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"Seven."
There was dust, cloying and rank. It clogged her lungs, forcing her nanoprobes to counterattack with unusual vigor. Her ears rang, and the voice approached from a distance. Grinding her eyelids more tightly shut, she involuntarily gasped as the figure rose before her, hair ruffled, eyes bloodshot and pained, voice bordering on panic. They were surrounded in darkness, yet even through the visor of her standard EVA/bio suit he appeared unnatural, the latter stages of radiation poisoning evident.
"Seven!"
Hands were on her shoulders, shaking violently, a grip threaded with anger and far more potent panic. Opening her eyes, the former Borg managed a hostile glare, unaccountably bereft at the lost of a memory none too pleasant, and almost at once shamed into relief by the gifted worry of the man before her.
Swallowing more visibly than she suspected he intended, Tom Paris sighed, using his grip to propel her from the alcove and into the crook of his arm. "I want you to go to bed, Seven. I'm ripping the alcove apart tomorrow."
"I was fine." She protested, fingers escaping his hand, inching up to rest upon his heart. Accelerated pulse, fear at her behest…the last time she had sensed such terror in him the pilot had been pulling her bodily from the cavernous facility that would shortly become tomb to Chakotay and Commander B'Elanna Torres. "You should have left me alone." She informed him resentfully, nails scraping roughly.
"I'm glad to see you too, sweetheart." Sarcasm cut through the sleepiness in his voice as Paris retrieved her hand, tucking slender fingers into his fist, squeezing, an embrace, a warning. "And I beg to differ. You were screaming. Miral checked on Stella before going back to bed, luckily she didn't wake."
"Oh." Feeling brief alarm and shame, the former drone allowed him to lead her to the bedroom, watching with distinct perplexity as he went about the process of preparing for sleep once more. It made no sense to her, how an individual who thought so little of organization in waking hours could don such a strict regime after dark fell. The minor rituals became a fever for him once the moon rose.
Perhaps it was fear of anything less than complete control in darkness. She thought she understood that single compulsion, or at least the loss from which it stemmed. "My alcove…" She began uncertainly, fingers grasping a corner of sheet and balling tightly.
"I'm tearing it apart tomorrow." His gaze lingered and she twitched nervously, bare toes digging into the plush carpeting.
"It was only a nightmare!"
He sighed, stepping back in her direction, brushing a thumb under her chin. "Just like every other dream you've had since…I don't think this is what the Doctor intended when he removed restriction on your cortical node. You've got no way to deal with it, no emotional shields to fall back on. Memory becomes a trap for you. And the alcove is a crutch that only aggravates it all. You don't need it to regenerate, and it isn't doing you any good on any emotional level. All you do is stand there and think about…you know, scratch that, I don't want to know what you think about. It's a crutch, that's all."
"Is this also not a crutch?" Standing, Annika moved away and opened the closet doors, flinging nine standard years worth of accumulated memory aside in favor of one small box. Opening it, she held out the battered old toy. Toby the Targ had passed his time of life and prosperity long ago. It is ugly, she thought resentfully. There is no point in retaining such symbols.
Tom's eyes glittered dangerously, his voice shaking her out of the trance. "That, Sev, happens to be Miral's inheritance. I trust you'll find something better than a Borg alcove for Stella?" Turning, he stomped back to the bed, burrowing back into the nest of covers.
"I apologize." Sitting gingerly on the other side, she leaned over, lifting the sheet to meet his gaze. "Please do not avoid me."
"Go to sleep." Pumping the pillow up, Voyager's former pilot rolled over and buried himself in the covers.
For a man of middle-age, you are capable of being very childish. Shoving the thought and subsequent kernel of irritation away, she sighed. "I would prefer to remain awake…but very well, if you insist." Slipping off her robe, the former drone inched beneath the covers, sitting thoughtfully for a moment and staring down at him. "It has been a very inefficient day."
A faint snort rose from beneath the pillow before its owner sat back up, staring at her with bleary eyed impatience. "Yes." He agreed; tones measured with frustration. "It has."
"I believe I may rest more peacefully now that you are home." She swallowed further complaint wistfully, reclining and turning to face the wall. As Paris sighed again and his warm hands made a grab and pulled her close, she settled against his chest and involved her own hands in other pursuits.
"Seven." Paris groaned, but the sound seemed less good-humored than hollow, his gripping hands more brutal than hugging. "I'm too old for this."
"You were not too old to enter into a piloting contest several star systems away." She advised distantly, a hand cupping his chin, nails digging for solidity once more and skimming the stubble, gold and ash peppered with spun silver. "As I recall, it was a somewhat illicit contest."
"That was different." His breath tickled her throat, a thin rivulet of blood cold against her skin. "Miral wanted to fly. She won, too."
"I trust that the competition officials did not approve of the eventuality of a twelve year old winning?"
"You wouldn't believe how fast that kid can run." Self-deprecating laughter rumbled as Voyager's former pilot buried his head on her bare shoulder. A trail of blood there, too, she often scratched more deeply than intended. He seemed somewhat immune to the pain.
"But your visit to Kessick was not solely for the purpose of entering a piloting contest, was it?"
His head lifted, pale blue eyes narrowing, a hand deliberately swiping across his chin and grabbing the white sheet to use as a rag. "What makes you ask that?"
"I spoke to John Torres today."
"He was supposed to tell you to expect us, yeah. I know we ran a little late, but…"
"If John had his way you would not have returned at all." Brows crinkling, the former Borg struggled to touch upon the feelings of dread so strong of late.
"I did return, Seven. I always have." Paris reminded firmly. "And Torres has no authority over my life."
"At times I must admit that I wonder."
"All right…" Voyager's former pilot sat up, facing her. "Let it out, will you? What is it that's bothering you now?"
"It is…do not concern yourself. It's nothing. I'm only being foolish." Gently pressing a hand to his chest and pushing him back down, she lay back as well, closing her eyes in a fanciful attempt to preserve the warmth and peace of the moment as he moved back against her. "Stella and I returned to the shore today. She desired to run through the water. It drained her strength more quickly than usual. I am concerned, Tom."
"I'll call Doc tomorrow." His own tones changed by degrees, genuine concern tipping the scales. Lifting an arm, he pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly. "I was so sure she was better. Some medic, huh?"
"Former medic." She corrected absently. "You could not have anticipated a relapse. She is dependent to the nanoprobes I passed on to her. They are unpredictable variables at best." It was a subject they had edged around before, and faced head on with disastrous results, the addiction. "Perhaps…"
"We've been over this before."
"Perhaps we need to rehash it, then. We need contingencies. None of the treatments thus far have cured Stella. Eventually they will fail to work at all." Closing her eyes, she recalled the stark paleness of the toddler's face against the dune weed, the almost asthmatic breaths after little more than an hour playing on the shore.
He pulled away, turning away. "She's not fucking inheriting your alcove, Seven."
Annika turned away wordlessly.