"I brought you an umbrella." (Doctor & Seven)

Author's Note: This story takes place after "Endgame". T'Penna the Vulcan opera singer is a reference from the episode "The Swarm".

The New York Metropolitan Opera was everything the Doctor had dreamed of: red velvet and glowing spotlights on the inside, majestic arches and columns on the outside; as for the performance itself, it was so beautiful that they could have been sitting in an old shuttle hangar and he wouldn't have noticed. As he and Seven walked down the steps and out into the summer night, he was grateful for her familiar presence, since he was feeling that peculiar, floating out-of-body experience that only came from being carried away by a magnificent story.

La Boheme was the first work of fiction that had ever made him feel this way. The young artists supporting each other through poverty reminded him of his shipmates, and mourning a loved one's fatal illness was something he'd already understood even after being active for less than a year. Puccini's opera held a special place in his heart, and tonight more than ever, because he'd heard it in the company of his best friend.

"Thank you for coming with me tonight," said Seven. "Chakotay doesn't care much for opera."

"My pleasure. So what did you think?"

"T'Penna as Mimi was impressive. That level of vocal control must have taken a long time to learn." She was quite impressive herself tonight, in a dark green gown with a matching shawl draped over her shoulders. Her hair was pinned up, but several blond curls were falling free. The Doctor was thankful he still had the tuxedo B'Elanna had programmed for him years ago.

"I know, right? Amazing," he sighed. "The way you could still hear every word even when her voice was supposed to be worn out from coughing? I never thought I'd see a Vulcan play a character like that, but the restraint and subtlety she brought to the role made it even better."

"Agreed." Seven smiled. "The tenor's performance was good too, although I've heard you sing it better."

"You're too kind." He squeezed her arm and, feeling the first symptoms of vanity, hurried to remind them both: "I'm a baritone, though, and my voice is programmed, not trained. Besides, I liked him. That kind of raw passion is just how I always imagined Rodolfo. When Mimi dies and he doesn't even sing her name, just calls it out? I swear, that ending always makes me cry."

Seven listened to him with a certain softness in her blue eyes and a twist at the corner of her mouth. He suspected she was silently amused, but in a friendly way that did not offend him in the least. He played up for her, wiping away photonic tears that had gathered in his eyes during the aforementioned ending scene and holding up his hand as evidence. "Waterworks, you see? Every time."

"Doctor. It's fiction."

"Come on, don't tell me you didn't feel anything back there."

"I felt profoundly grateful not to live in a time where medical treatment requires currency. Also, Rodolfo is an idiot."

"Ha!" It was his turn to be amused. "Fair enough. He is."

As they were speaking, though, he gradually realized he wasn't the only one turning up the waterworks this evening. The fountain in front of the opera house rippled with more drops than those cascading from its center. The golden halos around the street lamps were beginning to glitter. There was a softness in the air, and the moon overhead was a blurry outline overshadowed by clouds. A cold raindrop splashed onto his bald head, followed by another and another. He couldn't remember ever having felt rain before.

"Interesting," he said, holding out his hand to catch the drops. The cold and wet did not trouble him as it would a human, but it was still a strange sensation. He wondered what would happen if he made himself intangible. Would the water fall right through him? Would it create rainbows? He was technically made of light, after all.

"Inconvenient." Seven put a hand up as if to shield her elaborate hairstyle, then shook her head and reached into the purse she carried. "Fortunately, I brought an umbrella."

It was a compact umbrella, not much longer than her hand, but once expanded and unfolded, it was wide enough for two. It was even green to match her dress.

"Oh no, you don't have to do that," the Doctor demurred. "It's not as if I can catch a chill … "

She linked arms with him anyway, holding the umbrella over them both. As if he were anyone else. As if he were human.

He thought of Mimi and Rodolfo trying to keep that one small candle lit in their freezing garrett; Mimi's death and Rodolfo's last despairing cry, and every time he, the Doctor, had stood beside Seven's biobed in Sickbay, not knowing if she'd make it through the night. When she spoke of being grateful, he knew what she meant.

Cold might not bother him, he realized, but warmth was decidedly welcome.