Author's note: I stole the title for this fic from a song by Dan Seals, as that song inspired this, but this is not a songfic.

Disclaimer: WEP owns Voltron.

You Still Move Me

It's late. I don't even have the excuse of not knowing just how late, as I just heard the tower clock strike midnight. I have to be up early tomorrow, I'm tired, but I can't sleep at all. I've lain here quietly for hours, but I'm still awake.

As quietly as possible, I get up, trying not to disturb her. Or, rather, I try to disturb her as little as I can. I know she's been feigning sleep for at least an hour, waiting for me to say something. Or waiting for me to leave her. It's become a habit of mine, these past few nights. I can't sleep, so I get up and try to walk myself into exhaustion. It worked, so I'll try it again.

The moonlight streaming in the window falls on her, turning her into a glowing ivory statue, crowned with gold. Her long hair is coiled up into a braid, flowing down her back. Having pulled on my clothes, I bend over to lightly touch her cheek. Her eyes flutter open, shadowed. I smile at her, and kiss her gently. Sleepily, she leans into the kiss, one hand reaching up to cover mine.

"I can't sleep," I whisper against her lips. "I'm going to go for a walk. I'll be back soon." I promise, I tell her with my eyes. Her fingers squeeze mine for an instant, then she releases me. I understand, the clasp of her hand says.

Silently, I slip from our bedchamber. She does understand, I know. She has seen the part of myself that I keep hidden from everyone else, she has heard all of my regrets and shame. In spite of it all, she loves me. She loved me enough to give up her place in the succession. Because of me, she will never be the great queen she could have been. Courageous and intelligent, beautiful and regal, a package I could never have hoped to attain otherwise. She chose to marry me, a commoner despite my military rank and decorations, and her people punished her for it. I told her we could go anywhere in the galaxy she wanted, if it was too painful to stay. She smiled at me and shook her head. "My place is here, Sven. It has always been here."

I love her. She saved me from myself, saved me from losing my mind while we were on Doom. She brought me back from despair, made me return to face my fears, and stood by me through it all. For all that, I am grateful. But I don't love her because of it.

I recognize the difference between gratitude and love. The reasons I love her are much more intangible than that. With all that has passed between us, I can't even say that I need to protect her, because she's just as able to protect herself as any man. But I love her. I would never hurt her.

But still . . . sometimes I feel there is something missing. It's nothing I can put my finger on, but it nags at me.

I wander out of the courtyard, down into the city that has sprung up around the newly constructed spaceport. My walking is aimless; the city lights are merely a destination. I have no particular place in mind to go. As I have been for so many nights, I am alone with my thoughts.

But I am forced to pay attention to what goes on around me. Even at this late hour, the city is abuzz with people, with life. The spaceport is open all day and night, as people come from and go to other places in the galaxy. Of course, it is not nearly so busy now. But there are still many places of business open.

Finding that my feet have brought me down a familiar street, I sigh. I wasn't really planning to come here again. I hesitate, hand on the door to the bar. Romelle must think that I'm a closet drunkard, or that I'm going to houses of ill repute. I'll go home smelling of stale smoke and ale . . .

I know the thought is unfair even as I think it. She would think no such thing, but many other women would, if their husbands were out late at night, and came home smelling of smoke. I really shouldn't.

But I enter the bar anyway. Maybe I need the illusion of company. The sound overwhelms me.

The bartender knows me, but doesn't call out my name, just smiles and nods. I've been here often enough recently that he knows my preferences. As I reach the polished bar, he says softly, so I have to strain to hear him over the noise, "Your usual, Sven?"

I nod. Within seconds, my usual- a glass of water with a twist of lime- is set before me. I thank him, then turn to survey the other people who have left warm beds and loving spouses.

I almost drop my glass when I see him.

For a second, a bare, impossible second, I think it's you.

He's down at the other end of the bar, his back to me, looking at something or someone else. I thank all the gods for that, as I devour him with my eyes.

If I squint just slightly, let everything blur around the edges, I can imagine it is you. The nearly perfect line of his shoulders, neither too broad nor too narrow. The way his back narrows into that slim waist and hips. The way his muscles in his arm, his back, flow so gracefully as he moves. The hair is almost too long, too curly, resting against his shoulders. In the dim light, I can't tell what color it is. He even holds his cigarette the same way, carelessly flicking it into the nearby ashtray.

My lips shape your name, soundlessly, wishing he was you . . .

The yearning that I feel takes my breath away. It's so strong, so terrible and powerful that I can see only you, only you. Everything else fades away, insignificant compared to this . . . this need. I want you. I need you.

Unbidden, I recall your smooth skin beneath my fingers, covering the hard muscles of your body, the raw silk of your hair. Your laughter rings in my ears, with your quiet words of love. I can see again your tender smiles, and your devilish grins . . .

Your accusing eyes.

Your bitter words.

Your hurt, stabbing into my heart.

I longed to say what you wanted to hear. But I couldn't bring myself to lie. Not to you.

In that moment that seems to last an eternity, I find that I am a hair's breadth away from flinging myself at you, crying your name, begging you to hold me again . . . to love me again . . .

"Sven?"

That easily, the spell is broken. I turn to the bartender, who is staring at me in some concern. "Are you all right? You look . . . pale, all of a sudden."

I force a smile. "I just thought I saw someone I used to know."

I look back to the end of the bar. He's gone.

But it wasn't you. I should have known better.

I set my untouched glass back on the bar. "What do I owe you?" After half-heartedly arguing about the tab, I pretend not to be aware of the credit note I leave on the bar, and the bartender pretends not to see it. His towel swipes near it and it disappears.

The night air is cold when I leave. Funny how I didn't notice it before. It bites deep into me as I hurry back to the castle.

But outside our door, I stop. That yearning is still with me. And suddenly, I know that it will always be with me, even through my love for Romelle. The next time I see someone who reminds me of you, will she be there, to see it in my eyes?

She knows me so well. Would she understand?

How can I tell her about you?

I know she's still awake. I know she heard my steps approach the door, and that my hesitation in entering is wracking her nerves. I slide the door open and slip inside. I strip off my clothes and fold them neatly onto the chair before crawling back into bed. Immediately, I take her warm, lax body in my arms and hold her close. She stirs against me and I breathe in the scent of her.

"I love you."

Perhaps I'm wrong. The day might never come when I see someone so like you. But as long as she knows I love her . . .

I can barely make out the words she murmurs against my chest. "Love you, too."

Her peace of mind is worth the small bit of guilt I feel.

***

January 15, 2002

© randi (K. Shepard), 2002.