Fidelity
by
Plynn
The wedding came and went, without incident, three months after we returned home. There were no tearful revelations beforehand. There were no emotional interjections during. Vows were exchanged: his poetic and heartfelt, hers warm yet efficient, as always. The ceremony was touching and brief, and the March sun was warm in the New Mexico sky. I managed to smile and make small talk with friends and acquaintances. I managed to give a brief speech of congratulations without my voice cracking. Most importantly, I managed to get the hell out of there before they danced, before I could see him take her in his thick arms and press her to him. Before I could see her pale, unmeshed fingers reach up and trace that damn tattoo. If anyone noticed my early departure, they had the grace not to mention it.
At least I showed up.
I had hesitated when the invitation came, and I had propped it against the computer screen on my desk at home in San Francisco. I couldn’t throw it away, and I refused to hide it in a drawer. No, I had to face it head on, chin raised, just like I’d faced down everything else in the past seven years. Kazon, Hirogen, or Borg Queen - I didn’t back down from them, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to be cowed by a six-by-nine sheet of cream cardstock. I was not so brave when my thoughts turned to the actual event. My courage, I remember thinking as I pressed the sharp corner of the card into the pad of my index finger, is insufficient. My jaw clenched, however, and I felt my shoulders square themselves under this new weight. I drew in a slow breath; the captain always goes down with the ship, and I would see this wreck to the end too, even if it killed me.
I had contacted her immediately, before I could think of a way around it, and it took every ounce of steel in my spine. “You will attend,” she asked in her way, making it sound less like a question and more like a statement of fact. But I heard the reserve in her tone, and I wondered if she expected me to make an excuse, to avoid her as nimbly as I had the past month. I felt a spark of challenge in her imperious eyes, and responded to it without thinking.
“Of course I will.” Damn her for looking so pleased. I felt my resolve quiver as the corners of her mouth curled up, and I was reminded of why I had restricted myself to text-only communication since our trip to Bloomington not long after our return. The last time I had seen her face was five weeks previous, as she mounted the transporter platform. The last time I had heard her voice it was saying, “Goodbye, Kathryn,” imbued with a finality that shook me to my core. I had understood then that I couldn’t see her again, knowing that she had gone back to him. Not until I was able to think of her without the throb in my chest. It simply cost me too much each time I looked into her eyes. Once, I thought I had seen a possible future there, but it seemed she had other ideas.
I had taken her to my home, shown her my history, and introduced her to my family. She had smiled politely at my mother’s inefficient Traditionalist trappings, and charmed my curious sister with her precise speech. I had sat with her in my father’s office, showing her old images and artifacts of the person I once was, silently pleading that she understand what I was trying to give her. I had promised her that I would bring her here, but if she knew what that meant she gave no sign, and I made no move to tell her openly. Old habits die hard, and I couldn’t get over the walls I had shored and patched so many times over the years. We said our goodbyes, and didn’t speak for a month. Then, the invitation came and I knew I had missed my only chance.
I had felt the mask falter as I looked at her image, back lit and radiant with the desert sun, and I clutched at the remains of my control. “Give Chakotay my best,” I said shortly, and by the incline of her ocular implant I knew she hadn’t missed the hint of command. Dismissed. The screen went mercifully dark, and I shoved aside the impulse to slam my fist down on top of it. I was furious with my own inaction, and disgusted by my cowardice. I had let the most precious find of my life slip through my fingers, only to be snatched up by my “Number One”. My rage was easily misdirected at him, and it felt good to hate him, to feel indignant and betrayed rather than disappointed and lost.
And so, I went. My memories of the ceremony are stills and brief impressions: Tuvok’s steady presence at my side, the chafe of my dress uniform against my neck, the strain of the tight bun I’ve readopted pulling at my scalp, the reflection of sunlight off the starburst on her cheek. Her dress was sleek and elegant in its simplicity, but I remember nothing about its details. I couldn’t look directly at her. Instead, I focused on a point in the sky just over Chakotay’s head and concentrated on my breathing with near meditative intent. Poor Tuvok. Seated so close to me I knew he could sense my brittleness, and when I felt his lean thigh press against mine in wordless support I nearly shattered. I was home in my empty apartment, mercifully numb with single malt, before they even cut the cake.
