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It’s not the first time they’re broken up.
It’s not even the second or third. Here’s the thing about having a lot of baggage: sometimes you just have to call the whole thing off. Temporarily. More-than-just-temporarily. Because even though it makes a really good story, love does not always conquer all. It certainly does not conquer the self, and that’s where Seven and Raffi have struggled in the past. Their relationship has always had to play second string to their goals, their duties, and sometimes, the good of the whole goddamn galaxy.
It’s the kind of thing that makes a lot of sense in theory but not in practice.
Because in practice, Raffi is still the most gorgeous person Seven’s ever seen. And knowing her as a person only augments her effervescence. There’s who she is and the way that she makes Seven feel and the very small matter of how, if they keep this up, someone might get hurt.
But then Seven – and Raffi, because Raffi has told her so – lays all of those pieces of information against how the two of them did not know if the other was alive . After the battle at spacedock…
Honestly? Nothing seems like it’s as big of a deal. There are plenty of things in the universe that they know can hurt them. Each other? Yeah, that’s for sure on the list, in the way that people who you love the most can hurt you the most.
But there’s also this part where they know that they’re not going to make each other hurt, not like that , not in the ways they’ve been hurt in the past few months. Not in the ways they’ve hurt in the past.
Starfleet makes the unusual decision to hold a ball for their latest crop of promoted. It’s the kind of thing that would be very, very political in the best of times, but since they’re definitely not in those, it just looks like a well-intentioned – if cheap – attempt at bettering morale. Seven and Raffi attend, because that’s what they need to do, and that’s what everyone needs to do. Seven gets particular contentment out of seeing Admiral Crusher working the room as if no time has passed. One would never know she’d been gone for twenty years.
It’s all for show.
Every single person in this room has watched someone die sometime over the past few weeks. It’s the kind of thing Seven and Raffi can’t stand even as they understand. Such transparent efforts can still contribute to a sense of normalcy, even as Earth reels from once again almost having lost everything.
Being used as an excuse for this kind of pomp and circumstance feels odd. Pointless yet familiar. This uniform doesn’t feel foreign to Seven. It feels like where she needs to be – for now, anyway.
That said, she feels much, much, much better seeing Raffi standing across the room, trading jokes back and forth with Captain Kim.
“Captain Seven.”
Seven tears her eyes away from Raffi for a moment, a vision of formal gold, and turns to find Worf towering above her. “Nice to see you again, Worf.”
“Yes,” says Worf stiffly, in an odd mashup of his Klingon regalia and what seems to be a compromised form of a Starfleet formal uniform. Seven doesn’t ask how the D does things. She gets being part of a crew forever, even if all of you move on. “If only it were under much more casual circumstances.”
Seven doesn’t like parties either, but the idea of her and Worf hanging out on a beach somewhere pops into her head and is impossible to ignore.
She has to tell Raffi later.
“Yeah, I get you,” she says.
“But congratulations are certainly in order. You are very deserving. Raffaela has told me stories.”
Seven’s sure she has.
“But I am not here for idle chatter,” says Worf. “Such formalities make me uncomfortable. I am here to offer myself up – as a dance partner.”
Well, that gets Seven’s attention. Seven knows that at this kind of thing, it would be customary for her to dance with an admiral. Something something blah blah about the new and the old bridges to greater heights of the Federation, greater understanding of each other and the world around us. But a lot of the admirals are dead, and everyone knows that Picard’s dance belongs to Crusher.
Seven hadn’t thought about it that much, but now her choice – and Worf’s agenda – are obvious.
“That won’t be necessary,” she says. “I already have one, but thanks for offering.”
“Very good,” says Worf, and moves away.
This kind of thing has to be why Raffi likes him so much.
Brilliant bastard.
Dancing is not something Seven is good at, but she can certainly appreciate it now for what it is. It’s a ritual, sure, but it’s also about being close to others. A sense of community.
And sometimes, she thinks, as she clasps Raffi’s hand and grips her rippled side, it’s about more.
Dancing is something Raffi is very, very good at. Seven’s in the leading position here, mostly because of her rank, but Raffi is taller than her and knows how to lead without looking like she’s leading. It’s one of those things that Raffi can do with her eyes closed.
“This party blows,” says Raffi quietly, so quietly that no one else can hear, even though there are quite a few couples on the dance floor – and a few sets of three and four. “No offense.”
“None taken,” says Seven. She inhales, and Raffi steers them skillfully to Seven’s left. “Not really my idea of a good party.”
“Because a good party is no party at all?” asks Raffi, eyebrow raised. She looks around the room. “Oh well, if you’re going to do the damn thing, might as well do it right.”
