DISCLAIMER: The Star Trek characters
are the property of Paramount Studios, Inc and Viacom. The story contents are the
creation and property of Djinn and are copyright (c) 2023 by Djinn. This story
is Rated R.
Sixteen Steps
by Djinn
It's
only sixteen steps from your door to your bed
I
should know better with your body next to mine
Can't
help myself, help myself (only sixteen steps)
- "16 Steps" Martin Jensen, Olivia Holt,
Ali Tamposi and Liza Owen
One:
The
ship is quiet, blessedly quiet for those still aboard. Some plan and plot in
the ready room but they also stop for moments of random nostalgia, laughing as
they realize what they're doing before getting back to planning. What's left of
the actual crew are at station, making sure everything functions as intended,
calling for help from a skeleton crew of engineers if they don't.
The
captain and his first officer have not spoken since Seven said
"Fire," and he told her she had the conn while he went to get his
injuries patched up.
That
is not precisely true. They have spoken to others,
they have just not spoken to each other.
That
fight—so stupid to have that fight when they did, in front of a crew who were
looking for strength and unity from them, and they know their mistake. The
fight still pulses between them, but they do not want to give it more oxygen by
talking about it again.
It's
done. Everything he's said to her. Everything she did or did not do for Picard—and
for him. Saving his life.
Was
he really ready to die?
She
asks herself the same thing. And the thing is she knows he's right. A Borg
would not have hesitated. The loss of one drone is acceptable if it takes out
enemies and protects a vital location. Even once she was no longer Borg, Tuvok rubbed off on her, his calm, his way of speaking—and
his dictum: The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.
She
should have let him die.
Two:
She
is the first to break the silence, standing and saying, "I am taking a
break." His muttered 'Fine" barely registers.
The
bridge crew strain to hear their words. They cannot read the dynamic any longer
between their captain and their first officer. They used to know it:
unrelenting hostility tempered by grudging respect for the other's capabilities.
But now, something is different and they are not sure why.
T'Veen would have filled them in on anything
important she was able to hear that they could not. She did not consider it
gossip if it helped the crew anticipate how their animosity would affect order
and performance on the part of the bridge crew.
But
T'Veen is not here.
They
think both their captain and their first officer blame themselves.
They
don't understand this.
They
blame the changeling that pulled the trigger.
Three:
Seven
finds Raffi in the gym, training with weapons in a way that looks natural.
Raffi is imagining Worf, his words, his strength—his
disapproval when she doesn't do things the way he told her. It is jarring when
she hears a cough and it is not him.
"I
do not understand why you and Worf used bladed
weapons to fight non-solid beings."
There
is Seven's disdain, the thing Raffi came to hate most at the end, the emotion
wrapped around the words. Raffi doesn't understand why Seven's doing it now,
but she accepts it rather than giving in to old feelings. "It worked. We
have disrupters to back them up. Why question our
methods?"
"Our."
Seven feels a surge of jealousy, but not that her ex might have found a
romantic replacement for her. Rather that her ex has a partner, someone she can
count on. A friend, even. She and Worf are undeniably
a team, a collective of two, and Seven wanted that—expected to have that—when Shaw picked her as his
first officer.
Or
did he not pick her? Was she forced down his throat by Picard or Janeway or
some other high-ranking officer.
Does
he hate her for more than just having been Borg? Did he never want her here at
all?
She
could ask him. But she does not want to hear the answer.
"I'm
a little busy, so unless you need something?" Raffi says, even though it
is not what she wants to say. She would like nothing more than to push Seven
down to the mat and kiss her until she lets her back in.
But
she is done doing that. She's learned she can make Seven want her, but she can't
make Seven want her for long.
"I
need nothing from you." So much harshness from Seven—but Raffi hears
something else in her voice. Loneliness. Isolation.
And
though she fails to identify it, there is awkwardness. Seven knows she needs to
talk. She would use Raffi for that purpose if she only got a smile. But Raffi
is done being her sounding board if nothing else is included. Seven has been a
poor partner, and now she is a horrible ex. They could be friends, if she would
only bend.
But
bending has never been her strong suit.
Four:
On
the bridge, Shaw paces, occasionally throwing glances at the closed door of his—his—ready
room. He wants to go in there and hide out and think—or maybe be included in
whatever the next step of this shitshow is.
But
no. He's not welcome.
The
only thing that makes that bearable is that his first officer isn't in there
either.
"Mura,
you have the conn."
"Aye,
sir." Mura stays at his post. He knows there is no need to take the conn—the
big chair—when everyone is busy at their stations. When they are all routing
repair comms, trying to triage without their captain, who is an engineer, or
their science officer weighing in.
