Mistletoe
By Laura Schiller
Based on: Star Trek: Voyager
Copyright: Paramount
"It's just a decoration," said Tom Paris with a shrug, opening his blue eyes to their widest and most innocent look. "You know, to raise morale."
"It raises morale all right," the Doctor muttered, casting a dark look at the replicated cluster of greenery above his office doors. Every patient who entered got a full view of it; some giggled, some teased the Doctor, and some oozed contempt – whether for an ancient human custom on a multi-species ship, or for Tom and the Doctor's perceived attempt to steal kisses from unsuspecting female crewmembers. The Doctor had managed to avoid getting caught under it so far; Tom had been more (or less) lucky. B'Elanna found excuses to drop by Sickbay, and so did several other women; the latter, however, were smoothly and politely dodged by the medic, who did not want to have to explain any rumors to his half-Klingon wife.
The stardates were corresponding to Earth's December, and Neelix's annual Christmas celebrations were picking up speed. There was a temporary holoemitter in the mess hall to project a tree trimmed wih white strings of light. In Fair Haven, their holographic getaway village, snow was thick on the ground and the Doctor, in his role as Father Mulligan, had decorated the church with pine boughs and red ribbons. Mistletoe in Sickbay, however, was taking it a little too far in the Doctor's opinion. Not that the thing was actually causing harm – it was only...
"What is the purpose of this item?" asked Seven of Nine as she walked in, touching the leaves with her gleaming, Borg-enhanced fingers.
The Doctor winced. His emotional subroutines went haywire – hope, desire, profound embarrassment. Did she know about this particulat human custom? And if she did, what must she think of him?
He was sitting at his desk. She was standing right there, with the mistletoe nearly brushing the top of her glossy golden head. If he just got up and...
"Doctor?"
"Oh. Ah. It's just a decoration," he sputtered, falling back on Tom's words. Seven tilted her head quizzically, but before she could ask a further question, who should stroll up from behind the computer console in the main room but a wickedly smirking Tom?
"Hey, Seven! Didn't you know? If you stand under it with a guy, you'd have to kiss him," said Tom. "The tradition goes back more than two millenia, believe it or not. The ancient Europeans believed that mistletoe is," he wiggled his eyebrows, "An aphrodisiac."
Seven abruptly stepped out of its range, glowering at the plant in much the same way the Doctor had done. "Such traditions are arbitrary and irrelevant to the function of this vessel," she grumbled. "I do not approve."
"I couldn't agree more," said the Doctor. "But would Mr. Paris listen to me? Oh, no."
"Admit it, Doc," said Tom. "You'd be lost without me. Well, shift's over – see you later, Doc, Seven," with a wink and a salute to both of them. With one more glance at the mistletoe, he walked breezily out of the office.
The Doctor vented his frustration in a loud sigh and motioned to Seven to follow him into Sickbay.
After a routine examination, in which Seven was proved to be in perfect health, the Doctor lowered his tricorder and leaned against the bed next to Seven's.
"So how are you?" he inquired. "Anything new and exciting?"
The corner of Seven's mouth quirked into something that could be either a smile or a frown.
"These elaborate holiday decorations are certainly new," she remarked. "Although I do not find them exciting. I fail to see the relevance of a Christian holiday in a non-religious environment, or a seasonal one aboard a starship."
"Well, you see..." The Doctor lifted his hands, groping for an explanation. "This crew has been stranded in the Delta Quadrant for about six years. They're homesick. Christmas is a way of remembering their homes – for the humans, anyway – and I suppose that's why they make such a production of it every year. The Bajorans, Vulcans and Mr. Neelix have their native customs too, you might have noticed; even Lieutenant Torres observes the Klingon Day of Honor.
"And besides, holidays provide a sense of community. Everyone knows the songs, the food, even absurd things such as attaching symbolic value to a bit of plant life. Everybody needs a break in routine now and again – besides alien attacks and such, I mean – a chance to indulge a little and celebrate friendship and family."
