SIXTEEN: A Bonding Moment
"Shevt'ak?"
Dagmar nearly cringed. For all that the little pastry was rapidly becoming her favourite food, she would probably forever associate the name and endearment with bad press, semi-homicidal xenophobes, and the omnipresent feeling of desperately wanting to crawl under the table and hide for a bit.
Sadly, she didn't think Thoris would let her get away with that last bit –not at a formal dinner, at least.
"If I keep eating those, I'll turn into one!" Dagmar joked, only to grimace after a moment and add, "Also, I'm developing an aversion to the name."
Thelen gave an antennae-shrug and ate the proffered pastry himself. The pair of them were standing off to the side of the large ballroom, observing the various diplomats and aides and generally staying out of the way. The trade talks were, at long last, over and done with and, to celebrate, a dinner party had been thrown together at the last minute by the Terran side of things. Unlike the college dinner parties that Dagmar knew so well from her time, this was a rather more sophisticated affair. It would be a black-tie affair, almost –if Tellerites, Vulcans, and Andorians could ever be persuades to wear tuxedos.
Actually, the Andorians could probably pull that off...
If Dagmar's mind lingered on that image a little too long, well, fortunately there were no telepaths in the room. And, no, touch-telepaths didn't count.
Overall, the atmosphere was quite pleasant. The music was of the quiet and easy going classical sort –not enough to invite dancing, which would horrify the Vulcans, but not too easy-going either, lest the Tellerites grow bored- and the food was good. The lighting was fractionally too dim for Dagmar's tastes and after nearly a week and a half in the Andorian compound, it was almost certainly too warm, but she understood that everything had been compromised just so for all of the guests involved.
...Which, of course, was a nice way of saying that no one was comfortable and everyone could find common ground in commiserating about it. Clever, really.
"You there! Hideous female! What a terrible dress! Did you make it yourself?"
Oh, look –Ambassador Gral had come over to say hi. How nice of him.
Thelen snorted, directing his antennae at the gruff Tellerite politely but otherwise remaining carefully neutral. Dagmar, on the other hand, had a little trouble forcing a friendly smile onto her face. It wasn't that she didn't understand that the Ambassador was, in fact, being very polite –bordering on complimentary, even- but she hated dresses and was in fact rather self-conscious about wearing one.
Should have gone with a pant-suit, she lamented inwardly as she answered the greeting out loud. "Good evening to you, too, you ungainly short-bus!"
Someone nearby gasped. Probably a newbie. The new kids in the Embassy always flipped out when someone insulted a Tellerite. Dagmar would know –she'd been one of them!
Gral gave her a look that was half disappointment and half scorn, but the effect was lost when he had to lean backwards and crane his neck to glare at her. "Surely even your slow mind can come up with something a little more scathing! I've heard better insults from drooling half-wits!"
Dagmar nodded in acknowledgement of her failing –a pattern that had developed between her and the Tellerites- and offered, "I'm sorry –may I try again?"
"See that you do!"
If you don't have something to complain about, insult them, the Canadian reminded herself before taking a breath and starting her pseudo-angry litany. "Your voice is beyond obnoxious, I hate your beard, you reek of the single most revolting set of pheromones I have ever had the misfortune of coming across, your robes are scruffy at best, and –as if all that wasn't enough- your snout terrifies and bewilders me!"
A hush fell over the nearby delegates –not over the entire room, mind, but definitely those close enough to hear the exchange, give or take a Vulcan. The gasping newbie –whom Dagmar could see beyond the small cluster of Vulcans to her immediate right, dropped his fork. Dagmar could have sworn one of the Vulcans twitched at the sudden clattering noise.
Cautiously, wondering why they'd gone quiet (wasn't it common knowledge that Tellerites expected insults as greetings?), Dagmar frowned and asked the Ambassador uncertainly, "Too much?"
Behind her –and she must have been hearing things, because it just wasn't possible- she heard a quiet, rasping sort of chuckle. The only person behind her was Thelen, though, and Andorians just didn't laugh.
Definitely had to be imagining it.
Suddenly, Ambassador Gral grinned a snarling grin, and announced a toast to the first, faint ray of hope for the future sophistication of the Human race. He raised his glass of... some sort of boggy looking alcohol with such enthusiasm that he nearly drenched Dagmar in it as he waddled by.
Though the eyebrow-wiggle that the Tellerite aide was giving her was a little odd... Still, by the time the Tellerite had waddled and pushed and shoved his way into the center of the room to regale Ambassador Archer with various tales of... something Dagmar really didn't care about, actually. She stopped listening after the initial greeting.
Still, the redhead had to wonder about the staring and all that. That had been a little weird, given that she was just greeting the male. None-too-subtly leaning back towards Thelen, she asked over her shoulder, "What did I say?"
