Work Text:
i.
“Lieutenant Torres, are you well?”
Lieutenant Torres is sitting bent over a table in the mess hall, her head knocking rhythmically against her folded hands. At Seven’s question, she looks up and glares. “None of your business,” she says. If pressed to describe it, Seven would characterise the sound as a growl, and Lieutenant Torres’ facial features are pulled taut in a way that Captain Janeway has taught her means do not pursue this avenue of questioning, Seven.
In the four months, twelve days, ten point three hours since Seven first came aboard Voyager, she has discovered that it is wise to adhere to the captain’s advice, particularly where Lieutenant Torres is concerned. “Very well,” Seven says, and leaves.
ii.
“Lieutenant Torres, may I speak with you?”
Lieutenant Torres stops mid-step, three point six feet away from Seven, and turns. “Sure,” she says slowly. She holds her upper body tilted away from Seven – fear, distrust – and bears an expression Seven considers to be one of suspicion. “What about?”
“I wish to render my services to you.”
Lieutenant Torres frowns. “Which services, exactly?”
“My services in efficiency. I believe your department, though riddled with individuals prone to illogical and inefficient behaviour, would benefit greatly from the integration of some techniques proven highly effective by the—”
“If that sentence ends with anything even remotely resembling the word ‘Borg,’ you had better wish you hadn’t spoken.”
Over the course of the last seventeen seconds, Lieutenant Torres’ pupils have dilated and her breathing has grown shallower; Seven catalogues the potential meanings of this physical change and determines anger to be 78% more probable than sexual attraction. “My apologies,” Seven tells her. “I did not wish to offend.”
“Maybe not,” Lieutenant Torres sighs, “but you could sure be a little more tactful.”
Seven assumes she is referring to the nuances of interacting with a half-Klingon, but Lieutenant Torres has already disappeared into the turbolift before Seven can assure her she will try.
iii.
“Lieutenant Torres, may I be of assistance?”
Lieutenant Torres is buried beneath a bulkhead, swearing in Klingon. Seven already possesses the knowledge required to translate those curse words, of course, but over the last few months, she has discovered that the crewmembers tend to take offence at reminders of the Borg’s pursuit of perfection. Though Seven had once assured Ensign Kim of the improbability of her having personally assimilated one of his direct ancestors, she had failed to achieve the desired effect of reassurance.
Lieutenant Torres says: “Pass me the hypospanner, would you?”
Seven does so.
A few moments later, there is a loud crash and another creative string of curses. Lieutenant Torres says: “Hand me the—”
—replacement coupling, Seven realises after a quick survey of the tools littering the floor, and does so before Lieutenant Torres can finish her sentence. This makes the swearing and the flurry of activity stop; after a moment, Lieutenant Torres manoeuvres her way out of the cramped space beneath the bulkhead and looks up. Even upside down, her expression is still clearly one of surprise. Seven notes that this is the first time Lieutenant Torres has displayed any emotion other than anger or frustration in her presence – perhaps it ought to be counted as progress.
“It’s you,” Lieutenant Torres says.
Seven raises an eyebrow. “Yes.”
“I—,” she appears uncertain how to proceed. “I thought you were Nicoletti.”
“Lieutenant junior grade Susan Nicoletti, ranked third in the hierarchy of the department of Engineering aboard this vessel,” Seven says. “I am not this individual.”
“Imagine that.”
Seven frowns. “What must I imagine?”
For reasons that shall ever remain a mystery to Seven, Lieutenant Torres shakes her head, amused. “Just stick around and make yourself useful, won’t you?”
vi.
“Lieutenant Torres, do you ‘have a minute’ at the conclusion of beta shift?”
Across the display in Engineering, Lieutenant Torres fails to issue an immediate response, and Seven frowns. “Have I used the colloquialism incorrectly?”
Lieutenant Torres shakes her head, taps her command code into the terminal, shakes her head again. “No, not at all, I was just… surprised. To hear you speaking so casually.”
“As you know, I have been undertaking weekly social lessons with the Doctor. My task for this week involves the comprehension and utilisation of ten common colloquial phrases in everyday speech. This was the first attempt.” Seven studies the unfamiliar expression on Lieutenant Torres’ face and asks, “Did I say something amusing?”