He broke out of social-lesson mode to find that Seven was looking over his shoulder with wistful, unfocused eyes. Her hands were tightly clenched against her sides as she stood in front of him; he wondered what she was seeing. The Christmas memories of her lost childhood, perhaps?
Then he caught sight of something above their heads – and gritted his teeth.
"Tom Paris..." he snarled. "When I get my hands on that scoundrel, so help me, I'll have him scrubbing plasma conduits with a toothbrush! Computer, delete mistletoe!"
"Unable to comply," said the computer. The plant – obviously a hologram – bobbed up and down above their heads with an air of unmistakable smugness.
"Specify!" odered Seven, taking a step backwards. The mistletoe remained at an equal distance between them.
"Program "Paris Cupid Alpha" cannot be deleted until its function is fulfilled," said the computer.
"And what function would that be, may I ask?" demanded the Doctor, though knowing Tom Paris, a sinking feeling began to gather in his holographic stomach.
"The EMH is required to kiss Seven of Nine."
The Doctor could have sworn that the prim female voice was holding back laughter.
He glanced at Seven's classical profile; she had turned her face away. A red spot had appeared on her cheekbone; as he watched, it bloomed across her entire face.
"I will not comply," she said, in a low, tightly controlled voice. She reached up, grabbed the mistletoe, and marched towards the doors. As soon as she was about to step over threshold, however, the cunningly programmed plant de-materialized in her hands and floated back up into the air.
"Maybe if we both went outside?" the Doctor suggested.
But once they were both in the corridor, the plant was still following them.
"It must be connected to your mobile emitter," said Seven. The Doctor uttered some more dire threats against Tom Paris under his breath, demotion being the very least.
They stood opposite each other in a stiff and awkward manner, looking anywhere but at the mistletoe or each other's eyes.
"Er, Seven..." The Doctor coughed reflexively, a nervous habit he had picked up among organics. "You do realize that walking around with this – thing above our heads will expose us to a great deal of ridicule from the crew."
"I am well aware of that, Doctor." Her voice could have sliced through glass.
"Don't you think maybe...we could just get it over with?" The crisp, confident tenor voice which had filled the Q'omarians' lecture hall to the rafters was down to a hushed murmur, trembling with suppressed emotion. "It would be the most efficient course of action, Seven. Not to say that ... I mean ..."
Seven's black shoes gleamed against the smooth white floor, motionless, not fidgeting back and forth as most humans would be. Her steel-laced hand slapped the commbadge on her chest.
"Seven of Nine to Paris," she said. "Deactivate Program "Paris Cupid Alpha" immediately, or I shall report you to the Captain for sexual harassment."
Tom complied. As the plant disappeared, the Doctor pasted a smile on his face.
"Well, that's a relief," he said, somewhat over-heartily. "Eh, Seven? Good for you, to think of calling him out like that. Very efficient. Well, as you seem to be in top form, I suppose you're dismissed. Oh, and Seven? Happy holidays."
Seven gave him the sparest of nods and stalked out, still blushing, holding herself as stiffly as if she'd swallowed a titanium rod.
The Doctor sat motionless for what seemed a very long time, one hand shading his eyes. Seven's I will not comply echoed over and over in his short-term memory database, a feedback loop of shame. A holographic tear splashed onto his desk, followed by another. They didn't even leave spots on the grey plastic surface as human tears would have.
=/\=
When Seven went down to her cargo bay that evening to regenerate, Tom was waiting, leaning against the wall with an uncharacteristically serious look on his handsome face. Seven welcomed the chance to give him a piece of her mind.
"Explain yourself, Lieutenant," she spat, walking up to him with her hands on her hips. "Your prank was a violation of my own and the Doctor's rights as individuals. You cannot force him to kiss me against his wishes."
Her human eye was burning with tears of rage and embarrassment. She had her own secret ideals behind her Borg façade, just like any woman, and Tom Paris had tainted them – like leaving greasy fingerprints on a mirror.
