I don't even wonder who it is when the chime sounds at my door. Ever since I spoke with Chakotay I've been expecting her to seek me out. I wish she would have come by sooner, for one last philosophical discussion perhaps, but she's been noticeably absent from my quarters ever since our return to the Alpha Quadrant. I assume she must have been busy.
With Chakotay.
I tell the computer to grant her entrance, and Seven of Nine stalks in, all rigid and fluid at the same time, coming to attention in front of the couch where I'm reclined. I've been trying to read, to take my mind off the conversation with Counselor Troi, but I was about to give up on finding anything to distract my attention. Well, I'm certainly distracted now. I close my book deliberately, keeping my eyes locked on Seven's while fighting the urge to examine the full figure she so obliviously juts forward when she's in that stance. I feel my respiration starting to increase, and I quickly bring it under control. This constitutes a real challenge -- keeping my body from reacting to Seven when her Borg systems allow her to read my every physiological fluctuation, every increase in heart rate, every hormonal surge... "What can I do for you, Seven?"
"Captain, I wish to speak with you." That cool, controlled voice that so many people find emotionless, actually tells so much if you just take the time to listen. The slightest change in timber, in tonality can speak volumes. Right now I can tell she's nervous.
"Of course, Seven, you know you can talk to me about anything." I remove the blanket I'm wrapped in and swing my legs over the side of the couch, indicating that she should take over the now-vacant space. She complies and sits down, back ram-rod straight, hands clasped primly on her knees. "So what is it you'd like to talk about?"
Seven tilts her head toward me, studying me. "Captain, I..." She hesitates, looks down, then seems to change her mind. "Captain," she says, looking back at me with those beautiful pale blue eyes. "I wish to leave Voyager."
My heart sinks. This is it. "Of course you're welcome to leave any time, Seven. We just need to find a permanent place to store your alcove--"
"You misunderstand. I do not mean that I wish to leave Voyager permanently. I mean that I wish to leave for the day."
"Oh."
I must be staring at her rather blankly, because she continues before I can ask for clarification. "It has been suggested that I have accompaniment whenever I leave Voyager, someone who will 'show me around' and 'keep me out of trouble.'"
Ah. I see. Admiral Necheyev's suggestion, no doubt. "Where's Commander Chakotay?" I ask, sounding petty to my own ears. Thank God Seven doesn't pick up on it.
"He is attending a symposium in Arizona on the Spirituality of North American Indian Cultures," she explains. "Besides, he would not be the most desirable companion for the trip that I wish to take."
I can't help but be intrigued. "What trip would that be?"
"I would like to visit Bloomington, Indiana."
"My home town," I murmur. I can feel it coming, the 'big gooey look' that Seven tends to bring out in me whenever she touches me deeply, where I get this indulgent smile on my face and my eyes start to shimmer with tears. I could rein it in, stop it from shining through as I've trained myself to do over the past year or so, but why should I? I imagine I only have a few precious moments left to spend with Seven like this, so I don't try to censor it. I let her see the full impact of the little bit of joy she's given me. The shy, pleased smile that she answers it with is more than enough reward for me.
"You told me that you would take me there when we returned to earth," Seven reminds me. "Last year when my cortical node malfunctioned and we thought I would die."
"I remember," I reply. Of course I know the exact moment she's speaking of. How could I forget? All of our attempts to replace her damaged node had failed, and we were at a loss as to what to do next. My only thought was to be with her, to comfort her. To care for her. I sought Seven out in the astrometrics lab, but instead of star charts I found her viewing images of Earth on the viewscreen. The Grand Canyon specifically. When I joined her and joked that I preferred farm country to the Canyon's dusty terrain, she immediately brought up an image of my hometown on the screen. If I wondered why she'd been looking at images from my home, I didn't dwell on it. Instead I casually told her that one day I would take her there. And then I held my breath, waiting to see if she would realize what such an offer meant from me.
She didn't.