“No,” says Lieutenant Torres. She retrieves her PADD from a nearby workstation and continues to speak as she taps information into it. “I think it’s great you’re trying to learn things like that.”
Seven lifts an eyebrow.
“However?” she asks.
“However,” Lieutenant Torres says, with a small smile, “I hope you only learn them because you want to, and not because you feel like you have to in order to fit in. You know?”
Seven does not, but in her desire to preserve this unusual moment of civility between them, she seeks to understand. After a moment of weighing variables and discarding improbabilities, she answers. “You wish to establish that my motives are those of myself as an individual and not those of the Voyager Collective?”
Now Lieutenant Torres really smiles. “Exactly. No one can tell you who you should be but you. Just – just think about it, will you?”
“I will,” Seven says.
A whole three minutes pass before Seven realises that she has failed to ask Lieutenant Torres the question she intended to ask upon opening the discussion. It is an uncharacteristic oversight, an evidence of distraction she finds most unsettling, and she determines to request the captain’s interpretation of its meaning at the earliest possible juncture.
v.
“Lieutenant Torres, may I join you?”
Lieutenant Torres looks up from where she has been glaring into her mug of raktajino and gestures across the room. “You don’t want to sit with the others? Sounds like they’re having fun over there.”
“Negative,” Seven says. She places the tray with her nutritional supplement on the table in front of her and slides into the available seat behind it. “My appreciation of Vulcan 3D Chess does not extend to over two hours of intra-crew competition. When excited, the pitch of Lieutenant Carey’s voice raises to a most unpleasant degree, and Lieutenant Paris is—” Seven pauses, unsure if she ought to continue.
“It’s okay, Seven, you can say it.”
“Very well. Lieutenant Paris is raucous and juvenile, more so than usual.”
Lieutenant Torres snorts and takes a long sip of her beverage. “You said it.”
This agreement surprises Seven. “You do not find this assessment to be… insulting?”
“Why would I?”
“I—” Seven pauses, searching for adequate expression within the clumsiness of words. “It has been brought to my attention, by yourself as well as others, that my manner of speaking often results in offence where none was intended. This… concerns me, as I do not wish to damage any member of the Voyager Collective.” Lieutenant Torres is watching her with an expression Seven cannot decipher, but she does not appear on the verge of fury; in light of this deduction, Seven continues. “I am aware that the members of this crew tend to react with particular sensitivity when confronted with unfavourable commentary pertaining to friends or romantic partners – in your case, Lieutenant Paris. It is my desire that you be aware that I speak only my observations, and in doing so wish to do neither of you harm.”
Lieutenant Torres is unresponsive for nine point six seconds; just as Seven is beginning to contemplate the potential necessity of an apology, Lieutenant Torres says, “That’s… nice of you, Seven. I guess if I think about it, I know you don’t mean any harm, I just sometimes… lose my temper.”
“May I speak freely?”
Lieutenant Torres nods, albeit suspiciously. “Go ahead.”
“I confess to finding myself surprised at your reaction.”
“About Tom?”
Seven swallows a mouthful of her forgotten nutritional supplement (bland but efficient) and says, “Yes.”
Lieutenant Torres pushes her empty mug to the side of the table and rests her cheek on her hand. “I guess I just don’t see much sense in getting mad over you telling the truth. Just because I’m in a relationship with Tom doesn’t mean I don’t see his negative qualities, too.” She rolls her eyes. “Sometimes his negative qualities are all I see.”
“And yet you remain a couple.”
“Well, yeah.” She shrugs. “There are always bad times, Seven. But that’s what makes the good times so good. It’s the same with friendships.”
“Intriguing.” Seven takes another bite, chews and swallows. “Explain.”
“Take Harry, for example. When the crews merged, Harry was my first friend from Starfleet. He’s probably still my best friend from Starfleet. He’s a great guy, he’s smart and patient and hard-working and he’s always nice to everyone.”
“Agreed.”
“But he’s also kind of a baby.”
Seven frowns. “Ensign Kim is 27 years old, and his height and weight fall within the acceptable parametres of—”
“I mean he’s still a little innocent, naïve, you know? He still falls in love with a different alien every week and always ends up getting his heart broken when they turn out just to want him for his communicator or something.”
