JL | CDR Valeese, LCDR Stacker | "Night and a Book in the Star Lounge, Pt. 2"

Posted on Wed Oct 18th, 2017 @ 6:36pm by Commander James Stacker

Mission: The Round Table
Location: The Star Lounge | Deck 530 | Cold Station Theta
Timeline: 2000hrs. station time, SD 241710.16

In the end he did the right thing, hand closing around the book and relieving her wrist of the burden as he nodded to her, face expressing a suitable level of gratitude for the unexpected gesture on her part. Whatever conflict he felt inside ended at that point. Gently, he placed it onto the table in front of them and leaned back into the cushions again, cocking an eyebrow at her. "Thank you ... although you really didn't have to." It was the least he could say, the least his professional and polite self both demanded he say. Momentarily amused, he spoke before thinking. "Maybe I'll have opportunity to return the favor someday."

"I'm not giving to it you because I want a favor, Commander Stacker. I'm giving it to you because space is lonely and it's brought me comfort over the years that I've had it." The response was wry and carefree, easy... But earnest and deep. She'd mourn for the text, never see another, but in the end it had been the right thing to do. "Treat it well. The antiquities dealer I got it from was ready to throw it in the trash, wouldn't take money..." Her nose wrinkled at the memory, distant as it was it was still on the repulsive side, "He did enjoy having his ears rubbed, though. I've had to force money on him ever since, couldn't bring myself to touch him again... Not for all the Dickens and Bronte in the universe." The Vorta shivered, her fingers completely wriggling out from under her sweater as if to banish the heebie jeebies that came along side such thoughts.

His hand stirred and moved to land on hers. Gently. Carefully. Broad fingers wrapping around her palm, fingerpads pressing into her hand. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up those memories," he said, giving her a squeeze. Bingo. Keep talking that cynical part of his personality said. His non-professional side warred with it, upset at this level of manipulation. When this investigation was over, he told himself, he was going to find a bottle of something strong and drink as a small part of him died. He hated this, detested it, did not want to do it anymore. He knew these feelings would be gone tomorrow.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. He sounds ... well ..." he made a face that expressed his own distaste, just from hearing about it. Some distant part of him was still conscious of his hand on hers. Maybe it was whatever was in the drink talking, he thought to himself. It was easier to shift the blame elsewhere.

"Eh..." Another shrug, still small, "It is what it is. You'd really be amazed what comes across this station's promenade, though. The running joke is that you can find anything and if you can't, there's more than a few trinket hunters who will find it for you." His hand was warm, almost as warm as the heat packets she often kept in her pockets to keep her little digits from freezing off in the bitter cold of sterile sick bay, and she'd have been silly if she claimed it wasn't enjoyable. At the same time, that coin had a flip side and that flip side was far more bleak - a bitter reminder that he was, in many ways, her ultimate undoing. He'd bite in a heartbeat, no more than a shark waiting for a chance to smell a single iota of blood in the water, and she was likely his first order of business to attend to if the way the crew kept staring at her was any indication of how things were going.

Looking down she watched the way his fingers worked over her palm, holding, making his presence more than known, and remaining. It was the lingering touch that had the majority of her attention focused. While klaxons in her head blared warning, there was that insatiable curiosity that continued to rear its smiling head and demand information and its immediate satiation. "This particular fellow is no longer alive, unfortunately. For a Ferengi he was relatively honest. Handled clocks more than anything, but he had the book and I had to have it. Oo-max for a classic? I'll let you decide whether or not it was worth it."

Stacker regarded the volume, lying there on the table, with a new light in his eye. The hand showed no sign of being withdrawn, but it did still its movement and activities while he watched it, as if wondering if it was going to suddenly spring up and start spouting words back at him. Maybe in an annoying and high-pitched nasal voice similar to the Ferengi. It did not, thankfully, come to pass. Instead it lay there, completely devoid of activity. He wasn't sure what to make about the Ferengi being dead, however, and settled for a "I'm sure someone will miss him, but I can't say that individual will be myself." His fingers started moving against her hand, slowly, as if new life had been breathed back into them. The cushions on the back of the couch moved slightly as his left arm settled atop them.

The Vorta's head tilted, alerted to something higher by his movements, or rather the momentary lapse of them as he eyeballed the book. Drawing breath to ask him if something was wrong, she found herself cut off at the pass and her mind drawn in to answering him instead, "His son did and does and in some ways I do. He was always filled with some story or another, just a dirty old bastard who never listened to anyone. He'd likely still be ripping off the unsuspecting if he had." The unsuspecting... Perhaps like her, though she tried to be clever and a step ahead - the fox toying with the baying hound.

