Their Mouths Silent
by Suz

Disclaimer - I guess Paramount own them.

Could - kind of - be considered a response to the 1001 'what happens when they get home?' challenge.

Mark story.


He watches. He ignores the screams of reporters, the jostling people, the demands for answers to questions not directed at him. He watches.

She speaks. The crowd become quieter, their movements less sudden. She captivates them with her words, her eyes. They are drawn in, not wanting to but believing in what she says anyway.

They question. They are firm but kind. Genuinely curious. A ripple of laughter passes through the crowd as she raises a Vulcan-like eyebrow in a deliberate attempt at humour.

She answers. He watches as she answers, as she continues to delight them, as their eyes follow her every movement no matter how subtle.

Someone demands. Someone in the crowd who isn't captivated, who doesn't believe in everything she says. A chilling silence falls over them, shocked expressions regarding the one who spoke.

She moves. Into the crowd, passing person after person, not needing to ignore questions because - for now, for once - their lips are unmoving. Their mouths silent.

She stares. Reaching the woman who spoke, she mutters something incomprehensible to anyone else, then turns to look at the man she had been standing next to. She shouts something - a private joke - that makes the man smile.

The man. The man has studied her this whole time, as he has, although not in the same way. The man sees something different when he looks at her.

She walks. Done with the woman who demanded, her feet carry her back to stand next to the man - her friend. Her compatriot. The buzz from the crowd returns.

Her compatriot. Leaning towards her, whispering words for her, sharing thoughts he can express with no one else. Her compatriot seems amused by something.

A name. His name. His wife is suddenly next to him, whispering his name. Enticing. He cannot go yet. Cannot leave. He needs to see, needs some kind of proof.

She touches. Moved or pleased or surprised by something the man says, she reaches out and touches him. It is brief, barely there, but he sees it. He wonders if anyone else has, but realises they must have.

Her compatriot. The man. The man is lost. The man was lost a long time ago. That will be enough. It will have to be.

His wife. Her fingers play over his skin, intoxicating. His resistance is gone, does not even want to exist. Turning, he clutches her hand and murmurs something.

She runs. Still clutching his hand, his wife runs, trying to get them back to the hotel.

He pauses. Before he can leave entirely, he looks back. She is speaking to them, thanking people, and the man's shoulder always touches hers.

His wife. His hand tightens around his wife's, and he turns back to something he could never have done with her.

They run.


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