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They made love again, neither one of them mentioning that they had seemed to reach an unspoken agreement. Still, Terry felt he had to tell her what he was feeling.
"I got out of the shower, damned you a few hundred times, then went down to the beach."
"I didn't ask..." she interrupted.
"I know." He kissed her temple, soothing his abruptness. "I got sunburned. You may have noticed." He knew she had, because once she had stopped hugging him, she had asked him if she was embarrassing him because he was glowing. "Then I went to the top of that hill over there." He pointed out the window. "I watched the clouds and fell asleep. I only came back for some coffee." It was a difficult admission, and he could tell by the guilt and anger that flowed from her that she really didn't want to know. But he went on anyway. "I didn't think you'd be here. I can't tell you how happy I was to see you standing there." He paused, having to take a breath to stop his own guilt and anger. "Don't do that to me again, okay? Not just leave." Lesson number one. "I can handle goodbye."
She flushed, but said nothing. He sighed deeply, then gently took her face in his hands. "Okay?" he asked, his eyes searching hers. Don't push, don't demand. He waited patiently, openly.
"Okay," she said at last - and after a brief pause in which she took a deep breath, all she was feeling came tumbling out of her mouth. "I'm sorry, Terry, it's just that I don't sleep with anyone I mean sleep sleep-with not sex sleep-with ever and I'm not good at talking about myself and I don't owe you anything anyway and I didn't want to hurt you but you were being so stubborn and I couldn't let on or let you win and I couldn't fall asleep and..."
He laughed, again struck by how familiar her verbal expression was. "Okay, Zilama," he said, and sat up, kissing her, letting his emotions tell her that he understood and it was all right. "Let's get some breakfast and go up to the Clave. I've got to take a look at Katana."
They took the air car to a transport station and he let her enter the proper codes, knowing his own wouldn't work. Fortunately, since she thought him an out-system Racer, she didn't assume he had proper codes anyway. He hadn't taken the time to see if any damage had been done to Katana in the timeshot, and if he had any hope of ever getting back to his own time - something he was refusing to think about at the moment - he had to make sure her systems hadn't been compromised.
While he checked everything he could think of, even knowing that some things - like communications frequencies - weren't able to be tested, Ruth fired questions at him.
What does 'katana' mean, how was she named, do you follow custom, I don't recognize half your systems... and when he'd told her her Maker was Japanese, then slipped and boasted about Indiian engineers, she caught it.
"You said he was Japanese."
He flushed, scowling at himself. "He's my older brother." He could feel she got a great deal of delight in making him admit it, and she grinned innocently.
"Want me to change the subject?"
"Good idea."
They were silent for a while, and her emotions changed. She suggested a race, the competitiveness a keen edge in her tia. She'd 'lost' over leaving him, and now she had to win at something.
Games. Self-destructive, insecure, as necessary as air games.
No, Zilama, not this time. Not with me. You don't need to win.
Lesson number two.
But he couldn't think of a reason she'd accept to decline.
A memory came to him, one of the few good times he'd had with his father once an adolescent. He didn't know what it was about puberty that had turned a generally warm though strict and biased father into the almost fanatically tyrannical watchdog Sulu was now. Rosh had always been careful to let him know right from wrong, acceptable from unacceptable - usually with a sharp slap to sensitive ears and a bitter, not-at-all joking "you think I don't know what you're feeling, but I do." But when he'd hit puberty, the strictness and bias doubled and tripled to unyielding, disapproving, deliberate oppression. The standards Rosh set, and demanded be lived up to, were far more rigid for him than for his brothers and sisters. Far more rigid than Rosh himself had ever followed, if half the stories about his adolescence were true. And Terry's natural rebellion had only made it worse. He had left home - the Amateratsu - when he was fifteen. And except for brief, always tense and painful visits, he hadn't gone back.
But once, nearly two years ago - how many from now? - he'd been home, talking to sixteen-year-old Samara about his beautiful needle, and Rosh had overheard. Instead of a lecture about corrupting his little sister, his father sat down and listened avidly. They'd talked as adults about racing and the Clave and their ships. Most of Kamikaze's records were still standing, and Sulu was extremely proud of the fact, which, of course, only made Terry determined to break them.
Sulu had laughed, not mocking, simply delighted, and had told his son about a stunt that wasn't in the record books. Two in a needle. He'd done it long ago, not even at the Clave or in Kamikaze. And with Ama.
