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Chapter Text

“You should be fine, Ms Habersburg. Continue to administer the medication I gave you each morning, in 15ml doses, and book an appointment to see me during next Tuesday’s surgery.”

The Doctor smiled as he clicked off his screen, and eased back in his chair, basking in the last rays of the day’s sun that were streaming into his office. Clara Habersburg was a sweet woman, and it was good to see her finally recovering from that Rigallian flu. A nice way to finish his working day.

There were so many illnesses called flus now. Most of them weren’t remotely genetically related. Starfleet Medical or some other authority of the Federation’s really should work out a more precise way of naming them.

Of course, he mused as he got up and crossed to his cabinet, ready to start dispensing for the next day’s patients. If I was more inclined to take an active role in improving things, that consultancy post is probably still open.

It had been eleven years since they returned from the Delta Quadrant, and though Starfleet was still shying away from officially declaring him an independent lifeform, they had long since given into Admiral Janeway’s insistence that he at least be treated like one. And they certainly remained keen to get him on board and take advantage of his unusual experiences and expertise.

Not to mention, they’d probably find it useful to have a consultant who never slept.

But after a brief stint in a pointlessly classified, overly officious research outpost a few months after their return, he’d realised he was happy to stay away from the inner workings of Starfleet. Too many politics, too many egos interfering with the simple duty of making people well. So he’d returned to Earth and taken a post as a GP in a quiet community just outside San Francisco. His cases tended towards the stuffy-nose-and-tennis-elbow variety, but it was something of a relief to just administer hyposprays, offer reassurance, and bribe nervous children with sweets when their parents bought them in for vaccinations. No more friends’ lives hanging in the balance. No more being surrounded by the cloying stench of blood and—

The Doctor took a deep breath. He didn’t suffer from anxiety or PTSD being a hologram. And breathing was technically unnecessary. But his memory subroutines did seem to focus unduly on unpleasant recollections some days. The sensation of breathing, however manufactured, was a good way to circumvent them and return to the present.

He opened the cabinet. Fifteen in-surgery appts tomorrow, and eight of those would require further medication. Now where had he put his niplotrozine—

A familiar whine sounded, right behind him.

He spun, hand grasping for a phaser that wasn’t there, that had rarely been there, even on Voyager. Instead he grabbed his tricorder, ready—insanely—to throw it at the now-solid intruder.

But they flinched and raised an arm— The other hung oddly at their side. “Doctor?”

He blinked, and a dozen memory subroutines fired in unison as he said, “Seven?”

Chapter Text

Two years ago

"You know," the Doctor commented, as he ran a tricorder over Seven's shoulder clamp, finishing off her check-up. "There are other people who could help keep peace in the neutral zone. You've earned a break from heroics."

She gave him a wry smile. "Ex-neutral zone. And I'll miss you too, Doctor."

"You're all heart." But it was nice to see her smile again. Her last few visits have been spent raging about the Federation's heart-breaking decision to abandon the evacuation, and their new, disturbing rules regarding synthetic lifeforms. Luckily Voyager's arrival was still too recent in the public mind for anyone to risk a public attack on him, or Seven, and Icheb was surrounded by protective colleagues on the USS Coleman. But some of the Doctor's patients had been jumpier than usual recently, and five had transferred to other physicians.

Good riddance. If they couldn't tell the difference between some androids with limited AI who were probably programmed to murder, and a hologram as charming as himself, then they didn't deserve his skills.

"Well if you are going to run off to Fenris of all places, then you'll need to manage your own check-ups for a while. I'm happy to help via the com if you have any serious issues, but at this point—"

"I'm quite capable of caring for myself." She finished, hopping down from the biobed. "You've taught me well."

"Humph. If I'd taught you well, you wouldn't be running off to the most chaotic part of the Alpha Quadrant to play security. Didn't you have enough excitement in the Delta Quadrant? Finally we get home and you have a good post, advancing the field of astrometrics to hitherto unknown levels, and you decide to throw it all in and run away with a bunch of ex-Marquis, vigilantes, and wannabe heroes." He put down his tricorder. "Though come to think of it, the only surprise is that B'Elanna's not going with you."

She laughed. "B'Elanna has a nine-year-old daughter to manage, and appears to be enjoying a career of terrorizing trainee engineers in California. I believe her 'rebel days' are over."

He shook his head. "Kahless save us when B'Elanna Torres is the one living a peaceful life." Opening one of the countless cupboards in his surgery, he withdrew a small metal case and held it out to her. "For the road. I've included several microfilaments, a tricorder programmed to detect nanite levels to 0.0004 percent, and a—"

Seven hugged him.