That was four months ago. She had sent a message shortly after, thanking me for my gift of oak-handled Traditionalist chef’s knives, and didn’t comment on the fact that I had given her potential weapons as a wedding present. I didn’t reply. When we first returned to Earth, I spoke with her nearly every day, keeping tabs on her adjustment and listening when she felt overwhelmed by this new world. After Bloomington, and my self-imposed restriction to text, I began increasing the length between my replies and kept to short, monthly letters. She had Chakotay to lean on, and I couldn’t bear hearing about the minutiae of their lives together. Since the wedding, I had written only twice. I attributed it to the endless schedule of a new Admiral, and she didn’t question me.
I missed her desperately.
I drank more than I should’ve – whiskey and soda, in that order. Most nights, it helped, and was the only way I could drift, restless, into unconsciousness. But other nights, oh God, other nights the soda was an afterthought and I found myself staring at old holoimages, or rereading old logs, my eyes full of hot tears. I had lost. It was that simple. I hadn’t realized the game was on until it was half over, and I never even got on the court. If I had only told her, when she sat on Daddy’s couch with me, so close her breath had raised gooseflesh on my neck. If I hadn’t been so cautious, if I hadn’t been so guarded, she might have known that Chakotay wasn’t the only one who wanted her, who dreamed of her. But, I loved her in symbols, and courted her in metaphors. I tried to woo a Borg with subtlety, while he plodded right in and stated his case in simple terms. I lost.
It was one of those reckless nights when I felt my control slip. My head full of Ireland’s best and my heart aching like a wound, I sat with a volume of 20th century poetry from South America. The imagery and the raw passion in the verse made my stomach twist and my breath hitch. I couldn’t tell her how I felt directly. It was too late for that and it wouldn’t change anything. She was a married woman now, marked and branded. But, I could send her one last symbol, hidden from his dark, intuitive eyes with the name “Goldenbird”. If she saw it, I knew her eidetic memory would latch on to the name. She’d remember Bloomington, the scent of my father’s leather sofa, and my voice as I spoke of him. She’d know, at least - at last - and I could sleep. I wouldn’t speak of it again.
Before sense or sobriety caught up to me, I had transcribed a particularly vivid selection into an encoded transmission from a dummy account under the childhood name. The verse sat coiled, unexplained and blatant:
“I crave your mouth,
your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails;
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.”
A step up from my past delicacy, that. My head swam as I read it again and again, feeling a dangerous thrill sing through my blood. With one last tap, the message hurled through subspace. I felt light, and my chest filled with a deep sigh. I fell asleep easily that night, and dreamt of space. The next morning, shaky and dry-mouthed, I was mortified at my loss of control. I found myself praying the message would get lost in the multitudes of transmissions from colleagues and curious civilians she received each day, or that she wouldn’t remember the name, but I knew it was futile. I felt sick, and my face was hot with shame as I wrapped myself in my uniform.
After a week passed with no reply, no acknowledgement, I thought maybe my prayers had been answered. Perhaps some benevolent technological spirit, a guardian of drunken lovesick Admirals, had taken pity on me and the message had gone unnoticed. Another week and, unbidden, my thoughts took a darker path. Perhaps she had received it, read it, and pitied me herself. Perhaps she was saving me the embarrassment of rejection, of having to remind me of her vows. It was kinder to ignore it, to deny it ever existed, than to call attention to a sad old woman’s desperation and lust.
As soon as I had convinced myself of this truth, it was debunked. I came home to find my console blinking and, expecting work, I opened it with a sigh. My palms prickled with sweat and my breath failed me when I saw her name, listed as it was under my once-used false account and not my official address. I swallowed, my dry throat convulsing, and opened it. It was a copied advertisement for a two-day conference on Theoretical Astrophysics being held in Seattle in one week. There was no additional message; at least, not on the surface. My console beeped, and I frowned at the encryption notice. There was a small text file attached, and I gave the order to decrypt with a shaking finger. One sentence flashed onto the screen and, again, that reckless buzz tingled in my chest. My world narrowed to six words:
“I find myself considering alternative possibilities.”
