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“It’s just a headache,” Janeway insists.
She sits on the biobed at the Doctor’s request, but frankly, she thinks he’s overreacting. Not everything that goes wrong is a potentially fatal emergency, regardless of his concerns. Part of her wants to deactivate him and simply force the replicators to give her a pain reliever, but she bets that the consequences of doing so will be more woe-inducing than the physical the Doctor wishes to perform. If she does so, he’ll only be a pain in the neck on reactivation. While she’s willing to treat him like a full crew member in most matters, she also still considers him a piece of technology--a brilliant one, perhaps, but still nothing more than a fancy tool--and she doesn’t have the patience right now to put up with a computer program sassing her.
“We’ll see,” he replies evenly, toting a medical tricorder in his hand and raised eyebrows on his forehead. Although he should be incapable of having emotional variances in his tone, he still manages to sound upset when he says, “We just passed through that gaseous nebula yesterday, and I sent you a message about the side effects of--”
“Yes. I know.”
He clears his throat and stands a little taller. “Of course, you ignored my professional advice and drove the ship straight through.”
“I don’t have to explain my decisions to you, but one day of toxic nebula versus a three month detour around? I’m trying to get us home before we all die of old age.” If only her head didn’t throb so much, she might have a higher tolerance for his nervous nature and condescending tone. “I’m not here for navigational advice. So, if you’d do your check and administer the remedy…?”
“If you wanted a medical officer you could push around, you should have given the job to Mr. Paris.”
Threatening to replace him per his suggestion will not cure her headache any faster. She massages the base of her neck with one hand and waves the other in his direction. “You’re right. Will you please get on with it?”
He huffs but must sense that she’s reached the end of her patience. He lifts the tricorder, but before he can run it along her body, the ship tosses sideways. His hologram flickers, and she falls to the ground, slamming her head on the edge of the biobed beside her own. Pain flares behind her eyes, and white stars block out most of her vision. She stumbles to her feet, grabbing her temples. Slapping her comm badge, she calls for the bridge.
“Captain, a ship appeared out of nowhere.” Chakotay sounds breathless but not panicked. She hopes this means that there were no injuries among her senior staff. “They opened fire but haven’t responded to our hails.”
“Ships don’t just come out of nowhere.”
“Harry’s running diagnostics on our end right now, and Tuvok’s checking their defenses for any signs of an advanced cloaking system.”
“I’m on my way up. Janeway out.”
“But your headache--” The Doctor, who had materialized more fully once more, watches her doubtfully.
“I’ll be fine,” she replies, shooting him a terse look. “Just--”
She doesn’t get to finish her statement. The ship rocks again, this time more forcefully. She loses her footing for a moment, and just as she’s lugging herself upright once more, a blast of heat and shrapnel blows her down. At least her headache isn’t as pressing, she thinks grimly, which is the only benefit of sustaining further injury. She smears the blood from her forehead and stumbles to a console to check the damage.
“Bridge to the Captain.”
“Yes?”
“You need to evacuate that deck. They’re directing all their fire--”
Although he doesn’t get the chance to finish the sentence, she understands his meaning as her world explodes again. Pain sears across her face, and she tumbles over. She and the floor are getting a bit too well acquainted. Before she blacks out, she watches fire ravage the consoles around her. The heat is so intense that she’s in pain--until she isn’t.
---
“Captain?”
Janeway blinks. She doesn’t yet try to move because her body feels incredibly heavy, and for some reason, she’s engulfed in darkness. The voice calling her name is familiar, however, so she makes an effort to respond. At first, nothing croaks out of her parched throat.
Then, straining, she manages, “Here.”
She hears something creaking nearby, and then she feels a cool hand on her neck. The hand scoops up, supporting her head, while the rest of her body is lifted upward. She blinks and blinks, hoping for some clue as to where she is or what happened. Something must have messed with the lights, she thinks blearily, as there is nothing but darkness around her. She closes her eyes again, weary. Just this once, someone else can deal with Voyager’s problems.
