Feedback: Yes, please.

Warning: Think Fair Haven was perfect just the way it was? This is not for you.

It had been a long time since she'd drunk for courage, a long time since she'd felt alcohol begin to dull the edges of anxiety. She put down the glass. Any more and it would show. Hell, it would probably show now. If anyone were paying attention.

She walked into Holodeck One. Paris's work. She had a good idea of Paris's sort of holoprogramming; she didn't think it would take too long to find what she needed. Across the street was a pub. Seemed like a good place to start.

Half a minute at the outside -- he was behind the bar. Not as pretty as he might have been, but he definitely could have been worse. He was looking at her as she walked in. She'd bet money Paris had done this on purpose. Condescending son of a bitch, programming a character to be interested in her. What sort of a fool did he think she was? Similar to Harry Kim, presumably, who was about to win the arm wrestling.

She put her annoyance aside. It wasn't hard to get into a conversation with the bartender. It would have been hard not to.

***

He had come to see her the previous evening in her quarters.

"Mr. Tuvok," she said. "A social call?" He was wearing informal clothing in several shades of grey. A loose long jacket--under it, the garments seemed form-fitting. She looked away.

"Not exactly, captain."

He seemed ill at ease.

"Please, sit down. May I get you something to drink?"

"A glass of wine, perhaps."

The request surprised her. She had not seen Tuvok drink alcohol, though she remembered his once suggesting they share a glass of wine at a holographic inn in Tuscany. She asked the replicator for two glasses of an Italian red.

As she handed him his glass, she had the feeling something was wrong. "Are you ill?" she asked.

"No, I am not ill."

She had the sudden fleeting impression that he was attracted to her. She was projecting, probably. She needed some time off. She sat opposite him, pulling her legs up on the sofa, taking a sip of her wine.

"I need to request a leave of absence, captain."

"Oh." It fell into place. She noticed his fingers against the wine glass. "Of course. The doctor?"

"I do not wish to involve the doctor."

"Is that safe? But perhaps you have other plans. I'm sorry."

"I do not have 'other plans,' captain. I plan to meditate. I am much older than Vorik, and I believe I possess the discipline . . . in any case, this is a private matter."

"Isn't it dangerous?"

"It is dangerous in any case. The doctor will be able to do nothing for me."

"But shouldn't you take advantage of anything you can . . . ?"

"I believe that you value your privacy, captain. It has not escaped my notice that, with the exception of Leonardo DaVinci, none of your holoprograms are on the ship's computer. I believe you can understand my wish not to be the doctor's project."

So he'd noticed. Made sense. She'd always kept her private programs on data storage units. Meant they had to be simple, but simple was fine with her. She didn't need her holographic sex partners to be elaborate.

"So how do you know I have 'personal' holoprograms?" she asked smiling, teasing him.

"I did not intend to be impertinent. It seemed only logical that you would. I was simply trying to make a point about my own desire for privacy."

"I'm not offended. Pleased, more. Most of this crew see me as a virgin. Mother thing, perhaps, I don't know. It's nice to have a friend."

"It is."

She touched his fingers, which curled around the dark wine. She felt him shut down immediately, a telepathic equivalent of snatching away his hand. Usually he simply dampened his projection so that it gave a blurred impression.

"I'm sorry. That's unpleasant, now?"

"It is not unpleasant. It is difficult."

She studied him. He was not meeting her eyes. "You once said you trusted me," she said, her voice just above a whisper.

He was silent, looking at her now. He put his hand on hers, and the feeling he sent was warm, and wistful. A soft undercurrent of desire. "I could not ask that of you," he said, finally.

"You didn't. I'm offering."

"And it is a generous offer. But not one you should make." He paused. "The Captain sacrificing herself for her Chief of Security. We would be a public spectacle. Much as I might wish to accept, the lack of privacy would interfere with . . .my response. With the successful resolution. It is a private time."

"What if nobody knew?"

"That is hardly possible, captain. It can last several days. If we both ask not to be disturbed for an extended period of time, even the less sharp members of the crew can be expected to reach a correct conclusion."

"Let me see what I can do. And Tuvok?"

"Yes."

"It wouldn't be the captain sacrificing. It would be your friend. Who wants you . . . alive and well."

