Disclaimer: They don't belong to me, the characters belong to Paramount. The story is mine, however.

Credits: Sorcha and Ann, who made a comment that inspired me. Thanks

 *****

Seven waited fifteen minutes in the holodeck before she decided that Lieutenant Paris was not arriving. She touched her commbadge.

"Seven of Nine to Lieutenant Paris."

She waited. Nothing.

She discontinued the program with a brief command and walked out into the corridor.

"Computer, state the location of Lieutenant Paris."

:::Lieutenant Paris is in his quarters.:::

Seven considered the statement. There was the possibility, though remote, that he had forgotten their appointment to engage in Captain Proton that evening. Steadily, she walked to the turbolift and stepped inside.

"Deck 6," she instructed the computer, and waited as it took her to the designated floor. Once out, she went directly to his quarters and touched the chime.

"Go away."

Seven frowned.

"Lieutenant Paris, you are late to our engagement on the holodeck. Please state your reason."

She waited for a minute, then heard a low chuckle that she did not recognize from earlier interactions with him.

"This is *not* a good time, Seven. Please leave."

Seven paused, debating her next course of action. The most obvious was to leave--she could not quite deny that she was--hurt--by the fact he had seemed to have ignored their appointment on the holodeck...and her secondary reason was even less logical.

They had participated together in three dates, and Seven had grown--comfortable--with the continued growth of their relationship. The routine of interaction with Lieutenant Paris had been established, and it had become a part of her life. He kissed her at the end of each date, and Seven had grown to anticipate these physical encounters more and more...to her own shock, she had begun to think of these--moments--during her on-duty hours.

"Tom, open the door."

The switch from rank to personal must have startled him, for he was silent for a few moments.

"Tom--" she paused, thinking. "Please."

Seven waited. The door slid open.

Her first reaction to the sight of him was shock--he was dressed in his usual off-duty clothes, but they were rumpled, and the blue eyes were bloodshot. He waved her in, and as Seven stepped into the room, she recognized the smell.

Alcohol. Not synthehol. Her gaze unerringly found the bottle on the small table before his couch. She went to it and lifted it to identify the content.

"Liquor."

"I told you to go away." His voice was steady, as was his balance as he crossed to take the bottle from her hand, sitting back down on the couch.

"Why are you consuming liquor, Tom?"

He grinned a little.

"Because I can. Because I want to."

Seven clasped her hands behind her back, searching for a question that would force him to reveal the origin of his erratic behavior. She searched his face, and the familiarity of the expression cleared her doubts.

"You are--distressed." She stated it as a fact. Tom raised an eyebrow. "Alcohol will not solve your--problems, Tom."

"It numbs them a whole hell of a lot, Seven," he answered. "Try some."

"I do not enjoy the effects of overconsumption of ethanol," she replied steadily. "Nor should you."

"I do."

He took another drink, staring now at the bottle, and Seven felt a sudden, and unexpected, need to assist if she could. Even with the knowledge that he was suffering from the effects of emotional attachment to Lieutenant Torres. She took a tentative seat on the other end of the couch.

"Do you--wish to discuss it, Tom?" she asked finally. Her hands, clasped in her lap, tightened as she tried to remember the opportunities she had had to witness other members of the crew offering support. As this was usually a private scenario, there had been few opportunities.

"No, I do not." The diction was sharp and precisely pronounced, despite the low level of alcohol still remaining in the bottle. Seven didn't let her gaze leave his face.

"Perhaps it would be--" she searched again, "--better for you if you did."

"Seven, there's nothing I want to discuss with anyone. What I would like is to be left alone to quietly wallow in my own misery, so if you don't mind..."

"I will not leave."

He glanced up at her. The blue eys were slightly narrowed.

"Why the hell not?"

Seven hesitated.

"I do not--enjoy--seeing you distressed."

His head tilted a little.

"I don't want comfort, Seven."

"That is irrelevant. You require assistance. I am here to offer that."

Tom laughed softly.

"Seven--here's how you can help. I don't want--" he stopped, thinking with obvious effort. His voice softened. "I don't want to hurt you, Seven."

"Your distress is caused by Lieutenant Torres," Seven stated. Tom blinked.

"How the hell do you know that?" The incredulity of his voice amused her a little.

"I have had many opportunities to observe you over the past four weeks, Tom. I am aware when you recall memories of your relationship with Lieutenant Torres."

Tom shook his head.

"Who would believe you would notice?" Seven stiffened, then recalled her study of human interactions. Self-defense mechanisms that humans sometimes employed to establish boundaries against penetration. She lifted her head.

"You are deliberately trying to injure me in the anticipation I will leave." Seven settled herself on the couch. "I am Borg. You cannot offend me. I am aware that you have consumed a significant portion of alcohol and this circumstance has affected your judgement."

They stared at each other. Tom let out a breath.

"Seven--"

"Relate to me what aspect of your former relationship with Lieutenant Torres is troubling you at this time, Tom."

He shook his head.

"Just--Seven, its nothing. I just--I saw something that--"

"You have observed that Lieutenant Torres and Ensign Kim have begun to engage in a physical relationship?"

Tom let the air out of his lungs in a harsh breath.

"How the fuck do you know that, Seven?"

"You need not resort to profanity, Tom. I am aware of this circumstance because I observed their interactions two days ago. They were uncomfortable in each other's presence and during a period of time that they were not aware of my presence, they spoke to each other in a frank manner regarding the change in the nature of their relationship." Seven thought for a moment. "I believe they have decided to discontinue the physical aspect of their relationship and return to their previous state."

Tom's mouth gaped a little. Then he chucked, a raw sound that Seven could not relate to humor.

"Seven, you have to get the best gossip on board Voyager. Remind me to include you in the gambling pools from now on."

