Occasionally, in the pursuit of a villain, Dixon Hill finds himself somewhere he does not intend to be. Tonight, instead of being in some dirty back alley, he sits in the fifth row, seat K, watching the ballet. Watching the ballet without a dame is about as useful as saving a kitten without a broad around. The end result is something he doesn't care too much about, and no one's admiring, big blue eyes have been watching him be cultured.
Jean-Luc, in contrast with his character, rather enjoys ballet. Swan Lake is one of the most classic and beautiful examples, and, thanks to the wonders of the holodeck, here he is, in a creaky velvet seat, watching the travelling European Ballet Company perform.
Of course, that includes the mysterious dancer: the woman who needs his help. He's done some digging, and the Grafinya is heavily connected in diamond smuggling, and the Russian finance behind the ballet dancer's sparkling costumes is not exactly above board. Will and Deanna have several chapters of intrigue to play by themselves, which leaves Jean-Luc and Beverly with their own courtship to play out.
As with all good detective novels, the mysterious woman is slowly learning to trust her hard-boiled protector. He's been ready for that. They are good friends. They can flirt with each other in the name of fun. They can fake it.
The way they'd faked that kiss a week ago.
He claps with the crowd as the myriad swans leave the stage, making way for the entrance of the evil black swan Odile, and the seduction of the prince.
He knows the story, loves Tchaikovsky, and though he'd only quietly admit it, sitting in the warm comfort of the theatre instead of skulking in a dark, dank alley is a nice change. He arrived late, missing the beginning, and he's yet to see Beverly on stage. He knows she can dance, and he's seen the wincing that accompanied the years of being the Dancing Doctor. Tonight it's just him, and relative safety of the holodeck, so perhaps-
Then she appears, and his thoughts go dead. Really dead, dead like the chances of swimming in cement shoes.
She must have been the white swan in the last act: the beautiful delicate creature he paid little attention to because he was enjoying the opulent theatre and what he saw around him. In the moment, he'd missed her moment.
The black swan, Odile, the embodiment of fairy tale villainy, turns on the stage like a spider spinning a web. He's caught, dragged right in with the prince. Jean-Luc knows this story better than his role in the novel. Dixon Hill cares little for the ballet, and he probably would have understood the undercurrent in the music about as much as the next guy in the seat over.
The white swan symbolises purity, innocence, everything right and good being oppressed by a great controlling force. The Russian mobsters and the dancers they're forcing to smuggle diamonds. It makes sense. It's a better comparison than the author may have intended. The black swan however, has passion. Good, well, it rarely gets to be more than good. The white swan is beautiful, delicate and pleasing.
In sharp contrast, the black swan owns him from the long lines of her arms, to the impossibly longer lines of her legs. Jean-Luc doesn't know how she's doing it. If Beverly's really maintained that level of skill, or if the holodeck is helping her weave an illusion.
He doesn't care at all which way it is. He cares how it's happen about as much as Dixon's Braves have a chance of taking the pennant. If the holodeck is lying to him, let it keep lying until he's entirely consumed by the poetry of her body. He shouldn't be leering, but he's part of the crowd, and while the black swan seduces the prince, Beverly seduces the crowd.
He'd have to resist not to be pulled in, and considering how much of his heart she already controls, and has for years, there's no resistance left in his being. He lives for her and in this stolen moment, he allows his heart to take over. Sitting forward in his seat, he devours her, eating her with his eyes, taking in the hypnotic turns that expose her legs, and the agonising curve of her spine. Black feathers encase her breasts, and he imagines his fingers there instead. When she finishes, posing with her arms back like wings, he imagines running his fingers down her throat, caressing her before he kisses her. Her hair's up, and all he can think about is letting it free, down to her shoulders where he'll follow it with his hands.
The applause startles him out of the spell, and though he longs to stand and clap, he has to focus before he dares. Holographic facsimiles of Will and Deanna's characters leave the front row during the applause, just in case he hasn't solved the mystery yet, or for some reason has the strength to abandon the spectacle of perfection on the stage in front of him. Jean-Luc doesn't need the former and certainly has no will for the latter. He settles back into his seat, puts his hat and gloves in his lap and waits out the show.
Somehow, even in play, he's still waiting for her.
