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She had always been a highly tactile individual.
As a child, she often delighted in the sensation of flowers against her fingertips, or the fur of her favorite stuffed animal brushing her nose as she drifted off to sleep. It was her father's comforting touch that she longed for most as she hid from the strange men under a computer console on the Raven; it was her mother's gentle kiss that she wished to receive in her last second of consciousness before the nanoprobes flowing through her veins took Annika away.
Touch was largely irrelevant to the Borg; most of her nerve endings were deadened as a drone, and had to be regrown when she was severed from the Collective. When she first awakened after the surgeries, when she had her first thoughts as I in eighteen years, she was overwhelmed even by the simple sensation of the sheet covering her body. The combination of her sensitive skin and her remaining Borg cortical node made it possible for her to be aware of where every thread brushed against every vellus hair on her torso and legs, and she did not know whether to cry out in agony or pleasure.
She was not even certain of the differences between the two.
The Doctor was able to determine the source of her agitation, and designed her first dermaplastic garment to protect her from sensory overload. Her head and hands were left exposed, however, free to explore the strange new environment and all of its accompanying sensations. The whisper of air across her face as a turbolift door closed, the surprising softness of the carpet-lined floors of the corridors, the slight chill that always remained on the inside of the exterior hull in her cargo bay – it was all so much, and even as she fought to return to the Collective she extensively cataloged every touch and the sensations they all caused within her.
As time passed, and her humanity resurfaced, and she became more accepting of her life aboard Voyager, she found she became more desirous of experiencing the simple warmth of human contact. She had as yet been too wary of the other individuals in her new Collective to touch them, and somehow knew that even if she were willing, it would be inappropriate of her to do so.
The Captain seemed unaware of this cultural restriction, or perhaps ignored it. Frequently she touched her, whether simply in passing or to give some measure of comfort after a trying time. She wore less restrictive biosuits now, her nerves accustomed to sensation though no less stimulated by them; accordingly, with every stroke of her arm or squeeze of her shoulder, she shuddered as synapses fired in rapid succession throughout her body, often causing her to gasp.
She soon identified the hormone that was invariably released as a result of these touches as oxytocin, and was surprised to realize that she was experiencing sexual arousal. The touches were sporadic, and she found that she grew to miss them when she was separated from the Captain for an extended period of time. She wondered how the Captain's hair would feel as she ran her fingers through it, how soft her hands would feel in her own, whether she would be able to detect the pulse in her neck with her lips as effectively as she would with her Borg hand.
It became clear that it was not merely human contact that she desired – it was Janeway. She supposed that it only made sense that the woman who gave her everything would become everything to her, though where such romantic notions came from, she could not say. She knew only that she wished to touch her, to give pleasure with her touch and feel pleasure from it as well. How best to proceed after coming to this conclusion was uncertain. Her natural inclination was simply to be straightforward about her desire and inquire whether the Captain was amenable. She did not believe, however, that such a course of action would be wise, and would in fact likely result in a cessation of Janeway's touch altogether.
When the end of a staff meeting several weeks after her initial revelation found her absently pondering the problem, the Captain approached her and placed a hand on her shoulder, asking if she was all right. She stood, briefly marveling at the way the heat of Janeway's body permeated the material of her biosuit, and as her eyes met the Captain's and found her own desire reflected there she realized the touches had never been entirely innocent. She wondered if the Captain was aware of it.
Her breath caused errant strands of Janeway's hair to flutter against her neck, and with a disturbing lack of conscious thought she found herself reaching up with her human hand to brush it away. Her fingertips trailed to the warm skin at the nape of the Captain's neck, and she curled her hand upwards to tangle her fingers in her hair. It was soft, smooth, and the sensation as she pulled her hand away and the strands flowed over the webbing between her fingers was undeniably erotic. She became aware that she was breathing rapidly and let her hand fall to her side, the Captain staring up at her wordlessly.
She blinked, returning the gaze, then apologized and exited the conference room to return to Astrometrics.
