The BLTS Archive- I Forgot to Tell You: Solo
by Susan P. (suzotchka67@yahoo.com)

---

Notes/Spoilers: I shamelessly stole the title and one of the main
ideas behind this piece from a line in the J/T story "Despair" by
Inspiration's Muse, who I hope will consider it more of a tribute than
a theft.  <g

You can find that story on The Infinity Complex site, at:
www.fortunecity.com/village/jett/404/ Spoilers up through and
including "Imperfection" (7th season). Major and minor spoilers for
that episode, as well as minor spoilers for "Scorpion II," "Hope and
Fear," "Dark Frontier," "Bliss," "Nothing Human," "Survival Instinct,"
and Jeri Taylor's novel "Mosaic"

Archiving: ASC(EM) and BLTs okay.  As is The Infinity Complex. Anyone
else, please ask first.

Disclaimer: The characters belong to Paramount, but this story is
mine.  This is a not-for-profit effort, done for my own--and others',
I hope--enjoyment.

Feedback is always welcome

---

I forgot to tell you I love you.

After all I watched you go through.  Even when I tried to deny what
was happening.  I almost lost you.  And I forgot to say I love you.

Well, I didn't forget to say it.  But I'm not free to say it.  I'm the
Captain.  When we spoke in Astrometrics, I tried to tell you in as
many ways as I could without saying it  aloud.  I came waltzing in
full of false cheer, trying to make you feel better when I was  dying
a little inside.  When I saw you looking at the image of the Grand
Canyon, I suspected why.  How like you to investigate something so
thoroughly, even if you thought you might never experience it
first-hand.  I wondered if that was the first time you'd studied
images of Earth.  Or did it begin after our encounter with Arturis? 
Or after the ordeal with that bio-plasmic organism that used the
crew's desire to get home to lure us in?

I wondered whether it was easier for you to look at pictures from
Earth because you thought you wouldn't live to see it, or if it just
made you long for it.  I wondered whether you were feeling nostalgia
for some place you'd never been.  It made me want to share my memories
of it with you.  When I said I preferred farm country and you
immediately switched to a picture of Bloomington, I allowed myself to
hope that it was not simply out of a desire to please me.  I wanted it
to mean something to you because *I* meant something to you.  I wanted
the fact that you remembered the name of my hometown--that you'd taken
time to find information on it--to be because you cared for me. So I
offered to take you there.  And I *wanted* to share Bloomington with
you--I wanted to believe I would get that chance.  I wanted to be able
to show you the 'old homestead' and introduce you to my mother and
Phoebe. I found myself hoping you would like the place as much as I
did.  That you would learn to care for my family as I do, and they for
you.

And then you had to say what I was trying so hard not to think about.
I don't know what was more disturbing: hearing you voice my worst
fear, or that you seemed so resigned to it.  I couldn't bear the
thought of you giving up.  I couldn't bear to think we would not find
a way to help you in time.  Couldn't bear the possibility of losing
you.  And then you had to remind me of all the others Voyager--*I* had
lost along the way.

"You accepted their deaths.  But I don't believe you will accept
mine."

I called you presumptuous, but you were right.  Right conclusion, but
based on an incorrect assumption.  You may have required my constant
assistance to develop your individuality, but I've never regretted a
moment I've spent with you.  Things were difficult between us in the
beginning, and more than a few times since, but even when we butt
heads, it's a conflict I relish.  You challenge me.  And because of
that, you've always intrigued me.  From those first moments on that
Cube, I think.

You thought my problems dealing with the prospect of your death were
based in  diisappointment in your development, or some sense of
failure on my part.  Far from it.  I meant it when I said you'd
exceeded my expectations.  You *are* an extraordinary individual. 
But, I suspect you were an extraordinary Borg, as well.  That would
explain the Queen's fascination with you and her determination to get
you back. Granted, you still have far to go, but that just puts you in
the same boat as the rest of us.  And you are one of the most amazing
souls I have ever encountered--or that I am ever likely to encounter.

I called you extraordinary, and I called you a friend.  But I forgot
to--or couldn't let myself--tell you I love you.  I can't forget how I
feel about you, though.  That's why I couldn't accept the possibility
of losing you forever.  It's why I've never been able to accept it. 
Every time I've been faced with that possibility, I try telling myself
I'd feel the same for any of my crew.  But every time you're in
danger, I recognize the touch of desperation in me as I go charging
off to save you.

