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UNITED FEDERATION OF PLANETS

STARFLEET ACADEMY – IDENTIFICATION DIVISION

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⭓ NAME: DIANA BLAKE

⭓ SPECIES: HUMAN (TERRAN)

⭓ PRONOUNS: SHE / HER

⭓ HOME REGION: EARTH – UNITED KINGDOM

⭓ STATION: SAN FRANCISCO CAMPUS

⭓ ENROLLMENT ID: SFA-049-BLAKE-D

⭓ DIVISION: SCIENCES

⭓ FIELD: XENOANTHROPOLOGY / SECURITY THEORY

⭓ YEAR: THIRD

⭓ STATUS: ACTIVE

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ACADEMIC DISCIPLINE:

⭓ Primary Major: Xenoanthropology and Cultural Conflict Studies

⭓ Minor Track: Security Theory & Threat Pattern Analysis

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CERTIFICATIONS & SPECIALIZED TRAINING:

⭓ Threat Pattern Recognition

⭓ Intro to Security Tactics & First Contact Risk Scenarios

⭓ Applied Empathy in Hostile Cultures

⭓ Nonverbal Communication & Species-Specific Tension Responses

⭓ Federation Diplomatic Archives – Research Assistant (2nd Year)

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ACADEMIC PROFILE & PSYCHOLOGICAL ASSESSMENT:

Cadet Blake displays high perceptual acuity and consistent performance in cultural pattern analysis and soft-security modeling.

Though not assertive by nature, she possesses an intuitive understanding of sociopolitical tension and is frequently the first to recognize emotional or environmental precursors to conflict.

Notable emotional empathy markers; Blake has been unofficially credited with de-escalating multiple cadet disputes, often without direct authority.

Cadet is emotionally self-aware but prone to internalizing stress. Recommends proactive support placement, preferably in middle-visibility critical roles.

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MENTOR RELATIONSHIP:

Dr. Leonard H. McCoy, CMO (USS Enterprise, NX-1701-K)

Note: Informal mentorship observed following ethics seminar incident.

⭓ Cadet Blake is noted to possess rare compatibility with Dr. McCoy's communication style and behavioral thresholds.

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FIELD RECOMMENDATION (PRELIMINARY):

⭓ Cultural Liaison Division

⭓ First Contact Risk Analysis

⭓ Soft Security / Diplomatic Crisis Prevention

⭓ Trauma Response Support – Non-Combat Field Assignments

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AUTHORIZED ACCESS LEVEL: CADET 3A

— ACCESS GRANTED: LIBRARY ARCHIVES, ANTHROPOLOGY LABS,

SIMULATION BAY 4B, FIELD DIPLOMACY SCENARIOS,

RESTRICTED READING – CULTURAL COLLAPSE FILES

BLOOD TYPE: O+ | ALLERGIES: NONE

EMERGENCY CONTACT: REGISTERED – STARFLEET MEDICAL

ISSUED: STARDATE 2261.132

CONFIRMED: Cmdr. Yurova, Sciences Faculty

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Chapter Text

Thank you so much for coming to read this fic! Uploads will be varied but consistent, and any delays will be communicated through my profile. Although my knowledge is good for Star Trek, if I miss something vital/you think is needed, please let me know in the comments! Please vote and review as you go along x

The summer was finally nearing its end, the sun dipping lower and lower each night into a cool calm, when I returned to San Francisco to begin my third year at Starfleet Academy. Returning to the US was a lengthy journey, and my back had begun to ache when I finally boarded the shuttle, happy to finally be away from the Maglev trains.

Sitting down in an empty seat, I double-checked the worn brown leather duffle bag that I'd stashed in a cramped compartment and plugged in my headphones as the pre-flight briefings began. I'd already heard them numerous times and could of recited them word-for-word by now.

The smooth notes of vintage music hit my eardrums as the shuttle took off, and I closed my eyes. Returning to the academy was the easy part, but leaving my family for another year was always a struggle. My childhood home, surrounded by grassy meadows and undisturbed by technology, would always be my safe place. Walls lined with countless books, the dusty and untuned grand piano that was only used to hold family photographs, and the endless amount of cat fur that appeared on my jeans. My family, although not perfect, made the house a welcomed place to study, write applications and to further my education.

By no means was I a genius, but the late nights spent hunched over textbooks and numerous cups of tea really helped get me through school until I could take the Starfleet Academy Entrance Exams.

I feel like most people found the exams decently challenging, maybe even a little easy depending on their chosen topic to specialize in. I sadly, found the exams so insanely stressful that even taking long walks outside didn't help. When the tea had stopped calming my nerves and helping me sleep, my mother had actually sat me down for an intervention - asking if I was sure that I wanted to go through with my application.

What she didn't know, was that Starfleet was the only thing I had wanted to do for my whole life. From my pre-teen years, when I would look up at the stars and dream about being amongst them, to having friends that had travelled far and wide and could tell the best stories, and finally understanding that I had wanted a career that I not only enjoyed, but slightly excelled in.

'Xenoanthropology and Cultural Conflict Studies' - A specialization recommended to me by my history professor after I had finished my High School Exams a few years ago. I was always a quiet learner, never wanting to overstep and take control of questions or others opinions. Instead I studied my peers, and the way their eyes would light up when they disagreed with a statement, or how when studying fading democracies and governments, people would get confused at the reasonings behind it. I was never confused about the factors. It was always the same few things: a clash in cultures, miscommunication in politics, environmental changes, technological advancements, and war. No matter if the species was human or alien, the factors never really changed. It was a beautifully tragic similarity that spanned the galaxy.

The shuttle rumbled and groaned as it accelerated through the last remnants of the city, leaving the towering skyscrapers and out into the open ocean. The next 40 minutes would go quickly, as I reflected over the past 2 years of my studies.

My first year of Starfleet Academy was spent meticulously learning all the routes to my classes - how long it would take to get there if my alarm clock failed, and if I could find quick shortcuts through the campus to find a hot cup of tea or hot chocolate in the cooler months. I had also tried my damndest to make friends, and had finally succeeded with my roommate, T'Lia.

T'Lia had provided a welcomed layer of friendship, our first interaction being the day we had been assigned as roommates. I had finally dragged most of my belongings through the door, stumbling over an untied shoelace, when a straight-backed girl had turned towards me.

She was standing beside her bed - claimed hours ago by the looks of it - in perfect stillness, her hands folded behind her back, uniform pristine.

"You are Cadet Blake," the girl said. Not a question.

"I suppose I am," I replied cheerfully, setting my bag down gently on the opposite bed. "And you?"

"T'Lia. Of Shi'Kahr. I have reviewed your Academy file. Your academic focus is... niche, but intellectually commendable."

I blinked.

"Thank you... I think?"

I extended a hand toward her, then hesitated - pulling back the moment I noticed the subtle point of her ears peeking through her chestnut hair.

She didn't seem offended. Instead, she gave me a small, respectful nod.

"We are to be roommates."

The following weeks from our first interaction consisted of quiet mornings, a few hellos as we spotted each other around campus, and a lengthy catch up at the end of most evenings. I discovered that T'Lia didn't play music, didn't pace, didn't even talk to herself. The room was always clean, quiet, and perfectly still - a sanctuary for the occupants who liked to think in the spaces between noise.

What surprised me the most was how often T'Lia seemed to wait for me - to ask about my day, or at least acknowledge it with a slight incline of the head. With the lack of Vulcans at the Academy, mainly due to their preference in keeping to the Vulcan Science Academy, it seemed like as much as I felt like an outcast, T'Lia actually was. People were wary around Vulcans, mainly for their ability in being bluntly honest with no filter or regard for niceties. Either it was divine intervention, or someone playing a bizarre joke: that the nervous human cadet and her Vulcan roommate would become the best of friends. They do say opposites attract.

"You appear fatigued," T'Lia noted one late evening. "I have read that humans benefit from discussing the cause of their exhaustion."

"Is that an invitation to vent?" I smiled at her, my hands clasped around a steaming cup of herbal tea.

T'Lia's eyebrows irked upwards. "It is simply a data-gathering exercise."

I chuckled, sipping from my cup. "Ah, same thing really."

We'd fallen into a perfect routine of eating dinner within the Mess Hall - the occasional textbook or PADD thrown open to current coursework - eating quickly and quietly, before returning to our dormitory and settling into the evening to discuss new theories, or failing to pin her down to watch the latest episode of the newest shitty tv show.

T'Lia was studying Exolinguistics & Symbolic Logic, minoring in Federation Law, subjects that not only scared me by how hard it actually was, but by how easy T'Lia made it look. She flew through the curriculum with precision, always having extra time to take up extra credit and courses.

With our first year at the Academy spent in a relaxed routine, our second year was the complete opposite. My then-minor anxiety had skyrocketed when we were given our official coursework that would count towards our yearly mark. For the life of me, I took one look at the assignment titled "Memory, Displacement, and the Ethics of Federation Response", and almost threw up in our dormitory bathroom. In a burst of panic, I had practically dragged T'Lia onto our shared couch, begging her to help me figure out the best way to approach it.

T'Lia, to her credit, suggested I start with researching the survivors of the Mars Colony Attacks, or if I wanted to think more outside of the box, maybe the Ankaran Moonfall Incident. I had nodded so much in agreement, if not slight annoyance that I hadn't come to the same obvious conclusions, that T'Lia had to nudge another cup of herbal tea into my hands in the hopes it would redirect me.

The research on both case studies took days, and my right hand cried out when I picked up my pen to round off the section. My Second-Year Professor, Commander Arakelian, was an old-fashioned man who loved to rile up his students by asking for all coursework to be hand written and only in a specific ink.

We always had a mix of great and shitty professors, but I had hoped that the advancements in technology would've saved my hand from hours of penmanship. The only instructor that had truly supported me was Dr. Leonard McCoy, a Senior Medical Officer and an Academy alumni who had returned to teach for a few years. T'Lia had suggested I look for a seminar to sit in on, and we had found Dr. McCoy's session on "Medical Ethics in Refugee and Disaster Response". Sitting in the lecture hall was a nice change to my uncomfortable desk chair, and the room was a hectic blur of medical, trauma, and security cadets. Luckily, I had snagged a seat at the back of the room, and was sipping a pre-made cup of peppermint tea, when the doors groaned open and a man holding a stack of papers and a very large cup of coffee, stalked down the stairs. He was late by 10 minutes and looked like he hadn't slept, dark circles holding his piercing blue eyes up as he scanned the room behind a crowded desk.

Cutting through the positive buzz of cadets, he spoke in a gruff, southern voice.

"In a standard scenario you will be handed a medkit and told to 'de-escalate' a crisis. Can anyone tell me what this means?"

A few students put their hands up, a few spoke out directly. It seemed that none got the answer right, as Dr McCoy spoke again.

"Does anyone know?" The room continued its quiet hush, the participants whispering amongst themselves to find the right answer.

The doctor groaned. "It means doing your job while someone screams in a language you don't speak and a child dies behind you, because you're the only one with a functioning hypospray."

A few quiet gasps rang out, and most cadets looked away. But I couldn't peel my eyes off him. The man in front of me, as untactile as he was at bedside mannerisms, was realistic in a way I hadn't seen in years. I was glued to his intellect - how he was brutally honest about when the right time was to inform relatives about medical events, or what to do when a certain culture will not let medical professionals help those that would die without assistance, due to their beliefs.

By the end of the seminar, my jaw was practically on the floor and my PADD was crammed full of notes on the "Federation's tendency to over-medicalize trauma without emotional continuity". The urge to ask questions would have driven me mad, but as I didn't want to interject or speak up, I waited until the cadets had filled out of the hall before walking up to the desk and introducing myself.

"Doctor McCoy?"

The man glanced up from where he was collecting various papers.

"Let me guess - you're here to challenge something I said about triage protocols?"

I smiled faintly. "No, actually. I just wanted to say thank you. You said a few things that... landed. I'm writing a paper on trauma in displaced colonies. I think I'm going to quote you, if that's alright?"

The doctor eyed me curiously. 

"Huh. Most cadets quote textbooks." He shook his head. "You don't sound like you're from around here."

"The coast of Norfolk. It's erm- near London."

He smiled then, seemingly impressed.

"Knew I picked up on something under all that Starfleet polish. That's a long way to come to listen to an old man rant about memory and moral fatigue."

I shook my head. "I don't mind the ranting. It's honest. Rare, around here."

McCoy slid a paperclip into a large pile of paper, and tapped their edges on the desk's surface.

"Careful, Cadet. You start appreciating honesty and next thing you know, they'll have you running ethics seminars in ten years."

He reached out for his now empty coffee cup, slotting it into the gap in his elbow next to the papers, before turning his full attention onto me. 

"Send me that paper when it's done. I'd rather read something human than another damned breakdown of Vulcan memory suppression techniques."

I chortled before realizing what he'd said. 

"Wait, really?"

"You've got a decent eye. You actually listen. That's rarer than honesty, these days."

He tipped his head in a half nod of farewell, before turning to head out the door.

"And for the record - the UK does a better cup of tea than anything in the mess hall. Don't let 'em ruin your standards."

From then on, I had the pleasure of sitting in on a few guest talks by the Doctor, all of them littered with sarcasm, dry wit, and a strangely brutal empathy. My paper "The Silent Aftermath: Psychological and Cultural Displacement in Post-Crisis Civilian Populations", received outstanding marks much to my surprise. I ended up sending Dr. McCoy the final version and had received his response 12 hours later:

FROM: Dr. Leonard McCoy
TO: Cadet Diana Blake
SUBJECT: RE: The Silent Aftermath

Blake,

Read it over breakfast. Nearly choked on my eggs when you quoted me as if I was being profound.

That said - good work. Clean, honest, no unnecessary dramatics. You actually gave a damn, which is more than I can say for half the command-track cadets around here.

You've got an eye for what people don't say. Keep using it.

And if anyone in admin asks, I did not encourage you to challenge the Academy's cultural intervention policies.

- McCoy

P.S. If you're going to write like this, you may as well learn to write for briefing reports. Stop by MedBay next week - I'll show you how to cut fluff without cutting heart.

With a glorious mixture of nerves and curiosity, I did indeed stop at MedBay the following week, and spent the few hours left of that afternoon filled with going through Mission Logs and re-writing them to form coherent lines. The hum of diagnostic machines and the occasional hiss of sterilization gates held the silence between us both. 

We worked well together: he never pressured, I never pretended, and somewhere between rewriting trauma reports and late-afternoon MedBay debriefs, I started asking him questions - not about field protocols or briefing formats, but about medicine itself. Anatomy, neurochemical responses, why grief left some people exhausted and others electric. McCoy never made a fuss about it. Just answered, like it made sense that I'd want to know. 

My foundational knowledge in xenospecies grew, and so did my confidence. Dr. McCoy became a reliable and quietly grounding presence in the months that followed, with us both meeting after classes to discuss case studies and new - albeit slightly classified - mission reports. I would ask questions about why panic presents as aggression in sub-species, to understand what pain looks like in every shape it takes. The Doctor would return the favour with helping to shape my emotional clarity into practical tools - debrief strategies, response techniques, ways to communicate across language and trauma.

To my family, I had appeared to become an academic weapon. To me, I was plain-old Diana, maybe with a smidge more confidence in myself and my capabilities. But I still battled with bouts of anxiety and low self-esteem, not wanting to be overly assertive with debates in class.

To my utter surprise, by the end of my second year at the Academy, McCoy had start to keep a tin of peppermint tea in one of the overhead cabinets. He never mentioned it, and I never asked. It just started appearing sometime after my third visit to MedBay, after I muttered once - half-asleep and post-simulation - that I couldn't think straight without it. I'd never seen him drink it himself. He was a black coffee and bourbon man through and through. But every time I showed up, the tin was there - quiet, unfussy, and waiting next to the diagnostic hyposprays like it had always been there. I never thanked him directly. He never looked at me when he filled the kettle - yes, he had also found the necessary equipment, muttering about how it the only way to brew a proper cup of tea. And somehow, throughout all of it, that little paper packet said more than most people managed in an entire debrief. 

I was eternally grateful for my roommate and mentor, and was incredibly eager to see them again.

A violent shudder crept through the cabin of the shuttle as it hit turbulence. We were starting to enter US airspace, leaving only minutes before arriving at the Spacedock in San Francisco. I didn't hate flying, in fact I found it a great time to think about upcoming classes, but the turbulence was something I could never get used to. An alarm went off in the cabin, signaling our descent. I softly gripped the cuffs of my cadet uniform, already missing the worn-down jumpers that I'd had to leave behind. Taking deep breaths, I watched through the small cabin windows as we landed, the sun poking through the buildings that surrounded the dock. 

