Star Trek: Voyager: Endgame

Doctor paused. His voice grew softer. “I've been hoping you would.”
    An uneasy pause broke their conversation as Seven sat up on the biobed and noted that her hands and legs were as cold as the cushion.
    “You said it would require several surgeries . . .”
    He fought down a smile. “Actually, in anticipation of your change of heart, I've studied the problem in more detail. I now believe I can reconfigure the microcircuitry with a single procedure.” He was eager about his new knowledge, proud of himself in his anticipation.
    How could he know so conveniently that she might return with such a request? She hadn't thought about such a daring choice until . . . until Chakotay.
    “You'll be free,” the Doctor went on, “to experience the full range of emotions. Everything from a hearty belly laugh to a good cry.”
    She looked down at the long plane of her stomach, and wondered why anyone would laugh at it. “How soon can you do it?”
    “Today, if you'd like.” He obviously preferred a quick turnover, though he didn't outwardly offer any pressure or timelines.
    “My watch ends at eighteen hundred hours.”
    “It's a date!”
    His joy disturbed her. She was afraid of alteration. But how could there be progress without change?
    Forcing herself to accept what she had now scheduled, she pushed off the bed and started toward the door.
    “Speaking of dates,” the Doctor called, “once the fail-safe is gone, you'll be free to pursue more intimate relationships.”
    He bounced on his holo-toes.
    Seven looked at him. “I'm aware of that,” she proclaimed, attempting to seem in control.
    “If you decide you need help with that aspect of your humanity,” he said, eyes twinkling, “I'm always at your disposal.”
    Was this a sexual proposition?
    Unlikely.
    “I appreciate that,” Seven responded.
    The Doctor brightened. “Really?”
    “Yes,” she said, her voice more gravelly than usual. “But I already have all the ‘help’ I need.”
    He seemed briefly confused, then realized what she was talking about. “Ah . . . of course. You'll undoubtedly be running more simulations with the Chakotay hologram.”
    Seven shifted her feet, causing her body to sway in a motion she had found common among her human shipmates, and this time, oddly, she found good use for the “language.”
    “No, actually,” she told him proudly. She almost said more, then in deference to Chakotay's privacy, kept her silence.
    Perhaps he inferred her meaning. Perhaps not.
    “I'll see you at eighteen hundred hours,” she finished, and let him go on guessing.
    * * *
    2100 hours
    Why was someone working the transporter?
    Chakotay stood up sharply at the whine of beaming technology squirming through his head when he least expected it—and
where
he least expected. His own quarters?
    Instantly he suspected an invasion and made crazy plans in his head to get to the nearest phaser, or at least grab a candle off the table and shove it in the face of some misguided alien offender.
    Instead, the form beaming in took on a decidedly attractive shape rather quickly and he realized he was in no danger. So to speak.
    “Am I early?”
    Seven's low-pitched grainy voice sounded much more sultry and steamy braced up by soft music and candlelight than it usually did when she was making reports to the captain. The candle's glow from the dinner table flickered in her bullion hair and fiddled with the bouquet of flowers she held against her sculpted breasts.
    Since when had beaming become such an enchantment?
    Chakotay shook the surprise off his face, realizing she didn't understand why he was braced for action. “No—you're right on time. Is there something wrong with the door?”
    She moved toward him. “I didn't think it would be discreet to be seen carrying flowers to the first officer's quarters.”
    He took them from her and studied them lightly. “Thanks. Your ‘research’?” When she smiled, he added, “I should put these in wat—”
    The flowers hit the deck. Seven had him in a headlock—with her lips. The scent of her filled his head, a clean and aromatic scent of flower petals and shampoo, a touch of perfumed oil and the sharp zap of passion.
    Oh, yes . . . there were more important things than flowers, weren't there? What kind of an idiot leaves the side of a gorgeous woman to tend a batch of artificially generated flowers? What was he thinking?
    She only broke off so they could each take a breath.
    “I've been told,” she