------- ------- -------
“Name, ma’am?” The clerk’s voice calls me back from my memories and my restless visual search of the crowd. The hotel lobby is filled with milling scientists of a multitude of species, buzzing with their muted chatter and filling the air with a cacophony of languages. I spy a tall, blonde form and my heart trips, but my lips press into a thin line when it turns out to be a Trill woman. I run a hand over my damp hair, trying to smooth the wayward strands back into their coiled knot. It’s a terrible disadvantage being five foot five in a crowd when you’re trying to spot someone, and I give the clerk a tight smile.
“Janeway.” I put a little of the old snap in my voice, and I feel oddly gratified when his eyes widen a smidgen. Either the name gets around, or he’s simply intimidated by the moderately drenched and obviously tense customer. Either way works for me, but I like to think I’ve not lost my edge during my time behind a desk.
“Ah, yes. One night, room 1793. That’ll be the seventeenth floor-“
“Thank you.” I pluck the keycard from his hand, press my thumb to the PADD to authorize the charges, and pick up my modest suitcase. There’s a small throng gathered around waiting for the old-fashioned lift, and it’s clear I won’t be making it onto the next ride. I take the opportunity to brush a bit of rain from my long tan overcoat, and find myself touching at my hair again. I need something to do with my hands. If they’re not busy they’ll tremble, and if they tremble I may very well lose my nerve. It’s just a conference, I tell myself, and maybe dinner with an old friend. I steadfastly ignore the implications of her encoded message, and convince myself that subterfuge is simply not in her nature. We would talk, and I would be truly honest with her for the first time. Then, she could do with it what she wished. The lift arrives again, and the small group begins shuffling inside. I pick up my case, and begin to follow.
“Kathryn.” It’s said quietly, intimately, and right behind me. I stop, let the lift fill, and watch the doors close after the last of the passengers board, leaving me alone in the hall. Well, not entirely alone.
“Hello, Seven,” I murmur, startled to find myself short of breath already, and I take a steadying inhalation between lips gone dry. She says nothing else, and I don’t turn around, but I know she’s standing close judging by the heat at my back. I fold my hands in front of me, hoping it looks like a casual gesture and that she can’t see how white my knuckles are. I hear a slow intake of air over my right shoulder, and I realize with a jolt that she is inhaling, she’s goddamn sniffing me, and I can feel desire spread low and hot in my belly. My illusions, however thin, about the purpose of this trip are shattering with every breath.
The lift returns, and we board, alone. She remains behind me still, and as the doors close I can see our reflections in the burnished metal. She is dressed in a sharp black suit, and the silky collar of a blue shirt augments the color of her eyes. Her hair is pulled back in its usual twist, but it looks even lighter and I assume it’s a byproduct of the southwestern sun. Her gaze locks on mine in the reflection as I fumble for the button marked 17, and as the car begins to rise her eyes trail downward. I can almost feel it as if it were palpable, physical. Her eyes rake over my face, take in the flush spreading up from my neck and over the collar of my raincoat. She watches my chest rise and fall with increasing tempo, and when she brings her eyes back up to mine my pupils are wide, the thin irises as blue as the sapphire blouse she wears. My tongue darts out to wet my lips and I open my mouth to speak, but my voice won’t come. Instead, the lift reports my floor, and the doors open.
I exit, my left hand clutching the handle of my case, and I feel her fall into step behind me. It feels so natural, so familiar, that I have to swallow against the growing tightness in my throat. I feel giddy, almost drunk, just from her presence. This is how it should be. This is where she belongs, with me, always with me. With each step I become so assured of the very rightness of this that, by the time we reach room 1793 and I pass the card over the access panel, it’s like no time has passed since our return. We could have just stepped off of Voyager, and I’m half convinced that if I look down I’ll be in uniform.
The door slides open, and reveals a modest suite, decorated in dark woods and earth tones. The sitting room is spacious with a generous couch, coffee table, and workstation. A view screen is mounted on the left wall next to a small, limited replicator, with a decently large bathroom just past. On the far side of the room there is a doorway leading to what I presume is the bedroom. I hear the door swish closed behind her, and I set my suitcase down near the sofa and turn to face her for the first time.
