AUTHOR: Bridget Cochran
SUMMARY: First Kiss in the Delta Flyer
This story takes place in the early days of Season Five and has nothing to do with anything else I‘ve written regarding season five. My homage goes to Riss‘s subgenre of P/7 and the Smiles of Tom Paris.
Disclaimer: I own the ideas, Paramount owns the rest. Archive at will.
Tom levered up into the Delta Flyer. It was awkward with a padd in his hand.
"Seven?" He was surprised to see her there.
"Yes." Her answer was muffled beneath a console. All he could see was her long legs, and that was fine with him.
"I didn‘t expect to find you here."
"Where did you expect to find me?"
Tom closed his eyes and counted. "I didn‘t expect to find **anyone** here," he clarified.
"Beta shift is a satisfactory time to work without interruption."
Tom imagined a brow arching and he smiled at the warning. "I‘m allowed here, Seven. It‘s my project." He hunkered down beside her. "What are you working on?"
"I am attempting to recalibrate the navigation grid to interface with your—improvements."
"Ah, the switches and dials." He looked at her, his smile still bright, "Crude, but effective."
Seven‘s eyes narrowed and her jaw stiffened, as if trying to conceal a smile.
"I require your assistance."
"Oh?" That was a surprise.
"The interface is not homogenizing with the relays."
A frown crept between his eyes. "Have you defragged the ports?"
Was that a snort? "Please examine it for yourself."
Tom shook his head as he moved to all fours to crawl under the console beside her. The space was cramped, really cramped. The pilot twisted up on one elbow to get a view. She pointed to the problem, Tom keyed a few commands, then reached up to the farthest set of chips to rearrange one or two.
He was totally unprepared for the bare hand on the skin of his stomach. The t-shirt he was wearing had wrenched from his pants and now there were cool fingers on his abdomen. His head shot up, coming into brutal contact with the console‘s undercasing. "Yow." His hand clutched at the back of his skull, instinctively moving away from the hard object that caused his pain.
However, in close quarters like this, that meant he could only go downward, sprawling awkwardly, and uncomfortably on Seven. The X-Borg‘s beautiful eyes stared at his betraying no emotion. Wait a minute, her pupils were dilating.
"You gonna tell me what‘s going on?" he murmured, his face very close to hers.
"Your shirt was loose, exposing a quantity of your skin to my view."
"I have never touched the flesh of a human male," Seven‘s lips stayed parted.
"I see." Tom knew his face was a bright, gleaming red. Here he was, in the shuttlecraft of his dreams, chest-to-chest, jaw-to-jaw with the woman of his adolescent wet dreams. Her hand still rested on his stomach, unmoving. "Why me?"
"You are here."
Tom laughed. "Not buying that one, Seven." He paused. "Why not Harry?"
"He is not here."
"I‘m not buying that one, Seven," he repeated. "Harry‘d be here if you said the word."
"Which word is that?"
"Stop it," Tom sighed, "you‘re not that dense."
His words seemed to take some of the tension from their—uh, confrontation. Her hand now rested on his abdomen, no longer poised to strike. With a tentative jerkiness, she rested her head on his shoulder, settling her cheek awkwardly on his collar bone. After a moment her shoulders began to relax, too.
Gently, Tom tugged at the hand on his stomach dragging it out from under his shirt. But, it was a slow drag. Seven was reluctant to lose contact with his skin.
"Do you maintain that fur covering on all parts of your body?"
Maybe Tom choked on his saliva. He wasn‘t quite sure because he was hacking up a lung, lunging up from under the console, scraping his head on the rough bottom. "Ow. Shit." His hand went to his head in time to catch the first furious drops of blood. He scooted further out into the open, followed by Seven.
She blinked as she studied him. "You are damaged."
"Hell, yes," he growled, "get the medkit. It‘s out in—"
"The Cargo Bay. I will get it."
Tom sat with his head in his hands, pushing at the gash with his palm. "Could you hurry it up?" he called. The blood felt sticky and he was getting light headed.
"I have located the emergency medical kit." She set the case down, flipping it open to lift out a Class 2 Regenerator. She lifted it to the damaged area.
He moved to take the instrument from her, but she resisted. "Come on, Seven, lemme do it."
"I cannot comply."
"You don‘t know how to use that thing."
She blinked at him. "I have been instructed in the operation of a dermal regenerator." She paused, tilting her head as she examined his head wound. Her eyes flipped back to his. "Resistance is futile."
Tom saw the smile glitter in her eye, even if it didn‘t make it to her face, his shoulders slumped.