***

She went back to the holodeck the same night. The bartender was there, of course. She drank tea with him. They played rings and he won. She wondered what the settings were on arm wrestling; thought maybe she could take advantage of whatever modification had let Harry win. Michael should have beaten her easily, but he didn't, though he certainly didn't let her win. Yes, elaborate. God alone knew how much space the personality matrices took up.

His wife came down, unconcerned to find her husband having spent the small hours of the morning with a strangely dressed woman. She was a handsome woman, friendly. What had Paris had in mind here? No, probably just wanted to see his captain succumb to home wrecking. Of course, in a village programmed by Paris, it was reasonable to assume everyone would be . . . friendly.

He was charming, Michael. Some sort of alter ego of Paris, perhaps? Oh, this wasn't improving things at all. Paris cyber-procuring for her was bad enough, but if he thought he was somehow indirectly bedding her . . .No. She went and made some modifications to the program. Made him more educated, more complex. So there, Paris. Made him taller, because she wanted the fact she *had* made changes to be obvious. Made him more direct, because she didn't have much time, and didn't fancy having to wrestle him into bed.

And she deleted his wife. She wanted this simple.

***

She had explained her plan.

"Are you sure?" Tuvok asked. The lights were low and he was sitting at a table.

"I'm sure," she said. And then, after a moment, "Is it, are you . . . you are much stronger than I am. I know so little about it."

"Perhaps I was mistaken. I thought you were offering to have sex with me. While a fight to the death can be effective, it would be ill advised."

She smiled.

"Are you asking if you will need medical attention, if I will hurt you?" he continued.

"Yes. I already have a dermal regenerator, but if I need anything else. . ."

"Do you normally need a dermal regenerator?"

"Sometimes." She made the effort to hold his gaze.

"Do you normally require more extensive medical treatment?"

"No."

"Then a dermal regenerator should be sufficient."

***

She returned to Fair Haven, costumed this time, and went to find her new Michael. He was reading poetry at the train station. Seemed taken with his own knowledge, rubbed in the fact she didn't know the early 19th century Irish poets he did. She wondered if this fell under "outspoken" or if it was some natural arrogance left over from Paris's programming. She thought he was probably more attractive before. Didn't matter, really.

He'd offered himself before they'd been walking three minutes. She wondered if she actually needed to have sex with him. She'd imagined that he'd be vague with his friends and the visiting Voyager crew, but perhaps not. He was outspoken. Well, she supposed it was a good thing, since she wanted this affair broadcast. Only she didn't much want to have it.

And then Chakotay arrived. She was a little surprised to see him, hadn't thought Paris's idea of fun was his. Ah, but Chakotay was perfect. Chakotay'd believe anything. Or had, in the past. And he was the one who'd be informing the crew she was unavailable. She'd thought she might have to take him into her confidence, but as he smirked at her, she realized this was much better.

***

"Your marriage?"

"I believe human custom would have me tell you that my wife doesn't understand me."

"I think we can skip that." She smiled.

"Yes." They were silent for a few moments. "My marriage vows do not require me to be alone if my wife and I are apart. My bond with T'Pel will not be damaged."

"Good."

"But my marriage bond does prevent my having a child with another."

"I'm not going to get pregnant, Tuvok."

"No, of course not. But the marriage vows from my world predate incompatible DNA and reliable birth control. They prohibit my doing anything which could get a Vulcan woman pregnant."

"Fair enough."

***

Tonight. She needed to be free by tonight. She had replicated some books of Irish poetry and had hoped to invite Chakotay to drop by her quarters where she could use the books to bring up the topic of Michael. But Chakotay had been tied up with some conflict on Deck 10. So she brought one of the books to the bridge. There was simply no time to be less blatant.

"You like playing parts," she told herself, and she took her silly replicated book, and went on stage. Part of her hoped Chakotay would see through it, would realize how oddly she was behaving. Love poetry on the bridge, christ. For a moment she had to hide her face from him, afraid she would give herself away.

He loved it. It was disturbing how much he loved it, how immediately willing he was to assume she'd spent all previous holodeck time building flying machines with a gay man. How he enjoyed thinking he was embarrassing her. Hell, he *was* embarrassing her. Presumably he figured that if she was able to resist him, there had to be something wrong with her. Perhaps that sex had only just occurred to her. What sort of a repressed romantic loser did he think she was? No, she didn't need the answer to that.

