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She's standing in front of the captain’s quarters at 2102, holding a bouquet of flowers and waiting for Janeway to emerge.
It’s a long wait. Janeway should have appeared two minutes ago.
Quick footsteps thump on the other end of the door, followed by the clattering of china–all sounds to indicate Janeway heard the door chime moments before and Seven would not need to ring a second time.
She presses the doorbell again anyway, growing impatient. Lateness is an anomaly for the captain.
The door opens ten seconds later and Janeway is leaning out, holding herself against the wall. She's changed from her uniform and into a casual blouse and slacks, a noticeable contrast to Seven’s bio-suit. Seven has no evening attire to change into.
“Sorry about the wait, Seven,” Janeway greets, her eyes falling to the flowers. “What are those for?”
“They are for you.” Seven shoves the bouquet into Janeway’s arms. “The database indicated it’s customary to bring a gift when invited to dinner.”
“And you chose...flowers?” Janeway recovers quickly, only briefly glancing between the bouquet and Seven’s face before stepping aside and motioning inward. “Why don’t you come inside?”
Seven obeys, clasping her hands behind her back as she steps past the threshold. Janeway’s hand is warm against her arm, guiding her to the table, and Seven makes a mental note of that.
The room’s lights are minimally dimmed, just enough to provide a pleasant atmosphere over the dining area. Janeway has set the table with white china and the night's dinner menu: broth, an array of vegetable platters, slabs of beef, and an unopened bottle of wine.
All replicated, except the wine. Seven recognizes the bottle from Janeway's own private collection.
She makes a mental note of that, too. Wine. An alcoholic beverage, meant to enhance the mood.
Seven looks back toward Janeway, who has replicated a clear vase and filled it half-way with water. She’s setting the flowers inside the vase, fluffing them out with her fingers.
“You are submerging my gift,” Seven observes, not understanding.
Janeway smiles at that, placing the vase in the middle of her coffee table. “They will live longer this way.”
“They are already dead.”
“We can pretend they’re alive.” Janeway dismisses the subject with a wave of her hand. “For now, let’s eat.”
Seven wants to press the matter further. After all, she killed the flowers herself, cutting the base of their stems during her excursion to the ship’s garden. With quick calculation, however, she drops the subject. Perhaps this is part of the ritual.
She settles across from Janeway at the dining table, listening carefully as Janeway jumps into the subject of work.
“I’m happy to say the star charts you sketched of this nebula are proving invaluable,” Janeway says, unfolding her silverware. “Already they’ve kept us from stumbling into two unstable territories, a fact I’m sure Tuvok is grateful for.”
“Thank you, captain.”
“And I’m grateful, too, Seven.” Janeway dips her spoon into the broth, brings it up to her lips thoughtfully. “You have proven to be an invaluable addition to Voyager .”
“Thank you, captain,” Seven says again. The compliment warms her skin in an inexplicably human way, providing a sense of personal accomplishment she never experienced as a Borg. She cannot fully appreciate the sensation. She’s losing focus on the conversation. Her attention has moved toward Janeway herself, toward the way Janeway’s lips press around and drag across her spoon, distracted and slow.
For a moment it’s the only thing Seven thinks about, a different kind of warmth spreading through her abdomen. The sensation alarms her, so much so she wants to look away, but she doesn’t. For some reason, she can’t.
“Not bad for replicated ingredients,” Janeway says finally of the soup, interrupting Seven’s lapse. “Why don’t you dig in, Seven? You must be hungry.”
“I am.” She is hungry. Hungry for food and something she doesn’t completely understand. She unfolds her own silverware and with one fluid motion tastes the soup herself. “The appetizer is adequate.”
Janeway laughs, bringing Seven’s focus back to her mouth. It's the kind of laugh where Janeway’s lips curve into a thin smile, her tongue briefly visible between her teeth.
Seven becomes overwhelmed with questions about those lips. If they are as soft and gentle as they look now, shadowed and muted in the dim lighting, or if they are as firm and precise as they appear in the sharp lighting of the Bridge. Perhaps they are both. A variance of firm and soft, different textures in different situations. With different people.
How would Janeway’s lips feel in this situation, with her? Would they be soft against her own, or would they be firm, backed by a certain human fervor–
“It's adequate ? High praise coming from you,” Janeway says, still laughing, and Seven is pulled back to reality again.
They begin to eat, and the conversation shifts between a variety of topics, all of which Seven enjoys: her duties in Astrometrics, the ship’s previous away mission inspecting an uninhabited M-Class planet, Janeway’s affinity toward Jane Eyre . The topics are all easy to follow, easy to understand and respond to, and the addition of the last subject provides an opportunity for her to connect more personally with Janeway.
“I tried the holonovel you recommended,” Seven tells her, referring to the Jane Eyre adaptation. “I did not care for it.”
Janeway looks at her in surprise, frowning.
