"...Yes," he says. "Is something wrong?"

"I have discovered an unexpected need to spend the next seven days meditating. I do not wish to delay you. You have my permission to operate the Prometheus, dock at Betazed, and depart while I am in meditation."

"...Is there any chance you're going to tell me why you—did you say seven days?"

"...That is the number of days, yes."

"Would you maybe like to explore other options," he says. "Other than spending seven days meditating."

She swallows. She looks away. "My - my judgment is compromised at this time, please do not - make insinuations if you do not mean them, I will eventually regain my, my usual faculties and do not wish to do anything I will regret."

"I mean all my insinuations."

An indelicate full-body shudder ensues. "I have - somewhere, written down, a - I spend a great deal of time away from other Vulcans, I hoped to avoid this but knew I could not be sure, I have - a speech of sorts prepared." She reaches for her temple, winds up with one hand clenched in her hair as she teeters towards the computer and goes looking for the file.

Lalita steps back to give her some space.

"Nnng, computer, park," says Isabella, and over the sound of the Prometheus acknowledging her and dropping out of warp so that they don't crash into Betazed while distracted, she pounces on him like he is - literally - a lifeline.

Isabella is in no condition to be picky.

Floor it is.

And Lalita is not just doing this out of selfless generosity. Isabella is delightful, and he would happily have sex with her for a week even if it wasn't a lifesaving measure.

That will make her feel better about the whole business after she sobers up. For the time being all she needs to be aware of about him is that he's present and is her mate. (For the time being.)

Oh, but he aspires to be so much more than just present.

His aspirations are well, if incoherently, received!

Good! That is just how he likes them to be.

Possibly she will produce more detailed compliments later. In the meantime she can take advantage of the fact that in space no one can hear you scream.

It is absolutely meant that way.

Isabella can go without sleep for a week! She does this by default when there are interesting things to accomplish! This is such a thing. It is an open question whether she could sleep if she tried at the moment.

Isabella will allow it. As long as he doesn't try to go anywhere she can just as easily wrap herself around him and hold still by way of reminding herself that she has successfully found a mate and is not going to die.

In that case, after about six hours of various exertions, during which time they do indeed make it to the bed, he curls up and wraps his arms around her and tucks his face into her shoulder and naps for a while.

Snuggles. Not-going-to-die-ness. Eventually he will wake up! That will be nice.

Saying she goes from zero to warp instantly would imply that she is capable of being not at metaphorical warp right now, which is false, but kisses increase metaphorical warp factor.

It's good if it is sooner than that. Isabella is impatient. She found a mate and now she wants to make use of this exciting finding.

It is sooner than that.

Oh good. Oh very good.

Mm. Metaphorical warp travel.

Mmmmmmmmmmm.

And snuggles. Those too. He's still a little sleepy; it makes him slow and cuddly and affectionate.

Hmmm. Slow. Well, that is okay now that the most urgent portions of the week are taken care of.

And slow can be fun too.

Isabella is willing to be convinced of this.

Lalita is willing to be convincing!

He is so convincing. Mmmm.

That is absolutely welcome and appreciated and encouraged.

Lalita has not even begun to run out of fun new things to try.

He has a willing experimental partner!

He's not exactly taking detailed lab notes on their successes, but he does have a very good memory. And of course successful experiments should be repeated. For science. The science of fun.

They have all the time in the - well, not all the time in the world, but all the time in a week!

Neither does Isabella. Insofar as "plan" is even the word. Her father's species evolved in a desert; she can do without much intake of anything over the course of a week, whether "anything" is a stand-in for "sleep" or "water" or "food". Over this amount of time those needs just aren't going to be competitive with the main one.

Well, at some point during this wake phase - maybe in a few hours - Lalita is going to suggest food. He can go for a week without it, but he'd rather not.

She'll let him eat. If he really must. She'll just be half in his lap eyeing him while he does it.

She can be all in his lap if she'd rather!

Okay!

She'll have nibbles. Of food, even. Some fraction of nibbles will be of food.

How about the extremely obvious thing? They can do that!

They can absolutely do that. They can do lots of that.

Good. Isabella really needs to do lots of that right now.