Seven inclined her head and decided to ignore the non-sequitir for more immediate concerns.

"Why does this circumstance trouble you, Tom?"

Tom lifted his free hand in a gesture she interpreted as the equivalent of a shrug.

"I don't know." He took another drink.

"Do you wish to resume your relationship with Lieutenant Torres?" Seven asked steadily. Her stomach had tightened, and she disliked the feeling.

Tom let out a breath.

"I can't, Seven. I can't--I can't forget." He stopped, and Seven interpreted his abrupt silence as avoidance of an issue he was not yet ready to discuss.

"Are you jealous?" This suggestion was no more palatable than the first, and Seven took a controlled breath.

Tom blinked, considering it.

"Maybe. I'm not sure."

"You still grieve for the loss despite the fact that you do not want to resume your relationship with Lieutenant Torres."

"Yes." Tom nodded slowly. The bottle tipped as he slumped into the couch. "Seven--I loved her. I still do. But I can't forgive or forget--and seeing her--knowing she was with someone else--my best friend..."

"Do you think she has equal feelings of remorse over the termination of your relationship and also some--jealousy--over the relationship you have chosen to establish with me?"

Tom's eyes jerked up, meeting hers.

"No. She doesn't." Tom paused, letting out a sigh. "No, she just accused me of being what she always thought I was--just a skirt-chaser." Seven's look of blank incomprehension must have been apparent. "That all I want is sex with someone, Seven, and I don't care who it is."

"I see." Though Seven did not understand that opinion, she was aware humans often formed unusual beliefs that, despite being illogical, they clung to with persistence.

Slowly, she navigated the last statement he had made.

"Tom, is that the reason that you have chosen to spend time with me? Because you wish to engage in sexual intercourse?"

Tom blinked, sitting straight suddenly.

"No, Seven!" He half rose, then thought better of it and sat back down, to her relief. "That isn't--" he stopped, swallowing hard. "Seven, who am I? I thought--I thought I outgrew my reputation, at least a little. But I haven't, not really. Do you remember when we talked about who we are?"

Seven blinked and recalled the memory.

"Yes, I remember, Tom. You explained to me why you wished to be referred to as Tom."

"Yes." He took a breath, staring at her. "Seven, I'm still all those people. The ex-con, the ex-officer, all of them--the drunk, the murderer, the thief--"

"You are not."

Tom blinked.

"What?"

Seven found herself leaning forward, meeting the startled blue eyes.

"When I came on-board this ship, I was told I could choose to be anything I wanted to be. Janeway told me that becoming an individual means I must make my own choices, my own decisions--and whether or not they are the correct or not, they are mine. You told me when I came aboard, that many people on this ship had pasts, but they could be--more--than what that past made them."

"Seven, you've never done some of the things I have done."

"I am--was Borg." Seven held his eyes. "I have been a--murderer. Thief. I have destroyed civilizations. I have destroyed planets. I have assimilated minds for the Collective."

"Seven, you didn't have a choice--you were Borg."

"I was Borg, and part of the collective consciousness. Their memories are mine-their actions are also mine. I do not deny my complicity in those actions, Tom."

"It's different."

"It is different because you wish to make it so."

Blue eyes up to hers again. The confusion was plain.

"Seven?"

"Because Lieutenant Torres says it, you assume it is true."

"We were together for a year, Seven! She's been my friend for longer than that. If anyone would know--"

"So you base your opinion of yourself on what Lieutenant Torres judges you to be? Or on objective study of your actions since you have chosen to be an officer on this ship?"

As he sat there, hand clutching the bottle, Seven thought over what he had told her--and despite the fact that Tom had never revealed to her, or to anyone, the substance of the altercation that had terminated his relationship with Lieutenant Torres, Seven could now make an accurate hypothesis.

She took a breath, regulating the sudden and unexpected--{anger?}--that the realization of the origin of Tom's distress brought her. It was not simply Lieutenant Torres' liasion with Ensign Kim that was troubling him. Almost without thinking, and certainly without design, she reached out and grasped the bottle.

"You will not consume more alcohol, Tom."

He tried to jerk back, but her exoskeletoned hand's enhanced strength did not allow him to gain an advantage.

"Tom. You will give me the bottle."

The blue eyes met hers.

"Seven--"

"You do not require it to function, Tom. You have told me that this is no longer who you are."

"You want me to prove it, Seven?" His hand closed over hers, suddenly aggressive. Seven did not attempt to pull away.

"You do not need to 'prove' anything to me, Tom." She did not relinquish her grip, staring into the blue eyes. Trying with her limited knowledge of human actions, of human thought, to reach what somehow she knew must be accomplished. "I want you to hand me the bottle because you are not this--man--anymore, the person you do not wish to be."

She felt the grip loosen, and she pulled it away. Before he could speak, she carried it to the recycler and dropped it in. Then turned to look at him--he looked--

Alone.

She understood that emotional state. Slowly, she approached the couch, meditating her next course of action, before sitting down next to him and awkwardly touching his shoulder, warm beneath the soft material of his shirt.

"I will--assist you, Tom," she said finally. A moment of hesitation, and then he moved forward, arms going around her in an embrace that startled her with its strength. His head was on her shoulder, and she could feel dampness against her skin.

No one had ever expected her to offer them comfort. Perhaps they hadn't believed she could give it. His judgement impaired by his consumption of alcohol, he assumed she was capable of giving him--

It was a novel thought. He seemed to believe that she could give it to him.

Tom had told her once she made it easier for him. And she wanted to do that. Slowly, she placed her arms around him, matching his grip awkwardly, feeling his arms tighten further in response. She shifted her position to afford herself a little more comfort, then relaxed into the tight grip.

Enjoying, even, the warmth it brought her. And knowing, somehow, that she was giving him the same thing.

She closed her eyes.