Terry had been shocked but intrigued. And his Rosh had admitted how unbearably arousing it had been.
Now, he smiled to himself with sensual longing. Two in a needle. With Zilama. And we'll do Kamikaze one better and take care of that unbearable arousal.
"I have a better idea. Let's go for a ride."
It wasn't the best sex he'd ever had, physically speaking. It was cramped and uncomfortable and frustrating. But the emotions were a high beyond belief; danger, fear, exhilaration, a sense of freedom and mastery. The galaxy, the whole universe was theirs, at their command, responding to their desires. He shared Ruth's being as she clutched tightly to him, shrieking with undifferentiated feelings, her barriers lost in the sheer power of the experience. Even piloting the slender craft became a thing of incredible intensity. Orgasm came almost unnoticed amid the wash of orgiastic sensation, overshadowed tenfold by the climax of joined emotion. And as they settled back into the Clave's hangar, Terry knew it was a high he would never feel again.
But it hardly mattered.
Maxwell was furious. His Uncle Jer was awestruck. He and Ruth, being ravenous, went to get some lunch.
After lunch, in the calm contentment of lazy satiation, he asked her about her family. The more she told him, the less he'd have to watch what he already knew. And it was vitally important he understand how she felt now. He had to comprehend what was keeping her so locked inside herself if he had any chance of bringing out the warmth and caring he knew lay inside her.
He ended up talking about his family, too, knowing it was dangerous, but hoping his honesty would touch hers. But her blocks were back. She spoke in vague, general terms, mostly about Antares and fatherhood. Knowing that Antaris could be parthenogenic when they felt the need, he teased her about it, feigning ignorance. He was momentarily startled by her real ignorance of Aema, then stunned at her vehemence about the Zehara.
"What did she do to you, Zilama?" he asked softly.
"Nothing. I just decided to convert to a Terran religion."
Her fear pulled at him, and his arms tightened around her. "Ruth, don't pull back like that," he murmured. "If you don't want to tell me, all right; but let me help the pain anyway."
Lesson number three.
But instead of giving him honesty, she changed the subject. "You've told me about your father," she said. "What's your mother like?"
He chuckled grimly. She wasn't getting off that easily. "She really is perfect," he said. "And you're not going to sidetrack me."
"You're too nosy," Ruth told him. "Kind, but way too nosy."
"I care about your answers, Ruth."
"And I'm not used to..."
"I care about you."
He said it deliberately, almost daring her to keep up the charade. She stared into his eyes for what seemed like forever, until he was sure he was going to get lost in them and forget all about his question. Then she said nervously, "I - I think I - care..."
Her voice was tremulous, and so uncertain that it told him what he needed to do. "Words are clumsy, and they don't always say what they mean," he whispered. "Empathy, now, that's the thing." He stroked her temples, refusing to acknowledge her fear. "Feel it," he said as a murmured caress. "Feel it like I do."
To his deep and abiding surprise, her shields disappeared. Abruptly she was sharing, absorbing, giving, being all that he felt, all that she felt - and he could tell that separate identity was beginning to fade. She couldn't yet control her empathy... no she's just out of practice. She wouldn't've survived the sh-nall if she'd been unable to. He whispered her name, reassuring and sensually teasing, reminding her that there was too much pleasure in being two bodies to forgo it. Slowly, lingeringly, she pulled back just enough. They explored each other, each giving and waiting and accepting, settling inside themselves and each other until they were touching still but no longer merging.
"The feel of you makes me incredibly horny," he said.
"Likewise," she replied in a murmur. He shivered/felt her shiver with hunger.
"Right here," he suggested, "right now, in front of Zehara and everybody." It was gentle, warm loving rebuke for her earlier fury and bitterness. He wrapped it in grinning delight so that she wouldn't be angry. When she kissed him, sending passionate agreement, he knew she wasn't.
Lesson number four.
They walked back up to the house, neither of them wanting to waste the perfect day. They spoke of inconsequential things, Terry determined to keep her empathy open to him. No pushing, no demands, no expectation. Just warmth and understanding and acceptance.
When they got back to the house, he remarked on her guitar, and she agreed to play for him. He interrupted her after the second love song, deciding to act on the feelings within the lyrics. Eventually he made some dinner, then dragged the mattress off the small bed onto the sundeck. He watched the sunset with her, trying not to think of timeshots and altering history. When she fell asleep in his arms, his heart was so full it almost burst.