"Keep almost - telepathing you," she murmurs, squirming.

"You can if you want," he murmurs back.

She slides her hand over his face and kisses him and reaches out for his mind.

His mind is full of kisses. And warmth and joy and affection and Isabella, a kind of generalized appreciation for every facet of her existence.

Oooh. Oooooooooh. It would be pretty much impossible for her to be more all over him than she was a minute ago, but she will try very hard.

Now he also has specific appreciations!

Lalita will be happy to maintain physical contact for the rest of the week if that's what she prefers. Possibly excluding visits to the bathroom.

She can always reestablish as necessary.

Mm. Good. He likes broadcasting his many appreciations.

Ooh, feedback. He appreciates feedback.

He can have lots, especially if he does lovely things with it!

Of course he does.

They are parked in interstellar space. There is a course entered to Betazed, ready to resume whenever the order is entered; it will take them another two days to get there at reasonable warp. The proximity alarm is operative and will beep at them if any debris or hails or distress signals make their way to the Prometheus.

There they are, behind some minor encryption, along with a few drafts of Isabella's personal files: diaries with dates, "processing" files, a text file entitled "polarbear".

The polar bear file appears to be the first half of an essay of unpopular, pseudonymous political opinions.

Isabella goes on sleeping, peacefully oblivious, uttering nouns. She's on a string of Vulcan plants at the moment.

Lalita snuggles up again.

In the interim, Lalita has gone back to sleep, for his first full six hours since the week began; he is curled up next to her, also stark naked.

Okay then. She'll pick out an outfit, quietly, and take it into the bathroom, and take a shower, and come out wearing it, and then resume course for Betazed.

"Hello," says Isabella. "And thank you."

"You're very welcome."

Her cheeks go a little green at that. "We'll be there in just under two days."

"You blushed!" he observes delightedly.

"That is physiologically possible," she says delicately, "but I can neither confirm nor deny, lacking a mirror."

"Does that mean you don't want to have sex again?"

"Well, think about it. We have two more days," he laughs.

"I may be worn out. I can look you up in seven years," she suggests, "presuming I still don't have a designated mate at the time."

"All right."

Speaking of which, she makes a note in her calendar for the relevant projected date. Now that she's had one, she can predict the others and make arrangements for them in advance.

Lalita sits down in the copilot's chair.

Isabella seems inclined to adopt a policy of Not Necessarily Ever Speaking Of It Again For At Least Seven Years.

He peers back!

"The access date for one of my files suggests that it was opened recently."

"Oh, that." He shrugs. "I was curious. I closed it when I'd seen enough to know I shouldn't be looking."

"It was encrypted."

"Yeah, I noticed that after I read it," he says with a wry smile.

"...Are you saying you accidentally hacked into my files?"

He laughs and shakes his head. "Yeah. That's what I'm saying."

"How does that happen?"

"I'm—what is it, 2269? I'm two hundred and seventy-four years old," he says. "I was born in 1995. You seem pretty well-informed; I'm sure you can fill in a lot of the blanks yourself. That's why I soak up languages like a sponge - I know a lot more than thirty. That's why I can break medium-tight encryptions while daydreaming. I had to learn to crack a few things so I could muddle my data trails; I can pass for anything from early twenties to mid-fifties, but that still means I have to cycle identities every thirty years."

"And now you're telling me this because you read my polarbear essay and you don't think I'll turn you in."

"I recognized the name," he says. "For some reason, anti-eugenics legislation is a topic of interest."

"...Ah. Yes, I don't actually stay out of politics debates on the nets, but free speech laws or no, I don't want it coming home to roost."

"I get that."

"I'm not going to turn you in."

"I figured. But thank you."

"You're welcome." Pause. "Do I now get to know what other things you told me were cover for your age?"

"Oh - anything about family is either a flat-out lie or actually meant successive imaginary generations of me. I won the Harlequin in a game of poker the year she was commissioned, for example; I'm older than warp drive, let alone that ship. But the book's real, and it really has been with me since childhood. I can show you if you want."

"I'd be interested to see a book that old."

He gets up and goes to where he put his belongings and brings back the case.

"Interesting illustrations," says Isabella.

