#fiend writes

On his travels, he had met a great many interesting and kind person. Some were even extremely aesthetically pleasing. None, however, had come close to the same importance as the woman from Carbon Creek, Maggie. No matter how pleasing the company or how fantastic for his work a new human was, Maggie was often in Mestral’s thoughts. Was she well? How was her son, Jack? Was he excelling in college? He had often wished to see her, to give in to a weakness that nagged in his mind, and, more often, in his heart. Always, logic dictated to him that to revisit Carbon Creek was never a viable option.

But if all his best laid plans regarding his Pon Farr failed… if he was forced to take a Human mate… Maggie was always Mestral’s first and only thought.

Promising himself it was better “to be safe rather than sorry” Mestral settled himself in a cabin in the woods of Pennsylvania, near where he and his crew had first crashed. He was careful to avoid Carbon Creek, choosing to drive further to get his necessities rather than visit the town where he could very well be recognized. Then, he settled in to wait.

It was very nearly two Earth weeks before he broke.

Mestral agonized by his telephone, but the meditation and the thrashing had done little against the onslaught of millions of years of evolution. He was backed into a corner and forced to make a final and irreversible decision.

He wished he didn’t have to do this to her.

Mestral dialed the long since memorized number and held his breath. After a few rings he felt a distinct sense of relief when he heard her voice on the other side of the line, slightly curious.

“Hello?”

He wasn’t certain she would answer at the late hour, but he was eternally grateful. “Hello. Maggie. This is… it’s Mestral. I—” How could he even begin? Where could he start?

“Mestral.” His name fell flat in her voice, and he withered inside, just a little. “You know you have some nerve calling here after all this time.”

“I-I know,” he replied quickly. He had calculated for this, but hearing the hurt in her voice made it worse. Foolishly, he had hoped, it would be as though no time had passed. But of course, humans with their short and emotional lives, would not let such pain as he had caused live down easily. Mestral closed his eyes and pressed the receiver to his ear desperately, like the lifeline it was. “Margaret, there is nothing I can say—”

“You’re damn right!”

“—only offer my sincerest apologies for the hurt I have caused you. I… I would not have bothered you again if…if it wasn’t imperative. If…” If I wasn’t dying. Mestral squeezed his eyes shut and felt the fingers in his pocket curl into a fist. What could he do? How could he explain?

How would she react?

“Mestral…?” Maggie asked softly. The change in her tone was encouraging, but Mestral wondered if it would be enough.

“Margaret, I need your help. You…you’re the only person I can trust. Can…can we meet?”

Maggie was quiet for several heartbeats, then, “Yeah… Yeah, we can, Mestral. Where—”

“At your tavern. After closing. Please…It will be a strange request, but I ask that you do not tell anyone of my coming.”

“You’re scaring me, Mestral,” she said in a hushed whisper. “But if you’re in a bind, I’ll help if I can. It’s the decent thing to do, no matter what you did to me.”

“Thank you.”

The lights inside the tavern were still bright, but Mestral had watched the last patron exit ten minutes ago. He stayed back in an alleyway across the street, just in case some late caller had a change of mind. The last thing he wanted to risk was for anyone else to see him here again. Part of him very much doubted that any Human, by their vaguely careless natures, would notice how he had remained virtually unchanged in the last three years. The rest of him was too compromised by the plak tow to believe he was thinking clearly. He was taking enough risks as it was, being here at all. No need to “tempt fate,” as it were.

At one am sharp, his fedora pulled low over his forehead and the collar of his heavy wool trench coat pulled up against the chill, Mestral pulled on the handle to Maggie’s tavern.

The air was warm and the sharp smell of Human alcohol reached his nose. For a moment, the idea to get Maggie so intoxicated she might forget everything crossed his fever-addled mind. And was immediately dismissed. Mestral refused to hurt her ever again. He was here to prostrate before her and entrust her with the greatest secret he had and hopefully, hopefully, she would accept him as her mate.

Otherwise, he was about to make the largest mistake of his life. And perhaps the last one, if Maggie was unwilling to help him. Between revealing his true heritage or dying, it was quite obvious which was the preferred.

Maggie sat waiting for him at a small table near the center of the room. She looked up when he entered, and tired blue eyes glanced at the clock behind the bar. A small smile crossed her face, though Mestral couldn’t quite tell if it was sad or exhausted. Perhaps both.

“You were always a punctual one, weren’t you?” she asked, softly laughing to herself. “Not sure why I’m really surprised.”

Mestral nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak just yet. Even if his senses were not as acute as his female counterparts’, the Plak Tow made what he did have nearly unbearable. Maggie smelled sweet. He could nearly taste her on his tongue from here. He had not quite anticipated the heady roll of memories that assaulted him the moment he was back in this place. Too easily he remembered sitting at the bar with her, smelling her perfume as she walked by him to deliver drinks, the way her lips felt on his when he had kissed her goodbye all those nights ago.

He could barely remember why it had been logical at the time to have left her at all.

Maggie regarded him for three heartbeats and then scoffed to herself. She turned her face away from him, her hand coming to her mouth. “I’m a damn idiot, Mestral,” she said bitterly. She sounded halfway between a laugh and a sob and this confused him. He remained helplessly by the door, waiting for her to continue. “I thought I could stay mad at you. I told myself to just hear what you had to say and then send you on your way, but seeing you…” When she turned back to him, she was misty-eyed, but made no comment on her mental state. “It’s good to see you,” she said so quietly, Mestral was certain no Human could have heard it. “Sit down, will you?”

“Maggie, I—” How many times had Mestral gone over what exactly he would say. So many ways he had planned how to broach the subject, but she was right. Seeing her sitting there, so close and yet so undoubtably far before him… “It is good to see you too,” he replied. He moved deliberately, all too aware of the storm that brewed inside him. How easy it would be to destroy the back of the chair, to throw the furniture rather than sit in it. This world was not made for him, but selfish as he was, he sought to make himself a home here. He forced himself into everything.

Mestral closed his eyes and attempted to gather his thoughts.

“Believe me, Maggie, that I had not really wanted to leave you. It was for—”

She shook her head violently and pressed her mouth together. “Don’t,” she hissed. “Don’t you dare, Mestral. Just…” She sighed. “Your coat. You must be burning up.”

“I am fine.” No, too harsh. “I appreciate your concern,” he added with more control. He was burning up, but coat or no, it would hardly matter. When he opened his eyes again, he sought her gaze. She put her hands out on the table between them, her intent clear. He stared at her fingers and gulped.

After a moment, she understood that he would not touch her, and Mestral hated the way her hands curled back into her body, the way the edges of her mouth set. “What is it that you need, Mestral? You sounded desperate on the telephone.”

Where to begin?

“If it’s money, I can do what I can, but you know what it was like here in the bar for me—”

“No, Maggie. I did not seek you out for monetary means. Nothing so…plain.”

She bit her lip and made no motion to speak.

“I… I would have a favor to ask you. And… it would be no simple task. In fact… it is almost unthinkable for me to request it of you, but I sincerely have no other choice. You must know that I have exhausted all other means.”

A crease appeared between her eyebrows and Mestral had to look away. The edges of the plak tow were making this painful. Such a monumental task not to shout his need at her without a care for her understanding. But he must hold firm. He must know a bond with him could be something she desired. She had seemed to desire it once, but three years was a lot of time for a Human and Mestral could make no assumptions.

“Just tell me, Mestral,” she said gently.

“I…will admit I do not know how to explain. There is no way to make my confession without it sounding…”

“Try me.” Again, she put her hand out, and again, he wished that he could allow himself to take it.

He drew his eyes away from her palm and focused on the chipped edge of the well-worn table.

“What do you know about Roswell?”

Maggie uttered a quick surprised bark of a laugh. “What?” she asked, incredulousness in her voice. “You mean…? What are you asking? About aliens?” She leaned away from him and crossed her arms over her chest, shaking her head. “Did you show back up on my doorstep just to tell me about cookey conspiracy theories? And to think I thought you were going to ask me something serious—”

“I assure you, Margaret, I am completely serious.”

She narrowed her eyes at him for a heartbeat and sighed. “Sure. Roswell. Supposedly there were extraterrestrials that came to Earth to conquer us—or something—UFO’s and all that, but they were just stories. The guys here tell them when they get too drunk. Hell, Jack will tell me about them once in a while—subscribes to some trashy alien fan magazine that fills his head with drivel. All these tall tales and there hasn’t been any proof. So just what does this have to do with you?”

Everything. Mestral looked up at her disbelieving face and considered his words carefully. “Roswell and a few of the other isolated incidents were not founded entirely in fiction, Maggie. Some of them are true.”

She shook her head at him. “You came all this way, crawled out of God only knows where…just to talk to me about aliens… To think I thought you were different once—”

“I need your help!” Mestral cried over her. He balled his fists in his lap, and squeezed his eyes shut. “It is essential that you have a full understanding of me before I ever ask you for my favor. Roswell was real. The extraterrestrial race that landed there was one my people know as the Ferengi. And they are not the only other alien race out there. There are hundreds of thousands more across millions of galaxies. Space, the universe… is so incalculably vast, Margaret… You could not have truly believed that I, nor you, were ever alone in it.”

Such a logical argument, but her mouth remained a firm line. “So, there are aliens out there, according to you. Which is crazy—but fine. Say I buy that. Get to the part about you.”

Mestral stared at her hopelessly. This was neither going as smoothly nor as well as he had hoped. There was nothing gentle about his delivery, nothing light about what he had to say, and every moment longer he spent languishing was another moment he could feel his control slipping from him.

In all the fantasies about what he might say to Maggie, it had never been this way. Never shouted and never spoken so plainly. He had hoped for a kinder understanding. He had hoped for open arms, for the open heart that he had remembered her to have possessed. Rather foolishly, he now realized, as he stared despairingly at the years-dulled lacquer of the table top.

“I… I am one of them,” Mestral said softly. He peeked beneath his lashes to gauge her reaction, but there was nothing to gauge. With nothing else to do, he pressed on. “My colleagues and I. We were not from this world, nor any one nearby. We came here to-to study Humankind. Our races are so similar, yours and mine, and—We crashed. Outside of Carbon Creek. We stayed there for some time, but we were starving. And—”

”What?”

“We did not think we would ever be rescued, but then our distress beacon was found. T’Mir and Stron—they both returned to our planet with the rest of our people, but I—I elected to stay here on Earth—”

“You’re a—”

“I am an…” Mestral licked his lips. His heart beat frantically in his side. There was hardly any going back now. He’d come this far. And yet he considered reaching out and catching her neck in a nerve pinch and hoping that she would awake believing all of this to be some kind of dream.

But if he did such, he would die.

Maggie leapt from the table and took several shaky steps back. Mestral forced himself to remain seated. He put his hands up and hoped.

“You’re trying to tell me you’re some kind of a-a-a—a MARTIAN?”

He blinked. “A Vulcan.”

“A what?!”

“I am a Vulcan. Not a Martian. There are no such things as Martians.”

Maggie pressed a hand to her head and then pressed the other to her face too. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“No,” he replied quietly, staring at her intently as though if he took his eyes off her for a moment, she might disappear. “I am Vulcan. You asked me once why I always wore a hat when last I was here. This is why.”

She peeked through her fingers and watched as Mestral reached up with trembling hands and removed his fedora from his head.

He had relaxed on the Surakian look that nearly all his people adopted. It was easier to cut his longer hair himself, as visiting a Human barber was out of the question. There were certain advantages to keeping his hair longer as well. He could hide the tips of his ears the way Stron had done in his time here, but with the benefit of fewer people calling him “Moe.” Now, he revealed himself to Maggie, tucking his black hair behind his pointed ears and reflexively smoothing the front away from his forehead, as he had seen so many Human males do.

There was no fighting the nerves that swallowed him now as he stared up at Maggie, who’s face he could see, even behind her fingers, was crumpling in confusion and despair. She uttered a small squeak and waivered on her feet. Mestral half-rose, ready to catch her, should that be what she required, but she stepped further away from him. He froze. It occurred to him quite clearly that any movement he made now would mean the end of him. The end of this…whatever he had hoped it would be.

Lowering her hands, Maggie stared at him as if he was a different person. Her face was still stricken and pale, her mouth parted slightly but she wasn’t screaming or running. Mestral supposed he had to hope that counted for something.

“Your…” she said in a hushed voice. She took a step toward him and Mestral willed himself to be perfectly still, electing even to hold his breath lest he scare her away.

Her eyes jumped back and forth from his face, taking furtive glances at his ears as though she could offend him if she stared.

Please understand, he thought desperately. Please.

She came close to him. She raised a hand in front of her face. Mestral stared at her fingers. “M-may I…?”

Mestral clamped his jaw tightly. It was necessary. It had to be done. Control yourself! He gave Maggie a tight nod.

Slowly, her fingertips brushed the hair at his temple, and he closed his eyes, the muscles in his stomach going taut. Her skin blazed on his as Maggie touched him, tracing the shell of his ear and sending ripples of agonizing pleasure unwittingly throughout his body. Every nerve screamed at him. They shouted for their release, for the desire to grab her like some barbarian and find his end with her. Enough! they cried. To hell with patience! But Mestral was better than his base instincts. He had to believe he was.

He couldn’t tell how long or short a time the torture was. His skin sang long after hers had left him. Her smell filled his nostrils as he fought miserably for control of himself through a haze.

“—beautiful.”

He met her gaze again and was shocked to find her blue eyes on his face, looking over him wonderingly. “I always thought there was something strange about you, Mestral. It’s a little…validating to find out I was right.”

The tenderness in her face made him breathless. Mestral hardly dared to hope that perhaps this plan would work out after all.

“So…you’re an alien. And now you need…what? Asylum?” She smiled slightly. “I don’t know how much help I can be if you have a spaceship and everything.”

“I do not,” Mestral said hoarsely. “I committed to staying on Earth, and I was left with nothing. T’Mir and Stron took the wreckage of our ship, lest Humanity find it.”

Maggie nodded. “Okay. Makes as much sense as anything else, I guess. So…”

“My favor is not something to be asked about lightly. But as I have no way to return to Vulcan, and no hope of… There are certain…” Certain what? How could he possibly say it?

“Mestral,” she breathed, laying a hand on his chest. Perhaps mistakenly where she believed his heart could be. “If you are the only alien here… Are you…lonely?”

He looked down at her. Not quite the truth, but close enough. Perhaps if that was as close as an understanding as they could come to…

No. No, this was not enough. Mestral didn’t come all the way here and risk his exposure just to ease loneliness. And Maggie deserved to know everything, not be unwittingly tricked into bonding with him.

“I am…” He licked his lips. He could nearly taste her. “I am in need of… My kind, we must…take mates every seven years. I believed I could fight my nature but…”

Maggie’s eyes widened again.

“It was never my wish to leave you. But without my kinsmen, my anonymity here in Carbon Creek was limited, and I wished to travel to see more of your world. But when I felt the Pon Farr upon me—”

Maggie mouthed the unfamiliar words as he spoke.

“—my thoughts were only of you. There is no one else on this entire planet that I could possibly trust—”

“You…you came back just to have sex with me.”

Mestral shook his head. “No! Maggie, no. I-I came back to take—to ask you to be my mate. I can think of no other—”

She pushed him away with the hand on his chest, and though she could never hope to move him, Mestral stumbled back at her request. When she spoke, her voice shook with rage. “This was your request. Your favor??”

“Please understand—”

“Even men from other planets are all the same!!”

“No, Maggie—”

“You know, I guess I do owe you my thanks, Mestral. Thank you, at least for being so goddamn honest! If my ex-husband had been so upfront it would have saved me a lot of heartache!”

“Maggie, please!”

“You should go, Mestral! I am not some-some slut to-to-to—”

“Please, Maggie, I will die!”

Mestral squeezed his eyes shut and turned away. He staggered to the table and sagged his weight onto it. So much effort. It had taken so much effort to keep collected, but now his blood was pounding in his veins. His body threatened to shake itself apart, to rend his skin like tissue paper. He whimpered and then his legs gave beneath him and he collapsed onto the floor.

He hadn’t wanted to mention that final detail. It felt too much like pressuring. But as he saw his chance slipping away, he couldn’t keep the truth to himself anymore. His mind was hardly his own any longer. Maggie was truly his last and only hope.

“Mestral!” Maggie called from somewhere far off. Her voice seemed to carry sluggish and leaden as though through a dense fog.

“I would not have come, if it was not such a dire situation,” he wheezed, not entirely sure she could hear him. Perhaps the plak tow had driven him entirely mad and he was speaking to no one. “I wanted to protect you from anyone who could discover what I was. I wanted to… I—”

“Mestral…”

“I have a great admiration for you, Maggie. I…I owe you so much…”

He felt a pressure against his face and heat blossomed from his lips. The same heat that he had wistfully recalled over the previous three years.

Reality snapped into focus.

