A/N: I thought I'll dig this story out of the vault and see what you people think. I've had enough of gloomy stories, see. I had fun writing this, especially their conversations. It's more of a conventional fic than my other experiments, a boy-meets-girl kind of thing. Please excuse the horrible attempts at technobabble. Heck, I don't even know anything about bikes.
And we all know what happens to Max Burke in the end, so there are plenty of foreshadowing. Please leave a comment! It doesn't take much time to share your thoughts and/or critiques, and it's a lot more heartening (and educational!) than empty hits.
Disclaimer: The following is a piece of fanfiction. No money is made off this. There is no copyright infringement intended; all characters, concepts and backgrounds belong to the Star Trek franchise/Paramount.
A Point In Time
The garish faux-neon sign dimmed and, with an almost apologetic hiccup, fizzled out to darkness. Inside the store, a figure sitting hunched over an empty counter straightened as she sensed the loss of the sign's glow on her face.
"Stupid sign," Seventeen year-old B'Elanna Torres grumbled, and made another definitive note on her padd entry, which was sarcastically labelled, "The Crap List" and subtitled, "Boss: an inventory of why your shop is falling apart". She finished the list and scrolled back to the top to survey her work. Her smirk faded as she considered the title. Evaluating risk was not one of her stronger points by any means, but she still realized what her attitude might cost her this time: a much-needed job.
Scraping back her stool, she ducked into a back room and a moment later the severely outdated sign flared feebly back into life. It read: CHET'S HOME APPLIANCES REPAIR SHOP. More subdued lettering below proclaimed: ACCEPTING REPLICATORS, HOLOEMITTERS, COMMUNICATORS, PCS, ETC. YOU NAME IT, WE FIX IT.
The shop was a small, run-down place, almost hidden behind the mammoth shopping complex that had sprung up in front of it like so many spring mushrooms. Her boss was regarded as more than the pain in his employees' backside; he was a problem for frustrated estate agents as well. As the shop was quite ideally located in the core of San Francisco, a whole hungry pack of them had been converging on Chester 'Chet' Snow to sell his shop. Vacant lots, after all, were hard to come by in 28th century San Francisco. But he had never backed down. The rent was horrendous, but the shop had been his dad's and his granddad's before him, and may God take him before he'd sell it to be bulldozed.
B'Elanna was secretly proud of his defiance. It was one of the reasons she was still working for him.
She glanced at the chronometer on the wall. Ten to eight. Thank Kahless. She might be able to lock up early for a change. Her boss demanded overtime as a matter of course, but tonight he had left early. She, his miserable employee, had been entrusted with the store's figurative keys. And she was damned if she was going to spend an extra hour tonight fixing replicators that only had to be repaired by the end of next week.
Rubbing the counter to a spotless sheen with a soft rag, she laid the now-renamed and respectable "Crap List" squarely in the middle, where Chet would see her efforts first thing in the morning. The rest of her scattered homework padds and texts were packed quickly and neatly away into her schoolbag. Had she forgotten anything?
"No, sir," she mimicked in her best smarmy cadet voice. She had developed a regrettable habit of being social only to herself. "All systems go, Commander, sir. Oh, your report? Up your ass, sir."
"Thank you, cadet. Into the brig with you," another voice intoned right behind her. She whirled around, surprised, to confront a stocky young man with amused dark eyes. She recognized him from campus; he was a cadet as well, though she couldn't place his name. She hadn't even heard him come in. The door chime must be malfunctioning.
"Another one for the Crap List," she said aloud, furious. Go away, she thought.
The new arrival smiled as the door swung shut behind him with a blast of cold air. "I hope you weren't by any chance referring to me," he said, surveying her. His voice was smooth and almost charming. She ignored the way his eyes did the familiar flicker up to her forehead, though he didn't make any comments. He must have had an innate desire for survival.
"What gave you that hope?" she retorted. She couldn't take a smart-mouth right now; she wasn't in the mood. He had set down a small box on the counter and was looking at her expectantly. She in turn looked up at the chronometer. Just past eight. Perfect. "I'm sorry," she regrouped triumphantly. "Our business hours are over. You'll have to come back tomorrow." And too bad for Chet, she thought.