---
As she wakes, she hears a hiss and feels a slight sting on her neck. She identifies this as a hypospray and so doesn’t panic. Although she’s fairly certain her eyes are open, she can’t see anything. Her head feels light and wobbly, however, which leads her to believe this is a temporary side effect of having her head meet a biobed so violently.
“Captain?”
Placing the voice takes her a moment, even though she’s heard him every day for years. “Mr. Paris.”
“How are you feeling?”
“On a scale from peaceful day in Fair Haven to battling the Borg, I’d say an encounter with the Kazon.”
He laughs, which she takes as a good sign. If he is in high enough spirits for a bit of levity, then the ship isn’t in dire straits. She squints in the direction of his voice, trying to clear her vision and get a look at him. Nothing she does helps, however.
“Are you experiencing any pain in your eyes?”
She rubs her eyes and stares around the room. She can hear quiet groaning, and she can smell disinfectant. She expects that there are many patients in the room with her also receiving treatment, but she can’t visually confirm the suspicion.“I can’t see.”
“But there’s no pain?”
“No.”
“Oh, good. We’re a little low on medical supplies right now.”
“What happened?”
“We still don’t know anything about the attackers. Not even Seven could tell us anything about them. They opened fire on essential areas of the ship, like the sickbay. Some decks lost life support temporarily. They nearly took out our weapons systems, but Harry managed to tweak our shields just in time.”
“Did we return fire?”
“They disappeared as quickly as they showed up.” He sighs, and she feels his hand come to rest on her shoulder. “We’re still in the process of fixing things. Based on the information we got during our last contact, there’s a neutral shipyard three days from here at maximum warp. Commander Chakotay set a course as soon as we knew you were alive.”
“How long ago was that?”
“A day.”
“Any estimate on the return of my vision?”
There is a moment of silence, and then Tom says. “I forgot that you can’t see me shake my head. Sorry, captain. No, we don’t know. Since the sickbay is all but destroyed right now, we don’t have many diagnostic tools and even less to conduct procedures.”
She sits quite still and hopes that her face doesn’t betray the sudden fear she feels. So much of being captain is linked to her sight--her ability to gauge honesty, to accurately assess a situation, to read reports. If she cannot perform appropriately, then she will not let the ship go down with its captain. She swallows hard and struggles to her feet.
“If the sickbay was destroyed, where are we now?”
“Triage was set up in the mess.” Once she begins to wobble away, he adds, “Do you want someone to help you?”
“No, I’ll be fine.” She nods in what she hopes is his direction and then sets off very slowly. She needs to reach the bridge and have a short meeting with Chakotay, who will hopefully be able to give her a more detailed version of the events that transpired. Thankfully, she makes it through the mess hall without tripping or embarrassing herself, but as she exits, she runs straight into a firm body.
“Captain.”
Recognizing this voice doesn’t take any time at all. “Seven.”
“Yes. Do you require assistance?”
“I’ll be fine,” she says. Seven isn’t Tom, however, and she knows her feeble lie will likely be detected. Whether Seven will allow her to get away with the misdirection is something she doesn’t know.
“What is your destination?”
“I’m going up to the bridge.”
“That is my destination as well.” A hand lands gently on her forearm. She’s never thought of Seven as a particularly soft individual--indeed, according to most everyone on the ship, Seven is sharp edges and biting words--but Seven’s grip is loose and comforting. “I will accompany you there.”
“Seven, you were just about to enter the mess.”
“The purpose of my visit was to ascertain your well being. I have done so.”
“I take it you know I’m blind.”
“When I found you in the wreckage of the sickbay, there were a number of lacerations around your eyes. That you might suffer visual impairment was likely.”
Janeway recalls the strength of Seven’s arms around her frame and half-smiles. She’s not surprised that Seven rescued her; she just knows that no matter the odds, Seven will keep her alive. Similarly, she knows she’ll pay nearly any price for Seven.
“Well, hopefully it’s just a short term thing,” Janeway replies. Seven guides her safely into the turbolift and calls out for the bridge. As the ‘lift rumbles, she asks, “Were you injured in the attack?”