"Whoa, whoa, Seven!" Tom held up his hands like a shield. "Take it easy. Look, I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry." he dropped his hands. "I should've known you'd take it too seriously. But see, I just ... " He spread them out in an expansive gesture. "I just had to do something. You and the Doc have been dancing around each other for so long, it's driving the whole crew insane."
"Lieutenant?"
Metaphors! Why couldn't humans simply say what they meant?
"I mean, our EMH is in love with you." Tom poked a finger in Seven's direction. "He told me. Not that he needed to, it was obvious. And you, well yeah, I admit you can be harder to read than Tuvok when you try. But something tells me you wanted to kiss him today just as bad as he wanted you."
He patted her shoulder in the manner of an older brother giving advice; if it weren't for his self-preservation instinct, he might even have ruffled her flawless hair.
"I won't bring it up again if this offends you," he said. "But think about it, okay? For all our sakes."
He left before she could come up with a suitably cutting reply.
Our EMH is in love with you.
It couldn't be true. But if it was, why hadn't he kissed her?
It would be the most efficient course of action, Seven. Not to say that ... I mean ...
What had he meant? And why hadn't she taken him up on this perfect excuse instead of giving in to her absurd vanity and pride? Still, she was proud that her first kiss had not been given up to the schemes of a matchmaking pilot.
Seven stayed awake all night drinking thick, milky nutritional supplements, questioning Voyager's database about relationships and finding no help whatsoever.
=/\=
Seven entered the Doctor's office with a notably slower, more cautious step. The doorway was unadorned with plant life of any kind. The Doctor was alone, bent over a pile of padds, his head cradled in one hand.
"Doctor...?"
"Oh, Seven." His eyes flicked up and right back down again. His voice was a low monotone, as dull as the white walls of his office. "Wasn't your physical yesterday?"
Seven felt a chill in the office which had nothing to do with environmental control. She hunted for a human phrase from their social lessons, something to relieve the strange, tight knot of emotion growing in her chest.
"What is the matter?" she asked.
He pushed the padd away; it skidded along the tabletop and would have fallen if Seven hadn't blocked it with her hand. "Oh, nothing. Nothing."
"Your behavior is significantly altered." Seven placed both hands on his desk and leaned forward, willing him to look her in the eyes. "You are emotionally damaged and Mr. Paris tells me I am to blame. I have come – " Why wouldn't he look at her? "To apologize. To explain."
Now he looked up. His face was so close she could see the traces of green in his hazel eyes. She dropped into the chair opposite him, heat waves flooding her face.
If only she didn't need to communicate in such a clumsy medium as words, sound waves, subject to endless misinterpretations. If only they were of one mind, one voice, not isolated as they were.
No. She did not wish that. Because if the Doctor were a drone, he would not be himself. And she wouldn't change a single subroutine in his matrix, not for all the worlds.
"I did not order Mr. Paris to remove the mistletoe out of any ... aversion ... to kissing you. On the contrary. I ... " Say it! "I value our relationship too highly to let our first kiss result from a prank."
Seeing how his face changed as she spoke was like watching a sunrise. The frown line smoothed out between his eyebrows; the pupils of his eyes dilated until they were almost black; the corners of his mouth lifted up in a tentative smile.
"Our ... first kiss, Seven?" he whispered.
At that moment, she knew beyond a doubt that Tom Paris had told her the truth. The Doctor really, truly loved her.
"The first of many," she said, "If that is acceptable to you."
She hardly recognized her own voice. It was as low and husky, as charged with emotion, as the Doctor's. And as they leaned towards each other for that first kiss of many, no more speech was necessary at all.
Tom Paris stuck his head in through the door, caught sight of the kiss, and retreated grinning from ear to ear. The mastermind had struck. He couldn't wait to do three things: tell the crew, cash in on the betting pool, and tease the Doctor about mistletoe for the rest of his life.
Besides, he told himself smugly, what were the holidays about if not love?