Seven thinks about this. “You speak in hyperbole but your premise is accurate. I accept it.”
Lieutenant Torres rolls her eyes again; Seven wonders if perhaps a speck of dirt has found its way in. “Sure you do.”
Seven eats another mouthful. After a moment’s thought, she says, “It is inefficient for you to spend time in the company of lesser individuals. I recommend the active pursuit of additional, more suitable companions.”
Lieutenant Torres snorts a laugh. “Why, you got someone in mind?”
i.
“Hey, Seven, are you headed down to Astrometrics?”
Seven pauses between the open doors of Engineering and waits for Lieutenant Torres to catch up to her. “Affirmative,” she says.
“So am I," says Lieutenant Torres. "I want to check out the trajectory of that meteor thing we detected earlier.”
They walk to the turbolift in silence, step onto it in silence, ride in silence down to deck eight. Seven is conscious of the fact that they have never spent such a length of time (six minutes, fourteen seconds) alone in each other’s company without speaking. The feeling is pleasant, though foreign, and Seven feels no compulsion to interrupt it.
But once they have reached Astrometrics and Seven has begun her long-range sensor diagnostic, Lieutenant Torres turns to her from the neighbouring console. “What are you doing now? After your shift is over, I mean?”
Seven contemplates. “I shall remain in Astrometrics in order to ‘grade’ the science assignment presented to me by Naomi Wildman for correction. Following that, I intend to return to the Bridge to observe Captain Janeway’s methods and interaction with the crew. Why do you ask?”
From her position, Seven cannot determine precisely what Lieutenant Torres is doing, but her interest in her console appears to have greatly increased. “I was just wondering if you… well, if you’d be interested in playing a game of velocity with me.” She looks up. “I heard from Harry that you sometimes go a round with the captain, and… let’s just say I’m not allowed to play against anyone from Engineering anymore.”
“Interesting,” Seven says. “You request my services as an opponent because the members of your department fear your superior strength.”
“Superior aggression, more like it,” Lieutenant Torres mutters, “but yeah, I guess. Also—” she shrugs. “I guess it could be…”
“Fun?” Seven supplies.
Lieutenant Torres shrugs again. “No harm in trying it out, right?”
Seven opens her mouth to point out that there may indeed be ‘harm’ in the combination of Lieutenant Torres’ strength and tendency towards aggression combined with Seven’s superior strategic skills and disinclination to lose, but she recalls the crux of her most recent social lesson – Learning When Not to Say What’s On Your Mind – and refrains. She says instead, “At what time would you like to play?”
*
A few hours later, Lieutenant Torres is lying on the floor of Holodeck One, sweat collecting in the ridges of her forehead, laughing.
Seven stands above her. “Lieutenant Torres, your behaviour concerns me.”
Lieutenant Torres grins up at her. “Why?”
Seven frowns. “I have proven victorious in two of our three games, thereby winning the match. I fail to comprehend why you are so—”
“—happy?”
Seven frowns deeper. “Yes.”
Lieutenant Torres sits up and accepts the towel Seven hands to her; she passes it over her face and then twists it around her hands. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but sometimes it isn’t just about winning. Sometimes it’s about having a—” she looks up at Seven, “—a worthy opponent. A challenge.”
Seven considers this. After a moment, she says, “I believe I understand.”
The computer chimes to inform them that another crew member has booked the holodeck for 2030 hours; Seven calls for the exit and they walk towards it together. As the doors slide open, Lieutenant Torres turns to her and asks, “You want to play again next week, same time?”
“Affirmative,” Seven replies, and is almost surprised at the speed and the willingness of it. They part ways at the turbolift as Seven prepares to head to the cargo bay. Hands clasped behind her back, Seven nods to her and says, “Good night, Lieutenant Torres. Sleep well.”
“You too. Or whatever the equivalent is for peaceful regeneration.”
Seven has already turned and walked out the doors when Lieutenant Torres adds, “Oh, and Seven? You can call me B’Elanna, if you want to.”
Seven watches her face for a hint of – what, she doesn’t know, but she perceives only a genuine openness that must immediately be ascribed to lingering post-exercise endorphins. Somehow, in spite of this incontestable explanation, Seven still finds herself pleased.