Want (Seven)
Starfleet has said they want me.
Not, I think, in the way she wanted me.
Last night she invited me for dinner. I accepted. Her apartment was in the Officers' Quarters, and when I arrived she was still in her uniform. I had been to Neelix's once in our three weeks home for a small gathering of the senior staff; and I had been to visit Naomi in her new home with her new father. Her apartment did not remind me of those places at all. It was all grey and blue, like shipboard quarters. In one corner of the living area were two moderate-sized boxes, which I assumed to be from Voyager. One was designated "Work"; one was designated "Personal." Everything else appeared Starfleet-issue.
She asked me what I wanted for dinner, as if we were in the habit of having these encounters. When I asked for wine, she seemed a bit surprised. I told her I had acquired an affinity for the taste. She suggested something that was not an intoxicant. In the end, I let her choose: a fruit tea over ice.
She asked about my family, knowing I had met them after Starfleet decided I "no longer posed a significant threat to the welfare of the citizens of the Federation." I wanted to thank her for speaking on my behalf, but I sensed, as I sometimes am able to now, that such an expression would be unwelcome. I told her that I found my grandparents kind, but that I did not feel any attachment to them and that, in truth, they still seemed a bit frightened by the idea of having a Borg for a granddaughter. I recounted my plans to leave for the Vulcan Science Academy at the end of the coming week. She nodded.
"As long as you're sure this is what you want, Seven."
She is the only person who has ever asked me what I want. I tried to speak and found myself prevented by the weight of the language. "I want..."
Moving slowly she called down the lights and rose from her chair. She came to stand by me, reached out her hand to gather me to my feet. We kissed and it was not soft like the holodeck programs the Doctor had finally given me. Her hands found the zipper and catch on my bodysuit without hesitation. Had she known how to do this for some time?
Then I was naked, and silent. My hands found their way under the hem of her sweater, but she stepped back as I tugged upward. She stripped herself unhurriedly, calmly. She was beautiful. When she was finished, she led me to the Starfleet bed in the next room and pushed me down, not gently.
She stretched herself over me and as I brought my hands to her back, I could feel the sharp juts of the blades of her shoulders and the knots of her spine. She bit my breast and I cried out because it hurt. Then I cried out because the hurt bled over into something else, something not quite like pain. Her fingers slid over my belly and down; I tensed, waiting. Wanting. It was nothing like my holodeck encounters with young men who said "please" and "dear" in breathy tones. I came quickly, hard, with her fingers inside me and the marks from her teeth reddening angrily over my upper body.
When I rolled over her, pinning her arms above her head, she arched into my body. I nipped her collarbone and then trailed my left hand down her right arm. I pulled away slightly as I moved lower. I had learned the hard way how easy it is to hurt with the implants left there. But she grabbed my hand and brought it back to her body with such ferocity that I didn't dare pull away again. Perhaps it had something to do with the reason she hadn't wanted to have wine: nothing to take the edge off the sensation. I was rougher than I had been with the holograms but she kept her eyes on mine the whole time, even when she came, arching up from the bed but not screaming. I think I must have fallen asleep while she was in the bathroom taking a shower. When I woke, it was morning and she was gone. Her scent was still on my skin.
I thought about leaving a note but wasn't sure what I would say. I will be on Vulcan in ten days. Perhaps that is far enough away not to want.
End 2/6