The BLTS Archive - A Delicate Matter
by Sylvia Tremblay

---

Credits: Lines from the Paramount picture Sabrina (1954)
reproduced without permission. Screenplay by Billy Wilder, Samuel
Taylor and Ernest Lehman, from a play by Samuel Taylor. No copyright
infringement is intended. Same disclaimers and notes as in the first
one, except this is a bit more on the PG side for language and
content. 

---

It was another moonlit night on the Holodeck.

This time, the setting was slightly different. The Doctor had chosen a
popular program which took place on one of the pleasure cruisers that
ply the Beta Eridani system. Spectacular scenery was promised, and the
program did not fail to deliver. The moons of the fourth planet were
bathed in a pale glow that streamed through fifty-metre windows to
wash over the massive dance floor of the ship, where he and Seven
danced a slow waltz.

The crowd was thinning as the evening wore on, but the Doctor had no
wish to see the date end. These times he had spent with the Borg woman
on the Holodeck over the past few weeks had been wonderful, made more
so by the fact that he now knew that she loved him as much as he did
her. They had laughed about it that first night, when Seven had lured
him there on the pretext of continuing their "social" lessons, only to
floor him with her new self-assurance...and that dress. Of course,
Seven would be beautiful in a cotton shift, but something about the
way she carried herself in it had told him that something had changed
between them. At first, she had led him to believe that 'something'
was her being in love with another man--

"At no time," he could hear her reply indignantly in his memory, "did
I say explicitly that I was in love with another man. It was your lack
of self-confidence which planted the idea in your mind that it had to
be anyone but you."

He had argued with her, gently but at length, on that point. In the
end he had to concede she was right. In the end, he had been afraid,
and she had not; it boiled down to that, plain and simple.

Seven shifted slightly in his arms, and he loosened his grasp on her.
Sometimes he found himself holding her too tightly, as if he were
afraid she were a figment of his imagination that was likely to
disappear into thin air at the slightest provocation. He was unused to
this level of physicality-- touching her, kissing her-- and was
finding it to be an unsettling experience. Not because he found it
awkward, but because he found he was enjoying it-- a great deal.
Perhaps too much.

For there had been moments-- sometimes even when he was attending to a
patient-- that she had intruded on his thoughts in a very pleasant
way. He had thought that only Human males were subject to this
peculiar affliction of using their intimate anatomy as a secondary
brain, but obviously he was no longer immune. Not that he did not have
control over...certain involuntary reactions...thank his programmers
for that. But he was finding it increasingly difficult to suppress his
desire to...well, tonight it manifested itself as a desire to see if
this program included a full mockup of the entire ship. Staterooms
included.

He felt it necessary to suppress these thoughts because he frankly had
no idea how to bring up the subject. The setting of their Holodeck
encounters was always so unabashedly romantic. Add to that the fact
that he was fairly sure she had no experience in such matters and the
result was tactful, gentlemanly silence. He resolved that he would not
be the one to make the first move to deepening their relationship.
After all, how difficult could it be to practice a little
self-restraint?

She shifted against him again, her full breasts pressing into his
chest, and he stifled a groan. Apparently, it was going to be very
difficult indeed.

--

Seven of Nine was losing patience.

She had hoped the obvious ploy involving her most prominent feminine
asset would cause some sort of reaction, but the Doctor remained as
one cast in stone. How did one go about seducing a hologram?

She had not always been as frustrated with their new relationship as
she was tonight. Their first evening together had been magical; she
would not have changed one thing about it. Once the Doctor had
recovered from the initial shock, he had rallied quite nicely. They
had kissed and talked and danced for hours, and he had been...Seven
had few words to describe it. He had made her feel cherished,
beautiful, special. At first she had felt guilty for enjoying this; as
a drone, taking pleasure in one's individuality was forbidden, in fact
rarely even imagined by a member of the Collective. Occasionally,
imperfectly assimilated units did arise, but everyone knew that they
were swiftly reprogrammed or destroyed. The only loyalty allowed was
to the hive.

When she had come aboard Voyager, she had replaced these programmed
feelings of loyalty with similar feelings toward the crew of this
ship. They became her new hive, and this knowledge helped to keep her
from going insane in the first few weeks. After a time, she became
more comfortable with distinguishing individuals from one another,
with developing different relationships to each, though she still had
no desire to form emotional bonds. The only emotional bonds she could
recall had involved her parents, and those memories had been all but
wiped from her brain. Besides, even if she had decided to take that
leap, there were few aboard the ship who would welcome overtures of
friendship from a Borg. Most did not even see her as anything but a
machine-- though some saw her as a dangerous machine. At least there
was some variety there, she mused ironically.

And then there had been the Doctor. He had been the first-- apart from
the Captain-- who had treated her like any other person. More so even
than Janeway, for despite her kindness and lack of prejudice she was
always aware of the Borg woman's strategic value to Voyager, while the
Doctor had no interest in such matters. In addition, his quick wit and
his intelligence set him apart from the others in her mind. When he
suggested those "social lessons", she did not object, for they would
not normally have had much chance to interact otherwise. After a few
sessions on the Holodeck, it was becoming clear to her that she was
actually enjoying his company. At first she explained it as simple
compatibility; after all, they were both in their own ways isolated
from the crew, they had a certain aloofness and self-assurance that
tended to put Humans off, and they were of a similar mind set on many
issues.

But it was more than that. Those explanations failed to account for
the warmth that suffused her limbs whenever his intense gaze trained
on her, or the tingling sensation in her skin where he touched her.
They did not explain why she found herself concentrating on the
pleasing cadences of his deep voice to the exclusion of all else, or
why she replayed every compliment he ever paid her over and over in
her head. She knew enough about Human physiology to realize she was
responding to sexual cues, and while neither of them was technically
Human, they were close enough for him to cause these reactions in her.
But why him? Why now?

And then he had hurt her, and she began to understand.

That night at the diplomatic reception had been unlike any other Seven
had experienced. Every feeling was a first for her, setting in motion
a parade of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. There was the
elation of being asked to a social function, the pride as she entered
the mess hall on the Doctor's arm, the trepidation at seeing so many
pairs of eyes suddenly glued to her. His lessons had given her just
enough confidence to try out her new skills, and she felt excitement
as people responded favourably to her "small talk". She had ventured
out among the crowd, leaving his side for a time to mingle, always
aware that she could return to him like a safe harbour. But when she
had returned, it was not to any kind of safety. He had wagered on her,
like Earth people did on horses or other animals. His pretense of
befriending her was merely a way to win a bet.

Now, she understood what had happened, but at the time she had felt as
though she were drowning. Her breathing became short and laboured, her
vision became blurred. She felt stupid, and deceived, and terribly
sorry for herself, and she wanted to crawl into her cubicle and never
come out. All of which, she realized at the same instant, was foolish,
for she was highly intelligent, she had to perform her duties the next
morning at 0600, and there was no logical reason to feel hurt. They
each had their motives for wanting the lessons; what was so wrong in
that? It was wrong, she thought as she staggered through the corridors
to the cargo bay, because I thought there was more. I wanted there to
be more.

And being highly intelligent, it did not take her long to realize what
that meant.