“I suffered a minor injury, but my nanoprobes have already rectified the fracture.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” And she is. She isn’t sure what she’d do if Seven were hurt, and now, she doesn’t have to worry. She places a hand over Seven’s, which still rests on her arm, and squeezes. Seven doesn’t comment, and she can’t see Seven’s face to gauge a reaction. She wonders if the touch is welcome.
When the ‘lift opens, Janeway excuses herself. She can’t see, but she thinks she can feel Seven’s eyes on her back. Her imagination works overtime inventing excuses for Seven’s perceived interest. She shakes the thoughts away in favor of greeting Chakotay.
---
Relegating command to Chakotay is always difficult, but she trusts his leadership ability. Until she regains her vision, they mutually decide that having him in charge will make things easier, especially if the aggressive species returns to harass them. After their conversation, she accepts a site-to-site transport to her quarters, where she finally lets her in-charge, infallible facade slip away.
She stumbles to the couch beneath the viewports and collapses down. Part of being captain is not letting others see her weakness, but this sudden impairment has shaken her. She presses a finger and thumb to the bridge of her nose and breathes slowly in an attempt to calm her anxiety. Still, her heart beat races, and her stomach churns. She usually handles fear well, but this particular brand of distress is new. There are no simple words to reassure her soul, and there’s a niggling voice in the back of her head that keeps shouting that this impairment is permanent.
When her door chimes, she almost ignores the noise. She wishes she were allowed to be human. Instead, she’s got to be invincible for her crew. Rather than hide away, she has to meet all challenges with a bold smirk and overflowing confidence. Wiping tears from her cheeks, she calls for her visitor to enter.
“Captain,” Seven states as she enters. “I have come to check on you.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Janeway replies, a bit too tersely. She regrets the biting edge that fills her voice, as her condition is not Seven’s fault.
Seven continues as if she didn’t hear the clear dismissal in Janeway’s statement, “I am aware of how difficult sudden transitions are. If not for your guidance after my severance from the Borg, I would not have recovered. You will allow me to assist you in a similar fashion.”
“The situations are very different--”
“I did not know how to function, and you provided me ample examples until I was able to adapt.” The couch depresses, which means Seven has taken a seat. The action seems oddly out of character, a thought that is intensified when Seven touches her knee. Janeway’s breath catches in her throat. “I will function as your eyes until such time that you have adapted.”
Pushing her surging feelings away, Janeway maintains a firm, even tone. “Aren’t there more important things you should be taking care of?”
“There is nothing pressing that requires my attention.”
Janeway’s pride doesn’t want her to accept this offer, as acceptance equates to defeat, but she can’t bring herself to reject spending time with Seven. The younger woman has a unique perspective, and Janeway is interested to experience the world through Seven’s eyes. She lets out a short puff of air and nods.
“Very well. I suppose there’s no point in pointlessly putting myself through trouble if there’s an easier answer.”
“Oh.”
Janeway wishes she could see Seven’s face because she can’t decipher Seven’s feelings based on the short utterance. “Is there a problem?”
“I assumed you would attempt to argue.”
Laughing, Janeway shakes her head. “Sometimes, you have to pick your battles.”
“That concept is unfamiliar to the Borg.”
“I presume the Borg has unlimited resources, but as a human, you have limited energy reserves. If you fight everything all the time, you’ll just exhaust yourself.”
“I understand.” The couch shifts again, and Janeway listens to the sound of Seven’s heels clicking against the floor. “Do you require any liquid or nutritional supplements?”
Janeway recalls her mother’s insistence that a healthy helping of carrots would keep her vision sharp, and she almost asks Seven for some due to her homesickness. “A water would be lovely.”
She lets her head rest against the back of the couch. She’d heard that losing one sense intensifies the others, but she hasn’t noticed any sudden spike in awareness. Rather, she finds focusing on her other senses easier without the distraction of visual information. She wants her vision back, but she enjoys being able to predict where Seven is simply by holding her breath and listening carefully.
She extends her hand as Seven approaches, and Seven presses a glass against her waiting fingers. “Thank you.”
“You are adapting quickly.”
“In bits and pieces. I doubt I’ll be able to get around too quickly without help, unless I’m willing to risk a few broken toes.”
