"It's okay, I couldn't sleep anyway." (C/7)

Author's Note: This story takes place after "Endgame", but before Picard and Prodigy.

/

Seven found sleeping with Chakotay a very different experience in real life compared to the holodeck.

It was not so much the lovemaking - she enjoyed that - as literally falling asleep afterwards. Holograms did not snore. Or have morning breath. Or sprawl restlessly over most of the bed so she had only the edge left, and was in danger of falling off. Cuddling, too, was a challenge; at some point pleasant warmth became sticky heat, and she started wondering when the polite time would be to extricate herself.

The Doctor's social lessons had never covered this, either because he didn't sleep, or because none of his own relationships had ever reached this stage. She could hardly ask him for advice, either, but who else could she trust with a topic as intimate as this?

One night, Chakotay found her out. She was tiptoeing around the room, wearing nothing but an old Starfleet T-shirt of his which she used as a nightdress and gathering the rest of her clothes. His apartment was at least three hundred years old, which he said gave it "character". As far as she could tell, "character" in a building was a euphemism for "creaking floors". She'd thought she had memorized all the boards that creaked. Apparently not.

"Seven?" he murmured, reaching across the empty space on the bed.

"Did I wake you?"

"Hm? … No, no, it's okay. I couldn't sleep anyway."

She doubted that, considering he'd been snoring, but decided to say nothing. This was not the first time they'd had this discussion. One of the many strange things about human sleep she was still getting used to was how it warped your perceptions, so you could drift in and out of consciousness without even noticing. No doubt he believed he had been awake. Either that, or he was just being polite.

"Are you okay?" He sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes, and gave her a concerned look she could sense even in the dark room. She knew it by his gentle tone of voice.

She wished he wouldn't worry about her so much. No, correction - she wished she were not the sort of person who would cause him so much worry. Why did everything that most humans took for granted have to be complicated for her?

"I … " She might as well say it. Avoiding the issue would only make it worse. "I am not comfortable sharing a bed. I require physical space."

She waited. If he was disappointed, would she even be able to tell?

A sigh vibrated through the air between them. "You could've told me earlier."

"I am … sorry."

"I'm sorry too." He swung his legs off the bed and sat there facing her, his broad frame backlit by the moon shining through the window. "I never meant to make you uncomfortable."

"I know it is expected for couples … "

"Never mind that." His brusqueness was welcome; she liked it much better than being treated like she was made of glass. "I've always found the rule that matters most in a relationship is to talk to your partner so you can give each other what you need."

"But what do you need, Chakotay?"

He shrugged. "I like holding you. I like waking up next to you … but I wouldn't say I need it. I like spending time with you in whatever way it happens. What I need, my love, is for you to trust me. I'd give a universe of space for that."

He held out his arms, but made no move to touch her. Not for the first time, she wondered what statistical anomaly could ever have made her so fortunate as to share his life.

"That much space will not be necessary," she said, sitting on his lap and taking his face between her hands. "At least not tonight."

She moved her belongings to his guest bedroom the next time she visited, but they both slept well and deeply. And when she woke up, the sound of a boiling teakettle and the smell of toast warmed her as surely as any embrace.