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Raffi wouldn’t be able to tell Seven where she’s going for deep cover or why , but she can form parts of the persona with Seven present. Is it necessary? No. Is it allowed? Sure, why not.
Is it a weirdly roundabout way to try and spend some time together and process things before they both head off into the great unknown? Hell yeah, but neither of them are going to say anything about it.
Raffi models the leather jacket and pants for Seven and spins around with some bravado. Then she stops.
“Too conspicuous?”
Seven shakes her head. “No. You just – well, you kind of look like me.”
Raffi makes a show of looking between them. “In what sense, exactly?”
“That’s the kind of shit I used to wear when I was in the Rangers.”
“You sound a little jealous.”
“Well, then the way I sound doesn’t match up with the way I actually feel.”
Raffi looks her over searchingly, then sighs. “Okay, I mean, the pants are pretty standard. You need something to move in. So…I change your top?”
“I don’t mind if you go undercover as me.”
“I’m not going undercover as you . I’m going undercover as – well, the person I’m going undercover as.”
“So probably not on a nice Federation planet.”
“No, that’s what Starfleet’s for.” Raffi strips off her shirt, and if Seven stares at that, well, it’s icing on the cake that’s hanging out with her.
“You are Starfleet.” Seven’s definitely staring – eyebrow raised, mouth a little open. Raffi can see the flash of her tongue.
“Not the same kind as you, babe.” Raffi pulls on her next option for her top. “Okay, you’d never wear this.”
Seven eyes the top, with its open shoulder, and nods. “Uncovered shoulders do not serve a good tactical advantage.”
Raffi makes a show of sliding her hands down her sides. “It’s part of the character, dahling .”
Seven’s gaze lingers, which is the only sign that what Raffi’s done has had any effect. “Being full of shit part of the character too?”
“I think the point is that she’s not all the way like me.”
“Oh, okay.”
“...what?”
“I agreed with you. I don’t know where you’re going.”
“Yeah, but there was disappointment in your answer.” Seven stares, and Raffi holds up her hands. “Okay, maybe I’m wrong–”
“You’re almost never wrong, Raffi.”
“Thanks, honey.”
“I just had to make sure that you know that.”
“Okay.” Raffi decides to let it go, which is something that she hates doing beyond all reason, but she’s trying to work on herself, and Seven doesn’t always want to talk about things. Doesn’t mean that she’s necessarily going to leave.
Even though they are quite literally leaving each other in a few months.
Raffi starts to shimmy out of her top.
“Wait.” Raffi stops. Seven takes a deep, stiff breath, but when she exhales, it’s easy. “It’s just that you look really good in those shirts.”
It’s not that Seven’s never been shy about her appreciation for Raffi’s body. It’s just that most of the time, she isn’t. Even for a very private person.
I spent a long time learning to appreciate beauty , Seven had told her once. But part of appreciating beauty means that you have to be looking at things that are beautiful. Relatively, beautiful to me.
Raffi had fluttered her eyelashes in response – it was so hard to take herself seriously then in front of Seven, when she’d been told for so long that no one did. And maybe that’s something she still kind of struggles with. You can just tell me that you think I’m pretty, Seven.
Pretty doesn’t encapsulate it, Raffi .
They of course aren’t talking about what is happening here, the way that Raffi is weaving parts of Seven, parts of them into this identity so that she doesn’t lose herself. Isolation’s never been good for her, but she, like Seven, would sacrifice that in a second for the good of everyone else.
They’re kissing now, as Seven runs her hands over ribbed fabric, hard muscle, and soft curves. The bare skin of Raffi’s shoulders. Warm, heating the tips of her fingers. Raffi’s mouth, warm and familiar against her own.
Raffi chuckles, low and warm, as Seven runs her hands over her hungrily, dropping her hands to Raffi’s waistband. Raffi knows for a fact that they’re both still sore from last night. And the night before that.
And the morning before that.
And the morning, afternoon, and evening before that.
It’s the kind of insatiability that only the unknown can bring.
Seven pulls away, keeping her forehead against Raffi’s, and just breathes , chest heaving, and pushes her pants down. “Shirt’s easier,” says Raffi.
