Leonard McCoy
In the past seven days since it became glaringly obvious to Leonard that what he feels for Amelia is more than friendship, one thought has registered over any others: this is not good on so many levels. Hasn't he learned anything from his romantic history? Attraction is dangerous. Desire is the equivalent of holding an open flame to gasoline. If he's interested in someone, it won't end well, and that's even without the other factors.
Amelia is nine years his junior. That alone is a large hurdle. She's also his coworker. Technically, there's no Starfleet regulation against officers seeing each other (mostly because they'd have a hell of a time trying to enforce it), but it's a bad idea. What is he thinking? It would never get that far. If he says something, he'll just make things awkward, humiliate himself. Despite how he's feeling, the chances that she's on the same page are low. He's still ruminating on that when he hears his name being called.
"Yes?" Currently, he's sitting in one of the oversized chairs in Amelia's office for what's supposed to be a counseling session. He should really be paying attention. Otherwise, she's going to require him to come back every two weeks again.
"Is something on your mind?" Several things, none of which he can mention.
"Isn't there always something on a person's mind? You can't exactly think of nothing." Her lips curve up into a hesitant smile. He's far too pleased with himself for having provoked it.
"Well, is there anything you'd like to share?"
"No. Not right now." Not ever, actually.
"Then let's return to the subject of your daughter. Joanna, correct?"
"Yes."
"You said that you received a transmission from her recently."
"Actually, I sent one."
"And why was that?"
"Because it was her birthday." He's officially the father of a twenty-year-old. There's another reason he should bury what he's feeling. Amelia is only thirteen years older than his daughter. That's wrong on so many levels.
"Do you expect to get a reply?"
"Eventually."
"What do you think it will say?"
"She'll thank me for remembering her birthday, tell me what she did, maybe mention her work."
"What is her job?"
"She's just wrapping up a nursing degree. She's also enrolled in Starfleet Academy."
"You said she's completing her nursing degree?"
"Yes. She graduated from high school early."
"How do you feel about her accomplishments?"
"I'm proud of her, obviously. Who wouldn't be?" He just wishes he knew more about her than her academic achievements. "You know, I couldn't tell you what her favorite color is. I don't know who her friends are or if she's seeing anyone. I assume she's had her heart broken at some point because that's typical by her age, but I wasn't around for it. I don't know if being from a broken home has affected her or if it really was better to have satisfied parents who weren't together instead of ones in an unhappy relationship. She's my daughter, but she's almost a complete stranger to me."
"I see." She types something into her PADD before leaning towards him. "Have you thought anymore about our earlier discussion? Would you like to come up with a plan to help improve your relationship with her?"
"I guess it couldn't hurt, if you have some suggestions."
"I do."
"Maybe I should be the one taking notes, then." There she goes. Another smile.
"I can take them and send them to you after this session."
"That's probably not a bad idea." She pulls up a document before turning to him again.
"My suggestion would be to contact her. Don't wait for the next special occasion. Try not to be discouraged if she doesn't reply. These things take time. Don't bombard her with transmissions but be consistent. Maybe try once a month at first to see how that goes."
"Alright." That sounds manageable.
"When communication opens, and I say when because in your case, I believe it will, be ready to listen without defending yourself or explaining your actions. It might be tempting to point out that she didn't attempt to maintain contact with you over the years, but it will only make the situation worse."
"Don't bring blame into it."
"Exactly." Amelia types a note before continuing. "Don't beg or plead with her to maintain contact. That should be her decision, and it shouldn't be made out of guilt or the desire to mollify." On that, they can agree. "Listen with compassion. Chances are that this is just as hard for her as it is for you. And finally, acknowledge your part in what has happened and apologize for it. Tell her what you've told me: that you could have done a better job of communicating and that you regret it."
"What if none of that works?"
"Then at least you've done your part. The ball is in her court, so to speak." It's not the most satisfying of answers, but he supposes it's the best he can hope for. Her PADD dings, and he can't help but think that the time has passed too quickly. "Before you go, I have some homework for you."
"Homework?" She nods.
"Write out your goals for your relationship with Joanna. It helps to have a physical representation of what's in your head. Place it somewhere you can see it to remind you of why you're putting in the effort. Does that sound reasonable to you?"
"I think I can handle it."
"Good. Then I'll see you again in a month. If you need me again before then-"
"I know where you live."
"Or as an alternative, send me a message." She stands, and he climbs to his feet as well. The doors slide open, and her next patient is waiting outside. It's-
"Menendez."
