Epilogue Part 1
Advanced Partnership Protocols
Dominique
I’ve discovered that nothing in the galaxy is more entertaining than watching a hyper-disciplined Gluxian try to maintain his composure while I systematically dismantle it with the precision of a master tactician.
Especially when that Gluxian is my husband, my OOPS partner, and my willing accomplice in what Mother Morrison now calls “the most successful protocol deviation in postal service history.”
A year. It’s been exactly one standard year, three months, two weeks, and five days since Diplomat Merida Toner declared us free agents and Mother sent us on our “cultural research” mission to Huxaria Prime.
Twelve months since we legally became partners in every sense that matters, and Wi’kar still gets that particular shade of midnight blue in his patterns when anyone mentions our honeymoon assignment.
Not that it was technically a honeymoon.
Officially, we were conducting diplomatic courier services and inter-species compatibility research.
Unofficially, we spent three weeks at the galaxy’s most exclusive couples’ resort learning exactly how compatible we could be.
AXIS still has those mission reports filed under “Educational Protocols: Comprehensive Research and Development” with a security classification that makes Mother snort with amusement every time someone requests access.
Currently, I’m sprawled across our king-sized bunk in our significantly upgraded quarters aboard the Protocol Prime—now officially registered as a two-person courier vessel with “specialized diplomatic capabilities.” The space has evolved dramatically over the past year, transforming from Wi’kar’s sterile efficiency pod into something that actually resembles a home designed for two people who occasionally need to kill time between planets in creative ways.
My side of the quarters features what Wi’kar diplomatically calls “organized creative chaos”: intelligence reports scattered across a custom-built research station, a collection of “liberated” cultural artifacts from our various missions, and what Mother Morrison euphemistically termed my “tactical wardrobe options”—disguises ranging from innocent trade delegate to sultry information broker, each carefully catalogued by my perfectionist husband according to mission effectiveness ratings.
His side remains pristine, naturally. Color-coded uniforms arranged by frequency of use, precision equipment organized according to both function and aesthetic appeal, and a growing collection of cultural gifts from grateful clients who appreciate OOPS’s dedication to discretion and our particular brand of problem-solving efficiency.
The datapad in my hands displays our latest assignment briefing, and I’m trying very hard not to laugh at Mother’s increasingly creative attempts to send us on romantic missions disguised as legitimate courier work.
This time, it’s a “cultural exchange” mission to the crystalline cities of Joid'oria Prime, where the local nobility apparently requires “specialized diplomatic courier services with proven inter-species relationship expertise.”
Mother’s not even pretending anymore. She’s essentially running a matchmaking service for the galaxy’s most notorious reformed fugitives, and we’re her star success story.
The door to our quarters slides open with its familiar soft hiss, and Wi’kar steps inside carrying a steaming mug of what I know is perfectly calibrated morning stimulant blend—two parts Alterian coffee, one part Terran tea, with a micro-dose of Centauri sweetener calibrated to my exact biochemical preferences.
A year of living together has taught him my morning routine with scientific precision.
“See anything you like, Agent Perfect?” I drawl without looking up from the mission briefing, though every nerve ending is hyperaware of his presence through our bond.
After a year of marriage, the connection between us has evolved from accidental diplomatic complication to something that feels essential, like oxygen or stellar navigation.
“Several things,” he replies, his voice carrying that distinctive Gluxian resonance that still sends pleasant shivers down my spine despite daily exposure.
“Though I must note that your current position violates approximately seventeen different ergonomic guidelines for optimal datapad usage and threatens to compromise long-term spinal health.”
I do look up now, grinning at the familiar complaint.
Wi’kar stands exactly where I expected, holding his own datapad with characteristic precision, wearing his black OOPS uniform with the kind of immaculate perfection that suggests he probably has a checklist for getting dressed.
The silver patterns across his visible skin pulse with calm azure—his baseline contentment.
But I can read the subtler signs that twelve months of intimate knowledge have taught me to interpret: the fractional softening around his eyes when he looks at me, the almost imperceptible curve at the corner of his mouth that counts as unbridled joy in Wi’kar’s emotional vocabulary, the way his patterns shift toward warmer blues when he settles into what he now unconsciously thinks of as “home.”