To her surprise it wasn't Thelen's soft voice that answered, but Shral's lower baritone as a hand settled on her bare shoulder. She jumped, and half turned to see that Thelen had disappeared from their secluded little corner to chat up a Denobulan woman. "You were fine until you mentioned pheromones."
"Sorry?" What? Gral and the other Tellerites smelled weird. It was a known fact amongst the translators.
"You very nearly propositioned the Ambassador."
And there went her appetite for the evening! Dagmar made a face. Small wonder people had stared. Gross.
Not that she didn't respect Ambassador Gral. She did. It was just... that was a mental image that didn't bear contemplating.
"Fortunately, you averted any potential awkwardness with the snout comment." Shral continued smoothly, and Dagmar was a little uncomfortable with how close the aide was standing. Lack of a concept of personal space or not, she though the man might have shown a little more discretion, given the nightmare that was the latest media report.
Apparently, according to an anonymous but reliable source, she was fleeing to Andoria to bear her mysterious Andorian lover's litter away from prying eyes.
That's right. Not children. Not offspring. Litter. Like a bloody cat.
Moreover, whoever this source was obviously had no grasp of the Andorian sense of privacy; or, rather, the absence thereof. They didn't have doors unless it was necessary for security, they didn't have nudity taboos, they slept and ate communally, and their attitude towards sex was that it was "playing" (with an everything goes mentality, to boot) until the adults were married. Tack on the favourite Andorian past-time of trying to guess other people's secrets and... the holes in the informant's logic were obvious.
Oh, sure, a degree of personal privacy was protected –guarded jealously, even- but not in the usual Human sense of it. Andorians, much like the ancient Japanese, lived in such close quarters that real separation wasn't possible. To deal with the awkward aspects of that, they simply "didn't see" anything that was too personal. They averted their eyes and went about their business like whatever it was just wasn't happening.
Still, Andoria was not exactly the place to go when fleeing from prying eyes.
Regardless of the increasing ridiculousness of the reports, Dagmar still found them extremely distressing. So, naturally, standing in a lonely little corner near the punch-bowl with the person she was supposedly having some sort of affair with was not high on Dagmar's list of things to do before leaving Earth. Standing with Shral in a lonely corner with his hand on her shoulder and murmuring into her ear, even less so. If the dinner had been open to some of the media, the Canadian might have made good on her threats to become a hermit and never speak to anyone again.
Stepping away from the man and turning to face him properly, the redheaded woman helped herself to a flute of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. The waiter didn't appear to notice, striding off to a table of Denobulans from across the room. Dagmar wasn't entirely sure what the Denobulans had been negotiating during the trade talks –her grasp of their language was not as fluent as it could have been, so she hadn't been much involved with those translations- but their Ambassador seemed pleased with the results in any case.
Realizing that she'd nearly slipped off into a distracted daze, Dagmar shook herself and looked back at Shral. He, like Thelen and the other Andorians in Thoris' retinue, was in what she could only describe as formal leathers. Where the usual uniform of the Imperial Guard was predominantly dark brown or dark green leather, interspersed with a heavy, woven fabric of the same colour, the dress uniform had an off-white colour scheme and seemed to be a little less flexible than the softer standard leathers. On Thelen the dress uniform looked vaguely uncomfortable, but on Shral it seemed almost completely natural.
Suddenly, but not for the first time that evening, Dagmar felt a little underdressed in her cocktail dress. Really, really should have gone for the pant-suit, the Canadian lamented once again with chagrin.
"I do not completely understand the necessity of this event." The Andorian aide revealed suddenly. He gestured to the crowd of predominantly Human people, too caught up in their chatter and laughter to pay much mind to the aide and translator. The music changed as he spoke, the musicians apparently growing bored with their script and picking up to something a little more festive; sleepy classical notes morphed into bubbly jazz. A few pairs of Humans broke off from the crowd to dance, while the Vulcans looked on in typical micro-disdain and the Tellerites helped themselves to the booze. The Andorians appeared puzzled by the display, and Dagmar could see many sets of antennae wiggling in confusion above the crowd.
"What is the purpose of this?" Shral wanted to know. Dagmar blinked in surprise. Evidently, Andorians didn't dance for fun.
...Actually, that made sense. They were a very no-nonsense people, on the whole. Frivolity didn't work well with living in an extreme environment like Andoria, after all.
"Dancing," Dagmar began carefully, wondering just how to cast her compatriots' behaviour as another handful of Humans joined the dancing couples. After a moment, she decided to leave the casting and such to the diplomats; as a translator, her integrity came from her blunt honesty and neutrality. "Has many purposes. For example, in earlier times when men and women were very much segregated from each other, dancing was one way of meeting and attracting potential husbands and wives without breaching the rules of propriety. Before that, dancing was one of a number of ways to display speed, grace, and strength amongst warriors in some cultures."