"Hi, Dr. McCoy." The ensign looks much better than she did a few months ago. There's some color back in her cheeks and a light in her eyes. Her uniform is no longer hanging off her and her hair is pinned back neatly.
"How are you?"
"Much better thanks to you and Counselor Fairchild."
"Is engineering treating you well?" She smiles.
"Oh, yes. It's the best job in the universe."
"I'm glad to hear it. Just remember to stop by sickbay next week. You're due for another dosage."
"Yes, Doctor." Content that he's done his duty, he excuses himself and heads towards his office. No sooner has he arrived than a whistle sounds over the comm.
"Kirk to McCoy."
"McCoy here."
"Report to the briefing room."
"On my way." So much for getting to work on that list.
Since it's lunch time, the turbolift is occupied, and it takes longer than it should to arrive at the correct deck, but eventually he gets there. Spock is already inside, along with two security officers.
"Have a seat, Bones." He does as he's told, taking the chair opposite the captain. "We've entered orbit around Haropa III. I'm putting together an away team to beam down to the planet surface at fifteen hundred hours. Mr. Spock-"
"Thank you, Captain." Spock turns on the computer, and a video of a people with blue skin plays. "Haropa III is a class-M planet. The Haropans experienced a planet-wide civil war five centuries ago that wiped out 55.3 percent of the population. Since that time, they have devoted themselves to peace and the pursuit of the arts. They achieved warp capabilities only three years ago and are seeking admission into the Federation." The screen changes, showing… is that a painting?
"Spock, when you say 'the arts', do you mean-"
"Theater, music, sculpture, painting, and composition. The highest priority is placed on painting. Social status is indicated by the quality of your artwork."
"Gentlemen, do any of you know of someone who should be on this team who isn't already?" The others are shaking their heads. Should he say something?
"Jim, I think Dr. Fairchild should be part of the team."
"Why is that?" He starts to say, 'Because she likes art' but stops short. She seemed hesitant to share that part of herself, so it's not his place to out her.
"The psychology of the Haropans would interest her." A society based on the love of art? It would be her dream come true. Jim nods.
"Alright. Have Counselor Fairchild join us. Mr. Spock, catch her up to speed. Dismissed."
Amelia Fairchild
With all her afternoon sessions canceled thanks to being chosen as part of the away team, Amelia has time on her hands and nothing to do with it but think. This is a state she's been avoiding for the past week, but it couldn't be put off forever, and part of processing your emotions involves sitting with them, no matter how uncomfortable.
Over the last seven days, whenever she's had a moment free from the confines of work, her mind has drifted to a most unwelcome place: the brush of a hand against hers. Such a simple gesture shouldn't take up so much of her thoughts, especially since it was made by a friend.
Leonard McCoy is an attractive man. She can admit that much to herself. He has a complicated and brilliant mind, a sarcastic sense of humor, and a deep concern for his patients. All of those are qualities that she admires. But unfortunately, it's more than that. The last time she spent this much time thinking about a person was in the beginning stages with Nicholas, and she remembers all too well how that ended. Besides, she tries to avoid wanting anyone who doesn't want her back, and he definitely doesn't. There's nine years between them and a world of life experiences. They may be compatible in friendship, but chances are that they wouldn't be in a relationship. Besides, he's her patient and she's his. That's a conflict of interests.
Her PADD dings with a reminder of the time and she stands to leave her office. To reach the turbolift, she has to walk through sickbay, and unsurprisingly, she runs into the man who operates it. He's got his medical scanner and tricorder and when she approaches, he smiles.
"I guess Spock briefed you about the planet."
"He did." Despite the tendrils of unwanted attraction curling around the edges of her mind, she can't help but return the expression. "It sounds perfect."
"I don't know. Art as social currency? I'd be in the lowest caste."
"You can't be that bad."
"I can barely draw a stick figure."
"Alright. That's pretty bad." They reach the turbolift and step inside. "Do you know what kind of paintings they value the most?"
"The ones with paint, I would assume." It takes considerable effort not to roll her eyes.
"Impressionism? Realism? Cubism?"
"None of those words mean anything to me."
"Vang Gogh's 'Starry Night' would be impressionism. Davinci's 'Mona Lisa' would be Realism. Pretty much anything by Picasso would be cubism."
"Which is your favorite?"
"Impressionism."
"Guess that makes sense. You did try to steal 'Starry Night' after all." She still can't believe she told him that, but apparently her common sense leaves her whenever he enters the room.