The hug was perfectly her. Purposeful, assured, intense. Filled with unspoken vulnerabilities. He wrapped his arms round her and held on for a moment, suddenly afraid for his old friend.

I wish you'd stay.

Why do you always have to be the hero?

But it was no good. She'd taken her blueprint for humanity from Captain—now Admiral—Janeway, and no one with the Janeway spirit would be caught letting someone else save the galaxy when they could do it themselves.

After a minute, she gently pulled away, and took the case from him. "Thank you, Doctor." She picked up her jacket. "Icheb's ship will be docking at Earth in a few weeks. Will you—"

"I will corner him the second he disembarks, drag him to the transporter, and interrogate him about his life on the USS Coleman over the finest tea and biscuits that North America has to offer," he promised.

She smirked. "A simple visit will suffice. Goodbye, Doctor." She left his office.

He was to wish, later, that he'd been more persuasive.

***

They kept touch via the com of course. For a few weeks he heard nothing, then a few rushed messages. Apparently resources on Fenris were fewer than she'd hoped. But they were establishing themselves, making a difference. A number of smuggling operations that would have introduced dangerous drugs to a number of vulnerable populations had been stopped. Several refugees had been saved from slavers. It was a beginning.

Two months after her departure, his com beeped late one night, indicating an incoming video call. Luckily, he'd never bothered to introduce sleep subroutines into his programme.

He tapped Accept, and the black screen switched to a blur of browns, whites, and greys, that slowly resolved into a fuzzy, but perfectly comprehensible image of Seven, cross legged on a bunk. She frowned at the monitor and tapped a few keys. The picture became a little clearer. The fuzzy background resolved into a somewhat dilapidated panel wall. Her eyes became their usual clear blue, with notable dark crescents beneath them.

But they faded to insignificance when she smiled. "Doctor."

"Seven!" He sat back in his chair. "How are you? You look— Where are you?"

"In our compound, on the Eastern continent.” Her eyes flickered over him.” I am well, thank you. And yourself, Doctor?"

"Oh, I'm fine." It could almost be one of their old social lessons. "Long time, no speak. What have you been doing?"

"I apologize for my silence. Establishing reliable communications outside this sector has been challenging. Most of the old satellite posts have been destroyed or have fallen into disrepair. We are working on it, and on many other things. It is busy here."

"I'm sure."

She told him about a number of trips she'd taken, as they tried to re-establish a particular satellite post on a nearby moon that had previously been mined. Its tectonic plates had suffered from much instability in the years since it was abandoned, due to the poor methods used, so repairing the outpost had been dangerous. She had almost been hit by falling debris, but luckily she'd been pulled aside by an attentive co-worker.

"Fortunately, Bjayzl was paying less attention to the theta-radiation interference levels than I was," she finished drily. But was that . . .

"Seven, I do believe you're blushing." Now that was a rare sight.

Her blush deepened. "I am not."

He raised an eyebrow. "I beg to differ. Now this colleague . . . Hazel?"

"Bjayzl!" She sat up a little straighter, sparks in her eyes.

"My mistake. A friend of yours?"

"Yes." She folded her arms.

"A close friend?"

Silence. He waited her out.

She sighed, somewhat dramatically. "We are well acquainted. The team here is small and we all work closely together. They call me by my human name, which seems to make them less conscious of my Borg past."

"They call you Annika? That's wonderful. Can I—"

"No." But she was smiling as she said it. "Perhaps in the future. When I am more used to it."

"Very well." He gave a sigh of his own. "So, Bjayzl. You spend a lot of time together?"

"Doctor!"

"What?" He did his best to repress a smile. "I'm just interested. I'd like to know you have friends out there to keep you from working yourself to death."

Her voice softened. "Bjayzl is a good friend. You do not need to fear for me." A pause. "I find her to be an exceptional woman. We are . . . intimate."

"You're in a relationship?" This time his beam was irrepressible. "Oh Seven, that's wonderful. I'm so pleased for you." Ever since she and Chakotay had broken up, a few weeks after their return to Earth, Seven had seemed hesitant to start a new relationship, despite some valiant attempts from himself and Admiral Janeway to encourage her to try again now that she had access to a wider dating pool. "How did it happen? Was it love at first sight? Is it—"

"I am not going to answer such questions." The blush had deepened now. "But rest assured, our relationship is progressing satisfactorily. I find her extremely intelligent. And she was previously a researcher in medical cybernetics so she has no prejudices regarding my unusual physiology." A small grin touched her lips. "No prejudices at all."

Nearly a decade among humans, and at last her humour was broadening into the suggestive. He’d never been so proud.