He woke to distant thunder and panting, painful, choking cries. Her body was sweat-covered and trembling, thrashing back and forth in his embrace. He pushed himself upright, and brought her with him, trying to warm her too-cold skin with his own flesh.
"Ruth, goddess, Zilama wake up!"
The sound echoed back at him from the night as she sobbed in mindless hysteria. He held her tightly, stroking her hair, rocking her as if she were a child, praying that warm flesh and a soft voice could penetrate the terror that beat at her from her own mind.
"It's all right," he whispered. "I know, it hurts. It's lonely and cold, fear and fire and death... Ruth, I know, I know." Please, Aema, Buddha, let her feel it, let me give to her as she gave to me! "But it's past, and I'm here and you lived..." He kissed the top of her head, his lips moving lovingly, fiercely through her hair. "It's all right now. It still hurts, but it's all right..."
Ruth clutched at him and he felt the fire receding from her thoughts. He relaxed as she shuddered with the release, then gasped as she pushed him away in sudden, furious agony,
"Damn you, leave me alone!"
The astonished, wounded anger seared him. She was rejecting him, throwing away comfort and safety that was right there, right in front of her? No, this isn't right, she can't do this, I can't let her do this! He stared at her. She didn't back down. As the emotions snaked their way into him, he found himself glaring back at her.
"That's why you sleep alone," he stated as a cold, hard fact.
"Give the boy a gold star," she sneered. "Or maybe in your case it should be silver."
He remembered the gold-star adornment Noel DelMonde still kept, the love his erstwhile uncle felt - would always feel - for Ruth, though he and Aunt Calaya were blissfully happy with each other.
He could barely choke out the word, the question he had to make her face. "Why?"
She turned from him. "It's none of your business. It's none of anyone's business but mine!"
Her words stung, bringing forth an anguish so deep he almost couldn't breathe. "All I want to do is help..."
"Well, you can't!" She tossed the blanket aside and stormed up off the bed. He rose to follow her.
"I can be here, I can hold you..."
"And where were you last month? Where will you be next? I'll survive, I always survive..."
And that was the heart of it, the terror that kept her locked up inside her own cold misery. She believed no one would ever stay, and so she didn't dare depend on anyone else. But she was keheil, she was a telepath, an empath. Solitude - at least the permanent kind - would only drive her mad.
But how could he refute that, especially now? She hadn't yet met the man who was the love of her life. She hadn't felt the steadfast love of his father - which never changed, even as he fell in love with and devoted his life to Ama. She hadn't soared with Noel DelMonde on their mutually self-destructive wings of passion and hunger. She hadn't even known Ama's enduring friendship and loyalty, or Bones' - or even Uncle Jim's and Aunt Jade's.
And what could he possibly say to convince her that these things would happen, that she wouldn't always be alone?
The answer came to him with sudden clarity. No, there was nothing he could do to give her that surety. All he could do was open her to the idea.
"What does any of that matter?" he said as calmly as he could. "I'm here now, I'm offering now..."
She whirled to him, her expression one of incredulous, scathing contempt.
He took a deep breath, fighting the burning emotion.
"You live for the moment, don't you?" he demanded. "At the moment, I'm here."
He saw the tears forming in her eyes. "How can I rely on - if I can't depend on - " Her voice was ragged, and he knew she was feeling the feedback too.
He stepped toward her, pulling her to him. He gently grasped her head, tilting her face up, forcing her to look at him. He filled his tia with all the gentle strength he had in him. "You don't have to," he murmured. "Just accept what's here, now. It doesn't matter if you're alone tomorrow, if you were yesterday. You weren't alone tonight, Ruth, so you can't believe that you're always alone." Simple truth, simple honesty without all the emotional entanglements that she was so terribly afraid of. "You're afraid to need, I know," he went on softly. "You're afraid that if you give in to it now, next time there won't be anyone there. But next time isn't now." He paused again, willing her to feel all he felt. "Zilama, you need now. And I'm here. What's wrong with that? I'm willing to give. Can't you be willing to take?" The next part was hard, more so because he was afraid she'd reject it than because of his fear of searing her with his own emotional demands. "There's no price tag. It's a gift. I want to help. Won't you let me?" His voice, his eyes, his tia, everything inside him begged her to listen, to understand. "And if you need sometime when I'm not here, you'll have it to feel, to remember, to know." For forty years - Aema, forty years! "Please, Zilama. Let me help."
