When he strode into the mess hall several hours later, damning himself for a fool for suggesting the crowded room at the height of the lunch break for first shift, the words that greeted him were music to his ears, despite the fact that the voice singing the notes was hard and chastising.

"It is mandatory - mandatory - for ALL coding to be triple checked - by someone other than the original coder. Did you graduate the Academy yesterday, Mr. O'Malley?"

The tall man who looked to Del's empathic awareness like a big, loveable, but dumb Irish setter stood with his head bent sheepishly in front of the much shorter, glowing-with-emotion Chief Yeoman. Calaya had her hands on her hips, her grey eyes flashing.

"No, ma'am," O'Malley replied.

"Do you have any excuse for this mistake?"

"We were under a lot of pressure to get the ships ready for launch..." was the lame answer.

"Oh? And having the engines go into imbalance was 'ready for launch'?"

"No, ma'am."

"This is the flagship, she should be the pride of Fleet, not some way for aspersions to be cast upon our engineers!"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Give me one good reason, Yeoman O'Malley, why I shouldn't have you report to Chief DelMonde, or Commander Ryan, or First Officer Uhura - or the Captain himself!"

The man blanched and Del, hiding his grin, took his cue.

"This the culprit, Yeoman Wheal?" he asked as he sauntered up to her. Her eyes flickered to him only long enough for him to see the welcoming smile in them.

"It is, Commander," she affirmed.

The Irish setter gulped.

"Mais, I be t'inkin' he learn proper procedure by goin' over every last li'l bit o' code fo' th' warp intermix. Wit'out th' computer." He grinned. "Twice."

"By the end of watch, Mr. O'Malley," Calaya added.

"Yes, ma'am, sir," the young man replied ruefully.

"Dismissed," Calaya said, and O'Malley moved hurriedly off. Del immediately held out the Yeoman's chair.

"That most satisfactory, Miss Wheal," he said.

She smiled. "After I'd thought about it, it seemed clear that you were correct about people owning up to their own mistakes," she said. After her shrill brow-beating, her voice sounded warm and soothing, like the lapping of waves on the Gulf. "I hope the venting-by-proxy was enough of an apology."

"It do fo' now," Del returned.

"I trust the imbalance has been corrected?"

"We got the intermix runnin' now. She be ready to go to warp in a couple o' hours."

"That will make the captain a very happy man," the Indiian smiled again, reaching across the table to rest her hand on his. "Shall we have some lunch, Commander?"

"Del," he corrected.

She looked puzzled. "Del? Isn't your name Noel?" She pronounced it 'no-EL.'

"Yeah, but no one call me that - 'cept my mother an' Pavel Chekov." He flashed a grin. "An' your countrywoman, o' course."

"If you refer to Commander Majiir, you must surely understand that I claim no kinship with her," Calaya replied, suddenly stiff.

Oh. Right. Damned. "Forgive me, Miss Wheal."

Her discomfort passed as quickly as it had arrived. "Forgiven," she said, then added, "and please, Noel, call me Calaya."

"You not gonna call me Del, are ya?"

"Your name is Noel," she replied firmly.

He shook his head. "An' 'Cali' right out, non?"

"Cali?"

He had to laugh at her uncomprehending frown. "Short for Calaya," he explained. She tilted her head in a gesture that reminded him very much of Jilla Majiir.

"Why would you shorten my name?" she asked.

"Humans do that, cher. Mostly it 'cause we not get to pick 'em, so we gotta do somet'ing to make 'em our own."

"Cher," she said with an impish grin. "From the French 'cherie' meaning 'dear one.' I am dear to you so soon, Noel?"

He chuckled. "You a linguist?"

"Yeomen have to be conversant with many languages," she answered. It made sense, and Del nodded. "But you didn't answer my question."

"Question?"

"Am I dear to you after such a short acquaintance?"

He stared into her eyes, soft grey wells of compassion, drinking in his skinlessness and promising a deep, cottony gauze to wrap himself in. The noise of the dozens of minds in the mess hall seemed far away - not absent, simply dimmed, muted to bearable levels. The memory of Pelori's silver eyes drew him in and he felt a pang of disloyalty - though whether it was to her or to the young woman sitting across from him he wasn't really sure. He saw the emotion become mirrored in her.

"There was one who was very dear to you," she whispered.

He nodded silently.

"Will you tell me of her?"

"Not here," he managed.

"My cabin is on Deck Six, section 17B," she said. "I am off duty at sixteen hundred hours."

"I gotta oversee the way the ship handle warp," he returned softly.

"Then I'll wait for you, Noel." She sat back and the quiet spell was broken. "Now, about lunch?" she said brightly.