Oh. Seven cocks her head to the side, trying to read Janeway's expression. She suspects she has made a social misstep, that perhaps criticism of Janeway's holonovel is not the avenue for connection she thought it was.
But then Janeway shrugs and resumes the process of cutting up her steak. “I’m glad you tried it out, Seven. I thought that specific program would help you understand some of the intricacies of past cultural views toward human romance and how those views have evolved.” She takes a bite of her steak. “I’m sure you found little use in the main plot itself. Romantic rituals must seem so useless to you.”
Now Janeway has erred. Her observation is incorrect. Seven did find the plot of the holonovel rather tedious. In fact, she still wonders what Janeway finds so compelling about the story. Romantic rituals, however? They are confusing and somewhat contrived, yes. Not useless. What they are doing now indicates as much, and surely Janeway must recognize that.
Seven opens her mouth to correct the error, but her focus suddenly shifts elsewhere. Again.
Janeway’s chewing her steak, her tongue appearing momentarily to wet her lips, and then she’s wiping her thumb across her mouth, drawing Seven’s attention to her face. It’s not the politest of manners according to Seven’s research, but it’s fascinating nonetheless. Captivating to watch. It’s an image that should elicit nothing, yet it somehow makes Seven’s heart catch in her throat.
“Seven, is something wrong?”
Seven’s gaze snaps to meet Janeway’s. “No.”
The urge to cross her legs overwhelms her. She does so, and it inexplicably makes everything worse. Makes everything more. She has forgotten the subject of conversation.
“You seem distracted.” Janeway hums to herself and reaches for the wine bottle. She changes the subject, to Seven’s relief. “Would you like some wine?”
“Yes.” Wine lowers general efficiency, but it enhances mood, and Seven calculates that to be an even trade under these circumstances.
Janeway pours two tall glasses and sets one in front of Seven.
Seven takes a small sip and immediately makes a face. “A unique and strong flavor,” is the only polite thing she can say.
“It is,” Janeway agrees, leaning back in her chair to stare at Seven. Her eyes are crinkled at the edges as if she finds something humorous in Seven’s reaction. “We humans refer to it as an acquired taste.”
“How apt.”
They finish dinner and move on to dessert, but the entire ordeal has shifted from easy to complex for Seven. She can’t stop glancing at Janeway’s mouth, watching the way Janeway savors each bite of cake as she pulls the spoon from her lips. Methodical. Enchanting. Each time Janeway takes a sip of wine, bringing the glass to her face and placing the rim between her lips, Seven must look away. The sight is too stimulating to watch directly.
Why hasn’t she noticed these aesthetics before?
Janeway suggests they move to the couch for further conversation, and the idea is logical enough. A natural progression, of course. It is only later, as Seven’s sitting down and Janeway is settling close to her, closer than she expects, that Seven thinks perhaps the change in position is a mistake.
Janeway is swirling the wine in her glass, looking thoughtful. Seven observes how Janeway bites the lower curve of her lip as she thinks, how Janeway’s body is curving against the couch, her dress shirt open and exposing a sliver of collarbone Seven’s trying particularly hard to ignore.
“I hope you’re settling well on Voyager, Seven,” Janeway says. “I know it’s not been easy.”
Seven glances away. “It has not,” she agrees.
“I hope you’re finding some things favorable,” Janeway says, taking a moderate sip of her wine.
Seven’s eyes follow the entire process–the glass touching Janeway’s lips, the fluid motion of Janeway’s throat as she swallows. The urge to bend down and press her mouth against that throat overwhelms Seven, sudden and strange and so unlike any urge she's ever experienced before. It is disconcerting.
She clears her throat. “Some things, yes.”
“Given some time, I’m sure everything will become much easier.”
“Perhaps,” Seven agrees, still completely and utterly distracted, unable to pull herself back into the conversation this time.
Another urge overwhelms her, one she doesn’t resist.
She did not plan to kiss Janeway today. She already decided to wait until their second date, possibly the third, just in case Janeway prefers a more traditional courtship. She changes this decision without fully considering the consequences.
It is the fault of the wine.
It is Janeway’s mouth.
She leans over and presses her lips against Janeway’s.
The kiss is brief and efficient–the distance fluidly closed between them, the pressure carefully calculated and implemented–yet it’s still startling and softer than Seven expects. It’s more than she expects.
She pulls away before Janeway has time to react.
Janeway blinks back at her, her jaw slack with surprise.
For a weighted moment Seven believes she has made another social misstep. This time an egregious error, a violation of consent, one that might prove impossible to rectify between them. She frowns at Janeway. She should have waited.
But then Janeway is shaking her head, pressing her lips together in a soft smile. She leans forward to set her glass on the coffee table and asks, “Why did you do that, Seven?”
“A kiss is customary at the conclusion of a date.” Technically true, but not the full explanation. Seven couldn’t explain it all if she tried.
Janeway quirks an eyebrow. “This is a date?”
