on the Passion”
Author: Briar Rose
Website: All my stories can be found here,
Disclaimer: I think, for once, I own every
word. Nope, I'm wrong, two of them belong to Star Trek. Rats.
Ask anyone their fondest, earliest memory from when they were a child, and they'll tell you something about a birthday party, or a favorite Christmas present, or a trip to visit their grandparents. Not me.
I remember the sounds of my parents making love. The rhythmic pounding of their headboard against the wall; the sound of my mother's breath, coming in great gasps as she tried to be quiet and not wake me; my father's drawn out, satisfied sigh of release.
Some kids would listen to their parents argue; their heads pressed against their bedroom doors, or buried under their covers as their parents battled in either fierce whispers or shouted accusations. I would only hide when the silence invaded.
In my home, the arguments were never hidden, but neither was the peacemaking afterward. I would watch them soften, after hours or minutes of avoidance. They would circle each other, orbiting like a planet and its rouge moon, never leaving the other's system, but seldom in sensor range, either.
Until they would start to soften.
That was always the best part. The most wonderful thing to watch. One would track the other with their eyes, noting every move, every shift in position or mood. The other would try to hold onto their anger, their outraged dignity, but I could tell when the shields would start to come down. A tiny smile in their mate's direction; a slight dropping of the shoulders; a hand that would stray too close, then make the barest contact; fingers trailing over skin or cloth. And then I knew they were all right.
I should have been embarrassed by all those hormones zapping and zinging around my house, but I wasn't. It taught me a valuable lesson. Several valuable lessons: sex is fun, never settle, and be certain the person you choose to spend your life with can bring as much passion to an argument as they bring to the bedroom. Arguing is big with Klingons, remember that.
Psychologists will tell you that make-up sex is just another way to avoid the argument. They're full of shit. By the time I was fourteen, I used to wonder if the argument wasn't just a pretext for the sex; like it was some sort of advanced foreplay. They certainly seemed to enjoy the 'making-up' part.
So, I guess my favorite childhood memory would have to be that look in my father's eyes and my mother's answering smile. Then they'd disappear for a while--a few minutes, or an hour--asking me to look after my little brother while they checked the acoustic inverter on the sonic shower. They knew they weren't fooling me, but I don't think they had any idea that they were teaching me something. Something I hoped I'd taught you.
So I'm sorry if Daddy and I kept you awake while you were growing up, honey, I know how you like to sleep. But it looks to me like you learned a little something too, huh?
And stop referring to my son-in-law as 'that
asshole p'taQ' and call him. Or better yet, get in that shuttle and
go home. And when you make up tonight, be loud! Shake that
bedpost till it rattles! I want some grandchildren: I have a whole
lifetime of accumulated knowledge to pass on and I'm not getting any younger.
All stories by Briar Rose
All characters, concepts, photos, images, & terminology belong to Paramount Pictures. No infringement is intended.