He laughs. "Aren't they just? This book was my favourite thing in the world as a child."

"The standard history don't suggest that any of the augments from the 1990s survived. What happened with you, if you don't mind my asking?"

He shrugs. "I ran away, what else?"

"What enhancements do you have?"

"Just about everything. I learn faster, think faster, move faster, react faster, heal faster, I haven't aged since I was thirty, my memory's almost perfect even coming up on three hundred years - I never looked it up and the records are long gone, but I'm half convinced genetic engineering is the reason I'm so pretty."

"Wow."

"That will be no problem."

He smiles.

"You must have led a fantastic life."

"Oh, I have," he agrees, laughing. "Want to hear about it?"

"Yes, please."

"I've been to see a Klingon opera," is the first thing that comes to mind.

"On a Klingon world?" breathes Isabella. "I didn't think relations were ever that good."

"Between the Klingons and the Federation? No," he says with a slow grin. "Between the Klingons and me? Oh yes. Or should I say - between a Klingon and me. Her name was Shenara."

"Ah. It's still not obvious how a human would manage to get into the audience of an opera without trouble, but an escort would help."

"It's amazing what the rich and eccentric can get away with. I find that's true across any culture where the concept of 'rich' is relevant," he says. "Bringing her alien concubine to the opera was the least of her exploits."

Isabella laughs softly at 'alien concubine'.

Lalita giggles. "Well, I was. For almost a year."

"How did you wind up in that position?"

"She captured me while I was out on one of my first trips into deep space. I flirted. She was charmed. She decided to keep me."

"...Ah."

"I really did like her," he adds. "She was a lot of fun."

"I suppose that's considerably better than the alternative. She let you go, or you escaped when you were done?"

"Option C: assassination. One of her rivals got her, and I stole Harley back from the spacedock and ran for it."

"I suppose that works too. What's Klingon society like up close?"

"Violent. Structured. Beautiful. A lot like their opera," he laughs.

"The violence sounds unpleasant."

"It wasn't always."

"I suppose you're probably about a match for a Klingon if you decide to be."

"Shenara liked that about me."

Isabella laughs.

Lalita grins.

"What other improbable civilizations have you visited?"

"Oh, the Klingons were definitely the most improbable."

"What other interesting ones, then?"

"Orion?"

"I know very little about the society. I do know that the people are green."

"They have taboos about food the way some species have taboos about sex, and they're as casual about sex as some species are about food. I've had sex with a lot of Orions, but only one ever let me make her dinner."

"That's an interesting reversal, and not one I've heard of before. Sexual taboos are common. I wonder why."

"I have no idea."

"For most races at most times, sex is more optional than food. Although outside of actual instances of pon farr Vulcans are at least as conservative as everyone else about the subject."

"I got the impression that there was some unusual biology going on with the Orions, but not the same as yours," he says.

"So have you in fact lost count of how many languages you speak?"

"Yes. More than thirty, though, that's for sure."

"Do I know of the existence of any languages that you don't speak?" she asks.

"At this point? Probably not," he laughs.

"Wow," she laughs, shaking her head.

"I like languages."

"The fact that I sometimes go online under the pseudonym "polarbear" is of little consequence - though I wouldn't like it spread around - but can I trust that you won't go into my other files?" Isabella asks.

"I kept away from the ones that looked private. I'll try not to daydream on your computer again."

"Succeed. Please. Even if you avoid anything with 'diary' in the filename, this is a one-person ship. I'm not usually obliged to be overmuch concerned with security and labeling on things that can only be inspected with physical access to my system."

"I don't think it's going to be that difficult," he says with a shrug. "You got this ship secondhand, right? How long have you had him?"

"A couple years. I bought him from a friend of my mother's cousin who married a Starfleet officer and now lives aboard the Drake."

"Did he have another name before? Harley used to be the Eurydice," he adds. "I could never figure out why."

"Yes, I have a weakness for Greek mythology. I know it's a common name, but," she shrugs. "He was the Andes. I don't understand the motivation to name ships after geographical features."

"...I do read the news. Yes."

"Almost like somebody's stealing fire from the gods."

"So I'll do my best to stay out of your private files," he says wryly.

Isabella looks away, hands clasped in her lap.