Once she had finally made up her mind to go after what she wanted, she
went about it with typical Borg efficiency, assimilating the necessary
information and using it against the target. He never knew what hit
him, she mused, smiling into his shoulder. Resistance was futile. But
she had not really thought beyond the initial stages, so focused had
she been on mustering the courage to tell him how she felt. Now she
wondered what to do about the next logical step. She had made
discreet-- and, she believed, not so discreet-- hints, but had gotten
no reaction. Seven did not wish to appear too aggressive, not because
that was the man's prerogative, but because she did not really know
whether or not the hologram even thought in those terms. She had heard
some of the cruder women on the ship speculating on whether or not the
Doctor was "fully functional", and she knew some holoprograms were
designed with only that purpose in mind, but she did not wish to
embarrass him by bringing up the subject. He would tell her if he had
those feelings for her. Seven resolved to be patient; she certainly
did not want to ruin her first relationship before it had barely
begun.

The song ended, and they separated reluctantly, joining in the
applause of the few remaining holographic guests. His eyes seemed
darker, his gaze even warmer than usual, and Seven suppressed a
shudder. "Would you like to go for a walk-- on the deck?" he asked,
and his voice seemed deeper than usual.

"That would be-- wonderful," managed the Borg woman. His arm encircled
her waist, pulling her lightly against him, and she found herself
immobilized for a second or two, mesmerized by the feel of his strong
fingers against her torso. This, she groaned mentally, forcing her
feet to move, will be torture.

---

"So what do you suppose she's been up to lately?"

"What are you talking about?" Harry Kim twisted slightly in his seat
to follow the direction of Tom Paris' nod. The only person he could
see was Seven of Nine, standing over by the mess line engaged in
conversation with Tuvok. He hadn't heard any gossip lately concerning
the Borg.

"Harry, you never hear any of the gossip, do you?" Paris stuffed a
forkful of what he wistfully pretended were mashed potatoes into his
mouth.

B'Elanna Torres sighed, and Harry was unsure which of them was the
cause. "I think he's referring to the rumours about her and the
Doctor."

"Seven and the EMH?" gasped Kim. Lucky bastard. "How could that ever
work?"

"Well, there are the birds, and then there are these bees, see--"

"Yeah, thanks, Tom. I think I picked that up somewhere along the way.
What I meant was-- well, I don't know what I meant, actually. I mean,
I just never thought--"

"Think about it. Seven and a computer program. It's a match made in
heaven," murmured the Klingon woman uncharitably. Both men stared at
her for a moment, and she stared back over the rim of her glass.
"What?"

"I think it's great," Harry proclaimed. "Why shouldn't they--" he
trailed off, gesturing helplessly, "do...whatever it is that they're
doing."

"Hey. Some of us are trying to digest over here."

"Come on, B'Elanna," purred Tom. "Surely you're not averse to a little
romance."

"If it means she's no longer going to be snooping into our romance,
I'm all for it."

"Au contraire," Paris grinned wickedly, "she might need pointers now
more than ever. Are you in an adventurous mood tonight? Feeling up for
a threesome? OW!"

"I might be feeling up for a little bat'leth practice if you don't
start behaving yourself."

"Uh, kids, in case you're interested, she's coming this way."

Seven was indeed advancing on their table, or rather the adjacent one
on the far side, which happened to be the only unoccupied one left in
the mess hall. As always, she carried her meal tray in one hand and a
PADD in the other. She remained fixed on the data readout on the small
device until she neared their table, when she graced them with a nod
and a hello, and passed them on her way to her destination.

"Hey Seven," Paris spoke up before she could sit, surprising the
others. "We've got an extra seat here-- why don't you join us?" Torres
fixed him with an evil eye but said nothing.

"I would be disturbing you." The statement was flat as always, but
also contained a note of-- what? Paris did not have the perceptual
abilities, at least where Borg women were concerned, to tell.

"Yeah, we're engaged in a high-level discussion of strategic
importance. Come on," he insisted, and Harry, taking his cue,
obligingly pulled out the chair next to him. Seven studied their faces
for a moment, and evidently satisfied with what she saw, moved to sit.

"Thank you," she returned. Was that a ghost of a smile? Tom was
slightly stunned, but rallied swiftly.

"So how have you been doing lately?" he ventured.

"I am performing within normal parameters, thank you. How are all of
you?" A chorus of more or less enthusiastic responses followed her
question. "Lieutenant, did you resolve the problem with the impulse
intake system? I heard that it presented quite a challenge for your
engineers."

"We managed all right," Torres returned curtly.

Seven paused for only a split second. "I have no doubt," she
acknowledged, and began to eat. Tom shot B'Elanna a piercing glance,
which she pretended not to notice. The conversation lagged for a few
minutes after that as they all tucked into supper.

Finally, Paris decided it was time for the subtle approach. "I haven't
seen you around here much lately."

"There have been occasions when I have been otherwise occupied at
dinnertime."

"Oh yeah?" The helmsman was all innocence. "Top secret projects?"

"Hardly. Much of my time has been taken up with the reports on the
first contact on Tehnari Seven, and I have been assisting Chief Mbele
and Neelix with the hydroponics gardens."

"That's not usually your department," Harry offered.

Seven turned to him, nodding. "That is correct. It is becoming more
like-- a hobby for me. I enjoy watching things grow." She smiled
again, and Paris was momentarily stopped in his tracks. Who are you
and what have you done with Seven of Nine?  Her level gaze returned to
him, and her expression was so guileless that he never saw it coming.
"And of course, I have been spending a great deal of time with the
Doctor on the Holodeck. Does that satisfy your curiosity, Mister
Paris?" The helmsman's mouth opened and closed once, like a guppy's.
"My hearing is three times more acute than yours. I am quite sure
Mister Tuvok heard as well, but of course he tactfully said nothing. I
would not like to speculate on your chances for survival in a sexual
encounter with a Borg and a Klingon, so I will also turn down your
gracious offer."

"Eavesdropping again," B'Elanna muttered under her breath.

"That is true, Lieutenant, but since I was the topic of conversation
this time, I believe we are even on this one." The Klingon woman
lowered her gaze. She moved to stand, but was stopped by Harry's hand
on hers. She traded a long look with him, and her expression softened.
"I am not angry, Harry. I am just-- a little disappointed. And tired.
Thank you for your kindness. It means a great deal to me that you said
what you did without knowing I would ever hear it." She turned her
hand palm up to clasp his briefly, then stood and headed for the exit.

There was stunned silence for a moment, and then Paris stood abruptly
and moved to follow her. "Tom, just leave her be," called B'Elanna,
but he ignored her.

He caught up with her in the Hydroponics bay, which was thankfully
deserted. Her back was to him, but he knew she was aware of his
presence; he was certainly breathing hard enough from his pursuit.
"Seven." She turned slowly, one eyebrow lifted slightly. "Look, I'm
sorry. That was one of the stupider things I've done-- " -- the
eyebrow climbed higher-- "today." He tried a slight smile, and was
rewarded with a similar one in return. Gods. If the Doctor is
responsible for this, I should be getting some pointers from him.

"There is no need to apologize. I am not any more immune than anyone
else to the gossip mill aboard this ship. It is just that I am--
unused to being a target."

"There's another thing I should have apologized for a long time ago,"
he said more softly. "That idiotic bet. I hope the Doctor explained to
you that it was all my fault--"

"He did."

