Disclaimers

Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Pairing: Torres/ Seven
Summary: Tom and B'Elanna make a bet. Who will bed the Ice Queen?
Rating: R
Spoilers: None
Author's Notes: Star Trek is the property of Paramount.
Author's E-Mail: ralst31@yahoo.co.uknospam
(When mailing, please delete "nospam"!!)

Shore Leave
Part II

by RalSt

| Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 |

The Mezzanine turns out to be a crappy little restaurant in the heart of the city. I swear the only reason Ms Anal-Retentive chose the place is because it has the number nine in it. That, and insisting we meet at seven, is the sort of analytical mind teaser her sort enjoy. She probably brought along a week's worth of nutritional supplements, and will happily sip those while Tom and I have to risk God knows what kind of intestinal disease by tasting the local dishes.

"You are late, Lieutenant.”

"Ah!” I know she does that on purpose, I don't care what she says. "Yeah, well, we haven't all got a Timex shoved up our arse!”

"A Timex?” I don't know whether it's a good thing, or not, that she chose to ignore the more colourful part of my language. I seem to be wallowing in gutter mouth recently and she only brings it out more.

"An old brand of time piece,” Tom supplies helpfully, his smile set at its charming best, "I have one in my collection. Perhaps when we get back to Voyager I can show it to you?”

"Not if it is worn inside your rectum.” I can't help but smile, I recognise that as a joke, even if Tom doesn't; and she said she didn't joke, the liar.

Helm-boy eventually catches on that she's kidding and produces the perfect little laugh, before ushering us all towards a table. It's small, intimate, and surrounded by half dead fauna I know will make me sneeze. So far, this date is as enjoyable as I thought it would be.

The waiter arrives and through some cosmic regulation that states all waitpersons must tell you their name and then ignore you when you need a refill, tells us he's called T'ralic and wanders off to get us some water. For a moment I am too captivated by the way his third arm swishes out from behind his back, like a tail, to notice he hasn't left us any menus.

"How are we supposed to know what to order, telepathy?” Even I'm a little embarrassed by my snippiness, but I'd rather date Paris again than apologise for it.

"It is Mo'darine, people on Iranic Prime only eat one set menu on that day.” Of course, Seven did her homework.

"Is that like a holy day?” Tom's trying to suck up, but it is a valid question.

"No. I believe it is equivalent to Earth's Tuesday.”

"Huh?” That makes no sense. "So they only ever eat one particular meal on a Tuesday? That's ridiculous.”

"Actually they have a set meal for each of the nine days in their week.” I think she actually finds that acceptable; it probably fits in with her Borg sense of order.

"Kinda lacking in variety,” Tom's voice is aiming for questioning, without contradiction; he almost pulls it off.

"Not in the least.” She's smiling that barely there smile again; she knows something.

Before either of us can question her further on the menu, and you can just tell what a great date this is by the fact we've spent the first ten minutes discussing some cruddy planet's eating habits, by the arrival of T'ralic with the first of seven covered dishes. Another seven; I'm positive she's got some weird thing about her name.

Given the size of our table, T'ralic is forced to balance the trays on anti-grav holders that hover just out of reach until, with a gesture, they come straight to your hand; it's kind of neat. The food is sharply coloured and pungent, but in an appetising way that Neelix would do well to emulate. Still a little apprehensive, I take just a small amount from each dish, a system mirrored by Tom. Conversely, it is Seven who is ladling her plate to overflowing, and is even looking anxious to get started.

"What? Not sticking with your nutritional supplements?” Eating anything at all is very un-Seven like, but this show of eager anticipation is almost worthy of doppelganger status.

She finishes chewing on a red, squirming, morsel, and after carefully wiping her mouth presents me with one of her officious looks. "Considering the length of time we will be here, I took the time to analyse the planet's food supply to ascertain whether it was compatible with my systems. While doing so I was encouraged,” a sour look passes her face momentarily and I can just imagine the persuading necessary for her to take her first bite, "to taste the available dishes and found them to be pleasant on the palate.”