Calaya waited in her cabin, a single due to the often unusual hours the captain's yeoman was required to keep. It was a courtesy to other crewmembers who would have no reason to be awakened at the captain's need. Those who were familiar only with the Indiian Jilla Majiir's usual calm demeanor would have been quite surprised at the anxious pacing the yeoman was doing, and at the swift, obvious display of emotions that crossed and re-crossed her delicate features. She had changed her clothing several times, alternating between demure, casual, flirtatious and suggestive, finally settling on a relatively sedate tank top and skirt with a lace over-jacket. She chose jewelry to compliment it, and touched up her make-up half a dozen times. She'd read the biographical material that was in Commander DelMonde's file and had prepared a pot of the thick, strong coffee his culture indicated he would prefer, along with a plate of Indiian pastries that would be a perfect complement to the rich liquid.

Why are you so nervous? she asked herself for the hundredth time, and the picture of Noel's handsome features answered her. There was something about him that drew her to him like a moth to a flame. Part of it was his empathy, she knew, and part of it was the tension and tightly controlled grief that emanated to her tia whenever she was near him. His service record indicated that he was an undisciplined if efficient officer, with a distinguished and checkered career. He'd been involved in several undercover missions, the latest one only six months earlier. The Intelligence Agent assigned to the mission had been lost in the line of duty, and she wondered if that was the source of his grief. Agent Pelori MacEntyre had been half-Indiian and a highly gifted telepath and empath. There would certainly have been an immediate attraction between them. She found herself hoping there was one between them, confirmed it to herself with the memory of his calling her 'cher', then countered it with the knowledge that his culture was one that used such endearments very casually.

No, he is attracted, she insisted to herself. I can feel it.

Then why are you so nervous?

Her mental gymnastics continued unabated, and when the door chime finally sounded, she jumped at it, swore softly to herself, smoothed her clothing, gave herself a last check in the mirror, then hurried to the door.

The warp jump had gone perfectly, and the entire Engineering section congratulated themselves and basked in the captain's compliments. Del was invited to a 'thank-the-gods-we-aren't-all-gonna-get-spaced' celebration and shared a drink with his officers before begging off. He started for Deck Six, then decided to get out of his uniform first. Once in his cabin, he debated his clothing choices, Calaya's soft curves propelling him to don a dark silk shirt and a pair of skin-tight leather pants. Slutwear, his brain commented with remembered amusement - then other memories turned it sour and hateful. He pushed them away. Maybe it wasn't kind or gentlemanly to take advantage of the pretty Yeoman. After all, it was very likely that he'd only noticed her because she was Indiian, and he'd had enough of callous substitutions in his conscienceless fling with Dylan Paine on board the Drake.

But she be able to tell all that right enough, he consoled himself. That li'l gal is flirtin' up quite a storm. An' jus' talkin' to her helped after Barak's dumbass dinner. If I be honest wit' her 'bout what we can an' cannot have, that not bein' too much of a bastard, non?

An' why you care 'bout that anyway? Foul-tempered sombitch, remember?

"An' nothin' but a self-involved, self-pityin', self-destructive drunk," he quoted out loud, then swallowed the lump in his throat, washing it down with a quick swig of bourbon from the bottle he still kept at his bedside.

"Hell wit' it," he muttered. "If the yeoman want it that bad, she can have it."

"Noel, please, come in," Calaya said, smiling at the engineer as she opened the door. She gave his leather and silk clad form a self-conscious once-over, then shivered with his reaction to her civilian clothing. The emotion built quickly between them, and when he stepped inside, she didn't step back.

"I have espresso, if you'd like," she began, then stopped talking, staring up at the dark depths of his eyes. They were guarded yet deliberately smoldering, and filled with a pain and despair that made the breath catch in her throat. She knew what he wanted, what he needed and without another word took his hand and drew him into the cabin and toward her bed.

"You work fast, Miss Wheal," he grunted, but he was smiling and she flushed with the heat it sent into her loins.

"What need is there for pretense between an empath and a sensitive?" she asked.

"None at all, cher," he returned and she was in his arms, kissing and being kissed with urgent, helpless passion. His hands cupped her buttocks, hers running sensually over his silk-clad shoulders and through the thick, dark hair. They moved with no awkwardness closer to the bed, each feeling the other's intent before it was communicated in their body language. They parted only briefly, to strip off the carefully selected clothing, and within minutes were making hungry, eager, all-consuming love.

"Will you tell me about Miss MacEntyre?" Calaya asked hours later. Noel was laying on his back, she curled up beside him, her fingers gently caressing his face. He stiffened. "It is Pelori MacEntyre who fills you with grief, yes?"

"She the latest, yeah," the engineer muttered.

"There was someone else who died?"

He blinked at her. "Lots o' someones," he said. "We in Fleet."

"I meant someone special."

"Why you t'ink that fo'?"

"There is so much sorrow in you, Noel," Calaya murmured, then leaned up, kissing him, "and I can't imagine anyone choosing to leave you."

He snorted, an ugly, despairing sound and Calaya sat up. "Someone did leave you?" she asked anxiously.

"I not wanna talk 'bout it, cher."

"But it's racing all through you," the Indiian returned quietly. "Please, I can feel it."

