Jl | Cmdr Valeese, Lt. Merlin | "Merry Meet"

Posted on Sat Nov 4th, 2017 @ 5:24pm by Commander Evan Merlin & Commander Valeese Stacker

Mission: The Round Table
Location: C
Timeline: SD 241711.04

Despite the fact that most people would either describe the lieutenant known as Evan Merlin as 'happy go lucky' or 'that total nutcase' because that was the face he presented to the universe at large, it didn't mean that he wanted to ignore or forget all the nasty things which happened to people. He could not walk past the spot on the promenade where that Bajoran had been holding up the injured Valeese, screaming and spitting his hatred to the public, without feeling instantly cold. Nobody who saw him would notice, but the feeling was there.

The Bajoran himself was still somewhere in the holding cells in the bowels of the station. The lieutenant hadn't bothered to visit him, but he had looked up the man's status. Apart from claiming: "I'm fuckin' proud of what I did and my only regret is not doing more damage when I had the chance," the assailant hadn't said anything at all.

The lieutenant had also stayed out of Valeese's way since then. He had seen her at her worst, after all, and even though he himself hadn't been the cause of it, he knew from experience that it often made the other uncomfortable, ashamed. The last thing he wanted to do was to have her face those feelings. He had arranged for a bouquet to be brought to her quarters, a combination of flowers which didn't look spectacular, but the combined smells were amazing.

Still, he wandered around the station, following his intuition more than a pre-planned path, thinking about her. Gradually he strayed away from the public areas, the crowded places, and ended up in the darker, more secluded places where not even many Starfleet people came.

The first indication that Valeese wasn't alone came when her long, shell-like ears twitched towards the barely perceptible sound of exactly two adult hearts beatings and one set of male foot steps coming along the corridors. At first she nearly discarded it for a wayward Klingon, but the weight ratio and the exact pattern of the heartbeats weren't right for a Klingon and that left exactly one other known entity; the strange Lieutenant. It was an assumption that was turned into fact the moment the vagrant scent of black pepper and all spice funneled its way into her olfactory glands. That triggered memories of the wildflower bouquet that had been delivered and carefully set in a crystal vase on her coffee table. It had been one of few things that had brought a smile to her face after her run in with the personification of the popular opinion. Resting her book down, the Vorta looked up just in time to watch him come around a nearby corner. "Playing bloodhound are you?" She asked, leaning against the window she'd claimed as her home away from the solitude of home. No one had come to bother her in that sleepy little alcove, especially not when she was buried nose deep in a benign book... Not until then, that was.

He had to actually think for a bit before he got the reference – though he had lived on Earth during his time at the Academy and a few months before, he had been (and still was) fascinated by many people and many cultures, and it took him a moment or two to remember what she meant. "No," he said with a smile, leaning against a nearby bulkhead. "For then I would've come to sniff you out. Instead, I just followed where my feet lead me, and that was here." She looked better, at least physically. But there was something in the way she held herself which hadn't been there before, or which hadn't been there for a long time and had now made a reappearance, maybe. "If you want to be alone, I understand," he added quietly. "I know a lot of people wouldn't believe it, but I do understand. However, if you want some company, such as it is…" he made a wide, sweeping bow, taking off an invisible hat and doffing it again as he straightened, "then here I am."

"A regular old coincidence, then." She quipped in answer. Watching him with a wary, practiced eye, Valeese tucked the book away completely and folded her hands in her lap. The oddness of him, complete with his grand mimicry and elegant movements, were often entertaining and left her amused and puzzled as to how he passed psych evals more than troubled her. He was harmless and, more off, he was a good man. "People are always welcome to sit with me, so long as they don't try and dismember me." She nodded, reaching to pat the space beside her in gentle invitation.

"Ewww, no." He slid easily into the appointed space. "I'm not too hot on dismemberment. You'd never get the stains out," he said dryly. Brushing a few loose curls away (his hair seemed to know when he went officially off duty and chose those moments to escape their restraints), he looked around. "Nice place, this. Oh, and don't dismiss good old coincidence. He's right more often than not."

"Yes... Well... White wine and peroxide gets rid of blood relatively efficiently if it's iron filled and from a carbon based life form." She prattled on with a soft little snort. Medical humor, when delivered without hint of being a joke, was often enough to conjure an odd look and hasty dismissal. Somehow she didn't think it would thwart him. "Indeed. It is," she agreed, quickly following his gaze with amaranthine eyes, "but as far as coincidence... Walk the promenade in my shoes sometime and you'll understand my hesitance to believe in the existence of coincidence."

