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It is an odd variation on a theme when at 0200, Kathryn, robe-clad and bleary, opens her door to Seven of Nine. Odd, but not unexpected.
“It’s late,” she says, and lets this hang.
“You are awake,” says Seven, which is not disagreement, exactly. “I wish to talk to you.”
It makes sense, in an odd sort of way, that she is on edge. Considering that a few days ago, they almost lost her, any other crew member would have taken at least some time off duty to process. As is, it seems even Seven is capable of insomnia.
“What’s troubling you, Seven?” Kathryn asks, moving aside so that she can enter.
Seven, as ever, stands, hands parcelled neatly behind her back. “It is my eye implant. I believe it may not be calibrated properly, and it is causing me some irritation. Perhaps it was adjusted incorrectly during our run-in with the Borg.”
Kathryn quickly quells her first impulse, which is to ask why this cannot wait till morning when the EMH or B’Elanna would be available to run a check-up. Why is Seven not hovering outside their doors? But then, the brief flicker in her gaze says it all: this isn’t ridiculous, not exactly.
Insomnia is something of which Seven is capable. Pretext, too.
“Well, we can’t have that,” Kathryn says – humouring her, after a beat. “Let me fetch a toolkit, and I’ll run a diagnostic.”
Seven’s nod is expressionless.
She is silent as Kathryn punches commands into her tricorder, and holds still as the scan begins. It is only when Kathryn rests a hand lightly on her skin for balance, right at the juncture where neck meets shoulder, that there is a barely perceptible shift of the muscles there. A small rasp of breath. A welcoming. When Kathryn leans back a little, just to test – Seven shifts closer.
Her eyes dart once, with a reasonable approximation of neutrality, towards Kathryn. Kathryn does not pause in her scan.
That’s what this is about, then. Comfort, and the reassurance of touch.
It is not surprising that Seven, just like anyone, would crave tactile familiarity: something to ground her after all that she has been through. Kathryn knows this, feels this every time she walks among her bridge crew and touches shoulders, arms, conveying the message, we’re going to be all right. Saying, you’re with me.
She has leaned on Chakotay before, and taken his arm more times than she can count. She has hugged Kes like a mother, even if Kes is beyond their reach entirely now. She has put a steadying palm on B’Elanna’s shoulder, and leaned over Tom at the controls; she has put her arm around Harry, and placed her hand on Neelix’s as he hands her a mug of coffee. She has collapsed against Tuvok before and wept, deriving comfort of her own from his willingness to be close.
All of this is different, of course. Different relationships, different boundaries. But, in the end, it is the same. She is Captain to these people, but in the Delta quadrant, Captain cannot afford to be synonymous with distance.
The difference with Seven is that she is distant from everyone besides Kathryn. That’s a responsibility.
It is not inappropriate, then, to let her fingers slide out until her palm too is touching Seven’s shoulder with friendly pressure. Not when Seven leans fractionally into the contact – which, from her, might as well be a fully-body hug – and breathes a little deeper, a little surer. She is warm, and her pulse beats strong under Kathryn’s hand.
“You were right,” she says, with a light, affirming squeeze to Seven’s shoulder. “There’s a filament that needs realigning.” It’s true; there is. “Give me a second, and I’ll get a repair tool.”
As she moves away, Seven looks towards her with an intensity that Kathryn cannot parse.
What can she say that might put her at ease?
“I thought you might be here to scold me about my decision to take us into the planetary nebula we discovered yesterday,” Kathryn tosses out, lightly.
Seven blinks back, considering. “The nebula is home to Species 3019, a lifeform that is primarily gaseous. I do not think it will tax Voyager’s diplomatic proficiency. Not only are they incapable of stepping on Lieutenant Torres’ feet, the chances of Ensign Kim being able to mate with one are slim.”
A joke, and a halfway decent one at that. That’s a surprise. Perhaps Seven saves her best material for Kathryn.
“Let’s just hope no-one inhales too sharply,” she says, with a smile.
“Did you want me to object?” asks Seven.
“Hardly. I’m glad the plan meets with your approval,” Kathryn replies, not without irony. She moves back, so that they are facing one another.
This mild – goading is probably the right word for it – seems to settle Seven, at least enough that when Kathryn moves close enough to peer at her implant again, she doesn’t tense. Things feel oddly as if they have reached equilibrium, probably because this is a discussion they could just as easily be having at a civilised hour, rather than 0210, on fewer hours’ sleep than anyone would care to count, with Kathryn in a thin nightgown.