"So, no chance of food poisoning, then?” Tom's words tell me I wasn't the only one worried about being rushed to sickbay.

"None at all.” She pops a green something in her mouth, but somehow manages to look poised doing it. If I did the same think I'd look like a hog.

The dinner passes in relative silence; Seven is too occupied with her new favourite hobby of eating to pay any attention to us, and I know Tom is saving up his charm until it will help him win the bet. Thankfully the food turns out to be delicious; so maybe this isn't a total waste of time after all.

As we finish with our main course music begins to play and a small group of musicians cluster around our table. From the look on Seven's face I can tell it wasn't something she'd planned on for the evening. That meant it was Tom's idea. The music is pleasant enough, but it lacks the delicacy of the meal and I can tell Seven is irritated by it.

Sitting back I smile at Tom, letting him know that for the moment Seven is all his; watching him trying to charm her will be fun.

He leans towards her across the table and his voice lowers to create a sense of intimacy. It is a good move, but he loses points for staring at her breasts for too long. "It was a lovely meal, Seven. How did you find this place?” Oops, too direct a question; Seven's bound to give him the literal answer.

"I contacted the Iranic Prime central computer and relayed my requirements for this evening, and a geographical limit on the search parameters. It produced forty-three results, which I then narrowed down to eight using the 'Food Critic's Review' back issues, also available on the central database. From those I picked one.”

I knew it.

"Oh, well, a lovely choice.”

"It was the name, wasn't it?” I'd meant to keep quiet, but I wanted to find out if I was right about her seven and nine obsession.

She simply nods, but I can see Tom wracking his brains trying to remember the meaning of the name and why it would be important. He'll probably assume she has a thing for balconies and try to woo her like Juliet.

A few of the locals have decided the music is too nice to waste and have formed couples on a, previously unseen, dance floor. Watching three armed humanoids dance is a new experience for me; some of the areas those extra hands traverse would be scandalous in the Federation; kind of makes me wish one of them would ask me to dance.

"Would you care to dance, Seven?” I'll say one thing for Tom, he's a braver man than me. I know for a fact he was the one to patch up, Chapman, after the last time Seven tried dancing, but he's still willing to give it a try. God, he must really want those rations.

Or really want to get her in bed, a small voice reminds me. It's strange how the exact details of this little wager keep slipping my mind, as if thinking about having sex with Seven for too long might short-circuit my brain. But thinking of it now, I can see why he'd make this much effort, even without the prospect of beating me. Personally, I wouldn't bother.

Decidedly uncomfortable at the suggestion, Seven nonetheless agrees and the two of them make their way onto the dance floor. They are not a good match. His sandy hair and her blonde locks are far too similar to prove appealing to the eye and even though separately they are attractive people, together they lack the contrast of a truly mesmerising couple.

Tom's hand begins to slide down the back of Seven's biosuit and comes exceedingly close to cupping her behind before he snatches it back. Despite his lothario ways I'm willing to bet that was an accident; those damn suits of hers are deceptively silky, and it's easy for your hand to slip; it happened to me once while I was examining one of her Borg systems, I don't think I stopped blushing all day. Mind you, considering the wager I think I'd have allowed my hand to travel a bit farther; she does have a very tempting arse.

The song ends and they return to the table. Tom's face shows a smugness that indicates he thinks he's winning our little bet. Seven just seems anxious for the waiter.

When T'ralic arrives I see the reason for her looks, he's bringing dessert. Watching Seven eat the five layered blue cake, that tastes just like chocolate, is a strangely erotic experience. Her concentration, eagerness and obvious enjoyment send a little tingle to the pit of my stomach, but it is the way her tongue flicks out to capture the last of the cream that has me truly mesmerised. I may have to change my mind about the added bonuses of getting her into bed.

Tom somehow managed to miss the display, probably too caught up in planning a way to dump me so he can make his final move of the night. If he thinks he has a chance on tonight's performance, he's delusional.

