Star Trek and all its intellectual property is owned by Paramount/CBS. No infringement intended, no profit made.
This story has been beta-read by VesperRegina, to whom I owe thanks as always for her insight and invaluable advice. It's dedicated to Delighted, who set me the challenge of writing this particular pairing.
Bernhard Muller and Em Gomez used by kind permission of Volley and Chrysa respectively.
This story is AU. Warning: it contains bad language and some sexual content. Anyone who is offended by these should consider this before reading it.
Sometimes, timing just sucks.
Half a minute later, half a minute earlier, and time would flow on in a completely different direction - and the weird thing is, you'd never have the slightest idea of the narrow escape you'd had.
When you think about it, there must be uncounted numbers of these 'forks of opportunity' in your life. Times when everything, everything, hinges on a whole series of seemingly random events falling into place just at the right moment. If just one card in the whole house falls down, the rest will fall with it; but if every one of those frail, unstable pieces of card holds up for just long enough...
It wasn't like I was on the lookout or anything. Actually, nothing was further from my mind. I'd been ordered to report to Starfleet HQ to start the first phase of my space-flight training, and if I'm honest I wasn't looking forward to the experience. Obviously if I wanted to progress further it was what you'd call a necessary evil - a MACO unit has to be able to deploy anywhere; but I was conscious of the flutter of nerves in my stomach. So as I was sitting on the hopper bus out to the big complex at the edge of the Bay, I started reading through the notes on my PADD. I'd already read through them from start to finish, often enough to have started memorizing parts of the text, but I'm a big believer in it being impossible to be too thoroughly prepared.
The auto-announcer called the stop, and I got off, taking my first look at the place. It was very new and very smart, surrounded by well-kept lawns. The gate guard checked my security credentials and passed me in, and I walked up the avenue from the outer entrance, wondering where I should go. The guys at the guardhouse had been too distracted to think of giving me directions; I gathered from their talk that Henry Archer the designer was coming in shortly to check on the progress of the new engine of his that they were building, and a whole load of other people were also now expected to arrive for whom 'nobody had bothered' to send in the appropriate security paperwork. Still, I'd a tongue in my head and I've never been embarrassed about asking for directions, so I left them to it and walked in and on, trusting that there'd be somebody who could point me to where I needed to go. It wasn't like I was late or anything; my mom always said that Punctuality is the courtesy of princes, and while I didn't have quite that veneration for it I know it's a vital part of operational efficiency, so I always made sure to have plenty of time to get where I was going.
As it turned out, I didn't have to ask anyone; of course, the instructions had included a map. Resisting the urge to whack myself over the head with the PADD (which might not have helped it work so well), I took it back out of my carryall and thumbed through to the appropriate page.
Less than two minutes' walk away. Now, I was over half an hour early, and I wasn't anxious to spend all that amount of time hanging around waiting to be attended to like an item of lost baggage, so I sat down on the rim of a fountain I was passing and prepared to enjoy the early sunshine and watch the comings and goings around here. Maybe I might catch a glimpse in passing of the great Henry Archer himself, though he was a very sick man these days and probably wouldn't be up and about so early.
People walked to and fro about their unknown business, some in groups but mostly in ones and twos. Three Vulcans went by, clad in those long robes of theirs. The oldish guy in front was probably important, to judge by his preoccupied frown and the deference the other two clearly showed him. One of these was a young woman (well, young by Earth standards, I guessed she was probably about seventy in Vulcan terms), who was a real looker. The robes hid most of her curves, but still definitely suggested they were there, and her petite little face had the beauty of a supermodel's. I wondered if anyone had ever gotten up the nerve to tell her so, but looking at the closed arrogance of her expression, probably not.
Twenty minutes. Maybe if I went in and registered early someone might show me where I could grab a coffee.
(I've wished, ever since, that I hadn't thought about that coffee...)
At the time, though, it seemed like a really good idea. Although I was already primed for anything the Fleeters might throw at me, a coffee might help calm the last few butterflies that were still occasionally taking a flutter around my stomach. Although my rational brain knew that I was actually in no danger at all, my hind brain was still responding to the knowledge of the centuries-long feud between 'sharks' and 'squids'. I was in the very heart of 'squid' territory, and I hadn't missed the glances a few people had already thrown at my uniform. I'd have to be on my absolute best behavior around here, because there would certainly be those who'd take any opportunity to stamp down on me just because of what I was wearing. Hopefully most would be above that kind of childish attitude, but there are always a few bad apples in every barrel.
And besides, there would almost certainly be a washroom, where I could make sure I was neat and tidy before I showed up to start the training.
I acted on the thought. And sure enough, the receptionist in my building registered my arrival and then suggested I catch a drink while I was waiting, pointing me in the direction of the cafeteria, which was the first door up the corridor; "Most people like to take one in with them when they start, sir," he added.
"Thanks for the tip." It wasn't standard practice everywhere, but some lecturers are more relaxed about this kind of thing than others. Relieved that I wouldn't have to bolt my drink down to get it finished in time, I made my way to the cafeteria.
