"You got that James Dean daydream look in your eye
And I got that red lip classic thing that you like
And when we go crashing down, we come back every time
'Cause we never go out of style, we never go out of style"
Taylor Swift, "Style"
/
The sign above the mechanic's shop read LATOUR & FILLE. The second L and E at the end were nailed over the original sign, with the edges of an S still visible underneath it, as if the word "son" had been hastily replaced by the word "daughter", and the family had been too busy or too hard up since then to make a proper sign. Weeds grew through the cracks in the pavement; the walls were peeling. The only tidy thing about the place was the inside of the workshop, where even an amateur's eye could see every tool had its place.
Mademoiselle Latour looked up from the motorcycle she was polishing. Her overalls were streaked with oil, her work gloves too big for her, hazel eyes alert as a cat's glittered under her kerchief, and every movement spoke of cool, unbothered competence. The look on her face was not exactly welcoming, but to the discerning eye, there was at least one sign of hope. She wouldn't apply red lipstick for just any customer.
To Bobby Davis as he sauntered down the road, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, she was a beauty to put any film star in the shade.
"Bonjour, mademoiselle," he called, tipping his cap.
"What the - Did you turn off the holodeck UT?" she giggled.
"In character, remember?" he stage-whispered.
"Sorry." B'Elanna straightened up and, after one last affectionate shake of the head, became Brigitte Latour again, with a mocking twist at the corner of her mouth. "Is that what you call French, monsieur?"
"Maybe I need to spend more time with a native speaker like yourself."
"Not me, I'm busy." She shook out the polishing cloth as evidence. "Your bike's ready."
She named the repair fee and stood there waiting for him to count out the franc notes, handling the unfamiliar pieces of paper rather slower than he had to as he tried to think of something to say. Fortunately, the young lady broke the silence first.
"Fine craftsmanship, I have to say. You don't see too many of these around here." She ran a hand over the motorcycle's seat in a way that made Bobby feel absurdly jealous of an inanimate object. "Where did you get it?"
"From my old man. Perfect excuse to get me out of the house." The quip came out more bitterly than he meant it. Her sharp eyes flicked up at the patched-over sign above the shop, then back to his face, and softened with something like understanding.
"Yeah," she said. "Sometimes you just need to drive, huh?"
"That's right." He moved closer until the bike was all that stood between them. "You know … now that you've fixed this beauty up again, I was thinking of taking her for a spin. Might be safer if I had a proper mechanic with me … just in case."
Brigitte folded her arms and tipped her head sideways in an attitude of deep suspicion, but Bobby could still see her trying not to smile. "Do you say that to all the girls?"
"Only the ones who know their way around an engine." Seeing her scoff, he took his spare helmet out of a compartment inside the bike and held it out to her. "Nothing untoward, I promise, just - you look like you've been working hard. You could use a break, that's all."
She let out a soundless sigh. Up close, he could see shadows around her eyes that hadn't been put there by cosmetics. When she pulled off her kerchief, the short brown hair underneath was tousled and damp with sweat. Still, the way she settled his helmet on her head had something almost regal about it.
"Sure, why not?" She shrugged and, to his great relief, allowed her smile to light up her face. "But only if we take turns sitting in front. It's not every day I get to drive a classic like this."
"As you wish, mademoiselle." He grinned back. "Okay if I hold on to you? For safety, of course."
"Don't worry, American boy." She patted him on the arm. "These are my streets. I won't let you fall."
/
Some time later, Tom and B'Elanna emerged from the holodeck as themselves again, windblown and pleasantly exhausted. The lines of B'Elanna's red lipstick were not as perfect as they had been, and she wore his leather jacket slung around her like a cape. He only wore a T-shirt underneath, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so warm.
"Hey, uh … thanks for doing this," said Tom, uncharacteristically subdued. "I know you're not much into holonovels … "
"I told you," she said gruffly. "There was no way in Gre'thor I'd let the Hirogen spoil your favorite hobby."
"Well, it does help," he admitted. "To make the holodeck feel a little more ours again."
"It was sort of fun," she admitted.
"Yeah?"
"I mean, I know I'm a bad actress," she laughed and struck a mock-glamorous pose with her jacket cape, "I always feel silly pretending to be someone else, but Brigitte suits me."
"I think you're a great actress." He settled the jacket back over her shoulders. "Especially when you were pretending to be all unimpressed."
"What makes you think that was acting?" She smirked.
He clapped a hand to his chest and staggered back against the wall, pretending to be mortally offended, making her giggle. Besides the purr of an engine, that bright chiming laugh of hers had to be one of his favorite sounds in the galaxy. It had been too long since he'd heard it.
"So anyway," he said, once they'd both calmed down a little. "I've been thinking about a replacement ending. The Hirogen made a mess of the plot, but there's still some things I could salvage. Especially since the Germans really did lose the war."
"Go on."
"I think the sign over the shop should say Latour & Davis," he said. "Don't you?"
"So, what, he'd stay there with her?" B'Elanna frowned. "Wouldn't a rich man's son like Bobby rather go back home?"
"Not much of a home. That's why he traveled so much, even before he enlisted. It's all in the character file."
"Hmm … and what about the Nazi captain's baby?"
"It's her baby," said Tom. "Hell of a responsibility, sure - but there's nothing about her he doesn't love."
For a moment, the blood rushed to his face and he was afraid he'd said too much - until he remembered, mercifully, that they were only talking about fictional characters.
"I guess it could work, a happy ending for those two." B'Elanna's voice was somewhere between ironic and wistful. "In a holonovel, anyway."
"Not only." He was still red in the face. So much for keeping it cool, but then he never could resist a contradiction.
"No?" Her eyebrows shot up beneath her ridges, then narrowed; hope and challenge all in the same look. "Careful, flyboy. A girl might believe you actually mean the things you say."
They had arrived in front of her quarters. One more step backward on her part and the doors would slide open, but she wasn't moving.
This would be the moment to say something light and witty and excuse himself … but for the first time since Caldik Prime, the excuse wouldn't come out of his mouth.
"I do mean them," he said instead, pulling her closer by the dangling sleeves. "Stick around long enough, and I can prove it."
The warm black leather wrapped around them both as he kissed the last of her lipstick away.
Some things, to both their satisfaction, hadn't changed a bit since 1945.