The bill arrives and Tom sweeps it up from the table before either of us can even glance at it. I suppose it's meant to be chivalrous, but we've all been issued with identical credit chits, which will bill Voyager for all expenses incurred during our stay; apparently Janeway has made some deal where they get a bunch of junk we were going to throw out, in exchange for near limitless credit - the woman may be a pain, but she's not stupid.

While Tom handles the bill, Seven and I make our way outside. I've never really noticed before how Seven sashays her hips as she walks; for an emotionless drone, she sure knows how to work that body of hers to its full erotic potential. Once outside I slip my arm through hers, and the look she gives me is almost startled confusion. Of course, I only did it to wind Tom up, and seeing his expression, I know I've succeeded.

Although quite a bit taller than me, in those damn heels, our steps are in sync and we avoid all the unnecessary bumps that usually occur the first time you walk with someone this way. I doubt Tom would have managed so well.

"Would you care to finish the evening with some dancing, or maybe a walk by the... the lake?” He really should have thought that one out a bit more, the lake is as romantic as a Ferengi's bathtub. The fact I'm still holding Seven's arm also makes the invitation appear to be directed at the both of us, despite his intentions to the contrary. I have absolutely no desire to go dancing or walk by the smelly lake, but if they go, so will I.

"No.” Short and sweet, just like... well, none of us, actually. After a second I think she remembers she's meant to be playing along with the seduction and throws Tom a bone. "I had a very enjoyable evening, but require slumber. Perhaps on another occasion?”

"Sure, maybe tomorrow?”

"That would be acceptable.”

Their chit-chat is rather boring, but it does prompt a question I should have thought of earlier. "Are you really intending to sleep? No alcove or portable unit?”

"Yes.” Her arm disengages from mine and I know she's displeased.

"Have you ever done it before?” I'd worked on some of her Borg schematics with the doctor and knew that it was theoretically okay for her to survive for extended periods of time by replacing sleep and nutrition for regeneration, but I didn't think anyone had actually managed to convince her of that yet.

"Twice, under medical supervision.” She definitely doesn't like the sleep idea; no wonder she'd rather spend her time engaging in the erotic Olympics with one of us.

"If there's anything I can do to help?” Tom's offer is the first direct suggestion I've heard him make about getting her in bed, even if he didn't actually mention sex.

"Yeah, Seven, we can always drop by your place and take turns wearing you out until you fall into a sex induced coma.” What? She wanted direct. Poor Tom, he doesn't know whether to act shocked or agree. Seven settles for raising that eyebrow of hers and otherwise ignoring the comment.

"Thank you for the offer,” I'm not sure if that's directed at me or Tom, "but I am sure I will be able to master the art of sleep sufficiently on my own.”

The words 'Resistance is Futile' sing away inside my brain.

It's crunch time. We've arrived back at the quarters we were assigned and the only thing left is the good night, as I'm sure even Tom realises she's not going to put out tonight. I stand back slightly, letting him make the first move, a decided tactical advantage.

Stepping in close, he takes her hand within his own and very slowly raises it to his lips. I remember how that feels, the soft touch of lips against the back of my hand, gentle, but with the promise of more to come. It is a good move, made a hundred times better by the intimacy of his stare. If he'd performed that on any other woman, I'd say he was in with a chance; Seven just looks bored.

It's my turn.

As Tom steps back I smile at them both. "Goodnight.” The smile on his face is just beginning when I step up to her. Her lips are slightly parted, no doubt in preparation for returning my farewell, but no word can form, as I cover them with my own. It is a light kiss, my hands gently pulling her face to me as my lips flicker against hers. She is so soft, and for a moment I'm tempted to prolong the contact, but I pull away. Her disappointed groan is more than ample reward, and without looking back I turn to find my room.

That round belongs to me, I think.

