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He touches me and it's all better. Tom has pale, purposeful hands. (So foreign.) Now he turns to face me (yellow, Starfleet), and his concern is not ungenuine. Just not desperate enough.
"B'Elanna, I know your father left..." His voice drones in time with the warp stars. My engines. They are running so well. Even Seven has had to remark on their efficiency.
"You can trust me."
Trust. Trust is the smell of burning flesh. Torn muscle and rips in time. The cabin is silent.
He touches me and it's all better. He touches my collarbone like it's already broken and drops my turtleneck to the floor. In this cabin, his lips are colorless (sweet, foreign) and not desperate enough.
He touches me, and I bite my lip. The morning (sweetly artificial) comes too soon. I dress, attach my pips to my turtleneck. He touches me, smoothes out the fabric. It's all better.
Sandrine's is smoky, but why shouldn't it be? I smile. (controlled, reserved) Of course. I am in control. He downs a glass, (s)wills the shift's little ghosts away. Mine nestle deeper into my ribs.
"B'Elanna, I'm still worried. A couple of days ago, we talked, you remember? I want you to know that I'm here for you. You know that."
He touches me, and it's better. Certainly better than past fingers, grimy with greed. His gaze softens, melts like a warp core's innards. Pale, nimble fingers. I am rapt, and never desperate enough.