyeing the offending piece of equipment with a disgusted look.

"Wasn’t that a bit uncomfortable?"

Kristin shrugged. "Truthfully, after the first few seconds, I forgot about it?"

One corner of his mouth turned up in a wry smile. "I guess that’s a compliment," he murmured dubiously.

Kristin reached up under her blouse and began trying to refasten her bra. "Well, it’s certainly not an insult."

"You do realize," Nathan commented as he struggled to pull his own somewhat worse-for-the-wear attire together. "That we are going to look like we have been to the wars when we leave this launch?"

Kristin arched on neat eyebrow. "Don’t blame me. This was your idea."

"It was, wasn’t it?" Nathan admitted. "But you started it when you sat on my lap."

"After you pulled me down."

Nathan chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip. "I guess that means I get the blame either way."

Kristin grinned and chucked him under the chin. "And the credit," she drawled suggestively.

Nathan stared at her thoughtfully. "I can live with that," he decided out loud. He ducked his head, tasting her lips with tender abandon. Kristin arched up to meet his kiss, slipping her hands up his chest. She tugged on the white turtleneck he’d never managed to get off in the midst of the mad dash.

"Next time," she murmured through his kiss. "All this comes off."

Nathan chuckled appreciatively. "You won’t get any argument from me," he murmured and gave the neckline of her t-shirt a quick, suggestive tug. He was about to make another remark when his PAL chirped for attention. Nathan glared at the thing. "I really hate these," he muttered as he activated it. "Bridger, here," he growled, hoping the tiny microphone couldn’t pick up Kristin’s background giggle.

"Uh, yeah, Cap...this is Crocker. Sorry to bother you, but I really think you should get down to seadeck."

Background voices echoed clearly over the tiny speaker, answering Bridger’s question about whether the mike had picked up Kristin’s voice—undoubtedly it had.

"What the hell is that?" Terry’s voice warbled, then Tim O'Neill's nervous tones broke in.

"I’m really not sure you should be up there."

"Just a sec, Cap," Crocker said, then called out. "O'Neill's right, that shelf is slippery."

"There’s something up there," Terry called back.

"Just get down and leave it alone," Crocker ordered, though it was obvious from the timbre of his sigh that she ignored him. "Cap," he addressed Bridger again. "Madame Bovare’s here, and Darwin is not happy."

"Darwin not old!" came the high pitched, emphatic support for that comment.

Nathan glanced at Kristin who nodded knowingly. "Right, Chief. On my way." He didn’t mention he might be a few minutes, owing to the need to find his shoes. He was about to shut the link off when there was a sudden explosion of sound. "CROCKER!" Nathan shouted into the link. "What the hell was that?!"

The security chief’s only response was a stunned. "Omigodomigodomigod."

While in the background Tim O'Neill could be heard chanting, "Hail Mary, full of grace..."

And Terry shouted. "What have you done this time, Celine?!"

Then there was another screeching, nails-on-a-blackboard din of noise and a high-pitched scream, then the link went silent.

"CHIEF!" Nathan shouted into the com-unit. "CHIEF!" he tried again, then hit the signal for the bridge.

"Bridge, Ortiz here."

"Ortiz, this is Bridger, put Ford on," Nathan ordered impatiently as he struggled to talk and put his uniform back together.

There was a brief pause as though Miguel couldn’t quite decide what to say. "He’s not here at the moment, sir."

Nathan snarled a curse under his breath. "Get an emergency crew to seadeck. We may have a situation."

"Sir?" Ortiz questioned.

"Possible explosion. I was speaking to Crocker when there was hell of a noise, then the connection went dead."

"Understood, sir," Miguel clipped, his manner instantly all business.

"Then get Ford, and tell him to get his ass onto the bridge," Nathan ordered. Kristin touched his arm with a light hand. She had yanked her clothes together, though her feet were still bare. He had a vague memory of pitching her shoes over his shoulder which meant they could be anywhere in the dim interior of the launch—along with his own footwear.

Her eyes were scared, and she pointed toward the hatch as she mouthed, "I’m going."

Nathan knew he couldn’t dissuade her, particularly since they were only moments away from seadeck, but he caught her hand, pulling her back, despite a hard tug. "I’m on my way over there, now," Nathan informed Miguel.

"Understood, sir."

"Bridger, out," Nathan clipped, barely waiting for Miguel’s sign off before he was out of the hatch, his hand still linked with Kristin’s.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ /////\\\\\\ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~