*****

Waking up on this dump of a planet, I actually found my mood less than dire for once. Rolling out of bed without cursing is something I haven't been able to do for months, but today, as I made my way to the bathroom, I actually had a smile on my face. Before anyone thinks I've gone soft and gooey-eyed from kissing the Borg, I must state that my mood has absolutely nothing to do with that. On the contrary, it was her looks of bewilderment after a few of my more colourful comments, and Tom's inevitable failure that were making me so happy. I kind of like this 'don't give a damn, say whatever you want' attitude I seem to have recaptured. I don't know why I ever let Janeway and her regulations take it away from me.

Inevitably my good mood wasn't to last. Walking out the door I was once again reminded that I had to spend the day in this social backwater, with nothing to pass the time but watching the dust collect on the roadside.

"Hey, Marquis, are you off to the lake?” I decide to forgive Harry his chirpyness as he's got his arm around the plain looking ensign from Earth sciences and obviously spent the night being introduced to the wonders of carnal pleasure. The boy's grin is practically decapitating him.

"Why would I want to go to that sludge hole?” Sex has obviously rattled his brain, I'm envious.

"Actually, despite its colour, the water is very clean,” pipes up the ensign, in a voice made for talking dirty.

"Tom even managed to persuade Seven to try sunbathing.” It's good to see that even though he's just spent a night of untold bliss, he can still get dreamy eyed at the thought of Seven in a bikini.

Shit! Seven, in a bikini. There is no way I can leave Tom alone with her.

"I have to change, I'll meet you all there as soon as possible.”

Harry looks a bit confused, but wanders off happily enough, a fine boned hand cupping his rear as his partner whispers something delicious in his ear.

Having squeezed into my black bikini, I take a moment to admire myself in the mirror; the extra hours I've spent practising with the bat'leth have honed my figure, without distorting my womanly curves with over pumped muscle. I haven't looked this good in years, although I'm not sure even the prettiest of bodies would have any effect of Seven. Aesthetics never seem to register with her, which is probably why she doesn't realise how God damn attractive she is.

The lake is looking as brown and unappealing as ever, the only difference from the day before is the string of Starfleet bodies sprawled out under the blazing sun. I can see Harry and his paramour snuggled up under the shade of a tree, exchanging kisses and generally oblivious to everyone else. A couple of my engineers appear to be engaged in a game of volleyball with some of Tuvok's security detail; I hope we cream them.

I would have thought locating Seven would have been easy, just a matter of following the lascivious stares; but no-one's tripping over their tongue or calling for artificial respiration, so I presume she's not here yet. It's then that I spot Tom and discover why the general population isn't in Borg drool mode; Seven's covered from head to toe in a giant robe, even less of her flesh on show than in her damn biosuits.

"Cold, Seven?”

I believe Tom is actually relieved to see me, which is a bad sign.

"My temperature is within acceptable limits.” She's either angry or scared, but whichever it is the tension around these two is palpable.

"I've been trying to explain to Seven that it's okay for her to just wear her swimsuit, but she won't listen,” he sounds far too exasperated, it can't be doing his chances any good. "I even offered to put suntan lotion on for her, but she won't budge.” He smiles at the idea, but gets no reaction from Seven.

Looking around the shore I see that nearly everyone is decked out in swimsuit or bikini, and it is Seven's refusal to follow suit that marks her out from the crowd. Perhaps that's it? Perhaps she's just afraid that the sight of her implants will reinforce her isolation from the rest of the ship.

Standing directly in front of her, I reach out my hand. "Come on.”

"Lieutenant?”

I wiggle my hand in an impatient gesture. "Stand up.”

She clasps my hand and stands to face me. Without her heels she is only a couple of inches taller than me, and I find my gaze resting comfortably on her full lips. My look isn't blatant but it is noticeable, and she wets her lips in what I think is anticipation. Ignoring the unconscious invitation, I release her hand and pull at the cord which is keeping my own, much smaller, robe closed. Her eyes seem enraptured by the barest sight of my body and with deliberate slowness I ease the rest of the gown from my shoulders to pool on the floor. Her gaze appears to take in every nuance of my form, but whether in appreciation or Borg curiosity I'm uncertain. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out the meaning behind Tom's leer, so I do my best to ignore him.