"Geez, nice guy," Tom returned ruefully, rubbing the back of his neck.

"He felt sufficiently guilty, I assure you." Paris shook his head, and
she shot him a questioning glance.

"Nothing, nothing. I just-- I wondered if he had the courage to tell
you how he felt. I guess he finally did."

Seven stared at him in shock. "You knew?" she asked incredulously, her
normally flat tone abandoned. "How did you--"

"Ah, well, back after the whole betting thing, he came to me for a
little advice. He didn't tell you?"

"What did you advise him to do?" she demanded. The Borg tones had
returned.

"I told him to go for it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained." He
paused, studying her reaction. "Hey, are you OK?"

Seven tried to control her whirling thoughts, to no avail. He felt
this way for months. For months. He never told me, which means-- what?
I do not have enough experience in these matters. Was he merely
afraid, or does this mean he does not feel as strongly as I-- that
would explain a great deal. Aloud she managed, "I am fine."

"I haven't put the Doctor in the doghouse, have I?"

"Why would you have put him in such a structure?"

"Gotten him in trouble."

"Oh. No. Everything is fine." She stepped closer to him in an effort
to end the conversation; she needed some time alone to think. "I
appreciate your apology, Lieutenant. I know you do not say such things
lightly."

He smiled at her, sincerely this time. "Join us for dinner tomorrow
night? We're going to Sandrine's. I promise, no ulterior motives this
time."

"I do not know if Lieutenant Torres will like that."

"Listen, I'll tell you a secret about B'Elanna. She's abrasive at
first, but once you get to know her, she's--" he paused, his face
lighting in a wicked grin-- "slightly less abrasive. You can handle
her. Promise you'll think about it?"

"I will."

"Good." He held her eyes for a moment more, then turned and left the
bay.

Seven exhaled slowly, trying to calm her pulse rate. She could do
this, she told herself. She could analyze this just as she did any
other problem which presented itself.

"Can't I?" she asked herself aloud. The plants did not answer.

---

"How're ya doin', Doc?"

"Fine, thank you, Ensign Pulver. How are you?"

"I'm drunk."

"Congratulations. I trust that queasy look on your face does not mean
you will be vomiting on my shoes in the next few seconds."

"Wouldn't count on that, Doc."

"Then I will remove myself. Enjoy the rest of your evening-- while you
can." The Doctor stepped swiftly away from the tottering junior
officer, abandoning him to his fate. While trained to stay by the side
of ailing crewmembers, he was fairly sure the ensign was a hopeless
case. He surveyed the room, which several hours before had looked like
the quarters of Ensign Lepreau, the ship's geologist. The ravages of
the bachelor party had transformed it into a tangled mess of
semi-conscious Human males, spilled drinks and finger foods.

When he had accepted the invitation to this event, which was being
held in honour of his colleague Sian O'Riordan of Exobiology, he had
researched "bachelor parties" in Voyager's database to determine the
appropriate dress and customs. Dress was casual, there was usually no
need to bring anything except more alcohol, and behaviour...well, over
the centuries that had changed somewhat. There were generally no more
scantily-clad women or holos of couples engaged in improbable sex
acts, but the drinking, loud music and louder laughter seemed to have
survived the forces of history. The Doctor had also noticed a tendency
for the unattached men to harass and harangue the groom-to-be about
his impending "bondage". He found it a curious way of expressing
affection for a friend, but nevertheless observed the proceedings with
interest.

"Hey, Paris!" He turned at the shout to see the helmsman enter the
room with a bottle of clear liquid. Heading over to the half-cut guest
of honour, Paris held up his offering. "Here. It's vodka. Guaranteed
to leave you without a hangover."

The other man, a huge, red-haired Irishman in his forties with a full
beard and a wide smile, regarded him sheepishly. "Thanks, but it's too
late for that, lad. I've been into the Cardhu."

"Serves you right for drinking Scottish whiskey, you traitor." The
Doctor watched Paris clap his friend amiably on the back. He turned
away at a loud cry of "Timber!" just in time to see the
soon-to-be-late Ensign Pulver crumpling liquidly in a heap on the
floor. Striding over to him, he crouched down to check his vital
signs, then nodded and straightened, making a mental note to check him
every half hour.

The ship was normally dry. Synthehol was the only officially-approved
intoxicant, a substance which did not have the deleterious effects of
alcohol, comas and hangovers being two of the most notorious. However,
real alcohol was unofficially replicated-- at great cost in ration
points-- for special occasions such as these, and if the Captain knew
about it, she did not say. It did little to impair efficiency and much
to improve morale. The Doctor had never seen any cases of solitary
drinkers aboard ship; it was simply too expensive a habit for anyone
to maintain. Which was not to say that there were not disadvantages,
for the lack of availability of alcohol also meant that hapless boobs
such as Pulver had virtually no experience with their own limits. The
EMH could have administered a shot to neutralize the intoxicant now
coursing through the ensign's bloodstream, but once he determined
there was very little danger of his becoming comatose, he decided to
let him have the full experience. Perhaps a little first-hand
knowledge would encourage the young man to be more circumspect, and
might prevent a real medical emergency in the future.

"How's it going, Doc?" Paris' voice emerged from behind him and
startled him slightly.

"I am fine, thank you."

The helmsman laughed, a staccato burst. "That's exactly what Seven
said the other day." Lowering his voice, he said conspiratorially, "I
didn't get you in trouble, did I?"

The hologram's eyes narrowed. "How would you have done that?"

Paris opened his mouth, then closed it, realizing he had just put his
foot in it again. "Well, I kind of let slip that you had come to me
for advice back when you two were having that little spat...you know,
about how to tell her how you felt about her. I told her I guessed you
had."

Wonderful. "No, Mister Paris, I did not."

"Then how did you two-- sorry, none of my business." He paused for a
moment, and the Doctor watched as realization dawned and Paris' baser
instincts got the better of him. "Unless-- she went after you?" The
hologram said nothing, hoping his withering glance would silence the
other man. "You lucky bastard!" Paris exclaimed crassly, though he did
at least have the good sense to keep his voice down.

"Is 'thank you' an appropriate response to such a statement?" he asked
coldly.

"Oh come on, give me a break. I'm not going to spread the gory details
all over the ship. I really am happy for you, Doc. She seduced you!
Wow!"

"Hardly." The last statement hit a little too close to home, but the
Doctor was certainly not going to share that with Paris. Truth be
told, the endless crude talk about the wedding night and other related
topics had begun to wear on him, and he was contemplating making his
excuses. He would have Pulver dragged down to Sickbay where he could
keep an eye on him, and--

"So you finally made it, eh, Paris?" A cloud of beer-soaked breath
enveloped the hologram, and behind it he recognized Lieutenant J.G.
Norris, a burly officer from Weapons section. Even when sober, he was
hardly the soul of tact. The Doctor shuddered slightly and waited for
the best opportunity to make a swift exit.

"Yeah, I had to work late. You know how it is," Paris answered
affably.

"I jus' bet you were. You were getting worked over, more likely. She
bruise you up good?"

"I'm consulting with my physician now," the helmsman smirked, placing
a hand on the EMH's arm to gently steer him in the other direction. As
they turned, Paris dismissed the other man effortlessly with a breezy,
"You take it easy, Charlie."