Shaw
has seen the requests go by in his queue and knows he could step in, but his
crew are doing what they always do. Excelling.
Even
if he didn't. Even if his first officer didn't.
He
stalks to the lift before the space becomes claustrophobic with things said and
unsaid.
Five:
He
and Seven meet on the senior officers deck. By accident—or
maybe by fate. They stop and stare and even though both want to break the look,
they can't.
"Why
couldn't you let me die?" he whispers.
"You
know why." She takes a step closer, even though he has never indicated he
wanted that from her. Not in words anyway. But there are other signs. Signs she
learned to look for as warnings that someone was about to draw on her. Dilation
of the pupils, a tightening of the mouth, and increased respiration. Arousal,
only not of the sexual kind back then. But what she frequently sees from Shaw—underneath
the contempt and dislike—is very much sexual.
"You
love me?" he asks, even though he knows the answer. But he doesn't want
them going into this with false expectations.
"I
hate you."
"Yeah,
same."
"Wanting
is not the same as loving. Is not the same as mutual respect. As tenderness or
knowing your partner has your back." She takes another step toward him.
"Wanting is nothing more than a distraction."
"Agreed."
"And
I desperately need one."
"Me
too."
Their
quarters are across from each other. Both of them look from door to door. Her lips part, she is breathing faster than normal. He can feel
his palms sweating but other parts rise to the challenge.
"My
bed's bigger," he murmurs, low enough that she can ignore it—and not lodge
a harassment complaint.
Then
again, there may be no one solid left at Starfleet to lodge one with.
"Your
bed, then." She grabs his hand, draws him to the door of his quarters,
slaps his palm over the access panel, and then yanks him inside.
He
can't deny it. He likes her this way. He likes that she's the one doing the
work.
Not
just because he figures she won't lodge a complaint if she was the one dragging
him into his quarters.
But
also because it's fucking hot.
Six:
They
don't kiss. Neither of them want to give that much to
the other. They instead go to work in some kind of impromptu race to see who
can get the other's clothes off fastest.
"We
don't have much time," he says.
"And
you've just wasted some of it stating the obvious."
"Fuck
you," he says as he gets the last of her clothing off and pushes her
against the wall. Pushes her harder than he would normally do, but she only
smiles.
"Yes,
fuck me." She likes this version of him. She wants this version of him. The
man who was so cold to her now scalding harsh with his helpless wanting. Of
her.
He
lifts her, she wraps her arms and legs around him, and before he lets go, he
asks softly, "You didn't go to sickbay. Are you sure you're not
injured?"
"I
am fine." And she squeezes him as hard as she can with internal muscles
that got little use as a Borg.
He
has to thrust, not gently and not slowly and she bites his shoulder as her
breathing increases. She wants to rake his back but only does it with her right
hand, with nails too short to do much damage.
It
feels unbelievably good to be inside her and he has to shut his eyes and bury
his face in her hair. She comes before he does, which is fucking amazing in his
book because he cannot sustain this and wants to give her pleasure before
taking his own.
He
has wanted her for so long. Animosity never got in the way of lust.
Or
of who he thinks of when he jacks off.
They
are both breathing hard, neither looking at the other, but she doesn't ease the
grip of her legs so he carries her to his bed. She crawls off him and he
doesn't take his eyes off her now, not when he's seeing her, all of her.
She
turns, notices how intensely he is studying her and suddenly feels
uncomfortable. "I'm sure you'd rather I didn't have this hardware."
She waves her hand at him.
"Shut
up. You're fucking gorgeous." And he joins her on the bed and gets to know
her body with his lips and his tongue and judicious use of his teeth.
By
the time he's reached the core of her, he's ready for her again. "You want
to come this way? Or do you want to ride me."
She
has to think about it. And she realizes she does want to ride him but perhaps
later. "This way. Finish me."
She
says it as an order. Nothing subordinate about her in
bed. And he complies because he loves doing this, he loves giving as much as
taking.
She
is not quiet as she comes.
He
fucking loves that too.
Seven:
She
lies, coming down, watching him as he runs his hands over her brow, feeling the
implant over her eye, the one near her ear. Then he lifts her hand and examines
it the way the Doctor would have. Clinically.
"You
had more than this, right?"
She
nods. "They wanted to take them all off. They could not. Not and sustain
my life—or so they said." She has wondered why Picard shed his Borg scales
but she was not able to.
