[ She drifts. She's no stranger to proving grounds: Starfleet Academy the latest in a long line of many. People look up a lot here, that's the difference. The romanticism of space and the enthusiasm of the other cadets feels a little wasted on her — Sonja's too familiar with the insides of shuttles, looking out into a fearsome void. Still. Freedom like that has appeal. She looks up more than she thought she would. Even after what the Narada does to their ranks, nobody is crushed. They grieve, they nurture new dreams, life goes on. ]
[ The Enterprise is the first time she's faced any kind of challenge. A single bed, a sole duty. She likes Kirk, he's good at speeches. Beta shift is winding down when she wanders into the room, the murmur of conversation low. ]
[ They're knee-deep in this. Bones hopes to hell that it's actually snow — it feels cold enough — but the local language doesn't seem to translate exactly. They pointed the crew here when she mentioned new flora with medicinal properties, what Bones isn't following exactly is why the dear captain sought to saddle her with the hobgoblin, of all people. She has her own tricorder, there doesn't need to be extra living commentary. ]
[ That better not have been something squelching under her boot. Christ. ]
[Poe knows he's a good student. His intellect has been as carefully-cultivated as the Force-sensitive tree that grew in the yard of his parents' house, back on Yavin IV, and he knows he's top of his class here on Earth, at Starfleet. It helps that he's so motivated to improve himself; apart from his piloting and navigation classes (which he could pass with his eyes closed, these are all concepts he learned at his mother's knee when he was still a child), his focus is more scientific, which means he has many classes taught by Professor Spock.
She's the first Vulcan he's ever met, and she fascinates him.
She's beautiful, just breathtakingly stunning, and her intellect... She's so smart, it's almost intimidating, but Poe is too fascinated to be frightened of her, and all he wants to do is to let her talk at him and just absorb everything that comes out of her mouth. Even the fact that she speaks in something close to a monotone and barely ever smiles isn't enough to put him off her. He likes to think that, after all these months of sitting in the front row of her classes, he's able to tell what she's feeling based on the angle of her eyebrows or the tightness of her mouth. He thinks she likes him. He's like almost a hundred percent sure she likes him. At least, she tolerates him far better than her other students, who she seems to view with a mixture of disappointment and impatience, like their inability to grasp the concepts she's teaching them is something they do to deliberately vex her.
It helps that they've started meeting after class, to discuss the coursework and to practice languages together. When she learned that he wasn't from Earth, that he actually came from a small moon in a remote corner of the Galaxy, and that Standard was his second language, she had asked him to teach her his native tongue. He'd been completely baffled, at first — nobody wants to learn Yaval, or Yavinese as they say in Standard, since it's an objectively useless language that doesn't get you anywhere outside the Yavin system — but he'd been so pleased to have an opportunity to hang out with her that he'd happily obliged.
Poe's fascination has almost completely morphed into a full-blown crush, and it's embarrassing, but he also enjoys it so much that he doesn't care.
He knocks once on Spock's half-open office door, and then pushes it open further so he can let himself in, a ritual that he's held on to since their first meeting outside of classroom hours.]
Professor. [He carefully places the plate he's been carrying on her desk, the small, round, sugar-dusted balls beneath the plastic wrap rolling about slightly and bumping into each other.] I brought you something. My abuelito's recipe. They're totally vegan, so...don't worry.
[Chewing his lip, a nervous habit he's never been able to break himself of, he throws himself into the chair opposite her and grins, waiting for her to take one of the fruit and nut and spices cookie he's made and taste it.]
[ It's been a little tough, going from confirmed bachelorhood to suddenly having a girlfriend he has to impress, but Leonard has done his best in the few weeks they've been stationed at Yorktown so far, waiting for the Enterprise to finish her repairs. He and Spock have gone out to dinner multiple times — all vegetarian, with only a minimum of grumbling from Leonard on the matter, who does actually understand the health benefits of cutting meat out of your diet, he just doesn't want to — they've gone to see a handful of films, none of them in Standard and none of them with any kind of linear plot he could follow, and they've even gone to see the symphony, which he enjoyed far more than he thought he would.