Once the shuttle had confirmed it was safe to depart, the doors slid open. The heat crept into the air conditioned haven we'd just spent the last hour in, making me miss home even more. 

I walked out of the shuttle and into the Golden Gate Spacedock - a high, shining terminal shaped like a curve of glass and steel, bracing the wind above the bay. Everything moved with quiet precision. I followed the stream of travelers through the terminal, half-distracted by the way the floors gleamed and the city pulsed just beyond the wide windows.

From there, I took one of the intra-city transit pods - compact and humming with silent efficiency. Starfleet ran them directly between the Spacedock and the Academy, no room for detours. I chose a window seat near the back and didn't bother pretending not to stare.

We passed over the rooftops of Old San Francisco - those faded Victorian shapes caught between modern towers and climbing greenery. I caught flashes of mural-covered walkways, solar panels, and little cafés that somehow still looked like they belonged in a black-and-white film. The sea came into view - grey, endless, and familiar in a way I hadn't expected.

And there it was.

The Golden Gate Bridge, modernized but still unmistakable: strong lines, red steel, and lit underneath like a recently discovered lost wonder of the world. We passed over it slowly, and beyond the far cliffs, the Academy finally revealed itself: all white stone and clean architecture, rising from green lawns and shaded walkways like it had grown there on purpose.

I saw the parade ground first - cadets in crisp uniforms walking in clusters, running drills, heads bent over PADDs, voices low and purposeful. Flags snapped in the breeze. Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang - low, steady, ceremonial.

Stepping off the pod at the base platform, I adjusted my bag, and let the familiarity settle over me. I knew the path to the dorms. I knew where the quiet corners were in the library. I knew which lecture halls echoed too much when you asked questions you weren't supposed to.

But this year I knew more than just the map. I knew who I was walking back in as.

The dormitories smelled exactly the same - cleaner, filtered air, a little too much starch in the bedding, and the subtle hum of the environmental systems running under the floor. The lights always adjusted half a second too late. T'Lia once claimed it was a design flaw. I still suspected it was on purpose, some behavioral psychology test no one bothered to mention.

Our door accepted my code with a soft chime and slid open.

The inside was neat. Sparsely decorated. Predictably symmetrical. My side, left untouched, save for the folded blankets T'Lia had likely re-aligned at some point over the summer break. Her half was still pristine, datapads stacked with impossible precision. There was a new orchid near the window. Pale green, just blooming.

I dropped my bag on the edge of my bed and let the stillness settle.

Then I pulled out my PADD.

ACADEMY SCHEDULE – TERM 3, DAY 1

- Xenoanthropological Research Methodologies – 0830

- Federation Ethics and Cultural Intervention – 1000

- Applied Empathy in First Contact Simulations – 1300

- Independent Study: Emotional Suppression in Diplomatically Compliant Species (Approved)

Adviser: Dr. Leonard McCoy

I blinked.

Then tapped the notification icon glowing faintly at the top of the screen.

1 NEW MESSAGE – McCoy, L.

Blake,

You've been approved for independent study. Don't let the title scare you - just means you'll be writing things that matter and arguing with me about it once a week. Office hours are flexible if you bring coffee. I still don't do formal mentorships, and I still think the ethics department needs a boot to the head.

It's good to have you back.

– McCoy

P.S. Try not to quote me in anything that gets published. I don't need the brass reading about my bedside manner.

I read it twice. Not because I didn't understand it, but because it felt a little like being handed something warm after standing in the cold too long. Like he had known I might struggle this year, and knew exactly what I needed.

I glanced across the room toward the orchid. T'Lia wouldn't be back until tomorrow.

So I made tea. Peppermint. And sat by the window, the PADD in my lap, the Academy stretching quiet and bright outside.

Third year.

It was already starting to feel like something I'd remember.

Chapter Text

The dormitory door hissed open at 06:47, which, for the record, was thirteen minutes earlier than T'Lia's projected arrival and a full hour before I intended to be conscious.

I was still tangled in my blanket, one leg dangling off the edge of the bed, my PADD wedged under my shoulder from where I'd fallen asleep mid-schedule review. The lights in the room adjusted automatically, dimming up with a soft chime I usually found calming - except when it was this ungodly early.

I cracked one eye open to find T'Lia already placing a new orchid on her windowsill, her duffel at her feet, boots perfectly aligned, uniform pressed within an inch of its life. Her hair was pulled back in that usual braid that made her look vaguely mythological, ears as pointy as ever.

"Good morning," she said without looking at me.

"I'm asleep," I mumbled into my pillow.

"That is illogical," she replied. "You are speaking."

I groaned and flopped fully onto my back, hair in my mouth, dried drool hanging off my chin. "Did your transport beam you straight into the morning dimension?"

She turned slightly, just enough to raise one eyebrow at me. "The pod was punctual. I anticipated morning disarray."

I squinted at her. "Did you... plan for my morning disarray?"

"It was statistically inevitable."

She crossed the room with serene efficiency and placed something gently on my desk - a cup of peppermint tea, steam pouring off the surface. Probably bribery.

"I dislike being late," she said mildly. "You have class in ninety minutes."

I sat up slowly, bones protesting, hair a disaster, eyes still fighting to stay closed. But I reached for the tea anyway, warming my hands against the delicate china. "You know, some people ease into the day."

"Diana, it is a Tuesday. There is no logic in easing."

By the time I'd showered, re-braided my hair, and forced myself into my uniform, T'Lia had already reviewed her entire schedule, synced her PADD, filed a course waiver, and memorized two passages from Federation Ethics Vol. IV.

I tied my boots on the wrong feet the first time.

By 07:40, the hallway outside our dorm was already buzzing - voices too bright for the hour, cadets reuniting in half-hugs and tired handshakes. Someone down the corridor was playing Andorian string music through a cracked-open door. I let my hand drift across the wall as we walked, just to keep myself grounded in something real.

T'Lia walked beside me, perfectly aligned with my pace, her silence never awkward. She didn't talk in the mornings unless something needed to be said. I appreciated that more than I ever told her.

The mess hall hadn't changed. Same smooth floor, same overhead lighting tuned slightly too cool, same food dispensers humming with polite Federation efficiency. The line wasn't long yet. T'Lia selected a bowl of spiced grains and what looked suspiciously like kelp. I got my usual: toast, protein jelly, and a cup of coffee that looked strong enough to knock out a Klingon.

We sat by the window, overlooking the early fog rolling in off the bay. It was almost peaceful.

Almost.

I tapped my PADD open again, watching my schedule blink back at me in clean blue type:

0830 – Xenoanthropological Research Methodologies

1000 – Federation Ethics and Cultural Intervention

1300 – Applied Empathy in First Contact Simulations

1600 – Independent Study – Emotional Suppression in Diplomatically Compliant Species (Adviser: McCoy)

The last one made my stomach churn with nerves - what topics would the Doctor cover this semester, and what if I couldn't manage to keep up?

"You are frowning at your screen," T'Lia said, gently spooning her breakfast without looking up.

"Just thinking," I said. "I'm being mentored by McCoy again this semester, the session title he approved looks quite scary."

She nodded once. "Your expression suggests ambivalence, yet your cortisol levels imply anticipation."

I looked at her over the rim of my cup. "That's Vulcan for 'you're nervous and weirdly excited,' isn't it?"

"Precisely."

We finished in silence after that. She walked me to the main promenade, then peeled off toward the diplomatic studies wing without ceremony.

"Lunch?" I offered, calling out to her.

She looked back behind her shoulder. "If your class does not run over."

"It's empathy, T'Lia, not security drills."

She gave me a nod that was somewhere between approval and threat. "Then I will expect punctuality."

And just like that, she disappeared into the wave of cadets.

Okay, Diana, time to be an adult.

I tightened my grip on my bag and turned toward the anthropology wing, coffee still warming my fingers. It didn't have a scratch on tea, but it would have to do. Desperate times and all that.

Lecture Hall 4B smelled faintly of old stone and polished screens. Clean, academic, sterile in that oddly comforting way - a space too dignified for chaos, too small for comfort. I'd sat in this room before, twice last year. Once for Ethics in Intercultural Relations, and once for the mid-semester meltdown where half of us forgot the difference between symbolic inversion and narrative displacement.

I of course, ran to McCoy for advice, and his only solution was to pour a large glass of bourbon and asked me to open my textbook. I admit, the man came through in the end, and we ended up drunk and giggling over a typo.

Today, the chairs felt smaller.
Or maybe I'd grown.

There were only fifteen of us, seated in a half-moon curve around the center console where a holographic globe flickered gently with rotating planetary bios. I recognized three cadets from last year, one from first year, and the rest were new - quiet, alert, PADDs out and blinking.

I chose a seat near the middle, not too close, not too far back. The sweet spot. The one where I could vanish when I needed to, and speak when I had to.

The instructor, Commander Ralos, entered two minutes early. Betazoid, sharp-eyed, wore her silver-streaked hair in a crown braid, and never bothered with greetings. She walked straight to the console, touched one glowing point on the display, and the globe scattered into dozens of planetary fragments, each labeled with a Federation glyph.

Her eyes scanned the room, looking around at the students she was to tutor this semester.

"Xenoanthropological Research Methodologies," she said. Her voice was low, clipped, not unkind - just efficient. "This course will teach you how to observe without interfering, how to study without simplifying, and how to write without erasure."

Several cadets stiffened at that. Luckily, I remained intact, fingers still interlocked around my cup.

"If you are here to catalogue, you are in the wrong room. We do not take specimens. In this room, we build understanding. If you cannot sit in silence and listen - truly listen - to a culture you cannot explain, this is not the work for you."

I felt my spine straighten without it meaning to.

She tapped a few more keys on her console, and a new projection appeared: a cultural map of T'Varas IV, divided into social regions, linguistic branches, and political spheres.

"Your first assignment of this semester," she announced, "is to draft a proposal for long-term field study of a society with active internal conflict. You will choose one region, one tension point, and one methodology."

She looked around the room again, gaze landing briefly - and maybe intentionally - on me.

"Real research isn't about the answers. It's about asking questions that matter."

Commander Ralos nodded in my direction with a subtle, knowing smile before returning to the projection, directing questions towards the newer cadets in the class. If I hadn't known any better, I would have said that a certain medical instructor was blabbing about my aptitude in asking the right questions at the right time.

Oh the irony - as a cadet that never liked asking questions unless I was truly confident that it was the right question.

By the end of class, I had three pages of scattered notes, a half-formed research idea involving linguistic taboos during planetary conflict, and a vague feeling that I might cry if anyone asked me to explain what an "immersive methodology" meant before noon. I'd have to rank the first class back a steady 6/10.

Commander Ralos dismissed us without ceremony, just a curt nod and a warning:

"Don't choose a people if you're only interested in their pain. Curiosity without context is violence."

No pressure there then.

I took a deep, long-awaited breath, rolled my shoulders out from stress, and quickly walked across campus toward my next lecture: Federation Ethics and Cultural Intervention.

A different beast entirely.

The new instructor, Lieutenant Gennar, a Deltan with a too-soothing voice and the eerie ability to quote from any Council session of the last 100 years - approached the subject like law wrapped in silk. We debated the Prime Directive before the first ten minutes were out. I mostly listened, sat in the back again and keep a steady stream of notes going to avoid meeting the gaze of the Lieutenant, who was attempting to ask questions to every single person in the room.

One cadet tried to argue that pre-warp societies "could benefit from selective guidance." Gennar didn't raise her voice, but by the end of her response, the poor girl looked like she wanted to crawl under her chair and live there.

Maybe the following week would be the time I spoke up a bit more. First though, I wanted to work out who was the most talkative, the most likely to argue a point and who I could ally with for class notes.

By midday, I was starving.

The mess hall buzzed with the usual rhythm of lunch hour - cadets weaving between tables, trays clicking onto metal counters, the scent of replicated spices clinging to the air like a challenge. I grabbed a seat by the window with two bowls of rice and whatever the protein of the day was pretending to be. T'Lia arrived moments later, with her usual impossible calm and a tray so organized it looked like a science experiment. 

We didn't speak at first. Just the comfort of chewing and glancing over our schedules side by side, each of us pretending we weren't already apprehensive about the remainder of the year.

I scanned the room. Cadets of all years crowded around tiny tables, most of them already buried in their PADDs and food. Quiet conversations and laughter echoed around the space.

Near the far corner of the mess, just inside the faculty section, a group of instructors stood in a loose cluster. I recognized Dr. McCoy immediately, his coat half-open, coffee in one hand, gesturing with the other like whatever he was saying needed dramatic accompaniment. He looked mildly irritated, which wasn't unusual. What was unusual was the man he was talking to.

Tall. Black uniform. Perfect posture. Vulcan.
Completely unbothered by the volume of the human beside him.

"Who's that?" I asked around a mouthful of food.

T'Lia didn't look up. "Commander Spock. Captain Pike's new science officer. Also one of the principal lecturers in Symbolic Logic and First Contact Frameworks. You will likely cross paths."

McCoy was still mid-rant, though Spock's face didn't change. Not even a blink. It was like watching a storm throw itself against a cliff.

"They look like they hate each other," I chuckled.

"They do not," T'Lia replied.

"...Are you sure?"

She paused, then blinked once - dry, unhurried. "If they did, they would not eat lunch together."

I opened my mouth, trying to think of a rebuttal but couldn't come up with one. Stupid anxiety and overthinking. I sighed outwards in final agreement with T'Lia, returning to my class notes and pretended not to second-guess every sentence of my morning proposal draft.

By the time I left the mess hall and agreed to see T'Lia in the evening, the sun had burned through most of the morning fog and turned the white walls of the anthropology complex a brilliant gold. My third class of the day, Applied Empathy in First Contact Simulations, was held in a mirrored chamber that pulsed with soft lights and the quiet hum of low-level environmental simulation fields. The kind of room built to feel like nothing, so that it could become anything.

I had sat down in an empty seat that surrounded the outer shell of the room, leaving a hollow space in the center.

A loud exclamation echoed from my right shoulder, revealing a tall, amused Andorian Cadet who was perched on the chair next to me.

"Oh," he said, grinning, "you're the one who de-escalated that Hazari refugee scenario last year. With the projection misfire? That was you, right?"

I blinked, caught off guard. "That was me, yes."

I peeled my eyes away to scan the room. Everyone had already partnered up and were talking amongst themselves. No one was coming to rescue me.

"Hell of a move," he said, clearly unbothered by the fact that we hadn't even introduced ourselves yet. "Thought you were gonna get yourself thrown out for overriding the sim protocols, but nope - clean, smart, totally unexpected. You got guts."

"I got a formal warning," I sheepishly replied, my mind flitting back to the day in question.

He laughed, booming and shameless. "Yeah, but you won. Technically. The instructors were scrambling for an excuse to mark you down without making themselves look bad."

I released a breathy laugh. "And you are?"

"Rekk Thar. Security track. Third year, like you." He extended a hand without hesitation. I shook it. His grip was firm, but not crushing. "Also known as the guy who once tried to talk down a Klingon hostage-taker by offering him a bottle of Saurian brandy. Didn't work, but made a good story."

I couldn't help the smile tugging at the edge of my mouth. "It's nice to meet you Rekk. I'm Diana Blake, Xenoanthropology and Cultural Conflict Track. I think I read the report on that situation."

"Oh, don't read the report. I sound like a moron in the report." He leaned back, arms crossed. "Anyway, I call dibs on approach strategy if this turns combative. I've got a sixth sense for hostile posture."

"If I read it right, you also nearly misread a Ferengi mourning chant as a war song last semester," I said, grabbing a bottle of water out of my satchel and taking a small sip.

"Hey! That wasn't a misread - that chant was aggressive! Just emotionally aggressive."

I laughed louder this time. "Ah yes. Of course."

Rekk tapped the simulation console, giving me a sideways smile. "So what's your style, Blake? You lead with feelings or with your Federation handbook?"

I looked at him then, my mind calm and steady for once -  like my body already knew that I didn't need to panic around him.

"I lead with listening."

He blinked. Then nodded, surprisingly thoughtful.

"Oh Diana," he said, his smirk growing bigger this time. "You might actually be dangerous."

I laughed, and turned my attention towards our instructor, Commander Surin, who had begun to greet the class.

