[ Claire tries not thinking, focusing on the just doing instead, fitting fingers into the creases left behind as she bends them to press her nails into the fabric of his shirt. The toes of her boots squeak into the floor, giving her a little leverage to kiss him back, but her heels meet the ground again before she's really prepared for it. Time is relative and usually goes by far too quickly when you need it to slow down just for a second, and trying not to think is always an impossibility given how many thoughts assault you from every direction once you really commit to trying.
She worries about staining his clothing, but she's mostly dry or just sticky in the places where it matters the most, and listens to the rattle of his voice behind his breastbone as she steps in close and leans her forehead into his clavicle. In her head she starts counting, says nothing, and breathes in until she thinks can taste a mixture of odd ingredients: familiar coppery tang and smoke not from cigarettes, lingering detergent and whatever else xenogen might conjure up.
Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine. Thirty. Her expression is firm when she steps back. She nods toward the doorway. ]
[ Severus leaves one hand on the back of her head, fingers not-quite tangled in her blood caked hair, until he has to step away. He brushes his thumb over her lower lip and offers a half-smile that's, for him, pretty good.
He doesn't think he'll die. It seems too noble of a mission for him to die; this might make him look good postmortem, and part of him is sure that's not allowed.
Finally Severus disengages entirely, and leaves. ]
[ She isn't sure how long she stands there, but it can't amount to much longer than it takes Severus to vacate her line of sight followed by a few heavy beats of silence. Although silence isn't technically true, given the general calamity of medbay and the ship itself. Every few minutes it feels like there is some kind of shout or scream or something toppling over.
Claire ignores it, for the time being, looking down at her fingernails and the darkened lines of her hands. After a little while, she finds her way into one of the bathrooms and stands underneath the spray until the water stops looking like rust, and doesn't think. ]
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no subject
She worries about staining his clothing, but she's mostly dry or just sticky in the places where it matters the most, and listens to the rattle of his voice behind his breastbone as she steps in close and leans her forehead into his clavicle. In her head she starts counting, says nothing, and breathes in until she thinks can taste a mixture of odd ingredients: familiar coppery tang and smoke not from cigarettes, lingering detergent and whatever else xenogen might conjure up.
Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine. Thirty. Her expression is firm when she steps back. She nods toward the doorway. ]
Go.
no subject
He doesn't think he'll die. It seems too noble of a mission for him to die; this might make him look good postmortem, and part of him is sure that's not allowed.
Finally Severus disengages entirely, and leaves. ]
no subject
Claire ignores it, for the time being, looking down at her fingernails and the darkened lines of her hands. After a little while, she finds her way into one of the bathrooms and stands underneath the spray until the water stops looking like rust, and doesn't think. ]