They didn't talk much more after that. An approaching radiation storm was set to interfere with the connection.

"It's been so good to hear from you, Seven," he said warmly, as they wrapped up their conversation. "And I'm so proud of everything you're doing out there." If he added a little emphasis to the 'everything', no one could blame him.

Her blush, which had faded a little, resurged briefly. "Thank you, Doctor." A smile played at the edge of her lips. "Icheb said the same."

"How is he?"

Nothing, not even a new girlfriend, could animate Seven the way a reference to Icheb could. "Excelling, as always. He is already supervising several ensigns in their studies on Taxel Five's biosentient plant matter. The USS Coleman will dock at station 343 next week, which is only a couple of days from here in a shuttle. He has some leave accumulated and hopes to spend it assisting us."

"You can introduce him to Bjayzl."

She smiled, a warm, open smile, filled with hope and affection. "I hope to."

That was the last time he saw her smile like that for a long, long time.

***

Three weeks later, Icheb was dead. Seven was in hospital, shot and beaten as she'd escaped the hellish butcher shop where her foster child had been carved up. On the orders of her lover.

For a long time she wouldn't speak to the Doctor when he visited her. Or the admiral. Or anyone else. She wouldn't cry. When she finally spoke after many days, all she said was, "His cortical node. She didn't know that it's in my head."

***

The old Voyager crew arranged their own memorial service for Icheb. But when the Doctor went to pick Seven up from the hospital to take her there, she had already discharged herself.

He caught up with her a few hundred metres from the transporter station, "Seven? Where are you going?"

She didn't stop, though her gait was stiff. "Fenris."

"Don't be ridiculous. Seven!" He grabbed her bag and pulled it away. She twisted, glaring at him, but he didn't relent. "You can't go back to Fenris. You're still recovering, and anyway it's Icheb's memorial service today. You need to be there."

"Why?"

"To—to say goodbye."

"I said goodbye." Her eyes flashed danger, like the first crack of ice underfoot. "I said goodbye when he was bleeding to death in my arms. When I watched him choke on his own fluids after being eviscerated. On her orders."

"So, that's what this is about. You're going after Bjayzl?"

"If I can."

"And then what?" He jerked her bag back as she attempted to grab it. "Then what, Seven? What will you do if you kill her?"

She glanced away; her mouth set in a hard line. But amidst the fury in her eyes, there was something bright and terribly alone. "Then I will not care."

"Icheb wouldn't want you to—"

"Icheb is dead." She locked eyes with him once more, and her gaze was flint. "Annika is dead. And if I am to continue surviving, I require a purpose." Her voice trembled just a fraction. "Revenge is all I have left."

Oh, Seven.

He gazed at her. His protegee. His dear friend. This grieving, desperate, wounded woman he cared about so deeply.

He didn't know how to fix her this time.

He handed her bag back to her. "Call me when you get to Fenris," he said as she took it. "And remember if you ever want to come back, I'm here. You're not alone, Seven."

She met his eyes briefly. Her gaze said thank you, perhaps, or I'm sorry, or you don't understand.

And then she was gone.

Chapter Text

They stared at each other for a long moment.

Say something! Anything!

Then Seven’s eyes went blank.

Her knees hit the floor before he could reach her, and only his grip stopped her tumbling the rest of the way. Her head fell to her chest, and she went slack in his arms.

It had been a long time since a bloodied friend had passed out in front of him, but his trauma-assessment subroutines were as sharp as ever. They blared in the back of his mind—Check for vital signs, determine cause of unconsciousness—as he scooped her up and carried her to the biobed.

He shook them off. What the hell happened?

Once she was settled on the bed, he snatched a medical tricorder from the nearby stand. But even before he began scanning, one injury was obvious. Most of the skin between her right shoulder and elbow was a mess of charred fabric and flesh. Greenish pus oozed from the leathery remains of skin, while his olfactory subroutines informed him that in human terms, it stank.

The burn was infected. Badly.

His scan confirmed both the infection and a high fever— lethally high. Damn it, Seven. She’d had worse burns on Voyager, but they’d never been allowed to fester like this. And the burn wasn’t her only injury. Blood coated the side of her head hiding— yes, a concussion and a skull fracture. Wonderful. He put down the tricorder and gently pulled back her hair, revealing a still glistening red mess. His hand froze against her temple.

Under the grime, she seemed paler than ever, though plasma-like heat radiated from her skin. She was so very still, save for the occasional heave of her chest and diaphragm as her body fought for its next breath. She must have been fighting this infection for days. And the head injury wasn’t new either.

