Requirements for Kissmekate August 2003 Challenge:
- Pick from one of the choices
available. I chose #6, which is the image linked below.
I
dreamt again that she had fangs. My brilliant Borg. My defiant Seven. My
beautiful Annika. Leaning over me, stroking my breasts,
she smiled, and from beneath her lovely, full lips, the edges of two ivory,
stiletto points.
The
dream had been pure delight, a pleasure-laden haze of soft skin, silky
caresses, hot mouths, and low moans. Now, I can’t get the images or sensations
out of my mind. The crazed, unfocused eyes. The cold, predatory touch. Not
Seven, not at all. . . .
Now,
the dream is a nightmare, a terrible, brutal mockery. And yet, the terror of
it can’t displace the desire it still causes, even in this new, appalling
form. So exquisitely tied with the force of the pain—the reality, I can no
longer distinguish between the two. But I still have to drive it from myself.
The water always icy, shocking, and necessary to assuage the ache I would
otherwise feel all day. Once a great and wonderful distraction. . . .
Now,
she has daggers to take my blood, the very life from me. . . .
To
think that so many endeavored and failed. That preposterous Think Tank.
Ransom—that pathetic excuse for a captain. All that damned Borg technology . .
. the Vinculum, even her own cortical node, and the Queen. How many times did
she try to take Seven from me?
Only he
managed it. The internal threat I never suspected.
My
shock, horror, and regret must have been all too indelibly marked on my face
when the admiral told me that in some implausible, ridiculous future Seven of
Nine would marry my first officer—one of my closest friends. I couldn’t have
been more astonished if my seventy-six year-old self had implicated Tuvok
instead of Chakotay.
There.
I said it. His name—I haven’t been able to speak it since I discovered the
truth. Hell, discover nothing. I always fancied myself an explorer, but I
couldn’t even root out this simple deception occurring right in front of me.
But I’m
bitter without due cause—unentitled to my feelings. Yes, it is my fault. At
one time, I could hold her with only my eyes, with a well-placed smile, or the
touch of my hand. It was wrong—I should have held her in my arms.
I
wanted to. God, I did . . . I still do. But what reason would she have for
wanting me now? All the effort she expended trying to please me, to live up to
my expectations. All the time she spent coming to me for those late night,
philosophical discussions. She didn’t need it. She must think it an
intolerable waste—no, an “inefficient use” of time.
My
heart doesn’t agree, though. My fault—again—for never telling her about all
the times her mere presence—those questioning, ice blue eyes—buoyed me and
held me together just as I was beginning to sink inside my own resolve.
Get
your crew home! Get Voyager home . . . ! My motto, my life and breath . . . my
death?
ΩΩΩΩ
The computer chirps, signaling the end of the captain’s
personal log, and I immediately miss the engaging command of her voice.
Sensing the unavoidable tension across my shoulders, I square them to
straighten my stance and relieve the pressure.
Anxiety.
The captain’s interpretation of these events is flawed.
She has committed no error. I must accept the blame. It was I who initiated
the deception. Shame.
Placing my hands on the console interface, I initiate
the key sequence that will purge the database of all traces of my infiltration
into the captain’s personal logs. As I track the movement of my fingers, I
inspect the cybernetic implants of my left hand. These intrusions I
cannot erase so easily.
When I was assigned to Voyager, I did not want to. I
wished to be unlike the deficient, trivial, soft-bellied humans. Continually,
however, she was at hand to contradict each artificial construct I created.
“Weak, inefficient, disharmonious . . . small,” I said. She countered,
“Strong, clever, unified . . . significant.”
I fought. I disputed. I dissented. My total function
became to scrutinize and question her command. It was gratifying to see her
pace the floor, to see her eyes grow hard, to see her struggle to contain her
anger. I resented her appropriation of me from the Collective. In her
acquisition, I perceived nothing more than another assimilation.
Rage.
My integration as a member of the Voyager crew was more
difficult. Unlike the Borg, the captain did not remove all circumstances that
would make my transition problematical. Now, I realize that she would not,
because she understood that these were the very experiences that would give me
something I had never required—individuality, a new kind of perfection.
When my emotions became too difficult, too overpowering,
to prone to misinterpretation, the captain never failed; she was there to
supply guidance. The travails were confusing and burdensome, the crew hard,
but she indulged me, gave singular attention to me—the dedication of her
interest and the devotion of her time.