Shral processed this, keen green eyes observing the dancers and the crowd with interest. "Your males and females are no longer separated. What purpose does this display serve now?"
Warming up to the topic, Dagmar answered, "It encourages bonding between friends, spouses, or potential spouses. Sometimes even complete strangers, too. It is a way to interact with someone in a way that is enjoyable without being unnecessarily or uncomfortably intimate. On Earth, it's also considered an art form –a way of expressing oneself. The older and more experienced you are with dancing –take that gentleman over there with the grey hair- the more fluid and graceful you are; I'd wager he's trained in the classical ballroom dances."
Sometime during her explanation, Thoris has sidled over, looking completely baffled as Ambassador Archer was cajoled into dancing as well. He, like his fellow Andorians, was in formal leathers as well, with the distinguishing addition of the silvery-white robes made from Andorian silk which denoted his rank and office. Further into the ballroom, the Vulcans were stoically trying not to look too scandalized, but by this point the Tellerites had given up and joined in... Though Dagmar was not so certain that their waddling gait was suited to swing or any sort of Human dance.
"Thiptho lapth." She and Shral greeted, almost in-sync, bowing politely from the shoulders. To her surprise, the Ambassador returned the bow –albiet curtly, as was befitting of a superior to a subordinate.
"Since you are in an explanatory mood, Miss Gunnarssen, perhaps you will explain to me why one of the Human aides saw fit to breach ranks and invite her superior to engage in such frivolity?"
The question wasn't particularly angry in tone or phrasing, but she could see how Thoris might be offended. Andorians had a very strict structure to their society, and the idea of a subordinate engaging a superior in such an informal way made them... uncomfortable -not quite offended, but definitely thinking about it.
Dagmar smiled, despite the reproachful look she received for it, and answered cheerfully, "That's the great part about dancing –anyone can dance with anyone! Under traditional etiquette, I could dance with you, Ambassador –if you asked and if I wanted to."
Thoris looked appalled by the very notion.
Ouch.
There was a moment of hilarity on the dance floor as a female Tellerite attempted to engage a particularly tall Human aide for a dance, and the pair ended up tripping over themselves and careened into a cluster of Denobulans. Dagmar winced in sympathy. Dance partners that were too short or too tall could cause all manner of logistical issues.
The musicians were struggling to keep playing in the wake of that particular mess, but the saxophone player started to laugh and had to be rushed off stage. The man's replacement wasn't too much more composed and fled not long after sitting down as the pair made second, chaotic attempt at dancing and nearly took out a table. Dagmar suspected one or both of the dancers were a bit tipsy, by their complete lack of coordination. Hopefully, nothing would end in disaster and embarrassment for either species' delegates.
Thoris was saying something and Dagmar snapped to attention. "—must ask?"
"Sorry?" Oops.
An impressive frown was bestowed upon her for that particular lapse in attentiveness. "I said, the males must ask? Not the females?"
Ah. That's right. Andorian females were the aggressive ones. Well, technically, all Andorians were aggressive in some way or another, but apparently their woman could be particularly violent... when such a thing was permitted. For all that Andorians were a paranoid and aggressive species, they had remarkable self-discipline; when they needed to vent, they did so in short and carefully controlled bouts. Thus, there was no such thing as a somewhat angry Andorian –they only had two anger settings: enraged or not at all. The same went for happiness (manic or not) or sadness (inconsolable or not) as well. If they weren't venting, however, most Andorians appeared calm, stoic, and logical -like powder-blue Vulcans.
The contrasts were actually quite fascinating.
Dagmar shook her head and clarified, "Traditionally, the men ask, but there's nothing stopping a woman from asking either."
Thelen had appeared while she had been observing the chuckling saxophone player, antennae wiggling in time with the music. It seemed like an absent-minded gesture –the same way she sometimes found herself tapping her fingers to the beat of a song. In fact, an entire cluster of Andorians had shifted closer to listen in, apparently. It was almost funny, really. Apparently, she was the cultural expert on modern day Humans.
Ironic.
But was dancing really such a novelty to them? Didn't Andorians dance at all –even just for ceremonial stuff?
"Don't Andorians have dances?" She asked, her curious mind latching onto the question. Belatedly, she realized that she'd been holding a flute of champagne for well over fifteen minutes without even drinking from it; it was starting to get warm. She sipped experimentally and grimaced inwardly as she amended her previous thought. The champagne was already lukewarm.
"We have a few," Thelen revealed with a polite bow to Thoris. Dagmar, he greeted by holding up his hand, palm facing outwards. Surprised, the Canadian lifted her own hand and pressed her palm to his. Amongst Andorians, that was almost an affectionate greeting, implying familiarity and a degree of fondness. "But they are reserved for ceremonial or festive occasions only."
That explained why the Andorians were stumped, then.
Well, at least the Tellerites were enjoying themselves, the Canadian thought wryly. That was something.