The Captain never asked her about it, and when she reviewed the incident after a lengthy period of self-castigation for allowing herself to behave in such a manner, she realized the Captain's expression had been one of expectation, and even anticipation. Janeway, it seemed, was fully cognizant of the effect of her touch. Whether she hesitated to escalate the contact because she believed one or both of them was not ready for it, or because she was reluctant due to her position on the ship, remained to be seen. She was gratified, at least, to know her desire was reciprocated.
She had often benefited from the Captain's touch when she was upset, and a short time after the hair incident she was unfortunately able to discover how such contact felt for the individual providing comfort. Two crewmembers had perished in a mining accident, news of their deaths coming while she was waiting in the Captain's ready room for her to return from receiving an update from the bridge. She had been unaware of why Janeway entered the room looking stricken, or why she hesitated when she saw her standing in front of the couch; but when the Captain flatly told her what had occurred and tried to regain the composure she had been prepared to shed upon reaching her private sanctum and utterly failed, leaning heavily against her desk and covering her eyes with one hand, she had instantly known that Janeway required her touch.
The distance between them was closed with three long strides, and her arms were wrapped around the Captain before any protest could be made. There was tension in Janeway's muscles for a moment, then she sagged in her embrace, burying her face in her neck and holding on to her as though desperate for an anchor. Although the body she held against hers was soft and warm, and she was aware of breasts gently nestled under hers, she could not enjoy it knowing the pain the Captain was experiencing. She felt her biosuit become wet with Janeway's muffled sobs and brought a hand to the back of her neck to stroke through her hair. Her Borg hand made absent circles over the muscles of her back, allowing her cheek to come to rest on the top of her head.
When at last the Captain seemed to calm, breathing steadily as she drew back and moved to wipe her eyes dry, she gently clasped her wrist in her Borg hand to forestall the motion. She felt the pulse at her fingertips quicken as she raised her other hand to the Captain's face, captivated by the raw emotion of the woman she had come to so adore. Her thumb brushed under Janeway's eyes, which fluttered closed as the moisture was wiped away. She marveled at the softness of her skin, quickly concluding the sensation was her favorite of all that she had experienced, and ran her knuckles over Janeway's cheeks to clear away the remainder of her tears.
The Captain met her eyes, then, and she knew that something had irrevocably changed. She had been allowed to see her without her customary command mask, and even now, as she looked at her with gratitude and affection, tinged as it was with grief, the mask was nowhere to be seen. There was no other person aboard Voyager, she knew, who the Captain would allow to provide her comfort in this manner, no other person who could receive such a look of tenderness for having insinuated themselves into a moment no subordinate should ever see.
Just as surely as she knew these things, she also knew she could not openly acknowledge them in that moment. To do so would somehow tarnish the beginning of their romantic relationship, which, she now realized, was truly inevitable. The Captain required her mourning period, and would likely become guilt-ridden if it came at the same time a positive change between them.
She let go of the hand she still had in her grasp, lightly grazing over the tendons on the inside of Janeway's palm. Her eyes searched the Captain's and she received a small smile in response. With a nod, and one last stroke of her thumb over her cheekbone, she turned and left for the bridge.
Memorial services were held, investigations conducted, aliens encountered – and through it all, she waited. Fifty-one days after the mining accident, when she had failed to observe a shadow pass over the Captain's face for over a week, she requested admittance into her quarters after their respective duty shifts. The Captain was reading, as she so often was at that time of night – she claimed to prefer the feel of a bound book to using a PADD, and although she had yet to try it herself, she could understand the desire.
She slowly approached her where she reclined in her chair and stood beside her, hands clasped behind her back. Janeway looked up at her, and, seeming to recognize the look in her eyes, rose and silently led her to the bedroom. As they regarded each other for long moments, she took note of the differences in the feelings of the hands clasped within her Borg and fully human ones: with her Borg hand, she noted the temperature of her skin, the beat of her heart, the slight perspiration that coated her palm; with her human hand, these coalesced merely into a pleasant awareness of the precious life she was holding in her grasp.
When Janeway's lips rose to meet hers, the lightly yielding flesh wet and smooth against her own, she could not resist the moan that escaped her throat at the sensation. And when the Captain broke away, it was to give voice to a desire she had harbored for nearly as long as she had known what desire was.
"Touch me, Seven."