Instead Seven came back with a response that totally floored me. Shocked me. She switched the image on the screen to a list of Voyager's deceased crewmen and point-blank told me that I wouldn't be able to accept her death the way that I had theirs. I protested that she was being presumptuous, but all I could think was how she must have found me out, that she had finally figured out why I could never, would never accept her death. Why I would never let her leave me.
Then Seven told me what she really thought, that she was just a project to me -- an unfinished, flawed project that would weigh on my mind because the test subject was going to die before the experiment was complete. My heart nearly broke, that she would think that of me, that she would think that of herself. That she didn't see how truly unique she was, how special she was to me, and not because she was some 'project.'
But instead of admitting the whole truth, I told Seven only part of it. That the prospect of her death was hurting me because I was afraid to lose a friend. As I looked at her, however, I began to feel myself slipping, the tears threatening, and when I saw the answering tears in her eyes I almost broke down and told her everything. I almost told her I loved her.
Adored her.
That's when the Doctor, his sense of timing both impeccable and exasperating, summoned us to discuss Icheb's proposed solution to Seven's condition. The interruption diffused the intensity of the moment and I was able to dart back behind my mask again, but I'm still not sure whether I'm more thankful or sorry that it worked out that way. Sometimes I catch myself wondering what would have happened if the Doctor hadn't interrupted us--- but I never let my self complete the thought.
As I look at Seven now, all I can think about is how terrified I was when I thought I might lose her, how I would have hunted down another living Borg drone and torn out its cortical node with my bare hands to save her.
But all I say is, "I would love to take you to Indiana."
* * * * * *
"Kathryn, you've brought company!" Mom is surprised, but pleased. Maybe I should have told her I was bringing someone with me, but I'm enjoying the look on her face as my traditionalist mother sizes up Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct to Unimatrix Zero One, former handmaiden to the Borg Queen herself. "'Seven of Nine,' isn't it?" I'm amazed that she remembers. Of course I'm the one who introduced them during Voyager's Return Celebration, but meeting someone once in a crowd of people and then seeing them weeks later standing on your front porch are two very different things.
"Yes, I am Seven of Nine, Captain Janeway's Astrometrics Officer," Seven answers, quite seriously. "But you may call me 'Seven.'"
Mom smiles at that. "And I'm Gretchen Janeway, Kathryn's mother. But you may call me 'Gretchen.'" She likes Seven, I can tell. She wouldn't tease her if she didn't. "So Kathryn," she says, turning to me, "am I to take it that the timing of this visit to coincide with lunch is purely a coincidence?"
"Complete and total coincidence."
"Of course it is," Mom dryly agrees, knowing a lie when she hears one. "Alright, any preferences? I'm thinking that I'll either make chicken, or possibly chicken. Then again, there's always... chicken."
"How about chicken?" I say, laughing at both the old, familiar joke and the confused look on Seven's face.
"Superb choice. Although I have to apologize, Katie -- Mrs. Donaldson from next door is being visited by her son and his family this week -- you remember Joe Junior, don't you? Anyway, Emily got halfway through the recipe for her breakfast quiche before realizing she was out of eggs. She came over this morning and borrowed the last of mine, so I'm afraid there won't be any caramel brownies for you today."
"It's alright, Mom. Some other time," I say, although I have to school my features not to show my disappointment. I had been looking forward to sharing one of my favorite foods with Seven, and after today I may not get the opportunity again. After all, once she marries Chakotay I doubt she'll have much time to spare on her old captain--
"Kathryn, do you want to show your guest around while I finish getting lunch ready?" Mom asks as she holds the door open for us.
I'm about to say yes when Seven shyly interjects, "Actually, if the Captain is amenable, I would like to study your methods of food preparation. I have been attempting to learn traditional cooking techniques, and would appreciate the opportunity to observe an expert."
"You're learning to cook? Without a replicator?" Mom leads us inside, staring over her shoulder at Seven, who has obviously risen considerably in her estimation.
"Seven's already an excellent cook, Mom," I chime in, knowing that nothing would impress my mother more.
"Thank you, Captain," Seven murmurs.