"When I came in it was exactly eight. Come on," he wheedled, with a grin. The tone behind his request indicated he was used to getting whatever he wanted. Old money. Well, B'Elanna wasn't about to forego dinner for some overbearing rich kid.
"We close at eight. Come back tomorrow. Please," she added with forced politeness, pushing him and his stupid box out of the door.
"Hey, wait!" he cried as he was shoved back out into the snow. He nearly slipped on the icy steps and grabbed the railing with a desperate hand. He held his box out to her. "This is important. At least just put me on the repair list. I really need this fixed."
B'Elanna hesitated. There was genuine worry in his voice. "What is it? What's so important?"
"It's a phaser," he said matter-of-factly, as nonchalantly as he would have said, "It's a tricorder".
"That's hardly a household appliance," she told him, suspicious. "Don't try to pull one over me. Now I recognize you. Are you even supposed to have one, cadet?"
"I'm in training. I'm allowed to carry one..."
"...inside Starfleet Academy grounds under strict supervision," she finished for him. "I get it. You broke it somehow and you don't want to get into trouble. You know they'll make you pay a horrendous repair fee anyway, so you snuck it off the campus so I'll repair for half the price, and of course you'll do this because you need to use it soon."
"Great. You've spared me the explanation," he said, not at all abashed. "I'll tip you extra if you can get it done by the end of tomorrow," he said, with another one of those grins. B'Elanna noticed he had somehow pushed his way back in. She sighed.
"Put your box on the counter," she growled tiredly as she slipped her schoolbag off and slid back on her spindly stool. "I'll need to take a look and see how badly you've wrecked it."
"Not too badly," he assured her.
She sniffed. "If you knew you wouldn't be here."
"Point taken."
"Give it here. And don't talk."
"You look familiar, too. Are you at the Academy as well?"
"I told you. Shut up."
He fell silent as she examined the phaser. Inside she was exulting at the challenge; replicator repairs had been getting very run-of-the-mill. It was a type two phaser pistol, a typical training weapon for Starfleet officers, modified to only fire at the stun setting. Making sure the power was turned off, she proceeded to methodically dismantle it. She peered at the tiny circuits: in the dim light she could hardly see the smaller components. She rummaged for a magnifying lens. The tool was totally caveman, but very effective.
"You seemed to be in a real hurry to get home," he observed after a moment. "Meeting someone?"
B'Elanna gritted her teeth. This guy really liked the sound of his own voice.
"I was going until you came in," she answered shortly. "How did you break this?"
"Dropped it off a cliff during a training exercise. Can you fix it?"
B'Elanna laid down the lens. "The outer casing's just chipped. I can fix or replace that, if you want," she said. "But the main problem is that there's a hairline crack in the power crystal. We don't have the license to replicate a replacement for that." She stood, rubbed her eyes and stretched.
He folded his arms. "And...?"
"And that means I can't help you," she shot back, irritated. "Do you get that?"
He glowered for a moment, then his face slid - unnervingly quickly - into a smooth look of resignation. "Perfectly. Do you have any suggestions?"
"You'll need to replace the crystal, which means you can take this to a weapons dealer. If you can find a reputable shop still open at 0900 hours," she supplied, with a sardonic smile at his expression. Respectable weapons dealers were notorious for charging unbelievably high prices for repairs. As for unlicensed dealers... well, she didn't need to go there.
"I don't have enough credits."
"Or you could own up," she said seriously. "The fine would definitely be less than what you'll pay a dealer."
"I could, couldn't I." His expression didn't change.
"Is that so hard?" she pressed. They stared at each other. He replaced his phaser back in the box.
"No," he said. B'Elanna couldn't tell whether that was in answer to her question or a refusal to confess. He turned to leave.
She took a calming breath. He doesn't realize the danger, she thought, and said sharply, "Look, that crack in the crystal's dangerous. It could misdirect your phaser beam or it could widen until this old dustbuster explodes."
He didn't answer. Did he hear? Did he even listen? She seethed. Fine. Leave the damn phaser alone. It wasn't her responsibility if he got hurt using it. She'd warned him. She bent to pick up her bag, and by the time she straightened he was already out the door.
"Hey!" she raced to the door, yelling at his retreating shoulders. "Hey, you! P'taq!"