And she twirls Seven, hair and all, in a way that makes sure everyone around them is looking at her, then resumes dancing as Seven can feel her pulse reverberating through her whole body. “How do you do that?” she mutters, even though she knows. She feels it. It’s the reason why Raffi’s a good dance partner and just a good partner…well, for everything.
“Everyone wants to look at you,” replies Raffi. “I’m just giving them a reason.”
It’s such a goddamn cliche to be looking and thinking of her like this, when Seven’s the one with the most concrete reason for their arrangement right now, but the music is slow, and Raffi’s body is warm and familiar under her hands, and the lights in this room make hers shine very, very brightly.
As is custom, some people around them cut in, as this is as much of a networking opportunity as it is a morale booster.
Seven realizes part of the way through the song that no one does this to them, and they just keep swaying and dancing and moving together. For a single, indulgent moment, Seven lets herself stare fully into Raffi’s eyes, gleaming deeply in the low lighting, and it feels like they’re the only people in the universe.
Seven’s gotten much better at doing things like politely mingling , but she still finds herself out on the balcony catching some air. It’s a new moon tonight, and the darkness is welcome. In the distance, she thinks she can just make out Tuvok, and she leaves him be. She knows he dislikes this kind of thing just as much as she does.
She knows the hand on her shoulder is Raffi’s by its heft and grip alone – Raffi doesn’t even use her whole palm, just three of her fingers.
“I’m heading out,” says Raffi. “I don’t mind that people aren’t being assholes. It’s just that I remember that they used to be and probably would be had not certain events occurred, and it makes it a little hard to stay in a party mood.”
Seven wants to tell Raffi that she’s thinking of doing the same, but what comes out of her mouth instead is, “You look really good tonight.”
Raffi grins – she has kept the ponytail from her deep cover days – and fluffs her hair. “Thanks,” she says. “I like to think I can work this standard issue get up every now and then.” She takes Seven in, grinning smartly. “That fourth pip looks damn good on you.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Seven finds herself saying.
She doesn’t know what she likes more about this scenario: the explanation where she has control over what she’s saying – what she’s opening the door to – or the one where she doesn’t.
“Walking someone out” of the party doesn’t really amount to much. Everyone got ready at Headquarters. Most of them are staying here too. The two of them pass through a rather impressive looking courtyard with a fountain that was turned on just for tonight (Seven doesn’t actually remember seeing this courtyard before – is it new?). It doesn’t seem to be working very well. Starts off and on at odd times and just looks out of place.
“You heading back to the Rocks or the apartment in LA?” Seven asks lightly.
It’s like she can feel Raffi’s soft grin in the dark. “La Sirena,” she says. “Heading to see Gabe in a few days.”
“That’s great,” says Seven, finding she’s working a little harder than usual to keep levity in her voice. She knows what Gabe means to Raffi, what it would mean to Seven to be able to hop in a shuttle and go off to see Icheb whenever she wanted. Remnants from another life. But for Raffi, it’s tangible. She can reach back and touch it, try to heal it.
She’s happy for her. Really. “And your quarters are here?” asks Raffi.
Seven nods. She supposes she’s always lived on the ship nearest to her latest project. Now is no different. “I thought they were closer to yours though,” she frowns, then stops and looks around. “Actually, we’re going the wrong way.”
“Wrong way,” repeats Raffi. “Or the long way?”
For a moment, they both stall, look at each other’s silhouette in the dark.
Raffi would know where all the weird unused courtyards would be.
It’s Seven who pulls Raffi into a corner of the courtyard, but it’s Raffi who drags Seven’s lips to hers.
For a moment, their kiss is the only sound in the dark.
Then the fountain turns on, rushing and splashing, roaring to life.
They probably shouldn’t be doing this.
But they just keep doing this.
There’s a script to this whole thing – romantic dance in the dark, private conversation on the balcony under the moon (which ideally is full), stealing away in a courtyard to take the edge off of desperation before stumbling back to someone’s place and ripping each other’s finery off in a sexy, ravenous fashion.
And well, they’re in uniforms, but that’s fine. Seven appreciates the way certain clothing looks on Raffi, strips her down to her underwear and then picks her up and presses her into the door as Raffi wraps her legs around Seven’s bare torso.
“Oh god,” whispers Raffi, as Seven presses into her a little roughly, and Raffi grinds into Seven’s stomach. “We keep doing this.”
But then she takes Seven’s jaw between her hands and kisses her so slowly, thoroughly, and intimately that Seven nearly forgets to answer her, considers taking her right here against the door in a ridiculously inefficient fashion. “Stop?” Seven manages to get out, between flashes of Raffi’s tongue.
“I don’t want that.”
“Me either,” murmurs Seven. “It was the dancing.”
“And the balcony?”
“And you in gold.”
Raffi tilts her head back, breaking the kiss, and laughs, and Seven takes that opportunity to sink her teeth into the muscle on top of Raffi’s chest. “I’m always in gold. Is that what I need, huh? To change tracks? So you can look at me and find me less distracting?”