Seven and I follow a step or two behind my mother as she enters her personal domain, the brightly lit yellow and green kitchen that is filled with authentic 21st century appliances, antique cooking utensils, and even more colorful brick-a-brack than I remember. "Umm, Katie," Mom laughs, "I know you've been out on that ship for a long time now, but I really hope you don't expect me to start calling you 'Captain' too." To Seven -- "Everyone's on a first name basis here in my house, alright?"
"She's right, Seven," I add. "We're not on Voyager. I'm not your Captain here. So please, just call me 'Kathryn.'"
"That would be acceptable... Kathryn," she says, the corner of her mouth lifting in a pleased smile. And here comes my big gooey look, right on cue.
A second or two passes before I become aware that I'm being watched, and I turn to see Mom staring at me with the oddest expression on her face. Odd, because at the moment she doesn't look like my mother at all. With her head tilted to the side like that, her jaw jutting forward, and one brow raised over eyes that seem to be both curious and knowing, she looks like someone else. She looks like Admiral Janeway.
She looks like me.
Then her face cracks into a broad grin, and she is my mother again. "Okay, you two, since you're going to be standing around in my kitchen, you might as well make yourself useful." She points to the counter. "Seven, I was going to cut up those squash and brown them with some onion on the stove. Do you think you can handle that?"
"Of course," Seven replies with her usual arrogance.
"Splendid," Mom says, apparently taking Seven's unique phraseology in stride. "You'll find a knife in the middle drawer," she adds as Seven moves to the counter. "And how about you, Kathryn?" Mom gives me a wide, guileless smile. "What would you like to do?"
"Well...uh..." I stammer, squirming at the mere suggestion of me trying to help my mother cook anything. She knows good and well that I can hardly program a meal from a replicator, much less make one from scratch.
I give her a beseeching look, and thankfully she has pity on me. "I know, you can make the lemonade." Mom places a hand on my back and directs me towards the cabinet. "The pitcher and juicer are where they've always been. The lemons are over there," she says, pointing to a basket beside Seven.
"What about the sugar?" I ask.
"Right in front of you," she says, opening the cabinet and tapping a silver canister. "Just don't put too much in. I know how sweet you like it, and I want to be able to taste those lemons, not just the sugar."
"Yes ma'am." If she notices the slight sarcasm in my voice, she chooses to ignore it.
Mom pats my back and leaves me to rummage through the cabinet as she goes over to the refrigerator. "So Seven, I take it you have cooked for Kathryn before?"
"Yes," Seven says, deftly slicing the squash with smooth, precise strokes of her knife. "I have cooked for Voyager's entire senior staff."
"I see," Mom says, pulling a bag of flour, a bottle of milk, and a pot containing raw chicken from the fridge. "And has Kathryn ever cooked for you?"
"No, she has not," Seven answers succinctly.
"Good," Mom says, and places a hand on Seven's shoulder, leaning towards her to murmur, "Don't ever let her. The girl has many skills, but cooking ain't one of them."
"Mom!" I growl, but she just smiles unrepentantly and begins to mix the flour and milk into a bowl.
I turn to Seven, fully prepared to defend my somewhat negligible cooking abilities to her, but my protest dies unformed on my lips. The sunlight shining through the open window is lighting her entire face in a soft golden glow, and I'm suddenly struck by the realization that her eyes are the exact same azure blue as the Indiana sky in springtime, her hair the color of brushed cornsilk...
"Kathryn?" Seven says, her tone puzzled.
"Yes, Seven?"
She looks down, nodding to the basket of lemons that she is holding out to me. "Did you want these?"
"Yes," I cough. "Yes, thank you." As I take the lemons, Seven's hand brushes mine and I feel the tingling shoot through my fingertips and explode in my stomach, releasing a tide of intense heat that quickly suffuses my entire body. I immediately turn the basket over and start rolling the lemons onto the counter, hoping the commotion will distract from my momentary loss of control.