“Seven, I -” I start, intending to tell her how good it feels to see her, to tell her how much I’ve missed her, but her hands are on my face, cupping my jaw, and my sentiments are lost under the press of her mouth and the fierce invasion of her gloriously soft tongue. I groan and feel the reverberations on her lips, and my hands snake up into her hair. The pin rattles across the floor, unloved, as I tangle my hands into her mane and pull her closer, intent on my own offensive. Her hands slide down over my breasts, and slip under my coat to wrap around the small of my back. The embrace stretches into long, breathless moments of attack and surrender, and I’m immediately dizzy and loose at the knees. When I feel her hands clutch my ass, I break the kiss.
“Wait, wait…” I breathe, and I have to place a steadying hand on her upper chest. I can feel her heart thumping double-time, and I swallow hard. “Why… ” I lick my lips, catching fragments of her lingering in the crevices, and try and make sense of what is happening. “Why did you ask me here? Why did you send me the notice?” I hate the pleading note in my voice, but I have to understand. While I realize that she’s just pounced on me like prey, I need to make sure we’re on the same page. My head is absolutely swimming with lust and pheromones, and I need to ask while I can still form coherent sentences.
Seven tilts her head slightly before answering, and I can’t help but notice that her hands are still firmly, and marvelously, gripping my posterior. “After I received your poem, I analyzed it repeatedly. I concluded that you desired me, and the idea interrupted my thought processes to such a degree that I could not function properly.” Her voice is soft, and her eyes roam over my face as she speaks. “I needed to speak to you, in person and without interruption, but I could not be sure if you would agree.” Her eyes drop, and focus on my mouth. “You have not been available. I thought that if offered the idea of meeting on ‘neutral ground’ that you might be more willing to see me. But, when I saw you downstairs, my thought processes were disrupted again.”
She takes my right hand in her left, raising it from where it
rests on her chest and bringing it to her lips. “I could not cease thinking of
the poem. ‘Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me,
all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps,’” she
quotes, rubbing her meshed thumb into the palm of my captured hand, and my mouth
goes dry at the desire in her eyes. “I ‘hunger for the pale stones of your
fingernails.’” My middle finger is drawn in between her lips, swollen and
ruddy at the edges from our kisses, and when I feel her tongue slide along the
ridges of my fingerprint, I gasp. My entire consciousness is focused on her, her
gaze locked with mine as she releases my digit only to repeat the action on my
index finger. Her eyes are as clear as the waters of Martian quarries, and twice
as alluring and hazardous. “Kathryn,” she murmurs, pressing my hand to her chest
as she leans in to nuzzle my ear, “’I want to eat your skin like a whole
almond.’” I am absolutely undone. Whatever resistance lived in me has long
perished, and all that remains is this all-consuming throb throughout my body.
I shrug out of my coat, leaving it to puddle on the floor, and my shaking fingers deftly undo the broad buttons of her suit jacket. I watch her face the whole time, noticing how her eyes widen at the number of buttons undone on my cream-colored shirt, and I know she can see my nipples distorting the fabric. My grin borders on feral as I drag my palms up over her chest and slide her jacket off, and I stretch up to catch her succulent lower lip between my teeth and swipe my tongue across it. Her right hand comes up to cradle the back of my skull, and her fingers twist into the knot of hair gathered there. She pulls my head back and her mouth lands just below the hinge of my jaw, causing me to shiver and my toes to curl, and I lose two inches as I slide out of my heels. If I don’t get this damn shirt off, I think suddenly, I’m going to pierce it.
I place my hands on her biceps, and press myself back. She resists at first, nipping at my throat, but I give a small sound of insistence. Seven’s eyes are dark, her face is flushed, and her breath is coming in ragged pants. I melt at her raking stare, feeling that same heady recklessness I felt as I sent the poem that brought us here, and I step backwards towards the unlit bedroom. My right hand comes up to the center of my chest, and toys with the button as I take another step, all the while holding her eyes with my own. Again, I step carefully and deliberately as I release the small catch and move to the next. She begins to follow me, her fingers manipulating the pearl-like buttons of her own shirt, and by the time we reach the bedroom both hang open. The backs of my legs meet mattress and her palms, one smooth and one traced with warm metal, push the shirt off my shoulders. I return the favor and do her one better by releasing the dark satin bra she’s wearing, and lowering my mouth to her left breast.
