Smoking
A Star Trek Voyager story
One-sided Seven of Nine/B'Elanna Torres
.
Seven enters the holodeck, well aware of her increasing dislike for these 'parties'. Too bad her presence is mandatory. Sighing softly, she enters the 21st century bar, mildly curious about the change in scenery. She learns right off: a bar is a bar, no matter what era it is.
She sighs, irritated by the second-hand smoke, the loud music, the loud talking... pretty much everything, really. Especially all the people. It's more crowded here than at Tom's bar.
Someone bumps into her from behind.
"Move it!" a small brunette shoots her a dirty look. "You're blocking the entrance." Seven turns her head, pinning the smaller woman with cold blue eyes. The woman licks her lips nervously. "Look, I don't want any trouble but you're blocking the entrance." This time she sounds more apologetic.
"So you said before." Seven turns her back and enters. She makes a point of catching Captain Kathryn Janeway's eyes, hoping to let the older woman know her displeasure. Judging by the wince, she succeeded. She walks towards a quiet area, doing her best to ignore the pressing of bodies.
Her mind flashes to the time when her body was taken by people not yet assimilated by the collective and she was trapped in her own mind with them.
The confusion.
The noise.
The fright.
Seven changes direction, heading instead to what looks like a patio. In her mind, she can still hear the mother worrying about her son, and the Klingon calling for the blood of a certain woman. Seven pushes through the crowd. Almost there. She can hear a Ferengi's incessant chattering and grinds her teeth. It's the curse of her eidetic memory that even though they're gone she can recall them like they are still there. Someone pushes into her back and another guy starts walking towards her. Her mind switches over to the little girl, terrified out of her mind, only she is not sure if it is the girl from the collective or Annika Hansen.
"Stand aside!" Seven commands suddenly. The crowd looks at her. Seven looks back, meeting every look for look. They see the cold expression on her face and a collective chill spreads through the surrounding people. Most part. A few don't. A guy smiles. He's a handsome fellow with muscles stretching his shirt. His hazel eyes stand out nicely against tanned skin and dark hair.
"Hey, lady. Wanna party." He reaches out.
"Don't touch me," Seven says coldly. His hand hesitates a few inches from her arm. His smile falters.
"She's with me, man. Cool it." Ensign Carson Randall comes up behind her. He's a couple inches shorter than Seven, with short black hair, greying near his temples, brown skin and dark eyes. He's not exactly handsome but still good-looking. He's not exactly built and a little overweight. Plus he comes off as a kind of geek.
The guy's smile widens. "Or what?"
Ensign Randall shoots Seven a sarcastic look. "Or I'll let her loose on you."
Suddenly, the guy became aware that the blonde chick hadn't taken her eyes off of him. Like a lioness just waiting for the kill. Looking at her, he just knew that the woman was capable of murder. The coldness in her eyes... He shudders. Now he can admit he's not the smartest tool in the shed but he knew enough to leave a woman who can make the room temperature drop with only a look alone. "Fuck this, there are better women here," he mutters under his breath. She was probably a drug dealer or a gang leader of some kind. Hell, she could be running the black market she-
Seven takes a step towards the door. The guy stumble back, fear coming off him in waves. The fear catches and spreads through the crowd like fire. She raises a brow and looks around. They lower their eyes. "I do not want to be disturbed," she states coldly and walks the rest of the way outside.
Ensign Randall whistles under his breath as the people occupying the patio leave. He watches them until they're gone before turning to the former drone. She was expressionless as usual and her eyes reminded him of hot ice. So cold it burns. "Bad day?"
Seven looks at the shorter guy, raising a brow at his widening smile. "Yes."
"I thought so." He nods knowingly and turns out to the night.
A few sarcastic comments come to Seven's mind but she only looks up, trying to see the stars. She can't. Too much light and photonic smog. For a moment, she considers making a few adjustments to the holomatrix. She sighs. "Why did you assist me?" The question surprises Seven but when she looks over, Ensign Randall is concentrating on lighting a cigarette.
"I saw you give the Captain the evil eye and remembered you didn't like crowds." Carson takes a deep breath, inhaling the smoke, holds, and then lets it all out. "I missed this," he murmurs lovingly. A moment passes before Carson becomes aware of being watched. He couldn't describe the look in Seven's eyes at the moment but he has the feeling the blonde is fascinated. He smiles sheepishly. "Sorry. I had a girl back home that hated the smell of smoke so I gave it up." He shrugs. "She's probably married by now and teaching at the academy."