He
runs his finger down the tendons of the exoskeleton on her hand as he lets her
come down from the high he sent her to. The engineer
in him has wanted to do this since he first saw her—to figure out what it is,
how it feels, why she has it. He also knows the more he touches them, the less
self-conscious she will be about them. Once she is ready again, he intends to
pull her on top of him. "Can you feel it when I do this?" He strokes
so softly it's barely a whisper of a touch.
She
nods, confused. He hates Borg yet he appears fascinated by this.
And
gentle. Not condemning. Just curious.
An
engineer at his core.
"Do
they repel you?" she asks.
"Not
anymore." He is not smiling, so she thinks that isn't a joke.
He
lets go of her, eases his fingers against her, into her, rubbing gently, making
sure she's ready but not too sensitive to enjoy it. "Get on top of
me."
"Is
that an order, sir?" She smiles, then realizes it is a happier smile than
perhaps is wise. This is what it is. She must not make it more.
"Damn
well right it is."
She
crawls into position, lowering herself onto him, and they both gasp.
"Go
slow," he says, articulating what they both want.
She
would not have said it though. He is braver than she is—or perhaps he has to be
the one to say it. He's been so curt with her, their interactions fast and not
satisfying.
But
this...?
She
goes slowly. And they look at each other this time. Eyes held fast, like they
are linked.
"Slower,"
he murmurs with a smile that is full of...what? She doesn't want to assume it's
tenderness. That would be madness.
This
is just fucking, right?
He
reaches up and runs his fingers over her lips. They are as soft as he always
thought they would be. He imagines how they would look if he kissed her. Red.
Puffy.
He
does not want this to end. "Slower, Seven," he says, allowing her to
be who she really is. Annika Hansen died when she was assimilated.
She
stops moving. He has finally called her by her true name.
"Not
that slow." He laughs, and his grin is childlike but also not. They are
fucking and this is fun.
She
laughs and starts moving again. "Sorry."
"It
happens."
He
gives himself over to her, to the way she feels as she moves with him inside
her, and he thrusts up when he can no longer take it, losing himself, taking
the long slide down and as he hits the bottom, he hears her coming too.
Eight:
They
lie in bed. Both on their side, facing each other. They are not talking. They
are just...looking. Learning. Perhaps memorizing in case this never happens
again because one or both them has died.
Then
he leans in, wanting more than just fucking. "Is it okay to..." he
asks, his lips nearly on hers.
She
nods quickly, pulling him to her, and they kiss gently, soft, tentative touches
at first.
"I've
thought about this," he says, wanting to give her something more lasting
than an orgasm. "I've wanted you for so long."
She
pulls back and lets her finger slide over his lips, then around his face, his
cheekbones, so high, like hers. His forehead, the lines he's earned over time. He
is smiling so she goes back to his lips, outlining them with her fingers, then
her tongue.
He
moans and pulls her closer, and their kisses are no longer gentle. They are
verging on frantic, and he pushes her to her back and crawls on top of her,
bringing her hands up to play with him, to get him ready again, then he goes
back to kissing her, her lips, her cheek, her forehead, the implants.
He
expected them to be cold but they are warm, like her.
Nine:
She
remembers doing this with Chakotay, helping him come back for more, but that
was playful, with someone who had been a friend. This is something more and
less. A forgiveness for past slights, but also a connection she didn't expect.
But
one that might be temporary.
If
one or both of them die.
"You're
losing focus," he says, stopping the way he's been thrusting into her
hands, helping her help him come back to life.
She
feels overwhelmed, by what he's doing to her, by how right they feel together,
by how uncertain their future. "I don't want to die. I don't want you to
die. Even if this never happened again for us. I would still not want you to
die."
"I
don't want you to die either." Not now. Not when he's found someone who
doesn't look away. Who stares at him with lust and confusion even after she's
been kissing him so tenderly.
And
he doesn't want to just fuck her anymore. He wants to make love to her. He has
no idea if she wants that—he's so unclear on what is going on with her and
Raffi—but he doesn't care if this is all they have. He still wants her in the
world. He'll watch her and remember this, remember when they connected.
When
everything changed for them.
Ten:
There
is an ease that comes when two people let down their personal shields and grant
access to each other. Neither of them are good at
that, even if they have had lovers who they cared for.
Even
if they've had lovers as damaged as they are.
She
finishes making him ready and he slides into her, sighing as he goes, pulling
her legs up around him, easing her hair back as he moves as slowly as he made
her go.
She
is not sure she can take this. The way he is watching her, his soft touches on
her face, the rhythmic in and out as he watches her accept him, all of him.
She
feels as if she was made for him.
He
reaches between them, playing and she closes her eyes, her breathing speeding
up. He wants to feel her come while he's inside her. Wants to watch her lose
control.