"Thank you. My privacy is important to me."

"I noticed."

Isabella sighs, withdrawn.

"I haven't been in your private files," he adds. "I just - notice things."

She nods once.

So, awkward uncertain silence, then?

Apparently so!

"I am," she murmurs, "less than clear on what you know or what you plan to do with it."

"I don't plan to do anything. You're breaking the law, but why should I care? I remember when Earth was a prewarp civilization."

Isabella relaxes marginally. "...Ah."

"...Did you think I was going to turn you in? I'm not," he says. "The less contact I have with any kind of authority, the better. I wouldn't turn someone in even for a crime I didn't want them to commit."

"I suppose that's fair. So now we both have blackmail material on each other, I suppose."

He laughs.

"I probably shouldn't have named my ship Prometheus. It's a common name, but I suppose it must make everything snap into place obviously if you formulate even half of a correct guess."

"It kind of does," he agrees.

"Maybe I should change it. I considered keeping Andes or going with the considerably more subtle Nicholas."

"Nicholas?" he echoes inquisitively.

"As in," she smiles, "the saint."

"But possibly a name change will draw attention, too. I am unsure what will be the most useful at maintaining cover. I expect to be caught and confined to a small moon for the rest of my life eventually but would like to postpone it as long as possible."

"I'd rescue you," he says whimsically.

"Would you? Really?"

"Why not? It's something I've never done before. And I like you."

"You have known me for just over a week and I spent most of that time less than - coherent. I am aware that you like me, but a willingness to break into a Federation prison to release me is a step beyond."

"Not for me it's not."

"Why not?"

"Because it's easy for me to care about people and hard for me to care about risk," he explains.

"This wouldn't be a matter of quietly changing identities. There would be a manhunt. It might go on for a very long time. Especially if I continued to steal fire from the gods."

"Believe me, I know. I don't care," he says.

"I am somewhat surprised you have managed to remain intact and free for this long, unless you acquired this attitude recently."

"Taking big risks doesn't bother me, but I don't do it for its own sake, either."

"Risk bothers me. But I think my reasons are sufficient ones." She looks up and smiles. "Do you want to see my very large number?"

"Very large number of what?"

"My estimate of the effects of my fire-stealing."

"Sure."

"That," says Lalita, "is a very large number."

"I look at it when I become concerned about the prospect of spending a much smaller number of days on some prison moon. I would willingly be inconvenienced for a day under those conditions to save a single life, and will live for dramatically fewer than twenty-one billion days. And I have not even been caught yet, by anyone apart from you. The math checks out."

"Can I come with you?" he asks suddenly. "I mean - I have to rescue the Harlequin, but it's about time I left her in a museum for good. And then I wouldn't have a ship. But you have a ship."

"I could help with that for sure," he laughs. "And I've never done it before. And I like you."

"...It might be nice to have company."

She goes very green at that. "I - would - find that agreeable."

"You're blushing again," he informs her. "You know, you're only going to live to what, a hundred and fifty, hundred and sixty? Is one week every seven years really enough for you?"

"It... is a minimum, not a maximum, but - until a week ago I had not - indulged - at all - and do not yet know what rate I will prefer for the intervening years. And I am not sure what you are insinuating. I specified that I would not take assistance as an indication of a more ongoing commitment, but that relates to the fact that the situation was urgent and I did not have a traditional mate available with whom to conduct a ritual marriage-sealing. The matter will not be urgent again for seven years."

"I'm insinuating that I want to have sex with you again sometime in the next seven years," he says patiently. "And I think you do too. It was fun the first few hundred times, wasn't it?"

"...I wasn't counting. But. It was. I simply - I am not sure that - I am aware of cultures that consider it isolable from other facets of life but outside of recent context I do not appear to fit into such a culture."

"Does this mean you don't want an alien concubine?" he asks, blinking innocently.

"You are not an alien relative to me," Isabella points out.

"Well, all right. I want to follow you around the galaxy and help you steal fire from the gods and talk to you and snuggle with you and have sex with you, because I like you and you're fun and I'm going to miss you when you die. What parts of that plan don't you like?"