When they had reached a safe distance, the Doctor leaned in toward the
helmsman. "Tell me something, Lieutenant." Paris nodded. "Did you not
find Mister Norris' comments extremely offensive?"

"Yeah, sure I did."

"Then why didn't you tell him so?"

"Doc, the trouble with guys like that is they love to rile you. So if
you respond in any way, even in a reasonable way, they'll never shut
their big fat traps and leave you the hell alone. It's annoying, sure,
but you have to work with the SOB, right?"

The hologram raised an eyebrow. "And what would Lieutenant Torres have
had to say to that?"

"Oh, if B'Elanna were here, you'd be trying to reassemble his
intestines from a few bloody scraps of meat. But that's B'Elanna.
Besides, that kind of guy never has the guts to say anything to a
woman's face." He held up a thumb and forefinger spaced about an inch
apart and regarded the Doctor meaningfully. "Get me?"

"No," he replied, his brow furrowing. "I--" Their conversation was cut
short by a large, hairy hand landing heavily on the Doctor's shoulder.
I should have run screaming when I had the chance, he groaned
inwardly.

"Doc," belched Norris, "you're just the man I wanted to talk to."

Gathering his patience, he turned to face the drunken officer. "Face"
was an imprecise term, since Norris was a head taller than the EMH.
"Actually," he intoned in his best no-nonsense professional voice, "I
was just leaving. Perhaps some other time."

"Aw, don't be that way. Stick around and hang out with the guys."

"I have been 'hanging out' for four point two hours, Lieutenant. That
is enough 'hanging' for anyone." With that, he reached up to disengage
Norris' hand from his shoulder and nodded at both men. "Good evening,
gentlemen." He had managed about three steps toward O'Riordan to say
his goodbyes before the weapons officer's cutting remark sliced
through the air.

"Now there's a guy who's getting laid tonight."

The Doctor whirled around to see a smirking Norris and a
pained-looking Paris. Perhaps the latter registered the look in the
hologram's eyes, for he tried to defuse the situation. "You wouldn't
be able to get laid on Risa, Norris. Shut the hell up, will you?"

"Were you addressing me?" inquired the Doctor cooly. He tried
desperately to keep Paris' words of wisdom uppermost in his CPU, but
the rage from his emotional algorithms kept bubbling over and drowning
them out.

"Yes, I believe I was," mocked the larger man, as the hologram closed
the distance between them.

"Norris, admit you were an asshole and let's get back to some serious
drinking, okay? It's not hard-- I do it at least five times a day."

The Doctor waited as everyone in the room seemed to pause. No one else
was turned in their direction, but the level of conversation had
suddenly dropped dramatically. He had never felt this way before;
though he had no blood to boil, he now understood the metaphor.

"I didn't mean anything by it," Norris finally stated, and gradually
the noise level in the room began to rise again. The Doctor nodded,
realizing this was the closest he was going to get to an apology. It
was enough, he told himself. Now, all he needed to do was find
O'Riordan and--

"After all, I don't know what you're getting so touchy about. Who
wouldn't be proud to lay the tightest little package on the ship? Even
if she is a Borg bitch."

The spittle from the junior officer's final alliterative effort barely
had time to hit the front of the Doctor's tunic before his fist
connected with Norris' jaw. In the latter's already foggy state, that
was all it took to send him to the carpet with a loud crash.

There were a few moments of silence for the fallen man. Then the room
erupted in ragged laughter and the odd cheer. "Jesus, boy," grinned
O'Riordan, stepping over Norris' prone form to cuff the hologram
affectionately on the shoulder, "if we ever get back to Earth we're
making the rounds in Dublin, just you and me. We could do some bloody
damage, eh?"

"He's not making it back to Earth, Sian," intoned Paris solemnly, his
gaze fixed on the body at his feet.

"And why not, just?"

"Because Seven is going to kill him."

"Ah. Well, cheer up," proclaimed O'Riordan brightly.

The Doctor closed his eyes on the entire scene. "And why should I?"

"Because after you're dead I'm going to throw you the best damn wake a
hologram ever had!"

---

"You struck him." Seven of Nine's pacing was threatening to wear a
hole in the Doctor's office carpet.

"I did better than that," he told her. "I knocked him unconscious.
Though I didn't have to knock him very far."

"Then why, after less than twenty-four hours, are you known throughout
the ship as 'Fists of Fury'?" she demanded.

The hologram sighed. "I'm not proud of what I did, Seven."

"Then why did you do it?"

"I've been trying to figure that out since it happened." He shook his
head. "I've had Lieutenant Torres check and re-check all my systems.
She found nothing wrong."

"What -- exactly -- was the immediate cause?"

His gaze lifted to her. "You haven't heard?"

"No. The conversation dies out suspiciously whenever I approach. The
most Mister Paris would tell me was that 'you were defending my
honour'."

"I suppose it might have looked that way," he hedged uncertainly.

"You are stalling for time."

He studied her for a few moments, evidently trying to decide on the
best course of action. Finally rising from his chair, he circled
around the desk to stand before her. She faced him defiantly, though
her stance relaxed ever so slightly when his hand touched her arm.
"Norris was drunk," he began quietly. "He said some rude things to
Paris, which Paris wisely brushed off. Then he came after me."

"He is that type of individual," she remarked acidly.

"You've dealt with him?"

"Not on more than a handful of occasions. Two of his siblings were
killed at Wolf 359, and it is obvious that I am a reminder of his
loss."

The Doctor was amazed to find that he was gritting his teeth. "Has he
threatened you?" he asked, his voice low.

She blinked, surprised at his tone. "Not in so many words. At any
rate, he could not hope to carry out any physical threat on me if he
dared. My strength and agility are double his." She paused, then
regained her theme. "What did he say to you?"

"He-- said something crude, and I thought he had apologized. I was
turning to leave, and he-- insulted you."

"You have perfect recall. Why are you so reluctant to tell me?"

"Because it's not worth repeating!" he shouted, startling her. "Do you
really need to know? It was ugly, and sick, and it made me want to--"
His face fell at her stark expression, and he turned away to try to
regain his composure. "I've never felt that way, Seven," he finally
managed in a small voice. "I wanted to hurt him--just for the sheer
satisfaction of hurting him. If he hadn't fallen with that first
punch, I probably would've kept hitting him until he had."

The Borg woman stepped back at that as if she herself had been struck.
There were several moments' silence as her stomach lurched
unpleasantly, then she watched the outer Sickbay doors open to reveal
Neelix with Naomi Wildman. Without a word, the Doctor moved to attend
to them, leaving her to her churning thoughts. From the other room she
could hear Neelix's words and tried to focus on them as a calming
distraction. Apparently the girl had suffered a minor burn while
helping the Talaxian in the kitchen, and despite the child's
insistence that she was fine, he had been more insistent that she seek
out a professional opinion.

"If you ever tire of cookery, there is a career in medicine awaiting
you," Seven heard the Doctor say.

"Really?"

"I was not addressing you, Mister Neelix. Miss Wildman's diagnosis was
correct. She did not need to see me." Seven smiled as she saw the girl
extend her uninjured left hand, which he clasped in a solemn
handshake. Somewhere deep inside her there began a slow, dull ache.

