Prompt 50: "I think you're beautiful." (C/7)

Episode: Post-"Endgame"

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"Computer, end program," Seven whispered.

"Hmm?"

"Nothing … I was only making certain this is real."

Chakotay smiled at her as they stood together on the balcony of her apartment – her apartment – in San Francisco, watching the sun set over the Pacific Ocean. A lifetime spent in artificial light had not prepared her for the dozen subtle shades of blue, gold, pink and violet, the clouds streaming like ribbons, or the way everything reflected in the shining water. She could have calculated the atmospheric conditions of this sky within seconds, but she couldn't have predicted how it would make her feel, with Chakotay's warmth beside her and the entire place to themselves.

Her housewarming party was over. Kathryn, the Doctor, Harry, even the Paris-Torres family (although they'd left early, due to baby Miral's bedtime) had all left gifts, and Tuvok and Neelix had sent video messages. She'd cooked for them, two all-dressed pizzas (one with pepperoni, one without) that even Tom approved of. She'd been an anxious and somewhat overbearing hostess at first, but the food had relaxed everyone, including her. It was quiet now, but the rooms still rang with the memory of clinking glasses and laughter. And Chakotay had stayed.

He'd stayed to help her recycle the gift wrap, clean the kitchen, have one last cup of tea, and watch the sunset. He showed no intention of leaving … and she didn't want him to.

"It's real, all right." He drew her into his arms and led her back into the living room, away from the balcony. "Come here, I can prove it."

She had learned a lot about kissing since that first awkward one she had planted on him with an armful of flowers. How to close her eyes, for example, and let your body relax against his; how to savor the taste and feel of it, as if you were eating chocolate. How to run her hands over every part of him she could reach: chest, shoulders, back - she especially enjoyed disarranging his hair – and feeling his large, strong hands do the same to her …

… until somehow, without knowing how it had happened, those hands found the zipper of her biosuit and began pulling it down.

She froze.

"Too much?" He let go.

"I … I don't know."

"You don't have to do anything you're not ready for."

"No, I … " She struggled for words. It was a horrible sensation, not knowing how to communicate what she felt; was it like this for everyone in relationships, or was it because she was Borg?

She wanted him. She could feel it on her lips and in other places too, her heartbeat pulsing like a star about to go supernova. So why did the idea of taking off her suit frighten her so much?

"I am ready to – to further our intimacy if you are," she managed to say, "However … I don't know if you are ready to see … me."

"Whyever not?" He frowned at her with affectionate concern.

She thought of the tiny bathroom the crew had installed for her off Cargo Bay Two on Voyager, with its sonic shower, toilet and mirror. The first time she'd seen herself naked in that mirror, shortly after the Doctor had finished his de-assimilation procedure, she'd been absolutely horrified by how human she looked, with all that soft, weak skin and inconvenient hair. The longer she'd lived on Voyager, though, the more she'd come to dislike the opposite things about her body. She'd learned to avoid that mirror at all costs, except to fix her hair and wash her face.

It had taken a long time to learn how to feel beautiful: singing with the Doctor; playing Velocity with Kathryn; Naomi's smile and Icheb's trusting face. Spending time with Chakotay was one of the best ways she'd ever found. Could she really risk losing that?

But they had always been honest with each other. She couldn't stop now.

"I have … several more visible Borg implants," she forced out, red-hot with shame, backing away across the room. "They are … disfiguring."

He'd been scarred by the Collective; she knew that. He'd mistrusted her as a threat to Voyager right up until they'd crossed the Mutara-class nebula. Could he really be intimate with a woman who embodied one of his worst fears?

But he did not recoil, or leave the room, or laugh at her, or do anything else she had dreaded. He simply looked back at her with an empathy as deep as the darkness of space.

"What the Borg did to you was horrific," he said quietly, "But the way you survived it, and continue to survive it, is proof of how strong you are. I think you're beautiful because you're you, Seven, and nothing will change my mind. Look at me."

She looked.

He'd come to her party in civilian clothes. As it was summer, he wore a simple white button-down shirt and chinos. One by one, he began undoing the buttons on that shirt, revealing his chest and then his stomach.

"Nobody's perfect, Seven. Do I look perfect to you?"

So much skin for her to touch if she dared, warm and golden, feathered with soft dark hair. Yes, he was a bit rounder than the Paxau Resort characters, for example, and he had a few scars, probably the results of Cardassian disruptor pistols, that must have been very painful when they were formed, but …

"I prefer your flaws to anyone else's perfection."

"You see?" He smiled and held out his arms. "That's what I'm talking about.."

She could have argued that his age, his shape, and even the scars, were natural in ways her Borg implants were not, but his patience, his compassion, and most of all his honest desire, were making that impossible. Her insecurities would come back, they always did, but tonight was neither the time nor the place.

She came to him in two long steps and placed both hands on his chest, feeling his heartbeat with her cybernetic left hand. It sped up at her touch.

His hands found the zipper at the back of her neck again, and this time, she did not pull away.