Click went that cynical part of his mind. The one that saw the world in distinct shades of grey, where assets abounded - although not at the same time. That other, opposing part, continued to remain disgusted at his manipulative behavior and was weighing whether more than one bottle would be required to wash his sins away. "Well nobody ever said the galaxy was pure and innocent. There's a lot of ... grey, out there." He didn't elaborate, but in truth it wasn't as if he particularly needed to. The hand around hers went still for yet another moment, then resumed as his mouth quirked in what could only be called 'wry amusement.' "It seems as if we've both had our fair share of encounters with 'the grey,'" he finally said.

"You're not ignorant to what I am, Commander. I think we can both suffice to say that grey is an understatement." Her hand lifted and with it she caught his by the wrist, albeit whisper soft and always giving him the chance to escape should he feel the need to do so. It was with her free hand that she manipulated his, moving it to where his palm was exposed for her eyes to study in the relative dark, "You are a man of two worlds, but a man of truth in both of them. You seek justice, but sometimes feel that the law doesn't necessarily dictate what is and isn't just." She hummed, running an index finger across the lines and creases to be found, "Someday you'll wed, and you're destined to live a long long life." Her touch wound up following that particular crease until it turned into the spread between his index and middle fingers, pausing only to consider the size difference between them. Hers was so small, dainty... Delicate. His so much larger, rougher, rugged. It was a reminder that he could crush her like the insect she had no doubt he thought she was should he so choose - and yet he didn't. He played with her, spinning her up. "Is that the gray you speak of? Something along those lines?"

Now the tables were turned. His professional side - the one he had dedicated himself to for years - was on the defensive, screaming at him to make a tactical withdrawal. His personal side wanted, no urged, him to stay. This was new. It was different. It was pushing boundaries that had been such an ingrained part of his armor, that to think of them as anything less than an integral part of who he was, was ... strange. Despite this internal battle his good eye had not once lost track of her dainty fingers skimming along the contours of his palm, and now he found an answer coaxed from him. Maybe it was the tactile sensations. "Something like that, yes." His voice was, uncharacteristically, slightly cracked. It steadied as he kept on talking. "Also out ... here." His fingers captured hers, gently, pointing to the window before loosening again. "This is the frontier. It's not Earth. Vulcan. Alpha Centauri. Things are ... different, out here. And I wish that civilization had caught up, and there was peace, and order. But it hasn't. And so I'm here, doing my best to help keep the peace, and keep the bad things in the night from threatening others."

The hell of it was, he felt the conviction behind those words. He'd never considered himself a 'true patriot,' but instead a protector of sorts, doing what he could. But now, he thought she might be right. Somewhere along the way that had turned into straddling two worlds in pursuit of his duty. It was something that merited further thought ... just not here.

"Yes. It is." Valeese agreed with him, following where he pointed until her eyes met the vastness of space, and with it... The unknown. She blinked, tipping her chin in a small degree of defiance and turned her gaze to observe him. In many ways he was as rare as she, and just as despised, leaving them as nothing more or less than unicorns. Unlike the mythical beasts, however, they were far from innocent. Sin had tainted both, each had sold their souls and were so close and yet so afraid to reclaim them.

But she could see his.

Taking her fingers, still tingling from his grasp, she gently and slowly removed the eye patch. There she was met by both of his eyes - fathoms deep and blue as the skies on Earth, she could see the myriad of emotions and thoughts that clouded him. Most importantly, she could see him. A man confused, conflicted, but beautiful... Haunted. "You must always remember that this is the frontier and if it's not handled with precision there will be need to save it. Not everything is black and white... There's color between the lines that must be taken into consideration." A warning? No. A whisper of promise, soft and meant for ears of a man that could be the key to salvation if things stepped to go pear shaped. A whisper of promise for a future she hoped wouldn't be bleak for him... That his palm wouldn't prove to be a liar. Raising her fingers again, she traced his eyebrows, smoothing them out with feather soft touches, "I think you know this."

=/\= To Be Continued =/\=

Commander Valdeese
Chief Medical Officer
Cold Station Theta, SB-1170

Lieutenant Commander James Stacker
Chief Intelligence Officer
Cold Station Theta, SB-1170