***

"I should warn you, captain. Being intimate with a telepath is perhaps more intimate than you are used to."

"I'm not really used to anything, am I?"

"It will not be, perhaps, as you imagine. The period of arousal is extended. This is the only time when a Vulcan male is fertile. The body's preparation for that fertility is. . .time consuming. In other words, I will not, for a period of time, appear to be aroused. It may be disconcerting. Though I will be able to show you my response, telepathically. And telepathy plays an important part in that arousal. I will be . . .reading your response."

"Are you worried that I'm just going to be lying there, waiting for it to be over? Is that what you think I'm like in bed?" She smiled.

"I have no knowledge of what you are like in bed, captain. But no, if I were to attempt to construct a hypothesis, that would not be it. 'Lying there' would not, in any case, be effective."

"I'll see what else I can think of."

***

She told Chakotay she wanted to take time off, put on the dress, went to the holodeck. Chakotay seemed to have warned people off, or found them all something else to do, because she was the only human at Sullivan's.

Michael was there, of course. They danced, and then they kissed. It felt strange. She'd kissed holograms before, though it wasn't an activity which featured large in her entertainments. But never when her thoughts had been so firmly elsewhere.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"No," she said, and kissed him again.

They were upstairs within a minute or two. He was nothing special as a lover. Was this the computer's default, or was this Paris's programming? For B'Elanna's sake she hoped it was the default.

He fell asleep, and she left.

***

She arrived at Tuvok's quarters, slightly out of breath and still in costume. No one had seen her, but had they, they would have assumed she was returning to her own rooms. Only outside his door did she pause, listening for the sound of footsteps in the corridor. She heard none, signaled for entry and, as soon as the doors slid open, stepped inside.

Tuvok was sitting with his meditation lamp. He stood up. He was dressed in a robe of black and grey. A strip of the fabric was shot with silver. He was wearing a sleeveless tank, closefitting black pants. He looked lovely. He walked up to her. She waited, not certain exactly what she should do. He stopped a short distance from her, reached out, but did not touch her. Suddenly she felt small and inelegant and unclean.

"May I use your shower?" she asked.

"Yes. But I like the way you smell."

"I was with the hologram."

"Of course."

***

When she came out of the shower, she put on the robe he had left for her. It was an almost metallic dark grey, fine and soft and a little too large.

He was sitting cross-legged on his bed. She sat down, body turned so that she could look at him. She could feel the pounding of her heart. She wasn't frightened by him, she had never been frightened by him, even when he had been maddened by his mindmeld with Suder. But there was something about this, unknown, irrevocable, important.

He wouldn't need telepathy to know she was nervous. She held his gaze, not wanting him to think she was in any way unwilling. He put a hand on her right shoulder. Through the thin fabric, she could pick up only a general feeling of calmness, of desire.

They sat this way for a minute, the feelings he was sending seeping into her. And then, very gently, he turned her so that she was facing away from him, and slowly guided her so that she was lying on her side, knees bent slightly, her head resting on an outstretched arm.

He put his hand on her hip, and began to caress her, running his hands along her side to her shoulder and back down to her thigh. His fingers finally moved to the collar of the robe, and then to her neck, just above the collar, tracing along it so his hand rested on the bare skin at the base of her throat.

She could feel his desire more strongly now, began to see her own body through the filter of that desire. And she could feel herself respond to his touch.

She rolled onto her back. He touched her softly, fingers on her neck, tracing her jawbone, and then gradually parting the robe.

It was somehow both arousing and relaxing. She found her mind beginning to let go of her concern for him, for their friendship, drift to images instead. She remembered the moment she had seen him in the Caretaker's array, the moment she had known he was still alive, had, for a second, the fantasy of waking him with a kiss. She remembered his materializing on the bridge, and then stepping away from Chakotay, to her side. And how, at that moment, in spite of everything, she felt the mission had succeeded.

His consciousness was there, on the surface of her mind, reading emotion, reading desire, hovering above the images, asking if she meant to share them.

"Yes," she said, aloud, subvocalizing it again, so that he would know that the yes had not been only to the hand which moved softly across her stomach, her breasts.

She could feel him reading the images, and then, gradually sharing his own. His seeing her on the viewscreen of Chakotay's ship. The absolute rightness of his stepping to her side on the bridge.