"I'll call you when I've made my decision," the little waif told him
with mock seriousness.

"Thank you." A moment later, the doors closed shut behind the pair.
Though she knew it was impossible for a hologram to ever tire,
something in the set of his shoulders as he stood for a moment facing
the outer doors suggested a great weariness. Suddenly, she understood
what she had to do.

"I--" She almost choked on the words when he turned his deep
brown-eyed gaze on her. "I believe I have made a mistake."

"What do you mean?"

"This. Our relationship. I thought that-- no, that is a lie. I did not
think at all. I made up my mind to pursue you, selfishly, without
considering the consequences."

"Which are?"

"You feel that you are losing control over your actions, a dangerous
condition for the medical officer to be in. I would be compromising
the safety of the crew--"

"You said consequences. Plural."

"You are unhappy." It was almost a whisper.

"Are you unhappy?"

She sucked in a breath, shook her head slowly. "No. But I will be if I
continue to hurt you."

"Seven--" He closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, anxiety
etching his features. "You haven't hurt me. I just have to find a way
to deal with this. When I was programmed, they never thought I would
be operational for this long. They never imagined that I would have
the chance to form attachments, to--" --he reached up to caress her
cheek and she shuddered-- " --to fall in love. My emotional algorithms
got the better of me-- this time. That doesn't mean it will happen
again."

"How can you be sure?"

He paused. "I can't," he admitted finally. "But that's a risk I'm
willing to take." His gaze caught and held hers, and a stinging
sensation started behind her eyes. "I don't want to lose you, Seven."

"And I do not want to be lost. But there is no other option." And
before he could say any more, she had fled.

She managed to keep back the tears until she reached the cargo bay.

---

The doorchime sounded and started Tom Paris from his impromptu nap.
"Come," he rasped, fighting his way back to consciousness. Foggily, he
took in his prone, shoeless form on the couch, the book he had been
reading splayed on his lap, and the half-finished plate of
karesh'netal on the floor. Cripes, he thought, I'm turning into my
grandfather.

The Doctor stepped through the open door and it hissed shut behind
him. "Are you sure this is a good time, Lieutenant?" he asked, pausing
as his eyes swept over the scene.

Paris shook his head in an attempt to clear it and motioned the
hologram to a chair. "It's a great time. I've just had a long week."
The other man sat tentatively, obviously still uncertain. The helmsman
swung his legs over the edge of the couch to sit normally, knocking
the book into the karesh'netal in the process. "Shit!" he exclaimed,
diving for it before it had a chance to soak too long in the Bajoran
delicacy. He inspected the tome thoroughly, brushing the odd bit of
unidentified substance off its covers, then set it on the table. "It's
B'Elanna's. She's subjecting me to Klingon epic poetry-- her
favourite, she says. A classic, she says. I think it's just her way of
testing me."

"Testing you?"

"It's crap, Doc. Total and unmitigated crap. Of course, I'm never
allowed to say this. That's where the test comes in." An evil sparkle
lit his tired eyes. "But I'm getting her back."

"And how are you doing that?" the Doctor asked acerbically.

"I've got my own classic for her to read." He held up the PADD resting
on the coffee table and passed it to the Doctor. "From early
twenty-first century Earth."

"'The Haiku of Arnold Schwarzeneggar?'"

"Damned straight. Brought tears to my eyes, I can tell you." The
hologram's only comment was a half-grimace as he handed back the
object. Paris stretched painfully and yawned. "So Doc, what's on your
mind?"

"I-- wanted to ask your advice, Lieutenant."

"Well, it sure as hell can't be about medicine, and I don't think
you're interested in learning how to pilot the ship, so let me
guess...you've got woman troubles."

"Has the word gotten out so quickly?" he asked, startled.

"What word? Don't tell me you and Seven had a spat already?"

"If unceremoniously breaking off our relationship constitutes a
'spat', then yes, I would say we had a spat."

"What was the problem? Was she cramping your style?"

The hologram stared at him as if he had just sprouted two extra heads.
The helmsman held up a hand. "Yeah, okay, that's me I was thinking of,
sorry. So she broke up with you? Don't tell me she was that ticked off
about your little incident the other night."

"Not exactly, though that is what precipitated it." He hesitated
again, then ploughed forward. "She was angry, but that wasn't the
direct cause. I was very upset about what happened the other night,
and when Seven learned of this, she felt our relationship was causing
me to malfunction and might compromise the safety of the crew."

"Why were you 'upset'?" queried Paris. "Because all of Norris' teeth
stayed in his head?"

"You don't understand. I have never felt that way--so angry that I
wanted to see a living being hurt, for no good reason. I have spoken
with Lieutenant Torres, and she thinks my emotional algorithms
overrode my other programming at that moment."

To his shock, Paris' response to this was to burst into laughter. He
shook his head as he regained his composure. "I'm sorry, Doc, but --
you just described a situation that every guy who ever lived has gone
through at least once. You were suffering from the debilitating, but
thankfully for most of us, temporary condition known as 'thinking with
your dick'." He grinned broadly. "Welcome to the Human race."

The hologram frowned. "You're not taking me seriously."

"I'm taking you seriously. I just don't think all of this is as bad as
you obviously think it is." He sighed at the Doctor's skeptical
expression. "Look, I know you're concerned that you've developed some
sort of flaw in your programming. You've never lost your cool, and
it's a new experience, while the rest of us guys have been losing it
ever since we hit puberty. We've had plenty of practice over the years
in balancing our emotional impulses and our intellect, and we've
learned the occasional-- outburst--can be healthy. It doesn't mean we
go nuts every day, but when it happens, it's usually only because
there's a damned good reason. And believe me, you had a damned good
reason."

The Doctor appeared to consider this for several moments, after which
he allowed, "I hadn't thought of it in those terms before."

"You're becoming more human, Doc. It's a lot of fun, but there's a
down side to it too." He smiled knowingly. "However, in my personal
opinion, the fun outweighs the down side."

The hologram looked about him uneasily. "That's-- actually what I had
come to ask you about."

Paris was puzzled by this --he thought the sermon had been delivered--
but said only, "Sure. Shoot."

"Well. I have already determined that I am going to try to 'win Seven
back', as you might say, but my question was...that is, if and when we
are back together, in a manner of speaking..." He trailed off,
seemingly frustrated with his own embarrassment. "I'm a doctor, for
heaven's sake," he admonished himself peevishly. "You wouldn't think
this would be so difficult." Paris waited patiently, saying nothing,
taking the opportunity to polish off the last bits of his snack. The
other man finally took a deep breath and delivered his question in a
rush of words. "Mister Paris, in your vast experience, at what point
in a romantic relationship do you usually ask a woman if she will make
love with you?"

The last bite of karesh'netal that Paris had been chewing was rocketed
across the room. Spluttering, he tried to breathe, his attempt made
more complicated by the Doctor's helpful thump on the back. "Did that
clear the obstructed airway?" he inquired solicitously.

"I'm not choking," gasped the helmsman, "I'm shocked as hell." He eyed
the hologram suspiciously. "Are you kidding?"

"About what?" the other man asked, slightly irritated.

"You've been going out with Seven for how long?"