And the crew, or at least the senior staff, recognizes it too.  I
could tell by the way they all looked at me, by the way none of them
questioned me.  Except the Doctor, and then rightfully so. 'Seven's in
danger, and Janeway's off on another of her crusades to save her. Best
to indulge her--at least until she crosses the line.'  It was implicit
in most of their  looks.  I don't know whether any of them suspect why
the thought of losing you is so threatening to me, but they all seem
to take it for granted now. I'm not sure when that happened, exactly,
but I can't remember ever seeing it reflected so clearly in their
eyes, as it was when I planned to take the Delta Flyer into that Borg
debris field.  I recognized it in myself long ago, but it's almost
shocking to find out how transparent I've become where you're
concerned.

But my behavior during those few days was shocking to *me*.  I
threatened a life--two, in fact.  I threatened that alien with a
*laser scalpel* in order to keep that first node.  And when I found
out that node wouldn't work, I immediately threatened to sacrifice a
drone's life for yours.  I'm not sure I want to know whether I would
have followed through in either case.  I'm very glad I never found out
for sure.  And I dearly hope I never come so close to crossing that
line again.  I'm glad that the Doctor was the only one who witnessed
my little outburst after our simulations failed.  Even so, I should be
grateful that he seemed to chalk it up to the stress of the moment,
*and* that he didn't decide to file an official report on my behavior.

I watched you in the briefing room when we were discussing Icheb's
plan to give up his cortical node for you.  As much as part of me
wanted to shake you into accepting his offer, I was proud of you, too. 
And ashamed of my own eagerness to take a life to save yours.

Icheb accused me of being all too willing to let you die.  I wasn't,
but seeing you put Icheb's safety above your own, I knew that even
trying to convince you to undergo the procedure would violate your
spirit in a way I couldn't fix.  I crossed that line once with
B'Elanna, and I think she even managed to forgive me.  But I couldn't
do it to you, much as part of me wanted to--even if it meant I had to
let you go.

But then Icheb forced the issue.  And I can't really say I'm sorry for
that.  Even though I didn't agree with his method, he was right. 
While most humanoids live as individuals, we are still all part of a
*collective*.  We can't survive on our own any more than most Borg
drones can when severed from the Hive.  I listened to Icheb catalog
all of your attempts to separate yourself and avoid depending on
others throughout your illness, and I realized that he understood
something that you either hadn't, or that you chose to ignore.  That
individuality and independence may go hand in hand, but they are not
the same thing.  We are all inherently dependent on one another. 
Although you've shown a definite willingness to give support to
others, you are still resistant to accepting help when it's offered.

Icheb said that you would risk your life to save mine, if it came to
that.  And I knew it was the truth, though I might find it as
difficult to accept you risking yourself to save me as you did with
Icheb.

I saw the both of you grow up a little in those few moments in
Sickbay.  And when you relented and agreed to let us proceed, I
couldn't have been prouder of you.  Or happier for the both of us.
Because I had forgotten to say 'I love you,' and then I knew I might
still get the chance.  If, or when, I find the nerve.

Each day following the procedure, I spent a little time in Cargo Bay
Two, watching over you during regeneration.  I had done it before, of
course, but only occasionally.  Usually I could resist the urge to
watch you unobserved, but now I allowed myself the indulgence.

And I made sure I was there when the cycle ended.  I can't describe
how happy I was at seeing you wake up.  Your reaction wasn't quite the
one I had hoped for, but it was certainly an understandable one.  But
there seemed to be something in your eyes those first few moments that
indicated you were glad to see me.  And then I remembered the look on
your face when I called you a friend--kind of shy and pleased and
touched all at once. And I think there is potential there.  I think
you'd be glad to hear me say 'I love you'.

And, if that translates for you as something like 'I consider you a
friend' and not the full offering of my heart...  Well, at least I'll
be able to say it once in awhile.  And I would know what it meant,
even if no one else did.

So maybe I will tell you.  Someday.

---

I forgot to tell you I love you.