The reaction was automatic, he glanced down at her shoes and at his feet and shook his head. "They don't fit." But he looked up again with a curt shake of his head at his own runaway mouth. "Do you think it was targeted, then?" he asked, folding his hands under his chin as he regarded her earnestly.

"I do." She replied softly, "I don't want to, but I do." Valeese sighed and shook her head, swallowing the knot that was growing in her throat at mention of the attack and the nature surrounding it, "In many ways you're lucky that you don't know where you're from and no one else does either. They can't hate you for something completely out of your control because they don't know anything about your people." The Vorta sighed heavily, "You know... When I was a kid I hated myself so badly because everyone else did. I actually tried to take a pair of scissors to my ears because I thought if I could get rid of them, look human, I'd be accepted." Realizing what she'd told him, her mouth snapped shut and her head shook, "I'm sorry. I'm tired."

He folded his hands around hers and looked at her with his sea-coloured eyes, not forcing her to meet his gaze, but inviting her to do so. "There is nothing to be sorry for," he said softly. "Least of all to speak your mind. If anything, it goes to show that your-" he shrugged, "subconscious, or intuition, or however you want to call it, still dares to let yourself open up, instead of closing in upon yourself and never let anybody else in."

Touch was always alien. She did the touching, was hardly ever touched. Stacker had begun to change that, but he was the exception and far far far from the norm - at least his touch had done what it could to start to soothe away the memory of pain derived from the Bajoran's rough hands. Her eyes watched as his fingers and palms engulfed hers, locking them away in his peaceful gesture of comfort and consolation, "Sometimes I wonder the merit of that as well. There will always be someone, lots of someones, who want me dead because of what I am." She shrugged, "It's something I've come to live with. I like me. I don't like the implications of being me, but I like who I am... For the most part. I can survive with just me."

He had seen that hatred himself, only a few days ago on this station, and several times in the past. Irrational hatred, begotten of fear. Fear of the unknown. He had encountered it before, but he couldn't understand it. Couldn't understand how people could destroy that which they feared, just because. Maybe it was because he himself was such an unknown, a wanderer, loose and unmoored. Never having had anything, he could not losing anything either, or fear losing something so badly that he had to kill to preserve it.

He spoke slowly, still holding on to her hands since she hadn't pulled them back yet. "Yes, I think there always will be people like that. Just like the handful of Klingon or the one or two lone Romulans in Starfleet. But don't hide yourself because of those people. Lock yourself in and you'll hide the light that shines in you, might even extinguish it, and that would be the greatest shame of all. That what makes you you, in all your glory... It would make them win if you do that, if they make you hide yourself forever..." He shrugged, then added with a faint grin: "I have no idea if that makes any sense to you. Then again, I generally don't."

"Oddly enough, you do. There's a Cardassian sitting in the XO chair on the Vindicator," She replied, her voice almost small, "If they return... I'd like to speak with him, ask him what his secret is to fitting in and winning trust." Valeese tilted her head ever so slightly, still watching those hands. In many ways they, like the rest of him, represented the unknown, "Maybe then I'll have a clue as to how to get on with the rest of society, keep the job I love, and not have to hide in the guts of the station."

"That's a good idea," the Lieutenant said, nodding. "I’m sure he's had his share of hostility around him." He snorted suddenly. "Isn't he that big guy? I think I've heard about him." About as tall as he himself was, but twice as big, give or take. "Imagine him having five minutes alone with that Bajoran idiot."

"I think so," She nodded in response, "I only saw him once or twice the entire time they were last on the station, but he seemed... Big... We'll use your word." Big wasn't even the tip of the iceberg of what she saw. She'd seem a mountain of a man, one that none dared look at cross eyed and who moved with what appeared to be a whole heaping helping of confidence. "I'd pay my weight in Latinum to see that, but somehow I doubt anyone in their right mind would try to rip Commander Dahe'el's arm off..." A wry little smile manifested in the silence, and her eyes lifted to find Evan's, "Don't go getting any ideas."

"Oh, I always get ideas. Tons of them." The lieutenant grinned back at her, then turned serious again. "But don't go hiding in the bowels of the station. Unless you're looking for the hidden still, but if Commander Satie hasn't ordered it removed yet, it soon will be." He waved that stray thought away with a casual handwave that was beginning to become a familiar feature to people on the station. "The more people will see you, the more they'll appreciate you. Like you. Maybe even love you – at least, if I've interpreted one look corr-" he coughed and did that handwave thingie again. "Runaway mouth syndrome. Well, either you know what I'm talking about or not. In either case, that's not up to me."