Dating again in his late thirties after not having done it for two decades was like getting back on a bicycle after not having touched one since you were seven years old. Doable, but nerve-racking.
It's also been far more fun than he was expecting. Needling Spock had always been a fun past time for him, but she's usually been more Jim's friend than his own, and getting to know her outside of work, away from the overwhelming shadow that Jim's personality casts has been, to borrow a term, fascinating. She's got a wickedly sharp sense of humor, an unsurprisingly biting wit, and although she hides it far better than he does, an equally short fuse when it comes to incompetence. She's also been, perhaps not surprisingly, incredibly tolerant of his insistence that they do this whole thing properly, as if they weren't somehow destined to be together and were instead two people who decided to make a go of things entirely of their own volition. Restraining himself to touching her fingers in the dark of the theater, or sliding his arm around her as they walk the many canals in the base, or kissing her (more or less) chastely at her door before leaving has been torturous, but apparently Leonard has a masochistic streak he's never explored, because he'd enjoyed the whole performance far more than he had anticipated.
That doesn't mean he wants it to go on forever, though. ]
Spock. [ He pulls his fingers free of the elaborate updo she'd twisted her hair into tonight, so different from the usual stark bun she's always worn on duty, and lifts his head to look at her properly, cataloging the slight green tinge to her cheeks and the swollen tenderness of her lower lip, licking his own unconsciously at the sight. He suddenly can't stand the thought of saying goodbye and walking back to his quarters, leaving her to take out her hair pins and strip down to meditate without him. ] Can I come in for coffee?
[ He's not quite sure how long he's been living here. He knows how long he remembers living here — three weeks, four days, some-odd hours — but that doesn't mean anything. He doesn't remember anything from before this house, and there's no evidence he was just dumped here so who knows.
It's a nice house, a farmhouse, set in the middle of rolling green fields that no longer house any real crops but are still beautiful to look at. The kitchen is large and airy, probably because what used to be the dining room has been absorbed into it, leaving space enough for a farmhouse table with a bench on one side and chairs on the other, with a door that leads out to the patio, and the living room at the front of the house is cozy but not cramped. Upstairs there are three bedrooms and a bathroom, with a clawfoot tub big enough for two if they squeezed in, and a free-standing shower in the corner. There's a barn about a thousand or so yards away, visible but not so close that it encroaches on the living situation, but there are no animals in the barn, either. Sometimes he feels like there should be horses, here. He thinks he knows how to ride a horse, but he has no evidence to support that theory. It's just like all the other theories he has but can't back up worth a damn.
He doesn't even know his name.
The woman is another constant he can't qualify. She doesn't know her name either, though he's taken to calling her Sarah, or Susan, or Shannon, neither of which feel correct but do in a pinch. She calls him Liam, and Lucas, and Lawrence. They don't remember each other, but he's comfortable around her, comfortable in a way that makes him feel like maybe they should know each other. Sometimes he wonders what they were to each other before this house, if anything. He wears a wedding ring but she doesn't. If they knew each other before, they certainly weren't married to each other. Was she his mistress? He would like to think that he isn't the type of man to cheat on his wife, but he doesn't know. The thoughts he has about her, snippets that could be memories or could be fantasies, shed no further light on the matter. He dreams of waking up curled around her, her body a warm line pressed to his chest; of the elegant curve of her neck bent as she looks down at something she's doing with her hands, her long black hair pulled back in a manner that only makes him want to lean forward and press his mouth to her skin; of her slender hands touching his wrist, touching his fingers, spreading wide across his chest. They're not quite innocent but they aren't explicit either, and the lack of answers is killing him.
