Prompt fill for @bluebirdx -- "Raffi & Seven, gardening on a sunny day". I would never have thought of this, and it was so much fun ♡
Unsurprisingly, you find her behind the cabin.
No one with a shred of sense would choose to be outside at a quarter to noon in the Californian desert, but evidently, this does not stop Seven. Pausing briefly in the shadow of your little home, you lean against the porch and watch her work.
She's getting old, you think with some satisfaction, just like you.
Not that she'd do you the favor of wincing when she bends down to pick up a bag of soil, like you would; no, she moves with the same grace and strength and agility as she did when you met her. She's just gotten slower. You used to think she'd never stop moving through life as though she's needed elsewhere. She still doesn't like to waste time, of course, not unless you make her — but somewhere along the way, her stubborn streak settled into the firm belief that very little in the universe actually requires her to hurry anymore.
Her hair is pulled back in a twist, exaggerating her sharp, creased features, and when she wipes at her forehead with her wrist, she leaves behind a stripe of dirt.
It makes you feel so fond of her, you have to close your eyes for a moment.
Ex-borg, ex-ranger, decorated Commodore Seven of Nine, First Chair of the Interstellar Sanctuary Committee, a gardener now. You might never get used to it.
Sure, she approaches it with the same furrowed-brow gravity as she does most things, but there she is, meticulously repotting the Talarian Pepper, or whatever it is that she's got there.
A few months ago— oh, well. Coming to think of it, maybe even a year ago? It all started with a singular raised bed with lettuce. There'd been some kind of argument between you. Something about the recycler, or your health, or one more mission. Anyway, it was just one rickety metal table with a protective screen at first, and then that turned into something sturdier with a little more planting space, and this, somehow, escalated into two more farm boxes, a small greenhouse, and three rectangular rows of tilled soil.
You've since forcibly come to enjoy chard and okra.
You've come to enjoy seeing Seven in her gardening attire much more easily. Today, she's in a green blouse with the top buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Casual and butch and somehow, still way too dignified for what she's doing.
Tearing yourself away from the view, you make your way over to where Seven has now finished rehoming her new Chili.
"At some point," you say by way of greeting, "you could plant something just because it's pretty."
"Could," Seven retorts without looking away from the small display where she's adjusting the watering system, "but won't."
"Rude." You reach past her to steal a small tomato right off the stem, just to annoy her — unfortunately, she is unfazed. The tomato tastes rich, sweet and sour.
"You can plant your own patch, if you want something to look at."
You hum. "Got plenty to look at already."
She catches your exaggerated appreciative leer down her figure and a small, surprised laugh bursts out of her. It still tingles deep in your chest, when you make her laugh, a golden moment of joy and achievement, and you laugh, too.
You trap her against her gardening table, and despite her gruff demeanor, she lets you. This close, you can breathe in the way she smells like earth and garden lovage and sweat.
"Hi," you tell her. "You weren't in bed anymore when I woke up."
"Yeah, well. I've been up for about five hours."
"They do say that the elderly tend to wake early."
"Did you want something, or are you just here to needle me?" At your waist, her dirty fingers in your belt loops betray her sullen tone.
"Just wanted to ask if we're having lunch soon, or if I should go ahead and have a late breakfast."
She raises an eyebrow. "If you can manage to fend off starvation for another forty minutes, I'll bring in enough for a salad."
With a sigh, you let her go. "I think I can manage. I'll fire up the grill, make a steak to go with it."
"Sounds good," she says as you start walking back to the cabin. Out of the corner of your eye, you think you see her turn to her garden again, but an instant later, she's caught you by the wrist and pulled you back against her.
Melting into her kiss is the easiest thing in the world. You wind your arms around her shoulders, feel the way her shirt sticks to her back and the points of her implants press against the sweaty fabric. The tips of her fingers on the small of your back.
This is everything: the two of you in this unlikely garden, her smiling mouth on yours. A late start to the day. And in just a short while, a shared meal with Seven of Nine, who loves you so much she put down roots in your desert.