I seem to recall reading that line somewhere in the database.  Or
maybe it was part of one of the Doctor's social lessons on dating. I
wonder if my inability to recall where I've seen it is related to the
failure of my cortical node, my adaptation to the new one, or my
relative lack of interest in the line when I first encountered it.

I do know that it was the first thought I had when my extended
regeneration cycle ended and I saw you.  You were standing so close to
me.  Your voice was so warm and inviting and...happy. Although it
could not have been possible, your face seemed to glow from within.
You outshone the illumination from my alcove.  I thought I should tell
you so.  I wondered if your expression, and that smile, were for me
alone.  Or if there were some other 'good news' you had received that
you wished to share with me.  Had Voyager somehow managed to find its
way home while I was incapacitated?

But the Doctor was there and, for some reason, it seemed inappropriate
to say what I was thinking in front of him.  So I merely asked how
long I had been regenerating.  You seemed both amused and disappointed
by that question.  I did not understand why.  But then I remembered
Icheb.  Your expression turned serious then, but I sensed nothing
negative in it.  I knew then that Icheb had survived.

You did not offer to accompany the Doctor and me to Sickbay, and I was
both relieved and disappointed.  I *was* glad to see you, but your
presence--your closeness--was having an odd effect on me.  And I
wanted to speak to Icheb alone.  To see for myself how he was
recovering.

He gave me my life and I gave him pain--and disrespect--in return.  I
gave him too little credit.  He is young.  But you were right; he is
no longer a child.  He made his choice having considered the possible
risks, and he was willing to make the sacrifice anyway.  It still
troubles me that he suffered because of me.  But I realize now that he
also suffered from the thought of losing me.  And he was not the only
one.

At one time I would have claimed that 'mortality is irrelevant.'  I
can no longer do so.  My own anger at being subject to my body's
failure taught me that.  I now believe I know how it must feel to grow
old as humans do.  I do not know whether I will grow old in the same
way, assuming I survive both the trip back to the Alpha Quadrant and
Starfleet's reception.  If I do, it seems more likely that my current
cortical node will fail at some point and I will again be rendered
helpless by the failure of my body's technological components.  In
such a case, I consider it unlikely that an easy solution will be
found.  I think I could face dying in a battle, especially if it were
to save Voyager.  But I find the thought that I might grow ill and die
and be helpless to stop it...more disturbing than I can express.

But it was not only my own reactions to facing death that taught me
what it means to be mortal--or what it means to me now, at least.  It
means leaving behind those I have come to care about. And my death
would affect them, as well.  As much as I tried to isolate myself once
I knew the severity of my condition, I learned more from the reactions
of others than I would have imagined.

When I first learned of the diagnosis, I knew from the way you avoided
my eyes that my condition was serious.  I wanted to convince you, and
myself, that I would adapt.  That I would be all right.  And I knew
from the way you looked at me afterward that you were determined to
find a way to save me.  I wondered if that look in your eyes was the
same one Commander Chakotay had to face when you ordered Voyager on
the mission to rescue me from the Borg Queen.  I wondered how many
times he had seen that look

I had expected you to react badly to the prospect of my death.  I
think that was part of the reason I did not want you to know of my
condition initially.  But, I thought I read something in the Doctor's
demeanor, and Neelix's as well, indicating their worry--their fears of
losing me.  And, though I assume both would react similarly regardless
of whose life was in danger, I knew that they were worried about
losing *me*--not because of my role on the ship, but because of who I
am.  Because they...care for me.

It was B'Elanna's reaction that really made me think, however. She
seemed genuinely...shaken by the news that the salvaged node would not
work.  There was no doubt she realized the implications of that, and
of my question about her belief in an afterlife.  I am still not sure
why I asked her that question, and not you.  Or anyone else, for that
matter.  I suppose that, after her promise not to report me to the
Doctor, and given her recent near–death experiences, she seemed as
good a choice as any.

The fact that she seemed so disturbed by the possibility of my death
surprised me.  We have managed to develop a reasonably stable working
relationship over the years--most of the time--but until those moments
in Engineering, I would not have presumed to call us friends. But the
look in her eyes as she sat down and as she spoke with me was sincere. 
Her response to my query was carefully considered and...compassionate. 
And there is also the fact that she conspired with me in my escape
from Sickbay. Perhaps her time as a Borg caused her to reconsider her
opinion of me.  Or maybe she would just have missed having me as a--I
believe Commander Chakotay calls it--'sparring partner.'  In any case,
our conversation was beneficial.  *I* now think of her as a friend,
regardless of her feelings in the matter.  I should perhaps speak with
her, to let her know how much that conversation meant to me.

