A/N: Sorry for the delay in updates! Life has been doing its thing again, and I've been crazy busy with school and such. Enjoy!


TWENTY-FIVE: Supplicant

"No! You're the male here –you lead!" The hand at his shoulder tensed with her irritation.

The hand at the curve of her waist shifted minutely with his puzzlement. "Are you certain? This seems… counter-intuitive."

The steps came awkwardly, haltingly. They stumbled a bit, here and there, and nearly gave up twice -but then, a moment, where they flowed into a pattern with the music as their guide and metronome, until they did not even need the music and the movement became flawless.

Her hand relaxed, fingers loose and comfortable over the curve of his shoulder, heat seeping through his civilian clothes and warming the flesh there, even through her gloves. His hand found the correct position at her waist once again, ever mindful of fragile float ribs nearby; a quiet paranoia born of learning what fragile things Human bones were.

A wry smile, as she spoke. "It's perfectly normal for the male to lead –for Humans, at least. In fact-"

Disaster.

"—Ow!"

Chagrin, injured pride. Embarrassment cloistered behind the sneer that sharpened already narrow features. His antennae flicked. "I'm fairly certain your foot was not supposed to be there. Do you actually know what you're doing, Dagmar?"

Silence. And then, "Thelen?"

"Yes?" Wary, the Andorian officer watched his instructor and partner carefully.

Blue eyes glared up at him over an angry frown. "Shut up and dance."

Such was the way of the dance lessons between Dagmar and Thelen –at first. Thelen had to constantly be reminded that it was his job to lead, not hers. Dagmar frequently had to remember to be patient with the man who was going against the grain of his very culture. After a time, a few bruised toes, and several painful lessons regarding ice patches and watching where they stepped, the two finally began to find their way about a standard ballroom waltz, if a bit clumsily.

The lessons were always held away from the public eye –out of deference to the fact that dancing was not a common activity on Andoria, and Thelen had no interest in being accused of reckless frivolity by his peers. Dagmar had proposed her domicile as a potential location for their lessons; Thelen had suggested an isolated cave he used to frequent as a child. A flip of an ancient Terran coin (Dagmar had always had the worst habit of losing change in her jeans) had decided the matter for them: the cave.

It was large enough for their dancing –and their fumbling missteps, their inevitable slips and collapses- but small and out of the way enough that no one disturbed the pair. They were cautious in that respect, meeting once a week at most and making a point of being seen wandering about together in the various levels of the city. Dagmar didn't think Thelen would be looked highly upon for wasting time learning Human dances instead of whatever else he was supposed to be doing. It was doubtful that he would be punished, but societal disapproval was bad enough on its own.

Gradually, Dagmar taught the security officer what waltzes she knew, stiff and formal things that an Andorian could appreciate once he or she got past the supposed foolishness of it. It became less of an awkward and sometimes painful chore and more of a relaxing sort of thing that they did now and then.

When they exhausted Dagmar's library of classical music, they turned to Andorian composers, and Dagmar found much of their music to be a pleasure to listen to –though there was the odd piece with some sort of odd, humming-screeching instrument, often going hand-in-hand with a discordant harmony that never quite resolved itself. Those pieces, Dagmar loathed.

Unfortunately, Thelen appeared to be rather taken with the humming-screeching thing, whatever it was. Maybe it sounded better to Andorian ears – a harmony instead of the wail of a dying cat.

It spoke volumes of the redheaded woman's regard for the Andorian that she endured each ensuing aural agony without complaint.

Once they learned each other and the dances well enough, she and Thelen often found themselves debating while they danced, or perhaps discussing politics. Now and then, some new bit of research which was of mutual interest was brought up. Rarer were the small moments of cultural insight that Thelen would offer; interpretations of gestures or phrases that she couldn't quite puzzle out, procedures for various holidays and ceremonies, fragments of folklore from his childhood…

Sometimes they didn't dance at all, merely talked and wandered endless tunnels and caves until they eventually found their way back to civilization.

Thelen repaid her lessons with knowledge and subtle, guiding nudges to help her fit in. He expanded her vocabulary significantly, and walked her through certain ceremonial functions. He laughed, low, rasping and gently amused, when she utterly failed at cooking Andorian food, and then swooped in like some mad blue blur of culinary godliness to fix it. When she nearly made a serious faux pas at the Weaver's Guild, he stepped in and smoothly took over the conversation without so much as batting an eyelid.

Hell, he actually made her decorate the living room of her quarters… a good three days before she received a "surprise" visit from the Ambassador himself. The Ambassador seemed pleased with the attempt at integration –though, admittedly, it was hard to tell. Decor wasn't something that Andorians commented on.

Gradually, under Thelen's guidance, Dagmar began to adapt more and more to Andorian culture. She began to understand some of the small nuances which had previously baffled her. She learned how to deftly side-step a conflict without losing face, how to calm their volatile natures somewhat with reason and a cool head. She observed, with Thelen's help, such things as when it was polite to offer tea, and when to simply break out a bottle of ale, and other such food-related social nuances.

It wasn't until Dagmar learned how to offer her assistance without unintentionally offering an insult as well that the other, less friendly Andorians began to slowly warm up to her. Not all of them of course – but some. More than before.

Shral, however, remained a mystery. Some days, he was friendly and polite and still pointing his antenna at her. On other days, however… he became more distant and ambiguous, like he had been immediately after that incident during her meditation.

Those were the worst days for her –frustrating, like trying to swim upriver and not moving an inch after hours and hours of trying.

Eventually, the Human woman cracked.

Not much, mind – just enough to put her foot down and say something.

"Look," Dagmar said suddenly, voice firm but not harsh and her gaze steady. The Ambassador had stepped out of his office for a meeting. It was just her and Shral. "I'm sorry I freaked you out."

Shral opened his mouth to speak, but redheaded translator wasn't done.

"I'm sorry you misinterpreted that entire incident as some sort of mating bond thing. Okay? I'm sorry, but Humans don't do that whole psychic bond stuff. We just don't. It's not how we're wired."

Again, Shral attempted to speak, antennae twitching and face just the faintest, faintest shade of barely-visible purple. Most likely out of mortification. "Th-"

Dagmar ignored the aide, almost unable to stop herself from talking as her voice picked up a frustrated edge. A tiny voice in the back of her mind told her that her boss' office was really not the best place to have this conversation, and that there were at least a dozen far more diplomatic ways to go about this…

Dagmar told the voice to shut up.

"I'm sorry a lucky guess on my part caused problems, I am – but why are you acting so strangely? You don't talk to me anymore. You never visit –not that you did that often to begin with, but still- and half the time I can't tell if you even want to be civil to me. And you keep giving me these weird looks! What do I do with that, Shral?"

The green-eyed aide said nothing, antennae straightening with what the Human woman could only interpret as alarm. Something sharp and strange sparked behind his eyes.

A lesser cousin of dread curled in the base of her belly, less powerful but no less worrying.

A deep breath, a mental fortification, before she asked the question that had been hanging over her head for months. "What do you want?"