Now Seven’s brow furrows. She wonders if Janeway is playing a game, engaging in a romantic ritual she hasn’t yet researched. “You invited me to your quarters,” she says flatly. “We have eaten together, partaken in wine. My research–”
“Forget research for a moment, Seven.” Janeway waves her hand. “You really thought this was a date? From the beginning?”
“Of course, captain,” Seven says. What kind of game is this? She nods at the bouquet centered on the table. “I brought you flowers.”
Janeway looks at the flowers. “Yes, you did.” She reaches over and plucks a rose from the vase. Brings it to her face and smells it thoughtfully. “I’m just surprised you considered this a date, of all things.”
Seven is unable to shake the feeling she has done something wrong. She says defensively, “You are playing coy, captain. You have flirted with me all evening.”
“Flirted with you?” Janeway repeats, incredulous. She props her elbow on the back of the couch, leans her head on her hand to narrow her eyes at Seven. “What?”
“Yes. You have complimented me throughout the evening. You touched my arm when I entered your quarters, you asked personal questions of me over dinner.” All clear evidence, according to her research.
Janeway smiles, her eyes bright from the warmth of the wine. Perhaps also the warmth of something else, something Seven can’t yet recognize. “All indications of an intimate friendship,” Janeway says. “Not necessarily flirting.”
Seven cannot let it go. She did her research and she knows what she saw. “Then I must mention your attempts to bring my focus to your lips.”
“My what?”
“Your attempts to bring my focus to your lips,” Seven repeats, straightening up. Despite her outward display, she’s becoming less sure of this assertion.
Janeway scoffs. “I didn't even know this was a date.”
Seven opens her mouth to protest further–to point out the late hour, to mention her own reciprocation–but she hesitates.
This is not a game Janeway is playing. The expression on her face is not one of bashful engagement but instead genuine surprise. Seven is forced to accept the truth. She has erred considerably.
“My mistake, captain,” she says.
Janeway keeps studying Seven for an impolite amount of time, Janeway’s head propped on her hand like she’s thinking carefully about something. She taps one finger against her lips, and Seven’s gaze drops to stare at her mouth again, this time with the pleasurable memory of those lips pressed against her own.
“I can't date you, Seven,” Janeway says finally.
Seven isn't completely inept in social protocol; she recognizes what Janeway isn't saying. “You want to court me," she interprets. "But you are the captain of Voyager. I am a member of your crew.”
Janeway makes an affirmative motion with her hand. “You could put it that way.”
“How would you put it?”
“I am the captain, and you are a member of my crew, yes,” Janeway agrees. “But you are also newly disconnected from the collective, which would make it inappropriate on many other levels.”
Seven bristles. “You think of me as naive.”
“Naive? No.” Janeway laughs. “You just need to focus on other things right now.”
“I would like to focus on this.”
Janeway stops laughing, softening at the response. “I know, Seven,” she says. “And in the future–maybe. For now though, your energy will be better spent focused on other human rituals. I promise you.”
“In the future, will you be open to my courtship?” Seven asks.
“I didn’t say that.” Janeway shakes her head. “As you pointed out, you are my crew. I’m afraid there’s no getting around that while we’re on this ship.”
Seven drops the subject. She won’t press this further. She won’t posit the scenario of returning to Earth where she will no longer be Janeway’s subordinate. Janeway’s body language for the entirety of their conversation indicates this subject is non-optimal, tarnishing the pleasant atmosphere of their dinner.
“Very well. I will no longer court you,” Seven says instead.
“Thank you, Seven.” Janeway pats her on the shoulder. A light, comforting touch Seven must resist leaning into. “And I’m sorry you felt led on. I would’ve made my intentions clear if I had any suspicion you thought of this as a date.”
Seven nods. She understands. “I know. You are an honorable woman.”
“Can I keep the flowers, though?”
“Of course.” Seven has no need for flowers, and the sight of them on Janeway’s coffee table is pleasant, particularly when knowing their origin. She risks another social misstep, one she’s sure now will be inappropriate but one she can’t quite help but ask for. She blames her newfound humanity. “One request, however. You can keep the flowers regardless.”
“I think I know what you’re going to say, Seven.”
She says it anyway. “May I kiss you once more?”
“Mmm. I should say no.” Janeway mulls over the question for long enough Seven expects her to cement the rejection, but then Janeway shrugs, smiling to herself. “I guess once more won’t hurt. Just once more, I mean it.”
Seven smiles, a charming warmth touching her again, this warmth carrying a bittersweetness she’s unaccustomed to. Unable to fully parse through the feeling, she pushes it away and decides to savor the moment for what it is.
She reaches for Janeway’s face, running her fingers across Janeway’s jaw in a way that’s natural and compelling.
“You always mean what you say, captain,” she says, pulling their faces together.
They kiss again, just once more, and for a considerable time after that it’s enough.
They return to their normal relationship and duties. And now, every time Janeway’s mouth misdirects her attention, Seven can quell the distraction with the memory of those lips pressed against her own. Twice, even though it wasn’t a date.