Fair Heaven
by LZClotho
Disclaimers on part 1.
Fair Heaven Part 5
Katie O'Clare picked up her skirts and swept inside Michael's bar as Harry and Icheb, apparently headed for the bluffs overlooking the ocean, waved goodbye.
She searched the many faces until she located Hans Alesund. The Norwegian was seated in the back of the room, old rheumy Killian instructively shooting rings standing alongside him. Each successful toss raised a hue and cheer, each miss a chuckle. As Killian reached the point goal, the cheers were gradually changed over to encouragement to Alesund to try his own luck.
As he stood, Katie admired the heavily jacketed figure from behind, the golden fall of unruly blond hair, the pale lips as he responded to the jesting. Relenting to the prodding, he removed his heavy outercoat, revealing the fitness of his body in a sea green bliaunt and rough-hide leather jerkin, the fishing knife in his belt glinting in the candlelight from the table.
He turned slightly then to collect the rings from Killian, stopped and turned more fully, gaze having found her.
It was the appreciation she saw in his eyes, the blue flickering from the bar's sconce lighting, that propelled Katie forward to his side.
Killian made introductions. "Now here be the champ herself. Katie O'Clare, be pleased to meet Hans Alesund."
Hans held her gaze. Katie didn't disabuse the notion they were just meeting. A blush crept up her cheeks though as he reached for her left hand and lifted it to press his lips to her knuckles.
Knowing the feel of those lips in far more intimate places, her blush deepened.
"Will you demonstrate the game?" Hans asked, voice a low rumble.
She grasped the rings as he pushed them into her hands. Her aim was off. The first several falling well below their intended marks, even one falling to the floor. Hans' hand was suddenly on her back, the connection warm and steadying. She made her last three throws perfectly, much to the chagrin of Killian and Donegal who apparently lost side bets with Laird and Brinl.
Hans toasted her. She declined his ale and sat down next to him. Beneath the table, her hand sought out his. "So do you have any stories for me?" she asked.
"What would you like to hear?"
Katie looked between his eyes, licked her lips, swallowed and shook her head. "Just keep talking."
"You like my voice?"
She nodded.
"I like yours as well." Their heads had dipped closer, to be more easily heard through the noises around them. His kiss to her cheek as his lips moved near her ear made her melt.
It was a mutual glance, filled with all the longing built up since the night before, which brought them both to their feet with halting excuses and fobbing stories of needing to get out of the smoky air. Hans grabbed his coat and followed her outside.
Fresh night air filled their lungs. He put his coat around her shoulders, surrounding her in the warmth of his scent. They began to slowly walk down the central street of Fair Haven.
"Hans," she said.
"Yes, Katie," he answered.
"Will you hold me?"
He did.
As they walked along, he told her about his childhood, wrestling among the rushes of his grandfather's home with his kinsmen, learning to handle weapons, the gash he received when Gundragon, his Uncle Sven's oldest son, caught him in the ribs with the edge of a family sword. He recalled for her his first dunking in the fjords, learning to swim, pulling boats onto the land with thick ropes tied around his waist.
He spoke of the first time he had been given his father's ship and told to take the furs and fish to the Eire market, and his first taste of food not his own in that same market, a town further north on the Irish coast.
Against his chest, Katie snuggled as they walked. The pier was suddenly before them. He helped her to sit on the planks. Sitting down beside her, he saw she was pensive. "Have I said something to upset you?" he asked, kissing the soft flow of her hair at her nape.
She dipped her chin, wrapped her arms around her skirts and shook her head. "No. I was just remembering my childhood."
He leaned back, looking up at her framed by the moon's glow. "I would like to hear your stories," he said.
Katie looked over her shoulder and down into his smile. The way he sprawled back, holding himself up on his elbows, the invitation in his eyes. She wanted to know what he was thinking. The life behind his eyes called out to her to ask.
She sighed. But he was just a hologram. A history, thoughts, all programmed to have the appropriate response for the situation.
He was probably programmed to be a sexual companion, not for deep, or even small, meaningful conversation. But still she wanted to ask.