"What now!" he looked back, annoyed, his face lit an eerie green by the sputtering neon sign. He was hunched over in the cold wind.
She scowled and held out a hand. "You can't just walk away. Where's my consultation fee?"
As with every night of the week after classes, she was dragging her feet on her way to Chet's. More never-ending hours ahead, she thought, frustrated, of sitting at that counter doing more useless inventories or repairing more malfunctioning replicators or ungrateful holographic nannies. She was in full brooding mood today; everyone of her classmates felt it, and as a result she had been avoided and ignored more than ever.
She didn't care. She wouldn't let herself care.
The ancient and nostalgic 'clock tower' standing stalwart in the south courtyard rang then, its unrelenting tolls echoing across the whole campus. She cursed and urged her feet to quicken their pace. She was running late, running, always running somewhere...
Then she saw him. A determined chin was lifted.
"You! Phaser boy!" she yelled across the courtyard. Her voice cracked, shrill with disuse. Annoyed faces huddled on stone benches turned to glare at her and she glared right back. Phaser boy started and turned.
"Where's my fee?" she accused angrily when she'd caught up to him. The run in the cool winter air left her dark cheeks flushed with a pink tinge. She brushed an unruly lock of brown hair out of her eyes impatiently, unaware of how 'Phaser boy' blinked and stared as though seeing her for the first time.
"Pardon?" he pretended politely. His eyes lingered on her lips. She breathed out, the air condensing into a wispy cloud in the cold.
"Idiot. My fee!" She advanced upon him, until he was trapped between her and a weather-beaten bust of Montgomery 'Miracle Worker' Scott.
"Oh, come on," he complained, offering her a slow grin. "Are you still sore over that?"
"I'm still disgusted at how you ran away, you coward," she said, though with a half-smile. She didn't know why she didn't just deck him right then and there; it was what she would've done with anyone else. Instead she settled for waving a threatening fist at him. He wasn't perturbed in the least.
"It's only a few credits," he protested.
"It's a meal for me," she retorted. "Look, if you don't pay up I will... I'll..."
He looked down at her. She was suddenly aware of how tall he was next to her, how imposing. He was amused, damn him. "Or you will what?"
Her hands clenched reflexively. "I'll..."
"Tell you what. I'll make it up to you," he said, moving uncomfortably close to her. She stepped back. He reached for her hand. "Are you free tonight?"
Her faint smile had disappeared as quickly as it came. "Not for you, p'taq."
Swimming through a sea of exhaustion, B'Elanna staggered to the mess hall, slammed her bag on a table and slid into a hastily vacated seat. Chapman had really put her through the grinder this time. Was it his goal in life to make her feel like shit at the end of every class?
Her stomachs gurgled, making themselves noticed. She'd skipped breakfast this morning because she'd overslept. She could fall asleep on this table right now...
"Cadet Torres. I didn't expect to see you again so soon," a very familiar and masculine voice said right beside her ear. She jerked upright, sneezed, and as she scrabbled for her wits he laughed. She glared in response to his smirk.
"You again! You know what I want!"
"Do you?" he said suggestively, and before she knew it she'd brought her hand up and slapped him. Heads turned in the mess hall at the sound and speculating murmurs began. She shook her hand to restore the circulation. Boy, that felt good.
He straightened grimly. "That was uncalled for, Torres."
"It was, wasn't it." She started to walk away very quickly, burning with anger and shame, trembling at her lack of control. But he matched her pace and caught her arm. She shook him furiously.
"Let go of me –!"
"I was only going to offer to replicate you lunch, as a way of making up to you for last night."
"That's all?" she returned in disbelief. He nodded and rubbed at his jaw, where a red mark was beginning to form. B'Elanna crossed her arms and regarded that mark, her mark, with satisfaction.
"That's all."
"Look, if you're trying to get something out of me..."
"It's only lunch," he insisted. "I have only one condition: that I have lunch with you." Steering her over to the replicator, he asked off-hand, "What'll you like?"
She regarded him suspiciously. "I won't eat with you," she said.
"I think you will," he said calmly, moving closer. She gaped at his arrogance. She could feel the heat between them. A hundred staring eyes watched every movement they made and more than one pair of ears were perked. They were making a fine spectacle! Her own acute hearing could detect faint giggles. If it was one thing B'Elanna hated, it was to be laughed at.