At the beginning, he was more concerned with figuring out where they hell they were, and how they got there. He's a little alarmed to discover that those concerns are becoming less pressing with time, as he gets more and more distracted by the puzzle of his companion, of their quiet little life here. It's getting harder to keep himself from reaching out to her, sliding his fingers between hers or slipping his arm around her waist. It feels natural, those impulses, and it seems that he's always wanted to be a family man. He is married, after all. Maybe he has a house like this, somewhere, with a wife who's waiting for him and doesn't even know if he's alive. He should feel guiltier about that, that he's abandoned someone he promised to stay with forever, but he doesn't remember her. He does have Sarah, though. ]
Susan? [ he calls, stomping his feet a little as he enters through the back door, knocking the dirt off his boots before setting them aside and continuing through the house in just his socks. ] I brought groceries. Any progress on getting the phone to work?
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[ The Enterprise is the first time she's faced any kind of challenge. A single bed, a sole duty. She likes Kirk, he's good at speeches. Beta shift is winding down when she wanders into the room, the murmur of conversation low. ]
Morning. Care for a game?
[ She gestures to the 3-D chess board. ]
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[ They're knee-deep in this. Bones hopes to hell that it's actually snow — it feels cold enough — but the local language doesn't seem to translate exactly. They pointed the crew here when she mentioned new flora with medicinal properties, what Bones isn't following exactly is why the dear captain sought to saddle her with the hobgoblin, of all people. She has her own tricorder, there doesn't need to be extra living commentary. ]
[ That better not have been something squelching under her boot. Christ. ]
We aren't walking in circles?
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She's the first Vulcan he's ever met, and she fascinates him.
She's beautiful, just breathtakingly stunning, and her intellect... She's so smart, it's almost intimidating, but Poe is too fascinated to be frightened of her, and all he wants to do is to let her talk at him and just absorb everything that comes out of her mouth. Even the fact that she speaks in something close to a monotone and barely ever smiles isn't enough to put him off her. He likes to think that, after all these months of sitting in the front row of her classes, he's able to tell what she's feeling based on the angle of her eyebrows or the tightness of her mouth. He thinks she likes him. He's like almost a hundred percent sure she likes him. At least, she tolerates him far better than her other students, who she seems to view with a mixture of disappointment and impatience, like their inability to grasp the concepts she's teaching them is something they do to deliberately vex her.
It helps that they've started meeting after class, to discuss the coursework and to practice languages together. When she learned that he wasn't from Earth, that he actually came from a small moon in a remote corner of the Galaxy, and that Standard was his second language, she had asked him to teach her his native tongue. He'd been completely baffled, at first — nobody wants to learn Yaval, or Yavinese as they say in Standard, since it's an objectively useless language that doesn't get you anywhere outside the Yavin system — but he'd been so pleased to have an opportunity to hang out with her that he'd happily obliged.
Poe's fascination has almost completely morphed into a full-blown crush, and it's embarrassing, but he also enjoys it so much that he doesn't care.
He knocks once on Spock's half-open office door, and then pushes it open further so he can let himself in, a ritual that he's held on to since their first meeting outside of classroom hours.]
Professor. [He carefully places the plate he's been carrying on her desk, the small, round, sugar-dusted balls beneath the plastic wrap rolling about slightly and bumping into each other.] I brought you something. My abuelito's recipe. They're totally vegan, so...don't worry.
[Chewing his lip, a nervous habit he's never been able to break himself of, he throws himself into the chair opposite her and grins, waiting for her to take one of the fruit and nut and spices cookie he's made and taste it.]
sorry this took me so long friend
no need to apologize!!
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soulmate verse yeeeeaaahhhhh
Dating again in his late thirties after not having done it for two decades was like getting back on a bicycle after not having touched one since you were seven years old. Doable, but nerve-racking.