The room was split into pairs, with our task of the day set as analyzing historic first contact footage and responding in real time to role-played encounters. The Commander didn't believe in grading emotional intelligence, but he did believe in accountability - a reassuring feeling opposed to some of my previous instructors, who couldn't understand why I would wait and watch during scenarios, and then decide on my strategies when I was 100% confident.

Clearly today was not a day for patience, as I got dinged once for overstepping, once for hesitating, and once for softening my voice too much with a simulated Tellarite negotiator.

Rekk didn't say anything at first. He just leaned forward, elbows on knees, watching the replay with the same kind of sharp, narrow-eyed focus I'd seen in cadets three days out from their first tactical assessment.

"That was a good pull on the pause," he said finally, nudging the console back toward me. "But the Tellarite went silent at exactly the moment you deferred - that's dominance to them. You gave it away."

"I was trying to show I wasn't a threat."

"You didn't," he said cheerfully. "You were a chew toy."

I narrowed my eyes, but there was no sting behind his tone. Just a friendly bluntness.

The next simulation began quickly. This one was archival: a poorly documented first contact on a Class-M moon, two Federation envoys caught in a diplomatic standoff with a matriarchal caste system. The room flickered around us into a basic holo-environment, a sun-bleached courtyard, stone walls, tall figures watching us with blank, violet eyes.

Rekk's posture changed immediately. Upright, shoulders relaxed, alert but not tense.

I waited half a beat longer than I should have before engaging, trying to read the lead figure's slow blink, the way her hands stayed folded in front of her but her head tilted subtly toward the second envoy.

"Her second-in-command hasn't spoken yet," I whispered.

"Her second-in-command is armed," Rekk replied, just as quiet.

We spoke together then, overlapping slightly.

"Respectful greeting from the United Federation of Planets-"

"We approach with no challenge-"

The figures stared.

A chime sounded. The scenario paused.

Commander Surin's voice cut through the simulation.

"You're out of sync, Cadets. Try again."

Rekk glanced at me. "You lead with this one, Diana."

I hesitated for just a breath, then nodded.

The simulation resumed.

I stepped forward slowly, hands visible, chin slightly dipped. "We apologize for any perceived conflict in our arrival. We're simply here to learn."

This time, the matriarch responded. A short, clipped sentence in untranslated dialect.

The translation filtered in a few seconds later: "Your male second spoke first upon your introduction. You insult our order."

Well damn, okay.

I turned to Rekk. He shrugged.

"Want me to bow or something?" he whispered.

"No. Don't speak unless they address you directly."

"You're bossy when you're in charge."

"I'm accurate," I hissed, wanting to get this right.

The simulation played out slower after that. We recalibrated. Rekk played the silent bodyguard with surprising discipline. I navigated the matriarch's objections, translated layered meanings in her posture, and resisted the overwhelming urge to over-apologize.

When the simulation ended, Surin gave a single approving nod. No praise. No penalty.

We both knew that was a win.

As the lights returned to their natural setting, I sat back down in my chair, catching my breath. Rekk stretched beside me, arms over his head, antennae lazily adjusting.

"Not bad, Blake."

"Likewise, Thar."

He grinned. "I can already tell we're gonna drive each other nuts."

I smiled at him. "Most effective partnerships do, but we might as well use that to our advantage."

The rest of the class was spent watching other pairs of cadets battling and negotiating with different species, both of us hunched over the console and making small comments about tactics and strategies. I kept a steady eye on each pair of my peers, how their eyes would flash with alarm or panic whenever they got agitated with a scenario and inevitably got the solution wrong. I couldn't out-right confess to Rekk about my fondness for watching people's behaviors, that would seem too weird on our first meeting, but it told me everything there was to know about a person - sometimes it was far greater than anything I could learn in a shitty textbook.

When the clock on the wall eventually chimed, signaling the end of the class, Rekk turned and offered his hand again.

"I'm looking forward to working with you in this class, Cadet Blake."

I gave him a small smile, returning his offer of a handshake.

"You too, Cadet Thar."

A warm feeling flooded my body. I had made another friend, and on the first day back. Most people wouldn't call it a win, as this was a normal part of their lives. But for me, introverted and anxious, this was a definite win.

We filed out of the room and into the bustling streams of cadets. I nodded goodbye to Cadet Thar, who in turn smiled and jogged over to a group of cadets who were calling his name. I shouldered my bag and checked the time. 15:47. Plenty of time to make my way to the Medical Sciences Tower for my independent study meeting with McCoy.

Stopping off at a small mess hall on the way to fill my usually-full thermos with tea, I headed towards MedBay.

The MedBay department always smelled like antiseptic and eucalyptus - the latter probably McCoy's doing. Walking up countless flights of stairs, I found his office with muscle memory. The plaque beside the door still read Dr. Leonard McCoy, Medical Officer (Adjunct), and still looked like someone had tried to peel it off at some point and given up halfway through. Like the doctor himself wanted to hide his office from all prying cadets and instructors, and gave up half way through.

I knocked once, then stepped inside.

He looked up from a cluttered desk, a stylus hanging out of his mouth and three separate reports open on overlapping screens.

"You're early, Peppermint" he said, arching an eyebrow. 

Ah, Peppermint. The nickname, bringing a cheery atmosphere whenever it was used, was given to me when I had first started obsessively bringing cups of peppermint tea to his office for our catch-ups. The name had stuck. McCoy had never used the nickname in our internal messages, and it was kept away from the formalities of Starfleet rules and policies.

I held up my thermos in silent salute and grinned at him. "You say that like it's a crime."

"It should be," he muttered, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. "If I had half your energy at this hour, I'd have rewritten the entire xenomedical trauma curriculum by now."

"Now that sounds like a threat."

"Threats usually come with warnings," he replied. "I don't give those."

I sank into the chair, my bag thrown onto an empty workspace and unclipped my PADD, already pulling up the notes I'd made over the summer. McCoy watched me in that way he always did - quiet, sharp, like he was always two steps ahead and waiting to see if I'd catch up.

"I read through the transcript you sent over the summer break," he said after a moment, tapping on his own screen. "From the Lurian resettlement case. You spotted something most of the assigned counselors missed."

I blinked. "The symbolism in the child's clothing?"

"That, yes. But also the mourning braid," he corrected. "You didn't just see it, you understood what it meant. That kind of awareness doesn't come standard."

I felt a flutter of warmth rise in my chest, chased almost immediately by the urge to shrug it off.

"Ah, it was a lucky guess."

"Don't insult yourself," he said, not unkindly. "Not in my office."

I looked down, running a fingertip along the edge of the thermos lid - a tell of my rising anxiety.

"McCoy, do you really think I'm cut out for this?" I asked, quieter than I meant to.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing, expression unreadable for a beat too long.

"I think," he said slowly, "you're already doing it. And doing it well. I just don't want Starfleet to run you into the ground before you realize how rare that is."

I deadpanned.

"Is that why you keep feeding me classified case files and sarcastic compliments?"

"No," he said dryly. "That's just how I express affection."

I grinned into my tea. "Lucky me."

He shifted slightly in his chair, eyes narrowing just a fraction as he added, almost like an afterthought-

"You can call me Bones, you know."

I looked up, a little surprised.

"Are you sure? I thought that was above our mentor-mentoree relationship."

"I wouldn't have said it otherwise," he replied, but there was a flicker of something gentler in his expression. "Most people I let use it annoy the hell out of me. You just bring tea."

"...And emotional instability," I offered.

He snorted. "That too."

"Alright then," I said, smiling. "Bones."

It felt strange saying it out loud, but it clicked in well. Like settling into something already known, a mutual agreement on nicknames.

Bones looked somewhat pleased, in the way he never typically admitted to being. He jerked his chin toward the screen.

"Let's get to work, Peppermint. The galaxy's full of broken people. Might as well teach you how to help 'em."

I let out a soft laugh, only to pause mid-breath as a flicker of memory caught - my hand already moving toward the bag on the worktop.

"Oh - I may have brought a bribe," I said, and pulled a small paper box from my satchel. "Dark chocolate truffles. Proper ones, from home."

He blinked at the box like it had personally accused him of sentimentality.

"You come in here and try to rot my teeth with British imports," he said, but took the box anyway, unwrapped it and popped one into his mouth without hesitation. "You know I don't share, right? These are mine now."

I shrugged, spinning slightly in my seat across from him. "Consider it payment for emotional duress."

"Emotional duress," he muttered, chewing. "You've barely been back a day."

"I've had Ethics and Empathy simulations."

He grimaced, tapping something on the screen. "Jeez, sounds like someone's trying to make you love paperwork."

"I've also been awake since five. FIVE! T'Lia arrived early and declared my cortisol levels unacceptable."

At that, he actually chuckled.

"Well," he said, setting the box aside, "welcome back, Cadet Blake. Let's see what trauma you've decided to throw yourself into this semester."

I stuck my tongue out in mild defiance, earning a chuckle from Bones.

He tapped a few more things on his console, and the lights dimmed just slightly as a case file came up on the display between us. Not a simulation - real footage, timestamped, messy around the edges.

I swung my chair around to face the screens, feet swinging out wildly. 

"Do you want to tell me what you're actually studying this semester," he said, "or should I guess based on how emotionally wrecked you look?"

"Ha ha, very funny." 

I scoffed and glanced at the screen - images flickering from an old mission file, maybe five years back. A Federation medical relief team, an off-world colony, too many people in too little space. The air looked heavy even through the footage.

"I've shifted my focus a little from last year," I admitted, curling my fingers loosely around the edge of the desk. "Still working within applied empathy and trauma frameworks within negotiations. But I want to study how various responses develop in displaced or partly-destroyed populations - how trauma intersects with cultural instinct and inherited memory. Especially in communities that don't have a stable social structure anymore."

Bones stopped typing. Just for a moment. Looked at me like I'd said something he hadn't expected.

Then he leaned back in his chair, pulled the stylus from his mouth, and said dryly, "Light reading, then."

I smiled, knowing he didn't mean it as discouragement. "It's field-prep adjacent," I said. "I'm hoping it supports a Security certification add-on, too. Not tactical, just... a better understanding of how fear works in context."

He nodded once, slowly. "Fear is easy to trigger. Harder to understand, and harder still to calm."

"That's the bit I care about."

He hummed, a low, thoughtful sound, and turned the console slightly toward me. "Then let's walk through a case that went sideways and see what you can find"

The footage played while he narrated, pausing to annotate medical misreads, cultural misunderstandings, and the moment a supposed "aggression" turned out to be a mourning ritual.

I took notes quickly. Not just on what he said, but how he said it - what he emphasized, where his voice dropped slightly, and when he stopped talking altogether and let the silence dictate.

About halfway through, I handed him a second chocolate truffle from the box. And that is how the rest of the evening went, with Bones narrating and advising on recent mission logs, and with me taking notes, debating smaller points and feeding him chocolates.

I didn't want to overstep our friendly boundaries more than we were - nicknames and bribing with food seemed plenty enough - and ask him about the theatrical rant I saw him perform over lunch, but maybe I'd ask about it in a few days time when we had a spare moment. 

Bones had become a gentle but firm friend to me over the past 2 years, filling in a much appreciated but gaping wound that my own father had left, when he died a few years before I joined the Academy. Although we were estranged, I had always wondered about what role a father was supposed to undertake with a daughter. I had hoped that he would have attended my graduation and to see me assigned to a starship, but terminal illness had come knocking - taking over his body and eventually succumbing to its deadly grip a few months later.

Mandatory counselling was provided, curtesy of Year One at the Academy, and with it was a delightful surprise of denial, anger and years of buried grief. I didn't even attend the funeral. He had supposedly re-married and had created a whole new life for himself. But there were moments when the man I had grown up with had whispered of stories of stars and planets, and tales of beasts and battles. He had planted the roots of my inspiration to join Starfleet, without even knowing it. And for that, I was grateful to the man that had been a father for the first few years of my life.

Bones had helped fill the gap of grief with a plaster shaped out of southern charm and dry wit - exactly what I had needed during those hard months. He was always there to give advice and solutions to any issue that I had, and I could never find the words to truly express how appreciative I was of him. It had turned out to be perfect, as I had taken my small family from the UK and blended it together with my newfound family in San Francisco. Even T'Lia had wished my mother a "Happy Holiday" over the Christmas season last year, researching human traditions in her downtime and sighing occasionally when she discovered that we hung stockings on our fireplace and went to see pantomimes.

I wouldn't change it for anything.

I returned to the dormitory late that night, leaving Bones with the half-eaten box of truffles and a cheery goodbye with promises that I would stop by tomorrow with a blisteringly hot coffee. 

The door chimed as it slid open, revealing T'Lia in what could only be described as a state of mildly-human domestic chaos. She stood in the middle of the room, one eyebrow slightly raised, surrounded by folded laundry, two opened reference texts, and a neatly exploded collection of symbolic logic equations across every surface, as if she'd weaponized them in a moment of intellectual frustration.

She turned her head just enough to acknowledge me. "You are returning later than anticipated."

"Bloody hell T'Lia, what on earth were you doing this evening?"

I received a typical Vulcan deadpan stare from across the room.

I put my hands up in defense. "I got caught up," I said, stepping in and kicking off my boots. "Bones was ranting about ethics boards again. I thought it best not to interrupt him."

T'Lia blinked. "Doctor McCoy frequently engages in extended verbal output when emotionally agitated. You have learned to endure it with minimal fatigue."

I chuckled, dropping my bag near my bed. "Ah, he's growing on me."

"I had assumed that was already the case," she said, folding a shirt with methodical precision. "You refer to him by his informal designation, and have brought him coffee on no fewer than eight documented occasions."

"Is that a Vulcan way of saying 'you like him'?"

"It is a Vulcan way of stating observable behavior."

I rolled my eyes playfully and sat down on the edge of my bed, tugging my hair out of its tie. The warmth from the long walk across campus still clung to my coat, along with the faint scent of peppermint and melted chocolate. I located my sleepwear, carefully tucked within my bedsheets, and quickly got into them. The warm fabric providing an extra layer of comfort.

T'Lia moved to her desk, picking up her PADD. "You received a message while you were out. From Cadet Rekk Thar. He asked if you had further notes on the caste-system sim from today's session."

I groaned softly, flopping backward onto the mattress. "I knew he'd follow up. He can't resist a good argument."

"He also cannot resist offering unsolicited tactical commentary," she said, tapping something on her screen. "You appear to challenge him in a way he finds... compelling."

"Is that a Vulcan way of saying 'he's a pain in the ass'?"

There was a beat of silence. Then - unexpectedly - T'Lia said, "Yes."

I laughed. A real one this time. The room settled into its usual calm, the hum of the heater low and steady, the quiet city lights of San Francisco flickering through the rounded dorm window.

I glanced toward my desk, where tomorrow's schedule blinked patiently from my PADD. Another long day ahead. Ethics. Applied Empathy. Independent Study with Bones. Possibly more verbal sparring with Rekk. And - if I had the courage for it - maybe a stroll past the upper quad where it was a well-known place to watch the sunset.

But for now, I was warm, safe, and home.

"Lights, dim," I said softly.

The room darkened. T'Lia returned to her desk. And I let my eyes close to the sound of data scrolling and order being restored - one perfect fold at a time.

Chapter Text

I was supposed to be reviewing my notes for the first week back.

That was the plan. Sit down at my desk, peppermint tea in hand, pull up my schedule for the semester, and go over everything calmly and efficiently like a third-year cadet who knew exactly what she was doing.

Instead, I was staring blankly at a blinking cursor on my screen and thinking about three entirely unrelated things:

1. Whether I'd misread the Andorian pause signal in the first contact sim on Wednesday.

2. If McCoy had actually meant it when he said "good instincts" or if that was his version of "nice try."

3. If I'd left my favorite pen in the security wing lecture hall or if someone had stolen it as a petty academic statement.

Honestly, all 3 threads of anxious possibilities could have kept me up all night, had it not been for my stress-induced tendencies to tackle tasks as soon as I received them. It was a trait I'd gotten solely from my mother and had greatly benefitted me during my previous academic years, much to my relief. Sitting and watching my peers achieve great results with little to no revision was abhorrent to me. When I had any tasks assigned, my anxiety would quite literally make me sit there and made sure I understood every single thing before I even saw the inside of an exam hall.

Yay me!