She inhaled with sudden realization. No! I'm falling in love with him... with a hologram... Deflated her shoulders rounded in dismay. Again. She bit her lip, turned her gaze quickly aside, and brushed at her eyes.
"Katie?"
She shook her head. "I'm sorry. I have to go."
"Why?"
"I can't do this again."
"What can't you do?"
"I can't fall in love with you."
"Why not?"
"You're a hologram," she whispered, as if afraid to shatter his illusions while her own were already beyond repair.
"No, I'm not." He straightened. She leaned back.
"Yes, I know you're programmed not to be self-aware, but... and I'm sorry, you are." She started to her feet.
Hans was up beside her in the next instant, grasping her hand. "No, please stay. Come with me."
"Where?"
"To... my ship," he replied. Katie accepted his hand around hers and followed him to Torvald's Maiden. He passed her onto the deck and followed quickly. Once aboard, he led her again to the cabin below deck.
Katie pulled back as he went to enter the room. "I want to show you something," he said. His voice, always coaxing, always polite, always the soft husky sound of her dreams fulfilled.
She followed him into the room.
He tossed his coat on the bed, reached up to the collar of his bluiant and parted the fabric.
"Hans?"
"Hansen," he said, and it sounded like a correction. The cloth parted. He unbuttoned his braes, and Katie averted her eyes briefly, only to be drawn back by another voice.
"Katie... Kathryn Janeway."
In the middle of the cabin, blonde tresses tumbled across her shoulders, stood Seven of Nine, nude as the day she was born, a scattering of Borg implants catching the pale moonlight through the portholes. Strewn at her feet lay the clothing of a Norwegian seaman. Nipples of dusky pink stiffened in the cool air, and Kathryn's gaze drifted back up to Seven's face, taking in the pensive expression, anxious. Hopeful.
"Seven? What have-" She cut herself off. "Why?"
"I thought I would explore my ancestor's life through his logs," Seven stated factually. "I did not set out to deceive you," she hurried to add.
"And... last night?" Kathryn asked.
"I did not want to leave you."
Kathryn started to draw inward. Her expression turned troubled. Seven immediately stepped forward, reaching for her.
"I still want to hear your stories," Seven said, the husky voice back, the exact male depth gone, but the emotion still present, pressing, and deep.
"Seven, I..." Kathryn trailed off, not sure what to say. She had not considered this.
"I am real, Kathryn Janeway. If you are in love, please... let it be with me?" Seven lifted Kathryn's chin, meeting her eyes. "I love you."
When Kathryn closed her eyes, Seven's lips slanted down across hers. At first the brief sensation was unfamiliar. After all, Kathryn Janeway had never kissed a woman. With the smallest shift though, she was transported back to the night before. But she had kissed Seven. Her knees buckled.
Seven's arms, still strong, but much more slender, held her upright.
"Oh, Seven..."
"Kathryn..."
Seven lowered Janeway to the feather bed surface, buttons and corset stays parting beneath slender, nimble fingers.
When skin met skin, Kathryn cried from the intoxicating softness of the experience. She kissed Seven's closed eyes, aware that Seven was moved just as deeply by the contact.
Kathryn brushed her fingers over the face hovering over hers wonderingly. She stroked down the cheeks, over the lips, exchanging a kiss with them, and brought her hands down, as Seven held herself up, stroking down the woman's sides, over hips, watching muscles jump, and listening at each catch of breathing.
Catching a scent, Kathryn dipped her head, realizing as she brushed her lips over Seven's collarbone that the scent she had become familiar with, intoxicated by, had not been holographic, but Seven's own. Why had she not recognized it?
The eyes see what they want to see, she realized. Looking up again into Seven's features, the golden hair soft around her cheeks, and the lightning blue eyes, the cheeks flushed with emotion. Seven's hips rocked. The same motion as the night before, but now, the soft hairs of her mound tangled with Janeway's. Kathryn bent her knees, lifted her feet and locked her calves around the backs of Seven's legs.
"Make love to me," she whispered.
THE END