action;
[ He knew that she was going to shatter into pieces from the feel of her hand against his own, and as she stepped into the shower he let her fold into him, wrapping his arms around her back, one crossing over her shoulder and the other settling in her hair, nested against the back of her head. The warm water washed away the cold. He still felt her tears, he thought, like pinpricks of charged emotion. He knew. He could feel. He didn't need to ask. Jean-Luc had vanished while he and Deanna had been in the medical bay discussing the problem, and they'd thrown themselves into their duties. Now they could really catch up, think about how it had made him feel.
The Reman that had invaded her was gone. It had been a fight to he death, just the two of them, and Riker, who was usually understanding, who could forgive many things, had not only let him fall to his death but caused it to happen. He hadn't had time to process that either, the fierce protectiveness that had overcome him, the need to remove this element that had so intruded on his love for this woman, on the sanctity of her own mind.
That fierce protectiveness hasn't ebbed for a second. He swears to himself that he will never let it happen to her again, never let her out of his sight, never see her hurt--and he's probably got sky high ambition in that department considering she's accepted a posting on the Titan beside him, but that is a duty as her husband that he cherishes. Just as he is her rock, to stand and protect her from the buffeting wind in a crisis, to let her cry against his chest.
When she leans up to kiss him, he loosens his grip, though by no means lets her slip out of his hands, and as she drops back off the tips of her toes he brushes a wet strand of her hair out of her eyes. She feels a little better--he doesn't have to ask; so does he. ]
May I wash your hair?
[ It was a privilege. These things didn't happen very often. Sonic showers were much too efficient. ]