He was sprawled on the floor, his head in Maggie’s lap, and her lips; yes, her lips were pressed to his and he relished in the feel of her, the smell of her, the promise that lingered in the way her hands cradled his face. The blazing in his body screamed anew.

She broke their kiss and smoothed his hair away from his face, shaking her head. “I hate… I hate how I can’t let you go. I don’t know if what you’re saying is true or if you’re just… It doesn’t matter. I was so in love with you. I hate how I’m still in love with you…”

Mestral blinked up at her and raised a hand to touch her cheek. The feel of her skin sent a shock through him but he grit his teeth against the desire that uncurled in his chest. “Maggie…”

“Just…tell me what I need to do. T-To help you, I mean.”

He outstretched his fingers and Maggie followed suit. When all her fingertips touched his, he shuddered. He could hear her breath catch, feel her heart pick up its pace. The gnawing in his blood grew nearly to its boiling point.

“Parted from me…and never parted,” he murmured.

“Never and always touching and touched,” Maggie replied. Her eyes widened. “How—”

“We are becoming connected,” he breathed. “You can feel me as…as I feel you.”

She wanted to ask what that meant, and Mestral wanted very badly to tell her, but as his entire body shuddered violently, he could see he was out of time.

Mestral gulped. “I…we will only go as fast or as slow as you…”

Maggie smiled down at him. “I’m not a blushing virgin, Mestral. I know how this works. I was married once before, you know.”

Not like this, he thought, but he knew better than to say it.

He wanted so badly to kiss her. To reach out and drag her onto him, but he resisted. If he could do one thing right…if he could treat her the way she should have been treated all along…

Maggie licked her lips and looked at him resolutely. “Maybe that would be good for a… f-for a Vulcan woman but…” Her other hand smoothed over his hair and she stroked Mestral’s cheek with her thumb. He trembled under her touch and if he wasn’t already too weak to stand, he would have needed to use every ounce of his will to hold himself in place. “B-but I’m not a-a Vulcan woman, Mestral. I’m Human… and…and I just want to help you. Before it’s too late.”

Mestral realized she had heard his thoughts. It was happening so quickly with the fever. He nodded.

Gulping, Maggie leaned forward again and pressed her lips to his and this time she eased her tongue into his mouth. She pulled her fingers away from his and stroked down his arm. Her own fingers shaking, she trailed them across his chest and down his abdomen. She hesitated at the waistband of his pants and then attempted to undo his belt with one hand.

“Maggie,” he said hoarsely between her kisses. Something tight and desperate like fear knotted itself up around his heart.

“I know that it’s probably…strange. But a penis is a penis, right? You can show me what you like later.” Freed of the belt and the button, Maggie’s hand plunged beneath his pants and when she grazed his length, he convulsed, his hips bucking and a strangled cry escaping his lips. She squeezed lightly and bright light exploded behind his eyes. Every inch of his skin was on fire. “Is… is it pretty much the same for…Vulcans?”

She thumbed across the double ridges of his head, catching the dorsal nerve as she went and Mestral’s back arched.

“I’ll just go ahead and take that as a yes,” she said breathlessly.

When she withdrew her hand, Mestral made a most undignified sound, but he understood when her hands flew to the hem of her dress and she started pulling off her undergarments. He tried to lift himself up to sitting but she stopped him with a hand on his chest. She eased her legs out from under his head and lowered him completely to the floor, bending to kiss him again. Briefly. Then she straddled his hips and settled on top of him with a little shake of her own.

He groaned and gripped her thighs with his hands.

She was so fragile. He would have to be careful. But he didn’t know if he had that much control left in him.

Maggie bit her lip. Through her bare skin, Mestral could feel her trepidation. He wished he could give her more words of comfort—or any words at all for that matter, but he could not form anything comprehensible through the blood fever’s highest pitch. The only thing that he seemed to know was the ache that sprung from every part of him. All of him desperate for the relief that the press of Maggie’s body promised.

Fumbling fingers attempted to pull down his pants. Mestral obliged her by lifting his hips easily, even with her on top of him. She gave a little gasp, but she stabilized herself on his chest. His hands wandered up her thighs, revealing more pale skin to his hungry gaze. If he had any energy of his own…

Reaching around behind her back, Maggie groped for Mestral’s member. Her fingers running along the downy hair there sent him into frantic pants. He shook with anticipation for—there! She gripped his base and sent shudders and stars running though his body.

Her eyes were fixed on him. Determined. Resolute. He would have never known she was nervous if it wasn’t for her skin pressed to his.

Maggie rocked backwards and he felt his tip against something slick and hot. Tossing his head back, he keened through grit teeth and fought against the instinct to drive himself into her.

He couldn’t! He wouldn’t hurt her!

But all at once, Mestral was seized with pleasure as Maggie did her own driving. She was wet. And hot; so so blessedly warm. Like he never imagined. From far away he was dimly aware that Maggie had moaned, a lovely sound that melted him. Or it would have if he wasn’t already blistering.

She eased herself up and down, sliding over him, her hands planted firmly on his chest, his fingers digging into her flesh. Steadily, she rode him faster and he was blinded by colors so bright they all blended into white behind his eyes.

A meld. He needed a—

Mestral’s body convulsed and the tight strings that had wound in his stomach unfurled and snapped. He came in a high string of groans that would have been unacceptable for his Vulcan bondmate to hear. His new Human one, however, grinned with satisfaction and bent forward to press her lips over his cheeks, his nose.

It was like breaking a shackle that he hadn’t known he was wearing. Like coming up for air. His head cleared in an instant.

Mestral knew he was nowhere near finished, that there was still far more to this mating experience, but he could feel the strength returning to his limbs and a modicum of willpower returning to his mind.

He would no longer be a passive participant. Maggie deserved better. And he would make it up to her.

Grabbing his Human by her waist, Mestral rolled them over until he was poised on top of her. He watched the emotions play across Maggie’s face—shock, pleasure, delight—and he reveled in them.

He hitched the fabric of her dress up to her middle and noted how she gleefully undid the buttons at her neckline and freed her breasts for him. He heard her plea in his mind and bent to kiss her flesh the way she wanted, his tongue tasting her sweet skin. As his lips closed around her pert pink nipple, he thrust into her, and her cry of pleasure radiated down his spine with his own.

“Maggie,” he sighed as his hips found a rhythm with hers. “Maggie…”

She uncurled for him. He heard so much of her. Everything she said and all the more that she thought. She was open to him. Maggie was all his.

She came around him in a shuddering and delightfully human orgasm. The way her walls tightened and convulsed made him hiss and break through another of his own—another tie of Pon Farr snapped on the tavern floor.

His head felt clearer than it had in weeks.

“God, Mestral. God.”

The Vulcan cradled the woman to his chest and nuzzled his face into her neck. He breathed the scent of them both in and shivered.

“I still need you, Maggie,” he whispered.

She nodded, in a numb sort of way. He could feel through her skin that her mind was still fuzzy and reeling, but she was interested.

‘I’ll do whatever you want if you keep fucking me like that.’

Mestral blushed at her thoughts, but he was grateful the feeling was mutual. His fever was only somewhat lessened, and he was unsure if Maggie’s stamina could match his own. Who knew how much more he would need from her until his biological drive was sated?

“Bedroom?” Maggie panted as she attempted to wiggle her hips into his. “It’s been way too long. I don’t want to stop if you don’t.”

Mestral groaned and nodded into her neck. “I do not.” She whimpered as he eased himself out of her and got to his feet with her in his arms. Maggie told him the way without her having to utter a word.

‘Is he still gonna be here in the morning?’

He looked down at her. She watched him with glowing admiration, but there was sadness deep in her eyes. Sadness that he put there, he knew, but that he swore to himself to undo.

Mestral contemplated the ramifications of their actions here tonight while he climbed the stairs. Something big had changed for both of them, even if Maggie didn’t know the full extent of it yet. Whether she ultimately chose to keep him around when she found out, it didn’t matter just now. So far as Mestral was concerned, Maggie was his bondmate now, and he would do everything for her that that might entail here on Earth.

Anything. He would do anything she asked.

He lay her on her bed with care and she smiled up at him. She peeled off her dress and cast it aside and watched as Mestral shed his own coat and shirt and crawled on top of her.

Maggie’s fingertips traced the line of his jaw and along the shell of his ear. She lightly pinched the tip between her finger and her thumb and Mestral shivered. She grinned up at him. With her brown hair curled out over the pillow beneath her, she was a marvelous creature to behold.

‘Please, God. Let him stay this time…’

Mestral bent slowly and captured her lips in his. The soft movement of her, the pressure between them built and made his blood simmer again. His need pent in his body, winding up once more.

He broke the kiss and let his hand smooth up her arm until he clasped her hand in his own. “I will stay for as long as you want me,” he whispered against her lips.

“You really mean that?”

“Yes. I absolutely do. I am loathe to make the same mistake twice. I have not stopped thinking of you since we met, and I will not leave your side again unless you ask me to.”

She kissed him again. There was a certain finality to it that made Mestral warm.

Mailak looked between them both and then, bobbing his head in such a way that Kirk wondered if there was a body language component to their language, said, “For such a large object as a space-faring vessel, the oiimaige takes many highly tuned minds working in conjunction for long stretches of time. But for my people, anything we can imagine, we can create. It is our unique gift, our connection to the Oiim. Hold out your hand and observe.”

Even as he did as he was told, Scotty glanced at Kirk and said, “Now I know that thing’s busted.”

“Not everything has a perfect translation all of the time,” Kirk reminded him gently as Mailak closed his eyes and concentrated.

The ship-wide intercom chirped from over on the wall and a voice rang out from it. “First Officer Spock, to Captain Kirk.”

Mailak’s eye’s fluttered closed as he focused, and Kirk decided that Scotty would live for a few moments without the Universal Translator. He strode towards the intercom and pressed the switch. “Kirk here. Spock, what is it?”

“Captain, we will most likely be unable to rendezvous with you in the briefing room at the appointed time.”

“Why the delay, Mr. Spock? We are nearly finished showing His Excellency, The High Priest our Engineering Room. That should have been plenty of time for you and Her Eminence.”

“Indeed, Captain. However, Her Eminence, the Southern Priest, is quite enthralled with the ship’s library computer. She requests that she should be granted more time for study.”

Well, that certainly rubbed Kirk the wrong way. Glancing back at Mailak and Scotty, he spoke in a low voice and hoped the Haijinn’s hearing wasn't extremely good. “I don't think I have to impress upon you, Mr. Spock, the danger of—”

“Quite right, Captain,” Spock's voice cut him off in an equally low tone. “I already took the liberty of locking her out of the more strategic data regarding the Federation. Her interest does appear to be genuinely curious, but it seemed prudent not to take chances. At present, she is studying Terran folklore.”

Both the relief of the stress in his shoulders and the image of a Haijinn reading things like Paul Bunyan made Kirk smile. “What kind of folklore?”

“Fairy tales, Captain.”

Ah, so stories like Rapunzel. Even better.

“Well, carry on, Mr. Spock, and let me know if anything else arises. I'm sure we can entertain the High Priest for another hour or so.”

“Thank you, Captain. I believe Her Eminence will be most pleased. Spock out.”

Kirk flipped the switch on the wall-mounted comm panel and wondered which part of the ship that Mailak and his Entourage might like to see next. The Rec Room, perhaps? That might be diverting enough. Or maybe even a holodeck? Or—

“Captain!” Mr. Scott's excited shout drew Kirk's attention “Would you look at this!? It's like nothing I've ever seen before! I cannae even believe it!” In his outstretched hands was a clear flower that was unfamiliar to Kirk. He decided that it must be something native to the planet below. It was beautiful and dazzling, catching the light and throwing rainbow arcs across the bulkhead.

Mailak shook his head. “A pale comparison,” he sighed, “but the oiimaige has its limits. We cannot create living things by thought alone. It defies nature, and so does not allow for us to do it as we are living creatures ourselves. The Oiim, however… it is the Great Creator, and has made everything we know.”

Kirk nodded, another smile gracing his face. The Haijinn culture must be a fascinating one. What kinds of creation myths did a people who had the power to create things themselves devise to make sense of their universe? He made a note to inform Marlena and ask if she had ever heard anything else about the Haijinn from her contacts back on Earth.

“Real or not, Your Excellency,” Scotty replied with a laugh, “it’s all amazin’ to me!” He held up the flower and turned it in his fingers so that more colors bounced off into boundless arcs.

“Yes, well, if Your Excellency is ready, we can move on with our tour. There are other parts of our ship that you might find—ah—fascinating.”

Look at him, he was starting to sound like Spock.

“Certainly, Captain, though it was our belief that we would soon sit to discuss the merits of trade with your Federation.”

Kirk nodded. “In good time. Mr. Spock had just informed me that Her Emminence, the Southern Priest requested more time in our library. I am nothing if not an accommodating host. We have more to share if you wish to see it.”

Mailak made more high-pitched clicks, his neck swaying forwards and backwards. “Ah, that girl. Always so eager for knowledge. I do hope you will not find it tiresome, Captain Kirk.”

“Not at all, Your Excellency. It’s certainly no trouble.”

An hour later and Kirk, along with Mailak and his people were gathered in Briefing Room Two, with no sign of Spock and the Southern Priest. He seated Mailak and his most important attendants and served everyone replicated refreshments (that the Haijinns all found rather amusing) but nearly twenty minutes later, there was still no sign of his first officer, nor any word from him at all. The unusual behavior from Spock was making Kirk as anxious as he was getting cross.

Mialak blinked his large eyes at Kirk and swayed his head. “You must not be so angry, Captain. This is just like Eimmeel. She can hardly be torn from her studies. It’s what makes her such a serviceable chronicler and devotee to Oiim.”

Kirk made a mental note to add ‘emotional telepathy’ to the list of the Haijinn’s already formidable range of traits. But maybe, he was just being obvious, with his knee bouncing and his hand cupping his chin as he leaned on the table. He quit all these actions and sat up with a shake of his head. “It’s not like Commander Spock to be so late. My first officer is also stubborn, Your Excellency, so I’m sure he and Her Emminence would have figured something out by now.”

And Spock hadn’t even comm-ed him… It was highly unusual.

“Or, Captain, they are locked together in a battle of wills and we will be here all day if we wait for them to arrive.” Mailak did his strange impersonation of a smile but Kirk felt far from better.

Kirk swore that the reprimand Commander Spock was going to receive from him would be legendary…

He reached forward and flipped the switch for the intercom laid into the meeting table. “Kirk to Spock.” His voice sounded brusque, even to him. “Commander Spock, come in.”

But the line remained dead. There was no answer from any comm anywhere on the ship.

Kirk pressed a button on the interface that linked him to the bridge directly. “Uhura, is there any problem with the ship’s intercom systems?”

He knew that there wasn’t, but Kirk wanted a record of his attempt at troubleshooting before he disciplined Spock.

Lieutenant Uhura’s voice came in over the speaker, confident and clear, “No, sir. No communications malfunctions of any kind.”

So, Spock was purposefully ignoring him then. Just perfect. “Thank you, Lieutenant, that’s all. Sulu, find Commander Spock using a ship-wide scan. Then connect me a direct line to him.”

Both Uhura and Sulu answered with sharp, “Yes, sir”s.

Kirk’s fingers drummed on the table. In all the first contacts that they had overseen together, all of their separately given tours, Spock had never been so…thoughtless. Spock, who arrived twenty minutes early for every shift, suddenly late to a meeting without any warning? It didn’t add up. And something in Kirk’s gut was making him uncomfortable. A bad feeling. Bones might have agreed with him, but Spock would have reminded him that his feelings had no influence on the possible outcome of events. They couldn’t tell him one thing or another. Spock would remind him that Kirk couldn’t make any assumptions without all the facts. And the only fact that he had was that his First Officer had not appeared when he was supposed to, and that was out-of-character.

“Captain, we really can proceed. Eimmeel’s presence here as record-keeper was merely a precautionary measure. There is nothing she knows that I do not.”

Kirk listened but didn’t respond—How to explain that his desire to find Spock was more on principle now? —when Sulu’s voice cracked over the speaker. “Er…Sir? Commander Spock is…not on the ship, sir.”

His eyes drew sharply to the intercom as though Kirk could see Sulu’s face through it and intimidate him into telling the truth. “What do you mean, ‘not on the ship’? Have there been any unauthorized shuttle launches?”

“That was the first thing I checked, sir.”

“Unauthorized transports?”

“Negative, sir. There have been no unauthorized functions of any kind. Ship’s log places the Commander’s last known location in the computer library facility.”

The last place Kirk knew him to be…

He glanced up at Mailak, who looked just as shocked as Kirk was (so far as he could tell). The High Priest leaned over to the Haijinn on his left and spoke quickly to them in sharp tones. They spoke so fast that the Universal Translator couldn’t catch any of it.