The turbolift stops outside of the transporter room. She exits first and he follows close behind. The rest of the team is already in place on the transporter pad. Captain Kirk looks up at the sound of their footsteps, a smile on his face.
"There you are, Bones. I was about to send a out a search party to find you and the counselor."
"That won't be necessary." As he says it, he climbs onto the transporter pad and offers her a hand to pull her up as well. It's just another friendly gesture. And if her heartrate picks up a bit at it, then that's no one's business but hers.
"Engage." She's used to the slight tingle of having her molecules spread out and pushed back together again, but she doesn't miss Leonard's grimace as they reappear. If she had to venture a guess, he doesn't care for transporting.
There's a party of four waiting for them. As she saw in the briefing, the people have blue skin and jewel toned hair. A woman in a toga approaches them, unbridled curiosity apparent on her face.
"I'm Captain James T. Kirk of the Starship Enterprise. These are my associates. Mr. Spock-" The Vulcan's expression remains impassive. "Dr. McCoy, Dr. Fairchild, Lieutenant Hanson and Ensign Abrams."
"A pleasure, Captain. I am Bhelqoil, the artist supreme of this planet. This is Ilnees-" She indicates a man with hair the color of a ruby. "-Zusles –" a woman with emerald green hair shot with white. "- and Ehmith." Another man with sapphire hair. "I extend my hand to you in friendship. You may kiss it." The captain looks over at Mr. Spock before taking her outstretched hand and brushing his lips against it. That seems to please the supreme artist because her lips quirk up into a smile. "Your people are free to explore the city. You and I have much to discuss." As Bhelquoil and Captain Kirk walk away towards an ornate building with stained glass windows, Ilnees approaches the group. Specifically, herself and Leonard.
"Your leader referred to you as doctors. Are you healers?"
"We are." He confirms. "I heal the body. Dr. Fairchild heals the mind." Ilnees peers down at her with intense interest.
"If only you had been here during the great war, perhaps it could have been avoided. So many people have died. Good friends and family."
"You speak as if you experienced it yourself." Ilnees chuckles.
"I didn't. My grandfather did." She glances over at Leonard, who's frowning.
"Your grandfather. How old would that make you?"
"I'm 237 years old. How old are you?"
"I'm forty-three. The counselor here is thirty-four."
"Then it's safe to say the people of your world age much faster." She has to swallow down a laugh at his expression.
"Safe to say."
"Ilnees, you seem to still feel the effects of the war very keenly."
"It changed our entire way of life."
"And are you satisfied with that change?"
"I am. Isn't peace always preferable?" Leonard clears his throat.
"Ilnees, may I examine you? I'd like to get a few readings to give me more information about your people. It's strictly external." Ilnees nods and begins to remove his toga. "You can keep that on. This-" He indicates the tricorder. "-will tell me what I need to know without you undressing."
A few minutes pass as the machine works. Finally, Leonard nods and, thanking Ilnees, starts in the opposite direction. Amelia follows, falling into step next to him.
"Anything interesting?"
"That man is in the body of a thirty-five-year-old. I'm not an expert on Haropan physiology, but from what I can tell, the only thing wrong with him is that he's missing the equivalent of his appendix. There's the minor wear and tear that you'd expect by age thirty-five, but nothing major. What about you? Did you ascertain anything interesting?"
"It's unusual for the effects of a war to be so keenly felt to the third generation. There was the cultural revolution on Earth of the nineteen sixties with the baby boomers, but that was only one generation removed from World War II. Of course, on Vulcan, they're still in a state of rejecting emotion because of the conflict that happened millions of years ago."
"So, you don't know what to make of them."
"I don't. Other than I doubt that they're dangerous."
"Do you think they should be admitted into the Federation?"
"I think they might still be too shellshocked."
"That was my thought too." He sighs. "We'll present our thoughts to the captain once he's out of his meeting, but until then, we should probably take advantage of the scenery."
"Agreed." The whole city appears to be one large art gallery with elaborate buildings and frescoes painted on the walls, so she just starts walking. She's not really expecting him to follow, but it's not an unpleasant surprise when he does.
Hours pass like that, walking side by side, occasionally commenting on the art, and talking about nothing in particular. Ameila's feet begin to hurt, but there's so much to see that she doesn't mind, especially when they land on a building that's dedicated to impressionistic paintings. Finally, the sun begins to set and they return to the center of the city.
