The BLTS Archive- The Folk Tale
by Suz Voy (suzvoy@tesco.net)

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Archive: Do it!

Disclaimer - Paramount owns them. Kind of.

---

He'd been mugged. Again.

The realisation filtered into his mind at the same point that
consciousness returned, along with the feeling that he was lying in
something damp that felt disgusting and could probably be classified
with an ick factor of about ten.

They were getting better at it, too. This had been the second time in
the last three months. Sighing, he tried to get up but his body
wouldn't cooperate.

He loved the irony of the situation. For all of the Federation's talk
of an 'united Earth' and an 'united planet', it still had the
underbelly. The hidden world that most knew nothing about, and if
young children heard about it they would ask their parents. Their
parents, of course, would assure them that it was nothing more than a
folk tale and the other children were just trying to upset them.

Some folk tale.

He didn't know if those telling the truth were being cruel or not, but
he preferred life this way. For all the mugging and icky
substances...this was honest. No one hid behind facades here, or at
least not to the same degree the rest of the planet did.

This was easier. When he did have to lie, no one really cared. He
didn't have to create an elaborate history, because no one cared at
all.

Just the kind of life he wanted.

The icky substance was starting to worry him. It could have been...he
tried not to think about what it could be. The very implication was
worrying enough.

Tom finally managed to force his eyes open. It was dark, which he'd
kind of anticipated while trying to ignore the chill seeping into his
body earlier. That meant he'd been out for three...four?...hours.

Shit.

Groaning, he physically forced himself up until he was at least
sitting. Shi vering, he touched what felt like a huge bruise on his
forehead. Damn, he was a lot colder than he realised...

Blinking, his head swam as he took in his surroundings. Yeah, a dark,
creepy alleyway. Made sense.

Shit, he was such a walking cliché. Well, a sitting cliché actually.

Trying to stand up, he slipped and placed his hand right into a puddle
of icky stuff.

There was nothing else left - Tom started laughing. He continued
laughing even as he became aware of the sound of footsteps walking
towards him at an unhurried pace. He continued laughing even as the
sound vanished and he turned his head just enough to see a pair of
very feminine trouser-clad legs - which he hoped to God belonged to a
woman after that last mistake - and then looked up to see who it was.

At this point, he didn't much care if it was another mugger.

He looked up, and stopped laughing.

If he hadn't been physically and emotionally exhausted, if he hadn't
been mugged, it he hadn't been suffering from a probable concussion or
at least some kind of head injury, if his hand hadn't just been
covered by an utterly disgusting and repulsive substance...it probably
would have been lust at first sight. As it was, it was pretty damn
close.

Bending at the knees, she lowered herself carefully and scrutinised
his face. "Need a hand?" She asked wryly.

Chuckling, he waved the ick-covered hand at her. "Already have two,
thanks." He noticed her smirk, and produced one of his own as he
leaned towards her slightly. "I'm going to do something really
embarrassing," Tom whispered.

"Really?" She asked, almost purring. "What's that?"

He grinned like an idiot. Then he passed out.

---

When he woke, the floor was a hell of a lot more comfortable. Wait,
wait...it wasn't the floor...he was on a bed. Not his, though. How the
hell would he have got back to his own place?

His eyes shot open. His body still groaned. The room was completely
unfamiliar. His shirt was missing.

"Welcome back," the mystery woman said.

His shirt was missing, and she was in the process of undoing his
pants. "As close as this is to many of my fantasies, may I ask what
the hell you're doing?"

She barely paused, sitting on the edge of the bed. "If you're going to
get cleaned up properly, then you need to take your clothes off."

"I don't see why."

Folding her arms over her chest, she appraised him as if he were a
particularly annoying piece of lint that just wouldn't come off her
nicest outfit. "Your clothes have to come off. Now it's either going
to be me, or you."

As tempting as it was... "I'll do it."