The late afternoon sun had descended into the bay, leaving the sky to bruise into a perfect shade of glaucous blue, and the dorm was blissfully quiet - T'Lia had gone to some sort of logic-based debate meetup where cadets argued through nonverbal reasoning patterns - for fun. As I was the "roommate with a nervous disposition", I hadn't been invited.

Which was probably for the best, because my brain had been humming at a low-level buzz all day and now that I had space to breathe, it had decided to speed up instead of slow down. Typical Diana brain.

I pulled my knees up and balanced my PADD across them, scrolling through the week's class recaps. Colour-coded highlights that I'd made days ago glared at me like I'd personally offended them - I probably had in some clapped way. 

Week One Summary:

Xenoanthropological Methodologies: overwhelming but fascinating.
Federation Ethics and Cultural Intervention : I didn't talk at all in the first session. No one said anything, but I could feel it.
Applied Empathy: Paired with Cadet Rekk Thar. He called me "Empath Prime" and then proceeded to completely bulldoze our simulation.
Independent Study: Bones was grumpy. Bones is always grumpy.
Still brought him chocolate. He pretended not to like it.

I paused, rereading the last line.

My chest gave a little squeeze. The good kind - the kind that said, you're not getting everything wrong.

Because plying instructors with British Imports was the way to go for good grades.

I took a sip of tea. Still warm. Barely.

Something in the immediate vicinity chirped. An unread message on my console, probably an update to the campus emergency protocols or a reminder to log sleep cycles, as if Starfleet could algorithmically track burnout through naps.

I scoffed to myself. Perhaps monitoring my mental state via the amount of naps I was or wasn't taking would be a good idea.

Outside of our small, rounded window of the dormitory, the shimmer of the bay caught on the edge of the holoshield and refracted into dozens of little points of light. I tried to imagine what this place must look like from orbit - tiny figures moving around a campus built on centuries of hope and habit, and of failures and try-again-after's.

It helped, sometimes, to think of myself from far away. As if I was already assigned to a ship, on a decade-long mission with minimal contact to home. Separate but joined with my space family.

The sunlight bounced from the bay, to the window and refracted across the various orchids that T'Lia had been collecting. It seemed that her thumbs were as green as her blood. Bold green stems shot upwards towards the light, reaching for food and comfort.

In this small, quiet moment, I wished I was an orchid.

My stomach grumbled in solidarity, loud enough to make me wince. I'd skipped dinner - well, "skipped" might be a little too generous. I'd picked at a protein bar and half a replicated fruit cube, trying to balance out the massive lunch I'd foolishly devoured. It hadn't worked. Now, I was practically starving, and my notes weren't doing anything to distract me from the gnawing ache.

Eventually, I gave up and crept out of the dormitory, my feet dragging inside a pair of worn brown slippers that I'd quickly shoved on - they had definitely seen better days. I probably looked tragically hysterical; my hair in a barely held-together braid, and an ancient rock band t-shirt drooping over Starfleet-issue sleep shorts that no longer fit quite right. The ensemble screamed third-year burnout with a side of bad choices, and represented me in a nutshell.

I blamed the food. It was too balanced, too nutrient-dense and way too optimistic. What I wanted was something greasy and unapologetic -  and that came wrapped in foil, not values.

I dodged and hid behind several doorways, trying to stay clear of any cadets arriving late, not wanting to explain my appearance and reasons why I was creeping around the accommodation block at such a strange hour.

By the time I reached the kitchenette on our floor, I was clinging to hope and the last of my energy like a second-year cadet clings to coffee before their xenopolitics finals. The room was small and dim, lit only by the ambient corridor lights filtering through the half-closed blinds. I tugged open the first cabinet.

Nothing.

The second - condiments. Dry mustard and something labelled "plomeek enhancer."

Third cupboard. Please let there be something in here.
Two very sad protein bars and an empty tin looked back at my devastated expression.

I sighed loudly, already anticipating the ache in my back from tomorrow's empathy simulations. My stomach let out a sound that I could only describe as accusatory.

"Bollocks," I muttered under my breath. There was nothing quintessentially British about starving to death in school-issued pyjamas.

I rubbed my eyes and leaned against the counter. Then it occurred to me - the other kitchenette. The one across the courtyard, technically attached to the administrative wing. It was usually fully stocked for visiting staff or late-night faculty meetings. Still Starfleet-approved, still annoyingly healthy, but at this point I'd settle for anything round and chewable.

I slipped into the hallway, arms folded tightly across my torso to preserve whatever dignity I had left. The trek across the foyer felt far too dramatic for this time of night, especially with my slippers slapping softly against the polished floor and the cold nipping at the bare skin of my legs. I had the distinct feeling I looked like a sleep-deprived hologram that had rendered incorrectly. That, or I looked like I was participating as an extra in some popular espionage movie.

The secondary kitchenette was dark - but thankfully unlocked. I nudged the door open and stepped inside, flipping the manual light switch. Cabinets, fridge, and - thank the stars above - a fruit bowl. With actual, real, non-replicated apples.

I reached out, my mouth already watering.

A throat cleared behind me.

I froze.

There was only one species I knew who could make a throat-clear sound both disapproving and vaguely philosophical. Hell, I lived with one and had enough experience to be absolutely certain.

I turned slowly. And there he was.

 A Vulcan Commander. 

The same Vulcan that had been witness to Bones' theatrical ranting over lunch a few days ago. The very same Vulcan that T'Lia had identified as Commander Spock.
Oh, I was fucked.

Holding a stack of graded exam papers, posture pristine despite the late hour, expression as neutral as a meditation bell. His uniform was uncreased, his hair untouched by time or wind or, presumably, the burden of having ever slept.

"Cadet," he said, voice measured.

I stiffened immediately, one arm still awkwardly across my middle. "Commander Spock, sir. Sorry- I didn't- I wasn't aware this space was reserved for-" I glanced down at myself and regretted it instantly. Sleepwear. Slippers. A band logo across my chest that read Solar Eclipse Tour: 2247.

Bollocks.

He raised a single eyebrow, apparently choosing not to acknowledge the t-shirt.

"I did not expect to encounter a cadet here at this hour," he said. "May I inquire as to the nature of your... objective?"

I cleared my throat, cheeks burning and tears threatening to make an appearance. "I missed dinner, sir. I got caught up reviewing Federation ethics legislation from my class this week. One of the older amendments."

The Commander tilted his head slightly, like he was mentally categorizing my response as either valid or pitiful.

"I see."

I have to get out of here. I grabbed the closest thing to me out of desperation, a pale red apple from the fruit bowl.

"Yes. This is exactly what I was looking for." I smiled, tight-lipped, already edging toward the exit. "Just a standard tactical snack retrieval, sir. I'll be out of your way in precisely three seconds."

He nodded once. "I trust you will... recalibrate your meal scheduling going forward."

"I will absolutely recalibrate all of my- yes. That."

He stepped aside without a word, allowing me to squeeze past him through the narrow doorway like a raccoon caught in the act.

As the building door slid shut behind me, I exhaled a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

An apple in one hand, my pride dragging slightly behind me, I padded back toward the dormitory under the indifferent glare of the hallway lights. I wanted to bury my head into my duvet and never come back out, career be damned. 

How was it that I ran into the one type of person that I absolutely shouldn't have run into? A Commander? At this time of night? Bones was going to have an absolute field day when I told him about this.

I was so deep into my mental spiral that I didn't even remember entering the dormitory, slipping off my slippers, or getting under the blankets. One minute I was marching across the foyer like a criminal in a snack heist, and the next, I was bundled up in bed with my arms around the apple like it was a peace treaty.

The dorm was quiet. T'Lia's side of the room was immaculate as always, her lamp off, her desk untouched since that afternoon. I could just make out the soft hum of her charging port from across the room, the low electric whisper of Vulcan efficiency.

Why can't I escape from this goddamned species?

I lay there in the dark, the apple tucked awkwardly against my chest, and tried not to think about the fact that I'd encountered Commander Spock - arguably the most unflappable being in the quadrant - while wearing a t-shirt that said Solar Eclipse Tour and socks with tiny Earth foxes on them.

The embarrassment loop began to kick in again. Replay, reframe, regret.
Why on earth did I say "tactical snack retrieval? " Why did I smile like that? Did he nod because he found it acceptable, or because he was processing my presence as an unfortunate anomaly?

I groaned quietly and pulled the blanket over my head, cradling the apple in one hand like a paperweight on my shame.

"Recalibrate your meal scheduling," I whispered, mimicking his voice just enough to make myself cringe harder. I took one singular bite from the apple, its sweet taste battling with the internal cringe of how I'd retrieved it.

Eventually, exhaustion overruled mortification. My brain gave up its spiral and thankfully slouched into a much needed stillness. The apple rolled to the edge of the bed and stayed there, and I drifted off wondering whether Spock ever said ridiculous things by accident - or if Vulcans were born knowing exactly how to walk through life without once tripping over their words.

Tomorrow would be better.
Or at least, less fruit-based.

~ 

I was doing fine.

Mostly.

The morning had unfolded like any other - lukewarm shower, rushed breakfast with T'Lia, a slightly-too-late dash across campus. I got through Xenoanthropology and Federation Ethics without tripping over any words or second-guessing myself into oblivion, which felt like a win.

By the time I reached the Applied Empathy simulation room, I'd successfully convinced myself that the previous night had been a hallucination brought on by hunger and residual stress. Commander Spock hadn't really caught me mid-midnight snack theft in my old tour tee and Starfleet shorts. It had just been a very vivid dream.

I slid into my usual seat near the middle row, dropped my bag at my feet, and offered a friendly nod to Rekk Thar, who was already halfway through a protein bar and tapping his stylus like he was ready to wrestle a Klingon.

"Ready to emotionally interpret some awkward eye contact?" he whispered.

"Absolutely not," I replied, glancing toward the empty front desk. Commander Surin was never early, but he wasn't usually late either.

The low murmur of conversation around the room continued for a moment longer... until the door at the front of the room slid open with a polite hiss.

And in walked Commander Spock.

Well, bollocks.

My heart plummeted to my feet. My brain immediately attempted to figure out an escape route, the best solution involving opening the locked windows behind me and swan-diving into the bushes below.

He moved with the same controlled, economical grace as always, a stack of exams in one hand and a neutral expression that managed to simultaneously command attention and discourage it. Thankfully, he didn't even look towards my direction. I didn't need a reminder of our accidental run-in last night.

"Commander Surin has been reassigned to the USS Carolina," Spock announced, placing the papers onto the desk with quiet precision. "Effective immediately, I will be overseeing this course until a replacement can be arranged."

My mouth went dry. My apple from last night turned to dust in my stomach.

He continued, gaze sweeping across the room without lingering on anyone. I sank lower into my seat. 

"Your curriculum and simulation objectives will remain unchanged. However, I will be reviewing each of your prior assessments and responses to better tailor future modules."

Rekk leaned in slightly and muttered, "This should be fun."

I didn't answer. I was too busy trying not to visibly fold in on myself like a malfunctioning tricorder.

Spock tapped something on the console and the classroom lights dimmed as the first simulation interface loaded. "We will begin with a multi-layered encounter analysis. Cadet Blake."

I blinked.

No.

No, no, no.

He did look at me then - just a slight tilt of the head, his expression unreadable.

"Your interaction record with simulated Tellarite dialogue patterns shows an inconsistency in modulation. Can you explain your vocal choices in the previous engagement?"

My entire body went cold, then hot, then cold again.

Rekk nudged me with his elbow, snapping me out of my panic.

"Yes, sir," I said, clearing my throat, gripping my stylus like it might anchor me to the moment. "In that simulation, I... chose to soften my tone in an attempt to de-escalate, although in hindsight that may have signaled uncertainty rather than intent."

The Commander stared me down, his eyes boring into my own. He blinked, and the curtain of focus dropped as he replied.

"You are correct. In Tellarite exchanges, conflict-laced rhetoric is often a sign of trust. Over-softening signals disinterest or cowardice."

I nodded, trying not to visibly sweat, and failing miserably. "Understood."

He moved on without comment.

The rest of the class passed in a blur of simulated hostility and precise critique. I managed to get through the next scenario without embarrassing myself, though I could feel the burn of secondhand shame every time Spock called on someone else with surgical clarity.

When the class was dismissed, I stood a little too fast and had to grab the edge of my desk to steady myself. Rekk gave me a sidelong look of worry as we packed up.

"Well, that was an eventful class," he said. "Think Surin's ever coming back?"

"Not fast enough," I muttered, gathering my things. I cast a glance back at the front of the room - Spock was still there, calmly scanning the simulation files like nothing had changed.

But something had changed. The Commander had seen me tactically retrieving snacks at midnight, and had now seen me panicked over a simple question in class. 

He was only one instructor, only one person out of the many instructors we had at the Academy - being scared of him was only going to hinder me if I let it. And with the way my heart had wanted to leap out of a 2-story window, I just might let it.

I turned to Rekk as he left through the door into the corridor, "Hey! Have a good weekend, I'll see you on Monday!"

He spun towards me, giving me a thumbs up and a shit-eating-grin before turning and descending down the building's steps towards the accommodation block. I lugged my bag onto my shoulder, feeling the weight of my PADD and textbooks tear through my collarbone. My heart rate had thankfully decreased and was happily steady as my brain zoned out.

I could already feel my weekend plans forming in my head as I opened the door to the hallway, thinking about the required reading I'd need to complete on Cultural Interventions Without Conflict, and about the invitation from T'Lia to visit a popular student bar. Although she was not a known drinker, apparently it was "logical and necessary" to maintain our friendship by spending time doing a blend of human and Vulcan activities. I had honestly been craving a pint of anything cold and bubbly, and had taken her up immediately on her offer, leaving my questions about her Vulcan-related activity for a later time.

My weekend plans were loudly interrupted by a throat clearing, my hand frozen on the door handle, one foot already off the ground to step out of the room.

"Cadet Blake, do you have a moment?"

My heart again, fell out of my chest and rolled away with panic. I turned on the spot.

Spock was still behind the console, hands neatly clasped, posture as upright and impassive as ever. The last few cadets brushed past me in the doorway, murmuring their goodbyes. I gave a short nod, letting the door seal shut behind them.

"Yes, sir?"

He didn't answer immediately. He stepped down from the platform and crossed to the front of the room with that same unreadable calm, stopping a pace or two in front of me.

"I reviewed your academic performance from previous terms prior to assuming instruction," he said. "Your written comprehension of nonverbal response theory is adequate. However, your physical reaction time in simulation suggests a tendency to prioritize emotion over protocol."

It took effort to keep my expression neutral - my fingers tightened slightly around the strap of my bag, and the tears that threatened to come out from any sign of confrontation, were slowly rising.

"I'm working on balancing both, sir."

His head tilted fractionally. "That would be advisable."

There was a pause, long enough that I almost took it as dismissal - until he reached into the satchel slung discreetly at his side and pulled out... an apple.

A crisp, green one - recently polished and shiny. He held it out towards me in the same efficient manner he might present a data slate or a tricorder.

"I have observed a pattern among cadets in your cohort of skipping midday meals in favor of schedule prioritization. This negatively impacts focus and endurance in high-pressure environments. You did not eat lunch today."

All feelings of panic in my body immediately shifted into one of confusion.

"I- no, I didn't."

I blinked, caught more off guard by that fact than I should have been. How the hell had he known that?

He continued, "You will be of little use to any crew if your personal maintenance is inconsistent."

The apple lingered in the space between us. Offered not warmly, but deliberately.

I reached out, taking it gently. "Thank you, Commander."

He gave a small nod, and said nothing more.

I turned again, this time allowed to leave, the door swishing open ahead of me.

In my palm, the apple was cool and smooth, and heavier than I'd expected. It was real.
By the time I stepped into the corridor, my face had become the sun's surface and my mind was racing. 

What the hell was that? 

I was certainly relieved that the Commander had enough insight to do it away from any prying eyes, but fruit? Was this some bizarre, Vulcan inside joke that T'Lia hadn't mentioned? What if he decided to gift me a goddamn cantaloupe in our next class?

A thousand scenarios ran through my head, but let's be real - this apple wasn't keeping me from telling a certain Doctor. Not even close.

Chapter Text

The local bar was exactly how most people would describe it.

Loud, busy, and full of cadets who had had the same idea as T'Lia and I. 

It was the kind of chaos I usually tried to avoid - laughter bouncing off every metallic surface, uniforms half-unzipped and sleeves rolled to elbows, dancing bodies leaning into booths, crowded bar stools claimed by academy hopefuls from every division. The lighting was dim and tinted just slightly green from a faulty panel overhead. Someone had already started a darts tournament at the back wall, and a group of redshirts were singing the wrong lyrics to a 21st-century Earth song.