“You may desire assistance donning your clothing in the morning.” There’s a subtle husk to Seven’s voice that intrigues Janeway. “Unless you wish to appear on the bridge with your uniform on backward.” Seven allows a moment for Janeway’s barked laugh and then says very quietly, “When I was first severed, I was uncertain as to my future. I was afraid.”
“That’s natural.”
“Are you also afraid?”
Her first instinct is to lie--to assure Seven that she is unstoppable, unbreakable, and perfect; that she’s not going to let something like a little injury slow her down. But she’s tired. She grimaces and drags her fingers through the condensation gathering on her glass. “Yes, I am. I hear noises and think someone is nearby. I reach out because I think the wall is close, only to find myself in the middle of the room. I’m helpless, and I hate that feeling.”
“I see.”
“I do feel better with you around,” Janeway ventures.
“Then I will stay,” Seven replies simply. “As long as you would like.”
---
By the time they dock at the shipyard, Janeway has grown accustomed to her blonde shadow, who seems perpetually awake and ready to help. Seven does regenerate while she’s asleep but somehow is always present when she wakes up. At first, she found this mildly alarming because of her visual impairment, but now, she rather looks forward to their early morning conversations over a cup of coffee--or, in Seven’s case, a nutritional supplement.
That morning, Janeway feels more rested than usual. The excitement of encountering new lifeforms has always been invigorating, and being blinded hasn’t removed her natural sense of adventure. She cups her mug and inhales, appreciating the heavenly scent within.
“The shipyard is quite large.”
“I suppose they must get a good deal of traffic.”
“Indeed.”
“Have you had a chance to look around?”
There’s a stifled noise, as if Seven wants to laugh but isn’t sure how. “I was with you at all times. Have you?”
“No, of course not. Sorry.”
“You do not need to apologize.”
“Sometimes I wonder if the accident didn’t affect my memory as well as my eyes.”
“Once the sickbay is cleaned, your ailments will be alleviated. If the memory problem persists, then it was likely a pre-existing condition.”
“Just a joke, Seven.” Janeway sips her coffee and feels the warmth fill her cheeks and race down her throat. “I hear that there’s a full deck devoted to recreational activities here. Is there anything you’d like to do while repairs are being attended to?”
Seven is suddenly very close, her breath coating Janeway’s cheek as she rescues the now-empty mug from Janeway’s hands. “Whatever you desire, I will do.”
As Seven walks away, Janeway feels blood rushing to her face. She immediately takes several soothing breaths and wills the embarrassment to dissipate. Rather than wait for Seven to comment on her coloration, she hurries to the bedroom to don a new uniform. She attaches her pips with trembling fingers. When she drops her hands away, Seven’s fingers correct the pips’ placement.
“Were you watching me?”
“I did not mean to offend you.”
“You didn’t. But doing so is an invasion of privacy--”
“I am aware. However, I was curious.”
“Curious?”
Hands trace along her cheeks, and she closes her eyes in response. “You had a reaction to my previous comment, one which I have identified in myself after certain interactions with you.”
“Seven--”
“Bridge to Janeway.”
Janeway curses the timing and responds, “Yes?”
“Your presence is requested on the bridge.”
Seven’s hands drop away, and Janeway misses their touch instantly. The blonde woman is now silent, and they walk somewhat awkwardly to the turbolift. When they reach the bridge, Seven bids her farewell and promises to reappear later.
---
Due to the entertainment deck on the shipyard, Chakotay organizes rotations for shore leave. She and Seven disembark first, and she has Seven describe the massive corridors and bizarre art they encounter on their initial jaunt. She enjoys Seven’s clipped descriptions, which focus on immediate details. On occasion, she asks for Seven’s opinion as well as a statement of the facts, and she gets to savor hearing Seven flounder for something inoffensive to say.
“It is interesting,” Seven finally settles on, after she inquires about a large statue of an alien being.
“What about it interests you?” she presses.
After a moment of stony silence, Seven responds, “The stance of the being. I cannot tell if the being is warning away invaders or simply standing proudly. I find this interesting because I am finally allowed to appreciate different cultures without evaluating them for assimilation.”
“I’m glad you have this opportunity.”
“As am I.”