Gratitude.
Tilting my head, I wonder if the pivotal point for my
feelings were in those imperative moments. The Maestro’s studio. The velocity
court. The Delta Flyer, trying to escape from the very individual I wished to
be with . . . how could I have believed the captain would betray me?
Yet, I would think it again in different contexts and
occasions, but the premise would remain the same. Just as the soft glances
from her had bowed to more intense looks, more blue than gray, igniting an
alarming burn in my body, I would as quickly see her go. Her departure left me
with a disconsolate ache. How many times have I seen that fire in her eyes,
scarcely beginning to spark, only to have her turn on her heels and march
away? Sorrow.
I remember the gleam in the captain’s eyes when, after
rescuing me from the Borg Queen, she teased me and ordered me to regenerate.
She had entranced and tempted me, and I thought that moment marked the
transformation of our relationship. Maybe I could be more than a student, a
responsibility, an obligation; maybe I could be a friend; maybe I could be . .
.
Then there was the expectation of Unimatrix Zero—the
moment she had looked so startled to see me without my implants. “Seven?” she
had spoken my name with such surprise, such vulnerability, such
inquisitiveness. I felt a self-conscious kind of joy. I thought she might see
me as a woman, mature and capable of love.
Hope.
But the captain, she had walked away.
Feeling the tension again, I link my hands behind my
back and pace across the cargo bay. I did not anticipate her fear—the command
structure, the rules, the unspoken directives . . . the accountability. Alone
in my restricted mind, I only acknowledged that the captain was moving away
from me, taking what was mine, taking what I cherished most—her.
Distress.
Therefore, I devised this subterfuge. I would obtain her
attention. I exhausted hours in the holodeck with the dull-minded hologram,
even more unexceptional than in the flesh. But the tactic did not work—she
ignored the forty-nine hours I depleted at the expense of my duty and almost
at the cost of the lives of Voyager’s crew.
Guilt.
Nevertheless, I did not gain sufficient knowledge to
recognize my error, and I escalated the virtual act into reality. A picnic
with Chakotay—Indeed. I would have preferred to spend recreational time
hefting a carafe of blood wine and singing Klingon ballads with B’Elanna. Yet,
I persisted with my plan. I wished to win her even under false pretenses.
It was then that the striking, white-haired admiral had
appeared. The first time I saw her in the medical bay, I was apprehensive. I
had often worried that my bold captain would not survive the Delta Quadrant. I
could never contemplate losing her, but there stood the physical manifestation
and confirmation that I would not.
Joy.
It is incongruous that I would discover from the admiral
that it was I who was destined to lose myself instead, and even worse to
discover that in the admiral’s timeline my deception had bounded outside my
control. I married Chakotay . . . Was Pain, Anger, or Despair
to blame?
Even at that moment when I understood that I was the one
who betrayed this former captain, she still looked at me with affection. She
did not have to say it. “Those who love you,” she said, and I understood that
I was loved by her—this admiral who had come across twenty-six years and two
quadrants to save me.
Now I must save her. I must end the deception and repair
the damage I have caused.
Resolve.
ΩΩΩΩ
The chime to her ready room sounded, startling Captain
Janeway and diverting her attention from the monthly, departmental reports.
“Come.”
Seven strode into the room and came to stand immediately
inside the doors. Raising her eyes from the viewer on her desk, Janeway
inspected the lithe figure of her Astrometrics officer. “Seven, what can I do
for you?”
At this invitation, Seven crossed the space to stand in
front of the circular desk. With a small tilt of her head, the ex-drone noted
that there were no visible signs of the bitterness, upset, or regret made
evident by the captain’s personal log. Although, she considered that the
captain’s eyes appeared to follow her with a more deliberate neutrality than
ever before. Crossing her hands behind her back, she took a deep, fortifying
breath. “Captain, I wish to end the deception,” she stated emphatically, and
then paused, lowering her voice, “Mine and yours.”
Tilting forward in her chair, Janeway raised a brow.
“Deception?”
“Yes, Kathryn.”
At the sound of her first name, the captain lifted a
brow and leaned back into the chair.