Why didn’t you get help sooner? When there was a chance in hell that—?

He twisted around. Pull yourself together. She needs a doctor, not a maudlin old friend. And fast. He darted over to his cabinet and began loading a small trolley with everything he’d need. Coagulants, dermal regenerator, osteo-regenerator, antibiotics— highest strength possible.

Behind him, there was a soft huh as she dragged in another breath, and his chest, holographic as it was, tightened briefly.

It was going to be a long night.

Three hours in, and the Doctor grimly filled another hypospray with more antibiotics and pressed it to Seven’s neck. Her eyes flickered open, as they had now and then before, but they only drifted to the ceiling, then closed once more.

“Stay with me, Seven,” he ordered, twisting anxiety into authority and pressing it into his voice.

Her head lolled towards him, and her lips moved, but no sound came out. Then a stronger tremor jagged through her, and she moaned weakly.

Substance seemed to drain from him, leaving his photonic form utterly intangible. He took another scan, but it was already obvious that none of the antibiotics were working yet.

And if they didn’t work soon—

No. That was not an option. He would fix this. He hadn’t waited years for her to come back only to lose her now. He slammed another vial into the hypospray.

Yet all his subroutines were screaming it’s hopeless. She was circling the proverbial drain with an infection so overwhelming that her internal organs were shutting down one by one, and her temperature was high enough to fry her brain. The massive burn on her arm might have been treatable days ago, but now it was a filthy mess of rotten flesh and pus, and it had long since leaked poison into her bloodstream.

Even if he’d amputated yesterday, it might not have been enough.

End active treatment, dictated his professional subroutines. Begin palliative care.

It would be kinder, suggested another subroutine, a personal one, that whispered softly through his matrix, with a voice not unlike that of another old friend, lost long ago. More humane. She's a friend and she's suffering. Why prolong it?

But Seven had never spared herself an ounce of suffering, and if she’d wanted it all over, she’d never have come to him.

Odds and medical subroutines be damned. He was going to save her.

It was one of the worst nights of his life.

Medication after medication failed. And too often, he had to break from treating the infection to apply cooling blankets, and submerge her in ice baths, just to edge her fever down from absolutely lethal to probably deadly. She shook so much, from the fever, from the ice, from the infection, that her very breath would rattle, and her skin wore translucent, hinting at the bones beneath.

If it hadn’t been for her damn cybernetic systems, which battled mercilessly to keep her heart and lungs and brain alive, it would all have been over quickly.

Call Starfleet Medical, his professional subroutines argued many times. You’re just a GP now. You don’t have the resources to treat this infection, if it even can be treated.

But Seven could have gone to Starfleet Medical herself, more easily than she could have reached him. And if they got her, what were the chances she’d ever be truly free again? The Fenris Rangers were a brutal reprimand to Starfleet, and if letting Seven die or imprisoning her would hurt the group, he feared they’d willingly do so.

No, live or die, she’d wanted to do it here, and so she would.

I have to make sure it’s the former.

It was around 4am when the tide finally began to turn. He never was sure what did it; he’d thrown so many treatments at the infection. Used what few nanoprobes could be spared from preventing complete multi-organ failure to boost her white blood cell production. Tried several experimental medications that Starfleet Medical had balked from putting into human trials because an artificial intelligence had created them.

And he told her, over and over again, that she was going to be fine. That she had to live. That she couldn’t die on him now.

Slowly, slowly, her fever inched down, and the bacteria in her blood died. Her blood pressure inched up to a more acceptable level, and her blotchy skin became a mere sickly white.

His form began to feel solid again.

After an hour or two, he was even able to address the head injury, and then the damage the infection had done to her internal organs. One kidney was unsalvageable, but that could be replaced when she was strong enough. And the other could take over for now. As for the rest . . . she was very lucky. Ridiculously so. She’d even be able to keep her arm, though the nerve damage would likely be permanent and substantial.

We both got lucky.

He cancelled his appointments for the following day, claiming maintenance issues, and let her sleep, curled up on the examination bed. He made a pretence of using the time to sort through his outstanding admin, but after an hour or two, he gave it up and simply sat glued to the monitors, watching her heartrate steady and strengthen, and her blood counts climb to safer numbers.

He could simply link the monitors into his programme, so he’d be alerted instantly if something went wrong. But he didn’t want to potter around his office, focusing on minutia, as if nothing had changed. As if he hadn’t found a friend again, only to almost lose her. As if she wasn’t still with him by the merest thread of chance.

So he sat, and he waited, and he hoped, as inch by torturous inch, Seven clawed her way back from the brink.

And eventually, she stirred.