"An' that your choice, non?"

"No. I'm Indiian."

"I meant, you chose to be wit' me."

"And do you try to tell me, Noel DelMonde, that this isn't your choice as well?"

He frowned, scowled, then sighed, his expression relaxing. "No sense in tryin' to lie to an Indiian," he commented.

"Then tell me," she coaxed. "It will ease your pain to share it."

"That so?"

She gave a small shrug and a smile. "It's always been that way among Indiians, yes." She stared into his night-dark eyes, feeling his hesitation and his guilt and the anger that was always just below the surface. He was studying her, and she took a careful breath, letting his empathy sort out her emotional reactions. I care, she thought silently. I'm not sure why I do, but it lives within me. It has from the first moment I saw you. Maybe it's your beauty, or maybe your gifts, or maybe some kind of misplaced maternal instinct, but, I want to help you. I need to help you. Please, Noel, find a way to let me in.

She watched as his reactions danced in his eyes, and with a sudden flush remembered that he was just as strong a telepath as he was empathic.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to flood you like that."

You not at all like her, sounded suddenly in her mind.

"Like - like Miss MacEntyre?" she stammered.

Well, that too, but I was t'inkin' 'bout Mrs. Majiir.

Calaya stiffened. "I wish you wouldn't."

It truly painful for y'all, he murmured, and she nodded. She felt him exploring her reactions, both personal and cultural, and swallowed, trying not to close up the horror that was the Indiian reaction to telmnori. When he shuddered, she knew he had understood.

"Will you tell me about Agent MacEntyre?" she asked softly.

His eyes closed, his throat constricting as he swallowed, and Calaya opened herself fully to his emotions.

It was the contradictions that tore at him. She had been brave and stupid, hard and cold as ice melting into an ocean of tenderness. The mission was all, yet she was willing to bend or break any rule for him. She hid in vast locked rooms, yet had given him absolutely everything she was. She had truly loved him, as he had truly loved her, though they had been together less than a month, the promise of ultimately joined gifts terribly, tragically unfulfilled. It was her strength that had saved him from his self-destruction and searing grief at the loss of....

"Raw-eth?" Calaya whispered aloud.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it!" Del snapped, his fist hitting the mattress, and the rush of bitterness and anger and loss swept over Calaya in a tidal wave of intensity. She gasped, her eyes closing, her skin a silver beacon, her hand clutching at his in fierce despair. She let the raw emotions wash over her, helplessly sharing all that poured from him, squeezing his hand tighter and tighter until the flow began to slacken, losing power like the venting of a steam engine. It went on for a very long time, hissing over them both until they were drenched in sweat, trembling uncontrollably. Then, slowly, like the welling up of some underground stream, Del began to laugh. It started as a deep silent chuckle, making his chest quiver, then built into snorts and half-articulated chortles, and finally became full, roaring, belly-aching guffaws of absurdity. Calaya was soon laughing with him and he pulled her down into his arms, hugging her tightly until all the lunacy was spent.

"Shee-it, woman!" he managed at last. "How th' hell you do that?"

She giggled. "I don't know. What did I do?"

"It not hurt no more," he answered. "Oh, it comin' back fo' sure, but jus' fo' now, it not hurt."

"I told you sharing would help," she told him, and couldn't help sounding just a little smug. His hand came down on her backside.

"Don't you give me no sass, gal," he warned facetiously.

"I'll give you all the sass I want," she returned archly, and he laughed again, kissing her with unadulterated joy. Emotion again began building between them, sparking into passion, and this time their love-making was playful and teasing and delighted.

Days later, Del sat in his cabin, playing softly on his guitar. He and Calaya had spent each night together, making love, exploding emotional trauma all over each other, then loving again in the peace of the fleeting but increasingly lengthy serenity. He'd had a particularly bad day after their first night, and had gotten drunk and grounded, only to find that she didn't begrudge him the release. He'd been able to watch with fond acceptance as she'd had a screaming Indiian fit over Yeoman O'Malley's seeming inability to live up to the exacting standards she'd set for her staff. He'd played one of the few Indiian melodies he knew, and was delighted when her singing voice, apart from being more than pleasant, was far more husky and sensual than one would've expected just from looking at her. She did tend to hover over him, but her assessments of what he needed - despite whether or not he thought the particulars were what he needed - had proven so accurate he'd found he could bear it with only occasional lapses into sarcasm.

And she made a damned fine cup of espresso.

He started humming to himself as he played, and Calaya came over to him, gently brushing his thick hair away from his eyes.

"What are you playing?" she asked.

"It an old Valley Collection song," he returned, able to say the name without scowling when she was near him. "A duet. I teach it to you an' we regale the crew some evenin' non?"

She smiled and kissed him. "I would very much like that, Noel."

TO HEAR THE SONG, CLICK HERE

Lovers forever, face to face.
My city or mountain, stay with me, stay
I need you to love me, I need you today
Give to me your leather, take from me, my lace.

The End