He held his breath, feeling all her confusion and contradictions warring within her. He even thought he caught stray bits of thought, actual words to go with the depth of emotion.
Sometimes accidents happen and somebody tells you the truth. But sometimes... sometimes it's magic...
It's a gift. How do I take it?
A smile came slowly to his lips as he felt her tenuous, frightened decision. Don't push, don't demand, don't expect... His eyes softened and he pulled his emotions back, gently retreating as he answered her unspoken question.
"Will you sleep with me, next to me, and let me hold you through the nightmares?"
She wept, burying her face in his chest, and whispered a fearful but unyielding, "Yes."
They didn't leave the house much after that - or at least, the vicinity of the house. They swam, then lay naked on the beach for hours. They took long walks through the hills. They made love everywhere. Three days and three nights were spent in each other. Ruth talked when Terry coaxed her. Terry talked to get her to talk. He kept trying to get her to drink coffee, she kept refusing, and it became a game of teasing and warmth. He watched every sunset, but he couldn't bear to watch the dawn, each morning reminding him of all that he was risking. He knew Ruth felt his conflict, the increasing anguish, but she didn't ask him about it, and he knew her silence was her gift to him. So he fought the silent melancholy as best he could. Her nightmares were less frightening when his arms were around her. So he stayed, and so did she.
His sixth morning in the past, they were awakened by a call from her teaching assistant at Alterra University. He vaguely remembered that she had once been a music teacher there. He got up to make coffee as she answered it
"Shalom," she said as she completed the comlink.
"Ruth, you're home!" The voice - male - sounded mockingly flabbergasted
"I am not home, I'm at Berkeley. You must learn to be specific, James," she replied
Terry snorted at the too-perfect imitation of the man she would one day marry. She looked at him curiously, but he didn't answer it. How could he?
"I assume you have some reason for intruding on my privacy?"
"Yeah. Drag your ass out of bed and bring it to work," the voice from the com said.
"I have better things to do."
"Don't we all," the man rejoined. "But you also have an obligation to Alterra University. And to me. I'm beginning to feel lonely and overworked."
She sighed. "I left tapes."
"Your presence would be more helpful."
"Yes, Jimmy, of course, Jimmy, you're right, Jimmy."
Terry stifled another laugh. At least she's not calling him Bwana.
"We'll be right over."
"We?"
"We?" Terry repeated in sudden panic. It was bad enough he'd had interactions with Maxwell and Jeremy at the Clave. But the more people who saw him...
"It's my class, I can bring a guest," she replied insouciantly, and turned to him. "I hope you won't be too bored by a music history class."
"I'm not sure if this is a good idea, Zilama." Please, don't let her ask why.
"Don't you like music?" she said, batting her eyelashes innocently.
His heart melted at the familiar reaction. And even as he berated himself for the very bad, stupid, dangerous, ridiculous decision, he relented.
"I like music," he said with a wry smile. He put his arms around her, kissing her. "Shall we go as we are or get dressed first?"
She tossed her hair. "Could you keep you hands off me if we went as we are?"
"Not a chance." She laughed and kissed him. Then kissed him again.
If he'd had any thought of dissuading her with the physical he was sorely disappointed. Not with the physical - she simply wasn't dissuaded.
Her words to her class were terse and direct. "Words can't describe music," she said. "Lyrics are poetry that can only be understood with the emotions. Got that?"
Terry certainly did, but he wasn't sure the sixteen bright faces in her class did. At least not until she sat down in front of them with her guitar and began playing.
He would never know what made him do it, but he turned to one of the students who had a violin cradled in her arms. Memory took him as the girl blushingly agreed to let him use it.
He'd gotten his first violin when he was ten. It was a gift from his Zilos, a way to try to help him recover from the trauma of the attack on the D'Artagnan. His tia had been badly scarred by the deaths that had taken place, and Spock patiently helped him to use music the way a Vulcan would use meditation. He'd played around with his mother's lyrette before, so the fingering of the strings came naturally to him. The nimbleness he had inherited from Ama's Vulcan genetics made it easy for him to pick up the bowing techniques as well. In the year it had taken Valjiir to design and build the new dreadnaughts, he had made his Zilos more than proud of his ability - and Ruth had delighted in teaching him songs from the Valley Collection.
Which is why he recognized the sorrowful, stately melody Ruth had begun to play.
When he joined her, the sounds blended, conspiring to make a time out of time that enveloped only them. He could feel the students being caught up in the beauty. Then, very softly, Terry began to sing.
