Not Curiosity -- Desire
 

"The Borg have assimilated many species with mythologies to explain such moments of clarity. I have always dismissed them as trivial. Perhaps I was wrong."

Janeway's instinct is to touch Seven, put a hand on her arm, try to comfort her, but she doesn't. She sits beside her, her left hand clasping her right. The room is warm, the heat from the fire radiating behind them.

"If I didn't know you better, I'd say you just had your first spiritual experience."

She is moved by Seven's passion for the Omega molecule, the purity and strength of her desire for knowledge. They sit without speaking. Janeway thinks that Seven is sitting slightly too close. Social distances are such a subtle, cultural thing. There is a slight soft scent to Seven's hair.

"Captain, I wasn't sure that I would obey you."

"But you did."

"Yes, I did." Seven speaks softly.

Janeway thinks about what she asked Seven to do, to destroy her vision of perfection, her god.

She is sorry that she had to do it, but she realizes that she was somehow certain that Seven would not disobey her. And that is exciting. The way riding a horse used to be. You cannot use brute force to master a horse, rather it is a matter of skill, of rapport, and of confidence. She remembers the joy of that, of controlling a powerful, beautiful animal. She never rides on the holodeck; the computer cannot reproduce the subtleties of the experience.

Firelight flickers on the walls. Seven's arm is millimeters from hers; her hand almost touches her thigh. She feels tense. "I should be exhausted, but I can't sleep."

"I too have delayed my regeneration period. I have had this experience . . . if I were Borg the collective would know, they would share it with me."

"I can see that would be wonderful. I don't understand completely, but I can try."

Seven shifts her position, slides slightly away and then turns towards her. She reaches out, puts the fingertips of her left hand on the Janeway's temple.

It is an odd gesture; Janeway wonders if it is from another culture, another species. Her diplomatic instincts keep her from moving away; her self control keeps her from responding to the touch, expressing the little shock of pleasure she receives from Seven's warm fingertips.

"You are aroused," Seven says, removing her hand.

It seems so unreal. Perhaps she should deny it, but she finds herself unable to do so.

"Was that a lucky guess, or am I being obvious?"

"Neither, Captain. Nano-sensors. You are far from obvious. I was not sure. I had to touch your skin. I have wanted to do so for some time."

"Well," Janeway smiles a small smile, speaks carefully, slowly, "now you've satisfied your curiosity."

"Not curiosity," says Seven, repeating the words she had said several days before, in a different context. "Not curiosity--desire."

Before Janeway can think of a response, Seven has taken her wrists and pulled her to floor. She places her on the rug and pins her hands down. Janeway is surprised by the action, more surprised that she lets herself be pulled down, and by the intensity of her own reaction, the feel of Seven's body pressing against hers.

"Seven . . ."

"You are aroused. Am I mistaken in believing that I am a factor?"

"No, but . . . oh." She can feel the pressure of Seven's thigh between her legs. "Seven, please, I can't, this isn't . . ."

"You don't enjoy this? You don't want me?"

Seven is still holding her down. She is aware that Seven is a great deal stronger than she is, that struggling is pointless. And arousing, which she won't be able to hide with Seven's palms against her wrists. Yet she knows she can make Seven let her go; that if she can be clear and certain, Seven will release her.

"Captain, earlier today I told Commander Chakotay that I had been on this ship for nine months and I had never made a personal request. I think I understand why I was denied the chance to try to stabilize the molecule. I would like to make another request. Kiss me. Please."

Janeway's body is on fire. Her head swims. The room feels hot. She wonders if this heat, this tension is the aftermath of the anxiety she felt earlier. A part of her registers the oddness of hearing Seven use "please" for the first time, and doing so while pinning her to the floor. She knows she should turn Seven down, get up, leave the holodeck and go to bed alone. But she can't think why. Omega was so monumentally important; this seems no more than an exercise in will, denial for the sake of denial.

Seven takes her silence as consent. She lowers her lips to Janeway's. It is an intense kiss. Hungry and certain, needy and powerful. Seven's phrase "three point two seconds of perfection" goes through Janeway's head, but the kiss lass longer. She is gasping, her body arching up against Seven's.

Seven pulls back reluctantly. "Captain, you need more oxygen."

"Kathryn. Just for tonight."

"Yes. Kathryn." Seven says the name slowly, curiously as if savoring the sounds. And then, as if

making a solemn promise, "Just for tonight."

Seven brings her Borg hand to the collar of Janeway's uniform. She moves her hand down the Captain's body, the fabric splitting cleanly beneath her fingers.

"Ah, Borg ingenuity. Useful trick."

And then Seven removes the pieces of Janeway's uniform. She does not let her help, does not let her rise. Janeway is surprised to find this exciting. Seven takes off the ruined garment, touching her body as she does so. Her touch is deliberate as she feels the texture of Janeway's skin, and registers the other woman's response to her touch. She rapidly discovers the most sensitive places, caressing her breasts, her neck, her lips, nipples. She takes a nipple in her mouth, sucking with an intensity that is for a second almost pain and then becomes pure heat, causing Janeway to cry out as the waves of excitement wash down her body.

Seven's technique is both methodical and passionate. Her concentration on Janeway's response, on her body, is total. She is forceful, possessive, forcing the other woman to accept her touch without reciprocating. Briefly Janeway wonders if this is Seven's desire for control, or because Seven can tell that she is excited by this, is excited to be overpowered, free from decision- making. And then she loses her ability to analyse at all, loses the ability to do anything but to feel. She feels her mounting pleasure, feels Seven's fingers on her, in her, powerful, insistent. For moments she hovers on the edge of the orgasm, everything heat and tension, and then falls into it, grasping Seven with one hand, the rug with the other, crying out as the tension leaves her.