“The shirt’s staying on,” says Seven, and Raffi grins and shivers.
They make out a lot more after that, and Seven hasn’t said anything about the amount of clothing she’s wearing, so Raffi has her way, and Seven ends up in none, straddled over Raffi as she pushes her shirt up.
And that’s Raffi’s first indication that this is maybe a little bit about her shoulders but also maybe a little bit about something else.
Raffi has a tank top underneath that doubles as a kind of soft armor. Seven pushes that up, and Raffi closes her eyes and arches herself into Seven’s hands, which she trusts – well, with everything. “You’re sore,” says Seven.
Raffi reaches up and cups the side of Seven’s (beautiful) face tenderly in her hand. “You know I don’t mind that kind of thing.” She bites back the rest of that statement, which is I already miss you , mostly out of deference to Seven and her feelings. What good does it do to say something that both of them already feel?
Actually, the whole situation stretches before Raffi, mired in possibility: to do the right thing, to be the right thing this time – the right person, to face what took her off track before but do better now. To test this resolve she’s tried to build for herself, the work she’s done on herself.
Raffi gasps, eyes and mouth open, as Seven gently palms Raffi’s breast, runs her thumb along the bottom, the side. She closes her eyes, and Seven makes a little noise that makes them open them again.
“I want you to see me,” murmurs Seven. “I want you to be seen by me.”
For a moment, just a moment, Raffi wonders, if Seven asked her right now to stay, if she would. The hell with everything else.
It’s just a moment.
She’d only consider it for a moment.
But for now, she’s promised not to look away, and she won’t. Not for anything.
Raffi’s arm is flung over her head, and she’s still shaking from Seven’s touch when Seven looks down at her mournfully, with these big eyes that will never been seen outside of their room (or if they have, Raffi’s never noticed it or met anyone who has).
Seven touches the smooth expanse on top of Raffi’s sternum. “I want to lie here.”
Raffi breathes a laugh. “It’s not very comfortable.”
Seven shakes her head. “Comfort is…less than relevant. I want to hear your heart.”
Raffi thinks that sometimes Seven hears her heart better than anyone she’s ever met. She nods, still shaking, and Seven nestles into her. Who am I , thinks Raffi, echoes of a song that she used to listen to on La Sirena when she was doing maintenance on it alone, that I should get to hold you?
Seven stiffens in her arms, and Raffi realizes she’s said it out loud. Before, she would have been terrified that that would be the kind of thing that would push Seven to leave. But now Raffi’s leaving, and they’re much more centered than they were mere years ago, two sparks with no grounding.
“A musical,” mentions Raffi. “About Orpheus.”
Seven makes a thoughtful noise. “Didn’t think you were one for that kind of mythology.”
“The music’s good.”
Seven chuckles. “That one’s about doubt, right?”
“Lots of things,” says Raffi. “But yes. Orpheus has to lead Eurydice out of the underworld–”
“–but never look back,” finishes Seven. “Until they’re out. Then they can see each other. But they never make it.”
“Because Orpheus looks back. He has to see if she’s still there.”
There’s a silence, as they both collect themselves in the dim light. Then Raffi shrugs out of all her remaining clothing. She just has to touch her, as much as possible, with all of the surface area her body provides.
There’s no point in discussing who would doubt or who would look back or who would cross into the afterlife for the other, because none of that is defined. They aren’t defined. They just are .
Raffi hopes that they will continue to be , some miraculous number of months until now.
Doubt’s a tricky bitch, of course.
Raffi’s about to make some joke, about waiting for her, a sailor out at sea – because isn’t that what ancient humans had decided that spacefarers were, sailors out in a sea of stars, waters of empty, terrifying grace? The heavenly abyss? But suddenly Seven’s kissing her until she can barely breathe, like Seven can draw air itself from Raffi’s body.
And Raffi wants to give it to her.
Raffi wants to give her everything.
She can’t, of course, but the intent has to count for something.
She pushes Seven onto her back, anyway, tries.
For now, this is the only thing that is certain: the both of them, this room, and the vastness of space around them.