And then--yes--after the mindmeld with Suder. He had said he trusted her once, but now he showed her the memory of that moment, of his trust, which had won over the violence which had seethed within him then. He showed her the memory of standing in the chaos of the quarters he had destroyed, looking at her. He had initially told her to go lest he hurt her, but he knew then, looking at her standing fearless before him, that he could not. Had asked to be sedated so he would hurt no one else, so he would not hurt her if he lost the part of his mind that knew who she was.

And he could remember the exact quality of her smile after his apology.

And then she was back, on his bed, in the present. Seeing her body through his eyes. Noticing the fine pale hair near her jawline, the veins on her hands, the near catenary curves of her breasts.

She reached up to him, touched her fingers to his face. His chest was bare, hairless, dense muscles moving beneath the surface of his skin. She had the feeling he was more aware of her pleasure at touching him than he was aware of the touch itself.

He touched her, varying the touch, testing, finding what excited her.

He found that, once aroused, she liked to be bitten. She gasped with pleasure as his teeth closed on the skin of her breasts, her shoulders. He read her excitement, sent back his own response to hers. The pleasure mounted in a sort of feedback loop, until he damped it down, held her still until it subsided, only to begin again as he first caressed her with his mouth and hands and then again sent that sudden shock of pleasure through her.

It took her a long time to reach orgasm, for he stopped every time she was close. When he did finally let her come, he held her against him, very softly moaning with the pleasure he took from her.

Sometimes he touched her. Sometimes she touched herself, and he simply held her, feeding off her pleasure. She was a little surprised how easy this was, how easy it was to relax, how his enjoyment of her pleasure pleased her. There were moments when it didn't seem strange, when it all seemed like an extension of the ease of their friendship, the smooth efficiency of their working relationship. And there were moments when she felt she was another person, when she felt he was, moments when she felt completely outside her life, outside of time.

Sometimes he was gentle, sometimes he was rough, but always he was completely controlled. Always he knew immediately if what he did didn't please her, if he went too far, or not far enough. Always he was touching her, reading her.

***

"I should replicate a stimulant. If I have to go to the bridge."

"Yes, have something in case that should happen. But if we sleep, it will not interfere with the process."

"Maybe that's a good idea, then. I'm starting to have moments of dreaming, without being fully asleep."

"Sleep, Kathryn," he said. It was the first time he had used her name.

He fell asleep almost immediately. She worried that if commed she would wake too slowly, have trouble getting herself transported to the holodeck before answering. She stood up, ran a dermal regenerator over the marks on her neck, put on the Victorian clothes she had been wearing earlier. Tuvok slept spread out. Trusting. Beautiful.

***

It was about 0800 hours; morning light came through the window of Michael's bedroom. She had told him she was too tired when she had crawled into his bed sometime around three. He woke up amorous.

She liked the way the sheets smelled. The light. His body on hers was, well, a body. An apparent body.

There was a knock on the bedroom door. A character, she thought -- she had her commbadge with her, and whatever the emergency, no one would be mad enough to fetch her in person.

"Tuvok," said the voice.

"Come in," she answered. "Computer, freeze program."

Tuvok entered. She was still partially dressed in the 19th century underclothes-- several layers of white. One breast was exposed. She left it.

He raised an eyebrow, very slightly.

"I slept here," she said. "I didn't think you'd be up so soon."

"You are an energetic woman."

She laughed. "This more or less falls into the category of 'lying there.' But the crew interact with him, so it has to be credible. I could have programmed him into thinking we were lovers, but, well, I'm not sure I could concentrate. On covering my tracks, I mean. It doesn't matter, does it?"

"Of course not."

"Shall we return to your quarters?"

"I would like to watch you."

"We aren't very interesting."

"You are always interesting. And I would like to add a subroutine. Temporarily."

She looked at him. She thought she saw challenge and amusement on his face. And lust. She smiled, moving her head to indicate agreement.

This time, when the program began again, there was quite a different expression on Michael's face.

He grabbed her exposed breast. It was the sort of touch that would be infuriating if she weren't aroused. She was watching Tuvok, who was watching her. She was aroused.