"Until Monday? Eight and a half weeks."

"And you love her?" The hologram nodded. "And she loves you?" Another
nod. "And you mean to tell me you haven't--"

"There never seemed to be a-- right time," the Doctor said, squirming
slightly.

"Jesus, Doc, with a woman like Seven, every time is the right time."
He paused, starting to feel a little embarrassed himself. "Ah...do you
mind if I ask..." He trailed off, gesturing in the general direction
of the hologram's lap.

" -- if I come with all the accessories?" the Doctor finished for him,
his voice dripping acid. "Yes, Mister Paris, I can assure you that
everything works."

"Look, I didn't mean to insult you." He shook his head. "You are
getting more human-- only Human guys are that touchy about their
anatomy. And listen, call me Tom, would you? 'Mister Paris' is a
little formal considering where this discussion is going."

"I'm sorry," the Doctor sighed, his tone weary. "These past two months
have been increasingly-- difficult for me. I've watched myself become
more irritable, more emotional, quicker to anger. I don't understand
it. This should be the happiest time in my life, and in many respects,
it is." His eyes gained a faraway look, and he smiled. "You don't know
Seven like I do, Tom. She's so much more than she allows the rest of
you to see. She's vulnerable in many ways, but strong, so strong, and
she has a light inside of her that-- blinds me sometimes." He glanced
at Paris self-consciously. "I know, you're going to say I'm putting
her on a pedestal."

"Maybe that's part of the problem," mused Paris thoughtfully. "Uh,
Doc, let me ask you something. Where have you two been spending your
time, when you've been together?"

"On the Holodeck, almost exclusively. Why?"

"What kind of programs?"

"The Beta Eridani Cruise, the Hollywood Canteen program, the resort on
the third moon of Andor....to name a few. I don't see where you're
going with this."

"Bear with me. You ever spend any time with her where you're just--
hanging out? I mean, without any of the big huge romantic backdrops?
Just kicking off your shoes and being a couple?"

"Not really, no."

Paris grinned. He had hit the motherlode. "My friend, let me tell you
something about women."

"Seven is hardly 'women'," sniffed the Doctor in protest.

"Yeah, I know, she's blinding. Listen. She's female, and all females
love romance, in varying degrees; I'm not trying to say they're all
the same. But every woman, Human, Borg, whatever, loves romance only
up to a point.  She enjoys being made to feel special-- who doesn't?--
but there comes a time when she wants to step down off that pedestal.
And when she does, look out."

"For what?" the hologram asked innocently.

Paris stared at him. "Doc, you're scaring the crap out of me. You sure
they didn't skip the chapters on sex when they were programming you?"
The other man glared at him but said nothing. Paris tried another
tack. "Hasn't Seven been giving you any-- signals?"

"What kind of signals?" The Doctor's tone was dry. "Tachyon bursts?
Morse code, perhaps?"

"That woman does not need Morse code to give a man a signal," the
helmsman said wistfully.

Frustration showing on his features, the hologram shook his head. "She
hasn't given me any that I've been aware of. The truth is, however, I
don't have a great deal of experience with women giving me signals."
He chuckled grimly, and Paris shot him a questioning glance. "It just
occurred to me that I've been waiting for Seven to make 'the first
move', but I don't have the vaguest idea of what the first move looks
like."

"Well," offered the helmsman, "it seems to me what you two kids need
to do is have a heart-to-heart discussion, without all the romance.
Spend some quiet time together. Invite her to your quarters."

Both men stared at each other for a moment.

"Before you do that, though," added Paris, holding up a finger, "you
might want to get yourself some quarters."

The Doctor raised an eyebrow at him. "I knew there was a reason I came
to you, Lieutenant."

---

Seven of Nine was uneasy as she stood outside the door to the cabin.
In one hand she clutched the invitation that had been left on her
recharging station in the cargo bay. As far as the ship's computer was
concerned, these quarters had been vacant since Lieutenant O'Riordan
had married Ensign Kandinsky three weeks ago. There was no record of
it having been reassigned, but the invitation had asked for her
presence at a 'housewarming'. The Borg woman did not fully understand
the need for Humans to create separate spaces such as these for
themselves, but she hoped to learn more tonight.

She had not spoken to the Doctor since that day in Sick Bay, and the
loss of his easy company was felt nearly every waking moment, while
the loss of his touch and warm gaze was missed during most of her
sleeping ones. As much as she dreaded seeing him at this function, she
nevertheless longed to see him again. Being in love requires one
become inured to contradictions, she mused. Taking a deep breath, she
raised her hand to ring the doorchime, and after a moment the doors
parted effortlessly before her.

They opened on a semi-darkened room, about twelve feet square, with a
small sitting area consisting of a chair, a decadently soft-looking
couch and a low table adorned with candles. A replicator was set in
one wall, and a large comm link faced the couch. All of it was fairly
standard, except for the candles and low lighting. It was, from what
little she had seen of them, a typical cabin.

And it was deserted.

Seven's hackles rose slightly at the realization that she was alone in
a room that was supposedly the site of a party. She checked her
internal systems briefly, but there was nothing wrong with her chrono.
Was one not supposed to arrive on time for these functions? She had
heard of people being "fashionably late", but she thought this applied
only to the guests, not to the host as well. Looking about her one
last time, she turned to go out the way she had come.

Before she could do so, however, the comm screen erupted in a blaze of
black and white. A tinny musical prelude played while the image of a
high mountain flashed on the screen, and then the opening credits of
the film began. Seven moved slowly to the couch, her eyes transfixed
on the parade of light and shadow, her flight completely forgotten.

Sabrina. Starring Humphrey Bogart, William Holden...and Audrey
Hepburn. The Borg woman had chosen that film as the setting for her
"date" with the Doctor almost three months ago, though she had never
spoken of it to him. She had assumed the persona of the actress, the
girl woman in the magical dress, and the disguise had given her
confidence for as long as she needed it, until she was able to find
her own. How could he have known? She sat, trying to calm her racing
heart. When she was finally sure she could trust her voice, she spoke.
"I know you're here. Please come out."

Suddenly he was behind her; she welcomed the sound of his voice as it
washed over her. "I'm sorry for the subterfuge. I--wasn't sure if
you'd come." Out of the corner of her eye she could see his hand
poised over her right shoulder. After a moment, his hand moved away,
and she felt herself shiver.

She gestured at the screen. "How did you know?"

He walked around the couch to stand near one arm, and Seven noticed he
was staring at the movie rather than at her. She used the opportunity
to take in the sight of him; he was wearing a collarless shirt and
slacks in a neutral tone, his stiff posture contrasting with his
casual attire. "It wasn't too difficult," he told her. "I imagined it
had to be a twentieth century two-dimensional film and after that it
was just a matter of reviewing the ones on file in the ship's
computer."

"It must have taken hours."

"Eight point six." He glanced at her sheepishly. "I can scan them a
little faster than the average humanoid." Something in her gaze must
have encouraged him, for he moved to sit beside her, though as far
from her as possible. Seven wondered which of them was more
frightened. "I thought you might enjoy seeing it again."

"I would. Thank you." She tried to relax. Gradually, she forced her
muscles to unclench and she sank back into the cushions. The film was
a calming distraction, a place for her to cast her eyes.