T'Lia, of course, looked entirely unfazed. Typical.

She moved through the crowd like she had a navigational algorithm for social noise, cutting straight toward the least-populated booth near the back. I trailed behind her, slightly more overwhelmed and already wanting to leave.

"I fail to understand the appeal of increased auditory volume when relaxation is the goal," she said calmly, sliding into the seat opposite me.

"That's because you don't order fried snacks and ginger ale until the overstimulation cancels itself out," I replied, pulling my jacket off and tossing it beside me on the beer-stained bench.

T'Lia raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She had, at least, started learning when I wasn't being entirely serious.

I glanced around the bar again - half-curious, half-anxious. I wasn't really looking for anyone in particular. But my brain had already started mapping the room for escape routes, familiar faces, and potential topics I could pretend to care about if someone stopped by. It had become an old habit of mine, to keep my mind occupied and to limit the amount of anxiety that was already flooding in.

A tray passed by with something fried and golden. My stomach responded with a low, insistent rumble. Commander Spock, as frustrating as he was, was right about my skipping meals - I was ravenous.

"Remind me," I said, grabbing a small dish of fried food from a wandering barmaid. "Why did I let you talk me into going out instead of collapsing in bed with a cup of tea and a documentary about ancient Drayjin migration rituals?"

"Because," T'Lia said, not looking up from the menu, "you said, and I quote, 'I need to feel like a normal person again.'"

Touché.

My shoulder sagged in defeat as I sighed and leaned back in the booth, letting the moment settle. Maybe she was right. Maybe I did need this. Even if I wasn't sure what "normal" felt like anymore.

Fuck it, I might as well have fun tonight.

I threw my hand out a few seconds later, commandeering a human bartender with a tray of dark-coloured shots.

"Two, please," I said, with a smile that was more bravado than confidence. "Something vaguely Klingon, right?"

The bartender grunted in affirmation, mumbling about them being a fancy form of Firewine, and slid them onto our table. I handed one to T'Lia, who examined it with scientific curiosity, as though she was about to run a full lab scan before ingesting.

"You do realize this may contain neurostimulants not recommended for non-Klingon physiology."

"I do. That's what makes it fun."

She tilted her head. "Humans have very specific definitions of 'fun.'"

I raised the shot. "To surviving our first week."

T'Lia stared at hers. "To... efficient resilience."

Eh, close enough.

We knocked them back. It hit hotter than expected, all sharp edges and a burning feeling that descended into the pit of my stomach. I coughed, eyes watering.

"Oh Christ," I rasped. "That could strip hull paint."

T'Lia raised an eyebrow, apparently unfazed. "It is... tolerable."

Of course it was.

I was just about to make a joke about Vulcan liver enzymes when a familiar voice cut through the din behind our booth-

"Well if it isn't Peppermint and the walking logic matrix!"

T'Lia barely turned her head towards the voice. "Doctor McCoy."

I choked on my tongue, spotting a familiar Doctor sat at the overcrowded bar that was directly behind our booth. "You cannot keep calling me that in public."

"I could go with 'Emergency Room Regular' if you'd prefer?" McCoy shouted, one hand on the back of a nearby chair. “It suits you.”

T'Lia blinked once before turning to me. "I find the nickname statistically accurate. You do consume peppermint tea at a rate exceeding standard dietary recommendations."

I buried my face in my hands and groaned. "Great. I've been betrayed by tea."

Bones leaned back with a smirk, then lifted his glass toward T'Lia. "I'm still surprised she lets you drag her into places like this. Thought you two lived in the library."

"She required social recalibration," T'Lia said smoothly, her voice now carrying over the din.

"That's Vulcan for 'burnout,'" I followed.

Before I could fire back another response, I noticed who was next to McCoy at the bar; a tall individual dressed in a Commanders Uniform. I peered around the body of a stray Cadet who was standing in the way, and my eyes zoned in onto a pair of very familiar pointed ears, surrounded by thick, dark hair.

Vulcan. The very same Vulcan from the mess hall the other day - and from the front of my Applied Empathy in First Contact Simulations class.

Divine intervention was surely a bitch -  why couldn't just have one night of peace?

The Commander had turned in his seat, his hands cradling a glass of water, as he locked onto our booth. Spock’s eyes met mine briefly - calm and assessing. “Cadet Blake,” he said in the same steady tone I’d heard in my earlier class.

“Commander,” I returned, because suddenly formality felt safer than anything else.

A burst of raucous laughter drew my attention to the other end of the bar, where a sandy-haired man was leaning far too close to a pair of Orion cadets, spinning what looked like an exaggerated tale involving hand gestures and probably very little truth. Bones noticed where I was looking.

“Don’t mind him,” he said, jerking his chin toward the scene. “James Kirk; repeating 4th year due to clashing with Starfleet regulations. And by the looks of it, either about to get a slap in the face or a free drink. Sometimes both.”

The Orions laughed again, proving his point.

Spock took a deep breath, seemingly fed up with the environment around him. “I trust you are adapting to the new structure of Applied Empathy in First Contact Simulations?"

I straightened a little, my eye contact bouncing between the Vulcan and the glass in front of me. “It’s erm- definitely a welcomed challenge, sir."

T'Lia remained in her seat, her eyes also bouncing between the conversation like a human tennis match - the cogs and gears in her brain moving at a rapid speed, piecing parts together.

McCoy frowned. “Hold on - you teach her Empathy class?”

Spock regarded him evenly. “I have been assigned to Applied Empathy in First Contact Simulations whilst Commander Surin is posted to the USS Carolina this semester. I assumed you were aware, it was posted on the 3rd Year Syllabus Notes."

McCoy gave me a look. “Nope. But that explains a whole lot.”

I smirked at Bones. “Ah yes, like you being 'very aware' about flailing your coffee cup around so much in the Mess Hall, that I thought you were gonna baptize the Commander with it?"

T'Lia snorted. Bones' jaw dropped an even inch, before grinning at me.

Spock’s eyebrow ticked up by a millimeter. “Doctor McCoy’s instructional methods are-” he paused, as if searching for the least inaccurate term, “-kinetic.”

Bones scoffed. “It’s called passion, Spock,” he shot back. “And for the record, I’ve been sharing a few tricks they don’t cover in your pristine Vulcan syllabus. Saves everyone time when she’s already thinking three steps ahead.”

I blushed beetroot red, murmuring to the table about how I most likely wasn't thinking three steps ahead. T'Lia remained as a spectator in the conversation, hiding a faint smile behind her glass and watching the scene unfold in front of us.

Spock’s gaze shifted to McCoy, then back to me. “The Doctor has been... instructing you outside of the classroom?”

Before I could reply, Bones jumped in.

“Mentoring,” He corrected, drawing out the word like it had more weight. “She’s got potential. Just needs a little direction.”

“That is a subjective evaluation,” Spock said evenly. But I caught the faint flicker of his eyes toward me, as though filing that fact away for later analysis.

Spock glanced my way briefly, then back at Bones. “Doctor, I will take my leave.” He rose smoothly, offered the smallest possible nod in our direction, “Cadets.” With that, he set down his glass on the bar and departed from the room, his movements graceful and precise as he dodged drunk cadets and spilt drinks.

My body physically sighed with relief, watching the Commander leave the room. It wasn't that I hated or even despised him as a person -  not yet anyway - but I didn't think I could put up with much more direct eye contact from him, not without sliding off the booth cushion and hiding under the table until closing time.

Bones tsked and got up from his seat, shaking his head. “Well, that’s enough logic for one night. Mind if I sit?”

“T’Lia gestured toward the booth’s empty space. “You were are halfway there.”

Sliding in beside me without hesitation, the scent of whiskey and warm aftershave flooding my senses, he grabbed my drink and inspected it. “Alright - what exactly is in this?”

I panicked, trying to signal to T'Lia for help before turning to the Doctor with a sheepish grin, "How the hell should I know? I'm just here for social recalibration."

A shit-eating grin erupted from Bone's face, as he raised an eyebrow at me, far too observant for his own good. "Speaking of social recalibration - I heard a funny little thing floating down the hall today. Something about Commander Spock handing you fruit like he's running a damn produce market?"

I froze, my glass raised to my lips.

T'Lia turned to me, genuinely curious. "You did not mention a nutritional exchange."

I set down my glass, trying to find anything to distract me.

"I didn't mention it because there's nothing to mention," I said quickly. "It was an apple. He gave me an apple. Probably because I looked faint. Or underfed. Or like I was going to emotionally derail the entire simulation class."

Bones snorted into his drink. "He doesn't give anyone apples. Hell, I'm pretty sure he doesn't even eat them."

"It wasn't a gesture," I insisted. "It was a warning. Like, eat or die."

"Mm-hm," Bones said, nodding in the least convincing way possible, before snickering into his glass.

I glared at him, cheeks already warm.

"Did he say anything?" T'Lia asked.

"Something about maintaining proper caloric intake under stress."

There was a pause.

Bones grinned. "I hate to say it, Diana, but that's basically Vulcan love poetry."

I deadpanned to him, eyebrows raised. "I'm leaving."

"You're not."

I groaned and sank further into the booth, shoving a handful of food into my mouth to try and avoid further commentary.

"See this is exactly why I drink tea."

Bones sighed, "Don't talk with your mouth full, Peppermint." He poked my nose with his finger, "It isn't very lady-like."

I stuck out my tongue at him before downing another shot.

T'Lia blinked, pausing mid-sip. "Poetry?"

"Don't ask," I muttered, still trying to will myself out of existence.

Bones looked far too pleased with himself. "I'm just saying - if he starts handing you other produce, you might need to call your mother."

"I will throw this drink at you," I threatened.

T'Lia, still visibly confused, downed the rest of her mud-coloured shot with all the solemnity of a Vulcan accepting a formal duty assignment. "I find no statistical correlation between fruit and romantic expression."

"Exactly," I concluded, grateful for the rescue.

Bones leaned back, arms stretching across the top of the booth. "Hey, don't look at me. I'm just the country doctor stuck between two very serious academics with feelings they don't want to admit."

I groaned again. Louder this time. "Can we please change the subject?"

"Gladly," T'Lia said. "You owe me a rematch in low-gravity billiards."

I blinked. "I- what?"

"You do," she said simply, standing up and already turning toward the bar's back room. "You claimed reflexes would improve with alcohol. I wish to test the hypothesis."

"I hate you," I called after her, scrambling to follow.

"You love me," she corrected over her shoulder.

Bones followed, muttering something about babysitting two space-girls with no sense of self-preservation.

~

Somehow, the rest of the night blurred into chaotic fragments. The Firewine had done exactly as we'd hoped.

T'Lia expertly cleared the entire table of balls in record time, crossing her arms and offering a subtle smirk that was just visible before she downed another strange concoction from off the menu. The doctor kept trying to explain the proper medical term for what I was currently doing with a neon drink and a glow-stick, and failing when I kept bursting into fits of giggles.

Someone was playing an ancient Earth song from the 2000s that involved shouting the word "shots!" far too often. 

I watched the room before us, cadets falling over themselves, whilst leaning against Bones at one point and asking if Vulcans could get hangovers.

"Not in the conventional human sense." T'Lia calmly stated, overhearing us.

Eventually - after what might've been our sixth round and T'Lia winning a dubious bet that earned us a crate of dehydrated snacks - we stumbled out into the cool night, cackling and half-holding each other up.

"Where are we even going?" I asked, clutching the crate like a lifeline. "My legs are made of spaghetti."

"Yours or the replicated kind?" Bones drawled, steadying me with one hand and holding what was probably someone else's jacket in the other.

"Dormitory's closest," T'Lia said, surprisingly coherent, though her head was tilted at an odd angle like she was recalculating gravitational pull.

~

We barely made it as far as the dorms before collapsing.

Shoes were kicked off somewhere between the door and the chaos. Bones took one look at the bed situation and immediately commandeered T'Lia's desk chair, muttering something about cadet accommodations being "a goddamn disgrace to spinal health."

T'Lia - graceful even while mildly intoxicated - lowered herself sideways onto my bed, inch by inch, like she was trying to replicate gravity at 20% speed.

I somehow ended up on the floor, wrapped in a thin blanket I found under my desk and still clutching the crate of snacks like it was the last bit of civilization. I reached blindly into the box and shoved something crunchy and suspiciously fluorescent into my mouth without even looking at the label.

The light switched off. 

"Bones?" I mumbled, half-chewing, my head tilted back against the foot of my bed.

"Yeah, Peppermint?" he replied, already halfway asleep in the chair.

"If I die in my sleep from synthetic food poisoning..." I paused, swallowing, "...tell Spock he can keep his fruit."

There was a low snort in the dark. "Deal."

~

I woke to the sound of a distant door chime and the unmistakable ache of bad decisions clinging to the inside of my skull.

For a moment, I didn't know where I was.

I blinked up at the underside of my desk, where I'd apparently drifted halfway during the night, a blanket half-kicked off and one foot tangled in the empty snack crate. My mouth tasted like synthetic lime dust and regret.

Everything hurt. Not in the dramatic, end-of-the-world sense, but in the "I'm-too-old-for-this-and-also-why-is-the-room-spinning-slightly" way.

Across the room, T'Lia was still horizontal on my bed, arms folded neatly across her chest like she was in some kind of Vulcan meditation tomb. Not a hair out of place. Of course.

I groaned. Loudly. Dramatically. Hopefully with just enough suffering to summon sympathy.

"Bones," I rasped, dry-heaving from the last few crumbs in my throat. "Are you dead?"

There was a groan from the desk chair. "Unfortunately not."

I rolled over and squinted at him. He looked like a man who'd fought a war with a replicator and lost. His jacket was draped across his lap, boots kicked under the chair, and one hand was cradling his forehead like it held the key to surviving the morning.

"Why do I feel like I've been stepped on by a shuttle?" I asked, pushing myself upright and immediately regretting it.

"Because you drank something with a name you couldn't pronounce," he replied, not even opening his eyes. "And then decided low-gravity billiards was a safe activity."

I winced. "Right." I rubbed at my temple. "Any chance we imagined the whole thing?"

T'Lia chose that exact moment to stir, her eyes opening slowly like some smug, logic-bound cryptid. "I believe the term is 'consequence.'"

I stared at her, my mouth hanging open at her seemingly-healthy appearance. "Do you even get hangovers?"

"No," she said plainly, sitting up with perfect posture. "Though I find the phenomenon... fascinating."

"Please don't study me," I muttered, dragging myself to my feet. The floor felt miles away, and I was vaguely aware of the taste of whatever snack I'd eaten still lingering somewhere in my molars.

Bones finally sat up straighter, rubbing his face. "There's coffee in the medkit. Emergency use only."

"You keep coffee in the medkit?"

"I'm a doctor, Diana, not a monster."

I managed a weak laugh, then winced as the movement rattled something behind my eyes. "Please tell me we don't have anything scheduled today."

T'Lia smiled faintly, already standing and picking up her shoes from where she'd thrown them. "You have laundry duty. I have study group."

Bones huffed. "I've got Sickbay rotations. Voluntary. Don't even ask me why."

I sank into the edge of the bed, still trying to piece together how my Friday night had ended with three people crammed into a cadet dorm like college freshmen.

"Should we just... not tell anyone about this?" I said.

"No promises," Bones retorted, already rummaging for the emergency coffee like his life depended on it.

And as T'Lia calmly began folding the blanket I'd kicked off in the night - completely unaffected by what had clearly been a six-shot evening - I groaned again and flopped back onto my bed.

Saturday mornings, apparently, were no less dramatic than the weekdays.

Chapter Text

Monday morning rolled round again.

I slid into my seat, hair pinned up in a loose knot and caffeine clutched like a holy artifact. I'd left myself exactly three and a half minutes before the start of the session and made it with seconds to spare. My PADD was already glowing with notes - half of them highlighted in a desperate red.

Spock entered precisely on the hour, his posture as straight and unyielding as ever, hands clasped behind his back like the Federation itself had forged him from policy and restraint.

“Good morning, cadets,” he said, in that tone that made ‘good’ sound more like a statistical measurement rather than a sentiment.

I sat straighter. My headache from Saturday was thankfully gone, but the tension remained. The scenario brief Spock had casually dropped late Friday night had been brutal: a diplomatic summit between three species, one of which had recently declared partial allegiance to the Romulan Empire. No clear win conditions. No obvious path to compromise. And the kicker? Each student had to submit both their intended strategy and an annotated rejection of three others.

