Star Trek VOY: "Necessary"
Title: Necessary
Fandom: Star Trek VOY
Pairing: Janeway/Seven
Rating: R
Word Count: 1029
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Through the end of the fourth season
Summary: You’re not quite sure when you noticed, but when you did it all came rushing in.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not for profit
Notes: Thanks to CL and sallycandance for beta help.
When did you first notice?
You remember meeting her for the first time. She stepped out of the alcove, and you were faintly shocked by her appearance: the upright posture giving the illusion of height, the impossibility of such unyielding, aggressive curves, the unequivocal evidence that she was-or had been-human and female. But she was Borg now, and you mostly wondered why they’d chosen her as representative. If they had wanted to distract you, it worked, for you found yourself speculating about her origins, wondering how she’d come to be a Borg drone out here in the Delta Quadrant. “Irrelevant discourse,” she’d called it, but you thought otherwise.
When you woke up later that day, brains still scrambled from the attack on the cube, you only asked the Doctor about Tuvok’s well-being and not that of your Borg representative. And if you wondered about her at all, it was only a fleeting thought. You were more concerned with maintaining the alliance, and you didn’t have many thoughts to spare at that point.
(After the surgeries, you were too furious with Chakotay to think much about her. You did notice, however, how casually he referred to disabling her or abandoning her on some planet. A small thing, but it added fuel to the fire.)
Later, you might have noticed how invested you were in convincing her to embrace her humanity. In retrospect, your visit to the brig was probably unwise. But you were full of adrenaline and an almost desperate hope, and even Ayala’s apprehension could not deter you. It was honestly a relief when she hit you, shattering the incredible tension and along with it one more barrier between the two of you. You remember the shock of cradling her, body still encumbered with bulky implants, mottled skin still cool to the touch. You could have noticed then, but you told yourself you were just helping her through a difficult but necessary transition.
You can picture exactly how she looked as she glimpsed the stable Omega molecule. Its blue glow lit up her face, revealing an openness you’d never thought you’d see. That evening in Maestro da Vinci’s studio, you felt a curious, uneasy rush of power when she turned that same regard toward you. “It seemed to be watching me,” she marveled, face now illuminated by the warm tones of firelight. And for one wild moment, you imagined that she herself were perfection staring back-suddenly crystallizing out of chaos for no discernible reason, and just as likely to destabilize. But you brushed that thought away, and you told yourself you were only thrilled at the progress she was making, what an important step spirituality could be to acceptance of her identity.
You try not to dwell on the time she disobeyed your direct order and sacrificed a member of Species 8472 to the Hirogen. She showed no compassion and no remorse; her actions contradicted everything you were trying to teach her about humanity. But on the rare occasions that you think back to that day, your feelings are surprisingly mixed. Twice she confronted you, eyes flashing with defiance and voice rich with contempt. “I will not comply,” she declared, and you later realized that no one else had challenged you directly in a very, very long time. There was a measure of admiration swirled into your anger: it was a new high in her progress toward individuality, but the nadir for her development as a member of the crew.
Maybe you did notice when the two of you were aboard Arturis’s ship, hurtling toward Borg space. It was such a jarring moment, a little snapshot that you can’t quite forget: when you try to adjust her cranial implant, she flinches. You carried on without pause, offering a succinct evaluation of your relationship with her. (You’ve always had the perfect thing to say.) And though you meant every word of that speech, part of you remained discomposed. Assessing the relationship made its constraints conspicuous, and it was harder than ever not to notice how you really felt.
Then again, you probably noticed a long time ago.
You’re not quite sure when you noticed, but when you did it all came rushing in: you could see with perfect clarity what lay behind all of your actions since you’d met her. Sure, you wanted to save her, this lovely, remote woman whose entire life had been stolen by the Collective. But more importantly, you want to keep her with you-and while it stings to recognize the selfishness of your priorities, you can’t lie to yourself anymore.
You want to navigate her contradictions-formidable yet fragile, capable of mass murder but also startling kindness, possessing more knowledge of humanity than any single person yet just learning how to be human-before she can reconcile them, before the seam closes and she no longer needs you. You want to reach out to the one person on board who has plumbed the same depths of loneliness that you have, the only one who might actually feel more alone.
And even though her emotional innocence gives you pause, you can’t help longing to touch her again: to explore with your hands the body you’ve already studied with your gaze, to see those dispassionate eyes dilate with pleasure, to lick into warm skin and cool metal, to feel her clench around your fingers as her moans grow louder and less coherent. You want to break her control, then relinquish your own; you want to get to her first and become irreplaceable. Unforgettable. Necessary.
And that’s why you find yourself here now, for the third or maybe the fourth time, standing outside the cargo bay with a dry mouth and clammy hands. You don’t know how you could broach the topic, what words would make her understand, can’t fathom how she might react.
But you do know exactly what you’ll do next.
So, for the third or fourth time, you draw a shaky hand back from the door, wipe your palms on your uniform, smooth your hair and square your shoulders. And-just as a reminder-you lightly run a fingertip over your pips before walking away.