All right, she thought, I'll show you. With hostility, she finally answered, "Fine. Then I'll have one whole roasted targ with a bloodpie on the side."
He gazed back just as gravely. "Really?"
She nodded. He shrugged and said to the replicator, "One whole roasted targ-"
The replicator beeped and began to whirl. B'Elanna could almost see the targ materializing.
"Wait!" she cried, frantic. Kahless! "Belay that order. I didn't think you'll take me at face value, you idiot!"
His smile twisted. "It wouldn't have gone through. A cadet like me wouldn't have enough credits for that order. I knew you would say something, though. What would you really like? Gagh?"
"You bastard," she muttered under her breath. The line behind them was starting to get impatient, and one loud cadet complained and heckled them with mocking catcalls. He'd outmaneuvered her this time. She had to give it to him though; he was persistent.
"Pardon? I didn't quite hear that," he said, as undisturbed as if they stood alone in an empty room.
"I said, I'll have... a chicken sandwich," she said loudly. "Are you deaf, phaser boy?"
"Just making sure this time," he replied. "I'll have the BLT," he ordered, his eyes dancing with a hidden joke she couldn't understand.
Two plates of sandwiches emerged, and he carried them over to their table. She sat down facing him, feeling very uncomfortable, but she was determined to see how this strange conversation would work out. It was strange having someone to eat lunch with. She'd gotten used to communing with a technical journal over meals. That habit was very gratifying mentally, but it didn't do much for the soul.
"I do have a name, you know," he began when they had settled down. He held out his hand across the table. "Maxwell Burke. But call me Max."
She stared at the proffered hand and took it gingerly. "I'm B–"
"B'Elanna Torres," he finished calmly. To her surprise he'd pronounced her name correctly, with the Klingon bey. That startled her. He took another bite out of his sandwich appreciatively, saying, "Mmm. This is actually quite good."
She shot him a questioning look.
"I asked around," he answered her when he'd swallowed.
"You asked? Who?" Her question was sharp. The chicken sandwich lay untouched.
"It wasn't hard to find out," he sidestepped. "You're hard to ignore, B'Elanna." His eyes, so dark and knowing, seemed to glimmer back at her with faint amusement. She was caught. She felt a flush in her cheeks. Avoiding his penetrating gaze, she took up the sandwich on her plate.
"Thanks," she managed to say sarcastically. She picked at the bun in her hand with nervous fingers. The bread was chilled but soft under its hard crust.
He smiled in answer, and she noted the way the left corner of his thin lips would twist up just slightly more than his right. Weird, she thought idly as they ate in silence. She'd never taken the time to study his face before. His face was rather plain and he was not at all handsome by human or Klingon standards, but who, she thought bitterly, was she to judge?
Clearing her throat, she asked, "So what did you do with that phaser?"
His eyes flickered to hers. "Don't worry. I did the right thing. I gave it back," he said.
"And...?" Inwardly she was relieved.
"And I paid the fine," he said shortly. "And I got a dressing down about responsibility plus a black mark on my record. All this because I made one little mistake."
She snorted. "Phaser b– Burke, one black mark on your record is nothing compared to what mine looks like."
He raised his eyebrows, amused. "So I've heard. But there you were in the shop, telling me to play by the rules. What did you do that tops mine?"
Was he another one of those straight-as-arrow Starfleet perfectionists? She'd thought otherwise. She sneered, "You've only broken a phaser. I could play connect-the-dots with all the marks I have on my record."
"A full padd?" he inquired.
"I have an entire shelf all to myself," she deadpanned.
"Ah, already a delinquent at your tender age. You haven't mentioned your disciplinary hearing from your first week," he supplied. "What was it? Fighting in the classroom?"
She choked on a piece of chicken in shock.
"How did you know that? Isn't that stuff supposed to be confidential?" She wanted to be indignant. A part of her wanted to break his big nose, but another part wanted to start laughing. She didn't know which part to listen to. What was she doing anyway, trading stories about her rule-breaking history?
"Word gets around," he said evasively. "You're the scourge of every professor you have, apparently. You ask too many tricky questions."
