A tiny, inconsequential post-Resolutions fragment for the rerun season. Came to
me in first person so I wrote it that way. Disclaimer: Paramount owns these
characters, but doesn't keep track of them very well.

PROGRAMMED

by YCD

Tom's fault.

New holodeck simulation, he wanted to show it off. So we went. Not together, of
course. Late, since we'd both had work to do, as always. Not too many people by
the time we got there, and even fewer now after our guided tour of all the
finely-programmed details, that interrupted the party mood for Tom's friends.

Now there are just a handful of crewmembers, drinking the unreal drinks at the
bar, and a few couples dancing. I'm not even sure how many of them are real.

I've been thinking that I should leave for the past ten minutes. But I'm
comfortable, slouched in my chair, looking at him--no, not Tom, Tom's off
dancing with one of the Delaneys, Megan, Jenny, I can't tell from here.

Him.

I'm afraid to think of him by name right now. Maybe because he only has one name
that I know of, so there's no way to distinguish between professional and social
talk. Mostly I address him by title. Mostly he addresses me by title, but one of
these days he's going to slip up and call me Kathryn. No matter what comes out
of his mouth, when he's not thinking of my rank, I can tell. It shows in his
eyes, the times he almost calls me by name.

I'm trying to make small talk with him, and he's smiling at me, a dangerous
grin. All his grins are dangerous, but most of them are controlled by
circumstance. Not here. This is the holodeck, we're not on duty. Except we're
always on duty. We're the two people on this ship with the least opportunity to
use the phrase "off duty." We're even here tonight because of duty.

Tom swings by and mutters something suggestive to him. I can't hear, but he
looks startled, nervous, amused at his own reaction. Wipes his palms on his
thighs. Looks back at me, the grin tighter, he rises and moves toward me, just a
few steps, my eyes follow his movements as his arm extends towards me, palm up.

"Want to dance?"

"What?"

I feel like an idiot. I know what he asked, he knows I've been watching him for
the past who knows how many minutes, he thinks I'm trying to make him say it
again. He grits his teeth under the smile.

"Would you like to..."

"All right."

I don't quite take his hand, instead I catch his wrist just above his palm and
let his fingers close around mine so he can pull me up.

"I'm a terrible dancer."

That isn't precisely true, I'm just not a very good one, not terribly
adventurous, especially when there are other people who might be watching, and
in this uniform and these boots it's going to be worse than usual. He smiles,
unsurprised, and sets his feet, waiting.

Waiting for me to move closer to him, to step into his arms.

I take a quick look around. By appearances, none of the few remaining
crewmembers are paying attention to us, but I can feel their eyes nonetheless,
their awareness of us. Together. I take a step towards him, and he lets his hand
fall onto my side, barely touching. I put my hand on his shoulder and let my arm
rest against his. Our opposite hands have found each other, again not holding
really, just pressing against one another. He takes a step forward, I take a
step backward, to the side, and again.

So we're dancing, and I can't meet his eyes because I have no excuse for the way
my heart is hammering--he knows I'm not this nervous just about my steps, or
even the crew watching. The people here are all busy dancing themselves. His
hand is resting low on my hip, more firmly than it has to be, he's leading.

It's been so long since I danced with anyone, except when we got silly and put
waltzes on my ancient gramophone. I sneak a glance at him and of course he's
looking right at me, his cheeks are flushed but that might be just because he's
warm, we're both sweating, his lips are parted a little and damp and I have to
stop looking at his mouth.

Does he know I was looking at his mouth?

I can't risk glancing again to see.

He's tilting his head a little, probably trying to figure out what I'm looking
at. And letting me back off a little--is he planning to try some footwork I
don't know? Or is he just nervous about pressing up against me?