And if it hurts when they mention my name
Even if it's taking the easy way out
Though it's getting harder to face every day
Don't let it show...
Though it's getting harder to take what they say
Just let it go,
Just let it go...
Say you don't know me
And if it helps when they say I'm to blame
Say you don't own me
Keep it inside of you
Don't give in
Don't tell them anything
Don't let it show
Don't let it show...
The words stung him, bringing tears to his eyes. He could remember Ruth teaching them to him, her own gaze far away and full of pain - but of resolve and - incongruously - a quiet joy. Seeing the eager, delighted, surprised look on her face now, he thought he understood. He had taught them to her - right now, right here. And she had taken them to heart, understanding all he was trying to tell her, solidifying it within her. This song, these words, were the beginnings of all her strength, all her peace, all that would someday be given back to him with life and light and wonder.
Even though you know it's the wrong thing to say
Say you don't care
Say you don't care
Even if you want to believe there's a way
I won't be there
I won't be there
He choked, almost unable to continue. I won't be there, Zilama. Gods, how it hurt!
Even if you feel you've got nothing to hide
But if you smile when they mention my name
They'll never know you
And if you laugh when they say I'm to blame
They'll never own you
Keep it inside of you
Don't give in
Don't tell them anything
Don't let it
Don't let it show...
He stared at Ruth, knowing his eyes were filled with the entreaty and sadness and atonement he could never voice. He didn't want to make her sad, he didn't want her to know...
Don't let it show, then.
He took a deep breath, locking his emotions deep within his being, and smiled, bowing.
The class applauded wildly.
"Okay," Ruth told her students. "Now you do it."
They left during the practice to avoid Ruth's assistant's fawning excitement and went up to the Clave.
"You wanted to race Katana," Terry said, determined to put the melancholy the song had evoked behind him.
"That was days ago," Ruth reminded.
"Did Spike rust?" Terry taunted, remembering that she had wanted to race her new golden needle, not the Mensch.
"She can beat your fancy Japanese weapon."
"But can you?"
"Any day of the week," Ruth retorted. He leered.
"So you want to get kinky, do you?"
She smiled lasciviously back at him. "Later, honey, I've got a race to win."
He grinned. "Do you? How much?"
"Friendly?"
"We are, aren't we?"
"You don't have any money, remember?"
He snorted. "That's okay. I'm gonna win."
"Five hundred, sucker!"
"Done, Zilama."
They both raced for their needles. David Maxwell stood next to the Spike.
"Mensch, I want to talk to you," he began sternly.
"Later, Barak," she returned airily. "I've got a race to win." Terry laughed at the repetition but it was hard to ignore Maxwell's angry glare.
He won the race easily. Maybe too easily. He wasn't entirely sure Ruth hadn't pulled a few punches. It would've been like his Zilama - she would've remembered his reluctance to provide credits for anything. But he wasn't entirely sure this version of her would have cared too much about that.
Still, she seemed blasé enough about it when they were back at the Clave.
"Do you want that five hundred in credit or trade?" she asked.
Terry held out an empty palm with a blinding smile. "Credit, if you don't mind."
She bared her teeth at him in return. "Barracuda," she said, but he felt the warmth behind the alleged insult.
Then he heard Maxwell's falsely sweet, "Mensch, dear."
"Let's get out of here," Ruth suggested in sudden disgust, taking Terry's arm and walking quickly toward the transporter.
Terry glanced over his shoulder. He could feel the protective anger building up in the man behind him. "Why?" he asked. "He'll only follow us."
Then he realized that it was the absolute truth.
Ruth's eyes started gleaming. "Then let's go someplace decadent."
"Will that stop him?" Terry asked with a dubious frown.
"No, but we can embarrass the hell out of him."
He wondered at that. He knew his Ruth didn't get along very well with her cousin, but they'd had years of history. He knew this Ruth had only been on Terra a little over two and a half years. What could Cousin David possibly have done to warrant such animosity so quickly?
He shook off his curiosity, his mind returning to the idea of embarrassing the Racer. He stared at her, evaluating her appearance. Green shorts and halter, usual Antari attire. It was about as far from decadence as he could imagine - except for religious robes - or his mother's civilian wear. "Dressed like that?" he snorted.
"What's wrong with 'that'?" she asked.
He shook his head. "Not at all suitable for decadence. Or dancing."
She gave him a quizzical look. "Who said we were going dancing?"
