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Seven could tell by the looks on the faces of the engineers closest to her that their Chief is not in the best of moods. Nicoletti's shoulders are pulled in towards her chest as though warding off physical blows rather than verbal jabs. Ensign Vorik's appearance is within normal parameters and were it not for the telltale bulge of his temporomandibular joint, she would believe him unaffected. It's more emotion than is normally displayed by the stoic young Vulcan, and she finds her level of apprehension increasing correspondingly.

This time it is not her fault, but now it is her problem, because today she has taken it upon herself to deal with B'Elanna's increasingly erratic behaviour. If it were her fault, an apology would suffice. She wishes that she had been the cause; then she'd know the exact nature of the problem.

What she is supposed to do about the situation still eludes her. Seven only knows that she has to do something.

"Seven," says Nicoletti. Her greeting is warm and tinged with relief.

The relief is mirrored in Vorik's posture, and by this Seven knows that today has been more difficult than normal. Her arrival in engineering usually provokes the opposite response.

Seven nods to both of them and directs her question to whoever will answer it first. She doesn't care whom. "Where is Lieutenant Torres?"

It doesn't surprise her that it is Nicoletti who answers. "Up there."

Seven follows the woman's gaze upward to the catwalk. Things are indeed serious. The catwalk provides an unobstructed view of Engineering. It allows for no shadowy voids of invisibility and she knows that Torres is likely aware of her presence. It is an admirable choice as a defensive position.

The lifts are inoperable. This is not a surprise. She would have disabled them herself had their positions been reversed. What does surprise her is that there is no dampening field to prohibit transport. "Computer, initiate site to site transport, from my current co-ordinates to engineering zone C-2, authorization Seven theta two. Engage."

The computer complies as though appreciating the efficiency of her actions, but their very expediency leaves no further time for thought. She still has no plan. When the transporter has finished, Torres is directly in front of her.

Without even trying, Seven can see that anger and defeat are at war within the Klingon. She is very familiar with the engineer's anger, has provoked it deliberately. If she were to be honest with B'Elanna, she would admit that she craved the anger. It signaled her existence. The anger confirmed her right to exist, her worth. Insignificant beings were not worthy of notice. One did not become angry at insignificant beings.

In the face of B'Elanna Torres' anger, Seven existed.

The air of defeat, she was less sure of how to handle. Nothing was allowed to defeat the engineer. It was the trait she admired most in B'Elanna: the passion and determination she brought to everything she attempted.

Neither anger nor defeat could be allowed to win.

Her presence does not provoke a response and Seven wonders if she is being ignored or if B'Elanna is not aware of her intrusion. It does not matter, she decides, the effect is the same. "Computer, execute emergency sequence omega."

She is proud of the plan. Improvisation is not a skill she possesses. Sort through existing information, collate data, make extrapolations; these things she can do almost effortlessly. Creating something from nothing is an entirely different matter.

Their destination materializes around them, or more precisely they materialize in her pre-programmed destination. Perspective is important. She wonders what B'Elanna's perspective is. Does she understand why Seven has brought her here to this place?

She doubts it. She herself is not sure.

"What do you want Seven?" says B'Elanna.

You, thinks Seven, but she doesn't say it aloud. Neither of them is ready for that truth. It is a different truth that they are here to seek. B'Elanna's truth. She doesn't lie, but she has learned to appreciate that some words carry more truth than others. "I wish to be of assistance."

She is unable to discern a response. But it is a start and she waits.

The room seems smaller now than the last time she was here. Perhaps it is the presence of an extra person. What will she say this place is if she is asked? But B'Elanna won't ask, she knows that. Asking would be a personal question, and B'Elanna doesn't ask personal questions.

"What is this place?" B'Elanna asks.

B'Elanna has broken the unspoken convention, and Seven is at a loss. Is it a deliberate violation? A desire to know? Or is it an automatic query, an attempt to impose order on chaos?

She decides to treat it as all three. It seems safest. "Sanctuary," she replies.

"Sanctuary," B'Elanna says, not so much repeating the word, as seemingly trying it on to see if it fits. "Sanctuary," she says again. Her voice is firmer this time, and she looks around her.