Sometimes in our lives, the most important moments pass by without any fanfare, without any realization that something tremendous is happening. But this afternoon I fully understand that each second is precious, and I try to memorize each laugh, each word that is spoken, each image... My mother's approving smile as she leans over Seven to compliment her perfectly sliced vegetables. The tingling that lingers in my fingertips and makes me fumble with the lemons as I try to cut them in half and push them onto the juicer. Seven and Mom working side by side, cooking over the same stove that has been in use since I was a child, causing the most heavenly scents to fill the air. Mom insisting on slathering butter on the back of Seven's hand when she's popped by grease from the frying chicken, despite protestations that Seven's nanoprobes would heal her almost instantly. And Seven carefully choosing her own glass from the cabinet -- my favorite when I was six, the one with the 23rd century cartoon on it. Of course Mom has to tell the story for the hundredth time about how I cried when Daddy accidentally broke the original, making him feel so guilty he searched for 2 weeks to find an exact replacement, then traded a month's worth of leave for it. But by the time he returned from his trip I'd found another favorite glass, and wouldn't have anything to do with it.
I savor each moment of this meal, feeling the magnitude as both of my worlds collide -- the world of my childhood, and the world of the past seven years fusing together to become one. For an all too brief moment, I'm actually happy.
If only it could last.
* * * * * *
After a ridiculously opulent meal of fried chicken, black-eyed peas and rice, fried squash, macaroni, cabbage, biscuits, and the best damn lemonade I've ever had, Mom tells us to get out of the house and go for a walk. We offer to help tidy up, but she says she can't stand anyone else cleaning her kitchen but her. Funny, I don't remember her saying anything at all like that when Phoebe and I were kids.
So I lead Seven down to the cornfields, and tell her about my childhood.
"I used to walk through here with my father when I was a little girl," I say, letting my hand play across the stalks as we walk along the pathway between the two largest fields. "It was our special time together. He'd bring me here when I'd done extremely well with my lessons, but I'd have to wait for him to finish his work first. I used to crouch down beneath his desk in the study, hiding near his legs, and patiently sit there until he finished with his padds."
"I find it difficult to imagine you hiding from anything," Seven comments.
"I wasn't exactly hiding." I smile back at Seven, who is forced to walk slightly behind me because of the narrowness of the path. "It was a game. When Dad got finished working he'd stand up and call out for his 'Goldenbird.' That was his pet name for me. He'd pretend to look all over the room, then finally pull me out from under the desk and swing me around in circles until I squealed."
"How old were you when this occurred?"
"Sixteen." I turn to see Seven's appalled expression, then laugh. "I'm joking. I was four."
"A much more suitable age, I would imagine. Although it would have been very impressive if your father could spin you around when you were 16 years old."
"Very," I smile. I do love her sense of humor.
"Please, continue."
"Well, after Dad swung me around for a minute or so, he'd set me down and tell me that if I wanted to ride again I'd have to earn it. He called it 'winning the games,' where he would run me through times tables and the like. If I got the answer right, I'd get another ride."
"What would happen if you were wrong?"
"That would be the end of it. No more rides. But oh, if I impressed him..." I absently tear an ear of corn from one of the stalks we pass, then begin to pull off the outer shell, ripping away each strip with an audible thwack. "I remember this one time, I'd memorized all my times tables up to nine. Then Daddy asked me to tell him what 9 times 11 was. I hadn't memorized that far, so I had to try to visualize the numbers by thinking of them as lionfish, all lined up in rows of nine. I imagined 10 rows, which I knew equaled 90. I then added an 11th row in my head, and saw that there were 99 lionfish in all. Daddy was very impressed."
"He should have been. That is remarkable for a child of four to show such deductive reasoning capabilities."
"Come on, Seven," I laugh. "You were probably doing calculus when you were that age."
"I do not believe so. My mathematic abilities are Borg enhanced. I am sure that when I was a child I was not nearly as remarkable as you."
Damn, she's going to make me blush. "You're exaggerating."
Her ocular implant rises slightly as she gives me her haughty look. "Borg do not exaggerate."