Now he's moving his hand up my back, my sweaty back, and pulling me in, he's not
going to dip me is he oh SHIT well at least he's good at it, and fast, forcing
me to meet his eyes, he's smiling at me, I can see him even though I'm not
looking, well, now my fingers are digging into his arm, he deserves it. Nobody
else in the room is paying attention to us anyway, they're too far away and too
busy with their own partners, concentrating and smiling and moving closer when
did I start looking at him again? We're barely moving, just shuffling our feet,
much closer together than we should be.

Back off.

But I don't want to back off.

I can smell him, his sweat clean like soap, he must have showered right before
he came here and there's another scent, familiar, radiating off his skin. We're
too close. We're hardly moving, not even pretending to lift our feet.

If he wanted to kiss me, he'd barely have to lower his head.

I'm making it so easy for him, I'm still looking up at him, he probably thinks I
want him to kiss me. My lips are parted because I'm breathing too fast and it's
not from dancing, he knows that and oh god he's going to, his eyes are closing,
his arm up around my shoulders hiding our faces from the rest he's going to if I
don't kiss him first GOD his mouth on mine just barely and I'm kissing him back,
just a brush, incidental, no real forward thrust of the lower lip his nose still
touching my cheek, one or the other of us is going to have to tilt a little.
Him. Seeking again as he steps forward, part of the footwork, my lips are
opening and so are his, my tongue his tongue dancing now.

I wish my arms were someplace else so they could pull me closer to him, we're
not moving at all, we have to be dancing, I sway against his thigh he sways back
toward me and we turn in a slow circle so we can pretend nobody knows what we're
doing, we're just dancing very close together, "Ohhh," he sighs into my mouth,
as his body surges forward against mine.

We have to stop.

We can't do this here, we can't do this at all, I wish he would remember that
and stop because I don't think I can stop right now. I wish for a red alert or
someone dropping a glass, anything that could interrupt this and not make it so
damn easy.

If we were in my quarters or his quarters or his office or my ready room, if we
were alone, we would never have let this start because then we wouldn't stop.
We've both known that. Here we're safe because we're surrounded by people,
surrounded we're safe because we have to stop.

And I'm going to stop.

As soon as he edges back a little, I'm going to stop.

As soon as he pulls his leg out from between mine to keep his balance.

We're still swaying together, we're going to fall over if we keep doing this,
I'm dizzy because I've forgotten to breathe. He presses forward again, almost
knocking me off my feet, and he's so hard, and I'm probably leaving a damp spot
on his thigh. If we were alone right now we might not even stop to take our
clothes off, we might keep dancing like this until one or the other of us
couldn't stay upright, and we'd both go down on the floor please I can't think
like this.

STOP.

How?

Well, tear myself away from his mouth. And slide down his leg so I can stand
again, and lower my chin. That's all I have to do and we won't be kissing
anymore, I can press my face into his throat instead and catch my breath, he can
rub his nose in my hair, we can dance again like everyone else.

Everyone. Else.

The room is quiet--too quiet. When did the music stop?

Slowly I look around his neck over his shoulder, and it's deserted. All the
others have gone and left. Left us alone. Left the captain and first officer
alone together, to...but we weren't going to. Oh yes. Yes we were. If not right
now on the holodeck, then in my quarters or his quarters, on one of the
regulation Starfleet beds, or the floor, or the table or the bathtub or the
ground in the middle of the plants, stop remembering.

"Turn it off when you leave," a voice says quietly. Tom's voice. He's still
here. Maybe he's the only one who was ever here, maybe the rest were holograms.
He's watching us, looking a little jealous and more than a little aroused.
"Don't mind me."

Tom backs away. I look at Chakotay.

"End program?" he asks.

We could change it. We could get out of this place and put in trees and grass,
bugs, primates in the trees, a river. He could build a boat with one command.
Everything illusion, no sense of where our responsibities lie, our calling. We
won't have to know where the door is.

Too dangerous even to contemplate.

Instead we'll step apart, we'll say goodnight. We'll go to our separate quarters
and make love to one another in absentia. It has to be that way. Whatever just
happened was a holodeck illusion. A connection between two people who don't
exist. Not us. Not us.

"End program."