Seven looks around the small room too, trying to see what B'Elanna sees. She tries to discard the fact that she knows exactly how many cubic meters of space there are. Even with her limited experience, she can tell that the engineer is seeing something less tangible then the room's dimensions, she just doesn't know what.

The room is nondescript. Utilitarian. But it is hers. The only space aboard Voyager that is.

"There's no door," says B'Elanna.

For a second she thinks that B'Elanna will begin to yell. She wonders what new Klingon words she will learn this time. "You are correct," she says, "there is no door."

"Does the Captain know about this room?" asks B'Elanna.

"No," she answers. She studies the Klingon, wondering if she has answered correctly. The evidence suggests she has; B'Elanna's heart rate has decreased and her respiration is even. When their eyes meet, she doesn't look away, continuing to study the engineer.

"Why?" asks B'Elanna.

Seven is unsure what question she is being asked to answer. Again she chooses safety, and leaves Kathryn's name unspoken. She is glad her eyes are pale. Observation of the crew has yielded data that indicates that it is more difficult to correctly analyse the facial expressions of someone with pale eyes. "It seemed the appropriate course of action."

They are still looking at one another, and Seven begins to doubt her conclusion. B'Elanna has dark eyes. Her expression is inscrutable.

"You sleep here," says B'Elanna.

"No," says Seven. "I do not sleep."

"Then why the bed?"

Seven considers the question and, as always, gives an honest response. "I find it more comfortable to think while reclining."

"In other words, you do not prefer to stand," says B'Elanna. A hint of a smile ghosts her features.

"No. I do not." Seven smiles as she speaks. It is a small smile to be sure, but she has practiced it and it is a smile.

"I don't need any help from you," says B'Elanna. The nascent smile has vanished.

"You are damaged," she says in reply.

Seven learns several new words, some of them in Klingon, but most are from an old Earth language, Spanish. She was unaware that B'Elanna spoke Spanish. The profanity ends, but B'Elanna is in motion, a compact projectile. Seven holds her position. Then the nature of the Klingon's motion changes. It is a subtle change, but she understands that she is now part of the pattern. They are in orbit.

And just as clearly, she understands that they are not revolving around each other, but around a third unseen body. It has been like this from the beginning. Seven wonders if she is the only one who sees this. She considers it and decides, no. She is not. B'Elanna has been aware of it. The pattern of antagonism between the two of them provides corroboration, though there are other probabilities. She abandons her line of thought and returns her attention to the situation at hand.

"I am not damaged. And even if I were, I don't need assistance from a Borg Drone!" says B'Elanna.

The verbal attack is familiar, argumentum ad hominem. Normally, she sidesteps the abuse, but if this is to succeed, she cannot this time. "I am no longer of the Collective. I am not a Drone."

"Fine. Whatever," says B'Elanna.

"It is not fine. It is hurtful. Deliberately," she says.

"Are you accusing me of having no honour?"

B'Elanna's response contains the expected anger, but Seven is surprised at how her statement has been interpreted. It presents an opportunity and she takes it. "No," she answers. "It is not you who is lacking in honour."

Silence prevails now. Even the sounds of respiration seem muted. With interest she notes that time does appear to dilate. B'Elanna comes to a stop so not even the soft crunch of carpet under boots mars the quiet. She meets the Klingon's eyes again. They are still inscrutable. She does not know what to say next, and so stands, patiently, hands clasped behind her back. She will not break the silence.

Motion resumes and the eye contact is broken. The distance between them increases. Six meters separates them now and B'Elanna has turned away.

The sparseness of the room bothers her. Its bare walls provide no visual relief; there is nothing to occupy her attention. Wall colour is irrelevant she tells herself. Many things are no longer irrelevant. The bed seems to grow, occupying more space than is possible, but as she looks at it, it retreats, its size now consistent with its dimensions.

It surprises her how difficult it is to refrain from speaking. There is much she wants to say. She wants to treat this as a report. How much simpler this would be if she could. Facts, conclusions, recommendations for action, but there seems to be no way to separate the emotional resonance from the data.

"I forgot. The Borg are experts on honour," says B'Elanna. The words are forceful and fill the air.

Seven considers whether or not to respond. She decides that she must. "The Borg do not say one thing when they mean another. Intentions are stated clearly, without equivocation. Expectations are precise."