"No, I don't suppose they do." I look down at my fingers nimbly pulling off the last of the ear's shell, then I begin to peel the small silken threads from between the corn. "Anyway, my father was impressed enough to bring me down here to the cornfield. It was a treat for me because I used to imagine that each stalk was a soldier, or a ballerina, and that they were my friends. I cried inconsolably when the harvest came and all my friends were chopped down and taken away from me." I turn a wry smile towards Seven. "Not such a remarkable child after all, huh?"
"On the contrary, this shows that you had an extremely active imagination. It only confirms that you were an exceptional individual even then," she declares.
It pleases me inordinately that she would say so, but a "Thank you, Seven" is all that I can manage. Of course I don't mention how my father never complimented me like that, or how 'the games' we played became the pattern for our relationship. How it seemed that he would only give me the attention I craved if I excelled at my endeavors. I say nothing about how much of my life was structured around trying to please him, and how I continuously struggled to make him notice me. Nor do I mention abandoning my first love -- science -- to follow the command track instead, thinking it would make him happy if I followed in his footsteps and became a Starship captain. It was one of the last conversations we had before leaving for the Tau Ceti system. When I told Daddy I was thinking about switching from being a science officer, he made me promise that I was doing it for myself, not for him. Then he swore that he would be proud of me no matter what I did. When I seemed to doubt him, he reassured me that he had always been very proud of me, even though he sometimes had a hard time letting his feelings show. It was a cathartic moment for both of us, I think. But when he was killed, the dye was set. The last flash of pride I had seen cross my father's face was when I mentioned becoming a captain, so there was no way I could go back to science after that.
Sometimes I still wonder if I made the right choice.
Seven and I walk a few meters further, then she breaks the companionable silence we've established. "Kathryn," she begins, and although I love the way she says my name so easily now, I hear the tone in her voice that makes me dread what's coming next. "Is there some place where we may talk?"
Since we've been talking for quite some time, I assume she means someplace private, where we won't be disturbed or distracted. "Follow me," I say, tossing the shucked ear of corn down onto the path. After a moment I realize Seven isn't with me and I look back to see her bending down, reaching towards the ground.
"Why did you throw this away?" she asks, picking up the discarded ear of corn. "Can your mother not use it for a meal?"
"It's not ready yet. There's another month at least before the corn can be picked."
"Then why did you remove it from its stalk?"
I shrug. "Because I could."
We exit the cornfield, and I lead her to the giant willow tree I used to play under as a child. "Over here," I say, my own voice surprisingly steady considering that I know what's coming -- I've been preparing for this, steeling myself for what she's about to say. She's ready to talk about getting married, to ask me for my 'blessing,' just like Chakotay said. And just as Admiral Janeway predicted. "We can talk under here."
Seven stops briefly before the tree, tilting her head slightly as she studies it. God, she's so cute when she does that. "This is a... willow tree?"
"Yes."
"I have never seen a live one before. Its form is quite unique. I believe it is... beautiful." Here I am trying to be all steely and objective and she goes and says something like that, something that just endears her to me all the more. It's just not fair -- there are so many things on Earth I want to show her, so much beauty I want to share. I should be the one who is blessed by that look of wonder as Seven discovers every aspect of this world for the first time, I should be the one who helps her adjust--
But I won't be. And I'd better get used to it.
I slide my arm into the heavy branches and part them for her, indicating with a nod that she should enter. As she brushes past me I touch her back, between the shoulder blades, and guide her inside. The tree is so high that Seven can walk under it without bending, and the circumference is so wide -- about 20 meters at its greatest width -- that it gives the illusion of having entered a small, private room. I drop the branches as I join her, and the willow's leaves seem to envelop us like a curtain.
"This used to be my favorite hideaway, especially when Phoebe was too young to follow me through the fields," I explain. "I used to imagine that the tree's canopy was actually the dome of a biosphere, and every time I entered it I would be transported to another world." I walk over to the trunk and touch the rough bark, looking up into the branches. "I'd climb up here and fantasize about all the adventures I would have when I grew up -- all the distant planets I would travel to, and all the aliens I would meet." I laugh as I say this. "Maybe I should have been a little more careful with what I wished for."