Nodding decisively, she stood and left the room to presumably give him
some privacy. Pushing himself up from the far, far too comfortable
bed, he remained still when he became upright, trying to win the
battle against his nausea. "Be a good little stomach, won't you?" He
muttered to himself as he feebly pulled at his pants. "You wouldn't
want to throw up all over this nice lady's..." The only furniture in
the room was the bed. There was a closet, but that was built into the
wall. "...floor," He finished.

When his clothing was removed he left them in a pile that was sure to
cause even more wrinkles, but the far, far too comfortable bed looked
far, far too appealing for him to care. Slowly, he climbed in and had
his head actually hit the pillow, he probably would have been
instantly asleep.

She took that opportunity to walk in. He watched as she carried in a
lightweight table and deposited it next to the bed. Picking up his
clothes, she left. A few moments later she returned with a tray
bearing several items; a hot cup of something that smelled wonderful,
a washcloth, and a bowl of warm water.

She placed the tray on the table, then left the room one last time
before returning with a chair. Sitting down, she picked up the cloth,
dipped it into the water, and held out her hand in obvious invitation.

Silently, he held out his hand. The particularly icky one.

"You don't have to do this, you know. I'm quite capable of cleaning
myself," He told her. "A quick shower or sonic shower would be-"

"There is no way you're going into the shower Mr
I'm-Going-To-Do-Something-Embarrassing. God only knows what you'll do
in there. You can have a proper shower when you're better. Until then,
this will suffice. Besides, it gives me something to do."

He didn't argue further, mostly because it gave him a good excuse to
look at her without feeling embarrassed.

Not once did she look disgusted. Not when she cleaned the particularly
icky hand. Not when she examined the bruise on his forehead. Not even
when she found the scars.

Rolling onto his side away from her, he hissed when she brushed over a
bruise.

"Sorry," She muttered. "Is this your first time of getting mugged?"

"Hardly," He retorted, too aware of the coarseness of the cloth over
his skin. "I've been here four months."

"Ah, then you don't have long left."

He almost turned to look at her, instead craning his neck in her
general direction. "Sorry?"

"People around here generally get a six-month period. If you make it
through that, they'll leave you alone."

Tom's eyes wanted to close. "Why?"

"Why do they mug you or why do they leave you alone?" She queried,
humour evident.

"Both. Either. Don't expect much from me that's coherent at the
moment."

She chuckled. "Well, they leave you alone after six months because
that's just the way it is. It's the way it's always been. If you stick
it out for six months, they figure you must mean to stay."

"What about you? Did you have to wait six months?"

The cloth stopped moving. "No," She told him quietly. "I've always
been here."

The cloth resumed moving.

"And as for the mugging..." She continued dramatically, "They only do
that for the tourists."

"Tourists?"

"They're the only ones stupid enough to wander around here and not
expect something to happen. Present company excluded, of course."

"Gee, thanks."

The cloth left his body. He heard it splash into the water, then heard
it being wrung out and the excess dripping back into the bowl. She
left the room but soon returned with a towel, which she promptly used
to wipe away the dampness on his skin.

This was stupid, this was...he should have been doing this himself.
He'd never had anyone who wasn't his Mom taking care of him before.
"Thank you," He found himself saying.

"Not a problem," She responded quickly, automatically, removing the
towel and dropping that onto the floor. Reaching to the tray, she
handed him the drink. "Here, try this. It'll warm you up nicely."

He already was warmed up nicely, thankyouverymuch. Still, he wasn't
going to say no. The cup was still warm so he wrapped both hands
around it, savouring the heat. After a few experimental sips he
decided he liked it, although he had no idea what it was.

Sighing, he studied her as she sat in the chair again. Dark hair, dark
eyes, smart mouth...very, very nice mouth, actually. He almost
snorted. Yeah, like he hadn't noticed that before. "So," Tom began
conversationally, not knowing anything else to say. "Is this the part
where the beautiful stranger seduces the poor, helpless mugging victim
to help him overcome his grief?"