"Or they'll figure out to be quicker when it comes to dismemberment and death... Maybe not do the whole public execution song and dance." Valeese's nose twitched slightly as she considered such misfortune coming to pass... In anyone's direction, not just her own - and then the amaranthine eyes narrowed slightly in thought as she studied him and his runaway mouth syndrome. Somehow the idea of Stacker wandering around like a lovesick puppy didn't quite leave a lasting impression. The man was steel and ice while we worked, barely retreating from that facade in private - but the fact she wasn't behind a forcefield, or room temperature lent to the strange one some credence. Let me stay.. Let me-- Let me love you. whispered the memory of the ghost's voice, so close and real that an ear twitched in search of the source, "I have a vague idea." She replied, considering both the source and the possibility, "The longevity of which..." Another shrug, "The thought of ruining their career and status makes my physically ill."

He closed his eyes for a moment. How to make her believe her own intrinsic worthiness, after what happened? It had probably been the most extreme instance happening to her, but certainly not the first one. And every time it happened, it had left another scar. "Such a commitment takes two. Or more, in some cases, though I doubt that's the case here." the lieutenant added with a faint shrug and the handwave. "Anyway, if someone chooses to be with you, to love you – and believe me, that's not hard – then it's not only your choice, but the other's as well. So if they choose to stick with you, it won't be you ruining their career or status or whatever. You're not poison. If you believed that of yourself, you never would've made it as far as you did."

"Or would I?" She asked, reaching to tuck hair behind her ears, but pausing and shifting to brush it back lower and behind her shoulders. "It could be seen as going both ways. I could have advanced only because I want to get in deeper for some caustic purpose. That's the buzz, anyway." Valeese's lips quirked into a small, sardonic simper after she spoke and then allowed her hands to pat his, "Someday, long after I'm gone, things may be different. In the mean time I'm here to save lives and not champion the cause of the Vorta. I don't... I don't identify with them as much as I likely should. It's not that I've turned a cold shoulder to my own people, but I certainly don't follow tradition."

So many things to say… He barely knew where to begin. So he did what he always did: take it from the beginning and work his way through until he reached the end. Another of those things which frequently annoyed others when he did it. So, if it annoyed her he would find out soon enough – and even that would be a nice change from her present mood. "You give Starfleet counselors little credit. And if that's the buzz, well…" he shrugged, "I'm notably indifferent to buzzes. Maybe because I generally am the cause of it." He grinned again. "Or because I simply don't pay attention to it. Anyway." Handwave thingie. "If things are different for Vorta in Starfleet or in the Federation in the future, it will be because of you. You're the one who makes the changes. The frontrunner. And yes, that's hard. You're trying to find balance between where you came from and where you're going to. Which is even harder, not knowing the latter." Yeah, he knew all about that, because for him it was not too different – or maybe all too different. He knew neither: not where he came from, nor where or how he would end up. "Maybe you'll shape traditions. New traditions only come into existence when enough people do them first."

"Maybe you're just a perpetual optimist." Valeese countered, "Maybe you see things how you want them to be painted because reality sucks entirely way too much. I promise you," she sighed, "it sucks to be on this side of the equation. I appreciate the sentiments, though, seriously. I think you missed your calling to be a counselor."

"Guilty as charged on the optimist thing," the lieutenant said with a little wave. "Whenever I'm faced with choosing how to face a situation, I go for the optimistic interpretation. So I might get disappointed from time to time. It happens. By and large, the universe is a marvellous place, filled with marvellous people. Being a pessiminst tends to blind you to its wonders." He shrugged and added with a grin: "I would be a horrible counselor. People think I'm weird enough already."

"Don't fool yourself." She sighed, slowly gathering up her book and finding her feet, "All of them are seen as being completely mad, twisted, and bizarre." The Vorta's free hand patted the man's shoulder, "I'm going to follow my feet back to my quarters to find a bit of rest. You... You're going to follow yours on to whatever strikes your fancy. Enjoy." She smiled and took her leave. No sooner had she gotten four or five good strides away before she paused and looked over her shoulder, "Oh! I wanted to thank you... Lieu..." Another sigh. The strange man was gone, disappeared back into the ether in which he dwelt. In some ways it was a comfort, in others quite creepy - but Valeese would accept it all the same.

--

Commander Valeese
Chief Medical Officer
COLD STATION THETA, SB-1170

Lieutenant Evan 'Weirdo' Merlin
Chief Stategic Operations Officer
COLD STATION THETA, SB-1170