“Ergonomics,” I inform him with serious consideration, “are significantly overrated when compared to comfort optimization. Besides, I’m conducting critical analysis of our next assignment briefing.
Apparently, the Joid'orians require ‘specialized relationship expertise’ for their crystal bonding ceremonies.”
I stretch deliberately, letting the movement emphasize certain curves while my sleeping attire—one of Wi’kar’s uniform shirts and nothing else—rides up to expose a strategic strip of skin.
His gaze follows the movement with the kind of focused attention that suggests his legendary control is already under siege.
The patterns on his arms pulse once, shifting from azure to deeper sapphire. After fifteen months of marriage, I can read his bioluminescence like a comprehensive emotional diagnostic system.
“Specialized relationship expertise,” he repeats with careful neutrality that doesn’t quite mask his growing interest. “An intriguing requirement for what appears to be a standard diplomatic courier assignment.”
I roll onto my side, propping my head on one hand and letting the oversized shirt gape open just enough to be interesting.
“Oh, it gets much better. Listen to this: ‘The successful courier team must demonstrate proven compatibility in high-stress situations, advanced trust exercises, comprehensive understanding of inter-species bonding protocols, and’—this is my absolute favorite part—’extensive practical experience with partnership optimization techniques. ’”
The sapphire patterns deepen significantly, and I catch the slight hitch in his breathing that means his professional composure is beginning to fracture. “Mother Morrison appears to be... expanding her operational definitions of diplomatic requirements.”
“Mother Morrison,” I correct with fond amusement, sitting up and letting his shirt slip off one shoulder, “is having entirely too much fun playing galactic matchmaker with her most notorious success story. Though I notice you’re not exactly complaining about these ‘specialized’ assignments.”
Wi’kar sets his datapad on our shared workstation with characteristic precision, though I catch the slight tremor in his hands that suggests distraction.
“The assignments have proven... educationally valuable. Our mission success rate has improved by thirty-seven percent since implementing enhanced partnership protocols.”
“Enhanced partnership protocols,” I repeat with growing delight, swinging my legs over the edge of the bunk and standing up.
The shirt barely reaches mid-thigh, and I don’t miss the way his eyes track the movement.
“Is that what we’re calling the fact that you can now dismantle a Royal Fleet’s surveillance grid while I’m distracting their commanding officer with strategic asset deployment? ”
The patterns on his arms flare brighter, definitely moving beyond baseline now. “Your tactical applications of... diplomatic resources have proven remarkably effective across multiple mission parameters.”
“Diplomatic resources,” I echo with pure joy, moving toward him with deliberate predatory intent. “Wi’kar, my beloved, precise, utterly professional husband, you just referred to my breasts as diplomatic resources. Again.”
His patterns pulse rapidly, shifting from sapphire to deeper indigo—embarrassment mixed with unmistakable arousal. After fifteen months of marriage, he still struggles with direct references to my more... obvious tactical advantages.
“I was employing appropriate professional terminology,” he defends with the kind of formal precision that means he’s becoming significantly flustered.
“You were being adorably evasive,” I correct, closing the distance between us until I’m close enough to smell his distinctive clean scent and see the way his pupils dilate slightly. “Which, after twelve months of marriage and extensive compatibility research, remains surprisingly charming.”
I reach up to trace the luminescent patterns at his throat, watching them pulse brighter under my touch. “Speaking of enhanced partnership protocols, I was thinking we might want to... conduct some quality assurance testing before our next assignment.”
His Adam’s apple moves under my fingers as he swallows. “Quality assurance protocols are... always advisable for maintaining optimal operational standards.”
“Optimal operational standards,” I murmur, my fingers finding the first clasp of his uniform jacket. “I do love a man who prioritizes excellence in all areas of performance.”
The effect is immediate and delicious. The indigo patterns flare to deep violet, and his hands come up automatically to rest on my waist with possessive familiarity that still makes my stomach flutter with satisfaction.