Fandom: Star Trek VOY
Pairing: Janeway/Seven
Rating: R
Word Count: 1029
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Through the end of the fourth season
Summary: You’re not quite sure when you noticed, but when you did it all came rushing in.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not for profit
Notes: Thanks to CL and sallycandance for beta help.
When did you first notice?
You remember meeting her for the first time. She stepped out of the alcove, and you were faintly shocked by her appearance: the upright posture giving the illusion of height, the impossibility of such unyielding, aggressive curves, the unequivocal evidence that she was-or had been-human and female. But she was Borg now, and you mostly wondered why they’d chosen her as representative. If they had wanted to distract you, it worked, for you found yourself speculating about her origins, wondering how she’d come to be a Borg drone out here in the Delta Quadrant. “Irrelevant discourse,” she’d called it, but you thought otherwise.
When you woke up later that day, brains still scrambled from the attack on the cube, you only asked the Doctor about Tuvok’s well-being and not that of your Borg representative. And if you wondered about her at all, it was only a fleeting thought. You were more concerned with maintaining the alliance, and you didn’t have many thoughts to spare at that point.
(After the surgeries, you were too furious with Chakotay to think much about her. You did notice, however, how casually he referred to disabling her or abandoning her on some planet. A small thing, but it added fuel to the fire.)
Later, you might have noticed how invested you were in convincing her to embrace her humanity. In retrospect, your visit to the brig was probably unwise. But you were full of adrenaline and an almost desperate hope, and even Ayala’s apprehension could not deter you. It was honestly a relief when she hit you, shattering the incredible tension and along with it one more barrier between the two of you. You remember the shock of cradling her, body still encumbered with bulky implants, mottled skin still cool to the touch. You could have noticed then, but you told yourself you were just helping her through a difficult but necessary transition.
You can picture exactly how she looked as she glimpsed the stable Omega molecule. Its blue glow lit up her face, revealing an openness you’d never thought you’d see. That evening in Maestro da Vinci’s studio, you felt a curious, uneasy rush of power when she turned that same regard toward you. “It seemed to be watching me,” she marveled, face now illuminated by the warm tones of firelight. And for one wild moment, you imagined that she herself were perfection staring back-suddenly crystallizing out of chaos for no discernible reason, and just as likely to destabilize. But you brushed that thought away, and you told yourself you were only thrilled at the progress she was making, what an important step spirituality could be to acceptance of her identity.
You try not to dwell on the time she disobeyed your direct order and sacrificed a member of Species 8472 to the Hirogen. She showed no compassion and no remorse; her actions contradicted everything you were trying to teach her about humanity. But on the rare occasions that you think back to that day, your feelings are surprisingly mixed. Twice she confronted you, eyes flashing with defiance and voice rich with contempt. “I will not comply,” she declared, and you later realized that no one else had challenged you directly in a very, very long time. There was a measure of admiration swirled into your anger: it was a new high in her progress toward individuality, but the nadir for her development as a member of the crew.
Maybe you did notice when the two of you were aboard Arturis’s ship, hurtling toward Borg space. It was such a jarring moment, a little snapshot that you can’t quite forget: when you try to adjust her cranial implant, she flinches. You carried on without pause, offering a succinct evaluation of your relationship with her. (You’ve always had the perfect thing to say.) And though you meant every word of that speech, part of you remained discomposed. Assessing the relationship made its constraints conspicuous, and it was harder than ever not to notice how you really felt.
Then again, you probably noticed a long time ago.
You’re not quite sure when you noticed, but when you did it all came rushing in: you could see with perfect clarity what lay behind all of your actions since you’d met her. Sure, you wanted to save her, this lovely, remote woman whose entire life had been stolen by the Collective. But more importantly, you want to keep her with you-and while it stings to recognize the selfishness of your priorities, you can’t lie to yourself anymore.
You want to navigate her contradictions-formidable yet fragile, capable of mass murder but also startling kindness, possessing more knowledge of humanity than any single person yet just learning how to be human-before she can reconcile them, before the seam closes and she no longer needs you. You want to reach out to the one person on board who has plumbed the same depths of loneliness that you have, the only one who might actually feel more alone.
And even though her emotional innocence gives you pause, you can’t help longing to touch her again: to explore with your hands the body you’ve already studied with your gaze, to see those dispassionate eyes dilate with pleasure, to lick into warm skin and cool metal, to feel her clench around your fingers as her moans grow louder and less coherent. You want to break her control, then relinquish your own; you want to get to her first and become irreplaceable. Unforgettable. Necessary.
And that’s why you find yourself here now, for the third or maybe the fourth time, standing outside the cargo bay with a dry mouth and clammy hands. You don’t know how you could broach the topic, what words would make her understand, can’t fathom how she might react.
But you do know exactly what you’ll do next.
So, for the third or fourth time, you draw a shaky hand back from the door, wipe your palms on your uniform, smooth your hair and square your shoulders. And-just as a reminder-you lightly run a fingertip over your pips before walking away.