Seven just looks up at her, a little lost in a haze of lust and other emotions, in adrenaline pumping through her body as she expends strength she hasn’t in a while to play into this fantasy – stealing into the night with Raffi, letting herself get lost in this thing that they have together. Maybe she should be better able to keep a handle on this kind of stuff. It’s not sustainable, right?
Raffi meets Seven’s eyes and traces the shape of her face with her hands. “Hey,” she says. “You’re a Starfleet captain now. They’re legendary lovers.” She smiles, in a transparent attempt to make Seven feel better. “I would know.”
Seven knows she’s being a little unfair. But also, Raffi doesn’t play fair, and Raffi knows it. She releases her hands from Raffi’s waist, and Raffi’s legs tighten around her waist as she grips Raffi’s ass. “It’s like I can’t help myself,” she says honestly. “Or I can – I know I can. But I don’t want to.”
Raffi kisses Seven long and deep. “I don’t want you to either,” says Raffi. She winks (another transparent attempt to make Seven feel better). “Our little secret.”
Raffi in bed never sounds like she’s keeping a secret. She isn’t leaving tomorrow – that’s for certain because she has all her toys laid out on the bedside table. She produces one now, her recent favorite (and the fact that Seven knows that probably begs further reflection that Seven sure as hell is not doing right now) and Seven fills Raffi with the vibrating bulb as she cries out loud.
Seven can smell them – both of them – hot and heavy and familiar as the room heats up. Raffi’s skin glistens as she directs Seven with her hands, pulls the nearest feasible implanted piece of skin between her legs so they can share in the vibration, and Seven leans in to touch her forehead to Raffi’s as she rides her thigh.
They’re so good at this.
They’re had so much practice.
Raffi shuts her eyes tight and purses her lips. “Promise me you’ll wake me up before you leave,” she says, and yes, it stings just a little, but then Seven comes, and both of them move then in the way they’re accustomed, wrapping themselves around each other in a way that makes the other feel cared for, in a way that helps maximize the pleasure from a single orgasm.
They’re both saying things now – silly sweet things, mostly each other’s name, and Seven wonders how either of them could have doubted each other, when they can make each other feel this safe, this good .
Raffi eases the toy out of herself and flips Seven onto her back, pins her arms above her head and kisses her, their lips moldable and malleable as they melt into each other.
“I’ll stay as long as I can tomorrow,” she says. That actually will be a long time, because there are going to be a few hangovers tomorrow. No one’s going to care about people going for the hard stuff, not after everything they’ve all just been through.
“You don’t have to,” says Raffi, beginning to push Seven’s thighs apart with her hands, and Seven knows that she’s getting Raffi’s mouth before Raffi begins kissing her way down Seven’s body.
“I want to,” says Seven, and means it.
Raffi hits her with a look that Seven can’t parse – she maybe wouldn’t be able to do it even if she wasn’t facing the devastatingly rewarding promise of Raffi’s lethal tongue on where she’s wet and needy. It’s discovery? Realization? Tenderness? Something else entirely?
But then Raffi’s warm, wet lips close around Seven's clit, swollen with need, and Seven refuses to think about anything else.
Raffi’s drifting off on Seven’s chest, blankets kicked to the floor, the room’s environmental controls puffing a soft breeze over their bodies, when Seven remembers something that feels quite important to say.
“I don’t want to be legendary,” she says, which doesn’t quite come out right, and Raffi stirs as much as she can for someone who is covered in teeth marks and bruising.
Raffi snorts tiredly. “Well then, I’ve got news for you, honey,” she says, and Seven winds a hand into her hair, makes an involuntary soothing noise that earns her Raffi contentedly burrowing into her chest.
“A legendary lover,” says Seven. “What you said earlier. I don’t want that.”
Actually, Seven struggles to think of herself as being intimate with anyone the way she’s intimate with Raffi. Maybe that’s unfair.
But most of Raffi’s life has operated off of – somehow or another – stacking the deck. That’s what she’d done on her last mission, and that’s the only reason they’re all here now.
“Knowing what you don’t want is a good step on figuring out what you do,” says Raffi sleepily. She proceeds to make one of the most adorable noises Seven’s ever heard and promptly falls asleep.
Seven stays awake for quite a bit longer, listening to the rhythm of Raffi’s breathing, forming her mind around a thought.
Because here’s the thing: Seven knows exactly what she wants. She wants this, a position like her captaincy, but she also wants Raffi. And that doesn’t work in their current configuration. But most problems have solutions. It’s just a matter of looking at them from the right perspective, with the right tools.
Seven lies awake in the dark, and, taking a page out of Raffi’s book, begins to strategize about how to get what she wants.