Seven watches him take another 'drag', noting how he held the cigarette. She watches him make smoke rings and runs the likely calculations that made it possible through her mind.
"Do you want one?" Carson asks, not really expecting an answer.
All the reasons why she shouldn't runs through her head. All the possible affects this could have on her body. Sayings, quotes, adages, anything she's ever read or learned about smoking. Which is surprisingly very little. She knows second-hand smoke is even more dangerous but with her physiology and current medical technology the effects were negligible. Curiosity killed the cat. Seven holds out her hand. Satisfaction brought it back.
"Tell me," Seven demands. She holds the white end of the cigarette between her index finger and her middle finger. She leaves the tip open for her lips. "Like this?" She shows him.
Surprised, Carson only nods.
Seven brings the cigarette to her lips and inhales. She doubles over in violent coughing fit. She takes a breath only to start coughing again. Red-faced, out of breath and weak-kneed, she concentrates on breathing normally. The occasional cough chokes her.
"I-I should have told you to start out slow," Carson stutters.
"It might have helped," Seven drawls. Her voice is hoarse from the fit, her throat sore and her head light. Light-headed. She straightens and glares accusingly at the red tip of the cigarette.
Stuck in his own worry, Carson misses the humour and starts gnawing on his lip. "Actually, I don't think you should be smoking at all."
"Probably not," Seven agrees easily. She brings the cigarette to her lips again and takes a more hesitant 'drag'. She holds it until the urge to cough subsides and inhales air, hoping that by diluting the smoke, smoking will be easier.
"That's it," Carson encourages tentatively.
Seven exhales slowly, coughing softly into her hand. It didn't hurt as much though there was a burning sensation in the back of her throat. Light-headed, she looks at her companion. "I hope you have another one." She deliberately turns away and leans her hip against the rail. She looks down at the line of people.
Relieved, though somewhat anxious, Carson lights up another cigarette. After a few minutes, he joins Seven. "It gets easier."
"Does it?" Seven looks at the burning tip.
Something told Carson that she wasn't asking about smoking. He watches at her watch her cigarette. Together, they bring their own up to their lips. Carson looks down. "Everything gets easier with either time or practice." He shrugs. "I guess it depends on what we're talking about."
Seven coughs softly. She blinks. A redhead below starts laughing. "If I fell would you catch me?"
Carson smiles at her non sequitur. "I'd have to be beneath you to catch you." Seven nods, accepting his non-answer.
Behind them, a slower song starts playing. Seven looks to the building across the street, lost in thought. Occasionally, she takes a careful drag from her cigarette. The burning feeling stays but smoking becomes easier, though by no means is she a pro.
"So... what's the problem?"
"Want a list?" Seven asks coolly. Her voice cracks and she coughs once to clear it. She feels the heat of the cigarette against her fingers. "What now?"
"Tap it out." He demonstrates, pinching the butt and grounding the burning tip into the rail. Seven copies him.
"Like this?" Seven knows her efforts are clumsy at best but at least the ember was out.
Why is she asking? Carson wonders. "Yeah, like that." He continues to watch the taller blonde woman. He sees her fidgeting. "Problem?" Seven gives Ensign Randall a long, cool look and straightens. She clasps her hands behind her back and looks down at the progressing line. How often has he seen her standing like that? Carson thinks suddenly. His eyes narrow in thought and he reaches for his pack. He takes out a single cigarette and brings it to his mouth. Seven's eyes flicker his way. Understanding dawns. "You know, if you wanted one all you had to do was ask."
A cynical look enters her eyes. "Really?"
"Yeah." Carson shrugs and hands her the cigarette. "Or you could have just replicated your own." He takes another one for himself.
A shy look flickers acrosser her face as she takes the cigarette. "How do I light it?"
Why is she asking? Carson thinks uneasily. Surely she's seen enough people do that to know. "Just..." What should he do? Should he light it for her? Would she be insulted if he did? "Um... like this." Slowly, Carson goes about lighting his own cigarette. Seven watches with surprising eagerness on her face. Suddenly, Carson thinks of his little cousin and how eager she was when he showed her a new game or program. The comparison made him remember that Annika was only six when she was assimilated. "Maybe... maybe you shouldn't be smoking," Carson says eventually. "At all."