"Kirk to Enterprise." The captain's communicator chirps. "Six to beam up." Amelia braces for the tingling… and nothing happens. More accurately, nothing happens to her. Captain Kirk, Mr. Spock, Lieutenant Hanson and Ensign Abrams all disappear, but she stays. On instinct, she glances to the side. Leonard is still there as well.
"What do you think that's about?" She shakes her head.
"Transporter malfunction?"
"Must be." He takes out his communicator. "McCoy to Enterprise."
"Scott here. I'm sorry, Doctor. The transporter is knackered. I don't know what's happened to it." That answers his question, she supposes.
"Well then, how are we going to get back to the ship?" There's a pause, and then-
"Bones, it's me. Scotty is running a diagnostic on the transporter." In the background, she can hear,
"It doesna look good, Captain."
"How soon can you get it back to functioning?"
"Twelve hours, maybe more."
"You've got ten." Ten hours… that puts them on the planet overnight. "I'll hail the supreme artist. Ask her to provide you with shelter for the night. Just sit tight. Kirk out." With a groan, he snaps the communicator closed.
"That's just great."
"It could be worse. This could be a hostile planet."
"At least the company's good." She isn't sure how to react to that, so she studies the capitol building.
It isn't long before two Haropans emerge, heading straight for them. At a distance, it's hard to read their expressions, but from their body language, she'd say that they're not terribly upset. That seems to be confirmed when they get closer, and she sees smiles on their faces.
"Come, friends. It's almost time for the evening painting session."
"That's alright." Leonard shakes his head. "We'll just go to our rooms."
"The invitation is from the supreme artist. She doesn't often allow outsiders to attend her sessions." There's no getting around it, then.
"We would be honored to attend."
Leonard McCoy
It's inevitable that, on another planet, you'll sometimes feel like a fish out of water. That expression doesn't go far enough to explain how Leonard is feeling as he settles behind an easel next to Amelia in a spacious, well-lit room. There are at least a dozen others in the room, all with canvases and what he assumes are watercolors. No one else seems to feel awkward as the supreme artist instructs them to, 'Paint what is inside your heart'. That's it. No other instructions.
Amelia dips a brush in water then dabs it lightly on a cloth. She glances over at him and asks, "What's your subject?"
"Nothing." She looks perplexed, so he explains, "I told you I'm no good at art. I'll leave the painting to you."
"Everyone must participate." It's said by the Haropan sitting on his other side. "Those are the rules."
"When in Rome." Amelia murmurs and swipes her brush against the watercolors.
"Fine." She dipped it in the water first, then wiped it off before touching the paint… he can do that.
If he didn't already know it prior to this attempt, it's abundantly clear after five minutes that watercolors are not his friend. A look to the side reveals that Amelia's hard at work, her canvas ablaze with yellows, oranges, pinks, and reds His is… mud. She catches him looking and tells him,
"You're using too much water. That's why your colors are running." It's too late to start over. All he can do is add to the mess. Dabbing at the red paint (his instructions were to paint what's inside his heart, and the most literal interpretation of that is to paint blood), he asks her,
"Is that a sunset?"
"It would be if I had a few more hours." It looks sunset-y enough to him, but he keeps that thought to himself. "It's meant to look like one I saw after a long day back when I was in college. It seemed like everything that could go wrong had. When I left the library, that was waiting for me." She sighs. "It's a poor representation of the real thing."
"The sunsets on Earth are always the most beautiful in my opinion." They fall silent and he adds some more mud to his canvas, then-
"Do you miss it? Earth?"
"Yeah. I do." He sets down the brush. That's enough for now. "But after my wife and I split up, I couldn't stay there. It was like she took the whole planet in the divorce."
"What's her name? Your ex-wife?" Has he really not told her that?
"Jocelyn. What's his name? The ass you dated for five years?"
"Nicholas."
"He really did a number on you, didn't he?" For a second, he thinks he's said too much, but she nods.
"He did. She left you with some scars too, didn't she?"
"A few." Yet another reason Amelian wouldn't want him.
"That's the problem with loving someone. You give them that ability."
"That sounds awfully jaded for a counselor."
"Do you disagree?"
"No. I'm jaded too." The conversation lags for a moment, and he's about to say something just to fill the silence, but before he can, she asks,
"Do you think you'll ever want to try again?"
"Watercolors?"
"No. Opening up to someone." That's the thing. Without meaning to, he already has.
"Maybe. Someday. What about you?"