She snorted. "I think you have an overdeveloped ego." Then she smiled.
"Besides, that's quite a bruise you have on your head," She informed
him, casually. "I wouldn't want you to pass out when we're fucking."

The contents of Tom's mouth came spitting out. Wiping the back of his
hand over his chin, he mock-glared at her. "You waited until I took a
gulp, didn't you?"

All she could do was laugh.

---

He woke to the sensations...

...of sunlight filtering over his face

...of a perfume that definitely wasn't his (unless that cologne had
finally gone bad)

...of soft hair creeping into the corner of his mouth

...of skin against skin.

Tom opened his eyes, wincing a little at the light.

If it weren't for the fact that the hair creeping into his mouth was
almost choking him, it would have been perfect. Trying to gag softly -
and not exactly succeeding - he lifted the hand she wasn't lying on
and wasn't stopping the blood supply to, then pulled the offending
hair out of his mouth. That obstruction moved he breathed
enthusiastically, waving his tongue about in his open mouth to try and
dispel the taste of hair.

Not that her hair tasted bad.

Not that she felt bad.

Not that anything about her was bad.

He really must have had a bigger head injury than he initially
thought. As best he could remember, after further bantering she'd left
the apartment for about five minutes, then returned with a Starfleet
issue tricorder and a few other medical tools - he didn't ask where
she got them from, and really didn't care. As she had sat on the side
of the bed, confirmed he didn't have a serious concussion, and reduced
the bruise to a faint purple mark, he decided she was his kind of
woman. She was kind, sexy, sassy, and was utterly capable kicking his
butt. And she was also the type who wouldn't mind receiving a little
butt kicking on occasion, but only on her own terms.

When the bruise and bump were all but gone, she'd insisted that he get
some sleep and turned out the lights.

Despite his efforts, it had taken what felt like mere seconds for him
to lose consciousness.

He really must have had a bigger head injury than he initially
thought, because he had no memory of and hadn't woken up when this
incredible, sexy woman, had stripped down to her underwear and climbed
into bed with him.

This really was the stuff fantasies were made of, and as he hadn't
experienced too many of those, he decided to just lie there and enjoy
it. Even though he had lost all feeling in his arm. Well, it's not as
if he used that arm for much these days...although something told him
he would be later.

So, yes. He would just lie there and enjoy it. Until - still asleep -
she opened her mouth, and he enjoyed it even more.

She snored. Loudly. He'd heard phaser fire that wasn't as loud. Hell,
he'd heard explosions that did a hell of a lot less damage to the
eardrums. The absurdity of the situation started to sink in then, and
he began laughing. Unfortunately he tried to do so silently, but
forcing his humour to remain internal caused his body to shake
repeatedly - and within moments she woke up.

Shifting, blinking and rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, she yawned
inelegantly then turned her face towards him. No "Good morning." No
"Sleep well?" No "How's your head?" Instead...

"What the hell are you doing?"

Tom decided that maybe he needed to revise 'kind' as one of the words
that described her. Smirking, he leered towards her. "You snore."

Her apparent ire vanished, replaced by a warm smile. "Your point
being?"

God, her skin felt so good... "Well... it kind of ruins the mystique."

Shaking her head, she sat up slightly, moving off his arm and taking
some of the sheet with her to cover her chest. It was only then that
he realised; SHE WASN'T WEARING A BRA.

If she had been wearing a bra he would have felt it, except that she'd
been lying on the arm that was now dead to the world. He'd just
assumed that she was wearing one. After all, he was a stranger.

And if she wasn't wearing a bra...?

Something stirred.

Don'tthinkaboutitdon'tthinkaboutitdon'tthinkaboutitpleaseGoddon'tthink
aboutit...

"Mystique?" She queried, puckering her lips and raising her eyebrows,
not seeming to notice his great revelation. "Me?"

Inordinately relieved, he tried not to sigh. "Come on, I don't even
know your name."