-- Once upon a time on the North shore of Long Island, some thirty
miles from New York, there lived a small girl who lived on a large
estate.--

The Doctor sat transfixed, trying to slow down his thoughts, which
tripped over each other in his CPU. He wanted to blurt them out the
moment they occurred to him. You're so beautiful. These past weeks
have been the worst of my life. I love you. Don't leave. Don't be
afraid. Stay here with me. Please. Instead he beat back the urge and
asked, "Why did you like this particular film?"

Seven darted her eyes at him and back at the screen again until
finally deciding on him. He had the strange sensation of floating,
though he knew the artificial gravity was working perfectly, and he
had no inner ear to convey such feelings to his processor. "I liked
several of these films, actually. It was the actress in them I enjoyed
most."

The hologram tore his gaze from her to watch the movie. An elfin girl
with a ponytail and a plain-looking plaid dress was washing an old
automobile, her bare feet in a pool of soapy water. "That one?"

"Yes," answered Seven, smiling at the centuries-old shadow.

"Why?"

The Borg woman hesitated. "She-- fascinates me. She knows nothing, and
everything. She is impossibly innocent, and impossibly wise. I felt as
if she were-- speaking to me." Now it was Seven's turn to look
sheepish, but after a moment her gaze met his unflinchingly, and he
drew in a sharp breath. "The characters she plays are never afraid of
life. They gave me courage." Their eyes met and held.

The courage to tell me you loved me.

Yes.

Do you still love me? his mind asked earnestly.

There was no answer.

-- Life was pleasant for the Larrabees, for this was as close to
heaven as one could get on Long Island. --

"These are your quarters?" Seven knew she was stating the obvious but
could think of nothing else to say.

"Yes. I requested them last week."

"I see." She did not want to ask him why he had felt he needed them
now after all these years, for she was afraid he would tell her the
truth. Instead, she looked about her, taking in the room. "They are
very nice."

"Thank you. I haven't had much time to personalize them. I don't have
many things to personalize them with, frankly. But that will come with
time."

"I'm sure it will." She paused, then rallied when she thought of a new
topic. "You do not need your portable emitter in here?"

The hologram looked at his arm absently, as if he had forgotten he
wasn't wearing it. "No. I asked Lieutenant Torres if she could set up
a holofield similar to the one in Sickbay, and she was able to do so
without too much trouble. This is a small area; it doesn't require as
much equipment as Sickbay or as much power as the portable unit, so it
makes sense from an efficiency standpoint as well." Seven nodded; now
it was his turn to take up the thread of the conversation. She was not
sure where this evening was going, but as forced as things were at the
moment, she had no desire to leave, to--

"Have you ever thought of requesting your own quarters?"

The question took her by surprise. "No. I have no need of them."

"Oh." He seemed as unwilling to press her on the matter as she was to
be pressed, so the talk died out in favour of the sights and sounds of
the movie playing in front of them. Seven watched the antics of the
girl with the hopeless crush on the rich, handsome man. She smiled at
her transformation from a gawky teenager to a self-possessed woman,
her joys, her triumphs. As the film progressed, she answered the
occasional question from the Doctor.

And then it was time for the scene. On the screen, the woman
pirouetted gracefully in her billowing, peacock dress. She stood her
ground with the domineering lord of the manor, and then they danced.

-- Sabrina. --

-- Hmmm. --

-- If David were here now, you'd expect him to kiss you, wouldn't you?
--

-- Hmmm. --

-- Here's a kiss from David. --

"I wish I knew what to say to you."

"What?" Seven turned toward him abruptly. He looked down at the space
between them, which had somehow narrowed. Somewhere along the way, his
hand had become entwined in hers, and he regarded them wonderingly. He
had no idea when that had happened. When he lifted his gaze, she was
staring at their hands with the same expression of surprise.

"That's a perfect illustration of why, even after three days of
thinking of nothing else, I've been utterly unsuccessful in finding
the right words to convince you to come back to me." His hand squeezed
hers gently, and he thought he felt an answering pressure before her
fingers slipped from his. "Seven, I have no more control over what I
do now when I'm near you, when I merely think of you, than I did that
night--" he waved a hand toward the screen "--on the tennis court. And
it's that lack of control that sent you away in the first place."

"It was the best decision."

"Was it?" He steeled himself for her answer. "Do you still love me?"

She flinched. "That is not relevant. The safety of the ship and its
crew must take precedence."

Her spoken words were depressing, but the unspoken ones made him
giddy. He collected his thoughts as best he could. "The rest of the
people on this ship don't have to be perfect to do their jobs. They
manage to do them, and do them well. Why do we have to be?"

The Borg woman shook her head. "We do not have to be perfect. But we
are different from them, and we cannot forget that."

"How are we different?" His hand reached up to cup her face. "I used
to think that too, but with every passing day, I'm less and less sure.
I know I'm able to love you, just like them. I want to be with you, to
see you smile, to listen to you sing, to-- touch you." Slowly, gauging
her reaction, he slid his fingers along her jawline, down the column
of her neck, over the trace of her collarbone. Her eyes grew wide, but
she did not pull away. "When I was first activated aboard this ship, I
had no idea what was in store for me. If I had I probably would have
shut myself off and never appeared again. I've had experiences I
wouldn't care to repeat, but then without them I wouldn't be here with
you like this today, and for that I'm grateful.

"I know that life is messy, Seven. It's frightening to feel yourself
losing control-- it's not something either of us is used to. We've
both set ourselves on pedestals that raise us above the rest of the
crew, but it doesn't mean we're different from the others or better
than them. It only means we have further to fall when we realize we're
as Human as they are, in all the ways that count." He searched the
depth of her eyes for some sort of reaction as he constructed what he
knew would be his final plea. His voice dropped to a fervent whisper.
"Fall with me, Seven. It won't be so far if we go together."

He waited, suspended in time and space, for what seemed like an age.
Then Seven closed her eyes and breathed out slowly, as if a great
weight had been lifted from her. "You told me you did not know what to
say to me." When her eyes opened again, he saw the sparkle in them
that belied the dryness of her next remark. "That was a very pretty
speech for someone with no words."

The hologram fought down a foolish grin. Deadpan, he droned, "My
program allows me to improvise freely. I am completely adaptable to
new situations, even desperate ones. In time, I believe--"

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I still love you."

"I know," he countered smugly.

She raised an eyebrow. "How do you know?"

"I am well-versed in unspoken means of communication. You did not
answer my question directly, which was a telling sign. Your face
became flushed. And your pulse rate jumped by twelve percent when I
touched you."

The Borg woman said nothing to this. Instead, she took his hand and
placed it so that two of his fingers were over her carotid artery.
"What are you doing?" asked the Doctor, all pretense to smugness gone.

Seven slid her arms around his neck to draw him to her. "Providing you
with more data," she murmured, as her mouth met his. After a second or
two, the hologram recovered nicely from his shock, and returned the
kiss with abandon.

"Well?" whispered Seven after some time.

"Eighteen percent," he breathed into her neck.

"I do not think your lips are an accurate medical device."

