"Kathryn," Seven whispers, wondering, as she does it, why she's whispering when her intentions are clearly to wake her drifting spouse, who, oblivious to both the ex-Borg's internal and external monologues, continues to snore dutifully. Seven, vaguely aware of the other woman's brain waves, realizes she must be entrenched in the deepest stage of sleep, her body completely unwilling to surrender to wakefulness, knowing full well that should it, any chance of the alertness granted by a proper sleep cycle will be squashed due to the approaching rapture of morning in all of it's pesky, artificial glory.

Still, this is important.

Her mesh hand slinks down, then up, snaking beneath the hem of the silk nighty to find Kathryn's belly, where it circles the puckered navel for some time, before microscopic electrodes emit a short burst of painful, but assuredly harmless electricity. Human reflexes are extraordinarily intricate, and Seven, human herself, is prone to forgetting to plan ahead –a heel to the shin and palm to the face are her reward.


Janeway stares at her, both so startled and inextricably pissed off that a hollow wanting in her loins suddenly begins to displace the smarting. By now, though, Seven has learned to deal with arousal and all of its creeping inappropriateness, and thus manages to avoid the further altercation that would surely ensue from sticking her tongue in Kathryn's mouth. Instead, she simply smooths the auburn hair, urging her back to the pillow.

"The Borg accept the inherent lack of truth in the Universe. This frees us, in a sense, from both emotion and remorse. It is only by the societal conditioning from our previous species that we become disquieted by the actions of the collective," Seven says, "but, as a lack of truth equals complete chaos, order simply cannot exist. This provides a problem, as the collective is pure order, and therefore cannot exist if there truly is no truth in the universe. Order is simply a clear plastic grid of sorts that one views chaos through, and the organic mind cannot truly comprehend disorder. So, we ourselves must both construct and work within this grid, to live our lives as orderly as possible, false though it may be. But, as all things arise out of chaos, and as chaos and God are both incomprehensible, then God must be chaos."

Kathryn loves Seven's tits, most of all. She suspects it might be something psychological, but lying in bed sucking on those titties, time just drifts by, and Kathryn knows happiness. She pulls the sheet away, and gazes as the orbs, nearly bursting from the confines of a borrowed nightgown. Late-night, philosophical nonsense is a frequent with Seven, but her these remind her why she stays.

"So," she says, shifting to rest her face against them, "you're saying you're agnostic, Seven?"

"No, I--" Seven pauses, to allow Kathryn to yawn uninterrupted, "I am saying...you left peanut butter on the counter."

Hands tighten around a breast, but not daring enough to do it painfully.

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

"And you did not recycle your uniform, and carelessly threw your pips in the bathroom sink. I do not appreciate this. As a couple we are a collective, and a collective cannot function without the confines of order, and as order begins in the--"

The captain silences her lover with a gesture and glare, tossing the sheets aside and rising from the bed.

Whipped is what Paris had called it.

Gazing at the receding form of her spouse, Seven feels what she's come to know as complete and utter satisfaction.