Disappointment crosses Seven's face before closing off. Her throat burns as she remembers her coughing fit. "You are correct." She hands the unlit cigarette back to him. Seeing the nervous look on his face, Seven asks, "What are you worried about?"
"That maybe I insulted you," he answers honestly.
"You did not." But the worried look didn't go away. Seven sighs. She starts thinking of what else he could be worried about. Her mind plays with his background, his speech patterns, and his possible thought patterns. "You are... worried... about me?" she inquires sceptically.
Surprised out of his own thoughts, Carson sees the cynical look her eyes and shrugs. "Yeah."
"'Yeah.'" The corner of Seven's mouth pull back into smirk. "Somehow I doubt that." She turns to look down at the line.
"Why can't I just be worried about you?" Carson demands.
"Why would you be?" Seven counters.
"Look, I can be just as worried about you as I can be about any other crewmember if they had a bad day. I just don't want to come across as nosy by asking about it too much." He grounds out his cigarette and throws it over the edge. Someone below yells.
"Do you consider me a crewmember?"
"Of course," Carson states like it's a given.
"Then you consider me an equal." Seven's statement comes out like a question.
"Well..." Carson hesitates and then watches all expression leave Seven's eyes and face. He frowns. "Actually, I think you're more in league with Lieutenant Torres than me."
An equal to Lieutenant Torres, Seven thinks. If she weren't so guarded at the moment, Carson would have seen her surprise. She might have even blushed. She stays silent.
"I mean, you run Astrometrics and you go to Senior Staff meetings you're like my commanding officer," Carson rambles. "Well, not my commanding officer since I'm an engineer but you're, like, the Chief of Astrometrics or something. So yeah, I'm worried if you have a bad day, just like I'd be worried if Lieutenant Commander Tuvok had a bad day. Not that it's just commanding officers... Crewmen, Ensigns, Civilians... just everyone. I mean, I have to live with them, right? Well not live-"
"I believe I got your point, Ensign Randall." Amusement touches her voice.
"Carson, please." He lets out a long, exaggerated sigh. Seven nods. He feels light-headed just from trying to explain himself to the woman. A minute or two passes. Finally, he sighs again, but this time it's heartfelt. "So do you want to talk about it?"
"About what?"
About what? After all that... Carson grits his teeth. "About your bad day."
"The day was not 'bad'." Seven watches the muscle on his jaw jump with interest. She couldn't explain her fascination with making people angry if she tried. So she didn't and took pleasure in the older man's frustration.
"Then tell me about what happened, or didn't happen, or whatever it is that made you're take on the day a negative one." Carson's glare softens. "Or if you don't want to talk about it; just say so and I'll leave it alone."
Seven wants to tell him to 'leave it' but she also wants to talk about 'it'. "I am feeling better now." A truth.
"That's good," Carson says. The annoyance he's been feeling drains out of him. "Do you still want to talk about it?"
"Yes." But Seven looked down at the line, noting that it was smaller than last time.
Maybe she doesn't want to be rushed, Carson thinks after a minute. A comfortable silence falls between them. Down below, a fight breaks out between two guys. A bouncer goes to break them up. A couple sneaks inside.
"How did that happen?" Carson asks, again not expecting an answer.
"The blonde man took offence to the brunette 'hitting on' the woman accompanying him," Seven answers.
Watching, Carson saw that yes; there was a woman with them. She was a leggy redhead with a killer figure. "How did you know that?"
"I can hear them," Seven states simply.
"Really?" Carson strains to listen, but he only hears the music behind them, the dying ruckus below, and the occasional car. He opens his mouth to ask how, when he catches sight of the Borg implant around Seven's left brow. "Oh." It occurs to him that if she can make out what happened down there then she can most likely hear the way people talk about her when they think she's out of range. Why doesn't she do or say anything? He remembers the way she closed off when asking about why he was worried. It made sense now.
"Can a bad day last longer then twenty-four hours?"
"Yep." Seven gives him an odd look.
"'Yep'?" She cants her head slightly, a small smile tugging at her lips. She doubts she'll ever know all the variations a human can use for a single phrase. Still eying him, she turns her head down to face the people beneath them. A moment passes. She searches for the two men and the woman they were fighting over. She sees the woman. She's alone. "Do you consider yourself trustworthy?"