She
can feel the ride beginning, up and up and up and...there.
Sliding and calling out and being held in place by him as she feels like she's
breaking apart.
This
time he doesn't wait for her to come down. He moves, as fiercely as their first
time, plunging, calling her name and she reaches for him, pulling him to her so
they are kissing again. She wants him to cry out in her mouth. She wants him
helpless to control this anymore.
And
he does, his movement changes, and he is moaning into her mouth, held to her by
a grip made relentless by her need for both him and this closeness. She wants
to be with him in every way possible.
"Fuuuuuuck," he finally says when she lets him go.
"Holy fuck."
He
collapses on top of her, telling her things, about how he used to watch her,
how he wished he could be nice to her, how he would try but his old fear would
come back. She takes it in like it is all the sustenance she will ever need. She
holds him inside her with her legs as she runs her hands down his back while he
tells her everything she's wanted to hear.
"I
saved you," she says when he stops talking. "And I would save you
again. Every time."
Eleven:
He
wants her to take him into her mouth, for her to suck and touch and see if
there might still be life there, but he doesn't want to ask for it. So he takes himself in his hand and begins the stroke that
always work.
She
watches him, then pushes his hand away, sensing he wants more from her than
just to watch. "Let me."
He
moans as her tongue circles, coaxing, teasing. Bringing things back to life
because he's thought of her doing this so damned often. "If you don't want
me coming in your m—"
She
doesn't stop what she's doing, just manages to get out a stern "Shhhh" as she works.
"Okay,
then," he says, giving himself over to her completely and she can tell he
has done that.
She
laughs softly as she discovers what he likes, what doesn't work as well. He
reaches down to stroke her hair and she loves that he is doing that. Lovingly,
not holding her down.
Chakotay
loved this. At the end sometimes it was easier to do this than to have to look
into his eyes and see the disappointment she knew he'd been seeing reflected in
hers. But with Shaw, she feels like this is more intimate than the sex had
been. Because he didn't ask—she'd just known what he wanted.
As
if they are joined. A collective of two.
"Last
chance if you don't want to." He laughs when she slaps him, not hard
enough to hurt, just, he thinks, to keep him in line. He lets go, stops trying
to be polite, and just rides the amusement-park level thrill she's taking him
on.
As
soon as she's done, he pulls her up, kisses her, wanting to taste himself on
her. "That was so good." He frowns. "Are you going to ever call
me by my name."
"I
didn't know if I should." She hates how tentative she sounds.
He
hates how unsure she sounds too. So he pushes her to
her back, puts his hands on both sides of her face, and says, "Say it. Liiiiii-am. Liam." He is laughing. He has never
laughed with her before this mess of a mission.
He
loves laughing with her.
Twelve:
They
lie together, both knowing they have to get back up to the bridge. Neither
wanting to.
"We
need to shower, Liam." She hates that she is being the voice of practicality
but thinks he doesn't want to be. That he doesn't want her to think he's
through with her.
She
loves that idea. She knows she's not through with him.
"Yeah we do." He eases away from her. "I want to do
this again. I mean for the record, so you know, so there's no question. I want
more. So...you have to survive. Okay?"
She
nods. "You too. Me too. Again. And again. And again." Her smile is so
delightful. Innocent and knowing, the woman taken by the Borg, the woman
rescued, never the same.
His,
he wants to think. His and not Raffi's. But he's not sure that ultimately she'll choose him.
Even
if right now this all either of them want or need.
Thirteen:
The
shower should not take as long as it is taking them. Fortunately, the captain
of the ship has unlimited water rations. They can kiss under the stream as long
as they want.
They
do not make love again. There is no time and if they do, they might not ever
leave.
As
he dries his hair, she pulls him to her, and says, "I need to get a fresh
uniform in my quarters. And since you only have one dryer..."
"I'll
requisition another if you want." Too bold, he suddenly worries.
But
her smile is a delighted one, not concerned that he is moving too fast.
"And what will be your reason for needing two when the quartermaster
asks?"
"I'm
the fucking captain. If I want two dryers, I can have them." He pulls her
to him and kisses her for a long time, the air from the dryer blowing on both
of them. He has no idea what it's doing to his hair.
It
can't be good because she laughs as she pulls away. "Wet it and start
over. Please."
He
glances in the mirror. Yeah, he looks like a goof. "So
you're saying this isn't a huge turn on?"
"Sadly,
it actually is." She rests her hand on his cheek. "If I don't go, I will
never go."
She
does not expect him to say, "Never sounds pretty damn good to me."
It
sounds good to her too.