Convenient, Kirk found himself thinking, but quickly reigned in any suspicious lines of thought until he had more information.

Mailak stretched his neck to the ceiling and pressed his hands into the base of his throat, one folded over the other. A low humming filled the room.

“Captain, what—”

“Just a moment, Sulu,” Kirk ordered, watching the High Priest with rapt attention.

A heartbeat later, Mailak resumed his normal posture, although the humming hadn’t completely left the small space. Kirk thought he could still feel the ghost of rumbling echoing on his skin.

“Eimmeel is still where your crewman says, Captain,” Mailak said. “She has not moved for much of the duration of our visit.”

Kirk’s eyebrow raised. “And…Spock?”

“Him, I cannot find. He is not a part of the Oiim,” the High Priest replied, rocking his head forwards and back.

Understandable, but worth a try.

“If you do not mind the continued delay, Your Excellency,” Kirk said, choosing his words carefully, “I would very much like to find my missing First Officer.”

Mailak’s head swayed. “Of course, Captain. The Haijinn will assist you in any way we can.”

Kirk rose from his seat in a fluid motion when he heard Sulu again. “Orders, Captain? Shall I send a security team?”

He had almost forgotten the intercom was still on. It was strangely thoughtless of him.

“No need,” yet, Kirk added mentally. “Maintain orbit and communication with the planet. We will speak to Her Emminence, the Southern Priest. I’m sure she will know what happened to Commander Spock and this will all be sorted in short order. Kirk out.”

And if not, Kirk would lock down the ship, and report the Haijjin’s malicious intent upon the Enterprise, and let them deal with the fallout of it.

While the library computer could be accessed from nearly any terminal on the Enterpise, they still maintained a specific room for those crewman who wished to research outside of their quarters or the usual terminals located at every work station. The room was lined on three walls by data banks with glowing lights, while the last wall opened to the exterior hull, allowing a spectacular view of the planet in orbit down below, the yellow pinprick of the system’s sun in the distance, and the spattering of far distant stars in inky space. It was a semi dim room, opting for personal lamps at the worktables instead of overhead lighting, to suit each individual’s need.

There was only a single occupant in the room when Kirk stepped over the threshold. Seated at one of these worktables, her personal light switched on, illuminating a scattering of colorful isolinear chips all around her, was another splendidly robed Haijinn.

The Southern Priest, Kirk assumed, was larger than all her male counterparts. Her skin was lighter and more wrinkled than Mailak’s and Kirk couldn’t tell if that was age or merely a variation in sex, because he realized, upon seeing her alone, she was the only female Haijinn to have come aboard.

Maybe not anything worth noting, but Kirk noted the discrepancy all the same.

Mailak brushed past Kirk and approached Eimmeel in the Haijinn version of a huff. He was already clicking before he had made it halfway to her. “What is the meaning of this, Eimmeel? What are you still doing here? You and Commander Spock were supposed to have been at the meeting place already!”

Eimmeel’s long furrowed neck raised from her terminal, and she swung her orange gaze upon her intruders, although she appeared to look through them as if she didn’t quite see them.

Kirk strode forward as well, his eyes searching for any sign of the Vulcan among the tables or data banks. The fact that he found nothing churned unease heavy in his stomach.

She blinked and then spoke in a much higher and clearer voice than Kirk had expected given all her wrinkles. She said, “Has it been a ‘Standard Hour’ already? Time for these outsiders flows so quickly. How do they ever have time to write all these stories?”

“Your Eminence,” Kirk began, fighting to keep his voice even, “where is First Officer Spock? I…must speak with him.”

He couldn’t help continuing to let his eyes rove around, trying to probe the shadows for any sign of Spock. Kirk felt his heart race as panic began to grip his chest. The ship thinks he isn’t here, and if no one left on a shuttle or was transported, that could only mean—

Kirk didn’t dare finish his thought.

The Southern Priest turned her gaze on Kirk as if she had only just realized he was there, then her neck swung around in several directions. Like a bird looking at something past their beak. “He was only just here…” she muttered. “Where could he have gotten off to?” Then she swung her face back to Kirk and said something that chilled him to his bones: “You had better not let anyone else come inside, Captain. And mind where you put your feet. Until we find him.”

Mind his…feet…?

Mailak placed his hands at his throat again and rocked his entire body back and forth. “Oiim al’mak teek. What have you done now, Eimmeel?”

Ice froze in Kirk’s veins as he looked around him. His eyes began scanning the floor now. His hands curled into fists. But he could not afford to lose his temper. He could not afford to jeopardize the mission or his duty as Captain but oh, the things he wished he could do about now!

And Spock! What in the hell had this woman done to Spock?

Kirk took tentative steps forward, now almost too scared to move, as Mailak uttered a long series of high pitched clicks and words that were too fast for his Universal Translator to decipher. This time, Kirk didn’t care.

He bent forward and peered beneath the nearest table.

Oh, god, Kirk didn’t even know what he was looking for! A body? Or something worse?

"Ribbit!"

His head snapped up. Mailak fell silent.

That couldn’t have been a…

"GrrrIBBIT!"

Kirk leaped to his feet and followed the bellowing sounds of a frog­—of all the things on his ship!

“RrriBBIT, ribbit, grrrrRIBBET!”

Close to the window, Kirk found it: a mottled green and brown bullfrog the size of his hands and… with dark, knowledgeable eyes…

“Ribbit!” the frog’s throat expanded to reveal brilliant green skin as it…ribbit-ed at Kirk.

Open-mouthed, he looked back at the Haijinn priests.

Eimmeel waved a hand and emitted her gleeful high-pitched whine. “Ah! There he is!”

Kirk looked back down at…Spock, the bullfrog, who ribbit-ed again, indolently.

“Now, with all due respect, Your Eminence,” Kirk really had to focus in order to remember that he needed to attach the Southern Priest’s diplomatic title when he spoke to her, especially when all he wanted to do was rage, “I do not think I am being particularly unreasonable with my request to restore my first officer to his proper species, however, I am starting to think that you are being purposefully unhelpful.” Without thinking, Kirk waved Spock the Frog around as he spoke, his little limbs rather comically swinging through the air.

“Ribbit,” croaked Spock the Frog dolefully, punctuating Kirk’s final word with a poignant sense of irony.

With Mailak’s help, Kirk had been able to wrestle Eimmeel from the library computer room, though not without her grabbing a handful of isolinear chips as she left. Not knowing what else to do, Kirk had scooped Spock the Frog up in his hands and comm-ed Bones to come straight away the second they had made it back to Briefing Room Two.

The Southern Priest blinked her large pupil-less orange eyes at him. “I’m sorry, Captain, but I cannot. I cannot disrupt the oiimaige from its intent once it has been woven.”

The High Priest made several sharp, agitated movements in his chair beside her. He asked her, “Why would you do this to another being at all, Eimmeel? We were their guests! The Federation has only just arrived—”

“You did not read their stories, Your Excellency. I thought it was a gift. I did not think it would be so difficult for them to change him back themselves!”

Kirk’s brow furrowed and he bit his lip to keep from screaming out of sheer frustration. “Our people are not like yours,” he said to her when he had more control. “We can’t just… wish for something to happen and then it happens! Where did you get the impression that we could restore Mr. Spock by ourselves?”

Back and forth went the Southern Priest’s head. “From all your wonderful stories, of course!”

“They’re fairy tales!” Kirk ground out from behind his clenched teeth.

“Ribbit.”

Ever with the best timing, the door slid open and Bones strode into the room with a medical kit and a tricorder slung over his shoulder.

“Now, Jim, I’m not sure what all the fuss was about, but you sounded nothing short of hysterical over the—” His eyes fell on the frog still clenched in Kirk’s hand. “Funny. I didn’t think they made those on other planets. Are we having a grade-school dissection, then?”

Kirk clutched Spock the Frog to his chest and held him away from Bones reflexively. “I should hope not. Doctor, this…this… frog is Spock. They… Her Eminence, the Southern Priest, has turned Spock into a frog!”

Bones raised his eyebrow and glanced over at the fretting High Priest, speaking to his counterpart in low tones. “Why in the world would Her Eminence do that?”

“Good question.” Kirk held Spock out to Bones. “Just take him and look after him until we can figure this out.”

Wrinkling his nose some, Bones took the wand from his tricorder and reached for Spock with his free hand, and began scanning him. “Seems fine, Jim," he announced. "Perfectly healthy.”

“Perfectly healthy,” Kirk echoed with a shake of his head. “For a Vulcan or a bullfrog?”

“One and the same now, I think,” Bone replied, holding Spock up with a smile as he replaced his wand.

“Just…take care of him. And try not to seem too happy about it. And, uh, don’t let him…dry…out…” Kirk shrugged and went to wipe his face with his hand—before he remembered it was covered in frog mucus. He wiped them on the front of his pants instead.

“Don’t you worry, Jim. I think I’ve got a nice little terrarium with plenty of water to swim in and some pond scum to eat. I'll keep him away fro the flies. That'll just give him indigestion.”

“Bones…”

“You’ll figure it out, Jim,” his friend told him in a low, soothing voice, clapping him on the shoulder. “You always do.”

“Ribbit,” Spock agreed.

Grinning, Bones held Spock the Frog up to their faces. “Do it for him, will you?”

Kirk shook his head. “Won’t you try to treat him with a little respect?”

“’Course! Wouldn’t dream of doing anything less.” Bones then turned to their guests and bowed to each in turn. “Your Excellency. Your Eminence.”

The Haijinns looked up at Bones and clicked distractedly.

“Now, one more time—” Kirk began with a sigh as soon as the doors had hissed closed behind Bones.

Mailak stood. He looked, for the first time, deflated, like a tiny creature wearing too many clothes that didn’t fit him. “Captain,” he crooned, “while regrettable, it is as Eimmeel has said. There is nothing we can do to undo the oiimaige once its intent has been sealed by the Oiim. I am sorry.”

Kirk waved him away and leaned forward onto the table, not yet ready to believe what he was saying. “There were some words that aren’t translating. I don’t want to misunderstand. Can you explain—”

“When my people create something, we must define certain…parameters around our creations. A set of rules that can cause our will to exist in the physical plane. Once something has been created within the confines that we set, it cannot simply be undone unless the creator has made specific rules to do so. We cannot help your first officer. Our interference was not woven into the fabric of the reality of his transformation. I am sorry, Captain.” And he did look sorry, for whatever that was worth.

Which was very little to Kirk in this particular moment.

He tapped his finger on the table.

They couldn’t change Spock back because of some law of physics around their powers and how they connected to it, that much he understood. He hated to hear it, but he refused to believe there weren’t other avenues to de-frog Spock.

Someone had to have the technology or the ability. Kirk just had to find them.

“I can’t very well have an amphibious first officer,” Kirk sighed. “And what do you think I should tell his family? There has got to be another way and…you are the only ones that can help me find it. Please. No one else in the galaxy will know your Oiim the way that you do.”

The Southern Priest bobbed forward and chittered excitedly. “But I did factor in the parameters to change him back, Captain,” the translator recited her words through its speakers.

Kirk hardly dared to hope. “Great. How?”

“I was inspired by all your stories!”

“Our…fairy tales. Yes, you’ve said that. But, how does that help Spock?”

“You have to change him back like in the story!”

Dread trickled into Kirk’s chest and made it difficult to breathe. Which story? There were thousands—no, millions—of possibilities. He was already calculating how long it might take for him to search the computer terminal where the Southern Priest had sat and attempt to decipher which story had inspired her.

He didn’t need Spock’s computer-like brain to know that would take too long.

“Forgive me, but, you’ll have to be more specific,” he said hoarsely.

Eimmeel turned sharply to the pile of isolinear chips beside her and picked through them until she produced a blue one. Kirk took the proffered chip, and glancing at her, slid it into the slot beneath the table.

An image appeared on all the triangular screens. It was the title page of a very old and well-worn Earth book. An illustration of a violently green frog gazed demurely at them from a lilypad. The gilded golden lettering over the cover read: The Frog Prince.

Kirk blinked. He really had no idea what to say.

But Eimmeel rocked back and forth with obvious excitement. “A gift!” she squealed. “So many of your stories are centered on true love. I asked Commander Spock if he had ever known it and he replied that his kind do not love. I felt so sorry for him. The stories all made it sound so beautiful and fulfilling. I thought, that if he became the frog in the story, then he could find his true love and become whole! True love's kiss will turn him back!”

So many thoughts rushed through his mind but Kirk was stunned into silence. True love’s kiss? For Spock?

Oh, god…

Kirk was going to have to inform Sarek that his son would be a frog forever.

After profuse apologies on both sides and a joint promise to reconvene to discuss trade relations at a later time, Kirk had seen all the Haijiin transported off the Enterprise—good riddance—and half-sprinted to sickbay.

He was out of breath with a small stitch in his side when the doors slid open to reveal rows and rows of unoccupied biobeds beneath bright overhead lights. Kirk nodded at Nurse Chapel and continued straight into Bones’ office in the center of the room.

“How is he?” Kirk asked as soon as he entered.

His friend looked up from his PADD and glanced back at a glass terrarium on the wall behind him. Within sat Spock the Frog, half-submerged in water, half sitting on a raised flat stone. He croaked, his throat expanding briefly… and then licked his left eye with his long pink tongue.

Kirk sighed.

“Never did understand a single word he said, Jim, but we do always have a mighty fine time,” Bones said with a smile.

Kirk stared blankly down at the doctor. “Glad you’re so enjoying yourself,” he said dryly.

“It’s not so ter-ribbit-able.”

“Leonard, please!” Kirk cried, throwing himself into the chair sitting across from Bones’ desk. He propped his elbows on his knees and let his head fall into his hands.

“Oh, come on, Jim. I’ve spent the last hour thinking up a whole plethora of frog puns!”

“I don’t want to hear them.”

“Well,” his friend replied, chewing on the inside of his lip as he turned his attention back to his PADD, “your loss, then.”

“What am I going to do?”

“They say anything about how to turn him back?”

“Apparently, it’s all linked to that ancient story, The Frog Prince. They said ‘true love’s kiss’ would turn Spock back into a Vulcan.”

Bones looked up at him, his eyebrow arched. “That so…?” he murmured thoughtfully.

“I know!” Kirk cried. Unable to contain his restless energy anymore, he leaped from the chair and started pacing the small transparent aluminum-enclosed room. “Does such a thing even exist for a Vulcan? True love doesn’t even really exist for Humans, and we’re the idiots who made the damn thing up!”

“You need to take a deep breath, Jim,” Bones sighed, laying his PADD aside and interlacing his fingers over his stomach as he leaned back in his chair. “Why don’t you think about it logically?”

“Ribbit!”

Bones grinned and stuck his thumb out over his shoulder. “See? Spock agrees with me.”

Kirk thought Bones was taking the entire thing too lightly— making jokes at Spock’s expense, sticking him in a terrarium, and now trying to tell him to relax. He was about this close to exploding on his friend.

“Is there anything you can do?” Kirk asked instead. “Anything in some medical file or—”

“That’ll undo magic? No. Can’t say that I’ve found anything like that.”

“It’s not magic, Leonard, it’s—”

“I know what it is, Jim,” Bones raised his voice over Kirk’s and the tone surprised him out of pacing. “It’s far too advanced for anything we have in the Starfleet medical database and it’s like nothing that I’ve ever heard of, besides in tales about evil witches. What do you expect me to do? I can’t turn a frog into a Vulcan through medical science—it’s simply not possible! The only option we have is to follow their directions. If we need ‘true love’s kiss,’ then that’s what we need. You need to think logically and figure out what you should do next.”

But Kirk was flummoxed. He had no idea what to do next. Spock never loved anyone. ‘True love’ wasn’t something that he thought any Vulcan would be familiar with.

Unless the definition of ‘true love’ could be broadened somehow…

Bones broke Kirk’s train of thought by speaking softly but with determination. “Think, Jim. Think back to all of Spock’s past actions. I think you’ll find his ‘true love’ there.” He leaned forward, a partial smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I think you’ll know what you have to do…”

Kirk narrowed his eyes at his friend. “You’ve already got an idea, haven’t you? Well, out with it, then.”

Shrugging, Bones leaned back into his chair and picked up his PADD again. “Just a theory, really. I’d rather you come to the same conclusion yourself. If I tell you, well, then that’s just too easy. After all, the frog prince had to convince his princess to kiss him, didn’t he?”

“Ribbit!”

“You’re incorrigible,” Kirk told him, rapping his knuckles on Bones’ desk. He decided not to call his friend’s bluff because Kirk didn’t need his help. Kirk already had his own idea of what he needed to do. He just hoped that it would work.

Nerves bunched up in Kirk’s stomach long before the lovely face of a grey-haired Human woman appeared on the screen on his personal communications terminal in his Captain’s Quarters. A thousand explanations had run through his mind, but in the end, he’d decided that saying as little as possible would probably be the best course of action. After all, no mother wanted to hear that their only son had been cursed into a frog.