“Oh... Kathryn,” she breathes, and makes short work of the remainder of my bun as she clutches me closer. I drag my tongue across her rigid flesh, over and around and across again before I pull upon it, sucking wetly. I change targets, kissing my way across, and give the same attention to her right breast. She moans, hands grabbing at me and sliding over my back to the clasp of my bra. With a deft twist of her left hand the material snaps loose, and it’s not until later that I realize it’s been rent rather than unhooked. She tosses the unwanted garment aside and pulls my face up into another clash of lips, teeth and tongue, and I cannot resist pressing into her and sliding my body along her skin. The heat of her breasts against mine releases the last vestiges of my control, and my gasp is caught in her mouth. My arms entwine behind her head, and I feel myself lifted by strong hands on my ass. I wrap my legs around her waist, and as my hips grind against her of their own volition I drag my mouth from hers, my teeth scraping along the line of her neck. I feel her pulse hammering against my lips, and I trace the vein with my tongue. I feel the world tip backwards, and suddenly the bedspread scratches against my bare back.
She stands, and I shiver at the loss of her body heat. I cannot see her in the dark room, but over the blood rushing through my ears I hear the metallic scrape of a clasp, and the rustle of material falling to the floor. I feel my own hips lifted and my slacks pulled down over my legs and discarded, my underwear along with them. “Efficient,” I tease, my voice husky with disuse and desire, and I catch a sound that resembles a breathy chuckle. When the air hits my skin I am amazed, but not entirely surprised, by the spread of moisture across the tops of my inner thighs; I cannot ever remember being this aroused in my life. I’m honest enough with myself to admit the illicit nature of our meeting is contributing in a perverse way, but I don’t dwell on it. There is only this moment: the feel of her weight sinking onto the bed and against my left side, the warmth of her mouth as she rakes her teeth across my nipple, the unyielding press of her meshed hand within my slick, heated flesh. She traces along the differing textures, testing my response from one spot to another. My feet press flat against the mattress, lifting me and chasing after her teasing caresses as I press her head to my breast. I’m stunned at my rapid ascent; usually it takes me multiple encounters with a new partner to let go enough to actually climax, but Seven has stripped me of my barriers as deftly as ever and I find myself grunting a request. “Inside, go inside.”
Two fingers enter me easily, and a third is added when I grind shamelessly down against them. “Oh God, Seven,” I rasp as she thrusts and twists, the metal ridges increasing the friction, and my hips match her demanding tempo; there will be time for slow and gentle later. Right now, this is a need too long denied and I hear myself panting, sucking in the earthy scent of us, as I turn towards her and hook my right leg over her hip for leverage. My fingers dig into the flexing muscles of her back, kneading in time to the rocking of my pelvis. The flat of her palm rubs against aching nerves, and her mouth finds mine in time to swallow my cry. Lost in the rhythm of her tongue, her hand, and my hips, I arch against the effervescent rise of my blood and dig my heel into her ass, pressing her closer and forcing her fingers deeper. “Yes, oh my God, like that,” I growl against her lips, “oh, yes... just like –“ and the words are choked off into a sob as I clench around her, white heat exploding behind my eyes and racing along my nerves. She curls within me, extending my release, and it’s a long moment before I collapse with a shaky breath. She withdraws from me, tenderly, and I shudder both at the sensation and at the copious fluid she spreads in the process. “Oh, Seven,” I sigh, and I swallow back the tremble I notice in my voice. No, not yet, I command internally. I’ll have plenty of time to blubber over her later.
I bring my hands to her face and stroke my thumbs across her cheeks. Her skin is blazing, and I feel a brief rush of amused sympathy for her poor, overworked nanoprobes. “Kathryn, please,” she whispers, and I silence her with a kiss, teasing and caressing her tongue with my own. I use my right leg, still wrapped over her hip, to press her backwards until she lays supine beneath my straddling thighs. Her hands tangle in my disheveled hair, and mine slide up her ribcage, reveling in the contrast between metal bands and downy skin. My palms drag deliberately over her breasts, and my thumbs roll her stiffened nipples against their pliant backdrops. She moans into my mouth, and I pull away from her lips, trailing open-mouthed kisses along her neck and collarbone. She writhes against me, breathless, and I replace my left hand with my tongue, swirling over the peak and scraping it with my teeth. Her hands clutch at my shoulders and I chuckle at the gentle, but insistent, downward pressure.
“So impatient,” I murmur into her breast, and I feel her chest shake with humor. I continue my descent as she sighs deeply, and I nuzzle against the curve of her waist.