Translation; can you keep a secret? Carson smiles easily. "Yes, I do."
Yeah, yep, and now yes. Seven turns to face the door and leans her hip against the rail. Why can't he just... She sighs. "Lieutenant Torres' martial problems are common knowledge," she starts. A pause. "She has been even easier to anger lately and yells at her crewmen when they make a mistake. Correct?"
"Well, yeah." Carson shrugs. "She's always like that when her and Tom fight. But she's not angry anymore."
"I know." Seven crosses her arms in front of her chest and looks down at her foot. Why did the Doctor insist on high heels? "They are divorcing," she states in a questioning manner.
"Common knowledge." Curious, Carson mimics the taller woman's pose, but instead of looking down, he watches at the former drone.
"That day..." Seven catches the corner of her lip between her teeth. "We were in Engineering... on the second level... She started talking to me - or to herself - I'm not sure." Seven affects a scowl. "I used the transporter to send us to her quarters and hugged her."
Carson blinks. He's heard none of this from the crew. They either didn't see, or Seven and/or B'Elanna threatened them. This would be grade-A gossip material but Seven all but told him this is secret.
"She cried. I sang to her." Seven places her hands on the rail behind her and leans back so she can look at the sky. The urge to alter the holomatrix so she can see the comforting image of stars becomes stronger. "She slept."
"Uh huh." Carson looks to the door. How did they get from Engineering to bed so fast? "How does this bother you, Seven?"
"'I'm just a fool learning loving somebody don't make them love you.'" Seven sighs. "Jack Johnson, Sitting, Waiting, Wishing."
"Was that the song you sang to her?" Carson asks softly.
"No. But it sums up my problem." She lifts her brow. "'Can I bum a cigarette off you?'" she asks, repeating a phrase from someone down below.
Carson nods. Without asking, he lights it up before handing it to her. He lights up another for himself. Seven turns to look down at the people below while Carson contemplates what she just told him. Maybe she shouldn't have said what she did. Judging by the way she opened the confession and how she went about it, the logical conclusion is that she's planning to take advantage of the lieutenant's new status. She doesn't have a chance. She knows this.
Carson meanwhile, was trying to wrap his mind around it. In one way, it's really easy to picture the two women together. They were both unbelievably stubborn and if anyone can handle B'Elanna it's Seven and vice versa. But in another, it's hard because all they really do is yell and scream at each other. Though thinking about it, it's really just B'Elanna that yells.
'I'm just a fool.'
Carson steals a glance at the disheartened young woman. If she really believes she's not an equal, she wouldn't try for his commanding officer's heart, would she?
In a soft, slightly husky voice, Seven starts crooning:
"If you were crying over me
I'd catch each tear before it fell
Save it for a wishing well
To make your dreams come true
To make your sky more blue
That's what I'd do
If you were crying over me
I'd hold you head when you ache
I'd fix your heart to never break
I'd make your voice to sing
I'd be that extra wing
So you could fly
If you were crying over me
Every day would be a Sunday afternoon
And every month would be a month of June
A big full moon, sittin' on the edge of a midnight tune
If you were crying over me
Every breath would be an angel getting kissed
And every road would end in a rainbow bliss
Soft blue dress, blowin' in the wind of our tenderness
If you were crying over me
Every day would be a Sunday afternoon
And every month would be a month of June
A big full moon, sittin' on the edge of a midnight tune"
She gives him a sidelong look. "Rita Chiarelli, If You Were Crying Over Me." She shakes her head, feeling unusually pathetic. She takes a drag from the cigarette, absently wondering why the British used to call them faggots, before grounding it out. She looks at the man beside her, feeling unusually vulnerable. Pathetic, vulnerable... Seven straightens. She clasps her hands behind her back and slides back into her Borg persona. She's Seven of Nine, formerly Terchiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero One, the liberated drone. Self-pity is inefficient. It's unacceptable.
Eyes cool, face expressionless, she meets Ensign Randall's soft brown eyes. He merely nods and continues puffing away at his cigarette. Together, they watch as more people gather to wait in line, while some get inside and others leave.
"So... how do you like this program?" Carson asks.
"I don't."
"Hm..."
.
AN: I wrote this a long time ago. Surprisingly, it's better than what I've written lately. It's the tenses, I think.