Orders

(in which KJ demands: Do it)

By jeny_nour

We met in Leonardo's workshop, immediately I tried to apologize for my

behavior in my quarters the previous week. Seven standing stiff,

throwing her glance over to a small art project she had be working on

while I was on the bridge. I knew the whole—encounter— in my quarters

had confused her.

I had resolved to stand down. To keep my distance from here on out. No

matter the consequences to my heart. We hadn't spoken for several

watches now. I figured talking would calm things, but with my words,

she moved from her work and pushed her finger to my lips,

"Do you regret our actions?"

"Of course not. There was nothing to—. Seven—"

"Then you have nothing to be sorry

She reached for the draped tray, and brought it over to the table next

to us, "I have made these. For you. Tell me, do you approve."

She unveiled two bronze forms. No bigger than bud vases. Delicate.

Subtle. "The Doctor helped me research this ancient casting method.

This is bronze. It is known as Lost Wax. What—do you think?"

I was speechless, "Seven, they're wonderful."

Two torsos - no arms or neck, just collar to waist, each no bigger

than the height of my hand. One an old-fashioned woman's vest,

buttoned down. Little straps hanging on the lower back. The swell of

her breasts, the curve of her back, yet, just the vest. The second a

torso also, but maybe a half inch shorter, of a simple shirt. Sleeves

cut away, kind of ragged at the shoulders. Same stance, the breasts,

the curve of the back, but mirroring the vest, so they stood, a

couple, dancing with each other.

"They are for you. For your—generosity, for the—art lessons."

"As if you owed me a thing." I said, but she gently set the pieces

aside and reached for me.

"Perhaps I am to judge if I do."

She wouldn't let me go, and moved me back till she had me pinned up

against the table; she reached for me and spoke my name into my ear. I

was wet that quickly, impaled on her leg. Both of us inhaling and

exhaling harsh in each other's ears, making gritty noise, but muted. I

grabbed her shoulders and pulled her mouth to me, arching my back and

offering my neck, "Bite me, Seven."

Her thigh bone up hard against me. Rubbing like I was a limp shirt up

against a washerwoman's rippled board. Our noises addictive, a chain

reaction, pulling us deeper. Until I gave in and moved with her,

"Seven, Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it." Shaken till I could hardly

stand, falling into her rhythm as though we were dancers, like I was

born to it. With each stroke I felt myself come a bit cleaner till

she'd scrubbed me to a white-hot translucence.

Kathryn, think.

How could you ever have thought about easing her out of your life?