Young and Beautiful
By Laura Schiller
Based on Star Trek: Voyager
Copyright: Paramount
"Will you still love me when I'm no longer
Young and beautiful?
Will you still love me when I have nothing
But my aching soul?
I know you will … "
- Lana del Rey, "Young and Beautiful"
Commander Barclay paced the Zimmerman family's living room on Jupiter Station like an anxious stork. Every so often, he threw a glance at the door separating the private quarters from Dr. Zimmerman's lab. Seven of Nine ignored him, a feat which proved more difficult by the second, since the novel she was reading bored her and she knew exactly how her colleague felt.
"Sit down, Reg!" She set her padd on the coffee table with a clack. "How many times must Lewis tell you the malfunction is not serious?"
"It's just - they - they've been in there for hours." Instead of sitting, Reg swung around to face her, his hands clasped together to slightly the knuckles were white. "It's n-not like him to k-kick me out of the lab when there's w-work to be done - "
"No doubt, because you are unproductive in this state." Regretting her sharp tone – anxiety must be affecting her as well – she added in a softer voice: "Haley is receiving the best possible treatment, I can assure you. She will be fine."
"I know. I – I know." He took several deep, rhythmic breaths and collapsed onto the sofa next to Seven, his long legs folding up like a pocket knife. "It's just - "
Seven had seen it for herself: Haley's memory buffers were degrading. It was a common effect of too-long continuous activation for holograms; her own Doctor had gone through it several times, even before Seven's own arrival on Voyager, which is why he had insisted (loudly) on helping Lewis with the repairs. Logically, Seven knew that Haley would be fine. Still, it had been uncanny to hear her sister-in-law calling Lewis "Mark One" and Reg "Lieutenant", turning blank, indifferent eyes on them all.
"I understand," she whispered, wishing she didn't. My Darling Clementine and Dante's Vita Nuova jarred discordantly in her brain until she forced them into silence.
"T-they're so fragile, aren't they – holograms, I mean?" said Reg, rubbing his eyes. "At times like this, I w-w-wish to God I wasn't an engineer. I know every – possible - thing - that can go wrong."
Such as having one's ethical subroutines hacked. Or one's programming overwritten by a hostile AI. Or being deactivated or deleted by a power surge. Or a memory buffer collapsing from overuse. Seven looked down and discovered that her own knuckles were as white as Reg's. She couldn't forget the terrified look in the Doctor's eyes the first time he had told her he loved her, flickering in and out, kneeling on the floor. Those could so easily have been his last words.
Thinking of the Doctor, however, made her breathe easier. She knew exactly how his warm hand would cover hers, how he would roll his eyes in mock exasperation at her worries. Sauce for the goose, Seven. Now you know how I felt every time you landed in my Sickbay.
She remembered the furrows of concern on his face after every one of her injuries, Borg-induced and otherwise. Paradoxically, it made her feel a little better. There had always an odd equality to their relationship; if he was her physician, she was his engineer. There was only so much he trusted B'Elanna with.
"I believe our partners would disagree with the word 'fragile'," she said wryly. "After all, they are immune to hunger, illness and fatigue. The probability that they will outlive us is - " She cut herself off, remembering that the statistic was unlikely to do her high-strung companion any good.
"D-d-don't get me started." Reg raked his hands through his thinning brown hair. "That's another thing. Look at me. How old would you say I am?"
"Approximately fifty. Why?"
"You s-see!" He jumped off the couch again and began to pace. "I already look - old enough to be her father. People - look at us in public, and that's b-before they realize she's a hologram. S-soon I'll be old – and wrinkled – and even more of a walking d-disaster than I am already. D-dementia runs in my family. She … doesn't … d-d-deserve ..." He propped himself against the wall with one hand, looking as if he might cry, or bolt from the room, or both.
Seven looked down at the glass coffee table, which Haley had – for the first time since her activation – forgotten to wipe. She could still see her own features in it: the Borg implant over her eyebrow, the lines beginning to form around her eyes and mouth, the first gray hairs among the blonde. She was younger than Reg, and the Doctor appeared much older than Haley, so her uneasiness was not quite on the same scale. Still, she understood this too.
"What your wife does not deserve, Reginald Barclay," she said, with some asperity, lecturing herself as much as him, "Is irrelevant speculation! Life is unpredictable. As a Starfleet officer, you should know that. Be grateful for every day with her – in case it is your last."
Reg turned his back on her to hide the blood visibly draining from his face.