"Give me a break; you haven't even asked."

"My apologies; I was too busy suffering from a head injury."

She sighed dramatically. "Ah excuses, excuses..."

"Oh I have those. For any and all occasions. Just dial this toll-free
number..."

Getting the reference she shook her head again, then looked towards
the window. "What do you do for a living?"

Tom shrugged, studying her face. "Live."

Smiling, she continued her own study of the window. "Live? I remember
doing that. It's fun."

"Yes. It is."

"What's your name?"

"Tom."

She pondered over that. "Tom. Tom. Tommy?"

He tried not to wince. "Sure, if you want." He could tell she knew he
hated it.

She seemed determined to use it. "Tommy what?"

"Tommy Paris."

Her gaze snapped back towards him. "Tom Paris? You're kidding?" When
it became clear he wasn't, she laughed. "Another Paris? In France?
What are the odds?" Sighing, she grinned bashfully. "I'm sorry, you
probably hear that all the time..."

More times than he cared to remember. "No, not really. What's your
name?"

"Ricky."

Ricky... he thought it suited her. It wasn't a name he would have
guessed, but it suited her. "Ricky what?"

"Exactly."

"I'm sorry?"

"That's my surname."

"What?"

"No, Watt. Two T's. W-A-T-T. Just promise me you'll refrain from
making the obvious light bulb references."

Several hundred responses died on their way to making it out of his
mouth. "I never even thought about it," was what eventually emerged.

Clearly not believing him, she once again looked towards the window.
"It's a beautiful day. Spend it with me?"

How the hell would he ever be capable of saying no? "Love to."

Pleased, she began to wrap the sheet around herself.

"I just gotta ask something," He pleaded.

"What's that?" She asked, wearing probably nothing but a sheet, hair
all... skin all...

"Is *this* the part where the beautiful and not-so-mysterious snorer
seduces the poor, helpless mugging victim to help him overcome his
grief?"

She rose from the bed. "Not ye-"

"Ow!" He interrupted, when his arm flashed with pain.

"What?"

Tom stared down at the appendage. "I think..." Yes, definitely. "Pins
and needles. Pins and needles! PINS and NEEDLES!" Frantically shaking,
he flailed his arm about.

Bending back down, she calmly grabbed his arm and squeezed.

Tom howled. "What are you DOING?"

"Have to get the blood flowing properly. It'll stop in a minute."

"Stop it now. That hurts!"

She squeezed again like a million little punctures as the feeling
began to return.

Clenching his fist, he could feel normal sensation coming back, and he
relaxed a little. "You can stop squeezing now."

Lifting her head, she winked at him. "Don't worry. We'll finish this
later."

Then she released his arm, turned away, and sauntered out of the room.

Tom's head fell back onto the pillow. "Shit."

The magic of the moment was lost a little when she ran back into the
room, just having remembered to get an outfit out of the closet.
"Don't mind me, I'm not here. Really. Just remember that sexy woman
who sauntered out of here a moment ago." Then she was gone, again.

Somehow he thought he was going to remember a different - but still
incredibly sexy - woman.

---

After dressing in clothes that were somehow miraculously clean and
wrinkle-free - she claimed to have no knowledge of how it happened -
they left the apartment. They walked for hours, talked occasionally,
stepped into a coffee shop for all of two minutes before emerging with
two very large cups of coffee, and continued their journey.

The day was warm - almost hot - the sky was clear, and they strayed
further and further away from where she lived. Eventually they caught
a transport to Paris, and found themselves smack bang in the middle of
tourist centre: right next to the Eiffel Tower.

"Wow," Tom said. "I forgot how busy it gets here."

Turning, Ricky leant her head back and stared up at the tower. "This
was your idea."

"Of course it was..." He murmured absently, too interested in watching
a group of... well... tourists... having the time of their lives
posing in front of the tower with a holo-camera. "...and I know just
what we're going to do."

