Fill The Loving Cup
by Penny Proctor

Are all men like this? the woman who still sometimes thought of herself as Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix One wondered, silently, or just the one I have chosen? She did not remember her colleagues on Voyager being so … so stubborn. So intractable. So illogical.

The rainbow sky danced above the New Pozjan colony, but for once she was oblivious to its beauty. Seven of Nine was experiencing something new: anger at her mate. Axum was being completely, totally and utterly unreasonable and what was worse, he absolutely refused to recognize that he was being unreasonable. It was unacceptable. Surely not all men were like this.

As she reflected upon it, she became increasingly certain that the men on Voyager had been different; in fact, she recalled them now as models of reason and judgment. The Doctor always listened to her and always saw the merits in her position. Tuvok never disputed her logic. Tom Paris might have argued with her a little bit, but that as only because he liked to tease; he never really disagreed with her. Harry Kim always deferred to her better judgment. Commander Chakotay –

Her train of thought stopped abruptly. It was possible that she was allowing her current mood to influence her memories. Commander Chakotay had disagreed with her on more than one occasion. And it was undeniable that she had quarreled occasionally with Lt. Torres and Captain Janeway. Still, none of them had ever caused her respiration to accelerate, her voice to become shrill, or her heart to pump so furiously that she feared it would leap out of her chest, as Axum had made her feel only moments ago. All in all, they had been very satisfactory companions.

Thinking of her former shipmates caused her to look upward, but instead of cheering her the shimmering aurora augmented her sour frame of mind. The nebula that hid and protected the colony also denied her a view of the stars. She could only imagine them, and only imagine where they might be. She had not heard from them since they began their slipstream attempts.

"So." Axum spoke quietly, but he startled her nonetheless. She hadn't heard him come outside. "We've had our first fight."

"I wasn't aware it was over." Her voice, she noted, sounded frosty. Good.

"Well, I'm done. And since most fights require two antagonists, I'd say this one is over."

His sudden calm infuriated her. How dare he decide that the discussion was over? "I suggest you think again. I am not finished."

"Annika – "

"Do not call me that. I am Seven of Nine."

"No." His mouth flattened in displeasure, perhaps even anger again. "That is your Borg designation. Your name is Annika."

"Look at me." Her hand lifted, touched the implant above her eye. "Annika was a Human girl. I am still Borg."

He stared at her for three seconds, then four, then five, before speaking. "Appearances are irrelevant. All of us show signs of our assimilation. But we are no longer Borg and when you say you are, you contradict everything we've been trying to build here."

His eyes were as fiery blue as a bolt of lightning and just as intense. Then suddenly, his mouth curved upward. "Doesn't the fact that we're having this argument prove you're not Borg?"

Oh, that smile. It melted her anger in seconds, and for the first time she considered the power of a simple masculine smile. Commander Chakotay had often used it to his advantage with Captain Janeway, she realized, and Lt. Paris had frequently disarmed Lt. Torres in the same manner.

Are all men like this? she wondered again. His arguments were not logical, his position was flawed and he refused to consider her point of view. And yet it was impossible to remain angry with him. It was also difficult to remember why she had been so upset.

Still, she thought of B'Elanna Torres and decided it might not be wise to let him know that just yet. "Perhaps," she said, keeping her voice cool. "It is true, you and I could not have argued like this when we were in the Collective. But – "

"Yes?" he prompted.

"There was a poet from Earth's 20th century. He defined a husband's role in this situation."

He must have sensed that she was no longer angry, because the tension eased from his shoulders. "Enlighten me."

"I learned this from Lt. Paris. He was quite experienced in the matter of domestic disputes. The poet advised husbands:
'To keep your marriage brimming
With love in the loving cup,
Whenever you're wrong, admit it;
Whenever you're right, shut up!'"

Axum blinked, but then he smiled again. "Ah. A great philosopher."

She remained serious. "Quite. And no argument is finished until certain rituals are fulfilled."

"I see. And you know these because…?"

She gathered her dignity. "I learned from my study of Lieutenants Torres and Paris."

"I see. What are these rituals?"

Lifting her chin, she looked him in the eye and said, "First, you must apologize."

"Apologize? For what? I did nothing wrong."

"The male apologizes to the female," she said firmly. "Then he presents her with flowers."

He looked at her skeptically, then went over to the hedge and plucked a large elanor bloom. Holding it in both hands, he presented it to her. "I'm sorry. I don't know what for, but I'm sorry."

Accepting the flower, she lifted it to her face. It not only let her enjoy the fragrance but also hid her smile. "Apology accepted."

"Are we done now?" He was smiling again, and she felt the remnants of her resistance crumble. How could she possibly remain angry when he smiled at her like that?

"No," she said. "According to my studies, the apology is followed by enthusiastic and prolonged … interpersonal relations. This demonstrates that no ill feelings remain."

He nodded seriously. "Ah. Very logical." Then he grinned widely, and her heart melted entirely.

"Come." She held out her hand and he took it. "Let's go in."

He took her hand and followed her lead. "I like these customs. You will have to tell me more about Humans. You know, I can't even remember what we were fighting about."

She stopped and stared. How could he have forgotten? It began when she requested that he not leave his socks on the bathroom floor, a request she had to repeat three times before he even heard it… no. It would be prudent not to remind him. "The topic is irrelevant."

"Right," he said. "Quite right."

Are all men like this? she thought, then shook her head. No. Axum is unique.

And he is mine.

Author's Note: The poem quoted (in its entirety) is "Advice to Husbands" by Ogden Nash, surely one of the wisest men ever born.