“Captain Kirk,” Amanda Greyson greeted with a bright smile. “This is a most unusual but welcome surprise.”

Kirk smiled back, but it only went skin deep. “Hello again, Lady Ambassador. I hope I did not disturb you.”

“Oh, no. It’s quite alright, Captain,” she replied with a wave of her dainty hand. “The Ambassador is resting and I was happy to take your call in his stead. Tell me, how is Spock?”

Kirk’s gut wrenched painfully. “Doing well,” he lied. “Busy…with the First Contact we are delegating.”

“How just like him, to be so busy working and miss his mother’s call. He is so like his father.” Her eyes grew unfocused and faraway. Any other time, Kirk might have asked after her. He was quite smitten with Spock’s mother and liked to think the two of them got along quite well.

But he was here for business, not pleasure.

“Lady Ambassador,” Kirk began, tapping his fingers against his chin. He’d rehearsed his question several times over before even making the subspace communication to Vulcan, but that didn’t stop him from being anxious about the questions Amanda might ask back. “I was wondering if you had a way that you could put me in contact with…with T’Pring.”

Even over the video, Kirk could tell that she started. “Spock’s betrothed? Whatever for?”

And here it was. Remember: keep it simple! “I…believe that she might have some…invaluable insight on our current mission.”

Amanda tilted her head, regarding him, and Kirk hoped she wouldn’t ask any more questions. “Doesn’t Starfleet have its own xenoscientists, Captain?” she asked in a calculating voice.

“We do,” he responded too quickly. “However, this race… they have strong telepathic and telekinetic abilities.” An idea occurred to him. “Spock had recommended I attempt to contact her about them. He would have done it himself but…after what happened…he didn’t think she would be as responsive to his call as to mine.”

“So why call me and not ask my son for her communication code?”

Kirk shrugged and a hysterical laugh escaped his lips despite his best effort to contain it. “I just didn’t want to bother him. Besides, I didn’t think about it until it was too late.” Hardly a good excuse, but it might just do the job. “Please,” he continued quickly, leaning forward and batting his eyes, “will you help me?”

She was silent a few moments more, with a crease between her eyes and then she sighed. “I can connect you to her, but I’ll make no promises about her responsiveness.”

“Wonderful!” Kirk released the breath he had been holding. Relief blossomed in his chest as he smiled. “I greatly appreciate it, Lady Ambassador.”

“Of course, Captain,” Amanda replied offhandedly as she pressed a series of buttons Kirk couldn’t see. “But, James?”

“Yes?”

Her eyes flashed. “I do hope you will tell me the truth the next time you call for a favor.”

“I—” he choked.

But Amanda had transferred his video. Only a series of Vulcan words remained in her place.

T’Pring had not answered. Kirk left her a message detailing their predicament as best as he could, but he didn’t really believe that she would return his communication. Something in his heart told him she wouldn’t, anyway.

He rubbed his face in his hands and tried to think of another logical thing to do.

How to find Spock’s ‘true love’s kiss’ and change him back? There was nothing he could think of because Spock didn’t actually love anybody. It wasn’t in his nature! He had said so himself over and over again.

Briefly, Kirk considered calling Amanda back in the hopes that a mother’s love would be considered ‘true’ enough to do the trick, but he immediately dismissed it. Not only did the original story not use such a loophole, but it would never matter how much Amanda loved Spock. That wasn’t how he remembered the story going.

Spock had to love the person who kissed him, in order to break the spell.

So who in this wide, wide Universe did Spock love?

Kirk dropped his hands to his desk and shook his head. He was about ready to hang up a sign on the sickbay doors and make it a free for all. Any woman willing! Come, line up to kiss a frog!

With a deep sigh, he decided to slouch his way back to sickbay. Maybe he could convince Bones to tell him his secret theory.

“Back again, I see,” Bones greeted the second Kirk was through his door. He glanced up from the biobed whose control panel was in pieces in front of him. When Kirk threw him a questioning look, Bones answered, “Just some software updates. Routine things, you know. You find what you were looking for?”

Kirk narrowed his eyes as he stepped closer, about to give the other man a piece of his mind, but he was interrupted by Uhura’s voice coming from the intercom.

“Lieutenant Uhura to Captain Kirk. Incoming subspace message from Vulcan, sir. Priority One.”

Grinning, Kirk grasped Bones’ arms and shook him gently. He didn’t bother explaining, despite Bones’ look of confusion. He bounded to the intercom on the sickbay wall and smashed the button.

“Go ahead and patch it into Doctor McCoy’s office. I’ll take it there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jim! You can’t just go and commandeer a man’s computer console—”

“Ah, yes I can,” Kirk sang, wagging his finger at Bones as he strode away and into his office, “because I’m the captain.”

He sat at the terminal, nervously ran his hand through his hair, carefully wiped the smile from his lips, and punched the accept button on the side of the screen.

T’Pring, as regal and unaffected as he remembered her to be, appeared on the monitor.

From somewhere behind him, he thought he heard Bones swear.

Kirk held up his hand in a Vulcan salute and T’Pring returned it. Though, somewhat begrudgingly, he noted.

“Thank you for answering my communication, T’Pring. I hope you are well?”

If possible, the hard line of her mouth deepened. “Save me the Human frivolities, Captain. I am uncertain that I understood your request. I require more clarification from you.”

“Well, you see, Spock is—”

“A Terran amphibian.”

“Er. Yes. And we need for you to—”

“I do not understand what the merits of ‘kissing’ would be.”

Kirk gulped. Somehow, he hadn’t anticipated T’Pring to be so… uncooperative. Thinking back to the way she acted on Vulcan, it was a wonder that he ever thought this would work.

“Its merit is that ‘kissing’ Spock in his present state appears to be the only way to turn him back into his regular self. I said that to you already in my message,” he said, staring hard at the screen, willing her to understand.

“And why should I kiss him?”

He had gone over this too, but Kirk drew a long breath and willed himself to remain calm and not let the hysteria that threatened to engulf him edge into his voice. “You…were betrothed to him. Surely there is some residual—” Not 'feelings', because she was Vulcan and Kirk didn’t want to offend his only hope of getting Spock back. Kirk wracked his brain for a different word. “—affection, that stems from that connection. Enough, to turn him back into himself.”

T’Pring raised a lovely slanted eyebrow and ‘harumf’ed so sharply that Kirk could have almost mistaken it for a laugh. “There was hardly affection when we saw each other last, and there certainly is none now. I am not the savior you seek, Captain Kirk.”

Kirk couldn’t help it. His face fell. His shoulders caved forward into his chest.

“Frankly, I am astounded that you contacted me at all—” She looked away for a brief moment, collecting herself. “—given your display in the ancestral sands.”

His eyebrows knit. What was that supposed to mean?

Behind him, Kirk heard Bones groan.

“I…” Kirk blinked, shook his head, and tried again, “I-I-I don’t believe I understand your meaning, T’Pring.”

She scowled. “It is not for me to say,” she responded roughly. “I cannot help you in this.”

A second later, her display darkened.

“Sir,” came Uhura’s voice, “I’ve lost the communication to Vulcan. Should I attempt to re-establish—”

“No, Lieutenant,” Kirk sighed. “Thank you.”

That was it. There were no more options. There was nothing else that Kirk could think of to help Spock. This was it! The end!

And now Spock would remain a frog for the rest of his life.

Would he have a frog lifespan or a Vulcan lifespan?

Kirk didn’t want to think about it—his friend trapped in a tiny frog body for another hundred years… What kind of life would that be?

“Are you finished making a damn fool of yourself?” Bones exclaimed so suddenly that Kirk jumped in his seat.

He turned to look up at his friend, confused. “What?”

“All this nonsense about affection—T’Pring was right! She can’t help you! I didn’t think you’d be fool enough to call her, of all people.”

Kirk’s mouth worked but no sound came out in the face of Bones’ icy stare. “W-well, now, see here, Bones—”

“No, you see here! I tried leading you to the obvious answer. I tried tellin’ ya to think back to Spock’s past actions and you thought of T’Pring? Lord in high heaven, have mercy. You’re more hopeless than I thought!”

Bones stomped past Kirk to Spock’s terrarium. He reached in and unceremoniously plucked Spock from his large, flat stone with a soft squelch then brought him back to Kirk. He watched Bones with his mouth open as his friend adjusted his grip and then held Spock the Frog out to him.

“Pucker up.”

“Are you out of your mind, Leonard McCoy?!”

“Kiss. The DAMN. Frog. Jim.”

He shook his head. Bones was crazy. This was his big theory? It was never going to work!

Softly, Spock croaked, and Kirk looked at him longingly. If only it could have been true, but Spock didn’t love him. They were friends, maybe. A team, definitely. There was no one else in the universe that Kirk trusted more, but…

No, it was impossible.

He looked up straight into Bones’ eyes. “You’re crazy.”

“Am I?” Bones replied softly. “Who did he trust with his greatest secret when he was starting to go through that Pon Farr? Who helped you identify your vicious half from your good half, and who brought the two of you together?”

Kirk shook his head.

“Who insisted you were innocent, even when Commodore Stone had all the evidence against you? Who pushed you out of the way and took those poisonous flower darts for you, for christ’s sake?”

“Yes, you’ve made your point, Bones…”

But he didn’t stop. “What did you say Spock told you when that infection from Psi 2000 ravaged the ship?”

“Ribbit.”

Kirk shook his head, but he remembered the words as plainly as if they were yesterday. “When I feel friendship for you, I…I’m ashamed.”

“Yes, Jim. Now, what do you think the only logical reason for a Vulcan to feel something like shame could be?”

“It’s not going to work,” Kirk sighed, but something new rose sharply in his chest. A question he hardly dared to dwell on.

But what if it did?

“So? Will you kiss the frog now? Or do you want to take him out to dinner first?”

He shook his head again, but Kirk held out his hands. Bones carefully placed Spock in them and took several steps back. He looked excited. Kirk glanced up at him, still doubtful.

But what if?

His heart raced.

What did kissing a frog feel like, anyway? Would kissing Spock’s wet cheek be enough?

Spock adjusted his delicate legs and nestled snugly into the palms of Kirk’s hands. “Ribbit,” he croaked quietly.

Kirk lifted Spock up to his eye level. He could almost believe the Vulcan had retained all his intelligence, and he knew what was about to happen. His gaze looked soulful and longing. It was much the same sort of expression that Kirk had caught a time or two on the bridge. Always when Spock thought he was too busy to notice.

But he had noticed, Kirk had just convinced himself that it was nothing.

True love’s kiss…

Would Spock really change back? For him?

“Ribbit.” Get on with it, he seemed to say. It is illogical to waiver when there are no other avenues open to you.

Kirk took a steadying breath through his nose—

—and raised Spock’s little frog lips to his own.

Heat tingled and blossomed between them. If the sun could be contained within a being, then Kirk thought that this was what that might have felt like. Kirk couldn’t pull away, even if he had wanted to.

The air crackled and swirled around them. The frog he had known to be in his hands grew larger and larger, expanding until a heavy weight settled comfortably in his lap, his hands laying on either side of it.

Kirk couldn’t hear anything outside of the roaring in his blood. He was overwhelmed by the sensation in his lips, in the pressure there, and in the soft caress of a nose against his cheek.

Spock pulled away, but Kirk didn’t want to open his eyes.

The weight in his lap, the mass in his arms… it had to have worked… but he was terrified that if he opened his eyes, the spell would be broken.

This spell, the spell of the true love that Kirk had kept himself from dreaming of.

“Captain,” Spock’s deep voice reverberated through his body from where they touched. Almost a purr.

Kirk allowed his eyes to flutter open and he found exactly what he’d always wanted: Spock, close to his face, his hands resting on Kirk’s chest, with his head tilted and the forbidden ghost of a smile on the edge of his lips.

Kirk wanted very badly, very suddenly, to kiss him again.

Bones grunted and had an obnoxious coughing fit, drawing both of their attentions.

“Now, we are all very glad that Spock is Spock again, and I will tell you that I told you for the rest of your life, but if you two are going to keep canoodling like that, you need to find a different room to do it in.”

Spock shook his head. “Doctor, after my dubious treatment at your hands, I believe that ‘you owe me.’”

Shaking his head, he tried to clear the unwanted memories. When that didn’t work, he reached up to press the heels of his palms into his eyes so hard he saw stars. He controlled his breathing, willed his heart to be slow.

God, he hoped… he hoped Hugh was—

Ash dropped his hands to the table with a heavy thud, focusing instead on the dull ache of the impact. His stomach churned and heaved.

Certain he wouldn’t be eating anything today either, he abandoned the table, dropped his untouched meal into the recycling receptacle, and left the Mess.

Ash didn’t know where he would go yet—this ship was alien and uncomfortable for him—but he walked anyway. It was a stupid attempt to place distance between himself and his memories, he knew, but what else could he do? The only person who had any hope of understanding him was Michael, but only when they were in private. He would have to wait until the late evening to see her.

The crew he passed in the corridors leered at him from scarred not-quite-right faces. They were disconcerting and backwards. They were the last people he wanted to be around when his head was spinning, but they were his only company for now.

And then a thought occurred to him.

He couldn’t speak to Michael, but maybe he could visit Captain Lorca? Maybe he could comm the Discovery? Or both? Ash felt all he needed was a touch of sanity about now, a lifeline to the world that he knew to be his.

God, he hoped, with everything that he had in him, that he and Michael would still belong to that world when this was all over.

Making up his mind, Ash walked with more purpose. So it was somewhere around the Medbay when he became aware of his tail.

This person was sloppy. The tail hadn’t expected Ash to stop so suddenly. But when a passing nurse dropped his medkit, the contents rolling across the corridor, Ash bent to help without thinking.

As Ash reached behind him for a scattered hypospray, he caught the unmistakable tells of a pursuer out of the corner of his eye: their stunted halt, their quick about face, and then they disappeared around the nearest corner.

The nurse, flustered that someone would help him recover his tools, didn’t notice how Ash kept his eyes trained down the hall. His unblinking stare was rewarded with the tail’s head poking back around the corner, and, seeing their target was still crouched, they withdrew again. Didn’t even notice Ash was watching them.

They were a sloppy stalker for a world that was so paranoid, that was for sure.

Ash muttered a “you’re welcome” to the nurse without thinking as they both rose from the floor. He didn’t believe the other man had thanked him in the first place; forgot that manners were few and far between. Maybe for the best. Maybe he just looked like a sarcastic asshole now.

If that was the worst he would become here, then he would be grateful.

As he continued on his way towards the emptier lower decks of the ship, Ash heard his tail resume as well. He strained his ears and made mental notes.

Heavy footfalls made them male in sex and very likely of sturdy build. They maintained a five-meter distance but had quick steps—short in height; not necessarily an advantage. Probably new at this too, Ash thought grimly. If it were him, he would have erred on the side of caution and abandoned the chase for today. He would have assumed he’d been caught and fallen back to recuperate the apparent loss.

This person was, apparently, not so smart.

As he got on the turbolift at the end of the corridor, Ash weighed his options. To lose them? Or to confront them?

Losing them was attractive, but he was willing to bet it wouldn’t be easy for him in this unfamiliar terrain. He only had two allies on board, and Captain Lorca would be useless if they all wanted to maintain cover. Ash couldn’t even be assured of his safety in a crowd here. He could easily imagine these people letting two crewmates kill each other in front of them. It might not even ever occur to them to stop the fight.

Yet confronting his pursuer would be a sure altercation, and maybe even a sure death. Better to assume that everyone here thirsted for blood and couldn’t simply be spooked away by an act of force. Assassination seemed to be the most common way to climb the ladder in this awful place, and Ash was a very high rung. He had placed the target on his back himself, he realized, by putting himself so close to Michael. Should have thought of that. But it was too late now to regret that he didn’t.

For all his assumptions, however, Ash really wanted to know exactly why he was being followed, and—maybe worse—he wanted to ensure it wouldn’t happen again.

By the time his turbolift had opened onto the lowest deck, Ash had a plan.

His stalker could follow with the last turbolift log, and while he briefly considered scrambling the data, Ash decided it was more important to him to find out who it was that thought he was so important…

If someone thought he was important, then that meant they were trying to get to Michael, and that was unacceptable.

Ash jogged towards the laundry room and used his communicator to make a signal with no heading. He only hoped Discovery wouldn’t catch it and link up with him. What he didn’t need was for more questions to be asked, instead, he just wanted his tail to take the bait.

Several long minutes later, with his heart pounding in his throat, Ash watched as the turbolift doors opened.

His pursuer stepped out into the half-lit corridor holding up a tricorder, no doubt tracking Ash’s dummy signal. They indeed looked slight, but sturdy. Male, probably. Human, obviously. Their eyes were glued to their tricorder and now they took soft, cautious steps, with no idea that their prey had turned the tables on them. They hadn’t even bothered to check the corridor before stepping out. Amateur really. Ash had half a mind to be offended.