“That is easy for you to say now,” she replies archly, twining her fingers into my hair once more as I reach her navel and plant a loving kiss below it. “I do not recall patience being a factor two minutes ago.” She’s got me there, but with the knife’s edge of my own need somewhat dulled, I find the idea of tormenting her a little quite appealing. As I slide lower, my palms stroke across the tops of her thighs, already open and anticipating. My weight on my knees, I trail my fingertips up the insides of her legs and they fall open even further. When I slip against damp flesh, I suck in an inordinately smug breath; I did this, I smirk to myself. Me. Not –
I crush the thought mercilessly, and my molars bear down on each other. I concentrate on her ragged breathing, and the fragrance of her swollen flesh, all my teasing intentions gone in a possessive rush. I lower myself to my belly, and slide my arms around the backs of her thighs until they rest on my biceps, held wide. “Oh please,” she gasps when she feels my breath, knowing that my resolve always crumbles at that single word. I oblige, and my mouth presses against her sodden lips in a lingering kiss of adoration. The flat of my tongue slides easily along her slick flesh, and as her heels dig into my back I am overwhelmed by the sense of being completely engulfed by her. I skate up the left side of her sex, and I press firmly against her swollen nub as I pass, continuing my journey down the right side. I continue the blissful circuit, unable to stop the small sounds of pleasure coming from my own throat. She is sweet and thick, and everything I had hoped. Her hips rise each time I pass over the peak of my route, and I concentrate my attention on caressing the sensitive node.
I bring my right hand back around, and press my middle finger into her entrance carefully. When I don’t encounter the resistance I’ve always imagined, the reason causes a hot flare of jealousy in my gut and my throat closes on a snarl. Rationally I understand that they have been married for four months, and involved for just as long previously, but denial is a powerful force. Confronted with the evidence, I’m assailed by unwanted images of him grunting and trespassing, the coarse brown skin of his back contrasting to the paleness of her elegant legs, and I’m overcome with selfish resentment. I press my ring finger in alongside the first abruptly, and she moans, undulating against my mouth and fingers wantonly as her right hand threads through my hair. I thrust with savage intent, stroking as deeply inside of her as I can reach. My left hand, arm still wrapped around her leg, digs into the tender skin below her navel, clawing as I maintain the brutal pressure of my mouth and tongue.
“Oh... oh, Kathryn,” she cries, breathless and low, and the emotion in her voice brings me back to myself, tempering my covetous need and pricking my eyes with tears. I force all thoughts of anything but loving her from my head, and I devote myself to the delightful sounds she’s making. I bend my fingers within her, massaging firmly but with care, and my lips wrap themselves around her hardened knot. My tongue rasps against it, again and again, as I suck gently, and her entire body stiffens as her hips rise. Her long body shudders with a loud moan, and my right hand is wrapped in pulsing heat as she comes. I ride it out, and press deeper, harder, my tongue flat and insistent in its motion, and within moments she cries out again, shaking with the force of her second climax.
I withdraw with a tinge of regret, and the kisses I place on her hip are soothing and slightly apologetic for my loss of control. I reverse my earlier course, and kiss a trail up over her abdominal implant, up her sternum, until I can rest my cheek against the steady, powerful thumping of her heart. Her lean, muscled arms wrap around me tightly, and I can feel her lips on the crown of my head. I turn towards her face, and she pulls me up to meet her lips, tasting herself on my mouth. We kiss, and these touches are gentle, devoted, and lingering, with hands caressing every stretch of skin they find. She smiles against my lips, and drawls, “Now I am patient, Kathryn.” The laughter that bubbles out of me is joyous and unfettered as I think, I was right. There’s plenty of time for slow, now.
It is hours later when I wake, with Seven curled around my naked back, her breathing deep and slow against the nape of my neck. I can’t help but smile languidly, and exalt in the warmth of her skin. There had been plenty of time, indeed, and my body feels heavy and sated. I have no words to describe the contentment I felt falling asleep in Seven’s arms, only a sense of utter peace and safety. She snores faintly, and I cannot resist the Cheshire grin that curves across my face at the realization that I’ve worn out a twenty-eight year old woman with Borg endurance. I stretch my arms out in front of me, and my bladder pleads with me to get up. Grudgingly, I extricate myself from Seven’s embrace, and slip off of the bed to pad out of the bedroom gingerly; I am going to hurt like hell in the morning. I fumble with the bathroom light controls, and my eyes slam shut, squinting after so long in the dark. I shut the door quietly so that the light won’t wake Seven. I feel my way around, take care of my needs, and run my hands under the cool water in the sink.
