Title: Private Property

Author: Odon

Fandom: Star Trek Voyager

Pairing: Torres/Seven.  Rating: PG-13.

Summary: B'Elanna has Seven's number...or is it the other way round?

Disclaimer: No profit is intended in the writing of this story.  Star Trek: Voyager and its characters are the property of Paramount and Viacom.

Send feedback to odon05@hotmail.com.  Archiving is welcome, but please try and contact me first.  Thanks to Meagan for her beta work.

Even with the Red Alert's strident tone blaring from every speaker, B'Elanna still drew the undivided attention of her entire department the instant she burst into Engineering.

"What are you lot gaping at?" she snapped.  "Report, dammit!"

"We've been hit by some kind of gravimetric surge," said Lieutenant Carey, repressing a suicidal urge to grin.  "It overloaded the inertial dampers.  We're at All Stop now."

"Warp core status?"

"The containment field is experiencing minor fluctuations," said Vorik, with only a slightly raised eyebrow over his superior's mode of dress.  "I am attempting to remodulate the system."

B'Elanna shoved the Vulcan aside and stared at the readouts.  "Wait.  That could just be sympathetic resonance from the warp field.  Is the anti-matter flow stable?"

"At the moment, yes."

"Core efficiency is 97.95%," said Ensign Tabor.  "All stations Green."

B'Elanna's mind raced down a complex mental checklist, her hands toying with her sash.  "Leave the containment field as it is.  Has that starboard plasma inductor been repaired yet?"

"Ahh...that's a negative," said Carey.

B'Elanna spun to face him, catching several crewmen in the act of staring.  They quickly turned back to their consoles.  She felt herself going bright red.

"Do you think we could all concentrate on what we're doing?"

A pretty Bajoran covered her mouth, a nervous giggle escaping from behind her fingers.  B'Elanna looked down at the sash in her hands and angrily tore it in half.

"Tom and I were on the holodeck," muttered B'Elanna.

"I never would have guessed," said Carey, looking straight ahead.

"That's the last time I take part in his stupid Captain Proton."

"Attention all decks," came Janeway's calm voice over the intercom.  "All decks stand down, this is only a drill.  I repeat, this is only a drill.  I want a response time evaluation from all department heads in the briefing room, twenty minutes from now."

"QI'yaH!" muttered B'Elanna, one of the few Klingon terms she remembered from her youth.  "Secure from Red Alert.  Take over, will you Carey?  I've got to change into my uniform."  She turned for the door and promptly went rigid.

"W-WHAT...WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE, BORG?"

"I am conducting an independent evaluation, Lieutenant Torres."  Seven's gaze dropped in overt study of B'Elanna's outfit.  Her lips curved in a faint but definite smile.

B'Elanna wished the containment field had collapsed after all, wiping them from existence.

She was wearing a flimsy golden dress, a transparent scrap of chiffon decimated by radical slits exposing tanned legs and sweaty cleavage.  Bikini briefs of metallic silver plunged with rapacious abandon between her thighs and buttocks.  A tiny diamond sparkled in her belly button.  Over B'Elanna's shoulder hung a bright red sash, marked 'Property of Chaotica'.

The sash was ripped in half now, so only the first two words could be seen, along with her harem number on a brass plate.

The number 'seven'.

THE END.