Because suffering builds character.

“Before we begin,” Spock said, “Cadet Blake. Remain after class.”

I'm doomed. Utterly doomed.

There were snickers from the back row - nothing overtly cruel, but enough to make my pulse skyrocket. I nodded once, tersely.

The rest of the class flew by in a blur of treaties, cultural faux pas, and emotional escalation diagrams. Spock, as usual, questioned everything. He didn’t raise his voice - he didn’t need to. His brand of logic was surgical.

By the time everyone else filtered out, I was rehearsing my apology in three languages - badly. I stayed seated, trying to seem casual, and watched as Spock approached with my assignment already pulled up on his PADD. My heart rate hadn't decreased at all, and I was starting to wonder if I'd fall out of my seat.

I cleared my throat. “I assume this is about the report,” I said, trying for lightly sarcastic and probably landing somewhere closer to ‘student on trial.’ 

“For the record, sir, I did annotate all the strategies. Thoroughly.”

“I noted the... length,” he said.

“I wasn't trying to write a novel,” I added quickly. “I just didn’t want to leave any gaps.”

He looked at me. Just looked. No blinking, no judgment. Just that neutral, clinical scan that somehow made me feel like my soul was being evaluated under a microscope. I wanted to fall out of my seat and disappear.

“I do not object to its length, Cadet,” he said at last. “I object to the rationale.”

Right. That.

I straightened my spine. “My main argument hinged on emotional performance - specifically from the Denari ambassador. Their aggression wasn't genuine. It was a social maneuver.”

Spock didn’t contradict me.

Instead, he turned to the console and pulled up a new file. “This is a scenario loosely adapted from the Cleon System summit. The details are classified. Your assignment indicated a capacity for interpreting non-verbal subtext that may be applicable.”

Wait a damn minute. Was he asking for my help?

“You want my emotional guesswork on a classified scenario?”

“I would prefer you use your analytical process,” he replied, “though I acknowledge that process is often informed by emotional inference.”

“Are you saying I’m good at guessing?” I tilted my head. “Because I don’t just guess. I observe.”

“Semantics,” he replied, deadpan.

I blinked. Was that sarcasm?

“If I provide you access to the scenario file,” he continued, “I expect a full report by Thursday, 1300. Your discretion is assumed.”

“Of course,” I said. Then, hesitating: “You trust me with restricted content?”

“I trust Starfleet’s decision to admit you. And I trust your discretion more than your metaphors.”

I grinned, despite myself. “You wound me, Commander.”

“I assure you, Cadet Blake, that was not my intention.”

I took the PADD, watching him with a strange sort of thrill buzzing at the edge of my nerves.

“Careful,” I said. “If you keep saying things like that, I might start thinking you like me.”

He paused, one eyebrow arching almost imperceptibly.

“If I did,” he said, “it would be accidental.”

I scoffed, tucking the PADD into my bag and turned to leave the room.

"Don't worry, Commander. I'm only kidding around."

~

If the Academy library was a cathedral, then I had definitely chosen the most inappropriate pew to curse in.

I slouched deeper into the chair, glaring at the screen in front of me like it owed me money. The classified scenario Spock had given me was incredibly dense, full of contradictory signals and diplomatic landmines, wrapped in so many layers of context that it felt more like an archaeological dig than an assignment.

Across the table, Rekk was chewing on his stylus. His brow ridge twitched every time I sighed too loudly, earning me a playful glare every few minutes. T’Lia, seated with perfect posture beside him, was reading a digital scroll like she was deciphering ancient Vulcan poetry -  hell, she probably was.

“I think this scenario was written by someone who hates joy,” I muttered.

“Could be,” Rekk said around the stylus. “But more likely it’s just a test designed to make you fail in new and inventive ways. Builds resilience.”

T’Lia didn’t look up. “Commander Spock’s methods are effective, if occasionally opaque.”

“You say that like it’s a compliment,” I muttered, then realizing she knew about my extra assignment.

“T’Lia...how the hell did you know it was Spock who gave it to me?”

A pair of deadpan, bored eyes dragged themselves up to meet my wide-eyed shock.

"Diana. You reference it approximately once every 3.2 minutes.”

Rekk chuckled in the background as I huffed, returning to my PADD.

I tapped the screen with the blunt edge of my pen. “But look at this - Ambassador Keti breaks eye contact after the Varn delegate threatens to pull out of the trade pact. That’s either submission or strategy, and there’s no cultural precedent to tell me which.”

“Could be bladder pressure,” Rekk offered. “Long negotiations. Lots of tea.”

“You’re a cunt” I said.

He grinned.

T’Lia leaned slightly toward my screen. “Have you considered that Keti’s emotional display might be intentionally misaligned?”

I blinked. “You mean, he’s performing a false tell?”

She nodded. “Some species deploy emotional deception in negotiations. You noted earlier that the Denari use aggression as a social tool.”

“...which Spock hated.”

“Which Spock acknowledged,” she corrected, “even if he did not prefer it.”

I stared at the screen, replaying the moment over and over again. Keti’s shoulders had dropped slightly - just enough to register as defeat. But he’d followed it with a subtle exchange of glances with his junior officer.

Misdirection.

“Oh. Oh that bastard,” I muttered.

Rekk leaned over. “You figure it out?”

“I think I just caught a bluff. I need to check the precedent on Denari ceremonial gestures, but this might be a trap - they want the Varn to escalate.”

T’Lia’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Then the scenario is not a lesson in peaceful mediation - it is a test in tactical perception.”

“I’m going to write Spock a three-page thank-you letter with increasingly sarcastic fonts,” I said. “Comic Sans. Bold.”

“That may be ill-advised,” T’Lia warned.

Rekk snorted, burying himself into his own assignment, leaving me to defend myself against T'Lia's Vulcan advice.

~

Time passed. The sky outside the library windows shifted from a steel blue to ambient hues of bruised purple and pinks. Much to my delight, the spotlights inside the library dimmed slightly to accommodate the evening shift. Quiet murmurs hummed all around us, the collective sound of hundreds of cadets racing towards their deadlines.

I flexed my fingers, feeling the faint ache of too much typing and not enough coffee. Spock’s scenario was still up on my screen, annotated within an inch of its life. I’d found three strategic deceptions, two ethical landmines, and one stunning example of interspecies flirting disguised as economic negotiation.

Honestly, it was bloody impressive.

I couldn’t stop thinking about earlier. About the way Spock had looked at me - not with approval, not exactly. But not disdain either. It was... consideration. As if I’d finally become a variable he hadn’t accounted for, but had started to accept.

And I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

“You’re staring into the screen like it insulted your mother,” Rekk said, stretching his long arms with a theatrical sigh. “Maybe you should take a break?”

“I can’t. If I stop now, I’ll forget where I was.”

“Diana, you said that three hours ago.”

“Then it’s still true.”

He stood, throwing his PADD and stylus into his satchel. “I’m going to get food. T’Lia, you want anything?”

She shook her head. “I will remain. I find Diana’s frustration oddly clarifying.”

“Happy to help,” I said dryly.

Rekk quickly vanished, probably famished and craving replicator food, leaving the two of us in companionable silence. T’Lia didn’t pressure or hover. She simply resumed her own work while I kept digging. It was the kind of silence I liked best. It was intentional. Focused. Respectful, for a Vulcan.

Eventually, I let out a sigh and leaned back. “He’s not just testing me, is he?”

T’Lia glanced up. “Commander Spock?”

I nodded. “This whole assignment... it feels like something more. Like he’s trying to understand something he doesn’t want to admit he doesn’t understand.”

She was quiet for a moment. “He does not often ask cadets for supplemental reports. Nor does he offer classified simulations without purpose.”

I turned my head to look at her. “You think he’s using me?”

“I believe,” she said slowly, “that he is... consulting you.”

I blinked. “That almost sounded like approval.”

“Your strength lies where his does not. It would be illogical not to utilize that.”

“Even if he finds it aggravating?”

She gave the faintest twitch of a smile. “Especially then.”

I smiled back at T'Lia, offering my thermos - now almost empty - in a cheersing motion.

"To aggravating consults, and the Commanders that ask for them."

T'Lia, expression as impassive as ever, lifted her own water bottle in return. It was room-temperature, of course. I’d long since stopped teasing her about her strict beverage preferences; Vulcans didn’t waste time on trivial comforts, especially not cold drinks. She inclined her head by exactly two degrees - her apparent version of a full grin - and said in a quiet monotone, “May your illogical frustrations yield surprisingly logical results.”

I chuckled, letting the warmth from the thermos soak into my palms as I cradled it. For all her Vulcan restraint, T'Lia had developed something approximating timing. Whether that was practice or tolerance, I hadn’t decided.

The library around us was hushed but slowly decreasing in occupancy, the low hum of study punctuated only by the occasional rustle of datapads, the swish of uniforms as cadets slipped out of the huge oak doors, or the sharp buzz of someone’s device on silent mode. We had commandeered a corner table tucked beneath a panoramic display of the Alpha Quadrant - a projection that shimmered faintly against the ceiling like a digital fresco. Out of all of our usual haunts, this was probably one of my favourites. It felt slightly removed from the grind of cadet life, a pocket of stillness within the chaos. The amount of knowledge that surrounded us never felt overwhelming, but instead felt like an open invitation to discover more.

An invitation I gladly took to heart.

I leant back, stretching out my spine and flexing my tired hands, already cramping from the sixth Xenoanthropological methodology essay I’d hammered out this term. My brain felt like overcooked kelp - slimy and barely holding any form. Spock’s assignment, layered with ambiguity and laced with subtle tests of cultural interpretation, still loomed unfinished and blinking in the corner of my PADD. I’d need another hour at least. Maybe two. 

Or possibly three, accompanied by a public breakdown.

Just as I reached for my stylus again, the soft chime of an incoming call flashed across my wrist console. I glanced down, expecting Bones, maybe a reschedule notice for my shadowing shift. But the name blinking back at me was unmistakable.

MOTHER – GENEVIEVE  BLAKE – COMM INCOMING

I froze. My hand hovered in midair for a beat too long.

T'Lia noticed.

“Is something the matter?” she asked, setting her PADD down with a crisp finality that made me feel scrutinized.

“No,” I lied, far too quickly. “It's just... my mother.”

T’Lia inclined her head again, this time with a subtle pause that suggested calculations were happening behind her serene exterior. “I can locate to another table, if required.”

“No, it’s fine,” I declined. “She probably just wants to discuss the family dinner I’m missing. Again.”

I stood, brushing imaginary crumbs from my uniform even though I hadn’t eaten since midmorning. The call was rerouted to my PADD, and I stepped away from the table, making my way to one of the alcove booths by the far window. I tapped accept and inhaled a deep, very much needed, breath.

The image resolved in a flicker, and there she was.

Genevieve Blake, seated at her desk in the study she refused to call an office, though it had all the weight and polish of one. Mid-morning light pooled through the tall sash windows behind her, catching on the carved molding and the wide hearth that had definitely held real fires before warp drive was a twinkle in the Earth’s eye. A bank of books lined the back wall - thick diplomatic volumes, old Starfleet anthologies, slim essay collections with her own notations in the margins. A leather-bound journal sat open beside her, likely filled with case notes or cross-sector analyses, and a half-drunk cup of Earl Grey steamed quietly near her hand.

She wasn’t in uniform - she never was - but there was always an understated precision to her appearance. Today, a crimson cardigan was buttoned neatly over a silk blouse and her hair was effortlessly pulled back into a French twist - I suspected that it hadn’t budged over the last century. Her only ornament was a narrow gold chain that fell around her collarbones and the antique watch she never removed, a relic from her own mother’s time.

“Diana,” she said, exhaling my name with her broad British accent, like she’d been waiting all morning for me to appear. “There you are. I was beginning to think I’d have to contact Starfleet Headquarters and ask if they’d misplaced a cadet.”

I let out a sheepish grin. “They probably have, honestly. Do you know how many basements this place has?”

She rolled her eyes, gently. “And here I thought you were aiming for anthropology, not cartography.”

I let the joke land. It was easier than explaining the last week’s chaos. “Sorry I didn’t call sooner. Things have been... full on.”

“That’s what it's supposed to be,” she said, but her tone softened. “Just don’t vanish on me. I do like to know when you’ve eaten and haven’t been vaporized by a loose phaser.”

I leant back in my chair and relaxed a fraction. “I’m alright. Had a consult with Commander Spock earlier today, actually. He’s, well, terrifying in that quiet, logical way.”

“Mmm. Half-Vulcan, isn’t he? Speaks like a high court transcript, wears his disapproval like a second tunic?”

“That’s the one.”

She reached for her tea, took a measured sip, then narrowed her eyes just slightly. “And what exactly does a third-year cadet do for someone like Commander Spock?”

I paused, trying to figure out what exactly I was doing for him. “Strategic analysis. Theoretical ethics consult. He said I had an unorthodox perspective.”

Genevieve raised a single brow. “Darling, that sounds exactly like the sort of polite phrasing someone uses when they’re not sure whether you’re a genius or a disaster.”

I scoffed. “To be brutally honest, I think he’s still deciding.”

She gave a small hum of amusement, then returned to her notes, flipping one page with that habitual care she'd passed down to me. Even her consulting work - mostly long-term peacekeeping reports and cross-species conflict resolution for the Federation's diplomatic analysis branch - looked tidy. She wasn’t really a part of Starfleet, but she was respected enough in interstellar policy circles to get cc’d on communiqués well above her clearance level. She always said she preferred to remain civilian: "less red tape, more actual thinking". 

I couldn’t argue with that.

“I saw your name come up last month,” she added casually, as if discussing the weather. “In one of the Academy’s published Non-Combat Threat Assessments from last year. Your solution on the Vorin conflict model was referenced in a paper from Antares.”

“Oh?” I said, a little blindsided. “I didn’t know anyone actually read those.”

“I did,” she said, lips twitching faintly. “And I sent it to your grandmother, who’s now convinced you’ll be captain before you hit thirty.”

I groaned. “Brilliant.”

The warmth lingered a moment. Then she tilted her head slightly, gaze sharpening.

“You do look tired, though. Have you been pushing yourself too hard?”

I shook my head. “I'm just, balancing. Trying to prove I belong here. To myself, mostly.”

“Diana.” She leaned in, voice gentler now. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, least of all yourself. You’re not here to be perfect. You’re here to learn who you are when the structure is gone, when the pressure’s real, and when no one is there to give you a checklist.”

“That sounds like one of your subcommittee speeches.”

She smiled, just barely. “Well. They pay me for those.”

We sat in companionable quiet for a moment, just the soft sound of static in the background.

Then, as if sensing the weight behind my silence, she added, “You’re doing brilliantly, Di. Even if you don’t always feel it.”

I swallowed past the knot in my throat. “Thanks, Mum.”

She nodded, lifting her mug slightly. “Now go eat something decent and stop having existential crises in shared libraries. Call me in two days or I will contact your roommate and bribe her for updates.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would.”

I smiled, for real this time. “Love you.”

“And I, you, my star.”

The call ended with a quiet chime, leaving behind a still screen and the muted echo of home.

I sat there for a moment longer, letting the screen go dark, my own reflection blinking back at me. I wasn't sure whether I felt comforted or cracked open. Maybe both.

I turned and walked back toward T'Lia, who had refilled my thermos with scalding tea, much to my delight.

Food would have to wait a few more minutes, I needed to finish a particularly stubborn section of Spock's assignment.

~

I returned to the dorm, relieved and secretly overjoyed that I had managed to complete at least a quarter of Spock's task within the same afternoon. Multiple bookmarked pages and annotated recordings were safely tucked away -  I'd had to double and triple check that I had everything saved before I could step outside of the library.

My body however, was not overjoyed with my decision to spend hours attached to a shitty, wooden chair. My vertebrae felt like it had fused together hours ago. My eyes felt like they’d been scoured with micro-abrasives. And my brain, god almighty my brain, was doing that overstimulated static fuzz thing where even thinking the word “dilithium” made me want to shove my skull through a bulkhead.

Clearly, I was thriving.

I peeled off my uniform jacket with all the elegance of a dying sea creature, letting it crumple to the floor beside my already discarded boots and skirt, and stood for a moment in the middle of the room, trying to remember what muscles were supposed to do. With what little brain power I had left, I dragged myself into the shared bathroom.