Seven steps close to her again, and she inhales slowly. Seven’s fresh scent is marred only by the faint hint of grease, a combination that seems utterly Seven. Janeway doesn’t worry as Seven guides her through the crowds, confident that Seven will never lead her astray. She wonders if anyone from Voyager has spotted them or if her dependence on Seven has sparked many rumors. She hopes not, as she doesn’t want Seven to suffer for her benefit.
While she wishes for a deeper relationship with her blonde companion, she’s painfully aware of the chasm between them--a gap that keeps them emotionally distant. She is the captain, and more importantly, she acts as a mentor to Seven, who must see her as a teacher rather than a potential partner. Their dynamic is hardly romantic, and she wants to be around Seven in any capacity. Seven never mentions their near miss in her quarters, so Janeway assumes Seven regrets the interaction.
Instead of ruining what they have, she is content to lock her feelings away. She’s done so for a good number of years, and had this visual impairment not given her the excuse to get this close, she wouldn’t have thought much of her attraction at all.
“Are you hungry?”
“Fairly,” Janeway responds, placing a hand on her stomach. “I wonder what kind of food they serve in this part of the galaxy.”
“Something edible, I hope.” Seven’s humor is getting more noticeable, she thinks. The more she is around Seven, the more in-tune she is with how Seven thinks--and the more pleasure she gets from their time together. “I have been told there is a restaurant in the midst of their entertainment deck. Will this suffice?”
“Of course.”
She listens to their surroundings; there are pings, shouts, cries, and footsteps. Were she not with Seven, she would have felt uncertain and a bit ill at ease. With Seven, however, she walks confidently. She hears an automated door swooshing open, and then she feels a slight change in temperature as they enter. When Seven tugs her arm, she comes to a stop.
“Two,” Seven requests. “Somewhere quiet.”
“Of course,” comes the response. Janeway wants to ask what their host looks like but the question can wait until there’s nobody nearby to overhear Seven’s answer, which might not sound politically correct. She quashes the panic that rises when Seven moves away from her and only exhales when Seven eases her into a chair.
“So,” she says after the waiter leaves, “tell me about this species.”
“They are humanoid. You may have noticed your chair is squatter than those on Voyager. They are a bit smaller on average than humans and have skin the color of unprocessed thorium.”
“They’ve never encountered the Borg?”
“Not during my time.”
“Lucky them,” Janeway states dryly. “I must say, though, that I am glad for our encounter.”
“I appreciate what you went through on my behalf.”
She almost replies that she would do the same for most anyone, but that doesn’t feel genuine. Perhaps it was at one point, but she realizes that now, Seven ranks higher on her list of priorities than many of her crewmembers and certainly higher than a stranger. Instead, she reaches out and fumbles for her drink. The first sip makes her sputter.
“What is this?”
“The local beverage of choice.”
“It’s strong alcohol.” After years of drinking synthol, the burn of real substance is bracing. She winces and slaps the glass back down. The drink is intense, and her head buzzes. “Wow.”
“Is your wife okay?”
Janeway’s fingers scuttle across the table and locate the cloth meant for cleaning up. She dabs at her lips, preparing to correct the waiter’s misapprehension. Seven speaks before she can.
“She is fine. The drink is merely stronger than expected.”
“Our apologies--”
“None necessary,” Seven cuts in. “We are visitors here, and we wouldn’t expect your menu to change simply because our palates are different.”
“Very good.”
Janeway sets her cloth aside. “Are we alone? They have such a light step, I can’t hear them approach or leave.”
“We are.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“I do not understand.”
“Being confused for my partner. Many would consider that embarrassing.”
“There is no shame in being mistaken for someone important to you,” Seven replies coolly. “I am proud to be seen with you.”
Janeway lets the conversation drift to new topics, but her mind remains on the concept of Seven as her partner. That Seven isn’t opposed to the perception doesn’t mean much, but Janeway decides she’s allowed to fantasize for a few moments. She wonders if Seven is romantic and then dismisses the thought as foolish. Seven is a pragmatic person who would likely wouldn’t even consider grand gestures as anything but a waste of essential time and energy.
“What do you miss most about Earth?”