"I never knew I was in the rumour mill," she told him bemusedly.
"It's considered an honour to be in it."
"I'm very sure it is," she scoffed. "I'll try my best to keep supplying the necessary power. It's hard work. Don't try to usurp me."
His lips twitched. "I could swear you were boasting just now," he said. "I know I can't win with you."
"Concede your defeat, insignificant human." He saluted her mockingly and she couldn't help but smile back. Why was she flirting with him, when ten minutes ago she'd been ready to tear him apart? Flirting?
She didn't flirt. She didn't smile at random cadets she barely knew. She didn't let them buy her lunch. She was tough-as-nails Torres, of the threatening scowls and the devastating put-downs, whose forehead and glares warned all to stay away. But right now she felt completely out of depth. Judging from the way her damn weak human side reacted to his half-smile, he was the one who was winning. And he knew it. This strange cadet knew all about her, but he was still talking to her. To her. Most cadets around her acted like her black marks were contagious, or something stupid like that. Stand too close to Torres, they'd say, and you'd be contaminated. Or so she thought.
Truth was, she hadn't really talked to someone in such a long time that she felt her control slipping away from her. It was uncomfortably nice to have lunch with someone. Burke was saying something, but she couldn't find any words to fill his expectant pause. Damn it, she'd lost it. And B'Elanna Torres was not one to tolerate a loss.
She stood abruptly. "I...I've got to go, I'm late for class. You still owe me that fee." She immediately regretted those words as soon as they left her mouth. It sounded like an excuse. It sounded like she was backing down, and B'Elanna Torres never liked retreating.
He wiped his mouth with a napkin, unperturbed. "Glad to hear that. I will see you around, B'Elanna."
She nodded numbly. She could feel his eyes on her back as she walked away.
"I'll race you, BLT. First to the line wins."
Max Burke's breath was hot and ticklish against her ear. How did he always manage to sneak up on her like that? And she'd told him a hundred times she hated that stupid nickname. B'Elanna Torres. B, L, T, he'd said, with that odd half-smile of his and the sun light in his eyes.
However, before she could answer his challenge he'd shot away in a flash of grey and black.
"Cheater!" she screamed and took off after him. She'd show him not to mess with her! She picked up her pace, her eyes glued to the line now less than two hundred metres away. Burke was up ahead, slowing down already, and despite his head start she was gaining on him. She wouldn't let him win.
Her mother's voice jabbered inside her head as she ran, as usual.
You could amount to something! You could win the meet, Lanna, if only you'd put in some effort!
How's this for effort, mother, she thought fiercely as she forced her legs to go faster and faster, passing Burke on the inside as they rounded the curve of the track. She was sprinting now, everything and everyone around her- Burke, bleachers, joggers- fading from her view in a blur of light and wind.
Then, all too soon, her run ended and she was over the line, smirking back into Burke's red face. It was a few minutes before he could speak steadily, while she had already regained her breath. Sometimes there was an advantage in having twin hearts.
"Congratulations," he said, taking deep breaths.
"Thank you," she replied, feeling more cordial with her win.
They had slowed to a quick walk, pacing around the track, moving to the side and taking up two separate outer lanes to avoid other runners. He cast a sideways, speculating look at her.
"You've been trained," he said abruptly. "You've run before?"
"Yeah," she said, somewhat bitterly. "High school team."
"You're fast."
She turned her head away. "It doesn't matter."
Almost unwillingly B'Elanna found her gaze drifting over to the long jump pits. A silver-haired coach was there supervising tryouts for the cadet track and field team, scratching on a padd, barking at a group of hopeful cadets. Another cadet, conscripted as equipment boy, was trotting out to an adjacent field with a bundle of javelins under his arms.
"Why don't you try out?" Burke's voice interrupted her thoughts.
She scowled at him for even suggesting the idea, tearing her eyes away from the long jumpers and javelin-boy. She could feel an old itch in her fingers, which she quickly banished. She rebelled at the idea of running in circles- if one had to run, why not run to a destination?- though sometimes it seemed that was all she was doing. She settled for scoffing, "All those rules. Who would want to try out?"
"I am," he told her. "I'm going for the decathlon team on Friday. I'm sure I'm going to make it. We could run together." There was an expression on his face that angered her. Was there a hint of a challenge?