***

"I'm too old for this."

"I was unaware there were age restrictions for non-procreative activities."

"I mean for the floor. I think I'm too old to have sex on the floor." She laughs as she slowly sits up. "Though this occurs to me only in retrospect. And it's a little chilly when one moves away from the fire." She is trembling slightly. She is not sure how much is the result of the cold floor, and how much her absolute amazement at the situation in which she finds herself.

"I am sorry, Kathryn." Seven stands up and takes a large piece of fabric which was draped over a table and hands it to Janeway.

"Thank you. I will be back in a minute."

***

She goes to the holodeck's dressing room, requests the light to dim to half, and enters. It is still brighter than DaVinci's studio. She asks the replicator for a simple robe; she finds holographic garments disturbing. She puts it on, goes to the sink and splashes a little water on her face. "Oh God, Kathryn, what have you done?" she asks herself, bringing her hands to her face. When she removes them and looks in the mirror, she notices that she is smiling.

When she returns to the studio, she doesn't see Seven. She looks around the room. And then she hears a slight noise. She follows it and enters a small room which DaVinci keeps for his models to change in. It too is lit with candles. There is a small bed with drapes and clothes piled on it. Seven is standing at a mirror. She has taken off her brown outfit and is wearing a long loose robe of a very dark silver.

Janeway sits on the bed. "You're breathtaking," she says.

Seven looks at her.

"Beautiful."

"Is beauty relevant?" Seven asks softly. It is a question.

"Yours gives me pleasure."

"I want to give you pleasure."

"You have. You do. Take your hair down."

Seven does so.

"Come here."

Seven sits on the bed. Her hair falls about her face. The robe reveals the tops of her breasts. She is hesitant, almost shy, a different woman from the one who, only a brief while ago, had pinned Janeway to the floor.

"Kathryn. I could feel your pleasure." Seven speaks with wonder in her voice, but also an undercurrent of concern. "I don't mean sense it. I mean actually feel it, experience it. When you enjoyed my touch, I too felt excitement. Is this because I . . .?"

Janeway touches Seven's hair, gently lifting it, moving it out of the way. Her fingers trail down to where the robe begins, and she kisses the nape of Seven's neck. Seven lets out a little gasp.

"Works for me too," says Janeway, smiling. "So I think it's human."

"It is a way for humans to not be alone, then."

"As Tuvok would say, indeed."

Janeway pushes the dark silver robe off Seven's shoulders. She runs her fingers over the skin at the top of Seven's back. Her skin is soft, softer than any skin she can remember touching, but then of course, Seven has had this skin only a brief time.

Janeway is sitting on the bed, almost behind Seven. Hands on her shoulders, she gently turns Seven to face her. Seven's skin looks luminescent in the candlelight. She traces the planes of Seven's face with her fingertips.

*You are so strong, so vulnerable,* she thinks. She brings her hand to Seven's lips; Seven takes a finger in her mouth, tastes it. Janeway then trails the hand down, down Seven's chin, her neck, to the base of her throat. Seven leans back on the pillows and clothes, her head back, throat exposed. A posture of confidence, of vulnerability, of trust, Janeway isn't sure.

"I wish I could paint you," she says, almost to herself.

"What color would you like me to be?"

"That's not . . ." Janeway looks at Seven who has raised herself on her elbows. There is a very slight smile on her face.

Janeway laughs. "Leonardo would like you."

"Leonardo didn't seem to like me at all."

"Ah, well, yes. Then he has no taste." Janeway kisses the base of Seven's throat. The candlelight glints off her hair, the silver robe. Janeway opens the garment further.

She touches Seven's breasts softly, watches her nipples stiffen. The former Borg's breathing quickens. She brings her hand down, over Seven's stomach, over the dark metal implant near her waist, over her hip bone.

She is lying beside her now, watching her face, caressing her thighs. Her fingers trail over Seven's thighs, touching only what is exposed, teasing Seven until she parts her legs. Janeway then caresses her inner thigh, moving her hand up until she almost touches the pale hair between her legs, moves down again. And then she lets her fingers brush ever so slightly against that damp hair.

Seven is panting now, moaning.

Janeway places her hand between Seven's legs, letting it rest there, unmoving, kissing Seven's breasts until Seven is lifting her pelvis up, trying to press herself into the fingers which tantalize her.

"Please," she says finally. "Oh Kathryn, please."

And now Janeway increases the pressure very slightly so that Seven's labia part, and her finger slides in Seven's smooth wetness and strokes her until she comes, crying out in surprise and pleasure.

Janeway maintains the contact as Seven's cries subside. Then she brings her hand to her own lips, and then to Seven's. She smiles, lies down beside Seven, nuzzles her face into Seven's neck.

They lie quietly for a minute, the length of their bodies touching. Then Seven turns on her side. "Red," she says, fingering the silken material of Janeway's open robe. "I told you that her favorite color was red, that child I once was. I wanted to please you, wanted to be human because that is what you wanted. I do not know if red was her favorite color. At that moment I thought it was, because it was the color you wore, and I thought it was beautiful. To care about a color--it seemed human, childish. I thought it was her favorite color. But I think--perhaps--it is mine."