My image in the mirror hanging over the basin stops me short. Wincing at the harsh, overhead light, my face is drawn, tired, and seems much older than my forty-six years. The lines of my face stand out in sharp relief, and I can see the beginnings of jowls under my jaw. I pull the skin back, and release it with a sigh. My hair is a fright, sticking out in every direction, and a stray hairpin from my earlier ‘do clings to a lank strand. The skin of my chest is pale, and underneath some suspiciously tooth-shaped bruises, dark blue veins are visible just under the skin. They almost look like tat-
The half-realized thought is like ice water, and cold sweat breaks out all across my body. My lungs deflate in a rush, and I grip the edges of the sink as my throat convulses. Oh dear God. My face heats instantly, and my stomach recoils from my reflection. I turn away, unable to look at myself, and I press the back of my hand to my mouth to stifle a sob. Trembling, I lower myself to sit sideways on the toilet, and I wrap my arms around my chest. Oh, how could I? Guilt wraps itself around my abdomen, tendrils shooting up into my chest as the truth of my situation hits me. No more flowery words, no more blissful ignorance, and no more willful denial: Seven had just committed adultery at my behest. We had just betrayed one of the kindest, most compassionate, patient men in the galaxy – someone I had once considered a dear friend. Someone who still considers me a friend. He had sent his gorgeous wife off with his trusted former Captain to an innocent scientific gathering, only to have us turn on him immediately, like animals. My earlier jealousy has vanished utterly, leaving behind painful shame in its wake, and I feel an overwhelming need to flee. The scene of the crime, I think miserably, as I wrap myself in the complementary hotel robe and reach for the door panel with shaking fingers.
I wobble out to the couch, and sink against the rough cushions. I wince as I sit, feeling sore exactly everywhere, and I squeeze the bridge of my nose between my fingers. I feel cheap and vile, and I don’t recognize myself. I let my base desires get the better of my rational mind, and recklessly ignored the consequences of my actions. Swept up with lust, I had spat upon values I’ve always carried dear to my heart; Hell, I didn’t even cheat on Mark for four years, and he was on the other side of forever. The poem I can accept, even though the memory of my shame the next day feels awfully familiar. I could have let it die there, but when I received her reply, something broke in me. Some tightly held tether snapped, and I felt that same trill up my spine that I used to feel heading into a firefight… or a Borg cube. Torpedoes, full spread and full speed ahead, and I here I am in Seattle, sticky and bruised and so damn disappointed in myself I could weep. If I ever needed proof that the woman could turn my judgment utterly upside down, well, I couldn’t ask for more. I press my fingertips into my eyes, and I let out a hitching breath.
“Kathryn?” My heart beats violently against my ribs, and for a moment I fear I’m going to be sick right there on the ugly brown rug. I keep my hands in my eyes for a moment, and then force myself to look at her. Seven stands in the doorway to the bedroom with one hand on the frame and a frown furrowing her brow. She is also mouth-wateringly nude, and my traitorous body hums at the sight. Her hair is tousled from exertion and slumber, and the bathroom light that was so unflattering to me glints off of her implants like the flash of cut diamonds. She looks so innocent, but I know better now and my face heats with a confusing mixture of arousal and disgrace. “What is wrong?” Her voice is quiet, and concerned. She crosses to me, and sits close enough that I feel the flesh on the left side of my body pucker and rise in her direction. She reaches out, and brushes her right hand through my hair to smooth it, but I pull away. Her hand hangs for a moment, and then she places it in her lap with the left. “You regret our actions,” she states in a flat tone, and I feel tears sting my eyes again at the hurt I sense in it.
I swallow, and my head shakes slightly, side to side. “We can’t do this. It’s not fair and it’s hurtful and it’s dishonest.” My breath catches, and I shake my head more firmly. I feel the question welling up inside of me, and as much as I may hate the answer I have to know. “Do you love him, Seven?”