Lowering her head, Ricky faced him with a smile. "I've known you for
less than a day and I like that implication-tone-of-voice-thing you've
got going on already. What do you have in mind?"

"I'll show you," Grabbing her hand, he searched the local area until
he found what he was looking for. "There!" At a quick pace they
scurried over and Tom immediately entered an access code. The public
console beeped, waiting for an instruction. He gave one. "Replicate
the following items, and take the necessary amount out of my
account..."

---

"Man, you should SEE what you look like!"

"Me? What about you!?"

"You forget madam; men are supposed to have no fashion sense. You have
no excuse whatsoever."

"Hmm. I guess I'll have to dial that toll-free number then..."

"Trust me; he'll be more than happy to help you. Later. Right now,
we've got something much more important to accomplish."

Stepping out of the shadow of the public convenience they had just
changed in, they studied each other in all their glory.

They were wearing exactly the same outfit. A white shirt bearing the
proclamation 'I love Paris' ('love' of course represented by a heart,
and she had gleefully point out that again he was being egotistical),
stylishly co-ordinated blue and orange shorts, black plastic
sunglasses, and caps with  miniature pictures of the Eiffel Tower on
the front.

"And that would be...?" she asked.

Tom grinned evilly, gesturing towards the throng with the bag he'd
also replicated that was holding their other clothes. "Who looks the
most uptight? Who looks like they really, really, don't want to be
here?"

"Oh I know exactly where this is going," She murmured, almost in awe,
before searching the people before her, looking, trying to find...
"Him!" She exclaimed, pointing to a man who seemed to be in his
mid-thirties and also seemed to be on the edge of pulling his hair
out.

Obviously not a lover of crowds.

Shoving his glasses firmly into place with an index finger, Tom stuck
out his chin. "Then let's move out."

They attracted a few interested stares as they moved towards him -
they were the only people dressed so outrageously - but their 'victim'
certainly didn't see them coming. Two strides away from him, Tom
began. "Excuse me," He yelled in his best/worst Texan accent. "I'm
sorry to interrupt, but could you give us a hand here? We're kinda
lost."

Clearly inconvenienced and sighing heavily, the man turned to face
them. And froze. Then a slight smile appeared on his lips. "Of course,
I'd be happy to help."

"Why thank you kindly," Tom responded, shaking the man's hand
enthusiastically. Wrapping the hand that was holding the bag around
Ricky's waist, he pulled her closer. "I'm Blake, Blake Carrington, and
this here is my wife, Britney. Isn't it nice of this man to help us,
Britney?"

Ricky played along perfectly. "You betcha," She responded, kissing the
tip of his nose.

Tom almost - almost - dropped the act. Trying not to clear his throat,
he faced the man again. "You see, we're new around here. Probably
don't realise it, but Britney here and I are tourists - our first time
out of our home state, actually."

"You don't say," The man responded, trying his hardest not to laugh.

As if scolding her, Tom lowered his face until it was right next to
Ricky's. "See pumpkin? I told you no one would know."

She pouted. "There's no need to sound so happy about proving me
wrong." Sniffing, she pulled away from him and turned away.

"Aw, sugar I'm sorry," Tom pleaded, placing his hands on her
shoulders. "You know I don't ever mean to upset you. I'm just no good
with words is all."

She seemed to brighten a little. "Well, that is true..."

"Hey, now you're gonna hurt *my* feelings."

Turning easily in his grasp, she met his gaze. "But you are good with
your hands. Promise to make it up to me later with those hands?"

He smirked. "I promise."

The man cleared his throat. "Um... sorry for interrupting, but what
did you need my help for?"

"Oh sorry," Tom said, moving away from 'Britney' until he calculated
that the tower was right behind him - from what he had seen earlier.
He really hadn't meant to get that caught up, but...

...damn, it had been fun.

"We're here looking for what every tourist must look for."

"And what's that?"

