Chris was used with Guine's input and approval.
Date: Monday, December 1st, 2014


Word Count: 918

Paris sat up on the bathroom counter, watching Chris begin December by removing the remnants of No Shave November.

“I'm going to miss it,” she sighed.

Chris eyed her, the look he gave her bordering on a small glare. He paused to roll his eyes, then switched his gaze back to the mirror and went about his routine as if Paris wasn't there.

“It's not such a bad thing, you know,” Paris told him. “I always found facial hair kind of sexy. Actually, if I think about all of the guys I've been with, most of them had—”

“Paris,” Chris said.

She shut her mouth immediately, recognizing the tone of impatience in a his voice.

“Oh, come on, you can't really be that uncomfortable about it,” she said. “None of them meant anything. Besides, I know all about you and Skye, and that girl at summer camp when you were fourteen. How old was she, by the way?”

“Old enough to know better.”

“Anyway,” Paris continued, waving one of her hands as if to banish the conversation, “all that's done and over with. Now it's just you and me.”

Chris mumbled something, showing the mirror one of his more serious faces. Paris watched him curiously, leaning over toward him in an attempt to look into his eyes.

“What was that?” she asked.

A sigh was her first response. Her second was a grumbled, “You and me and a bunch of ghosts.”

Paris flinched, gaped at Chris as if he'd wounded her, and gave her head a brief shake like she was trying not to be hurt by what he'd said. She knew what he meant by it, of course. They had similar conversations enough for her to recognize jealousy when she saw it. Chris suspected her of taking things at her homeworld a little too far. He could never really understand what it all meant to her, not having the deep connection with Valhalla that she had with Ganymede.

She frowned at him sadly, shifting along the counter to draw closer to him. She invaded his personal space, met his sharp look of annoyance with a tiny smile, and nudged him in the side with her knee. He stopped shaving to put a hand on her thigh, restraining her.

“Those ghosts aren't here,” she said. “And when they are around, it's never for long.”

“Don't pretend like you didn't nag at me about No Shave November because of Serge,” Chris countered.

Paris gaped again. She couldn't think of an appropriate response and so kept her silence.

“You can't even deny it,” Chris said.

“Does it really bother you?” she asked.

“I'm not Serge,” he said.

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” Paris insisted. “Come on, seriously, where is this coming from anyway? You're being unfair. I know the difference between reality and what happened a long time ago. You're not Serge and I'm not Liesel.”

“You don't always act like you believe that,” Chris said. He switched his serious look back to her, his face half covered with shaving cream. The other half was smooth and hairless.

How was she supposed to respond to that? It seemed obvious to her that Chris wasn't going to think otherwise no matter what she said, and if she were to be completely honest with herself she had to admit that Chris did have a bit of a point. Sometimes she liked to think they were meant to be. She saw Liesel's memories of Serge as proof of that.

Unconsciously, Paris stroked the palm of her right hand with the opposite thumb, tracing the line of a scar that only appeared as haunting gold light when she transformed. Chris noticed the motion, flicking his eyes down and frowning severely. Paris put a stop to it as soon as she realized, moving her hands to grip at the counter instead.

“Is it so bad?” she wondered. “It only means something to me because I love you so much.”

That had Chris looking at her in exasperation again, though Paris thought that was better that disbelief and betrayal.

He didn't say anything else to her. Instead, he returned to the mirror and went right back to shaving. His hands were steady even as a storm continued to brew in his eyes. Paris sat quietly and watched him, occasionally brushing against him like she thought the brief moments of physical contact would soothe him.

It did somewhat. Once he was done and had rinsed his face, Paris slid off the counter to stand next to him. She took the bottle of aftershave from him before he could do it himself, pouring some into her hands and gently applying it to his face. His eyes stared into hers the entire time. She thought he might be looking for proof that she meant what she said, or evidence to the contrary. Whatever he saw as she stared up at him seemed to settle him for the moment, because he heaved a sigh, closed his eyes, and touched his forehead to hers.

“There's my Pooh Bear,” she said once she'd finished with the aftershave, framing his face between her palms.

Chris snorted humorlessly, but when he opened his eyes again they were back to the warmth she was used to.

Resolutely putting the conversation behind her, Paris leaned up and pressed her mouth to Chris's in a long, lingering kiss.