Returning slowly to the moment, Janeway considers the question. She carefully runs her finger along the rim of her glass, the buzz of the alcohol causing her thoughts to flit quickly around her head. “I do miss my mother and my sister, but I think I miss the general sense of security more.”
“Your visual impairment has detracted from your control over your environment.” Seven touches her hand, and she instinctively curls her fingers around Seven’s palm. “Because of this, your stress has increased.”
“That’s true. To be honest, I became a Starfleet officer to explore the wide expanse of space--but my goal was never long-term, deep space missions. I love the thrill of new discovery, but I appreciate being able to come home at night to a place that is truly my own. Voyager is adequate--”
“But not sufficient.”
She sips again, this time prepared for the scorch of alcohol down her throat. “Exactly.”
“Have you considered applying modifications to assert ownership?”
“It’s not really a physical characteristic,” she tries to explain. Seven’s hand fits so nicely in her grip. “It’s more of a feeling.”
“The Borg have encountered six hundred and twelve nomadic species, all of which carry their homes with them. Is this impossible for humans?”
“I’m sure some people would be more than happy to roam from place to place for a lifetime, but the concept doesn’t hold much appeal for me.”
Seven’s thumb rubs against her slowly. “Every one of those nomadic species relied on a close-knit family structure. Perhaps that is what you are missing on Voyager.”
Janeway struggles to find a response but finds herself tongue-tied. Coming from anyone else, that statement might have been flirtation. Their food soon arrives, and she loses both her chance at replying and her physical connection with Seven, who withdraws her hand.
---
On Voyager, Janeway strolls the corridors with her hands linked behind her back. Seven has departed for a short time to regenerate, and she’s taking the opportunity to re-establish her link with the ship. Even though she cannot see the bulkheads or the consoles like she used to, she can feel the floor through her thin boots and hear the distant beeps from rooms adjacent to her position. Whether she’d rather be on Earth is irrelevant, and she realizes that in order to make the trip back, she’s got to accept that Voyager is her home for the time being.
Before she was blinded, she treated the ship as precious because it was their only reasonable shot at returning to the Alpha Quadrant. She was attached to Voyager through thick and thin, as the ship represented her crew’s hopes and dreams. Now, however, she wants to love Voyager for what it provides her in terms of safety and comfort.
She reaches out and ghosts her fingers along the bulkhead. Having ascertained the distance, she scoots closer and lays her palm flat on the wall. She feels the ship, still for the first time in months due to its being docked. The wall tremors momentarily as someone, somewhere bangs into it during the repair process. This shipyard’s hireable crew members are fast and efficient but lack care.
She eases back to the center of the corridor and continues on, eventually finding her way to the turbolift and heading to deck three. Her quarters are quieter than the rest of the bustling ship. She asks the computer to locate Seven of Nine and learns Seven is still resting in the cargo bay. Although she has come to rely on Seven to get her through the day, she prefers to let Seven sleep while nothing pressing requires her attention.
Moving as boldly as possible, she locates her desk and awkwardly takes a seat. She commands the computer to read the daily logs out loud to her. The day prior, sixteen percent of the necessary work on Voyager had been completed. The sickbay is still inoperable, but Tom Paris had spent the day searching for deals on medical supplies. Based on the data, she presumes that she will be blind for another few days at least. The idea isn’t frightening, at least not as overwhelmingly so as when she first opened her eyes to darkness.
Her door chime sounds, and she permits her guest entry. Seven greets her formally, and she can almost picture the blonde woman’s stiff posture, complete with half-cocked head and unamused expression. She misses her vision mostly because of the added layer of difficulty in her life but also because she can no longer see those who matter to her.
“I apologize for the delay.”
“Seven, you have to take care of yourself.”
“I have to take care of you.”
“You’re doing a marvelous job,” Janeway counters. “You can’t keep that up if you run yourself into the ground.”
“I understand.”
“I’ve just been reviewing the progress of the repair teams.”
“They are inefficient,” Seven replies, her voice tight. “Several of them were fraternizing.”
Janeway bites back her snort. “Honestly, I’d like to stay here another few days anyway to see if we can’t figure out who attacked us.”