The hologram touched her, roughly. He held her wrists with one hand, presumably to prove he could do so. Without touching her, Tuvok wouldn't know if she wanted to stop. She didn't know how much control she had of the holodeck, she didn't know how the safeties were set. Not on full -- she could tell that from Michael's grip. The slight danger of it excited her.

Michael had exposed both of her breasts. He played with them, rubbing his palm across them. "You like this, Katie?" he said, looking at her erect nipples. It was eery, the change in him. If he had been human, she would have thought him angry, or at least feigning anger, but she didn't think that was even the subroutine's intention. He was just . . .implacable.

"Hey, you want to join us?" Michael asked Tuvok. She hadn't realized the hologram could see him. "I think she likes you, don't you, Katie?"

"Arr . . .yes." He had pulled her up, off the bed and had pushed her to her knees. He pulled her bodice to her waist. She was kneeling in front of the still seated Tuvok.

Tuvok reached out, laid his fingertips on her left shoulder, touched her temple with one hand. His arousal washed over her, so intense she cried out with surprise and pleasure. And then she closed her eyes and was aware of his perception of the scene. Her unruly hair, the torn white clothes, dark nipples, the white rag rug on the floor, sunlight on the wide wood floorboards. Michael who stood over her, his arousal obvious in quite a different way from Tuvok's.

Tuvok pressed a thumb to her lips until she opened her mouth. He ran his thumb over her tongue. She felt hungry for him.

He removed his hand, and she longed for the contact to be reestablished. She kept her eyes closed, lips parted, waiting, longing.

"You fuck her," said Tuvok. It wasn't a word she'd heard him use before.

***

Michael picked her up, sat her on the bed, pushed her back. His hands pushing apart her thighs were rough, almost bruising. His mouth on her was gentle. She leaned back on the bed, supporting her upper body on her elbows. She could see Tuvok watching.

She began to cry out softly.

Michael got up, running the back of his hand over his lips. He turned her over, pulled her to her knees, again pressed her thighs apart. "This is how I want you, Katie."

His fingers quickly found the wetness between her legs, opened her. And then, just as she felt his erection against her, she felt Tuvok's fingers, on her forehead, her lips. The telepathic communication was more gradual this time; he was reading her arousal. She heard him groan. There was the strange sensation of sharing the feeling, sharing her perception of Michael thrusting into her. The physical perception she knew was hers, but the feeling of it, the sense of abandoning herself to sensation, possession--she could not tell what was her, what was Tuvok.

She was aware of her hands clasping the bedclothes, aware of the pale curve of her shoulders.

As Michael pulled from her, the sense of loss was tempered by the gentle feed of Tuvok's excitement.

Michael's fingers again. And then, coated in her wetness, his finger slid into her ass. Tuvok, reading her perceptions, probing a little deeper in her mind, making certain she wanted this.

Oh, she did.

Michael was patient. One finger at first, then two. Sometimes moving gently, sometimes still, letting her relax around him. And his voice, with its soft accent: "You like this, Katie" -- "He wants you like this." --in tones which could be menacing, could be nothing of the kind.

Tuvok's thumb was in her mouth now. He was very excited. She could see herself through his eyes, not just a woman crouched on a bed being fucked by a hologram. Someone he wanted, wanted intensely, needed. She could see Michael's fingers disappearing in her, the faint sheen of sweat on her back, the hair at the back of her neck. She was inside his desire.

And then he changed places with Michael. Michael held her upper body -- restraining her, supporting her, there was no difference. And Tuvok was pressing into her, his fingers clasping her hips. She could feel his control strained, his struggle to be gentle, his desire to be completely inside her, now, immediately.

And then he was, and her own sensations were overwhelmed by his, his perception of her body, tight around him, pale beneath his hands, moving in her, held by her, joined to her. His perception of taking her, controlling her, and of being himself taken, held, overwhelmed.

When he came, it was with a long intensity that was unlike any orgasm she had had. It filled his body; it filled hers. She had no idea if, physically, she came too; any physical sensation of hers was so overpowered by his.

***

Michael had disappeared. She had crawled fully onto the bed, Tuvok lay beside her. He ran his hand over her, checking her, making sure she was all right. She gradually realized that she was still aroused. His hand moved between her legs; his movements were small, light. She lay against him, her face pressed into his neck.

She came, her own orgasm, but longer than usual. Tuvok was holding her against him. They were both damp.