"Oh yeah? You weren't much competition," she said. "Max, you cheated and you still lost," she couldn't resist adding. She loved to needle him; it was hard to predict what he would be offended by. Besides, one thing she couldn't stand was a cheater. It was two weeks into their strange relationship and she'd begun to think that Burke, while rude and arrogant, was a better person than that.
His face tightened. "Right. I bet you're just afraid you won't make it onto the team. I never figured you for such a flaker."
That hurt. Max always had such a way with the simplest words, and his accusation left her speechless.
Without waiting for an answer he started to run again, ignoring her, while she stood there glaring at his retreating back. She felt and heard the rapid angry beats of her hearts, building to an unbearable climax.
"Cheating p'taq!" she screamed after him. "Don't ever come near me again or I'll rip your head off!"
For a moment she wanted to do exactly that, but there was no way in hell she would run after him like some lovesick girl. She wasn't going to run after anyone, not even him. Her gaze darted around and finally landed near her feet. Screw the consequences! In one swift motion she bent down, grabbed a large rounded pebble, and hurled it with deadly fury and surprising accuracy. Her missile bounced off the back of Burke's head with a muffled thump. He stumbled and swung his head around wildly.
She ducked quickly behind a copse of trees, half-laughing, half-raging, and watched his confusion with some satisfaction. There was some bitterness colouring the anger, too. It was over, then; they were over. They hadn't ever been together in that sense, but the last weeks of light conversation between them during class breaks had led her to mistakenly believe that he was a decent guy. He was a little strange, true, but he was entertaining to be with.
She didn't want to think that maybe some of the fault laid with her, too. Maybe she was too sensitive.
She realized then she didn't know who Max Burke really was. He'd never told her anything of himself.
He commed her dorm room two days later. She tried to hide her relief at hearing his voice. The past few days had been – lonely, even more so than usual. Maybe it was because she'd gotten used to having lunch with someone. Stupid.
"Hey. Want to go for dinner?" he asked quietly. His face was calm, inscrutable. She could see from the bookshelf behind him that he was calling from his room. She crossed her arms and glared at him.
"No," she said shortly.
"We could go to Amato's," he suggested, naming her favourite Italian restaurant, a cozy place with ridiculously good lasagne. Max wasn't a big fan of Italian. It would be the closest he would get to an apology, but B'Elanna wasn't ready to finish sulking yet.
"I'm busy tonight. Chapman's assigned us a problem set," she replied tersely, reaching over to cut the communication link.
"Look, this is stupid," Max said. "We're acting like-like children."
"You are," B'Elanna snapped. But her hand stilled over the button.
"We both are. How about we leave it at that? Come on, BLT. I've missed arguing with you," he said, offering a half-smile. "We can hash out those problem sets too."
Mmm, Amato's. She had to admit she wanted to go. And decent, intelligent conservation where she didn't have to watch every word that flew out of her mouth. It was tempting.
"You're picking up the tab," she said, giving in ungracefully.
"All right," he acquiesced readily, without his usual complaints about gender stereotyping. There was some relief in his dark eyes before his usual confident grin slid into place. "I'll pick you up at six-thirty?"
She nodded. He was reaching over to end the call when she asked hesitantly, "Did you make it?"
"Make what? Cookies? I'm horrible at the art of replicating, as you already know. And don't even let me near an oven."
"The decathlon team, I mean," she barked impatiently.
"Oh, that. Tryouts were particularly gruelling. And I had a massive knot on my head, you know, so I wasn't at my best," he hinted. She rolled her eyes and he admitted, "Fine. I made the team, but I only got the spot because you weren't there."
Max leaned back in his chair and looked straight at her, daring her to say something.
Damn, she couldn't look away. Hey, was he wearing a green sweater? The colour looked good on him. "Ok. Good," she said
He chose to take that as a compliment.
"What's that sound? I didn't know you could whistle, Torres," Chet remarked, as his young half-Klingon employee disembowelled a replicator unit. She met his smile with a quick, toothy grin.
"I'm a fast learner," she mumbled. "Pass me the spanner? I need the one with the red handle. It's on the bench to your right."
He handed the tool over. "You're awfully cheerful today. My employees aren't supposed to be happy."