It was on the crowded side – not surprising, as a lot of people were catching a late breakfast. I got my coffee and sat sipping it, unobtrusively studying the people around me. I've always been a people watcher, and while I had no particular ambitions along those lines myself, the people all around me were taking part in the drive to push our knowledge out among the stars. I could respect that, even though I wasn't deaf to the voices of protest and warning that we could thereby draw ourselves to the attention of alien races who were a lot less friendly than the Vulcans.
Not that I'd put the Vulcans down as 'friendly', exactly. The few I'd encountered had been like the three this morning: cool, aloof, conscious of their own superiority. But at least they didn't seem to have any ambitions toward colonizing Earth or enslaving Humanity. 'Not worth our trouble', I'd guess that woman would have commented.
Most of the people were in uniform, or at least formally dressed. One table, however, was occupied by a small group who drew my attention, not just because they were casually dressed but because they were such an eclectic bunch. The most noticeable was an Afro-American who'd have made two of any guy in the place; he looked laid-back, but I didn't miss the way his eyes drifted constantly around, observing everything. He didn't say much, but then he'd have been hard put to get a word in edgewise around the argument two of the others at the table were having. The rest were Caucasian. The only woman in the group, an attractive platinum blonde, was arguing with a diminutive guy in an orange woolen hand-knitted hat. From the way he kept pointing to the PADD in his hand, they were disagreeing about something on it. The two others present just sat watching the show. The one was also on the large side, probably did a lot of weight training; he had long blond hair, and an expression of lazy tolerance that said 'business as usual'.
The fifth member of the party had his back to me. He was small, dark-haired, wearing a loose black leather jacket. His posture was relaxed enough, but I noticed one foot tapping rhythmically on the floor; he wasn't as relaxed as he was trying to appear.
Time I was going. I got to my feet and picked up my half-finished coffee.
I was almost level with their table, which was directly on my way to the exit, when the dark one spoke.
I don't even remember what he said. He was looking at the guy in the hat, though he'd turned sideways on the chair as though preparing to get up. Maybe he was thinking of going to the washroom or something, I never did find out.
It was the accent. English. Those beautiful chiseled consonants, delivered in the unconsciously superior drawl of the upper classes.
I don't know why I stopped. It wasn't like I'd never heard an English accent before; there'd been a few English ex-pats in Officer Training School, mostly decent and ordinary. Once or twice I'd heard one of them put on a 'twang', the sort of accent you probably hear at Sandhurst all the time, but this was the first time I'd heard the real thing.
Fascinated? Attracted? Not really. Interested, maybe. Enough to just check for a quarter-second, and glance that way. Nothing more.
Another moment, and I'd have been on my way and forgotten his existence before I was out the door.
Like I said. Timing sucks.
In that quarter-second, he swiveled around the rest of the way and stood up. This brought him practically face to face with me, though not eye to eye, as he was a good half-head shorter. The abruptness of his movement meant I had to stop short, to avoid a collision; luckily I'd drunk a good bit of my coffee, so although it slopped around a bit it didn't spill. And so we stopped, barely a hand-span of air separating us.
You hear about it all the time in books and films. Frankly, I'd always been skeptical. But as I stood there and looked at him, it felt like something had hit me square in the belly, driving the breath out of my chest and thought out of my head.
Not conventionally handsome. Too thin, for one thing, and there was the wariness of the hunted in the way he tensed at my closeness. But his face was classically molded, with aristocratic cheekbones and a firm mouth, and the eyes…. Jeez, his eyes….
The eyes flickered over me, intense and summing. He pointed to the coffee, which I was still holding. "Get rid of that before you go into classes."
"What? But the guy at Reception said…"
He shrugged. "Call it a friendly hint. Take it or not, it's up to you." A faintly ironic grin just touched his mouth, and then he bent down to whisper something in the blond's ear.
I didn't have time to argue; I didn't want to be late for my first lecture. I dumped my half-finished drink on a tray in the disposals area and hurried out into the corridor. There was a crowd at Reception, but I made a note to see how many other people brought drinks into class, and if they did, what the result would be.
One other guy did, and was sent smartly to the rightabout; his ears were still burning when he returned. As I prepared my materials, I promised myself to have 'a word' with the smartass receptionist when I got out of there. Squid v. MACO; hundreds of years down the line, and we're still on opposite sides.
By the time we were allowed out for a break, I'd formulated exactly what I was going to say. As I marched up to the reception desk, however, I was disappointed to see that there was now a lady on duty there.
Still. I might still get my chance; maybe he'd just popped out for a bathroom break.
"Excuse me, Ma'am," I said politely to his replacement. "I'd like to speak to the guy who was on here earlier this morning. Will he be back any time today?"
"Oh no, I'm afraid not. He's had an accident. He'll probably be away for a couple of days. Is there anything I can help you with?"
An accident? This was… "Nothing serious, I hope." I infused just enough concern into the words to give her an opening to pass on more information if she felt like it.
"Oh no, sir. Just a – well, just an accident with a cup of hot coffee. I'm sure he'll be fine. Is there any message you'd like me to pass on?"
"I'd tell him to be more careful with his coffee, but I guess he's already thought of that one."
Her lips pursed disapprovingly. "It wasn't his coffee, sir. Now, is there anything I can help you with?"
Of course, there wasn't. I walked away with my head in a whirl.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
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