When I feel she's stared long enough I reach out to clasp the end of the cord which is holding her mountain of a robe together. In an instant her hand is by mine, trying to wrestle the fabric from my grasp. I don't let go.

"Relax, Seven.” For a split second she looks terrified, and I want to reassure her everything will be fine. Somehow this moment has gone beyond the scope of our bet and what I want more than anything is to show her she can be one of us, and needn't fear rejection.

"B'Elanna,” she whispers my name, as her eyes plead with mine, but eventually she relents and drops her hold; finally trusting that I don't mean her any harm.

I pull on the cord and it soon comes free, to fall forgotten to the floor. Her body is still covered, the depths of the robe proving a valid shield against all on lookers. I step closer still, my body brushing up against the fabric of the gown. Slowly I ease my hands into the robe's opening and begin to unveil the treasure within. Her skin is milky white and flawless; the tiny implants which are made visible to me appear as decorations more than intrusions. She's beautiful.

The rapid movement of her chest tells me she's near to hyperventilating with distress. So far I am the only one who can see past her robe, as my body provides a shield for hers. I raise my eyes to hers and can see the fear she has tried so hard to mask.

I smile.

My eyes then leave hers for a moment to trail appreciatively across her exposed body, conveying without words the joy I receive just looking at her. When my eyes once again find hers, they are calmer; and I realise for the first time that she really does trust me, despite everything.

My hands move further under the robe, to encircle her shoulders, then ever so gradually I begin to lower the gown from her body. She is still. No longer afraid, she seems to be enjoying our closeness. As the gown finally falls to the ground I am left holding her in a near embrace; my fingertips just millimetres from her skin.

We stay like that for an endless moment, my eyes never leaving hers, as my body sings out to take her in my arms. Finally I step back, and for the first time I see the full glory of her. The burgundy suit that adorns her body is conservative in style, but does nothing to hide her generous curves. Breathtaking.

"Looking good, Seven.” Tom's words are accompanied by a wolf whistle and I suddenly remember we aren't the only people on the planet. Turning slightly I notice that every eye on the shore is on us, and the drool I'd expected when I first arrived has arrived in abundance, but it is accompanied by a stunned embarrassment I hadn't expected. It was as if they were ashamed for spying on a private moment.

"Thank you, Tom.” She quickly sits, hoping to dispel the lingering looks. I wonder when she started calling him Tom?

"Do you want me to put some lotion on your back?”

She looks at me, but it isn't my decision to make.

"You don't want to burn,” he adds, reaching into a bag for an old fashioned bottle of lotion. Trust Tom to go for the hands on variety, rather than the more effective spray.

"Yes, thank you.”

She turns over on her front and he begins to attentively apply the liquid. It is a scene that should, by rights, carry strong sexual overtones, but it doesn't. His hands might have been soothing her skin, but her look was for me alone; and it was a look that rose my temperature far higher than the burning sun.

The rest of the morning was spent either lazing about by the shore or splashing around in the water. I don't think Seven and I exchanged more than a couple of words in all that time, but she was never far from my thoughts. I'd deluded myself with the idea that being intimate with her was a minor consideration, in comparison to the wager I had with Tom. That wasn't true. Being allowed to share something so personal with Seven was a monumental gift, and not something to be thrown away on the chance outcome of two fools' wager. I had to make her see she was worth more than that. Not because she had the body of a goddess, but because she looked in my eyes with the hope, fear and gratitude of an innocent young woman.

"Seven?”

Her eyes met with mine and I could tell she knew that what I was about to say was serious; her gaze wavered for a second, but when she looked at me again a decision had been made. "I think it's time we changed for lunch.”

She chose to ignore it.

*****

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