"The Eiffel Tower of course! I'm told you can't miss it, but we've
been looking everywhere with no luck at all and I can't tell you how
frustrating it gets when you search and search for something and just
can't find it, you know like when you *know* you just put something
down but can't for the life of you remember where you put it? I hate
that."

"Me too, honey," Ricky volunteered and blew him a kiss.

Pretending to catch it, Tom then blew one back before facing the man
again. "Well? Can you help?"

He looked as if he'd just had something very unpleasant inserted
somewhere very unpleasant. "It's..." He raised a hand and pointed over
Tom's shoulder. "Behind you."

Tom's mouth hung open, then he turned and looked at it. Ricky stood
next to him, and they wrapped arms around each other.

"Well..." Tom started. "Shit! I'll be damned. It's very..."

"Small," Ricky finished.

"Yeah, it *is* small. I mean if we built something like this in
America it would be ten times-"

"A hundred times."

"-a hundred times bigger, don't you think? Don't you?"

They turned. The man was gone, but his form could be seen rapidly
disappearing into the distance.

Tom sniggered. Then laughed loudly, once.

Ricky chuckled. "That was fun."

"Yeah," He responded, squeezing her closer. "It was."

"What shall we do now, *Blake*?" She fluttered her eyelashes.

He stuck his tongue out at her. "Well, pumpkin," She mock-hit him but
he ignored her. "I think we should get changed back into our other
clothes, and then I am going to take you to my favourite place in the
entire world."

Scrunching up her face thoughtfully, she gave him a quizzical look.
"But we've already been in my bedroom once today."

Tom paused. "Okay, my second favourite place."

---

"A *bar*?"

"So?"

Standing outside an old-fashioned building, Ricky looked up at a
creaking sign that announced the name of the place as 'Chez
Sandrine's'. "This is your favourite place in the entire world?"

"Second," He corrected her "But the newly second. I have to tell you
it's a tough fight between Sandrine's and your bedroom." He quickly
continued at the glare she sent him. "But not that tough a fight."

Apparently satisfied, she looked back towards the bar and shrugged. "I
can't believe your favourite place in the entire world is this bar.
You really need to get out more, Tommy Boy."

"I'm out now," He insisted.

She grinned. "True, but you're about to go in. Come on." True to her
word she stepped into the bar, passing through the swinging doors. Tom
stepped in behind her and felt like he was coming home.

God, he loved it here. There was such a sense of reality to it.
Somehow it always smelt of newly varnished wood, of slightly worrying
bar snacks. The sound of murmured conversations always existed, and on
most nights the click of pool ball against pool ball would be a balm
for his soul.

Especially if he were winning.

On some nights the air was even smoky, and he didn't know how they did
it. No one ever smoked here.

Tonight, he and Ricky moved up to the bar and sat down, waiting to be
served. He watched as she looked about, taking in their surroundings
and the other people who were in there. The man-eater with the red
hair in the corner, talking to a new conquest. A couple gazing at each
other over candlelight. The bearded man at the side who spent all his
time there but never seemed to drink anything. A table surrounded by
nervous-looking cadets, who had obviously not been there before but
had heard a lot about it.

Tom was very carefully not-looking at them.

Instead he turned back to Ricky, ignored the growing hole in his
stomach, and plastered on a smile. "So? What do you think?"

She nodded absently, still looking. "It's nice. It has character, you
know?"

Yeah, he did know. So many of the buildings on Earth while clean and
healthy...were boring. Blank, boring shapes. No colour. No
imagination. And while there were technological wonders on every
street, only a few of them captured his mind the way this place did.

Technological wonders...

Engines...

Shuttles...

Flying...

Fire...

Someone was screaming.

~Stop it, Tommy Boy. Never got you anywhere, did it?~

Why had he come here again? Because he loved it. Despite the reminders
- perhaps sometimes because of them - he loved it.

Ricky had turned back and was sitting forward, resting her arms on the
bar. Looking to the right slightly, she studied something hanging on
the wall. "Nice painting."