Seven is studying the area around her curiously, head tilted to the side, hands clasped behind her back. "This is an impressive natural structure," she pronounces. "It is easy to see how it could spark a child's imagination."
I'm so touched that she really seems to appreciate my willow tree that I almost forget why we're here. Almost.
"You said you wanted to talk?" I prompt, and sit down against the trunk, patting the ground to my right. As I wait for her to join me, I lean forward and hug my knees in preparation for the blow that I'm sure is coming. Seven carefully places that damn ear of corn on the grass beside her before following my lead and settling in against the tree, so close that I can feel the warmth of her skin radiating through her bio-suit. I smile as she raises her knees and hugs them, mimicking my position exactly.
Then Seven turns to face me, and the shock of being so close to her and meeting that blue gaze makes my stomach flip, and I have to fight not to gasp. Nobody looks at me like she does -- so focused, so intent. For some reason I think of my old dog Molly, how we used to go for walks in the woods and her entire body would go on point when she heard some rustling in the underbrush. Seven has that same look now, as if every molecule of her body is trained on me.
"Kathryn," she begins. --Here it comes-- "What do you intend to do now?"
I loudly release the breath I'd been holding. "What?"
"Now that you have succeeded in your goal of bringing Voyager back to the Alpha Quadrant, what are your plans?" she asks. "What are you going to do?"
I have to think about this for a minute. What *am* I going to do? If I don't go to prison, that is. "I'm not sure, Seven. To be honest, I haven't really given it much thought. I've been so focused on the one goal, I never really looked beyond that to what would happen after it was achieved."
"There are rumors that you may be promoted to Admiral," she points out.
"Don't believe everything you hear," I say dryly. "A lot of it depends on how the next few weeks play out. You do know I'm under investigation, don't you?"
She nods. "Commander Chakotay informed me." Of course he did. Chakotay knows as much about the investigation as I do, since he's one of the key witnesses in the case against me. But I can't even rouse any bitterness over this. I just add it to his long list of betrayals. To think that the man consistently challenged my judgment as a Starfleet Captain, committed downright insubordination at times, and still had the nerve to ask if I could love him -- his gall never ceases to amaze me. And the fact that he's now involved with my Seven just makes me want to scream. But I hate to admit he did have one point the other night, when he said that Seven needed someone who was stable. Of course he was completely oblivious to what that would mean to me. But part of me thinks he's right, that Seven is much better off with a former Maquis rebel who has been exonerated of all charges, than a mad Starfleet Captain accused of attempted murder.
"You speak of your professional life," Seven continues. "May I ask, what about your... personal life?"
"My personal life?" Why the hell is she asking me about that? "I haven't had one in so long, I'm not even sure I know what that is," I snort. I immediately regret it, seeing the slight tightening around her mouth that tells me she's been hurt. "I'm sorry, I meant 'personal' as in 'romantic.' Not as any sort of disparagement of the friendships I've developed on Voyager. They've been very important to me." Then I abandon all sense of caution and admit, "Your friendship has been especially important to me." Dear God, did my voice just go all husky? I cough slightly to try to cover it.
"Your friendship has been important to me as well, Captain," she replies softly. She's giving me her own version of the big gooey look, where her eyes get all shiny and one side of her mouth just barely lifts in a smile. I'm so distracted by it I hardly even notice that she slipped and didn't call me 'Kathryn.'
"How about you, Seven?" I ask. "What are you going to do now?" I rush ahead, before she can answer with her engagement news. "I've always thought you would be a prime candidate for the Daystrom Institute. As a former scientist myself, I know the researchers there would give their eyeteeth to be able to work with someone as brilliant as you." What's this? Am I actually making Seven blush? "And then there's always Starfleet. With your experience and intellect, you could complete the Academy in just a few months. I'm sure you would graduate with a Lieutenant's commission without any trouble at all."