Seeing the older woman’s features grow circumspect,
Seven stalked around the desk and positioned herself just to the right of the
captain’s chair. Following her movements with cautious but questioning eyes,
Janeway looked for any indication of what would cause Seven to behave so
peculiarly. “Seven, I don’t know what this is about, but I haven’t deceived
you.”
Grasping the back of the chair, she spun the captain
around to face her. Startled, Janeway looked up as Seven bent over to bring
her eyes level with the other woman’s. In Janeway’s gaze, she could see
astonishment and that same curiosity. “You love me.”
Janeway recoiled, her head pressing back against the
chair. “What?”
Seven leaned in further and repeated, “You love me.”
The ex-Borg watched the captain’s mouth open and close
as she tried to absorb the impact of the accusation. Laying her hands on the
arms of her chair, she steadied herself. “I admit I have very fond feelings
for you, Seven, and in that vein, yes, I do love you.”
Seven removed her hands from the back of the captain’s
chair and stood at her full height. Recognizing the diversionary behavior, she
smirked as she hovered above Janeway. “Inaccurate. You love me . . . and I,
you.”
Janeway gripped the arms of the chair more forcibly.
“Seven,” she stated evenly, “are you feeling well?”
Again recognizing the predictable behavior, Seven
suddenly grew impassive and replied, “No, I am not well.”
As she anticipated, that answer brought the captain to
her. Standing, Janeway slid her hands up the taller woman’s arms and grasped
her shoulders. “Do I need to contact the Doctor?”
Janeway surveyed Seven’s face for some sign of distress,
but instead discovered a smile, a full-lipped, wry, sultry, and . . .
“multi-emotive expression,” Janeway thought, and for a second, she was
sure someone had decompressed her ready room.
Looking into the captain’s eyes, Seven reached up and
cupped the captain’s cheek. “He cannot help me.”
Furrowing her brow, Janeway tried to discern meaning
from Seven’s words.
The ex-drone welcomed the concern inherent in the
captain’s stare. “Only you can help me.”
The captain watched the younger woman’s eyes shifted
from pale blue to indigo. That being the only warning she had before Seven
seized her around the waist and pulled her close. The constriction forced a
startled huff from Janeway’s throat. Then with even less admonition, Seven
crushed her lips to the older woman’s, kissing her mouth and muffling her gasp
of surprise.
Locked in the strong arms, the captain struggled, her
hands slipping away from Seven’s shoulders to her biceps as she tried to
wrench free. Crushing her body desperately, recklessly against Janeway’s,
Seven held fast with only one thought to spur her on: if she should be
confined to the brig, she would at least have her eidetic memory to keep her
occupied.
Feeling thoroughly overwhelmed by the soft curves and
mounds molded against her, Janeway whimpered in the attempt to control her own
desire. The minute she felt Seven’s mouth press against her own lips, enticing
them to open, she knew she had made a tactical mistake. The captain tried to
pull away once more, before the hot, wet contact of Seven’s tongue against her
own made it impossible for her mind to continue struggling.
Knowing only sensation, Janeway moaned into Seven’s
mouth as she wrapped her arms around the taller woman’s neck. Seven felt the
captain’s fervent response, and she deepened the kiss, their lips moving
rhythmically together. The release of long-held desire turned frenzied,
causing Janeway’s knees to give way and her body to become fluid in Seven’s
arms.
Pulling back slightly from Janeway, Seven finally broke
the kiss. Triumphant, she met the captain’s heavy-lidded gaze. In her eyes,
she didn’t see objection, disapproval, or regret as she feared she might.
There was only passion and love, a dark and luminous intensity looking back at
her.
Willing her courage to stay with her, she inhaled and
reluctantly released the captain from her embrace. For an imprecise amount of
time, they stared at one another. Janeway waiting for an explanation and Seven
watching for a remonstration. Neither would come.
Inhaling, Seven ended the silence. “We will have dinner
together. Tonight. 1900 hours.”
Using her hand to brace her body against her desk,
Janeway gaped at Seven. She could think of nothing to say; she could only
watch as Seven turned and strode from her ready room. When the pneumatic doors
had closed behind the heavenly figure of her Astrometrics officer, the Captain
poured herself back into her chair. A million questions paraded through her
head, but the answers were illusive, inexplicable, and . . . completely
unnecessary.
The End
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