"I did. It'll be fun. And embarrassing."
It took a little more wrangling, but he finally gave her an argument she couldn't pass up.
"Just think of how it will annoy Barak."
Ruth grinned. "Let's go."
He found her the perfect dress and a pair of shoes to match, and though she seemed far more embarrassed than did their pretty-damned-obvious shadow, she agreed to wear both. Her legs were shown to near-perfect advantage, the copper color of the sandals accenting her golden skin and the bright rust color of the dress. She had giggled when he'd identified the type of heels they had - spike heels - but complained that she couldn't possibly walk in them. He'd had to instruct her - verbally - and when she got the hang of it, she moved so sensually it was all he could do to keep his hands off her.
"Let's go dancing," he said.
"Like that?" she teased. He looked down at himself. He wore a fairly plain, red, long-sleeved shirt and black pants. He looked normal - almost sedate.
"Touche, Zilama," he grinned.
Ruth decided on a skin-tight jumpsuit of a deep steel blue with a darker blue jacket. She told him that it went nicely with his dylithium earring, and touched it with an almost reverent caress. He traded his shoes for a pair of elegant, dark gray suede boots with heels high enough for her to comment on what they did for the way he moved. He smiled and treated her to a quick bump-and-grind. He immodestly acknowledged that he was a good dancer - as good as his father, if truth be told, though he didn't mention that out loud. When they left the shop, Maxwell was still following them, and he remarked on it to her.
She glanced over her shoulder, scowling.
"Do you suppose he'd follow us back to the house?" she said, her voice laden with heavy innuendo.
Terry chuckled, lifting his shoulders in a telling shrug. "He's your cousin, Zilama."
She stared at him. "How did you ...?"
Damn shit hell fuck! he swore at himself. Cold chills went down his spine. He was getting too careless, he was losing all sense of the time he was in. Being with Ruth was so heady, such sheer, soaring joy that he was forgetting everything he was endangering. Every day - every minute he stayed only brought disaster closer.
He knew he stammered something about where they should go, but his mind was too jumbled to really be aware of it - until Ruth said that her cousin hated London.
He seized on it, hoping against hope that she was right and it would be enough to keep her cousin from tailing them. All he needed was to make some enormous gaff in front of the man who would one day be one of the best, sharpest lawyers in the Federation.
The music was bright and sensual, a sound of passion and romance and welcoming souls. When David appeared at the bar, staring challengingly at them, Terry pulled Ruth onto the dance floor. He locked his gaze onto hers, his hands on her hips. She placed hers on his shoulders. Slowly, in sync with the driving beat, they began to move. There was no need for following or leading. The link of sensitive and empath formed around them and kept them perfectly in tune with each other. In turn, they clasped and caressed each other's bodies, stepping smoothly around each other and the dance floor. Their skin gleamed with a film more of desire than sweat, their eyes fiery beacons in the dark illumination of the room. As the music went on, their actions became more blatant, more heavily erotic. They fondled each other more frequently, their mouths meeting in moist, deep kisses. Fingers traced more than teasingly over faces and hair, arms, sides, backs. Soon, they were aware of nothing else, yet their bodies continued to move and sway and grind in time with the percussion.
Terry grasped Ruth's waist. He knelt, pulling her with him, bending her backwards over one knee. His hand moved along her body in a sensual caress. Her dress had fallen from her waist, revealing hips and thighs. He slid his fingers between them, grasping at her smooth, glistening skin. His head bent forward, his lips touching hers, then his arms held onto her as he lowered his knee, and her with it. Her hands clasped behind his head and she arched to him. His left leg straightened out to his side, then bent again as he pulled it up and over her thighs, straddling her. Her fingertips stroked his ears and a bolt of need flashed between them. She let herself sink to the dance floor, pressing her lips to his and his body followed her down. Their thighs met and his hands moved to her hips, pulling her up to him...
Abruptly, the music stopped.
Terry couldn't see, couldn't think. The blood was pounding in his veins, sending desperate need and longing thundering through him with every beat of his heart. He felt what she felt, knew what she knew, for a moment there was nothing between them. They were one being, one need, passion, hunger, life... He knew with a certainty that had nothing to do with vanity or arrogance that if it hadn't been for their clothing they would have been coupled. Not moving, not making love, just being, feeling the intensity as one.