"Regenerate away, sweetheart."
She frowned at the personal reference, switching the regenerator on and raising it to Tom‘s forehead.
Silently, he watched her work, taking a leisurely inventory of the beauty of her face. Blue eyes were intent on their effort to heal him. One hand held his chin in place, the other the regenerator. As she worked, her lips thinned and relaxed in turns, concentrating on repairing him.
She flickered her eyes to his to ascertain—what? Tom didn‘t know. Her eyes lingered on his. A brow rose in inquiry, so Tom smiled. Not the ray of sunshine smile. The quiet, thank you smile he didn‘t have much cause to use recently.
And Seven was transfixed. Her pupils dilated as she slowly lowered the regenerator. She was not smiling, but her lips were slightly open again. Tom could have sworn ‚wonder‘ was the expression on her face.
Uh-oh, he thought. He‘d seen that look before. The regenerator was discarded, but his chin wasn‘t. He could break her grip if he tried. He didn‘t try.
She assessed him with what appeared to be clinical detachment, but Tom wasn‘t fooled. Her pupils were dilated, her breathing changed, her heart rate was probably accelerated, Tom thought through a check list not unlike Seven‘s.
Now her eyes examined his lips. She even raised his chin to examine them, he silently complied, even though he had to swallow.
The examination was over and Tom saw the change in her eyes. The expression moved from speculation to conquest. He had enough time for his lips to quirk before he felt the gentle pressure on them. He sighed.
The tentativeness of the kiss was so out of the norm for the "I am Borg." She was unsure of how to proceed once her lips touched his. He felt himself smile as he moved closer to her, his arms circling her waist. She smelled good, probably shampoo. She fit just right, even in this awkward, sitting on the floor, legs curled around position. He let his tongue touch her lips.
He opened his eyes to stare into hers. He blinked, but he also lapped at the full lips. Gradually, her lips slackened enough for his tongue to slip through.
Man, she tasted as good as she looked. He skipped his tongue over the perfect rows of her teeth as he explored everything within his reach. Then her tongue touched his. It withdrew swiftly, before taking another tentative poke at his. Tom could never resist a dare and she was, indeed, daring him. The well trained organ moved toward hers, capturing it, warring with it, enjoying the assault.
As with all endeavors attempted, this one soon became a battle for supremacy. Her tongue fought for mastery and for a few moments Tom let her think she was going to win. He eased onto his back, taking her with him, allowing her to pin him to the deck of the Delta Flyer. The length of her pressed to the length of him. He really did enjoy the fact that their foreheads and toes nearly touched. Even in the 24th century it was rare for women to be as tall as he was.
Her mouth never left his, her exploration of the inside of his thorough. In this position, atop Tom, she propped herself up with hands on his shoulders. His hands were free to glide across her back, shoulders, shoulder blades again. He stuck to the top half because once his hands slid below her waist to explore her backside—well, let‘s just stop it there.
He wrenched his lips away from the exploration. "Seven," he gasped, "we gotta stop."
She looked down at him, her eyes hooded. "I do not wish to stop."
"Hell," he said as he gently pushed her off of him, "I don‘t want to stop either." He was already pulling himself to a seated position. Her stare was her question. "We‘re in the Delta Flyer."
"We are." She sat up, as well.
"Seven, people don‘t do what we were doing in a public place."
She frowned then. "I was under the impression that illicit relations in a public place added to the excitement of the act."
Tom nearly choked again, and grimaced in embarrassment. "Where do you get that stuff?" He rubbed his neck to hide his chagrin.
"The Starfleet data base is quite comprehensive in its information on the mating habits of various species."
"It is," Tom admitted. He turned to her. "Look, Seven, I‘m sorry I got carried away." He put his hand up to stem her literal translation of his reference. "I‘m sorry if I took liberties."
Seven frowned deepened, and Tom read disappointment. "I am sorry, also."
"Aw, Seven. That‘s not what I meant." Tom pulled her into an awkward embrace. "I‘m not sorry I kissed you, but I should have used better judgement. I just shouldn‘t have done it."
"You did not want to kiss me?" The question was muffled into his chest.
Tom sighed, he felt like he was having a conversation with a child. "Of course, I did. You‘re beautiful, and I was curious."
Seven pushed away from him, a smile ghosting a radiance across her face. "I was curious as well."
Tom relaxed. "So," he tilted his head rakishly, "is your curiosity satisfied?"
"No." She rested her head against his chest again. "I now have more questions."
Tom smiled as he nuzzled against her temple. He did, too.
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