Tom agreed, grateful to have something to talk about. "It's of the
original owner of this bar, Sandrine." Smiling, he studied the image
of the attractive blonde woman. "Most say she opened it sometime in
the twentieth century, but others argue it was even earlier. From all
accounts she was quite a character. I always wanted to meet her."

Smiling, Ricky faced him. "Me too."

Something in his brain noticed the way she spoke. "You too?"

A voice from the left behind the bar interrupted them. "Well, well. If
it isn't young Mister Paris."

Grinning at the blonde, slightly overweight man who stopped directly
opposite them, Tom shook his head. "A pleasure as always old Mister
Benson." He chuckled to himself. "Jack Benson, this is-"

"Mademoiselle Watt. It's been...what? Two months?"

Smugly, Ricky held out her hand which Jack gallantly pressed a kiss
to. "Now, now, Jack. How many times how I told you?"

Releasing her hand, he held up his own in surrender. "My apologies.
Ricky."

"Much better."

Tom just shook his head. "I *knew* there was something going on... but
I wasn't sure what."

"Come on Tommy Boy. You think I'd spend all this time in France, in
Marseilles, and not go to Sandrine's? I've probably spent more time in
here than you have."

"That's the truth," Jack volunteered. "She's quite a bit older than-"

"Thank you Jack," Ricky quickly interrupted. "Can you get us some
drinks?"

Smirking, Jack moved away.

Intrigued, Tom clasped his hands together on the bar and tried to look
innocent. "So... you're a little sensitive about your age?"

"I wouldn't say sensitive..."

"Concerned?" He teased. "There's no need to be. Whatever your age, you
look fantastic."

"If you didn't sound so sincere I'd probably whack you one for use of
such an obvious line."

He shrugged, unforgiving. "It's all I know. Seems to work though."

"I'm not entirely sure you should be sharing that fact with me."

"I'll refrain from doing so in the future."

Thanking Jack as he placed two 'usuals' in front of them, she waited
until he moved away before continuing. "You're... what? A few years
out of the Academy?"

The hole in his stomach returned. He had a feeling that if he took a
gulp of his drink the entire thing would come out the other end. "What
makes you think I even went to the Academy?"

"The forlorn looks you were sending the green-as-grass cadets over
there. I'd say either you didn't graduate or when you did Starfleet
wasn't quite the dream existence you expected it to be."

Tom considered lying to her. Considered some quick one liner. Didn't
use it. "I didn't graduate."

Understanding, she nodded and took a sip of her drink. "Neither did
I."

"You were at the Academy?"

"You sound surprised."

There was no reason to be, really. "It's just... you said you've
always been here."

She looked at him, scrutinising. "Yes. Metaphorically speaking."

"Ah, see you should have said that in the first place."

"Where's the fun in that?"

Christ, he was never going to understand women. "You any good at
pool?"

She copied his look of innocence with perfection. "I've played a
little."

Knowing she was probably going to whip his butt, he grinned. "Jack,"
He called. "Is the pool programme installed today?"

"Of course. Help yourself," He indicated towards where the pool table
would be with the sweep of an arm.

Standing from his chair, Tom advanced towards the one section of the
bar that was technologically advanced. According to Jack, it had been
a gift from "someone I can't mention in Starfleet, but let's just say
their name ends in Barclay and begins with Reginald." Tom had no idea
who the guy was, but it was a nice gesture.

Tapping a command into the small console concealed in the wall, he
watched with pleasure as a few unoccupied tables shimmered out of
existence and were replaced with a pool table.

God, he loved holo-technology. Almost as much as...

"You can break," He told Ricky, diverting that train of thought.

Picking up a cue, she shot him a sarcastic look. "Age before beauty,
right?"

He was about to respond, but became entirely too distracted when she
bent over the edge of the table to make her first shot.

He lost the game. He lost the next four games. And he didn't even
care.

---

The End