An easy target, to be sure.

He held his breath and waited for his pursuer to draw closer. Five meters. Two. One.

They took another cautious step and swiveled in Ash’s direction.

They glanced up from the tricorder screen. Ash launched himself forward.

With their hands full, Ash was able to get his full weight thrown into them. His momentum sent them careening backwards and with a jolting—THUD—his pursuer crashed into the wall across the way, their head smacking hard.

Blood red obscured Ash’s vison. An intense rage flooded his mind. It went beyond just him and his survival on a covert mission. It went beyond even Michael. He was filled with an intense disgust that seemed to be a part within him, but also without.

With a guttural shout, Ash’s hand curled in the Terran uniform and he slammed the stalker back into the bulkhead, their green eyes going wide for a moment. Their hands scrabbled for purchase against his chest, the tricorder falling forgotten, but Ash’s teeth gnashed hard and he ripped their hands from his own uniform with a power that was not his own.

Disgusting human! Daring to touch me! Daring to fight me! Feeble creature to hide in the shadows instead of besting me in outright battle!

Voq hissed at the Human man and slammed him back into the bulkhead. He grinned when the human’s head smacked against the metal once more and left a dent and a streak of crimson.

I will drink your blood and wring the life from you with your entrails!

The human shook his head, eyes dazed, but managed to pull his arm back and caught Voq with the heel of his palm. The blow knocked his head back and Voq cursed his frail human shell. But he barely let it stop him as he threw the man to the side and leapt upon his supine form.

FILTHY HUMAN!

The human scrabbled for purchase but Voq already had his conveniently long fingers around his throat. The man’s eyes bugged. Voq’s lips stretched into a cruel smile. He squeezed.

Then he grew tired of the waiting.

Yanking the man up by his throat, Voq slammed his skull into the ground. Once. Twice. Crimson splashed the floor when he yanked the man’s head up again. It lolled aside. Voq placed one hand on the man’s pale face, the fingernails of the other digging into soft flesh, and pushed with all his weight back into the ground with a wet and satisfying Crack!

He sat back on his haunches, threw his head back and roared in triumph.

Bathed in it. Less than honorable though it may have begun.

His second kill…

His heart raced in his chest.

He blinked.

Ash blinked again. He looked down and unwrapped his hands from his stalker’s throat. They came away bloody.

What?

He straddled the person on the floor, red blood pooling beneath their head, coagulating in their straw-colored hair. Cold dread crept into Ash’s limbs. He was heavy and shaking and couldn’t look away from glassy green eyes.

It had happened again.

Clenching his teeth, barely strangling a cry, Ash gripped his hair hard. A moment too late he remembered that there was still blood on his hands. The thought of it in his hair made him sick. He yelped and leapt off the body, revulsion hitting him hard in the chest and making him heave. Dry and painful.

He did it again. He did it again.

His face crumpled. A sob choked in his throat.

How does this keep happening?

As before, flashes of memory. Of blood and screaming and…her. The unthinkable one. The Klingon in the brig. He had never wanted to see her again and then there she was. She spoke words to him. Words that he didn’t understand but felt in his bones.

She did this. L’Rell.

But how?

Ash shook his head and the dry sob that had caught came out in a strangled mess. It was a pitiful sound, and he was glad there was no one down here to catch him like this. So broken. Confused.

He shook his head again and examined his hands. Another wave of nausea hit him, but he tamped it down.

Ash didn’t have time to be pitiful, and more importantly, Michael couldn’t afford for him to lose focus.

Wiping his hands on his pants, he struggled to control his breathing; wanted to control his heart and the swimming unease in his stomach but he knew that those were lost causes. Instead he settled for closing his eyes and trying to think.

He breathed.

In.

And out.

In.

Out.

In…

A strange calm settled over him. Cold. Almost cruel. But Ash…welcomed it. He needed it. He let it wash over him—swallow him whole. It seemed to cradle him, promising to make all this easier.

Simple.

Like sleeping.

Ash’s limbs grew heavy as the calm reached across his body. His thoughts didn’t feel like his own anymore. They became harsh, calculating—what Michael needed him to be.

He had won the fight against his stalker, as he should have. He was stronger than all of them, he knew. If that was the best his enemies would send after him, then this “Empire” was a laughable sham of one. Nothing compared to the Klingon Empire united behind Kahless and T’Kuvma.

But he had to make sure that nothing like this would happen again. Someone sought to attack him—to kill him—and an attempt on his life would clear the way to an attempt on Michael’s.

Ash felt his fingers twitch.

While it was regrettable to have lost the chance to get information out of his would-be attacker, making an example out of him would have to be good enough.

He knew what he had to do now.

The calm had helped.

The body wasn’t so hard to drag.

Ash ignored the silent stares. He hated the nods of approval. They churned a sickness in his stomach. He refused to look back at the long streak of blood.

It was a long march to the Mess Hall, but he tightened his grip on the corpse’s ankle and steeled himself with every step, drawing from that welcome calm conviction that had washed over him.

When he arrived, a hush fell over the half-filled room.

Ash raised his eyes to the people sitting at tables. The barbarians that lived in this universe watched him with barely masked trepidation.

Barely masked weakness.

He made slow eye contact with each one, wondering if the one responsible was here in this very room. He challenged every one with his burning gaze, almost hoping that someone would rise and fight. Maybe his true enemy wasn’t here, but he knew it wasn’t a big ship; Ash would find him soon enough.

With something of a snort, Ash bared his teeth. He summoned that strange superhuman strength from within him and heaved the filthy, mangled body of his attacker in front of him—in front of everyone—and left.

Yes, he’d find the culprit soon.

Then they would be sorry they had ever picked a fight with T’Kuvma’s own chosen Torchbearer.

Berns scoffed and took another sip of her Risan mai-tai. This was easy. At first it had been being bored to death, but now her next biggest worry was… “Only thing I’m scared of, Antony, is the horror stories I’ve heard about running this place.”

“You mean, Chief O’Brian?” asked Jelep in a small voice. They had ordered a Sea Mule from the Ferengi bartender after their fellow ensigns had decided, but the Kelpian still hadn’t touched it, opting instead to examine their folded hands in their lap while Berns and Antony talked. Their behavior was starting to make Berns worried. She hadn’t had time to ask them how they felt about the assignment, really, between packing and preparing and then Antony who was proving to be the type of person who just never shut up.

“A little of him, but more like—” Berns started to agree when she was cut off.

“Heard he’s got a nasty temper! He’ll go off on anyone!” Antony said excitedly, leaning forward until he received a face full of Berns’ wet napkin.

“¡Chismoso!”

That elicited a small smile out of Jelep as their translator kicked in and Berns’ chest swelled.

“No, I mean literally running this place. All this Cardassian tech?” Berns clicked her tongue. “In a word? Sucks.”

Antony rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. He seemed to be a little put out. Maybe that would keep him quiet.

Jelep ran their long fingers up and down their tall glass, collecting condensation. “I’m also not looking forward to the Cardassian technology.”

“Why?”

They shrugged and blinked their large blue eyes at Berns. “Feels a lot like the Ba’Ul’s… All this dark and metal… That’s what I am least looking forward to. Living here with that.”

Berns’ heart went out to them and she wanted to reach out and put her hand on Jelep’s arm but…thought better of it. She’d grown really close to the Kelpian during their time at the Academy but hadn’t wanted to make living together weird with…complications. She didn’t know where they stood now, but the tall and graceful alien had always mystified Berns. Stuck her heart in her throat. Gave her butterflies. All that.

Antony took a long drink of his ale and regained his composure. “Well, I’m worried about…” He leaned in close over the table, “the shapeshifter.”

Jelep and Berns had the same reaction. They blinked at him. Berns had half a mind to tell her new acquaintance that nobody had asked him what he was nervous about in the first place, but that felt mean.

“Shapeshifter?” Jelep echoed dully after a heartbeat. They shrugged. “Now I know you’re making stuff up.”

“They really have one here!”

“So soon after the war?”

Antony leaned in conspiratorially. “He was here before the war. Maybe he was a spy the whole time. No one really knew…”

Jelep coughed. “I find that extremely hard to believe. If he was here, and he was a spy, why would he still be here? You can’t believe everything you hear, crewman.”

Antony waved their words away as Berns tipped back the rest of her mai-tai.

“Why would a shapeshifter make you nervous anyway?” she asked. “Why does he have anything to do with you?”

Antony tugged on his yellow security shirt and looked up at her, appalled. Apparently, it was supposed to have been obvious. She cocked an eyebrow and shook her head at him.

Rolling his eyes, Antony said, “He’s the head of security on the station.”

“Ohhh… so you are just afraid of your senior officer,” Jelep replied.

Antony choked on his drink. “No! I am not!” Berns met Jelep’s eyes and they both smiled and looked away. “I’m…I’m just concerned for my own privacy here.”

Berns shook her head and gave Antony a steady look. “I dunno…that sounds kind of hateful…”

Jelep came to her aid, nodding. “Sounds like you are letting your preconceived notions color your perception of the Chief of Security,” they said reasonably, blinking large eyes at him.

“It’s not about that,” Antony insisted. “It’s about how he gets to just do whatever he wants to keep order around here. He’s not Starfleet, so he doesn’t have to conform to our rules! That doesn’t seem suspect to you?”

When neither one of them answered, he sighed. “Ugh, gotta explain everything. Look! He has the run of the entire station! But he’s a shapeshifter!”

Jelep collected more condensation off of their glass and wiped it gently on the napkin in front of them. “Meaning?”

“Meaning that he can shift shapes—I mean, come on! He could be anything! He can blend into the wall! He could be anywhere any time! He could be that glass!!” Antony pointed wildly at Jelep’s untouched drink.

Momentarily stricken, Jelep released their glass and looked down at it fearfully as though worried it would change at any minute. Berns laughed at him.

“He could be listening to everything we are saying at any time. You don’t see that as a privacy issue??”

Berns looked at him doubtfully.

Antony threw his hands in the air and tried again. “He could be that chair you’re sitting in, Amethyst!”

A shadow fell over their table.

“Or,” came a gravelly voice, “He could be right behind you.”

With a squeak, Antony fell out of his chair and onto the floor. Berns might have laughed, if she wasn’t trying not to stare at the Head of Security Shapeshifter in question who glowered down at them from under smooth, deep set brows. She gulped.

“More new Starfleet recruits. I do hope none of you were planning on causing any trouble on my station,” he said slowly, looking at all three of them in turn.

“N-No, sir!” Antony said in a small voice. Berns was surprised he could still talk at all.

“Good,” the shapeshifter replied slowly. “Because I’ll be keeping an eye on you…”

Odo glowered once more at each shrinking Ensign and felt his annoyance ebb from him only to be replaced by a twinge of regret.

There were some days in which he was sick of the staring and the speculating about himself, his origins, and his loyalties. On these days he felt the impulse to do something about it. It could have easily been a day where he could ignore the talk but cleaning up Quark’s latest mess for the last several hours had Odo’s head pounding. Evidently that had now become the Ensigns’ problem. He only felt a little sorry.

He harrumphed once and turned to walk back to where Quark leaned over the bar with a bemused expression, his head tilted. Odo knew he had heard the whole thing.

“Hope you didn’t just scare my customers out of paying. Again,” the Ferengi said, his eyes slipping back towards the ensigns’ table. “That’ll teach me. Should have known better than to warn you. See if I ever share juicy gossip with you ever again.”

Odo slipped onto a barstool and grunted as reply.

Quark drummed his fingers on the bar and gave Odo a searching look. One he pointedly ignored.

“Did you really have to be so harsh with them? You and I both know you can’t transform anymore.”

Something of a smile slipped onto Odo’s face. “Maybe not… but they don’t know that.”

His own smile crossed Quark’s lips for a moment and then disappeared again, all business. “I’ll have you know, that if they skip their tab, I’m sending you the bill.”

Odo rolled his eyes.

“And don’t even think about trying to trick me out of it this time. I know exactly where you sleep! The left side.”

Appearing to notice it for the first time, the Vulcan inspected his forearm, loosening his leather braces so he could pull the shirt back. There, standing out stark against his pale yellow skin, thick dark green blood oozed out of two long jagged claw-like nicks. “Curious,” he murmured. “Are the safeties off?”

“They shouldn't be,” I replied slowly. “Computer? Status of holodeck safety protocols, please.”

An acknowledgment beep sounded in bizarre contrast to our surroundings from somewhere in the depths of the limestone vampire den. Then the robotic voice answered, “Holodeck Safety Protocols are still in effect.”

“Okay, thank you.”

We looked at each other.

“This wound is not real, then.”

“Looks pretty real,” I said doubtfully, reaching out to take his arm. But I stopped short and kept my hands to myself. “Does it feel real?”

Vorik glanced at me through his eyelashes. “Perhaps you should look away.”

“Why?”

“You're squeamish,” he said as though it should have been obvious.

I shrugged. “Whatever. It's not my blood.”

His eyebrow rose but he didn't say anything else before he grabbed his wrist with his other hand and squeezed. More blood seeped from the wounds running in long drips down his arm. A little gush shot into the air.

He was right. I should have turned away.

“What the fu—Oh, gross,” I choked before I clamped my mouth shut and spun around so my lunch wouldn't come up next. Even though on some level, I knew that our bodies acted differently despite looking very similar on the surface, I still wasn’t prepared for that. I don’t think I would ever have been prepared for blood spurts. My stomach churned.

“It does feel real,” I heard him say, his tone completely indifferent, “and it is acting real as well.”

“Well jus—ggkkh. Stop playing with it and just take care of it, will you?”

Unable to stand there without imagining more blood spurting from his arm, I wandered away towards the mouth of the cavern. It opened up into a long, steep passageway that led outside. It would take some time to walk but I knew that’s where it went. So whether the air was actually cooler or better circulated,  or I just imagined it was, being at the passage helped clear the dizziness somewhat. I certainly felt less like I would pass out, leaning against the rocky wall.

After a few minutes, Vorik joined me, his mouth turned in that slight secretive sort of smile that always killed me. “I did warn you to look away.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just so you know, we should find an herbalist or an apothecary as soon as we get back into town. You should have a Potion of Cure Disease on hand.” He looked over at me quizzically, so I clarified: “In case you get vampirism.”

This time my companion scoffed. “I cannot contract vampirism. I'm Vulcan.”

“What's that got to do with anything?” I laughed. “You think you're immune? Why? Because your blood is green or because your ears are already pointy? You were nicked with a vampire's claws, which means you can contract vampirism. Those are the rules of Skyrim set down by our lord and savior, Todd Howard.”

I felt more than I saw his eye roll. Together we ventured back into the gloom of the hallway. The torch in Vorik’s hand cast leaping shadows over the jagged limestone walls as we made out ascent.

“I am certain I cannot contract vampirism. This program was not made for my kind, the default avatar setting is human. And vampires can only be human, as they are human legends.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. Sounds an awful lot like more speculation than a logical assumption, my dude. You don’t have to take my advice if you don’t want to, but you’d better stay away from my neck!”

                                                              ***

“Computer, end program,” Vorik said into the air. No sooner had the acknowledgment sounded than the world shimmered and disappeared around us. My house in Riften was replaced by the reflective metal and crosshatching, bonelike metal bars of the holodeck. Vorik’s armor and most of my own, with the exception of Gilmorrak and my belt, disappeared, replaced by our civilian clothes.

“Hey, how’s your arm, by the way?”

He unbuttoned the clasp at the cuff and rolled up the sleeve of his grey tunic. He twisted his forearm left and right for me to see. There was no trace of any blood now. No evidence that he’d been harmed at all.

“Evidently it was part of the holodeck program.”

I shook my head. “That’s weird though because I’ve been straight up stabbed and shot with arrows until I looked like a pin cushion and I still never bled. It’s got to be a vital part of the programming, dude.”

“It is strange,” he agreed, “but it shouldn’t be of any concern. The wound is gone now. It was likely an oversight on the part of Mr. Kim or Mr. Paris. Perhaps something about translating such an ancient game to the holodeck.”

I ignored his jab at Skyrim and flashed him a smile. “Unless you become a vampire in the next couple of days,” I said.

“I will not become a vampire.”

I shook my head at him and sighed as he led me towards the door. I was always a little sad to leave Skyrim, or any of the holodeck programs, honestly, but my crewmates needed time to play. If I didn’t have that pang of guilt and unfairness hanging over my head, I would be way too content to stay on a holodeck forever. It always astounded me while watching the show: How could these people have this technology and not want to be there all their lives?

“Can a person live in a holodeck program?” I asked as we exited. I recognized the next two eager adventurers as Ensigns from security, so I waved while Vorik nodded to them.