The water settings on the shower console blinked at me, but I didn’t bother toggling anything fancy. Just turned the dial to “old Earth firestorm” and stepped in without waiting for the temperature to stabilize.

It was obscene.

Scalding, and borderline being a war crime. The kind of heat that shocked every thought out of your head and left only primitive survival instincts behind. I gripped the wall and hissed through my teeth, but I didn’t move. Just let the water hammer into the base of my neck and down my back, until the burn dulled into something almost euphoric.

Somewhere in the depths of my half-remembered MedBay hours, I knew showers like this were supposed to reduce stress. The science behind it said they mimicked the weight of a blanket - heat and pressure combining to coax out tension and flood the body with oxytocin. A gentle, physiological undoing.

In theory.
In practice, all I felt was slightly dizzy and vaguely breathless.

I stayed under the spray for twenty minutes, maybe more - long enough for the steam to blur the corners of my vision and the ache to drain from my shoulders in slow, reluctant degrees. By the seventh minute, my braid had unravelled on its own. I let it. Couldn’t summon the energy to wash my hair, let alone care.

Fifteen minutes later, wrapped in an oversized grey towel and steam-heavy, I padded barefoot across the room, yanked on a threadbare Academy tee and sleep shorts, and collapsed onto my bed.

I flopped an arm over my face and sarcastically muttered, “End me.”
Of course, nothing happened. Pity.

I sunk back into the bed and queued up a Vulcan meditation playlist, something T’Lia had sent me last week after I admitted I’d been having trouble sleeping. Low tones, desert wind ambience, and distant ceremonial chimes that sounded like someone striking a gong underwater. It was meant to evoke inner peace, she’d said, though the track names sounded more like military operations than relaxation techniques.

Still. It helped. Sometimes.

I tentatively closed my eyes.

The tones had just shifted to something low and reverberating when my PADD chirped, buzzing against the bed like an annoyed wasp.

I didn’t move. Not immediately.

But the second chirp came with a name.

MCCOY, L.
[NEW MESSAGE – PRIORITY: LOW]

I rolled my head toward it and tapped the screen with one sluggish finger, one eye propped open to inspect the incoming message.

FROM: MCCOY, L. (Starfleet MedBay Dept.)
SUBJECT: Blake, You’re Still Alive, Right?

Diana,

Wasn’t sure if your silence meant you’d been vaporized, promoted, or talked yourself into a nervous breakdown. Knowing you, it’s a combination of all three.

I hear whispers that you’ve been roped into some kind of “strategic consult” for the Vulcan Ice Prince. Voluntary? Or were you drafted under duress? Either way, I’m surprised you haven’t bitten through your stylus by now.

You eating real food? Drinking water? Sleeping more than four hours a night? And no, tea doesn’t count as hydration.

Just checking in. Figured I’d remind you:

1. You’re human. Sleep’s not optional.

2. The Academy will still be here if you take one night off.

3. Spock’s eyebrow doesn’t actually mean “disappointed.” I think. Still gathering data.

Write back when you’re vertical again.

– Bones

I stared at the message, warmth pooling behind my eyes in that annoying way it did when someone asked if you were okay and meant it. Not that I was going to cry. I was just, overheated. From the shower. Obviously.

I curled my fingers around the PADD and pulled it closer, then tapped out a reply with my thumbs, my tongue sticking out in concentration.

TO: MCCOY, L. (Starfleet MedBay Dept.)
SUBJECT: RE: Still Alive?

Bones,

Ha! Barely. I’m currently horizontal, vaguely damp, and slightly poached. The shower may have cauterized my soul.

Spock hasn’t snapped yet, but I think he’s begun rationing the number of times he acknowledges me per day. I consider this progress.

I have eaten - if you count emergency replicator bars shaped like vaguely Italian cuisine. I’ll try for something recognizably food-adjacent tomorrow.

Thanks for the check-in. You always manage to land your timing right between “oh god, I’m drowning” and “I’m fine, probably.”

We’ll catch up properly soon. Until then, keep your medics conscious and your metaphors surgical.

– Diana

I hit send, dropped the PADD onto the pillow beside me, and let my eyes close again.

The meditation music had returned to soft wind across a distant desert, layered under something like ancient bells echoing in deserted canyons. I breathed in. Out. Let myself sink.

Somewhere in the corner of my mind, I pictured Bones laughing at his own sarcasm, a bourbon in hand, probably three reports behind but still taking the time to message a tired cadet halfway into a meditative coma.

That thought carried me further than any guided breathing exercise ever could.

And for the first time in what felt like a week, I stopped thinking. Stopped worrying. Just floated.

Chapter Text

As much as I loved my education, I loved sleep more.

There was little competition between the two, and further supporting evidence from how I typically missed my alarm clock in the mornings, only fuelled my defense. But this week had been slightly different. Instead of my standard, warm and fuzzy dreams about puppies or romance books, my subconscious was filled to the brim with tension and nightmares about failing my assignment from Spock.

It haunted every minute, waking or not. 

Flashes of mid-negotiations lit up whenever I closed my eyes - the Cleon ambassador's mandibles twitching, the tilt of his thorax, the glint of the aide's data crystal sliding across the table like a blade between ribs.

It wasn't just the details themselves, it was the weight of the entire thing.
"This is a scenario loosely adapted from the Cleon System summit. The details are classified."

Classified. Which meant I was playing with fragments of a real situation that had probably gone sideways, maybe catastrophically so. But it also meant Spock had chosen this on purpose - either because he thought I could handle it, or because he thought I couldn't and wanted to prove the point.

I sighed in frustration. I didn't need a Vulcan Commander to tell me what I was already thinking. I knew that this was either going to go really well, and get minimal praise, or I'd be moved to another class and most likely held back a year to relearn my bad habits of looking at behavior first.

That green-blooded vampire. Sucking all my energy into one assignment.

By Wednesday morning, I'd reviewed the footage so many times that the faces in it were starting to bleed into my everyday life. The barista in the campus café leaned forward just a fraction too far when sliding me my tea, and I almost made a note of it.

I'd started watching other cadets in my classes, glancing between them like a human tennis match of who would raise their voice more, or would react first to any indication of a beginning argument. By the time the bell sounded for lunch, I had pretty much scoped out the entire 3rd year cohort just by the movement of their heads.

Rekk had spent most of the morning ranting and raving about new negotiation tactics he'd come up with over the weekend, and was now striding next to me with his arms gesturing wildly about a newly discovered species.

"They've got three different pupil shapes depending on the time of day," he said, eyes wide as we headed toward the mess hall, the hallway echoing with footsteps and energetic chatter. "Imagine what that does to non-verbal cues. I mean, morning pupils? Total dilation. Afternoon pupils? Slits. And then-" he broke off to mime an oval shape in front of his face "-night pupils. Like a reverse iris."

"Fascinating," I deadpanned, though the grin tugging at my mouth probably ruined the effect.

The hallway was busy, cadets in red, blue, and gold weaving around one another. A pair of instructors rounded the corner ahead of us, talking low, eyes focused on the conversation at hand. Bones was among them. His coat was unfastened, sleeves pushed up like he'd been in the middle of something before being interrupted. His gaze swept over the corridor, landed on me, and for the briefest moment, the corners of his mouth quipped up into a smile - just enough to count as acknowledgement - before falling back into step with the other officer and returning to their discussion.

I returned the smile, aware that I must've looked exhausted from the countless hours I'd pulled in the library and at the dormitory. And now I was being held hostage by Rekk and his talk on eyes.

Rekk, oblivious, kept talking as we passed. "So if you're in negotiations and their pupils shift mid-sentence, is that a biological thing or a statement? I'm telling you, the implications for-"

"-First Contact Frameworks, yes, I get it," I said, holding the mess hall door for him with my hip as other cadets snuck through in front me.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of synth-coffee and fried something-or-other. T'Lia was already at our usual table, sitting ramrod straight with a tray balanced perfectly in front of her.

"You are late," she observed.

"Blame Rekk," I said, sliding into my seat. "He's been monologuing about alien eyes since we left class."

"It is not a monologue if you have an engaged audience," Rekk countered.

T'Lia arched an eyebrow in my direction.

"Okay, fine, a mostly engaged audience," he amended, digging into his food.

I gave the table a sheepish grin before tucking into my own tray of food. Today's options were alot better than the previous few days, and actual cuisine had graced the kitchens and by extension, my tastebuds. We still had the standard nutrient-dense cubes for anyone in a rush, but someone in the kitchens must've taken pity on us - because synth-steak strips with perfectly roasted vegetables were lined up alongside the usual options.

"Finally," I sighed, scooping up a forkful. "Something that tastes like food instead of cardboard."

"Your description is hyperbolic," T'Lia said smoothly, though she tilted her head toward her own tray as if conceding the point. "The nutritional supplements are adequate."

Rekk made a noise halfway between a laugh and a snort. "Adequate isn't the same as edible. I swear they recycle the texture packs."

"That is not possible," T'Lia countered without missing a beat. "Starfleet regulations prevent reconstitution of proteins once they've been denatured."

"Don't encourage him," I groaned, pointing my fork in warning. "If either of you launch into food chemistry during lunch again, I'm defecting to another table."

That earned me one of Rekk's amused antennae flicks and - unless I was imagining it - the faintest quirk of T'Lia's mouth, which for her was practically a laugh.

We fell into the rhythm of mealtime chatter: half-serious gossip about professors, comparing notes on upcoming assignments, debating who had the worst elective schedule. Rekk boasted about his negotiation seminar, I complained about symbolic logic drills, and T'Lia - in her usual dry manner - noted that everyone's workloads were precisely calibrated and therefore no one had any grounds to complain.

I rolled my eyes, grinning as I shoveled another mouthful of steak. For a while, it was just cadet life as usual. No high-stakes simulations, no Vulcan Commander scrutiny, no looming deadlines. Just us.

I wanted to snapshot the moment and frame it on every surface possible. 

When our trays and glasses were empty, we left the mess hall in a loose pack, sunlight cutting sharp lines across the Academy courtyard. The San Francisco air was brisk but not cold, the kind of afternoon that made the marble steps gleam and the flagpoles hum with the faintest ripple of wind off the bay. The summer heat was wearing thin, the atmosphere around campus becoming more and more excited for autumn.

Rekk had sprung into another lecture about his imaginary "perfect" negotiation framework, using his hands so broadly that two first-year cadets had to duck to avoid being swatted.

"You'll see," he insisted, eyes shining. "If they'd just let cadets trial their own case studies, I'd prove it works. No more stiff posture, no over-reliance on formal phrasing - just presence. You have to be a storm in these things, not a stone."

"You'd also be suspended in under three minutes," T'Lia replied coolly. She adjusted her satchel against one shoulder. "Storms erode foundations. Stones endure."

"Yeah - but poetry doesn't win treaties, T'Lia," Rekk shot back.

"Nor do tantrums," she answered.

I smothered a laugh with my hand. "I can't wait to see your face when you try that tactic on an Cardassian ambassador. Please invite me, I'll bring popcorn."

Rekk groaned. "No faith. None of you."

By the time we filed into the lecture wing, the conversation had shifted toward exam schedules and the eternal debate about which instructor was most ruthless with grading.

"Commander Shuran," one brown-haired cadet said immediately.

"No way," I argued. "It's Lieutenant Commander Venn. You can practically hear his red pen when you write."

Rekk threw his hands up. "Pike. Easy. He just stares at you like he can see through your soul."

"That's not grading, that's intimidation," I said, squinting ahead to scan the hallway for our lecture hall.

"Effective," T'Lia countered, as she nodded farewell and departed for her own class.

We broke apart at the door to Applied Ethics, each sliding into our assigned seats as Spock dimmed the lights for a case study holo. My focus wavered more than once - every time my mind wandered, I saw a pair of Vulcan eyes on me, and imagined the Commander in front of me reading my assignment and deciding it was wholly inadequate. By the time the lecture ended, my brain was buzzing with too many half-finished thoughts and a newfound stress that had made a home behind my eyes.

I needed a reset. Something to distract me and get all ebbs of stress out of my system.

Sliding my PADD and notes back into my bag, I gave Rekk a farewell smile, nodding slightly to Spock - who was stood at his desk with his mouth slightly open as if to call out - and retreated to the safety of the hallway. There was a certain element of safety in crowds, a primal survival instinct that I couldn't help but appreciate within the Academy halls. As overwhelming as it was, blending in was helpful in escaping the unwanted conversation about a certain assignment.

I just wanted to make sure it was finished before I approached him, my nerves were already gearing up to an unknown source of anxiety.

Nearing a corner, I paused on the outside layer of the crowd of cadets, pulling my PADD out from my bag. My fingers tapped steadily, as I pulled up a message to Bones.

TO: MCCOY, L. (Starfleet MedBay Dept.)
SUBJECT:  Change of Plans

Bones,

I'm going to have to skip our chit-chat this afternoon - and before you scowl at your screen, let me explain. I needed to clear my head and decided a swim would do me more good than sitting hunched over a desk & stressing about Spock's assignment deadline.

(Yes, I know what you're going to say about consistency and preparation. But in my defense, I also know that exercise is "clinically proven to reduce cortisol levels and promote better focus". Consider it following medical advice, just not directly from you :) )

Don't worry, I'll see you tomorrow as scheduled. Try not to roll your eyes too hard when you read this.

- Diana

P.S. If you're about to send me a lecture on overdoing it, I already swim responsibly. No fainting, no drowning. Promise.

I sent the message with a satisfying swoosh noise from the PADD, sliding it back into my bag and continued towards the dormitory building, dodging and weaving through what seemed like an endless sea of cadets.

I hoped Bones wouldn't be too annoyed that I'd decided to raincheck our meeting today, but I didn't think tea would be able to crack the amount of stress building inside. Plus this way, maybe he'd be able to have 5 minutes of peace and quiet without me chiding and complaining about a certain green-blooded Commander.

I jogged up the stairwell two steps at a time, breath quickening as the sound of my shoes echoed down the corridors. Corner after corner blurred past in a rhythm of metal handrails and fluorescent light until, at last, I reached our dorm room. The door slid open with a soft hiss, revealing T'Lia at her desk, her back to me, textbooks covering every surface.

Her head turned slightly, as if to acknowledge my entrance before she turned back to her books.

I dumped my bag by the side of my bunk, pulling my boots off and rummaged through the drawer that held my so-called leisure gear. The Starfleet-issued one-piece wasn't exactly fashionable - navy blue with a discreet delta emblem at the hip - but it did the job well enough. I stuffed it into a worn canvas bag along with a towel, a change of clothes, and the set of flip-flops I'd picked up my first year. I'd taken a step before realizing I'd also be needing a swim cap and goggles, quickly digging them out from under my bed and stuffing them into my bag with haste.

Lacing up a pair of worn trainers, I smoothed out my cadet uniform, mentally making a note not to get it near the heavily-chlorinated water.

T'Lia glanced up from her desk as I passed her. "You are leaving again?"

"Swimming," I said, hoisting the bag onto my shoulder. "Destressing before I drown in homework."

Her eyebrow rose in that perfect Vulcan arc. "You intend to avoid drowning by, swimming?"

I shot her an mildly exasperated look. "You know what I mean, T'Lia."

She went back to her reading without another word, though I caught the faintest trace of amusement in the angle of her mouth. Vulcans.

The corridors of the dormitory block were noisy with end-of-day cadets - some heading toward study groups, others just loitering in clusters, trading gossip or debating which mess hall station was least likely to serve reheated stew. I kept my head down, weaving through them until the air cooled against my skin and the chatter faded, replaced by the soft hum of the campus environmental system.

The path to the leisure centre wound between two low glass-fronted buildings, their walls catching the late afternoon sunlight between lines of cypress trees. By the time I reached the double doors, the sky was shifting to a mellow golden wash, the kind that made even the utilitarian Academy grounds look almost serene. My bag thumped lightly against my hip as I stepped through the doors and into the foyer.

The smell of chlorine hit me immediately - sharp, clean, and very familiar. It carried with it the faint echo of old competitions back home, the ones my mother used to drag me to. Back then, swimming was about winning. Now, it was about breathing. About having somewhere that the world fell quiet for a while.

The locker room was nearly empty at this hour; most cadets were still finishing up with their day. I changed quickly, tying my hair back into a semi-tidy bun before padding across the tiles in my flip flops. 

I eased into the shallow end of the lane, the cool water a shock that stole the air from my lungs before settling into a welcomed feeling of cleansing. It took only a few minutes for my body to acclimate, and I used them wisely - pulling on the cap and goggles and tucking in a few loose strands of my hair with my thumb.