“I have a theory. I acquired local star charts to update astrometrics and discovered a society near where we were attacked. They are a hostile species who use ships manned by robots to patrol their perimeter.”
“Did we infringe on their space?”
“No, but no technology is without flaws. It is possible a unit went rogue.”
“So, as long as we stay away, we should be able to resume course without issue.”
“That is my supposition, but I will collect further data.”
“Very good.”
Seven crosses the room, the clicking of her heels allowing Janeway to track her progress. “You seem more at ease.”
“I am,” Janeway admits. “After we spoke, I thought it useful to reacquaint myself with the ship--to find a way to make this my home for the time being.”
“Were you successful?”
“A bit.”
“You require a family structure,” Seven announces.
Janeway nearly jumps out of her skin as Seven’s fingers trace along her cheek. Uncertain where this is going, she allows Seven to guide her face forward. When their lips meet, Janeway surrenders completely. She trusts Seven without question and wants this. There will be time for doubts and questions later. Seven eases her onto the couch and coaxes her into deepening the kiss. Their tongues slide together, and Janeway can’t stop her moan.
Her hand grazes over Seven’s back, pulling the younger woman closer. Seven willingly pushes her into the cushions, not leaving but a centimeter of space between them. She pants when they break apart, although she keeps her hand in place, anchoring herself to the moment.
“That was a little unexpected,” she whispers.
“I wish to be your family. However, I do not have much experience in that regard, so I understand if you would prefer to find someone else--”
“No, Seven. You’re fine. You’re more than fine.”
“I will do my best to fulfill your needs.”
“As will I.”
Not for the first time, Janeway wishes she could see. She can recall Seven’s face but not with perfect detail, and she wants to remember everything about this moment. Instead of bemoaning her visual impairment, she focuses on the comfortable weight of Seven pressed against her, the heat of Seven’s skin on hers, and the warm puffs of Seven’s breath. She commits Seven’s scent to memory and savors Seven’s taste. While she does not have Seven’s eidetic memory, she is fairly certain she has this scene down pat.
---
She sits on the biobed, waiting for the newly restored Doctor to finish puttering about. He had been irate about the state of his sickbay but had given up his ranting when Janeway requested his expertise. Although Tom Paris is a passable nurse when he truly tries, Janeway is incredibly relieved to have their EMH back online--especially when it came to restoring something as vital as her sight.
“Alright,” the Doctor says. She flinches as his voice comes from directly beside her. As a hologram, he has no footstep, and she can’t keep track of where he is. “Are you ready to see again?”
“You have no idea.”
“This will be a short surgery to repair your corneas and the damage to your optic nerve. Please lie back.”
She does so, and when he tells her to, she stares up at the ceiling with her eyes opened as wide as possible. True to his word, the procedure lasts only five minutes. The darkness recedes, and she blinks several times to help the brightening world come into focus. A moment later, she grasps her forehead and grunts.
“My head hurts.”
“It’s almost as if no time has transpired,” the Doctor jokes as he fetches a hypospray from a nearby cart. Although her head is pounding, she is enthused by being able to see him move about the room. She’s never been so happy to see his bald head glinting in the bright light. “I think I can safely say that this headache is not the result of a toxic nebula.”
She sighs with relief when he presses the device to her neck and releases the medication. Leaving him to clean up his space, she struts down the corridors with a newfound appreciation for the dull gray of the bulkheads and the tired faces of her crew. She stops in Cargo Bay Two, but Seven isn’t around. Disappointed, she asks the computer for Seven’s location.
Hurrying to her quarters, she closes her eyes and steps through the door. When she opens her eyes once more, she spots Seven lounging on the couch. She halts, staring at Seven as if she’s never seen the other woman before. Her heart catches in her throat as she realizes how beautiful Seven is. Seven rises and crosses, standing nervously with her hands linked behind her.
“Has the Doctor rectified your vision?”
“He has,” she confirms, wonder filling her voice.
“Have you changed your mind?” Seven hesitates and adds, “About our family unit.”
“No,” Janeway replies, her eyes shifting all over Seven’s face. She kisses Seven softly and feels utterly at home.