"The plan does not contain objectionable parts. It - does not have a recognizable shape if I presume those parts are the only ones operative."

"Does it need a recognizable shape? What's missing?"

"It would be easier to think about if it corresponded to something I have a label for. I can't tell if you want to be my - physically affectionate friend - or my sa-kugalsu or something in between."

"Well... yes," he says. "Yes, I want to be one of those things."

"Which of those things?"

"One of them. Something in that range. I'd be more specific if I wanted something more specific but I don't."

"I do not understand."

"Then maybe neither do I. What do you want?"

"I want to know what you are - insinuating, suggesting, asking."

"I keep trying to tell you!" he laughs. "I don't know how else to say it!"

"I will react differently to suggestions of affectionate friendship, offers of - boyfriendhood - and proposals of marriage!"

"But I'm trying to tell you I wouldn't. I mean, I'd feel a little differently about them, but all three are fine."

She peers at him, dumbfounded.

He blinks back at her.

"I am not sure what to make of that. I suppose I could just imagine that you'd been more specific and produce reactions to the individual ideas."

"That sounds like a fine plan to me."

"While it would not have been culturally uncharacteristic for me to have been betrothed at age seven, I do not wish to become so now to a man I met less than two weeks ago. I believe I would find physically affectionate friendship emotionally confusing. I would be willing to be your girlfriend."

"Well, that's simple enough, then," he says with a laugh.

"I suppose it is at that."

Lalita grins.

"And - yes, you can come with me if you want to. How long do you think it will take to rescue your ship and find a new home for her?"

"Not that long. A week, a few months - something in that range."

"Do you want to meet me somewhere later or would it make more sense for me to come along?"

"Well, if you didn't come along you'd have to find me again," he says. "And I don't know how long it's going to take, or where I'll be when I'm done."

"There is that. It will delay PN-115 - but then, there is already a civilization in the pipeline, and they may be a little more densely clustered than is ideal."

"Just a little," he agrees.

"It is very hard to wait. Perhaps you can distract me from the fact that there are people who could benefit from Federation assistance on PN-115."

"I can be very distracting when I put my mind to it!"

"How convenient."

He smiles charmingly at her.

"When I'm resupplying, what should I pick up for you? Food-wise?"

"Oh, I'll eat just about anything," he says. "I have favourite foods, but they're mostly kinds of candy that haven't been sold in a century or two."

"That's a pity. I'll just get more of my usual assortment, then. I've been starting to incorporate more Vulcan foods as farms on New Vulcan have proliferated enough to make it less than prohibitively expensive; will you eat those too?"

"Sure!"

"All right then. Is there anything else I should pick up while you're salvaging and I'm shopping?"

"Can't think of anything," he says.

"How do you manage finances when you have to be a different person every few decades?"

"Cleverly," he says. "There's some stealing involved, but usually only from myself."

She laughs. "That sounds like at least one interesting story, and probably more!"

"Oh - I have to resort to the kind of trickery usually associated with major financial fraud to switch over identities while keeping most of my money," he shrugs. "It's getting a little harder and a lot more pointless as I get older and more things become free."

"There are some reasons to have money, still. I wouldn't want to live indefinitely on postscarce food. I like saffron."

"Well, yeah. But it's easier now to just take a few months as a gap and then get a job under the new name if I want to. It's not like I don't have skills."

"Fencing, dancing, cheffery," laughs Isabella.

"And prostitution," he adds, cheerfully. "Oh, that reminds me - the cheffery, not the prostitution - I can think of a few things I'd want to cook if I had the chance, and you have that teeny little kitchen. Interested? I could write you a grocery list."

"Sure. If there's anything expensive you might need to chip in some of the results of your grand theft."

"That would be a peculiar thing to do," Isabella points out. "On several levels."

He shrugs. "Why?"

"Large transfers of wealth draw attention; we have known each other for less than two weeks; the fact that we're going to be traveling together doesn't diminish the fact that then you wouldn't have it anymore. I suppose I'm a slightly longer-term caretaker than any of your myriad identities, since I age as I am expected to, but it will still add an extra step if you want to buy anything."

"Oh, I wouldn't give it to you on the books," he laughs. "I'd just take it all with us, and if I had you I wouldn't need a legal identity of my own, I could just let you buy all the groceries."