“I … cannot say. I think that I do.” There it is. My elbows braced on my knees, I rake my hands down my face hard enough that I know I’m leaving red marks, and I rub at my eyes again as if I could hide from her words. She continues explaining, but the pain in my chest just twists and twists. “I care about him, and I wish to keep him from harm. He is kind, and treats me with respect. He is patient, and he is accommodating. Chakotay is an acceptable mate.” I feel her shift, and take a breath, but I steadfastly refuse to look at her as her voice becomes more assured. “However, I do not lose control of my thoughts when I think of him. I do not feel my heart increase in speed, or my face flush when he looks at me. These are things I only feel with you, Kathryn.”
Physical reactions. Lust verses love. How could I expect her to know the difference? “It’s not enough.” I let my head fall back against the cushions of the couch, and I stare at the beige, textured ceiling. “He loves you. You made a promise to him; can you understand how much this would hurt him?” I clutch the robe across my chest, and wrap my arms around myself in an unconscious attempt to hold myself together. “This was wrong,” I whisper, and finally turn my head towards her.
Her hands are wrapped around one another, and her posture is perfect as always. My hand aches to stroke the tense line of her back, to pull her against me and simply hold her, but I’m terrified that I will lose myself again. Seven’s right thumb is massaging the mesh of her left hand and she is staring at it intently. For the first time, I notice that she’s still wearing her god damn ring, and I feel a brief flash of nausea when I realize the simple silver band is likely coated with evidence of our betrayal. “I do not wish to cause Chakotay pain.” Her voice is so small and uncertain. My teeth clack together painfully, and his face flashes in my mind, eyes wide and brow furrowed with hurt. She takes a breath, as if she’s about to say something else, but pauses. I use the opportunity to raise my hand, palm out. I can’t bear to watch her think about him while her scent still clings to my face and dries in my cuticles.
“Don’t.” My voice is harsh, and as easily as my anger was once deflected onto my former First, I find myself able to aim a fraction of my pain Seven’s way. I hurt so much that I can barely contain it, and my time-tested defense comes to my rescue, forming my face into an impassive mask. One of us has to cut this disaster short before it gets worse, and judging by her wide eyes it’s going to have to be me. I stand, my arms once more wrapped around my ribs, and I meet her eyes. “This can’t happen again. I assume you have your own room?” My meaning is clear and she flinches visibly, and my jaw grinds together as she nods. I cannot both keep my resolve and continue to be next to her. Not for the first time, I withdraw to keep myself from shattering. “I’m going to take a shower. I’m so sorry, Seven.” My voice breaks on her name, and I stride into the bathroom before the tears can fall.
I make the water as scalding hot as I can stand without screaming, and I welcome the physical pain. I brace my hands on the tile beneath the nozzle, and the searing water pounds onto the crown of my head and races down my cheeks to pour off of my chin. My chest heaves, and my tears mingle with the flow and heat of the shower. Kathryn Janeway, I viciously think, prodding at the wound, Admiral, scientist, hero to the Federation, home wrecker. I scrub at myself until my skin is bristling and nearly raw. By the time I leave the shower I’m nearly sick from the heat and my own sorrow. I dry myself with efficient strokes of the rough, white towel and I listen carefully for any sounds coming from the suite. None come, and I am torn between relief and horror at the idea that I have just forcibly chased away the other half of my soul.
I step out of the bathroom, my skin red and damp within the robe, and I notice immediately that her suit jacket is no longer crumpled in front of the coffee table. I do not see her solid silver hairpin on the floor where it was discarded. In fact, there is no trace that she was ever in the room, save for a lingering fragrance in the bedroom, and a single hand’s count of long, blonde hair on the sheets. I sink to the mattress, and pull my shaking hands through damp hair, bracing my head in my palms as I lean on my knees. I try and remind myself that I did the right thing, and that I had to take a firm stand. That, no matter how much it might hurt right now, she will heal and continue to live her life with her husband, and that she will be happy. I cannot consider any other alternative, or I will end up interrogating the night shift desk clerk into giving me her room number, and all my remaining pride and restraint will be lost. It occurs to me too late that I didn’t tell her the simplest of truths: I love her, more than anything in this galaxy. But, it makes no difference. My own feelings are – irrelevant – immaterial and once again, I sacrifice before the greater good.
I have lost.