Since nobody bothered to review my Janeway/Celes fic, I decided to write a Seven/Celes fic.
Not really at anyones request, or because of any sort of demand, but purely for my pleasure. Well, my pleasure and the hope that Celes/F ships will spread, as futile as that may be. I don't know. I guess I'm just a sucker for out of the ordinary ships.
I would be very grateful if you reviewed this one, because it actually took me a while to write.
She's sitting beneath a console in Astrometrics, her blonde hair disheveled and coming loose from its customary bun. Her knees are pulled to her chest and her face is buried in her arms, and she looks like a frail little girl lost in the haze of infinite space. You never would have thought you'd see Seven, of all people, hiding. For the first time you feel something other than fear in her presence.
You feel pity.
You finger the rounded plastic edges of the padd you're carrying and wonder why it's always you. Why not Billy? All he ever has to worry about is microscopic parasites sneaking up his anus and breeding in his intestines, slowly consuming him from the inside out. You have to work with an unsparing ex-Borg with chronic myopia towards all things human and a penchant for making you cry.
And now you have to comfort that same implacable bitch because you're too much of a sentimental moron to walk away.
She looks so pitiful, so foreign. Her shoulders are tight, but her body is shivering with silent sobs. She must sense your presence, hear your clumsy footsteps, but she doesn't move to acknowledge you. She just sits there, hiding her face and concealing her shame.
"Hey…" you say, stepping as quietly as you can towards her.
She makes no reply for several long moments, and you take it as an invitation to stay. Setting the padd gingerly on the console above you, you crouch down and sit next to her, being careful enough not to touch her. Despite this, she shuffles slightly to the left and away from you.
"Are you okay?" you ask.
You roll your eyes at yourself. You were always an inquisitive idiot.
She sits still and you nip back the groan. You wish that just once Seven would be easy for a change. You prod her gingerly with the tip of your elbow and she whimpers softly in reply. It startles you. You've never heard her utter a sound so…weak, pitiful.
For the life of you, you can't figure out what might be wrong. The ship is always full of gossip about Seven of Nine, and at one point you took every word of it as gospel, until you started to work with her. Then you realized that she was just Seven, the emotionless ice-queen of perfection who would never sink to the level she was perceived at in all of that talk.
You mentally kick yourself for not listening to it anymore.
At least it might have given you a clue.
You're deep in thought when she makes a sound. It's barely discernible from the ever present hum of the warp core, but it's a sound none the less. You look at her and she glances up from a gap between her face and elbow a moment before hiding her grief-stricken gaze again.
You ponder the sound for several moments, pasting the sounds together.
Realization finally dawns on you.
She shifts her head in a fashion you assume is a nod and then it hits you.
The random unavoidable niblets of gossip you've caught over the week surface in your mind. Big Chief Chuckles supposedly swept the not-so-lovable Borg of her feet. He penetrated the impenetrable, sexed the torrid cybernetic cat before anyone else.
A tremor of rage ripples though you, an oddly foreign emotion for you. You haven't felt it since you were little, since you were on Bajor. Since you were lost and alone, motherless, fatherless, and terrified. Wishing either you or the Cardassians would just hurry up die…
You shake your head and swallow thoughts of the past.
"What did he do?"
You don't expect her to say anything, and it surprises you when she sits up. Her face is tear streaked, her eyes wide and rippling grey-blue, and her lips are swollen and cracked.
Her voice is deep and solemn and horribly hollow.
Before you can stop yourself, you reach out and put a hand on her back. She simply stares at you for a long moment, before moving into your touch. She lays her torso against you and slides her arms around your waist, nestling her cheek against your shoulder.
You stiffen, shocked, but after a moment you return the embrace.
She smells so clean and pure, and her hair is wonderfully soft. A tremor of electric heat ripples from between your legs and up your spine, and you shiver perceptibly. She tightens her grasp around you and sighs.
"You are warm. Soft, supple, pleasant to the touch," she says, and you have no idea what to say. "I am content to feel you against me, but I feel no such thing when I am with him."
You still can't find words. You merely nod and hope she continues.
"And yet, he loves me. He loves me, and I am repulsed by him. Every time he kisses me it requires the greatest effort to control the bile that creeps up my esophagus, and the sex was the single most unpleasant experience in my entire life. And yet, I am expected to be with him."
She nuzzles your neck and her tongue darts out, and you whimper. You want to stand up, to flee, but you can't. Even if you could break her grip, you'd never be able to manage the will power to move away from her, to leave her warmth.
Her bosoms are pressed against you and you're incredibly aware of the hard peaks forming there. Her lips brush against your neck, your jaw line, your cheek, your lips.
It's the best kiss you've ever had.
Then again, you've only ever kissed your best friend. You briefly wonder what Billy would do if he saw this, how happy he'd be for you. But then you remember what's happening, and you focus on the soft tongue slipping against your lower lip, urging entrance.
You open your mouth and lose yourself in sensation.
You can detect champagne on her saliva, but she still tastes perfect, and even the fact that Chakotay had probably been doing this only hours ago can't ruin this moment. She is perfection. Absolute, unadulterated perfection.
Moments pass uncontaminated with the concept of time.
You break away, and she looks at you, and you're lost in her gaze. She's intoxicated, but it doesn't matter to you. You brush your knuckles against her cheek and her lips twitch in an almost smile. Her hand slips up your thigh and cups the apex between your thighs.
Your breath catches in your throat.
"I feel this," she rasps her palm gently, "when I think of the Captain, when I think of Lieutenant Torres."
She leans forward and kisses you again.
"When I think of you,"
A third kiss
"But never him."