"It would have to be someone I trusted implicitly."
"Well, I hope you find them." Her gaze rests on him, all wide blue eyes and understanding. "You deserve that, Amelia."
"So do you." There's not a chance to say more because the supreme artist chooses that moment to stand and clap her hands once.
"Our time is up. Please leave your canvases here and return to your homes." The two Haropans who had previously escorted them to the room approach, their hands stained from the watercolors.
"Did you enjoy your session with the supreme artist?"
"We did." Amelia confirms, a polite smile in place.
"We are to take you to your room." The other one informs them.
"Thank you." He stands and, without thinking, offers Amelia his hand to pull her to her feet. He only fully realizes his action when she takes it. Her hands are small. Soft. And they fit perfectly in his. She lets go and the room feels a little colder.
They're led through a maze of corridors and up a flight of stairs, finally arriving at a spacious room with a few cushions on the floor arranged around a low table, and a large bed.
"This is where you'll be staying tonight."
"Which one of us?" His question is met with frowns by the Haropans.
"Both of you. The supreme artist ordered this room prepared for the two of you." There it is. The supreme artist. Their host, and someone they can't offend. "Are our accommodations insufficient?"
"No. That's fine." Her polite smile doesn't falter, but he can hear a note of discomfort in her voice.
"Please give our thanks to the supreme artist." One of the Haropans nods. They must take it as a dismissal because they begin to walk away, leaving him alone with Amelia. He might as well get the elephant in the room out of the way. "I'll take the floor."
"Why should you be the one to get a terrible night's rest?" Because he's the man. But he doubts she'd appreciate that answer.
"It won't be that bad. There are cushions-"
"Leonard, even if you line all of them up, they won't be long enough for you to lie across. I can-"
"No. Amelia, you're not sleeping on the floor."
"Well, I'm not letting you do it." That really leaves only one choice. It's a large bed. Large enough to hold two people. She must be thinking the same thing because she asks, "Which side do you want?"
"The right. Unless you want it."
"No. I sleep on the left." There's not really anything else to do so, blowing out the candle, he retreats as far as possible to his side of the mattress. There's light from the city shining through the window, so he can see that she's unpinning her hair for the night. With that done, she climbs onto her side and, like him, settles, leaving as much space in the middle as possible.
"Goodnight, Amelia."
"Goodnight, Leonard." He's not sure how long it takes, but eventually her breathing evens out, settling into the soft rhythm of sleep. For his part, he's not going to be able to do more than doze. It's been years since he slept next to another person and the oddness of the situation is bound to keep him awake. Closing his eyes, he begins mentally going over the bones of the human body in the hopes it'll at least quiet his mind…
Soft early morning light against his eyelids is what wakes him up. He must've drifted off after all. He slowly opens his eyes, coming face to face with a sleeping Amelia. Somehow during the night, they must've both rolled over, because now she's not three inches away from him. He thinks about moving, but if he does that, he might wake her, so instead he lies there, trying not to notice how peaceful she looks. There's an innocence to her, a gentleness to her features that seems almost too personal for him to view.
His communicator chirping is ultimately what wakes her up. She jolts, banging her head against the headboard, and he winces.
"Are you alright?"
"I think so."
"Enterprise to McCoy. Do ye read me?" Retreating to the right side of the bed, he flips open the device.
"McCoy here."
"The transporter is fixed. I've got a lock on yer signals. Are ye ready te beam up?" He looks over at Amelia. Seizing the pins that she removed last night along with her own communicator, she nods.
"We're ready, Scotty." He barely has time to close the communicator before the sickening sensation of his molecules being scattered and pushed back together occurs and the Enterprise's transporter room appears before his eyes.
Amelia's the first one off the transporter pad. She hurriedly thanks Scotty and heads towards the door, leaving him to follow. She's all the way to the turbolift before he catches up.
"Amelia-" What can he say? Nothing wrong happened last night, and yet he feels the need to apologize. Apparently, she's thinking the same thing because she turns, a flush rising to her cheeks and tells him,
"Leonard, I'm sorry. I must've moved during the night-"
"I think we both did. It's alright. No harm done." It's not as if he woke up and they were engaged in a lover's embrace.
"Good." She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. "Deck seven?"
"What about mess first?"
"You go ahead. I'll eat later. First, I've got to do something about this." She indicates her hair.
"You could just leave it."
"It's against regulations." She's right of course. Starfleet has its rules about hair length and style. Men are to keep theirs trimmed short enough that it doesn't cover their ears. Women with hair longer than shoulder length are to keep theirs at least partially up.