“No, so you should never try it,” Vorik said, catching on easily to my line of thought. He did that a lot. I guess I was just a simple sort of creature. “Most holodeck programs are not equipped for sustained use,” he went on, “You would drain the reactors quickly. And while some holodecks utilize food replicators, like our own, this is not true for each one. Non-starship decks tend to use lower grade protein synthesizers since holographic meals are not meant to be the staple of one’s diet. These would have negligible nutritional value and you would eventually waste away.”

“You’re a spoilsport.”

“And you would kill yourself chasing fantasy as a coping mechanism. Problems, even your emotional ones, should be faced head on. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.”

I stopped dead in the hallway and gaped at him. Vorik had continued several paces before he realized I was no longer beside him. He looked around expectantly, his hands clasped behind him, but my brain had 404-ed.

“Did you just…?” A smile crept onto my face. “Did you just… quote Albus mcfreakin’ Dumbledore at me?”

Vorik stared at me blankly.

“You did, didn’t you? You thought I wouldn’t catch it, but you did! You read it??”

Vorik’s eyes closed for a half a second longer than normal as he took a deep breath. His gaze cast downward for a moment as if resigning himself before he looked at me again. “Yes, I did—”

I rushed him and grabbed him by the arms, grinning from ear to ear now. “You did? You did! Ohmygosh! You have to tell me what you think. What part are you at? How far have you gotten? Were you planning on reading through all of them or were you just trying out the first one? Are you finished with it? Please—ohmygod—tell me everything!”

Appearing both bemused and like he had just realized he’d made a horrible mistake, my Vulcan friend led me towards the mess hall, succinctly answering my questions as rapidly as I fired them off.

                                                             ***

“You don’t look too good,” I told Vorik as I set my bowl of spaghetti down at our table in the corner of the mess several days later. It was quiet, halfway between a midshift, and the hall was all but empty save for a handful of people and one Vulcan with his head in his hands.

At my voice, he sat up straight and blinked whatever it was bothering him away. “I am fine.”

“You look pale. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

Fork in hand, he started picking at his food. “I just need to meditate,” he mumbled.

I nodded and spun my own fork in my noodles idly for a few heartbeats. But like so many somewhat intrusive thoughts, I couldn’t keep it in my brain, and I opened my mouth to say conspiratorially, “Unless.”

“Giana,” Vorik warned, closing his eyes.

“Is the vampirism making you peakish?”

“I am not a vampire.”

“Sounds exactly like the sort of thing a vampire would say,” I replied, jutting out my lip in a face of disbelief. “But seriously, you could talk about it, you know. The actual thing that’s bothering you, I mean, not your unfortunate illness.”

Vorik rolled his eyes at me and continued to push his food around his tray. Even that he gave up after a few moments with a sigh and a shake of his head. “I haven’t been able to sleep. Or allocate the proper time to meditate. I keep going over our run-in with mining colony virus. There has to be something else we could have done, without leaving the captain to take care of herself.”

I barely suppressed a shudder at the mention of the nasty bugs that solidified my now-very-rational fear of anything insect-like. Doing what I did best, I covered it with humor. “Are you not sleeping at night because your new lifestyle requires you to sleep during the day?” He opened his mouth like he was going to chastise me, so I quickly added, “Captains are supposed to be able to take care of things themselves, that’s why they’re captains. Besides, there wasn’t anything else you could have done. We all did our best! We didn’t know we were being attacked. I can’t believe I, of all people, have to tell you this, but agonizing over it isn’t logical.”

“Perhaps not. But analyzing a situation where I believe my abilities to have failed me for the purposes of self-reflection and to ensure it does not happen again, is.”

I waved my fork around and shrugged. “If it makes you feel better, I’m mad at myself too for forgetting that stupid episode happened. Must’ve blocked it out. Those things were so nasty. And I bet if we weren’t all so caught off guard maybe we woulda thought of the holodeck trick too. I dunno, just be glad the captain came back when she did and don’t lose your head over it. I don’t want you to spiral out of control with your analysis, my dude.”

“I will not. I am not you.”

“Ouch.”

A new person joined us at the table. Their tray clattered next to mine and I turned to find Harry grinning at me. Instantly, I beamed back. His smile was always so infectious.

“Hey guys. What’s goin’ on over here?”

“Nothing,” Vorik said.

“It’s a secret.” I said over him.

“Secrets?” chimed a new voice, “I love secrets.” Tom sat on Harry’s other side and almost immediately began shoveling his mashed potatoes into his mouth as soon as his tray was down. “Do tell.”

“There is nothing going on,” Vorik repeated, his voice a little tighter. “There are no secrets. Giana is being impossible.”

“Vorik is turning into a vampire!” I said in a rush. Vorik folded his hands in front of his face and fixed me with a Vulcan’s closest approximation to a glare. I smiled and nudged his boot under the table with my own. He didn’t respond.

Harry, however, did. He lowered his spoon from his face, looking stricken, and fixed me with a very serious look. “Giana! We…we don’t say things like that around here…”

What?

My eyes widened as I realized what he was trying to say. “Oh! No! Just ‘cause the- skin and th-the pointy— No, nonononono. We were playing Skyrim together the other day and he was scratched by a vampire’s claws so I’ve been teasing him, that’s all! It’s not—no!”

Finally, Vorik looked satisfied and returned my kick under the table. Then it was my turn to glare at him.

“Oh. Good,” Harry sighed, clearly relieved he was spared a lesson in microaggressions, “I was going to say… I’d be surprised if that’s what it was coming from you.”

I ate my spaghetti in silence, hoping Vorik never thought that’s what I ever meant. Maybe I was laying it on a bit too thick, bringing up his vampire-hood every so often over the last couple of days. I really did just think I was being funny, but now I wasn’t so sure. Maybe I was just being a huge asshole.

“So you were hit by a vampire, huh?” Tom asked, bringing the conversation back. “Harry and I cleared out a den by Morthal for the Thaneship not too long ago. Harry wants to build the house.”

“I just think it’ll be better than all the pre-built ones!”

“Anyway, he had to chug two Potions of Cure Disease. He caught vampirism one right after the other.” Tom laughed and wolfed down the last of his steamed vegetables. “You end up bleeding?”

Vorik arched an eyebrow and glanced at me before warily answering, “Yes.”

Tom pulled an apologetic face. “Mmm, yup. You’re a vampire now.”

“Yes! I knew it!”

“But I am Vulcan,” Vorik said over me, “How can I become a vampire from Human folklore?”

Tom shrugged. “It’s all in the coding. It’s not that you’ll become human or anything, it’s just that the aspects of vampirism will be overlaid onto your Skyrim avatar and all the buffs and debuffs will apply. Think of it like a…a filter. A vampire filter.”

“See, no that’s what I was talking about; it had a purpose. Tom had to reinterpret the original game. Making you appear to bleed was probably just the indication that you caught something, otherwise, you’d never know because we don’t really have a convenient way to check our status. And you said it was probably nothing. Everything has a reason.”

Tom nodded.

I slurped the rest of my spagetti from the bowl and pushed it aside. “You ready to go back and get cured?” I asked Vorik. I wanted to get him alone again, maybe to keep talking to him about the virus or maybe make sure he didn’t think I was being rude. But I couldn’t keep one more from coming out. “The sooner you’re cured, the sooner the UV lights will stop burning your skin.”

“Will your vampire jokes cease when I am cured?”

I smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, probably.”

“Then absolutely.”

                                                              ***

The holodeck hummed to life and the blank room started being filled with materializing objects. Vorik fidgeted with his sleeve and sure enough, once the front room of our Riften house came into focus, the bandage seeping dark green blood reappeared as well. Hopefully taking care of the vampirism would take care of the uncanny wound that was not really a wound as well.

“First thing’s first. Let’s find an apothecar—eee!” As soon as he looked at me, I recoiled back. “Vorik…your eyes…”

He barely looked like himself in the torchlight. His face was sunken and shadowed and his dark eyes had been nearly swallowed by blackness from the irises out through the whites of his eyes. Black vein-like lines spread from his sunken sockets like a sickness, reaching towards his cheekbones in a spiderweb of tendrils. I could see now how vampires could be considered completely terrifying.

“Holy shit, dude.” I reached up and grazed the side of his face with fingertips, still looking in wonder at the vampiric effects that Tom and Harry had engineered. With a horrified realization it hit me that, yes, this is what a monstrous vampire should look like to an everyday person and I understood all the horror stories.

Vorik stiffened slightly as the pads of my fingers swept his temple and with a jolt in my stomach, I realized what I was doing and pulled my hand away.

“Do… Do you feel different? You look way different. How did I not notice this before??”

“It was dark the last time we played,” Vorik answered. He strode to the washbasin and peered into the spotted mirror above it. He prodded his skin and turned his head from side to side, admiring the reflection. “The detail is rather astounding, and the effect is…unsettling.”

“You can say that again. I very suddenly don’t want to be a vampire anymore myself.”

“I do not feel different,” Vorik continued as though he were observing the results of a particularly interesting experiment. “Perhaps because the sickness hasn’t been given time to spread?”

“Or just because you aren’t in the sun yet.”

“Fascinating.”

‘Fascinating’ though it might have been, I really wanted to get him taken care of. Though I didn’t remember Skyrim vampires looking like this (so maybe the blackness around his eyes wouldn’t stay) he was starting to creep me out just being in the same room. The effect it had on me when it wasn’t just pixels, when it was suddenly someone I knew, didn’t sit right in my brain. Not to mention that I would probably be really disturbed if I had to watch him feed off NPCs to keep his powers up.

Speaking of, I wondered if this meant that joining The Companions was out of the question for me now. If vampires looked this strange, imagine what if would feel like to be a werewolf. I shivered at the thought of my skin splitting and actually sprouting hair all over my body.

Nasty.

“Sooo…” I began in a nonchalant voice, wandering to the table and picking up an apple from a wooden bowl. “Is there something you wanna say to me, maybe?”

Vorik turned the full force of his unnerving face on me and I had to physically stop myself from recoiling by clutching the back of a chair.

He sighed. “Yes, yes. I admit it. You were right. I am a vampire.”

For the first time, I noticed as he spoke that the teeth that would have been his canines if he were a primate were far longer and sharper than they had been before. “Oh shit, you’re growing fangs too, dog. Yeah, let’s get you fixed up before you start thirsting for my blood.”

His expression as I darted out the door told me that, at this moment, he didn’t need to thirst after my blood in order to want to rip my head off.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alistair flushed hard and coughed. “Oh! Right!” As he pressed the buttons on the register, his gaze wandered towards the back of the line where the woman fell in with the rest, but now that the door had been righted and the wind calmed down, she’d disappeared into the jumble of people. He tamped down the strange disappointment that swelled in his chest as he took the elf’s money and dumped it into the register’s drawer.

The line moved steadily enough, but impatience started coloring his voice with each new customer that wasn’t the Door-Wrestling-Woman. Every once in a while, he would catch a glimpse of her. A cream-sweater-clad elbow, a flash of that scarf or the peeking toe of her shoes. She wore tan boots with a flat heel, skinny jeans neatly tucked into the knitted tops. Alistair amused himself by deciding that meant she was practical, maybe even economical, as though he was some sort of detective from a bad mystery novel. He knew that in reality, those random details meant very little, but it just felt so important to know something—anything—about her. And why that was, was beyond him.

He was internally interpreting the symbolic meaning of wearing a denim-colored scarf and blue denim jeans at the same time when the next person in line stepped forward and made him do a double take.

He had to be the nastiest, most sour-looking man Alistair had ever seen—and he had seen so many people in his time working here. He recalled to his mind every negative interaction to date; every upset PTA parent complaining about the consistency of their latte’s foam and every harried businessman with neckties so tight their purple faces looked like they would pop clean off after Alistair told them they were out of pumpkin spice syrup. He put them all together as one person and this man still managed to look nastier. Something about his long black hair or his piercing blue eyes or the vicious glower that settled just beneath his stern features made Alistair’s guts wilt and curl into themselves like paper in a fire. He looked to be the physical manifestation of every bad thing that ever happened in Alistair’s life thus far, and when his thin lips attempted a brief but grim mockery of a smile, Alistair gripped the counter behind the register to keep from jumping backwards.

Thank the Maker that the expression slid from the man’s face almost as soon as it appeared, as though it pained him to make the muscles in his mouth do that for even an instant.

Alistair adopted the most chipper tone he could manage in light of his desire to dart into the back room away from this man. “Er-Hello, ser. What can I- erm- get started for you today?”

The man’s eyes flicked upwards to the menu as though he hadn’t just spent the last 20 or so minutes waiting with nothing else to do but read the carefully written chalk letters. He frowned. “Do you have just plain coffee in this Maker-damned place?”

Movement from behind him caught Alistair’s eye and the flash of blonde hair and cream sweater grabbed his attention. The Door-Wrestling-Woman’s head snapped up from her phone at the man’s gruff voice and recognition sparked in her eyes. Then horror. She turned away from him in order to pull her green canvas messenger bag in front of her, hold the flap up between their line of sight and begin rummaging around in the bottom of it. Alistair’s brows furrowed at her. The man started to turn to look when Alistair realized that was probably the last thing she wanted and cleared his throat to get his attention back.

“Uhm, yes. We have several signature blends and I’d be happy to recommend some to you. Wha-what are you looking for to satisfy that palate of yours, hmm? Any favorite tastes or flaaaa-vors I should know about?”

Scowling, the man replied, “No. I just need the caffeine and this silly little place happened to be on the way to the university.”

“Ah, so, on your way to school, I see—”

“No small talk. I’m not interested.”

“Oooohkay,” Alistair’s mouth snapped shut. The Door-Wrestling-Woman lowered the flap of her bag a few inches and his eyes found hers. He was delighted to note the scrunched-up touch of amusement in the corners of her eyes.

When the man spoke, she disappeared behind the bag again. “Give me whichever one has the most caffeine and be done with it.”

“Ah. That’d be our Darkspawn Roast! Excellent blend, ser, you are truly a man of impeccable taste. I guarantee you will find it absolutely de-blight­-ful and sure to make your eyes wide as a—” The deep scowl was enough to make Alistair abandon all hope of making the Door-Wrestling-Woman laugh and he cleared his throat instead. “Er- what size?”

“Large.”

“Oh, er, sorry about that,” Alistair began. He really didn’t want to have to break any sort of bad news to this man, but at this point he was contractually obligated to. He hoped it wouldn’t be the last thing he did with his short life. “I aaactually can’t do that. See, there is too much caffeine in the Darkspawn Blend and it is actually quite illegal for me to sell that much to you. I’m afraid I can only give it to you in a Hurlock size, not an Ogre.”

The man did indeed appear as agitated as Alistair worried he would, the curl of a sneer appearing at the corners of his mouth. “Illegal?”

“Mmm, yes. Illegal.”

“Why?”

“Caffeine is a drug, technically, as I am sure you are aware, ser. You’re only supposed to have so much a day. We could be shut down if I sell you Darkspawn Blend in an Ogre because it would be too much caffeine.”

“I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“Ah, yes, well, still a no, ser, I’m afraid. I…I’m sorry. I can still give you the Hurlock size…?” His hand edged for the middle-sized insulated cup and Alistair almost wished that he could just sell him the big one and be done, if for no other reason than to get this man away from him. But Duncan was always watching, even as he busied himself making drinks as Alistair took orders. The last time Alistair had sold an Ogre-sized Darkspawn Blend to someone, Duncan had refused to sell Alistair any of his favorite Mabari Cake Pops for a month.

Frowning, the man squinted up at the menu and then asked, “I can add espresso shots to any drink, can’t I?”

Alistair gulped. Ah, the Shrieks. Not the Shrieks and the Darkspawn Blend? At his age, this man would have a heart attack before he left the parking lot. “…yes?”

“Is there a limit to them? Because of that silly caffeine thing?”

“Yes. Five.”

“And I can add them to this drink, too, if I wanted?”

Alistair’s eyes widened and darted to the left where Duncan was busy at the steamer and shaking up other drinks in the line. He really should ask, he thought to himself, though he knew the answer was, technically, ‘yes.’ Sod it, if the man died, he died and it was his own fault, wasn’t it? Alistair had warned him. “Yes,” he said finally, and the man nodded.

“Good. Then give me that blasted medium size and put five shots in it.”

With a shaking hand, Alistair wrote what he was told and repeated the order back while in a vague state of shock. “Darkspawn Blend, Hurlock, five…Shrieks… Uh. Room for cream?”

“No. And no sugar, either. Black, if you please.”

Alistair nodded, but didn’t understand as he wrote the last bit of order. “Name?”

“Loghain.”

Alistair proceeded to make the most terrifying coffee order he’d ever taken in his life. He couldn’t help but hold his breath when he handed over the drink that probably tasted just like the Blight itself and Loghain walked out of the café. Please don’t die in our parking lot, he thought, I’d have to clean it up. As the door closed behind this Loghain man, he breathed out an audible sigh of relief.

“Awful, isn’t he?”