"Reg, I'm sorry - " Had she gone too far this time? Would she never learn to be tactful? She put out her hand in an instinctive, helpless gesture.
"N-n-no. You're right. You're right." He tugged on his uniform jacket and turned back around, blinking hard. "I needed that. Deanna would … she'd tell me the same thing, if she were here." The faintest of smiles began to spread over his plain, good-natured face.
"I agree with Counselor Troi," a sardonic, musical voice said from behind them, making Reg jump. "Don't tell her I said that, will you?"
"Dr. Z!" Reg bounded across the room like a much younger man, stopping just short of knocking the older man over.
"Status?" Seven was not far behind.
The visionary light in Lewis' eyes was enough to tell Seven the happy news; she had seen that look on the Doctor's face countless times after he had saved a patient's life against the odds. And when the Doctor himself emerged from the lab, radiating triumph, holding his sister's arm like a knight escorting a princess, Seven felt a rare smile breaking out all over her face.
Reg, however, not the most observant at reading body language, approached his wife as cautiously as if she might blow away through the air vent. "Haley? A-are you okay? Do you … know me?"
Haley raised a delicate eyebrow. "What do you mean, do I know you?"
"Oh my God - "
"Reg, for goodness' sake, stop looking at me like that!" She laughed and shook her head. "It was a simple glitch, I'm not about to - " He interrupted her with a hug and kiss that swept her literally off the ground.
"That recursive algorithm trick of yours isn't bad, I must say," said the Doctor, putting a hand on the sleeve of Lewis' crumpled lab coat in a way that belied his casual words.
"Hmph!" Lewis' eye-roll disappeared into a smile. "Not bad? It's a work of genius, and you know it. Still, I've had worse assistants in my time."
"I am glad to see you functioning – that is, recovered," Seven said to Haley as soon as Reg put her back on her feet.
"The strangest part was that those two didn't even argue when they worked on me," the smaller woman whispered, tipping her ash-blond head to indicate Lewis and the Doctor. "It was uncanny."
"I believe you," said Seven soberly.
/
A pot of tea, a pile of sandwiches, several arguments ("Knew it couldn't last," sighed Haley), and several solid hours of programming work later, Seven and the Doctor were ready to return to their own quarters on the opposite side of the station's deck. Their home was in San Francisco, where Seven taught at the Academy and the Doctor worked at Starfleet Medical, but during the summer vacation, they often came to help Lewis and Reg out with various breakthroughs in the field of holography. The pace suited them, but on days like this, even Seven began to fantasize about deck chairs and sunglasses. Judging by his frown, the Doctor had guessed as much. He linked arms with her in the corridor, his none-too-subtle way of steadying her on her feet.
"You were worried, weren't you?" he asked softly.
"There was no reason worry. She is fine."
"That's not what I asked."
He knew her too well. She relaxed into his touch, grateful beyond words. "Her condition - it reminded me … "
" … of the Druoda Warhead?"
"And of the Equinox, yes."
They walked together in silence for a long moment, trying to outpace old ghosts, each knowing that the other was doing the same.
"Well, I couldn't help thinking about that Borg Vinculum," the Doctor admitted, holding her closer, as if afraid she would slip away as she had almost done that day. "What it did to you … if it hadn't been for Tuvok's mind-meld … my God, Seven, sometimes I can't believe you're still here. Let alone here with me."
"I feel the same," she replied. "I am very … fortunate … to have you in my life."
"Did I ever mention that I love you?" His voice could still make her shiver, especially when he murmured into her ear like this. She could have picked that sound out in any crowd, even one that included his creator. It was beautiful.
"Occasionally."
"Only that?"
"Frequently, then." She met the rising heat in his dark eyes with a spark of her own. "You had better show me, in case I forget." An empty threat, and they both knew it.
"And to whom shall I have the privilege of introducing you, my lady?"
They had arrived at the door. He let go of her arm and swept her a playful Renaissance bow. His face and voice began to shift with every name he spoke: a new subroutine she had written at his request. "Cary Grant? Humphrey Bogart? … Ambassador Spock in his young days? I remember, you were quite partial to him last time - "
"I choose … my favorite."
"And who would that be? Please don't tell me it's Pavarotti."
She took hold of his uniform collar and pulled him close. "Yourself, Doctor."
"Ah." His visible relief was so endearing that she kissed him, right there in the corridor. They backed up against the wall, hitting the door chime quite by accident.
"Afterwards, perhaps … Leonardo DiCaprio?"
Yes, she decided, smiling through the kiss. There were definite advantages to being loved by a hologram.