She shrugged.
"Aced a test? Got a commendation?"
"Hardly. I didn't even finish my homework last night, and boy did I hear about it," she said. She didn't seem too peeved by that, though.
"I'm giving you overtime if you don't say anything," Chet threatened, intensely interested. He had always thought she lacked a social life, and made sure to encourage her to hunt one down every now and then. It seemed she had finally succeeded, to the benefit of her good humour and the detriment of her schoolwork.
Her head whipped up at his threat and she whined, "Chet, you wouldn't make me stay!"
"Ah. Meeting someone, then? Then you'd better finish Neumann's repair by five, or else you'll be late for your date."
"Oh, go and find me a turbo-encabulator," she parried.
He laughed, slapped her on the back, and disappeared grumbling good-naturedly into his office.
Working on muscle memory, B'Elanna took the back panel off a unit. Gazing furtively around, as if even machine parts had eyes and ears, she grazed a knuckle distractedly across her lips where Max had kissed her last night. It didn't mean anything big, she tried to convince herself, just a quick goodbye kiss. Still, she found herself blushing like a tweenager sitting on the porch with her first date. How very un-Klingon of her. At Amato's she hadn't even thrown a plate at Max's head.
She tried to turn the corners of those lips down. It felt dangerous to be too happy. And if Miral Torres caught her whistling, she'd get another lecture for sure.
Her mother didn't approve of Max from the first time he said hello, wearing the hated Starfleet jacket and a slightly sardonic smile. B'Elanna could sense her disapproval all the way across the quadrant from Kessik to Earth. Miral had thought he was "shifty-looking", and she had told her wayward daughter so, very loudly, over the com link. Besides, Max was a human.
"Aren't there Klingons at the Academy?" Miral had asked last night, spitting 'Academy' out like a swear word. It had taken her long enough to accept her daughter's decision to become a Starfleet officer, and now this!
"Yes, but their idea of having fun is beating the crap out of each other with a bat'leth, all the while drinking themselves under the table with disgusting amounts of bloodwine. You know, I can actually have a conversation with Max. And now you're telling me to 'date a Klingon instead.' That's rich, coming from you," B'Elanna shot back.
Her mother's face grew stiff. "You will not speak to me this way," she said.
"Or what? You'll drag me back to Kessik? I won't come back."
"If I need to, I will bury you in a Klingon monastery until you learn respect. Lanna, I'm just trying to -"
Seething with anger, the daughter ended the com link with a vicious jab of her finger. Her mother's face, harsh but worried, blipped out of existence.
Well, that was that. Another conversation with her mother, another stupid fight. It was to be expected. Lately they couldn't even say two words to each other without her mother finding fault with her clothes, her hair, or her preference for human cuisine. Now Miral was picking on her friends, and Max. She had been uncharacteristically giddy, after she and Max had dinner. Her mother had spoiled the mood. Now they wouldn't talk for another two weeks.
Not that I care, B'Elanna thought, pushing her lingering guilt away. I won't care. Max Burke cared. She knew that for certain, that night. And that was enough. She didn't have to act like a proper Klingon with him, or pretend to be all flirty and pretty like other human girls. She liked that about him. There was no pretentiousness, no whispering behind the back. She hated such betrayals of confidence; other cadets would take her thoughts and twist them, until they became ugly and laughable. But this Max wouldn't do that to her. She could be free with him.
She thought about how he'd come to pick her up on his new hoverbike. Though she scoffed obligatorily at his taste, B'Elanna was secretly thrilled. Besides, it was a Lamotte 460, top of the line, with a German S9 engine and new hyper-suspension technology. It had been worth all of Max's jibes to be able to examine one of those bikes up close.
Well, the ride hadn't been half bad, either. She'll admit that. Showing up with a two-seater had been very cunning of him. That forced her to hold on to his waist while they sped up and down the hills of San Francisco...
The door to Chet's shop chimed, breaking into her daydream. She'd fixed it just that morning to ring out, strong and clear. How ungrateful of it, to interrupt her like that! She sighed, bringing herself back to work, reality, and being cordial with crabby customers and their crap.
But for the first time in a long while, the smile she wore was genuine. And as she glanced out the window she saw that the snow was melting.