He nipped at her earlobe. "Don't argue. Who's the doctor here?"
Surprised at his boldness, he felt his hands, seemingly of their own
volition, glide down her back, up her arms, then down again,
feather-light, over the voluptuous curve of her breasts. Her breath
hissed between her teeth and her eyes closed, and he pulled her
tightly against him for another kiss. When they finally broke apart,
he took in her flushed cheeks, her tousled hair, and her swollen
mouth, and felt an absurd sense of pride that startled him.

Seven returned his intense gaze in equal measure. She pressed her palm
into his chest over the normal location of the human heart. "Even if I
were a doctor," she said in a harsh whisper, "my training would be
useless. You have no pulse for me to measure." Her eyes seemed to want
to look into his soul, and dimly he wondered if he had one to offer
her. Slowly, his right hand moved to cover hers.

"I haven't made it very clear to you, have I? How I feel?" he asked
softly. She shook her head. "I've been telling myself I'm suppressing
my feelings to protect you, but in reality, it's been as much for my
benefit. I've been afraid-- afraid of what you might think, afraid of
feeling this way in the first place." Seven's face assumed a puzzled
expression, and he brought her hand to his lips for a moment before
gathering the courage to go on.

"Would you be shocked if I told you I think about making love to you?
That I've been thinking about very little else for weeks?"

The Borg woman stared at him, and then an almost imperceptible smile
stole over her features. "Surprised, yes, for you gave no indication
of it. Shocked, in the sense of displeased or covetous of my maidenly
virtue, no." She cocked her head. "Would you be shocked if I asked you
the same questions?"

His eyes twinkled. "I believe I'd give you about the same answer."

Her eyes narrowed. "I gave you no indication of my feelings?" she
asked incredulously. "I did everything but throw you to the floor and
tear off your clothes!"

Chuckling, he pulled her into a hug. "I think that's the only ploy I
would have recognized."

Seven smiled into his shoulder. "We're neither of us very good at
this, are we?" she murmured, her tone rueful.

"Not particularly, no."

"Perhaps we just need more practice." Her voice had dropped half an
octave, and it sent a strange sensation racing through him.

"Have you any suggestions?" he returned, his hands starting to roam
again.

"I think we should start..." Seven trailed off maddeningly as her
cheek rubbed against his, cat-like.

"Yes?"

"...by turning off the movie."

"Screen off!" the Doctor almost shouted. And the play of light and
shadow faded to black.

---
Epilogue
---

For the first time since she had been a small girl, Seven of Nine
awoke in a horizontal position.

Gradually she took stock of her situation. She was in a bed with dark
green cotton sheets, which felt decadently soft against her skin as
she shifted tentatively. Her chrono told her it was oh five forty
five, exactly when she usually arose to begin her duty shift. Several
of her muscles ached, not all of them unpleasantly. She was completely
naked. And she was using the Doctor's chest as a pillow.

"Good morning." His deep voice reverberated under her cheek and set up
a sympathetic vibration inside her.

"Good morning," she murmured, her arms instinctively reaching around
him. "Have you been here all night?"

"I had to attend to a minor emergency around two a.m. A sprained
tendon-- nothing serious." His hands began tracing slow circles on her
back, and she shivered deliciously. "Did you sleep well?"

"Surprisingly enough, I did."

"The modifications I made to your Borg implants when you first came
aboard the ship have always made it possible for you to sleep
naturally."

"I know. You told me that after the operation."

"Then why have you never requested quarters?"

"I'm not sure," she told him, levering herself up on her elbows so she
could look him in the face. "I suppose...it always seemed so lonely,
sleeping in a bed. Even though I was no longer a member of the
Collective, I felt--reassured by the recharging structure. Sometimes,
it even seemed as if I could still feel the others all around me at
night."

"And now?" he asked.

Seven smiled slightly. "I find sharing a bed to be much more agreeable
than either option." Her brows furrowed as she realized. "It must be
terribly boring for you."

"I don't think I could ever tire of watching you."

Her stomach fluttered at the compliment, for she was unused to them.
"You were watching me?"

"Does that upset you?"

The Borg woman considered this. "No."

"Good," he told her, pushing her hair out of her eyes and caressing
her cheek, "because I plan to do it quite often, and it's much easier
not to have to do it behind your back. Not that I don't enjoy looking
at you from all sides."

"You will turn my head with all of this flattery," she informed him,
her playful tone belying her statement.

"You deserve every word," he told her, his tone serious. Their gazes
locked for a long moment, then before Seven quite knew what was
happening, they were completely tangled up in one another, and she
lost track of several minutes. A faint but insistent beeping brought
her back to her senses. She managed with some difficulty to extricate
herself and reached for her uniform.

"Seven of Nine here," she reported crisply, dreading the response. She
had never been late for a duty shift in her life, and here it was a
full thirty-eight seconds past the hour. Perhaps it was the Captain
herself--

"Hey there, Seven, it's Tom. I hate to bother you. Just wanted to
remind you that you're not on duty today, so feel free to--" the
hesitation was barely noticeable-- "sleep in."

"I am not on duty?" Puzzled, she checked her internal calendar of
events. "Why not?"

"You changed with me, remember? We talked about it the other day.
B'Elanna's birthday is next Tuesday, and you told me you'd swap shifts
with me."

She paused for a split second. "Lieutenant Torres' birthday was last
month."

"Oh yeah, so it was. Well, it's somebody's birthday."

"I do not recall having had this conversation, Lieutenant. I never
agreed--"

"Don't back out on me now, huh? It's really important to me."

"I--"

The Borg woman's response was cut off by a hand closing over her comm
link. Leaning in, the Doctor intoned softly enough so that only Paris
and Seven could hear his voice, "She'd be happy to help you in any
way, Tom."

"Thanks, Seven. Talk to you later." And the connection was severed.

For several seconds she stared at the link as if it had sprouted
horns. Then, slow realization began to dawn on her face, and she
turned a jaundiced eye toward the Doctor. "Did you have anything to do
with this?"

The hologram put on his best wounded expression. "What are you
implying?"

She folded her arms over her ample bosom. "I did not intend to be that
indirect."

He held up a hand as if to swear on the grave of his nonexistent
mother. "I had nothing to do with Paris' scheme to give you the day
off." There was a long beat as they both waited for one of them to
break the silence. Seven won. "Though I may have mentioned I was
inviting you to my new quarters last night."

More silence. Then, the Borg woman rose from the bed and walked, or
rather undulated, to the bathroom. At the doorway, she paused and
turned toward him. One eyebrow lifted slightly.

"Are you ever going to speak to me again?" asked the Doctor, preparing
for the final blow.

The eyebrow rose higher. "Of course. I was simply taking some time to
consider the nature of male-male bonding. It is a curious phenomenon.
But it is not the sort of subject I wish to study extensively on my
day off." She pursed her full lips thoughtfully, eyeing him as a
biologist would a particularly unusual specimen. "Do holograms
shower?"

"We don't really have the need--" he began, then cut himself off when
he saw the eyebrow climb even higher. He wouldn't have thought that
was medically possible. "Ah. That is to say we can shower, if we have
the inclination." Seven eyed him for a second or two more, then turned
slowly. He watched the play of muscles under the skin of her slim back
and taut legs.

"I believe that can be provided," she shot back at him over her
shoulder.

The Doctor sent out a fervent wish for the physical well-being of the
entire crew of Voyager. Then he leaped up to follow her.

---

The End