B'Elanna grunts. "Yeah. The Borg are famous for not taking things that belong to other people."

She cannot deny that, it is true. B'Elanna's eyes feel like a weight against her skin, and she realizes that the comment was not about the Borg, but was directed at her. She is confused, she has taken nothing that is B'Elanna's. The confusion prevents her from formulating a response. Nothing seems adequate.

B'Elanna steps forward. Perversely, Seven relaxes. Anger is radiating from the engineer in palpable waves, and the anger has a predictability to it that is comforting. She knows what to expect from an angry B'Elanna.

She is completely unprepared for the blow that B'Elanna levels at her.

Every second of the contact between them is recorded. The sudden warmth as skin hits skin; the explosion of heat as the skin over her left cheekbone splits, spilling her blood to the floor and the accompanying burst of pain, but more deeply imprinted is the abrupt shift from anger to horror as B'Elanna registers what she has done.

The damage is insignificant; it will heal quickly. For a brief instant, Seven wishes it would scar; anything to mar the perceived perfection that separates her from her crewmates. Some of the blood has reached the corner of her mouth now, the slow trickle following a path of least resistance. It tastes of salt, iron and proteins, but is no longer warm. She can feel the dried edges to the thin stream on her skin.

"I have taken nothing that is yours." The phrasing speaks of an object, but Seven knows they are talking of a person. Her earlier intuition has proved correct. B'Elanna is indeed aware of who stands between them. Who has always stood between them.

"Haven't you?" The words are quiet, as deflated as their speaker.

"No. I have not." Is this the moment for truth? Perhaps not, but Seven decides that if she does not speak now, then it is probable that she never will. "I have coveted something that is hers."

At this, B'Elanna's ridged brow furrows. "Her ship?"

"That is her priority system. Not mine." It is as close to censuring the Captain as Seven will permit herself to come. She shifts her position slightly to ensure that her next word has maximum impact. As their gazes meet, she speaks, "you."

It is fascinating to watch the progression of expressions that cross B'Elanna's face. She is not competent with the full range of emotions, but Seven recognizes the surprise that is followed immediately by disbelief. A muscle along B'Elanna's jaw jumps and her nostrils flare: wariness, Seven decides. She is amused when she glimpses a brief flash of speculative glee, the same look the engineer normally reserves for a complicated engineering problem. Seven decides that the look is promising. But it is utter impassivity that settles finally over the Klingon-hybrid's face.

"You want me." The words are carefully enunciated.

Seven feels her courage drain. She is unsure if she is being asked, told, or remonstrated. It does not matter which. "Yes." Immediately she feels better. The outcome is almost irrelevant now. She has spoken. Now there are possibilities, where before existed only confusion and anger.

She hopes B'Elanna does not ask why. Seven does not think that she can explain why, she only knows that she does. That she always has. "Yes," she says again, more forcefully this time. She thinks she can hear desperation under the syllable.

She has spoken, and now falls silent. It is up to B'Elanna to act. Seven registers that the playing ground is not level, B'Elanna cannot leave with her assistance. She knows that she must speak again, but does not want to. Maybe, she thinks, the playing ground is finally level. She remains silent.

That silence lengthens and again becomes the dominant sound in the room. Even the sounds of respiration seem unable to penetrate its weight. In a vague place beyond description, Seven's body registers the hum of the warp core, and wonders if B'Elanna is also aware of it.

She is used to B'Elanna acting, and is surprised when the engineer licks her lips and opens her mouth as though to speak.

"BI chenmoH wIj 'Iw bom," she says. Her posture is both defiant and hopeful.

It takes Seven two point four seconds to make the translation. The phrase is not one that the Collective deemed necessary to retain, and she has to break the Klingon words down from their roots. You make my blood sing. Another second passes before she is able to compose her own response.

With a calm completely unexpected, she steps toward B'Elanna, holding the words on her tongue for a moment more. She brushes a mesh tipped finger across B'Elanna's cheek, across the place where the son of Kvok, acted on desires that were not entirely his own.

"Du får mitt blod att sjunga," Seven breathes her reply across B'Elanna's cheek, then bends in to draw some blood of her own. "You make my blood sing," she repeats, savouring the taste of the Klingon as it mixes with the lingering flavour of her own blood.

The End

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