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Our Rain-Washed Histories

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The shoes are just uncomfortable enough that she knows she’ll have blisters later. Beverly bends down to fix her stockings one last time, hoping they will finally stay in place. This is a far cry from anything she’d ever wear in public, but the occasion warrants it. Besides, she wants to fit in.

Clothes, make-up, a whole ancient way of life—it’s all replicated, but the minute she steps onto the holodeck, she feels more alive than she has in a while. This is not the neat, orderly world of Starfleet and the Enterprise. This is something purer and darker, something that reaches a part of her long left cold.

It’s exhilarating.

She finds Data’s enthusiasm for the whole thing endearing but can’t help her little quip when he takes it too far. And she really doesn’t want Jean-Luc to have all the fun while they’re waiting for him to make his appearance. That’s not what she came here for.

Jean-Luc swallows visibly when he sees her, and yes, this is what she came for. What she put on half a ton of make-up for, so much more than she would usually use. What she tugged her skirt up for just minutes ago. He’s obviously appreciative of her efforts.

“Have a good time?” she asks as she takes off her replicated glasses. Too much, she thinks. The glasses have to go.

“I don’t know. Sometimes it almost seems too real.”

His eyes raking over her body feel so much like fire it might as well be his hands. Undressing her, taking away everything that’s ever stood between them. Too real, indeed. She curses herself for the distraction and takes delight in his attention at the same time.

“I must say, you wear it well. I’m glad you could make it.”

“Why thank you, Mister Hill.”

The use of the detective’s name seems to remind him of something, and Beverly knows what he’s going to say before he opens his mouth.

“Maybe we should be getting back to the Enterprise.”

He’s giving her a way out, but she’s not about to take it. Not this time.

“We are on the Enterprise, Captain.”

“Oh yes. Of course we are.”

The pearls are cool against the skin of her neck, a startling contrast to the warmth she feels radiating from him, and she makes the decision easily.

“Do we have time to see your office?”

She barely refrains from biting her lip, wondering if that would be overkill, but she’s not Doctor Crusher in here, not even Beverly, she’s someone else, just another lady who requires Dixon Hill’s services. Dixon Hill, who’s standing in front of her, trying his best not to appear as though he’s leering (and not pulling it off very well). For a moment, she imagines lying naked before him, his eyes glued to every part of her. Her breathing quickens.

They both know what she’s asking, what he would be agreeing to if he said yes. That, too, is exhilarating to her. There’s no struggle in his eyes, no sign of worry or confusion.

“Yes, of course. Why not?”

Jean-Luc is already reaching for her hand when they are suddenly reminded they’re not alone. Whalen and Data ask to join them, and it takes every ounce of Beverly’s strength not to groan in frustration. For a moment, she even contemplates simply saying no, that she and Dixon Hill have personal matters to attend to. She can feel Jean-Luc next to her having similar ideas, but in the end, they both know better.

They walk the streets of San Francisco quietly, until they come across a gathering of people big enough to lose sight of each other. Jean-Luc uses the opportunity to pull her around a corner by a glove-covered hand and push her into a hidden alcove before she can so much as cry out in shock. And then he looks at her, all dark eyes and parted lips, and she’s surprised he doesn’t just ravage her right in this dirty alley. She’s not surprised that the thought of stopping him never even crosses her mind. The moment is broken when Data’s voice rings around the corner, and Jean-Luc draws away to silently order the computer not to disclose their location. To anyone. A shiver runs through her.

They’re in his office within minutes—Beverly makes a mental note to thank whomever designed the holodecks this way—and he locks the door behind her. The blinds are already drawn, but that’s a fact she’d rather not dwell on. Not when he’s still looking at her like that, in that way that makes her skin itch under her suddenly too-tight clothes.

The two or three seconds it takes for her to be in his arms, lips pressed to his, feel more like years, decades, eons, and they’ve been waiting for this moment for such a long time that even the sound of blood rushing in her ears won’t make her change her mind now. She tries to take a step back, pulling him with her, arms around his waist. It ends up more an awkward stumble than an actual step, but he gets the idea pretty quickly, and guides her over to the desk.

She doesn’t remember when or how she lost her hat, and her memory problem only gets worse when his hands find the backs of her thighs. With her high heels, she towers above him a little, a fact he fixes by lifting her until she’s perched on his desk—Dixon Hill’s desk—and somewhere in there, their kisses turn ravenous. Her skirt is easily pushed up, her jacket shrugged off. His clothes take more effort, but with nimble fingers, she makes quick work of his shirt, the coat already long forgotten on the floor. She hears the nylon of a stocking rip when he grips her legs a little harder, and knows she should be mad at him for it. The thought never even has time to fully form, though, not with him standing so close to her now that she can feel through the layers of clothing still between them how much he wants her.

There’s an insistent knock on the door just as she’s about to unfasten his pants, and it startles them both out of their frenzy. But instead of stepping back, Jean-Luc moves even closer, brushing his lips over hers again slowly, and whispers “Don’t make a noise” into her ear before nibbling his way down her neck. Beverly nearly groans, stopped only by yet another knock from outside. Soon the sound is joined by voices calling their names, and somewhere in the still-functioning part of her brain, she hears Data ask Whalen a question or two.

Then, finally—silence. Jean-Luc tries to catch her mouth in another deep kiss, but she resists, squirming on the desk. The heavy fabric of her skirt has slid down again, making the contact she so desires virtually impossible, and she tries to get it back up, cursing the garment. Not that her uniform would be any easier to take off. The memory of her uniform sobers her more than anything else could. Her uniform, her job, her rank. This could never be something casual, something simple and unemotional.

She extricates himself from his embrace with a swiftness that would put Q to shame, and takes a few deep breaths to get rid of the drowsy haze still left in her head. She doesn’t remember the last time she was this aroused, and she’s sure there’s never been a time where she didn’t do something about it. But now, she’s already halfway to the door when she hears Jean-Luc’s voice rasping out her name. It’s huskier than she’s ever heard it before, and she can’t help but wonder what else she’s been missing without him in her life for so many years.

Beverly turns around, knowing she shouldn’t, should just get out of there as quickly as she can and try to find a way not to make this awkward when she has to face him in the morning. She turns, and finds him closer than expected, only a step and a half away. That distance, too, is soon bridged and her body hits something solid when she tries to get out of his reach.

Backed up against the door, there isn’t much she can do. She knows he’d never force himself on her, but knowing he wants her enough to make an effort only adds to her confusion. He is as close now as he was before they were interrupted, and she’s bracing herself to push him away when he opens his mouth, his breath warm and damp against her cheek.

“Don’t go,” he pleads, voice softer now, but no less strained. Heat rushes across Beverly’s skin until she feels feverish and faint with need. They’re not acting like themselves and there are so many reasons to leave and only one reason to stay. Jean-Luc raises a hand to her cheek and trails his fingers first over her cheek, then over her lips, and she can’t keep from nipping his thumb with her teeth. His eyes darken further, a low sound escaping from the back of his throat. And that’s it, she’s powerless to stop it, doesn’t want to try anymore.

She wants him, part of her always has, and the wait is over now. She drags his head back to hers and, once they’re kissing again (finally—how did she ever live without kissing him?), unceremoniously rids him off his remaining clothes.

They never even make it back to the desk.