Blinking a little to clear the haze of horror that had settled over him, Alistair realized with a start that the Door-Wrestling-Woman was now standing right in front of him, unobstructed by either customers nor her own messenger bag.

When faced with her up close, whether she was economical or practical or whatever fanciful things he had made up about her before this moment, he realized only one thing was abundantly obvious: that she was breathtakingly beautiful.

She beamed at him, in all her tiny glory, the wool scarf around her neck the same light blue of her eyes, making them pop and dance. Her hair reflected the light with golden strands. Her slim jaw accentuated the pink feminine curve of her mouth. Her brows, somewhat raised with amusement, furrowed the purple tattoo around her left eye. His greedy gaze took in as much of her as he could, and for the first time in what Duncan might have called ‘forever’, Alistair was stunned into silence.

She misinterpreted that silence, her smile slipping slightly and added, “Don’t worry. You didn’t do anything. He’s like that with everyone.”

Duncan crossed behind him and placed a carrying tray of drinks on the pic-up counter. “Tabris!” he shouted into the room in his deep voice.

And with that, the spell was broken, and Alistair shook himself slightly and returned an uncertain smile. “Oh. You…you know him, do you?”

“Sadly. He’s my Modern Military History professor,” she said with a grimace.

Wrinkling his nose, Alistair echoed, “Modern Milita—what kind of a class is that? What would it even be for? It sounds horribly boring!”

He gulped as the woman’s face hardened at his words. “It’s actually quite fascinating,” she replied cooly, “It’s a part of the Military Series for a Political Science degree.”

Alistair saw his opportunity to fix this interaction with humor and he took it. “Riiight. Political Science. That’s every child’s dream, isn’t it? To grow up and be a corrupt politician. Is there anything better in the world?”

To his horror, she didn’t crack a smile.

“It was my childhood dream to be a politician. Like my parents are now.”

Oh. Well…shit.

“Mmmm,” Alistair hummed and picked up his silver pen to fidget with it. “And, on that note, what can I get for you today? I hear the foot-in-mouth breakfast sandwich is very good this morning. I can make it as an Alistair-special. As you can see, I’m really good at putting them together.”

Blessedly, she did laugh this time and shook her head. The tension in his stomach disappeared immediately and Alistair secretly decided there wasn’t a better sound in the world.

“I mean, you’re kinda right. It’s not a normal thing to want, and you didn’t know…and Professor Mac Tir is the worst…”

“It is quite unfortunate that you have him as your teacher, yes. You have my condolences for that.”

She smiled up at him again and said, “Thanks. He’s brilliant though, even if he is mean.”

Duncan appeared at the register beside them and typed on the keys quickly to log in. He threw a look at Alistair as he called the next customer in line forward that told him that he was bristling not just because he was beardy. You’re supposed to take their orders, Alistair, not chit-chat with them, he practically heard his friend say in his mind. But Alistair pretended not to notice.

She continued, “He just recently published a paper, you know.”

“Oh?”

“And also made it required reading for the class.”

“Oh. So, a total douche, then?”

“A bit. It’s called Philosophical and Theoretical Perspectives on Wartime Justice: The Question of War and Ethics. In case…I dunno, you ever wanna look it up for yourself. It’s good, I’ll admit, but I’ve been staring at it for the last couple of hours because I forgot it was due before our first class. And honestly, I’m getting so sick of thinking about it, so how about some coffee?”

“Coffee! Yes. I do have that, if you would like to buy some!”

Giggling, her eyes briefly roved up to the menu and Alistair took the moment to be relieved that he had successfully navigated out of the hole he’d dug himself into. Good job, Alistair.

“Oh man… there’s a lot of drinks… What would you recommend?”

Wide blue eyes blinked at him, waiting, and he struggled not to get lost in them so he could answer. “Me? I would recommend…hm. The Calling Latte and the Conscrip-uccino are both popular and they’re pretty good. But my personal favorite is probably the Brewed Mother. It’s a pour-over blend of several of our roasts so it’s got all the taste of coffee but is also very sweet and thick and foamy because we use druffalo milk instead of a cow’s.”

“Sure. I’ll try that then!”

“Excellent choice!” Alistair said, double underlining and starring either side of ‘Brewed Mother’ on the cup. “And if you don’t like it, I can give you your money back!” Duncan threw him a dirty look.

But she laughed. “I doubt that’ll be necessary.”

Alistair grabbed the size she wanted (Hurlock), took down her name (Delilah—has there ever been a more beautiful name in all of ever??) and sent her on her way. Once she moved on, Duncan signed off of his register and elbowed him gently in the ribs.

“We’re too busy to make fools of ourselves in front of pretty girls right now. How about staying on task, hmm?”

Alistair rolled his eyes but couldn’t keep the smile from his face as he assented to the warm and firm grip of Duncan’s hand on his shoulder. He should have known there would have been no hiding anything from Duncan, even busy as they were right now. Knowing the old man, he probably heard everything, too, and was going to grill him about it as soon as the rush died down. Yet even replaying the embarrassing things he just said to Delilah couldn’t dim the warm glow of happiness that breathed life into his chest and spread all the way to his toes with each fluttering beat of his heart.

His gaze kept flickering to her as he took more orders, but her own was glued to her phone. Each time he looked, she would be squinting at the screen or typing furiously with flying thumbs.

That was just as well, probably. A little voice inside urged him to ask her for her number, but how weird would that be? Hey, I know that I just met you and I insulted your life’s goals but I’d love to keep doing so over texts if you give me your number. Worrying his lip between his teeth, Alistair told himself that would never fly. Rom-Com romances didn’t happen in real life in busy coffee shops near universities. Total strangers didn’t have instant connections, no matter how much he believed it to be true. The only connection Delilah had to him was that she was about to drink his favorite coffee, and once it was gone, that was it. No more Alistair the Grey Roaster in her life.

But he wanted so badly to ask her anyway.

So maybe he just should.

Out of the corner of his eye, Alistair saw Duncan fit a Hurlock-sized cup with a lid, and as he spun it to make sure the lid was fully closed, Alistair spied the silver stars peeking over the cup sleeve. As he turned to take Delilah’s cup to the counter, Alistair wheeled away from the register and plucked it from Duncan’s hand.

“Hey—”

“Switch you!” And without waiting for a response, Alistair marched her cup to the counter and called Delilah’s name.

She looked up and when she saw him, she beamed. And when she beamed at him, a strange shiver of delight rippled through his body and made him grin in return. Like the most wonderful domino effect.

“Your coffee, Future Arl of Denerim.”

Delilah giggled as she took the offered cup. “I’d have my work cut out for me if I pursued that. I’ve got my eyes on a smaller but no less noble prize. Highever will do just fine for me. Though it’ll take just as much work to get there.” She took a sip from her cup and her eyes lit up. “Ooh, this is good! Thanks for the rec. Gotta get to class now. Wish me luck!”

“Me luck,” Alistair said, somewhat breathlessly, earning him a final smile over her shoulder before Delilah disappeared out the door.

As he watched it close behind her, he realized he hadn’t asked for her number after all.

“Alistair! Register!”

Good luck out there, Delilah, he thought, a soft regret constricting his throat. He rapped the counter with his knuckles then returned to the morning mayhem.

Alistair had been wrong. Duncan wasn’t going to tease him later that day. And not that night or the next day or the next. He was beginning to think he was in the clear and Duncan would be cool and never mention Delilah at all… until after the morning rush on Thursday.

Duncan leaned against the counter with the steamer machine and mopped his brow with a handkerchief he produced from the pocket of his grey and blue apron. A few people still milled about at the array of black tables with their headphones on, but at least there was no more line of people and no more orders to fill. It was enough time for them to breathe, for certain, but not enough to relax if the teetering pile of coffee-stained shakers, glass blender jars and measuring cups in the shining metal sink had anything to say about it.

“So,” Duncan began in his baritone, causing Alistair to freeze with his hand inside the baked treats display.

“Soooo….?”

Duncan’s dark eyes bored into his and twinkled with mischief. “Still no sign of the Cousland girl, eh?”

“What?” Alistair’s back snapped straight so quickly that he forgot the sliding glass door he was holding onto and it closed on his wrist. “Ouch!”

Duncan chortled to himself and switched out his handkerchief for a dish towel. He picked up the first dirty serving glass with worn, careful fingers and got to washing. “Why don’t you pick up your jaw and make yourself useful, Alistair. Wipe down the machines while we still can.”

“How…How did you find out her last name?” Alistair asked him. He bent to pick out a clean microfiber towel and Duncan’s favorite all-natural cleaner from a lower cabinet. “And how did you know I was looking for her? I wasn’t, by the way!”

His friend smiled and Alistair heard the low rumble of quiet laughter over the spritz of his spray bottle. Just like Duncan to decide not to answer. But after some washing, he said, “It was easy enough. Her name was Delilah; she said she was a political science major and has wanted to be a politician all her life, like her family is. And she mentioned she wanted to be Arl of Highever. One internet search was all it took to find Delilah Cousland, only daughter of the current Arl of Highever. Even filled in my search bar for me.”

“You searched for a customer?” Alistair gasped, offended for her. Duncan did some socially questionable things sometimes (like take a penniless orphan in and give him a job and a place to stay, for one) but this was low, even for him. “I just can’t believe you would do such a heinous thing. I don’t think I can even look at you!” Alistair moved on to spray the cappuccino machine and made a mental note to search for ‘Delilah Cousland’ on his own computer later. He knew just enough about the current state of the Houses of Nobles, Arls and Teryns to know the Couslands were somebody, but he couldn’t quite recall what they had been known for.

“Oh, good morning, Delilah, welcome back,” Duncan rumbled.

Alistair spun around towards the register and dropped the spray bottle, his hand flying to his hair instead—

—but there was no one there.

The room shook with Duncan’s great, booming laughter.

“Oh, har har, Old Man,” Alistair scolded, flushing as he snatched up his spray bottle from the floor. “What a wonderfully cruel trick to play on your poor employee. Feel good now, do you?”

“Absolutely,” he chuckled, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “You were looking for her then. You’ve been sullen and sulking after every morning rush for the last couple of days.”

“No,” Alistair insisted. No way was he letting Duncan get the best of him. Not again. “I do not ‘sulk.’ And I’m not looking for her. I don’t even remember what her name is anymore.”

“Oh, so, I can unbookmark her MyPhylactery page and not tell you her current relationship status.”

“Wait, wait, wait! You found her MyPhylactery page?”

Duncan gave him a satisfied side eye, his bushy black beard betraying the wide toothy smile beneath and nodded.

“And…it wasn’t set to private?”

He shook his head. “It was. I invited her to Bond to our company page.”

“But our company page is just your Phylactery!”

He nodded.

“So now you can see all her information!”

Duncan’s eyes twinkled.

“That was a skeevy thing you did, you know.”

“So, you don’t want to see her Phylactery?” Duncan asked again even though it was clear he already knew the answer. Alistair cursed himself for being so blighted easy to read.

“No, no. I’ll look. But I won’t be happy about it, and I will deny any involvement if she ever finds out. I’ll throw you under the cart-wheels in an instant, Old Man, mark my words.”

His threat was only met with snickers.

Alistair didn’t have to wait long at all before he saw Delilah again. After all the waiting and all the eager searching of faces each morning, he figured it was just his luck that she would reappear now, at the end of his break. The break that he had just spent pouring over the link to MyPhylactery that Duncan had sent him and scrolling over every picture and every life update she had posted in the last five years.

As soon as he saw her wander in, he blushed. He shouldn’t be blushing. It…It was perfectly normal to look someone up after you’d met them! Even though…she’d never actually given him her last name. Nor had she really consented to letting Duncan see her private profile. Because how was she supposed to know that he was bad with tech like some strange youngish-Old Person and didn’t even know how to make a business account on MyPhylactery? Alistair felt that he really shouldn’t know that she had broken up with her boyfriend of four years before moving to Denerim to go to school, and that he was still commenting on every single post that she made. Clearly, he couldn’t let her go. It had to be annoying for her. But Alistair shouldn’t have known that, it was weird.

So he blushed scarlet when Delilah waved at him, and his stomach twisted in guilty knots when she bounced forward to order at the counter. Her bright smile, while still dazzling, didn’t quite melt the ice pounding in his veins. He was sure she could read the guilt in his eyes.

“You okay?” she asked, shifting her bag’s strap from her right shoulder to her left. Her head tilted quizzically. There was genuine worry in her eyes. Alistair might’ve felt touched if he wasn’t too busy feeling ashamed. “You look flushed. Are you sick?”

Alistair tried to speak, failed, cleared his throat and tried again. “’S’just warm back here…is all.”

Every impulse in him screamed to tell her, but what would that even do? It wasn’t a big deal! Was it? If anything, he would look like more of a stalker if he just announced to her that he’d looked her up and found out that her brother, Fergus Cousland, had gotten hired to work as a campaign manager for the incumbent Arl of Amaranthine Rendon Howe, and was slated to become the next Arl once Howe gained the Teyrnship, and then she, Delilah, was promised an internship on the committee (which she was very, very excited and grateful for, a sentiment that earned her 106 likes from all her various Phylactery Bonds).

Oh, Maker, no, he should tell her. He should fess up and beg forgiveness before he accidentally let on that he knows more than he should and loses the possibility of a friendship with this beautiful, wonderful, intelligent—

“Did you hear me?”

He started. “Sorry. What was that?”

Delilah smiled and shook her head at him. “Are you sure you’re not sick? You should go and sit down because you seem really out of it.”

“I’m okay, really,” he replied shakily, lifting a hand to rub out a kink that started forming in the back of his neck from the stress of his own personal disaster.

“Well, if you’re sure… I said that I really liked what you recommended to me last time. So I think I’ll just have another Brewed Mother. But I’ll take it in an Ogre this time.” She patted her bag and sighed, “I’ve got a lotta work to do.”

“Oh, yeah?” Alistair asked somewhat automatically, picking up the large cup and scribbling away. He wrote her name without asking for it and added a star at the end.

Tell her, you idiot. Say something!

“I should—”

“I also said—”

They both spoke at the same time, then they both paused to chuckle awkwardly.

“You can—”

“What were you—”

They shared more uncomfortable titters and Alistair stared at the register keys, willing them to spell out what to do next or to come to life and attack him, or anything really to abate his discomfort. Sweet Maker…

“I-I was just going to say that I had also asked—before, I mean—well, that I didn’t get to catch your name last time. Is all.” Delilah fiddled with the grey and tawny feathers taped to the tip jar. Duncan swore they were real griffon feathers and would encourage people to be more generous with their tips. Alistair was sure they were eagle feathers, which didn’t seem to inspire anyone to give more silvers than they usually would.

Strange thing to ask for, his name, Alistair thought as he glanced down at his apron to double check that his blue nametag was indeed still attached to his chest. It’s right there, after all. But before his brain decided if he should point his badge out to her or not, his mouth was moving, and his name was falling out of it. His whole name.

“It’s Alistair Theirin,” he said, the sounds coming out like a rush of water with no hope of damming it up. His mouth clamped shut so hard that his teeth snapped together and rattled his brain, but he knew the damage was done. Delilah’s face had whipped back up to his and she searched his soul as though she could confirm he was telling the truth if she stared hard enough.

“Theirin?” she echoed in astonishment. “Like the Theirin? Like King Cailan and Maric and—”

Alistair leaned over the register and shushed her more violently than he intended, eyes frantically darting around the coffee house. The only patron now was one dwarf in the corner, and he had on a headset nearly as big as his whole head.

Delilah lowered her voice, but her eyes were still wide. “I-I can’t believe… A Theirin? But then, why are you here?”

Grimacing, Alistair replied, “It’s a long story… One I’d really rather not talk about it, to be honest.”

He expected her to press—the handful of people he’d told over the course of his life often did—but, to her credit, she only nodded. “I’m a Cousland so…so I get it. Kinda. In a not-as-big way, of course, but, yeah… There’s just a lot of expectations to be something, am I right?”

“Right.” Not that you knew the half of it, Alistair thought darkly. Not that being the daughter of a prestigious man repeatedly voted into the House of Arls was really anything when compared to being the bastard son of the late King. But sure. Sure, Delilah “gets it.”

He supposed that he should be grateful. Since she now knew his best kept secret, he felt exactly zero amounts of guilt for knowing what she ate for dinner three nights ago (Antivan Spicy Noodles that looked delicious, 38 likes). No need to fess up about stalking her now. There was no doubt in his mind that she would go home and scour the internet for him now.

“An Ogre-sized Brewed Mother will be five silvers and eleven bits, by the way,” he mumbled.

“Oh! Yeah.”

By the time the coins clinked into the till, Alistair regretted being short and the bitter things he had thought about her. Delilah wandered away more towards the pick-up counter, her phone in her hand, but Alistair found himself speaking anyways.