It's also been far more fun than he was expecting. Needling Spock had always been a fun past time for him, but she's usually been more Jim's friend than his own, and getting to know her outside of work, away from the overwhelming shadow that Jim's personality casts has been, to borrow a term, fascinating. She's got a wickedly sharp sense of humor, an unsurprisingly biting wit, and although she hides it far better than he does, an equally short fuse when it comes to incompetence. She's also been, perhaps not surprisingly, incredibly tolerant of his insistence that they do this whole thing properly, as if they weren't somehow destined to be together and were instead two people who decided to make a go of things entirely of their own volition. Restraining himself to touching her fingers in the dark of the theater, or sliding his arm around her as they walk the many canals in the base, or kissing her (more or less) chastely at her door before leaving has been torturous, but apparently Leonard has a masochistic streak he's never explored, because he'd enjoyed the whole performance far more than he had anticipated.
That doesn't mean he wants it to go on forever, though. ]
Spock. [ He pulls his fingers free of the elaborate updo she'd twisted her hair into tonight, so different from the usual stark bun she's always worn on duty, and lifts his head to look at her properly, cataloging the slight green tinge to her cheeks and the swollen tenderness of her lower lip, licking his own unconsciously at the sight. He suddenly can't stand the thought of saying goodbye and walking back to his quarters, leaving her to take out her hair pins and strip down to meditate without him. ] Can I come in for coffee?
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AMNESIA AU BC I HAVE NO SELF CONTROL
It's a nice house, a farmhouse, set in the middle of rolling green fields that no longer house any real crops but are still beautiful to look at. The kitchen is large and airy, probably because what used to be the dining room has been absorbed into it, leaving space enough for a farmhouse table with a bench on one side and chairs on the other, with a door that leads out to the patio, and the living room at the front of the house is cozy but not cramped. Upstairs there are three bedrooms and a bathroom, with a clawfoot tub big enough for two if they squeezed in, and a free-standing shower in the corner. There's a barn about a thousand or so yards away, visible but not so close that it encroaches on the living situation, but there are no animals in the barn, either. Sometimes he feels like there should be horses, here. He thinks he knows how to ride a horse, but he has no evidence to support that theory. It's just like all the other theories he has but can't back up worth a damn.
He doesn't even know his name.
The woman is another constant he can't qualify. She doesn't know her name either, though he's taken to calling her Sarah, or Susan, or Shannon, neither of which feel correct but do in a pinch. She calls him Liam, and Lucas, and Lawrence. They don't remember each other, but he's comfortable around her, comfortable in a way that makes him feel like maybe they should know each other. Sometimes he wonders what they were to each other before this house, if anything. He wears a wedding ring but she doesn't. If they knew each other before, they certainly weren't married to each other. Was she his mistress? He would like to think that he isn't the type of man to cheat on his wife, but he doesn't know. The thoughts he has about her, snippets that could be memories or could be fantasies, shed no further light on the matter. He dreams of waking up curled around her, her body a warm line pressed to his chest; of the elegant curve of her neck bent as she looks down at something she's doing with her hands, her long black hair pulled back in a manner that only makes him want to lean forward and press his mouth to her skin; of her slender hands touching his wrist, touching his fingers, spreading wide across his chest. They're not quite innocent but they aren't explicit either, and the lack of answers is killing him.
At the beginning, he was more concerned with figuring out where they hell they were, and how they got there. He's a little alarmed to discover that those concerns are becoming less pressing with time, as he gets more and more distracted by the puzzle of his companion, of their quiet little life here. It's getting harder to keep himself from reaching out to her, sliding his fingers between hers or slipping his arm around her waist. It feels natural, those impulses, and it seems that he's always wanted to be a family man. He is married, after all. Maybe he has a house like this, somewhere, with a wife who's waiting for him and doesn't even know if he's alive. He should feel guiltier about that, that he's abandoned someone he promised to stay with forever, but he doesn't remember her. He does have Sarah, though. ]
Susan? [ he calls, stomping his feet a little as he enters through the back door, knocking the dirt off his boots before setting them aside and continuing through the house in just his socks. ] I brought groceries. Any progress on getting the phone to work?
lmk if this doesn't work