Fourteen:
They
stop at the mess on their way back up to the bridge, get a huge platter of
energy-rich food for the bridge crew. And a large carafe of coffee with lots of
sugar and milk on the side.
They
are being even more formal with each other than they were before they had sex. Overcompensating,
although neither of them realizes that yet. They stand much closer than they
used to, though. And smiles break through, lovely, radiant smiles. Surprised
ones, too. Until they realize they're grinning like fools and go back to trying
to be grim.
If
there were anyone else in the mess, they'd see nothing but a stream of mixed
messages.
"Do
you really not like Picard's wine?" She has wanted to ask him this since
he insulted the admiral. "Or were you just being a dick?"
"Can't
it be both?" In the past, he'd have said that with an edge to his voice,
but he's trying really hard not to laugh, not to stare too intently into her
eyes, not to stand—shit they're standing so damn close. "It's dry. Too dry
for my tastes because it edges on bitter. Do you like it?"
"No,
but he's so proud of it." And she has a huge soft spot for Picard. Not
just the shared Borg history but something more universal—while she had a
mother figure in the queen, she never had a father.
"And
you're loyal." He stops what he's doing and stares helplessly. "I do
value that. No matter what I said before. And it's not your fault. The
consequences. We both had a hand in some of this."
"Well,
ultimately it's Picard's fault. Although this would have come to us eventually.
Would you prefer that? To have been taken with no say in the matter?"
"We
barely have a say in it now." But he knows what she means. "No, no I
wouldn't. And I like this, what just happened. What maybe will happen again.
For us."
"I
do as well."
Is
there anything more to say?
Fifteen:
The
ready room door is still closed when they get back to the bridge. It pisses
both of them off, on their own behalf but also for how disrespectful it is to
the other. But it is what it is, and both of them are pragmatic enough to
understand that.
They
get busy instead with passing out the food and coffee.
"If
anyone else wants to grab a shower, now's a good time," Shaw says. "Seven
and I can handle it here."
All
eyes are on him because no one is used to hearing him call her that.
"He
and I have come to an understanding," Seven says, biting back a grin that
is a little too seductive for the situation. They had come to an understanding
on so many luscious things. "But I'll understand if you forget and call me
Hansen."
He
thinks her smile is so sweet, so caring and inclusive as she lets the bridge
crew off the hook for fucking up before they even do it. He likes how her hair
dried. Wants to run his hand though it and may well do that once his people are
facing away and she and he are both seated.
She
thinks his smile is indulgent. Letting her take the lead on this. Finding such
an easygoing man under the porcupine she first met is a delight. She grabs a
cookie and a coffee and goes to her chair.
She
does not notice LaForge and Mura standing watching her and Shaw. Both of them
are wondering why she suddenly smells like his menthol scented shampoo and not
like the lemon and honey she normally uses. They arrive at the answer together
because they have been working side by side for so long. They both turn around
so the captain and the first officer can't tell they have been caught out.
They
are happy for them.
Mura
meets her eyes. "Go find Crusher. Grab some of that while you can."
"I
think I will get a shower," she says as she takes way more cookies than
one person needs and another cup of coffee.
Shaw
and Seven share a look, then a smile. Why not? Why not
be happy if they can?
Who
knows how much time they have left?
Sixteen:
The
doors to the ready room actually finally open. The coffee and food is long gone, but Shaw has no illusions that Picard and his
group made full use of the replicator.
"We're
going to freshen up," Picard says, with a look at Beverly, as they head
for the lift.
Both
Shaw and Seven wonder just how lively his new body is. Then decide they really
do not want to know.
"Commander,
let's see the damage to the ready room." He's up and off, both because he
does want to see how much they fucked up his space, but also because he wants
to close the door and kiss her again.
She
is right behind him. She enjoys the look of him from behind nearly as much as
she does from the front.
"Guys,
we'll be in here if you need us." Then he closes the doors.
Mura
smiles knowingly but does not look around to see if anyone else has figured out
their commanding officers are suddenly way closer than they were a short while
ago.
In
the ready room, two people are already reaching for each other. Their lips
meet, their bodies press up against each other. They could very easily have
sex.
They
don't. People outside these doors may need them.
Hopefully
they'll have time, once this is done. Hopefully they'll have all the time in a
world free of changelings and conspiracy and people dying.
Neither
of them is sure of that though. And when they ease away, it shows in their
faces.
"I
want to live," he says softly. "I'm glad you didn't blow me to
kingdom come. You may get sick of me though and wish you had."
She
pulls him close but just holds him, no kissing, no grinding. Just pure
affection—pure support. "I seriously doubt that."
FIN