"Being without a legal identity could probably be inconvenient under some - admittedly unlikely - circumstances."

"Oh, sure," he says, shrugging. "But I still wouldn't need one."

"I begin to suspect you have an unconventional definition of need."

"Of course I do."

"What does it mean when you say it, then?"

"Different things, depending. Right now it means that I wouldn't have to have one just to make my everyday life convenient. I could get most of the same things out of living with you, in mostly the same ways, whether I officially existed or not."

"That's true. If you give the Harlequin to a museum you won't need the identity to keep your ship registered either."

"See? And if something else comes up, well, then it comes up. I can always start existing again."

"What's the procedure for that like?"

"Mostly, I make the old name disappear as much as I can and start using the new one. Sometimes I invent records; sometimes I just let the new paper trail speak for itself. The methods tend to change over the years."

"What was your original name?"

"There was a first thing I was called, but it wasn't a name and I don't like it," he says.

"...Oh?"

"What part of that do you want me to elaborate on?"

"Any of it you're disposed to."

"I'm sorry."

Isabella reaches out and puts her hand on his arm.

"I have been known to experience mixed feelings about my parentage, but - nothing comparable."

"Yeah," he says with a quirk of a smile, squeezing her hand gently. "You had parents, for one thing."

"Who loved me. And gave me names, one each." She squeezes back.

"I like your names," he says, and he picks up her hand and kisses it.

She smiles. "I do too. I default to Isabella, but among Vulcans or anyone who might be more cooperative in some way if I present Vulcan, I go by T'Mir."

He smiles back, nuzzles his cheek against her hand for a moment, and then kisses it again.

She smiles and squirms just a little. These chairs don't roll, but they do swivel; she turns hers towards him.

Lalita gets up out of his, and stands in front of her, and leans down and kisses her on the cheek.

Ooh, kisses. There should be more kisses. Isabella crosses her wrists behind his neck and increments kisses.

Kisses! He approves of kisses. Mmmmmmmmm.

Good! The exercise would be purposeless if he did not approve. Kisses.

Leaning over her chair makes kissing somewhat awkward. He kneels on the floor in front of her instead, which improves the logistics only slightly but serves as a pleasing reminder of some recent activities.

Recent activities were indeed pleasing. Kisses where she isn't being eaten alive by the need for such activities: pleasing in a different way.

Kisses and snuggling.

Kisses and snuggling... and sex?

Maybe a little. Isabella is a lot shyer when she has the luxury to be, but apart from turning visibly green and sometimes breaking eye contact and being much slower and more tentative about the whole thing - well, they're the same pair of people.

Lalita is very snuggly and affectionate and fond of her blushes. He likes to kiss them when they appear.

Awww. This creates a feedback loop. And giggling, it also creates giggling.

Giggling creates more giggling! Also cuddles. It creates some of those.

Giggly cuddles it is, then.

"Well, you can if you want," he says. "I have a good fifteen years left on this one. You'll just have to quietly drop or rename me at some point."

"Should you be crew or passenger?"

"Does it make a difference?"

"Only to what I put in the manifest file."

"Whatever you want, then."

Snuggle cuddle snuggle kiss! Mmmmmmmmmmm. Kiss.

"Yes," he murmurs.

Snuggles and touch-telepathy.

He likes her. He likes her a lot. He is just full of lovely wam snuggly happy feelings for her.

That makes her all warm and snuggly and happy right back! Yay!

Mmm. Snuggly and warm.

That is totally doable! Instant risotto is as the name promises. Isabella plates two servings and sits herself in his lap.

He cuddles her and noms the food. Nom!

"...Yes?"

"I can block casual reading, but you probably can't, unless you were engineered by someone particularly prophetic about what humanity would encounter in later years. If I couldn't block it I wouldn't want to go anywhere near a Betazoid. We have enough supplies to go to Hallia instead, if you were only agreeing to Betazed to avoid inconveniencing me."

"Oh. I don't care," he shrugs. "I don't spend so much time thinking about my secrets that it's a problem to go near Betazoids."

"...Are you generally that casual about telepathy?"

"...Yeah, why?"