"I don't think anyone out here would cite you for it."
"All the same, I'd better not risk it."
"Alright, but make sure you do eventually head up there." It's hesitant, but she offers him a smile.
"Is that an order?"
"Do I need to make it one?" She shakes her head, making her hair bounce.
"No. I'll behave myself."
Amelia Fairchild
"You look like you're deep in thought." Amellia looks up from where she was absently staring at her lunch as another woman slides into the seat across from her. Uhura or, as she told her after the incident with the parasite, 'Just call me Nyota'. "Boy problems?"
"I'm still recovering from the away mission, I think."
"I heard about that." Nyota plops a grape into her mouth and chews thoughtfully before telling her, "It sounded like a nice place to be trapped. Very romantic."
"It was. A nice place to be trapped as far as that goes."
"But not romantic?"
"I suppose it could be under the right set of circumstances." She takes a sip of water.
"Being stuck with your work crush wasn't the right set of circumstances?" Wrong choice. Amelia's so startled that when she swallows, the water goes down what's most definitely the wrong pipe. As she sits there spluttering, Nyota gives her a knowing look.
"What makes you think-" She manages to gasp out.
"Apart from the fact that you almost killed yourself just now when I brought it up? You meet up at mess at least once a day, you come into sickbay to ask him to sign things when you could've just sent them on your PADD, and you call each other by you first names whenever you don't think anyone else is listening."
"How do you know-"
"I know everything that happens on this ship. Plus, Christine talks." Alright, she can still navigate her way out of this one.
"Nothing inappropriate happened on the planet."
"That's a bummer. What went wrong?"
"Nothing went wrong. There just isn't anything like that going on between myself and Dr. McCoy."
"Well, why not?"
"Because…" She won't lie. Whatever Nyota thinks she knows isn't worth her integrity. "…there's a nine-year age difference. He'd probably prefer someone who's had more life experiences than I have."
"You're not denying that you like him."
"Of course, I do. Beneath that layer of gruffness, he's one of the kindest people I've met. One of the bravest and most intelligent too."
"And you find him attractive."
"Well, yes-" Nyota laughs.
"Honey, you've got it bad." She opens her mouth to defend herself, but Nyota's quicker. "You should tell him. Otherwise, you're just going to keep going in circles around each other."
"'Going in circles' assumes that both people are interested." The words slip out before she can think better of them. She glances over at Nyota, who's offering her a sympathetic smile.
"Someone really hurt you, didn't they?"
"They did. But I've had time to process."
"How much time?"
"Seven months."
"That's still a pretty fresh wound." She shrugs.
"He was a mistake. I can see that now."
"And you're afraid of making another one." With a sigh, Nyota stands. "Maybe you need some distance from the situation to help you see clearly. Request shore leave or something."
"I'm fine." The communications officer shrugs.
"It was just a thought."
It might be just a thought, but it's one that stays with her throughout the day. The truth is her last break was over a year ago. That's unhealthy. If it were one of her patients who reported that, she'd immediately send a message to the captain on their behalf, asking for shore leave. So why is she so different?
At eighteen hundred hours, her last session ends and, telling the computer to turn off lights, she steps out the door. She barely gets halfway through sickbay before a familiar shadow crosses her path.
"Long day?"
"You could say that." She forces herself to look up and meet his eyes. Leonard looks… concerned.
"Are you alright, Amelia?"
"I'm still lagging after yesterday."
"Last night probably didn't help." No, it didn't. It's been months since she's slept next to someone else, especially someone that she trusts. And for a moment, this morning, she couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to wake up next to him when they weren't forced to share a bed. It's something that's never going to happen, and she should stop thinking about it. "Why don't you go back to your quarters, and I'll bring you something down from mess?"
"You don't have to-"
"Didn't say that I did. Just that I would." She really doesn't want to face anyone else for a few hours.
"Alright. If you're sure."
"I'm sure." She's almost out the door before she hears, "Your hair. It's different, isn't it?" Without thinking, she reaches for its usual knot, only to remember. She's left it half down.
"It's still regulation."
"It's nice. You always look…" He stops short. "You should probably turn in. I'll stop by in about thirty minutes."
"Thank you."
"It's no trouble."
Once she reaches the safety of her room, Amelia powers up her PADD. She selects her contact and begins to type a memo. Maybe Nyota's suggestion about taking some space wasn't such a bad one.