It was good. It was right. It was the way it was meant to be. He forgot his Zilos, forgot the life he had to return to, the life he had to let her live. He heard a voice, far away, soft, rich, as golden as Ruth herself, whispering words he couldn't understand. He stared at her velvet purple eyes, seeing them not with his own eyes but in his mind. They held a power he had never seen before, a look of pure adoration, pure devotion - a look he had only ever seen her give Spock...
"Fucking bastard, get up!" Maxwell's voice hissed somewhere above her.
His body was torn away from her and agony screamed through him. He clutched desperately at her, but her body fell away from his, abruptly drained. Maxwell pulled her to her feet, pushing her back toward the tables and Terry forced himself to move through the searing pain. He stumbled, his eyes on fire and launched himself at Maxwell. David hissed venom at him.
"Stay away from her, you hear me?"
He put Ruth in front of him, like a shield.
Coward! Terry seethed, but the maneuver worked. He pulled himself upright, managing to steady himself against a table, feeling all the man's protective outrage at what he'd thought had been happening.
"You're not her father, Barak," he snapped.
"Listen, Terry..." His name was a vicious threat, but Terry already knew how to counter it.
"She needs me, David, and I need her!"
Maxwell snorted. "Oh, I know what you need, you manipulative little shit!"
Terry stiffened. "You don't know me at all, bastard!" he growled, sounding way too much like his father.
"Yeah? After you screw her in a fucking needle, playing on the rush racers always get, what the fuck else do I need to know?"
"It's none of your goddamned business!" Terry roared.
"She's my cousin you son of a bitch!"
"I love her, is that good enough for you? Or are you just pissed because she's your cousin and you don't get to screw her!?"
"You goddamned little...!" Maxwell pushed Ruth away, starting for him, but Ruth's voice grabbed both their attention.
"Terry?" she called out breathlessly. Terry moved to her far faster than Maxwell could, even though her cousin was right next to her. He pulled her into his arms, shaking almost as badly as she was.
"Come on, baby," he growled, "let's get the hell out of here."
"Katana, if you - " Maxwell's voice rasped fiercely.
"Fuck you, Barak!" he snapped.
He signaled a taxi, fumbling with Ruth's credit chip, ordering the driver to take them to the nearest transport station. Once there, he used her ID to get back to Berkeley. Ruth seemed dazed, unable to sit or stand on her own, and Terry fought with his own weakness, terrified at what had happened. Was this finally the effect of changing history? Was she disoriented because she was no longer on the path that had been destined for her? Was that what the golden voice had been trying to tell him, to warn him that he'd reached the point of no return?
At last they arrived at her house, and he carried her into it, stumbling like a drunkard. He laid her on the bed, intending to turn around and leave, go back to the Clave, get out of her life while he still could. But her hands reached for him and the fire Maxwell had interrupted blazed back to life within him. In seconds they were consumed in the frantic hunger that burned between them.
He felt her pain and fear when she awoke alone in the small bed. He'd gotten up, made coffee, and was standing by the window. He couldn't face her, couldn't let his resolve fade. What had happened couldn't be allowed to continue. If it did, he knew he'd never leave.
"Here, Ruth," he called softly, reassuringly, and felt her coming up behind him. He took a deep, painful breath, hating what he had to say with every fiber of his being.
"I have to go. I don't want to. Aema, I'd give anything... everything..." He turned to face her. "But I can't ask you to give everything. I can't ask you for anything. Ruth - " He paused, then swallowed. "Someday you'll know, and you'll know that I left because I love you."
She stared up at him, her pain returning as a steady aching that tore at his heart. He knew she understood, even without understanding a thing. She knew he couldn't explain, knew that, if he tried, it would only break his resolve. He knew she wanted to ask, to cry, to beg him to stay, to tell him whatever it was wouldn't, couldn't matter... and he knew that she wouldn't. She would give him that. Even if you want to believe there's a way...
He went to her, kissing her, his body tense with the sorrow that was nearly breaking him. And when she let her tears come, allowing her thoughts, her grief, her own resolve to flow gently into his mind, he, too, wept. And then she said the thing he'd done all of it for, the words he'd worked to free from the prison of her fear and grief.
"I love you."
"Terry, will I ever see you again?"
He was climbing into the Katana. They hadn't spoken on the trip to the Clave, and she'd watched him silently as he prepared his needle for the take-off.
One last lesson, one last truth, he thought, and smiled, trying to make it as warm and as scintillating at it usually was.
"Zilama," he said, "I guarantee it."