She had talked to Kes in this nightgown, sitting on the nearby sofa, and it had hardly bothered either of them. Dynamics shift with every crew member; boundaries differ.
She places her hand just at the base of Seven’s jaw, and feels Seven’s breath hitch in response.
Kathryn swallows. Carefully, with warm metal at her fingertips, she begins to adjust the filament.
“If there is anything else you want to talk about, you know you can,” she offers into the silence.
Seven does not respond, but her eyebrow twitches under Kathryn’s hand.
Something – perhaps the urge to have it all out here, right now – compels her to keep going. “I can’t help wondering whether I pushed you too far in reading your parents’ logs – or if I should have pushed you sooner.”
At this, Seven pipes up. “Conjecture is irrelevant.”
“Perhaps.”
There is another, prolonged beat.
Then, as Seven meets and holds her gaze: “It seems as if you are the one who has something you wish to talk about.”
And there it is: that absolute insistence on equality that characterises all their interactions. Yes, obviously, there are plenty of things they could talk about, if it came to it. The look of anguished resolution Seven’s face as she allowed herself to be taken by the Borg. Rage at the thought of surrendering her. The stark void between friendship and command.
“No,” says Kathryn. “Nothing specific.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell me there’s a time and a place for confession?” asks Seven, sharply.
Kathryn fixes her with a wry look, because two can play at this game. “There’s a time and a place for implant maintenance.”
“So, we are – between places.” Seven’s tone is ordinary, but for the hesitation.
“You could say that.”
Seven moves.
It is surprisingly masterful. She pivots gently, and in an instant, the professional distance between them turns into a dancer’s space: eye to eye, and charged with a strange gravity that halts Kathryn where she stands.
It is something to do with those delicate, lowered eyelashes that accentuate the curve of her neck. Or, conversely, it is the way Seven’s gaze then moves upward and burning, with a determination Kathryn cannot name.
And then, as warmth meets warmth, and orbits softly collide –
It is not that Kathryn is being kissed, so much as that a kiss is proffered. Lips glide against hers as an offering, and then gently retreat.
When Seven steps back, her expression is unreadable. It is – bold. Ceaseless. Not for an instant does she look away.
Damn. Damn, damn, damn – Kathryn should not have given either of them the space for this to occur. It is a variation on the same mistake she always makes with Seven: too close, too aloof; never the appropriate amount of distance.
Once Kathryn finds her voice, it is surprisingly easy to speak. “Seven, that shouldn’t have happened. It won’t happen again.”
Seven, eyes wide and raw, says, flatly - “Understood.”
Kathryn doesn’t trust that.
“Is it really, though?” she asks, as softly as she can. “Are you sure you understand why I am saying this?”
Something shutters in Seven’s face. “I am not given to delusion, Captain.”
The stress she places on Kathryn’s title proves that she is not.
For want of something to do, Kathryn replaces the repair tool in its pouch, and closes the bag she had retrieved from the table. Having reinitiated distance, she looks up. “Your implant shouldn’t trouble you any further,” she says, trying her best to impart warmth, not just restraint. “But, if it does, Seven – this doesn’t change anything. You can still talk to me.”
There is a long pause, fraught with – well, with something. It’s hard to analyse, with the afterimage of that kiss still floating against her lips, still making its presence known.
Then: “It is appreciated.”
She turns, and leaves, and Kathryn is alone.
She is too wound up, and too strangely touched, to sleep. Instead, she programs some tea from the replicator, hoping to wash away the echoes of skin against skin. Hazily, she takes a seat on her couch, and allows her mind to drift.
The most memorable kisses, Kathryn finds, are not the most passionate, nor the most perfect. Those fade, for the most part, into the noise of satisfaction: into long nights, and the lovely, imprecise hum of desire satiated.
The moments she replays most frequently are incomplete. The missed opportunities. Back at the Academy, for instance: Cleon Holding, a fellow cadet she’d spoken to for hours about Rosalind Franklin, kissed fleetingly, and never seen again. She can still recall the roughness of his voice, the worn-out remnants of his cologne.
Promises unfulfilled tend to linger. She does not think of it often, but she thinks of it enough.
This night, she will not think of often, either. She will make sure of that. But – enough.