"Actually, I have been considering my professional options. I have recently been contacted by members of both the Daystrom Institute and Starfleet, as well as representatives of the Vulcan Science Academy and the Trill Ministry of Technology."
"Congratulations." I'm impressed by this. Not that Seven would be sought by so many prestigious institutions -- she deserves to be -- but that they all responded so quickly. After all, I only sent the communiqués out to them last week.
"Which one do you think I should consider?" she asks. Then, more hesitantly she adds, "I am not sure where I would belong."
A memory stirs, rises to the surface of my mind, and I'm taken back to another time, another conversation. Seven trembling like a wild thing trapped beneath my hand as I pressed a microfilament to the implant over her left eye, making the adjustments that would allow her to pass through the forcefield holding us in Arturis' brig. A very different situation, but a moment not unlike this. I feel the same closeness, the same sense of intimacy, of whispered revelation that is between us now. She said nearly the exact same thing then as she confessed to me her fears of returning to Earth, that she wasn't sure where she belonged. My immediate response was to reassure Seven that she belonged with us, with Voyager. But that wasn't what I meant. I meant that she belonged with me. I want to tell her that now.
But of course I don't.
"I'm sure you could belong in any of those organizations," I say gently. "You just have to find the one that suits you best. But ultimately the choice is yours. I can't make the decision for you." Her raised brow inspires a rueful chuckle. "At least not any more. The days are long gone when I can decide anything for you. It's the price of individuality -- you have to choose what to do with your own life. But if you have any questions, I would be glad to answer them. Or find someone who can. I do still have one or two contacts left in the Alpha Quadrant."
"Indeed. Actually, I find it intriguing that so many different organizations have made personal overtures to me within such a relatively short period of time. In the past six days I have spoken with Dr. Leah Brahms, Dr. Lenara Kahn, and even Ambassador Spock. Not to mention your friend, Admiral Paris." She cocks her head at me, raising her ocular implant slightly along with her left eyebrow. "In fact, it would almost seem that someone had already contacted each of them on my behalf."
"Really? Hmm." I give a wide-eyed, innocent look. "I've no idea who that could be."
She isn't fooled by me, not for a minute. She never has been. "Nevertheless, I am... grateful for the opportunities that are being offered me." Then in a shy, low voice, "Thank you, Captain."
There it is again. 'Captain,' not 'Kathryn.' "You deserve this Seven, it has nothing to do with me." Then I place my hand on her shoulder and softly say, "You'll have to get used to just calling me 'Kathryn,' you know. I won't be your captain much longer."
"No," she declares. "You are incorrect. No matter what happens from this moment on -- whether you become an Admiral, or command another starship, or even if you leave Starfleet altogether, you will always be my Captain."
"Oh, Seven," I look away and blink several times, finally giving in and wiping away the tears that threaten to slip from my eyes. I can't take this anymore, feeling so close to her, hearing such sweet things when I know what this is leading to. I'm tired of waiting to be fired upon, so I hurl the first volley. "Chakotay and I went to dinner the other night," I say suddenly. "He told me that the two of you have become quite close in the past few weeks."
Seven stares down at her hands. "Yes, we have."
Nothing else? No confessions of love for the man? I push, because I have to know. "It seems that at least one part of Admiral Janeway's version of the future may be coming true," I tease.
She nods slightly. "Commander Chakotay has asked me to marry him," she confirms. Her voice has that nervous timber -- I wonder why? Perhaps the thought of marriage is making her apprehensive? I should reassure her.
"Chakotay is a fine man," I say, trying to sound convincing. "He will make a wonderful husband for you." I'm not lying -- if she loves him, he will. I don't doubt that he'll care for her, take care of her, the way he tried to take care of me on New Earth. The bastard. But if he doesn't, if he ever hurts her--
"Then you... approve?" Seven finally looks at me. "You think this is something I should do?"
There it is, the request for my approval, my permission. I touch her shoulder again. "Of course I do, if this is what you want," I say, my heart shattering in my chest. "I think you'll be very happy together."