Beverly washes off most of her makeup before she leaves the theatre. Dixon Hill, and more importantly, the man who plays him, was in the audience. Her skin is still damp with sweat, and her feet and ankles ache from the beating she put them through. It's been years since she attempted anything that complicated in toe shoes, and even with the holodeck supporting her, she'll be a mass of exhausted muscles tomorrow. It's worth it, of course, because she saw his face.
Jean-Luc Picard might have a diplomat's skill in most areas of his life yet when he thinks he's alone, protected from the truth by the spotlights in her eyes, he lets himself leer. She could feel his eyes on her, as tight to her skin as the feathers in her costume.
That thought so consumes her that she can't be sure what she's meant to be doing. Snapping on her garter belt and attaching her hose, she pulls the slinky chemise on over her sweat-dampened skin. The skirt, her heels, and a half-closed jacket finish her outfit. Her hair's a little wild from being pinned up for the show, and now hangs loose in lazy curls. It's a little haphazard, but she's just a dancer on her way home. No reason to be elegant. She's already made her impression.
The stage hand knocks. "Miss D? Gotta delivery for ya. Some fella liked the show." He sets a wrapped bunch of roses in front of her and grins. "He's a nice one too. Good suit."
"Thank you, Ben." She shoos him away and picks up the roses. There's no note, just a business card tucked into the leaves.
On the back someone's scrawled, "Meet me in my office when you get away, I think I've found your fairy godmother, Princess. - D.H. P.S. Glad to see the Dancing Doctor still has it in her."
She smiles at the card and grabs the flowers. The paper rustles, and she holds them tighter, imagining for a moment what it would be like to feel his skin beneath her hands instead of the paper.
Thanks to the magic of the holodeck, she's in his office in minutes, slipping through the dark entryway towards the light. It's like following a ghost, but she loves the mystery. Noir is all about the shadows in the darkness. She holds the flowers in front of her, cradling them as a shield when she lets herself in.
He turns from the window, dressed to the nines in a neat black suit, double breasted, cut tight to the chest. His tie's undone and hangs loose on his neck. She'd love to pull it free, or use it to pull him closer. Beverly knows better than to give in, but it seems a holonovel or two is all it takes to bring her to the brink.
"You were incredible."
"I'm sure the computer helped."
Neither of them are in character, and the only thing the novel would agree with is the way Beverly's heart is pounding. She can see the answering pulse in his neck. Jean-Luc wants her, and that sends that familiar little shiver down her spine. Her body tightens, starting to tense other muscles she hasn't used for a while.
"The flowers are lovely."
"I needed to send a message." Jean-Luc smirks and Dixon re-emerges for a moment. "Seemed a dame like you would get plenty and they'd blend in."
The roses are exquisite, and even the scent of them is heady and rich.
"Mr. Hill, these could never blend in."
"With a beauty like you, those weeds ain't worth the paper they're wrapped in, but it's the best I could do on short notice." He reaches for the flowers, touching her hand.
Electricity could not have rushed through her faster, nor set her skin full of more tingling. Beverly shivers again, involuntarily resting her teeth against the flesh of her lip.
He cups her chin, meeting her eyes. "You were beautiful." There's no mistaking the unsaid 'are' that waits on the tip of his tongue. The air between them grows thick, as if gelled by the power of their wanting.
"I found this-" Beverly sets her flowers on the chair and pulls a scrap of paper from her handbag. "It says something about shipping our costumes." It's a clue about the diamonds sown into their outfits that were removed when they arrived. He needs to figure out how to stop Will and Deanna from fencing them and disappearing with millions.
Jean-Luc takes the note and turns his light to get a better look at it. Both of them peer over the desk, trying to read the clue. He rests his hand on the desk, inadvertently trapping her between his arm and the wood. She's acutely aware of the slight pressure of his arm against her bottom.
"I'm sorry." He moves his arm, starting to flush pink, and Beverly turns as well, trapping herself between him and the desk with his crotch just millimetres from her own.
"Don't apologise."
She's lost track of where they are in the story, and perhaps it doesn't matter. If her character was played by the computer, now he'd have a chance to seduce her, to take her on his desk and teach the princess why he's a real knight. Beverly's about to give him the same chance, only she's not sure which of them is the seduced.
She trails her hand up his stomach, following the buttons of his shirt.