“It’s not really so bad. The whole…you know, thing. My parents, or whatever.” He rambled while he made her drink and didn’t bother looking up to check if she was even listening. Alistair decided he didn’t really want to know. “I kinda stopped paying attention to it, really. Some people have cared a lot about my parentage, but none of them were my, you know, actual parents, so, what’s the point? I try not to let it bother me.” Why was he saying this to someone he’d only met once before? Just because he was guilty about stalking her social media? Or because there was a slight chance that he could finally get these things that nagged him in the dead of night off his chest? “I figure if they don’t care about me, I shouldn’t care about them. I’m happy to just be…me, you know? I’m just Alistair. That idiot Grey Roaster who talks too much and… aaaaand spills secrets to total strangers. That’s who I am. That’s what I’m here for. Saving the world one Brewed Mother at a time.” He snapped the plastic lid on over the lip of the cup and tried to pick it up by the top to make sure it was on properly. When he was sure, he spun around to slide her drink over the counter and found himself face to face with Delilah.

She had been listening, and if he didn’t know any better, she looked…sad. Not pitying, not disdainful, not any of the kinds of emotions he had come to expect from people when they learned of his very own Tragic Backstory, just…a little moved. A little mournful. Her cool fingers brushed against his own as she took the coffee from him without breaking their locked gaze.

“I understand,” Delilah murmured after a moment. “And… and I’m happy that you’re you too, Alistair.”

He blinked. His mind wiped blank. He had no idea what to say to that. She was…happy for him? No one had ever been happy that he had abandoned his old life before. Even Duncan tried to push him to do something more with himself every now and again. Delilah’s support, even if she didn’t know it, meant more than any words he could think of to describe it. So, he didn’t say anything.

After what felt like several Ages smushed together all at once, Delilah bit her lip and turned away. He watched her disappear out the door again in stunned silence.

She started coming in a lot more often after that. So often, in fact, that Alistair was starting to piece together her schedule. Totally on accident of course, because he had refused to look at her MyPhylactery again until she wanted to send him a Bond. If she ever even wanted to. If they even got to that point.

Delilah came in most Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings, and some Thursday afternoons. She greeted him each time with a “Hey, Just-Alistair!”, chatted amicably until her drink was ready, and then she was off to class. She tried a few different things off the menu, but more often than not, she ordered a Brewed Mother; a fact that made a tiny flame of happiness light up in Alistair every time. She never mentioned his heritage again.

On a dull autumn Thursday when the grey clouds that always hung low over Ferelden seemed particularly thick and heavy, the bell over the door tinkled and Alistair looked up from his sweeping to find Delilah easing her way in with an armful of large books with faded leather covers.

“Do you need help?” Alistair asked, moving to lean his broom against the counter but Delilah answered faster.

“Nope! I’m good!” She lugged them to a table near the register and dropped them rather unceremoniously with a loud bang that echoed off the glass windows. “Oops, sorry.” She glanced around apologetically and when she realized there was no one else in the shop, she shrugged.

Alistair shook his head and laughed at her. She must have been much stronger than her height let on, he realized. He respected a woman that could bench press her weight in books. “The usual?” he asked, already reaching for a Hurlock cup and writing her name on it with a flourish. And a star. Always a star.

She appeared to consider for a second as she divided up her books into piles over the entire surface of the table and then answered, “Yes. Get me that Brewed Mother. I have a midterm paper to write!”

“Midterms?” Alistair asked in shock. He did the math quickly in his head. There was no way it was that far along in the semester already. “Isn’t it still too early for that?”

“It is,” she agreed, pulling her laptop case and several notebooks from her bag. “Dr. Mac Tir is notoriously picky about papers. He’s got a strict grading scale so he hands out prompts in the first week so that we can start our papers as soon as possible. He’s already given us our final too! Can you believe that??”

Shrugging, Alistair filled her cup with milk from the carton marked ‘druffalo’, set it back in the mini fridge and kicked the door closed. Even only meeting the dreaded Loghain once, Delilah’s story checked out in his mind. “Wish I could say no, but just that five-minute conversation I had with him took 10 years off my life.”

Delilah sniggered as he moved on to the steamer. “You sure all the coffee you drink while working here isn’t what’s responsible for that?”

Alistair allowed himself a smile for a brief moment before swallowing it and turning around to find the plastic lids. He worked hard to keep his face neutral and controlled. “Oh, I don’t like coffee.”

As predicted, Delilah was taken aback, her blue eyes bugging a little. Alistair bit his tongue to keep from laughing. “You…work at a coffee house. At The Grey Warden Coffee Roasters! It’s only the most famous international chain of cafés!”

Alistair let his own eyes go wide and pretended to be just as shocked. If he didn’t have to clean the mess up himself, he might have dropped her coffee. For comedic effect, of course. “What? I do??”

Her eyes narrowed at him and he suspected she was catching on, but Duncan appeared from the back room carrying a large box and spoke before either of them could.

“You won’t for long, Alistair, if you don’t charge her and help the other customers in line,” he growled as he passed by.

“Yes’ser, Café Commander Duncan, ser!”

His friend rolled his eyes and pulled a box cutter from his apron instead of replying.

Dancing back towards the register, Alistair checked that the lid was tight and handed it over. His heart skipped a beat when her fingers grazed his. He grinned. “One Brewed Mother for one brood…y…mother, you know, that made a lot more sense in my head until I said it.”

Delilah held out her handful of coins in her palm, but he waved her away.

“Eh, don’t worry about it. What’s one on the house for my favorite customer?” he told her with a wide dreamy smile, leaning on the counter to cup his chin in his hand.

“Alistair…”

“Did I ever mention to you how astute Duncan’s hearing is? I think it’s something to do with being Riviani. You know, on second thought, I will take those silvers, if it’s all the same to you…”

Handing them over and laughing, Delilah shook her head at him and warned, “Keep going on like this and you’ll get fired. Then what will you do?”

“Pft! Me? Fired?” Alistair shook his head and shot her what he hoped was a cocky grin. “Nah, Duncan needs me. I don’t think he’d know how to run the shop by himself, at this point. He makes me do all the work, you know.”

Duncan kicked at Alistair’s heels as he walked back to the store room with the empty box.

All customers taken care of, Alistair was free to bother his favorite patron, still bent as she was over her books, occasionally pausing to type something on her laptop. He grabbed the broom and unlatched the hook holding the counter between the registers in place in order to pretend to sweep around Delilah’s table.

“You solve that great mystery of wartime ethics yet?”

Delilah barked a short laugh and leaned back in her chair to look up at him. She put her arms over her head and stretched. Alistair realized too late that it gave him a clear angle down her shirt. Blushing, he averted his eyes and worked very intently on an invisible speck of dust on the floor that refused to be swept up. “No, have you?” he heard her reply.

“Oh, er, that old thing? Yeah. I solved that ages ago. I’m on to the secret of eternal youth now.”

When she laughed and her eyes met his, Alistair all but melted. He blushed again, but this time for a different reason. For a somersaulting stomach filled with butterflies sort of reason.

“Great! So you don’t mind writing my midterm paper for me, right?”

“Well, isn’t that plagiarism, dear Delilah?”

She shrugged and replied seriously, “At this point? Not if anybody knew about it.”

Alistair chewed his lip. He saw his moment, plain as day right there in front of him. I would think about writing that paper for you if you gave me your number. No, no. That came off too predatory. Maybe we can work out the details of the midterm exchange over dinner? No, too serious. Damn. The opportunity was there, he could sense it, but for the life of him, his brain wouldn’t make that last connection towards the perfect way to ask. And if he dawdled too long, the knowledge that he’d lose his chance looked over him like a dark cloud.

Sod it, man, speak.

“I-uhmmm.”

Light blue eyes turned up to his and Alistair lost track of what he was doing. He had a vague thought that maybe he would faint.

“I-I-I could, er, write it for you. Er, try to. Aaaaand we-we could, um. We could, um…”

Delilah waited patiently, expectantly, her face open. A small smile settled on her lips, and Alistair willed himself not to glance at them. Don’t you dare imagine kissing them. Don’t think about how soft they would be or how pleasant of a thing kissing Delilah would be. Don’t… no, don’t think about it.

You thought about it.

Alistair tried to clear his throat and made an awful noise that sounded more like a bleating ram than anything human. Delilah politely pretended not to notice.

“W-we could- er, I could bring it to you if we were somewhere else. If we met somewhere else, I mean. Like for coffee, or…”

Sweet Maker, you absolute dunce, why coffee, of all things—you work in a coffee shop, for crying out loud!

A touch of color began rising in her cheeks. “You mean… you would write my paper for me if we went on a date?”

Alistair started to nod but then her words washed over him. “N-no! I mean, the paper was…more of an excuse, really, I-I don’t—”

“Oh, so… just a date then?”

Alistair’s knees buckled and he didn’t trust himself to speak, so he nodded.

The smile spread across her face and her eyes lit up and danced the same way they had when she had first tried his favorite drink. These were good signs, weren’t they? No one glowed like that and then shot a man down. Not that he’d had enough experience to know but… but, Maker, he hoped. What he did know was that someone like him didn’t deserve to bask in her radiating warmth. Alistair drunk from her anyway, letting all the lovely facets of her fill him and make him light. Her kindness, the way she laughed, the brightness of her, it was everything to him. And fumbling and awkward as he was, Delilah was going to say ‘yes’ to him. They were going to make plans and go on a date and maybe she was going to choose to be with him. Him, of all people. Just-Alistair and Delilah Cousland.

The door to the café banged open and both Alistair and Delilah leapt out of their skins. Her wide eyes fixed on the door before he could turn and she uttered a quick squeak of alarm, scrambling to get back to work on her laptop. Alistair’s brain was sluggish in making connections, but the voice that spoke nailed him to the floor.

“Ah. If it isn’t the youngest Cousland,” Loghain drawled, his footsteps drawing nearer to the table. Like flipping a switch, Alistair’s mood changed as ice shot through his veins. If he didn’t know any better, he would say the temperature in the shop just dropped several degrees, even after the door closed to the chilly outside.

He didn’t want to turn and face the last person he wanted to see during a conversation he’d been working up to for weeks, so Alistair closed his eyes and shouted every curse in every language he knew in his head.

Loghain swooped in on Delilah like a hawk on its prey, his shrewd eyes roving over the books on the table. Even his head turned like a bird’s to better read each gilded title. “I take it you’re in need of subpar coffee in order to finalize your midterm paper. I needn’t remind you that you have little over two weeks to turn it in.”

Scoffing, Alistair echoed, “Subpar coffee?” as though he’d never been privy to a more grievous insult to his person before.

The other man looked up at him as though noticing Alistair’s existence for the first time. “Don’t you have something else you should be doing besides eavesdropping, boy? Sweeping, perhaps. Or, better yet, making my coffee. Same as last time: darkest roast with as many espresso shots as you can give me, black, no sugar.”

There wasn’t really anything else for it. Alistair knocked the bristles of the broom against his boots for a second, debating saying something else, but Loghain wasn’t paying him any mind anymore. He’d make Loghain’s coffee. And if Duncan wasn’t looking, maybe he’d spit in it too. Wouldn’t that be nice?

As he stalked away, Alistair heard Delilah stammer a response he couldn’t understand over his heartbeat in his ears, but he did catch Loghain’s reply.

The dark-haired man grunted. “I hope so. If it’s anything like your brother’s papers, I highly doubt it shall be anywhere near “ready to go” without more serious work. But given your source material, I’m willing to be open to the possibility of being surprised. We shall see.”

“Ser,” Alistair barked, drawing Loghain’s raptor gaze from Delilah. “Six silvers and fourty-eight bits. For your subpar coffee.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up and Loghain reached into his pocket to pull out the coins. He crossed to the register. “So, you’re always mouthy, I see—” his eyes flicked to the nametag and then back to his face, “—Alistair. You really shouldn’t speak to your clientele that way. It discourages them from returning.”

Alistair’s face hardened. He didn’t know what it was but something about this man made his whole body shake with anger. He hadn’t felt this much hatred since he was dumped at the doorstep of a Chantry boarding school by a family that didn’t want him. He was aware his voice would shake if he wasn’t careful, and Alistair wanted to be sure nothing was open to Loghain’s interpretation. Whether Duncan would approve or not, Alistair decided right then and there that this man was unwelcome in his store. “That is the idea. The only clientele I want, are the ones who appreciate my work. If you think it’s so subpar, I suggest you don’t come back. Ser.”

“I might just heed your suggestion. But then…perhaps this swill will grow on me, and I’ll come by more often.”

“Pray it doesn’t. The doors are locked, as far as you’re concerned.”

Loghain gave Alistair something impossibly close to a wry smile and handed over his coins. With one hand, Alistair dumped them into the till without counting and with the other he passed Loghain his disgusting coffee.

“Good lad,” Loghain said softly. His eyes bored into Alistair’s, but Alistair refused to look away. He didn’t even dare blink. He believed with all his soul that blinking would mean weakness. “You remind me of someone I used to know. From a long time ago.” He smirked and raised the cup to his lips. Alistair watched the steam curl from the small opening in his peripherals. He knew good and well that was fresh coffee from the pot and he had dumped it into Loghain’s cup scalding, but the man drank it anyway. A long drag of it. “Wonder why that could be,” he murmured.

“I haven’t the slightest idea.”

With a little shrug, Loghain turned away and Alistair all but sagged onto the counter.

“Good day, Delilah, and good luck,” Loghain said to her as he passed her table and headed out the door.

 Merry Christmas, Axel!!    ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ヽ(´ ▽ ` )ﾉ  *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

He peered with calculating interest at the b’lltarr as I served it and poked the thick, jagged noodles with his finger when he thought I wasn’t looking.

“The consistency looks correct; a detail that is usually difficult to master,” he commented somewhat begrudgingly. “However, you promised it would taste better as well, being handmade out of ‘natural’ ingredients and not protein synthesizers.”

“Yes.”

“Can I also assume I shall be able to taste the ‘love’ in each bite?” The ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips and I had to pause the bask in its glory for a moment.

But then: “You'll taste something if you don’t stop giving me this attitude, but I promise you won’t like it.”

I heard the soft exhale of breath, faint, almost like a sigh, which was the closest he ever got to laughing. “Any other threats before we get started?” he asked, setting his holo-emitter aside to pull out forks from a drawer.

“Yes. One. If you don’t say something nice to me about this meal, I am going to start crying.”

I took the saucepan from the stove and spooned the viscous, bluish liquid over the noodles, paused, then added a dollop of sauce in the corner of each of the plates and smeared it artfully. There. Plated and everything. Like a professional.

Vorik gave me a bemused look but knew better than to comment.

“Okay…” I picked up a plate and offered it to him, sucking my lip between my teeth. “Homemade b’lltarr. As promised.”

He kept staring at it and moving the plate in his hands as we took it to the table, but our bond was left frustratingly colorless. Vorik gave no indication of any kind how he might’ve felt about it and that made me wholly nervous. Not just because b’lltarr was the single most frustrating thing I’d ever made (I had to throw out two attempts at the weird noodles because I missed taking them out of the steamer by a few seconds each), but because I really wanted him to like it.

Shockingly, it was hardly about ‘winning’ that ancient bet anymore. I just wanted to make him happy. Or as happy as he could be, anyway. Despite the doctrine of IDIC and it being a hundred and fifty or so years since Sarek and Amanda had first lived here, I knew many of his peers were giving him a hard time about me while we lived on Vulcan, whether they said so outright or not. While Vorik didn’t mention it much, choosing to spare his anxious wife most of the details, I knew he dealt with other’s disapproval to his face a lot more than I did. And I knew it was much more difficult than he let on.

Vorik tasted the sauce separately before taking a tentative bite of it all together.

“You added something to this.”

I pressed my hand to my heart, laughing, “Oh, you caught me. My secret ingredient was poison. Now I’m gonna make off with your estate and become the mysterious widow down the street.”

He shook his head and tried the sauce again. “It has a particular taste to it… Is that…did you put Terran chipotles in this?”

My entire thought process spilled out in a rush of words, “Ummmm, yes, because everything is better with chipotle in it, y’know, and I thought the redspice that was supposed to be in here was a little bit bland, I dunno. So I added the chipotle I had too. It’s, like, a Vulcan-Human fusion now! I thought it’d be sorta cool. Is that…okay?”

“It is satisfactory.”

I let my fork clink to the table. “Woooow. It’s gonna be like that, huh?”

Saying nothing else, Vorik continued to eat the rest of what I served him. Our bond was blank and his face was composed.

“So, is it better or nah?” I finally asked.

The Vulcan swept from the table and served himself more, and I guess that had to count for something. No one got seconds if the food was awful. When Vorik returned he held his fingers out to me. I pressed the pads of my own fingers to his and warm-colored affection blossomed over our bond. Without realizing it, my lips settled into a soft smile as calm washed over me.

“Are you ready, ashayam?”

I started. “Ready? Ready for what?”