He's supposed to want her. She's perfect, and willing, and beautiful. She's telling him how great he is; he even took out the competition with one perfectly-placed punch (he tries not to think about how much that would have hurt if it had connected with a real person instead of a hologram).
"Reginald..." she purrs.
Barclay risks a glance out the corner of his eye, where Riker's hologram lies on the ground. Riker's starting to get up, and he's rubbing a hand over his chin, over the thick, neatly trimmed hair of his beard. He looks dazed, and when he looks over at Barclay, he looks...
Barclay turns back to Troi. "It'll have to wait 'til later, darling," he murmurs. He looks back over at Riker. Riker has gotten to his feet and is walking out of Ten-Forward.
"Damn," Barclay breathes, and follows.
The doors hiss shut behind him as he double-steps to keep up with Riker's longer strides. "Commander," Barclay calls out, then, "Will?"
"It's too much, Lieutenant. It's one thing to let jealousy take over for a second -- hell, everybody does that from time to time -- but you just assaulted a superior officer. Do you really think so little of your career that you'd--"
"Sir, please," Barclay says, finding himself stammering, suddenly. "Sir, I can explain..."
"Explain this." Riker stops in his tracks and pushes Barclay into the wall with one hand. "Explain why you'd pick a fight with me over Deanna, when we both know what your intentions really are."
"M-- m-- my in-- tentions? Sir?" Barclay stammers. Riker's hand is still on his shoulder, pressing him back against the cool polycarbonate siding of the wall, and it's pressing in hard. A few officers pass by, each of them giving Barclay a curious glance in turn; Barclay cringes. This isn't how this program is supposed to go, he thinks.
"Your intentions," Riker repeats, leaning forward until his face is barely a breath away from Barclay's. His voice lowers. The only person who can hear it now is Barclay, and even he has to strain. "I'm talking about us, Barclay."
"Uh-- Uh-- Uh-- Us? Sir?" Barclay's voice has reached record levels of timid piercing stuttering; he clenches his fists and pushes them back against the wall in hopes of getting himself under control.
And then Riker tears Barclay's pathetic excuse for control into shreds as he leans in and kisses him.
Barclay moans, very quietly, under the assault of Riker's mouth. Riker's beard brushes against his cheek; it's softer than Barclay expected. He'd expected that to feel scratchy, unpleasant... instead, it's the kind of soft, light scratch that makes him want more. His hands relax, his shoulders go loose, tension dissipating. Riker's hand tightens on Barclay's shoulder; Riker's other hand, though... Oh. Riker's other hand searches for the seal on Barclay's pants, slipping in through the fabric and searching for his erection. And yes, Barclay is hard; he didn't get hard thinking about claiming Troi, but now that he's here in this hall, trapped by Riker's warm, strong body, he's hard.
He squeezes his eyes shut as Riker wraps a hand around Barclay's erection. Riker's hand moves with efficient, almost elegant certainty. Barclay moans, and Riker pulls away from the kiss. Barclay's eyes open; he can see the confused, needy, ruffled look on his face reflected in Riker's eyes, and he sees the satisfied, confident, aroused look on Riker's face...
Oh, I wish that were me...
And then thought disappears completely as Riker's strokes speed up; Barclay cries out and his eyes shut again. He leans his head on Riker's shoulder, panting almost desperately; he doesn't know what's happening, he doesn't know who altered his holodeck program, and oh, he really doesn't care right now. This is good, better than punching Riker and having Troi thank him; better than swordfighting the men of the senior staff while the women argue over who gets to patch up the light, insignificant flesh wounds he might incur over the course of the battle. This is better than anything he's felt on one of his holodeck escapades, and he makes a mental note to add this part of the program as a permanent feature once this encounter is done.
He opens his mouth a bit, then squeezes his eyes shut tight as he comes, making a soft, muffled moan into Riker's shoulder. Riker's hand pushes Barclay back into the wall; his other hand withdraws from the fly of Barclay's pants and he grimaces a bit.
"Err... computer..." Barclay pants. "Handkerchief." He holds his hand out and catches it when it materializes, then offers it to Riker. "There," he says, sounding vaguely apologetic.
Riker pushes back, grinning widely, shaking his head. "Thanks, Reg," he says, sounding more than a little amused. He cleans his hand up and pockets the handkerchief. His expression grows mock-serious again, and he leans in. "Remember that the next time you decide you want to pick a fight with me, Lieutenant."
And he walks off.
Barclay leans back against the wall, eyes closed. "Computer, remove all other persons from this hallway," he mutters. The passersby vanish; Barclay tries not to blush at thinking that there were people watching that, even if they were holograms.
After a few minutes, he takes a deep breath. He makes sure his uniform is back in order, and he tries to stand up straight. He almost succeeds.
"Computer, save and end program."
The walls of the Enterprise shift back to the holodeck's black-and-yellow grid pattern, and Barclay clears his throat as he walks out the door. He's feeling tired, suddenly, and wants a nap before he has to think about going back on duty.
Riker is waiting at the end of the hall for a turbolift. Barclay almost turns around and walks to the opposite end of the hall; he doesn't really want to be caught alone with Riker after that. But then Riker turns and nods at him, and Barclay gives him a halting, uncertain smile. So much for escape. Barclay clears his throat and steps up to the turbolift, nodding back at Riker.
"Holodeck, eh?" Riker says. "You've been spending a lot of time on the holodeck lately, Lieutenant." He takes in the flush of Barclay's skin, the slight sweat, and asks, "Fitness program of some kind?"
"Ah, yes," Barclay says, a little too loud, "a fitness program, yes, sir. Running. It's a... running program. From Genuvola IV. They..." His voice is starting to trail off; Riker looks bored. "...they, ah, they... they like r-- running," Barclay finishes, looking down at the floor.
"How nice," Riker says, quite noncommitally. The turbolift arrives, and Riker steps on first, waiting for Barclay to get on board before calling out his destination. "Deck eight," he says clearly.
"Deck-- ah, deck seventeen," Barclay blurts out. He rubs his hands together and then puts them at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching out of sheer nervousness. He's just sure Riker can smell it on him; Riker's the kind of guy who'd know when something like that just--
"You all right, Lieutenant?" Riker asks.
"F-- f-- fine, sir," Barclay manages. And then, to his utter mortification, he sneezes. Twice. Three times.
When he looks up, Riker is holding out a handkerchief. "Leftover dust from your run?" he asks.
Barclay stares at the handkerchief, mouth working, unable to say anything at all.
The turbolift stops, and Barclay makes a break for it, leaving Riker behind in the turbolift, smirking to himself. Riker pockets the handkerchief, puts his hands behind his back, and grins.