Always a Losing Game
Summary: S3.4 filler scene. Shaw and Seven in the nacelle room as life support goes offline.
Characters: Seven of Nine, Liam Shaw
Rating: Teen
Warnings: AU, Angst
Words: 1,412
Two: Called Out in the Dark
Liam Shaw slides the creeper board out of the way. This had better work. He glances at Hansen, a barb on his tongue, but there's a pensiveness to her that makes him swallow it. This isn't her fault, anyway - he's only being pissy because his leg is killing him.
He levers himself up slowly, breathing through the pain. Her hand covers his. Then an alarm tells him that life support is offline. The room goes dark. Her fingers curl around his, her nails dig into his palm.
"We should probably sit down," he says. "It's gonna get real interesting, real fast."
He limps to the wall and slides down it. Hansen sits next to him. This time he takes her hand.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Yes. You?"
"Been better."
She sighs. "I'm sorry."
She might be, but all the apologies in the world aren't going to check the life-and-death situation that they're in. However, it is life-and-death, so he ought to cut her some slack.
"Let's not dwell, yeah? This could be our last moment."
"Do you doubt that the plan will work?"
He thinks about it. "It's risky," he allows. "But I'd not have done it if I thought there was no chance."
"No, I do not think you would." Her thumb rubs across his knuckles. "I am afraid, though."
He nods in the darkness. "You and me both."
She's quiet for a moment. The temperature is rising, slowly, warmed by their bodies. The air has an edge to it, though that's probably just his imagination.
"So," she says quietly, though there's a touch of amusement to her voice. "Dipshit from Chicago?"
"Something I said to Picard in Ten-Forward. Hasn't the grapevine fill you in? Let me tell you, Hansen, drink and drugs don't mix. I got... pissed in more ways than one. Fucking Borg." He freezes. "Shit. Sorry."
"I am not examining why you'll apologise for that but still use the name I hate." She squeezses his hand lightly. "Anyway, I feel the same way."
"But you prefer being called Seven." It's not quite a question, but his confusion bleed into his tone. "Despite everything."
"I've been Seven longer than I was ever Annika Hansen. I tried, but it didn't feel like me."
"I can understand that."
"Wolf 359," she says, and her hand tightens on his again. "I'm sorry."
He shrugs. "It wasn't your fault."
"It wasn't Picard's, either. Drones do not have a choice, Liam.
"No, I guess you didn't Though, I will say that we ought to be a touch more careful about how we seek out new life and new civilisations."
"On that we can agree," she replies firmly.
Her hand loosen on his, and then shifts so she's closer, pressed against his side. Liam winds an arm around her waist and pulls her in even closer because she's shivering. He thinks of the blast heading their way, of the lack of oxygen, of the coldness of space. He doesn't fear death, but he's not ready for it. He's not ready for her to die, either.
There is so much more for them both to do.
He presses a kiss to her forehead. One thing down, a thousand more to go.
There is a surge and he feels the ship tilt. The nacelles glow brightly and air rushes back into the room. Seven lifts her head and their eyes meet. Her smile is soft and there's a look in her eyes he suspects is reflected in his.
She leans in slightly. His gaze drops to her mouth.
"So?" he says and she gives a soft, airless laugh.
"So," she says, and closes the gap.
The kiss remains caste, but there's a weight behind her lips that suggests she wants more. Liam would let her climb onto his lap and take it, but his leg fucking hurts, and Albert and Costello are still trying to crash his ship into shit.
"Bridge," he murmurs when she eases away.
"Yeah," she sighs. "I suppose we should."