Icheb was right.  If Voyager is my collective now, then I must be able
to rely upon members of this crew for help, when necessary. And I must
let others know of their importance to me.

And you.  I had believed your unwillingness to accept my condition was
related to your disappointment in my progress and your feeling that
your 'project'--as I once overheard a crewmember call me--was still
incomplete.  And I did not want you to feel as though you had failed
me.  Far from it.  Though I resisted your efforts at first, you saved
me.  And you never gave up on me.  I can never repay you for that.

But you let me know my assumption was in error.

"You haven't failed, Seven.  You've exceeded my expectations. You've
become an individual. An extraordinary individual.  If I'm having
trouble accepting your condition, it's only because I don't want to
lose a friend."

I ached at the pain in your eyes as you spoke those last words. But
knowing that I had not failed you.  That you were proud of me. 
Hearing you call me a friend.  It all meant more to me than I could
possibly express to you then.  More than I may ever be able to tell
you.

Hearing how you felt made the thought of dying a little less bitter,
for some reason.  It was somehow easier to face than when I believed I
had failed you.

When I learned of Icheb's plan, I was afraid I *would* disappoint you
with my refusal.  I could tell you were encouraged by the possibility,
but Icheb is my responsibility, and I would not risk his safety.  I
could see you were troubled by my decision, but I hoped you would
understand.  Icheb was correct when he said I would risk my life to
save yours.  But I have no doubt that, under similar circumstances,
you would be as unwilling to accept my sacrifice, as I was to accept
Icheb's.

Believing that, I wonder whether it was weak of me to give in and
accept Icheb's offer. While I now accept that I need to rely on others
more, I feel certain that no amount of convincing could have induced
you to consent, had you been in my position. Little wonder Icheb chose
to take matters into his own hands.

While a part of me is still angry with him for doing so, I am pleased
to see that he is recovering.  I am still unsure whether either of our
decisions was correct, but it helps to know that he will be all right. 
And despite my doubts, I am...grateful to have survived.  I am happy
to continue as a functioning member of this crew.  And to remain
here--with you.

There is so much that I felt while I was ill, and so much that I am
feeling now that is confusing to me.  I find myself...wanting,
desiring.  In a way that I have not before. Before, there were so many
things about human behavior that I considered 'irrelevant.' I had few
interests that were not related to my duties, aside from our Velocity
matches, the time I spent with Naomi Wildman, and perhaps music.  I
often spent my off-duty hours working on any of the various projects I
had undertaken to improve the ship's functioning, or my own. Now I
find myself less interested in doing so.  I begin to see the value of
engaging in an activity simply to derive enjoyment from it.  And while
I do enjoy my work, I find it no longer seems to be enough.

After I was severed from the Collective and joined this crew, I turned
to work partly because, as a drone, all I had ever known was work and
regeneration, but also because I wanted to prove my value to this
crew--to you.  But I am no longer a drone.  And I believe I have
proven my worth to this collective.

I confessed to B'Elanna my fear that my accomplishments as an
individual would die with me. She helped me see that those
accomplishments would live on, if only in the memories of others.  But
now I fear that my legacy, as she called it, will be based more on my
work than on my...self.  And so I wish to develop and pursue interests
outside of my duties to the ship.

I am uncertain how to proceed, but then I am uncertain about many
things, since my illness. I feel the need to speak with you about
this.  But as much as I understand, or believe I understand, about my
current state of mind, there are things that I am thinking and feeling
that I barely comprehend myself.  I do not know how I can articulate
them to you.  But speaking with you often helps clarify things that
are confusing me.  Perhaps you can help me to understand.  I feel a
need to see you.

You are my...friend.

I forgot to tell you I love you.  The thought keeps recurring in my
mind.  It is often difficult for me to express my emotions. Given my
recent experiences, I feel I should let you know how much your help,
attention, and friendship have meant to me.  But I am unsure how.

---

The End