Jean-Luc lifts her chin, drawing her eyes to his. There's no doubt now that it's him, not the detective, who's looking at her, and that's what she wants more than her next breath. When he starts to speak, she kisses him hard, crushing his lips with her own. If they talk, they might talk themselves rational, or lose the moment.
Learning his mouth with her tongue, she undoes the top few buttons of his shirt, slipping her hands in against the thin cotton of his undershirt. Jean-Luc takes a moment longer to give in, then he returns the kiss with equal vigour, grabbing her waist. Beverly squirms closer, hastily freeing his shirt, then stripping his shoulders of his jacket. It hits the floor, followed by her own. He runs his hands over her back, then her stomach.
Sighing, she tilts her hips into him. Beverly pulls his undershirt out of his trousers. He tugs on the chemise, and as that comes free he finds the little zippered catch along the back of her skirt. The metal sings down, and a tug guides the skirt down her hips. She wriggles up, acutely aware of the fact that her panties are delicate, thin little things and that the dark garters stand out against her skin. His hand runs up her inner thigh and she gasps into his mouth. Then he lifts her up onto the desk. One of her shoes falls from her foot as she wraps her legs around his.
Slipping her hands through, she starts unfastening his trousers. Suits haven't changed much in the centuries and she has them loose quickly. Her fingers brush his swollen erection and the heat between her thighs increases harmoniously. Jean-Luc finds her breasts, delaying their gratification to explore them through the thin silk. Her nipples harden beneath his fingers, and she pulls him closer. There's a fine line between want and desperation and he is determined to find it and drag her across. Jean-Luc kisses down her neck, nuzzling her breast through the silk while he widens her thighs. He rubs himself against the left, heightening their wire-taut need. His hand runs up the right, gripping the smooth flesh, then letting it go to dance his fingers across the all-too-thin fabric of her panties.
Her nibble of his neck draws close to nipping before he relents and tugs her panties down. His knuckles caress her slick, swollen labia just enough for her to shudder before his hand, and the beloved friction, are gone. He knows the programme better, and freeing her panties from her garters only takes him a moment. Beverly opens her legs, inviting him in as she nibbles his lip.
They only pull down his shorts enough to free his erect penis before they mutually surrender to the need to be joined. As much as they ache apart, it's the combined throbbing of their bodies together that drives them towards the edge. First the tip strokes across her, then slides in. He grunts, satisfied only for an instant before the need for friction burns. Beverly cants her hips towards him. He sets his feet. She grabs his shoulder. He, agonisingly, takes another moment to kiss her before he finally thrusts in. She bends her leg back, giving him more room, and half on the desk, half in his arms, she's entirely his.
He pushes deep within her, starting the slow, tingling rush that cascades from her teeth to her toes once it builds. Little noises drive him on, so she moans in his ear before nibbling her way down his neck and sucking the soft skin between his shoulder blade on his steely-haired chest. The desk rattles: pens clatter in the drawer, the phone jumps in its cradle, paper rustles and her roses watch the whole thing from the chair. The little sounds blend into the wet hiss of flesh within flesh, and the throaty, ragged duet of their breathing.
Jean-Luc's left arm holds her close. Once he knows she's balanced on the desk, he runs his left hand down her stomach, sliding across silk on his way down. Strong fingers find her clit and roll it between two of them. The trickling sending her towards orgasm becomes a flood in every cell at once. She's overrun, held fast between his chest and the warm wood beneath her. She kisses him clumsily, moaning into his parted lips. Her breath falls out of rhythm, losing tempo as she is lost. She arches her stomach into his arm, pushing to meet him as the rest of her pulls back, trying to stay planetside when her body's screaming for orbit.
He stiffens, pausing before the jerks of his hips melt into the trembling of her body. She closes around him, pulling them together, one after another into orgasm. She leans against his chest, panting as he leans into her and the desk, catching his breath. Her head tingles deliciously, even her teeth, and the rest of her expands into the sensation. He stays in her. Even limp and spent, they're connected.
She traces the vertebrae of his spine, kisses his neck, then finds his lips again. It's a slow kiss, one of promises for the future. He responds in kind, ending the chapter of who they were and opening a fresh page ready to be inked in a new tale.
Perhaps next time, something with a bed.
- finis -