She stretched out on her back, still touching him. He caressed her, his hand leaving traces of her own moisture on her skin. She could see that he was partially erect.

"It's over?"

"Yes."

So odd to have the end of the pon farr demonstrated by his return to a more usual arousal pattern, but it made sense. She wanted to touch him, watch his response, make love to him physically in a way she had not been able to do before. But she could feel him pulling away, feel the slightest unease about his desire, now outside the dictates of biological need.

"I should reactivate the hologram," he said. "The subroutine is gone; however, complete erasure of his memories will create a noticeable gap in his runtime records. He will believe he was dreaming. Is that acceptable?"

"I feel a bit as if I had been dreaming," she said, smiling. She was lying on the rumpled bed in the now sun-bathed bedroom, feeling sated and tired and physically aware of her body in a way that was unfamiliar. She had pulled a sheet up, but otherwise had not moved. Her chief of security was standing at the late Victorian washstand, dressing. "Yes, that's fine."

He finished and came and sat on the bed. He put his hand at the top of her breastbone, palm flat against her still damp skin. The feeling he sent was warm and serious, pleased. Gratitude, she realized, though the word seemed inadequate for the intensity of the feeling.

He moved his hand so that only his fingertips were touching her, slowly traced the indentation beneath her left collarbone. Now the feelings were more muted and there were a number of them: she thought she detected desire and regret, an unwillingness to leave, something sharp and lovely for which she had no name.

Gradually he closed off the telepathic contact completely, until it was only his fingers, slowly sweeping across the very tops of her breasts. And then he left.

Michael arrived. "Would you like to go an a picnic, Katie?" he asked, with a buoyant cheerfulness which seemed out of place, and exhausting.

***

It was over. She was in her quarters, dressed in uniform. She'd made it through a few hours on the bridge without seeing any obvious smirking. Or perhaps she had been too tired to notice.

She had a small stack of poetry books. She wouldn't need them anymore. She put them on the recycler.

Tuvok would be returning to duty tomorrow, having finally recovered from his neurogenic radiation sickness, or whatever it was he'd called it.

She had no visible marks. The muscles in her thighs ached. She needed a hot bath and some sleep.

And she needed him, needed the touch of his mind, needed his body. Felt almost faint with the need.

It was over.

Neelix arrived and invited her to the holodeck. A rings tournament, and the Doctor singing Danny Boy. It sounded excruciating. And Michael would be there. Michael, who'd no doubt been having some odd dreams lately.

She had had the picnic with Michael, and he had fallen asleep. She left, eager to check on Tuvok, impatient to get away from the hologram. She didn't think she actually liked his taste in poetry.

She went to sick bay when she heard about the fight in the pub. The safeties had been set to minimum, and the voice controls had been offline. Tom's sloppiness, or daring, probably, but she thought she'd drop it. Just in case it had something to do with Tuvok's subroutine.

The hologram, it turned out, had been howling her name from trees. Shit. Well, at least this appeared to have been news to some of the crew -- Chakotay had got her the days off without informing everyone what he thought she was doing. Perhaps he wasn't completely useless.

The doctor. The doctor had left Tuvok alone, fortunately satisfied with the story about his being subject to radiation sickness. Any examination and he'd know she'd had very little sleep and a great deal of sex. So she told him her story about Michael.

"Were you intimate?" the doctor asked, so pleased to be her confessor that she thought he'd be applying to be the Emergency Religious Hologram by the next alpha shift.

She knew what he meant, of course, but it seemed an odd question. "None of your business," she said. And then, almost forgetting what she was talking about -- "Let's just say it was a memorable three days."

***

After the Fair Haven program crashed, she went to the holodeck. She rather hoped Michael would be gone, but he wasn't. He seemed more real in his sadness. Or at least the sadness itself seemed real. Complex holograms were constructed with readings from human personality engrams. So it was somebody's sense of loss she was seeing, in a sense.

At the same time, she could remember the hologram's hands, his mouth, when he had Tuvok's subroutine. His skill, his strength. She could find the subroutine, invoke it again. Let lust obscure loss, if only briefly.

Michael--Michael had been programmed to love her. And had lost her, the lover he had never really had. It made her lonely to look at him. She kissed him goodbye.

And told the computer to deny her access to his program.

END