Sinking into the water, I pushed off the wall and began to swim.

Stroke, breathe. Stroke, breathe. The rhythm settled my pulse in a way nothing else had all week. The pressure in my chest and head loosened. My thoughts finally pausing with their careening between simulations and assignments and unanswered messages.

Here, there was no one watching me fail, no professors waiting for polished answers, no looming deadlines. Just water, and the steady reminder that I was still in control of at least this much. The noise of the day dulled beneath the water, my only wish being that they installed speakers under the surface so I could listen to music as I swam.

I lost track of time - the laps melted into one another, each length of the pool a small, blessed reprieve. When I finally surfaced and drifted against the edge, the sun outside had shifted, slanting lower and painting the ceiling in pale gold.

For the first time in days, my shoulders felt lighter.

On my seventh lap, when I tilted my head for a breath, I caught a shadow above the pool - someone standing at the railing. My brain dismissed it as a stray passerby, and I dipped under again.

By the tenth lap, they were still there. A quick inhale revealed more detail: broad-shouldered, hands resting on the metal rail like they weren't in any hurry.

Twelfth lap. I took another breath on my right side. I caught the glint of a med-badge on a dark duffel at his feet, and recognition hit.

Bones.

The sight startled me enough that I swallowed half a mouthful of pool water. I pushed through the rest of the lap anyway, refusing to break form, though my strokes felt heavier under his gaze. Each time I turned my head for air, there he was. Patient, silent. Like he had nowhere else to be.

Finally, at the shallow end, I surfaced fully, dragging the goggles up and propping my elbows on the pool's edge. "You know," I said between breaths, "there are less dramatic ways to check if your cadets survive the week."

His mouth curved, the faintest pull at the corner. "Didn't want to interrupt your flow, Peppermint. Wasn't sure if you'd noticed me."

"Oh, I noticed," I said, smiling. "Hard not to, when you keep showing up in my peripheral like a bloody horror holo."

That earned me a low chuckle. He crouched by the railing, close enough now that his voice dropped without echoing. "I was on my way out after seeing to a gym injury. Saw you in here, figured I'd make sure you weren't pushing yourself past sense."

"Hey!" I scoffed, splashing water in his direction. "Swimming's supposed to be good for stress," I countered, resting the side of my head on my crossed arms. "You know - it regulates breathing, clears the head. Isn't that in your medical handbook somewhere?"

"Sure," he said, tilting his head. "As long as you actually stop before your body gives out. Otherwise it's just another way to land yourself in my MedBay."

I rolled my eyes, smiling despite myself. "Always the optimist, aren't you?"

"I'm a realist," he corrected. For a beat, his gaze lingered on me - steady and observant. "Just don't skip dinner afterwards, okay? Your metabolism's already working overtime."

Such a Bones thing to say.

"Yes, Sir," I said, exaggerating the title.

Another ghost of a smile flickered across his face, quick as a shadow, before he straightened. He slung the duffel over one shoulder, gave me a final nod, and strode out through the doors.

I turned around, closing my eyes and stretched my body out in the water to float. The distant splashing of water created ripples that crashed gently against my face, and in that moment - if I hadn't been so scared about the actual premise of drowning - I would have let the water take me. A real life Ophelia; drowning from madness.

Bones hadn't needed to check on me, but he had. 

A smile graced my lips, all evidence of stress had disappeared and been replaced with a perfect calmness.

~

By the time I made it back to the dorms, my hair was damp and curling at the ends, the faint smell of chlorine clinging like a second skin. I found T'Lia exactly where I had left her, still studying, although this time she was sporting a cup of tea and had a quiet documentary on in the background.

Dumping my bag of swim gear onto my bed, I dragged my body into the shower, the steam curling up around me, and the red-hot temperature reinforcing the lack of tension in my shoulders as it poured down onto me.

Emerging feeling like a new person, I wrapped myself in a sweatshirt and loose pants, settling at my desk with my own mug of freshly brewed tea. My PADD blinked back at me, the Cleon Summit scenario still open exactly where I’d left it.

This time, though, my mind felt clearer. I could see the threads in the case more easily - the subtle shifts in body language, the pauses that meant more than the words themselves. I started rearranging my notes, piecing together the non-verbal cues into something that might actually impress Spock. Paragraphs started to form - actual coherent ones.

Somewhere between cross-referencing my diagrams and rewriting a particularly clumsy paragraph I'd attempted days ago, I realized I was enjoying myself.

Which was either a good sign, or a dangerous one. Both were frightening to think about.

So I settled into the evening: my assignment finally being pieced together, T'Lia murmuring a few words about her upcoming linguistics exam, and Bones's visit planted firmly in the corner of my mind. 

Chapter Text

"What are your findings, Cadet Blake?"

I took a deep breath, my heartrate plummeting out of my feet and through my ribcage, the force feeling similar to that of being at warp. The lecture hall had emptied out quickly, becoming a vast space and almost mimicking an arena for a blood sport - an ocean of desks and chairs open and willing for spectators. Spock peered down at me, resembling a scientist to a specimen.

I'd woken up ridiculously early on Thursday morning, my mind never shutting off from the night before. The world still slept as I pulled myself out of the warm embrace of my bedding and into the even warmer embrace of the shower. Fiery water beat down onto my neck again, a comforting reminder that grounded my nerves and reinforced my senses.

I'd finished my assignment over dinner last night, putting the finishing flare onto my notes and annotations as I battled to avoid staining any textbooks, trying to not overthink and failing miserably. Even now, as my hands grasped a steaming mug of tea, my mind raced with endless possibilities and outcomes - what if I got the assignment wrong? What if I should have focused on another area of the ?

What if Commander Spock fails me for this?
That one, of course, was my brain shitting itself.

T'Lia, of course, hadn't moved an inch when I eventually emerged from our shared bathroom, padding softly across the plush carpet. She remained delightfully curled up in her bed, a steady rhythm of deep breathing echoing out and undoubtably dreaming about some sort of hyper-logical process to do with her classes.

'Delightfully curled up' in Vulcan-terminology was T'Lia bearing semblance to a Victorian child dying of plague. Straight-bodied and plain-faced, with little hope of communication.

Sometimes, I truly envied her ability to remain logical and superficially calm.

Tucking a few damp strands of hair back into the messy plait I'd braided whilst hastily brushing my teeth, I headed towards the door, grabbing my satchel and dodging various clothes I'd left scattered.

The Academy campus blurred into the background as I raced through my morning classes, nodding absentmindedly when input was needed and dazing across my textbooks until the bell rang. Lunch wasn't much better as I picked at my food, my gaze firmly fixed on the clock mounted at the end of the hall. Each tick another step closer to my demise.

"Cadet Blake?"

The deep voice of the Commander standing in front of me took on the same effect as dowsing a field mouse in cold water. Shock and subsequent nausea gripped my stomach with both hands as I blinked and refocused, silently berating myself for zoning out.

Spock's gaze was so steady it made me anxiously shift in my uniform, as though he could see straight through me and into my notes, into the nerves twisting in my stomach.

I cleared my throat, clutching my PADD a little tighter. "Uh - well, sir, I went through the Cleon summit logs fully. More than once. A lot more than once, actually."

"Quantify 'a lot,'" he said, tone bone-dry.

"Six? Maybe seven times?" I admitted, heat crawling into my cheeks.

There was not an inkling or flicker of judgment on his face. Just a raised brow, as though that level of obsession was perfectly within normal limits. "Proceed."

I glanced down, taking a deep breath. My toes wiggled in my shoes to ground me further.

"Right. So, at first I thought the Denari delay in responding to the Varn proposal was simply hesitation. The ambassador paused, frowned, dragged it out - textbook 'stalling tactic.' But the longer I watched, the less it looked like hesitation and more like coordination."

Spock tilted his head a fraction. "Explain."

I pulled up a still frame on my PADD, turning the screen slightly toward him. "Ambassador Keti's hands at that exact moment, they were flat on the table. Denari's typically cross their arms when they're unconvinced, right? But he wasn't defensive at all. He was waiting. Waiting for the Varn Ambassador to speak."

His dark umber eyes flicked to the image, then back to me. "You infer premeditated alignment between two opposing delegations."

"Yes, sir. It felt staged, almost choreographed. The Denari came in hot, but their 'concessions' were always ones the Varn wanted anyway. Like they were playing out a script for their own benefit."

For a moment Spock said nothing, the silence stretching uncomfortably long. His gaze didn't move from me, though, and that was worse than any sharp critique I could think of. My insides felt microscopic, as if I'd taken some sort of shrinking potion and was slowly disappearing from view.

I rushed to fill the air. "It wasn't just that, though. There were other little things - like the water jug."

His brow lifted another precise millimeter. "The water jug?"

I winced at how ridiculous it sounded, but plowed ahead with my reasoning. I was already knee-deep in my explanation, I might as well seek forgiveness instead of permission.

"Yes, sir. The attendant placed it closer to the Denari side after their brief recess, meaning the Varn delegate had to lean forward every time he poured a glass - it broke his posture. Meanwhile Ambassador Keti stayed centered, completely composed. It gave him a stronger visual presence at the table. Subtle, but," I trailed off, suddenly aware of how insane I must sound.

But Spock was studying me as though I'd just sprouted a second head. "Fascinating."

The word was quiet, measured. If it wasn't for my pulse skyrocketing for a fourth or fifth time, I would've paused and asked him what he meant. His gaze remained on me, making me shrink further under the weight.

"I- uh, it's probably nothing. Just me overthinking a basic catering detail," I muttered quickly, my right hand moving to fiddle with the cuff of my sleeve. "Anyone would've noticed if they'd stared at the footage as long as I did."

He folded his hands behind his back, his inspection of me remaining unwavered. "On the contrary, Cadet. Federation Archives contain no mention of this factor. Nor has it been documented yet within diplomatic retrospectives."

That sent a jolt down my spine.
"Oh." 

Brilliant response, Diana. Very eloquent.

Spock continued, his voice low and precise as he scanned over the screen in front of his desk. "Your analysis suggests you perceive variables that others typically disregard, the patterns beneath overt proceedings."

I shifted, bringing my PADD up to my chest, hugging it closer. "I mean, I just... watch people. I notice things. Doesn't everyone?"

His answer was immediate. "No."

The single syllable dropped like a stone in the room. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing nervously, my anxiety making it nigh-on-impossible to keep a straight face.

"There is one more thing," I said after a beat, if only to fill the silence.

"When the Denari delegation finally agreed, one of the junior officers leaned back in his chair before his superior gave the word. Just a fraction too early. Like he already knew what the decision was going to be. Which means," I took a breath before continuing, the pieces fully clicking into place as I spoke, "that the outcome was predetermined. The entire back-and-forth was just theatrics-"

I halted, realizing my words had spilled out too quickly, too eagerly. My throat caught, although if it was from dehydration or nervousness, I had no idea.

Spock, however, didn't move. He just regarded me, gaze as steady as the gravity under my feet. And if Vulcans did double-takes, I would have sworn he was doing one now. He seemed taller now, once I'd blurted out all the nonsense I'd formulated from the past several days. Like a fiery God, a destroyer of worlds - looking down on mere mortals who didn't know if they should pray or simply accept death.

Finally, he said, "Cadet, your insight into this discussion demonstrates a capacity for reading subtext with unusual accuracy. Even for a trained diplomat."

I blinked at him, my mouth slightly agape. "I don't think- I mean, it's not-"

"You are capable," he cut in smoothly. Not unkindly, simply factual - Vulcan. "A senior officers' briefing will be held this evening regarding cultural intelligence. Your perspective could be of use. You will attend."

The fuck?

I stared at him, mouth dry, stomach plunging. "Attend? As in- me? With senior officers?"

"Yes," Spock said, with Vulcan finality. "You will be there."

The words landed with the force of a tractor beam. No hesitation, no room for interpretation. Just fact.

I blinked at him, trying to wrap my mind around the sheer impossibility of what he'd just said. "Sir, I'm a cadet. Don't you think there's... I don't know, someone more-"

"Qualified?" His brow rose a fraction, as though the suggestion itself was illogical. "Your analysis indicates an aptitude for perception not yet cultivated in your peers. Such insight, unrefined though it may be, is nonetheless valuable. You will attend."

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. My brain scrambled to find its footing while my heart hammered like it was trying to break out of my ribs. Valuable. Spock had called my insight valuable.

"Uh," I managed eloquently. "Do I... need to prepare something? A speech? Notes? Should I—"

"Observe," he interrupted, his tone final. "Nothing more. Consider this a shadowing opportunity. Your task is to watch, to listen. And to apply the same acuity you have demonstrated here."

I nodded quickly, clutching my PADD like it might anchor me to the floor. "Right. Listen. Watch. Don't faint."

The corner of his mouth didn't move, but his eyes shifted minutely, as if he'd heard the last part and filed it away into the humour section of his mind. "You will meet me outside Starfleet Headquarters at nineteen-hundred hours."

"Nineteen-hundred," I repeated, because if I didn't, the numbers might scatter straight out of my head and crawl into the hallway in search of rescue.

Spock gave a small nod, already gathering his own materials, as though this conversation had been nothing more than a minor administrative note. But my blood was buzzing, my mind turning somersaults.

He turned to leave, pulling the front of his uniform down and taking a few long strides towards the doors before halting and turning his head towards where I still stood.

“You have done well, Cadet Blake.”

And with that, all that was left of the Commander was the swinging of the double doors leading into the hallway. That, and my jaw that had taken up residence on the floor.

~

The chain of my necklace was reassuringly cool against my skin, hidden beneath the stiff collar of my uniform. My fingers found it without thinking, rolling the small St. Christopher pendant between thumb and forefinger as I strolled through the campus towards the shuttle port. The silver had worn smooth in places over the years, the edges softened from a childhood’s worth of nervous fiddling. My father had given it to me before he left - his voice promising it would keep me safe, even when he couldn’t.

No one else could see it, and I liked it that way. It was solely mine, a grounding memento of where I came from, and how much I have achieved. A reminder that I was still Diana Blake, still a cadet, a student, and not just someone about to walk into a room where people with real authority shaped the fate of entire worlds.

Observe, nothing more. Spock's words echoed through my mind as I walked across a busy road, and headed inside the shuttle port. The setting sun slanted through the glass-paneled walkways, golden light spilling over steel floors and casting my elongated shadow ahead of me. It should have been beautiful. It should have calmed me. Instead, my mind raced with numerous outcomes that threatened all sense and reason.

I slipped into the back of the long queue of passengers, biting the insides of my cheeks in distraction, and climbed the short ramp into the shuttle. The interior was utilitarian - rows of metal-backed seats, a faint hum in the walls, the sterile tang of recycled air. I slid into a spot near the window, palms pressed flat to my knees to keep from fidgeting.

The ascent was smooth, the Academy grounds shrinking away beneath us, red-roofed training halls giving way to the shimmering sprawl of San Francisco Bay. I caught faint glimpses of sailboats like white flecks against blue glass, of the Golden Gate Bridge cutting a clean line across the horizon. But it was the headquarters that held my eye - white stone and glass catching the sun, Federation banners standing tall against the breeze like sentinels.

Starfleet Headquarters was one of those places you passed a thousand times as a cadet but never really got past the first floor - guided tours as a First Year were mandatory and simply a formality. It was a sleek, towering building - always guarded by a steady stream of uniforms that almost certainly outranked you. The glass doors whooshed open at my approach, and the temperature inside dropped a few degrees, the air sharper, cooler, tinged with sterility.

Spock was already waiting at the base of the steps in the main lobby. He stood motionless, hands folded behind his back, eyes flicking briefly over to my left hand that was nervously picking at my sleeve, before returning to his neutral gaze.

"Cadet Blake," he said. "You are punctual."

"Trying to be," I managed, digging my nails into the hem. My voice came out half an octave too high, but if he noticed, he didn't comment.

"This way." He motioned to a row of turbolifts that were built into the alcoves. I entered first, feeling small as he took up the space in front of me and punched in a floor number of the screen.

We ascended in silence, the sound of passing floors a quiet hum. At the top, double doors hissed open into a room that did nothing less than blow my mind.

The conference hall was long, lined with a polished obsidian table that reflected the light of the setting sun streaming through massive windows. A wall-length display screen hovered with tactical readouts and system maps, their details shifting with cool, efficient flickers. High-backed chairs encircled the table, most already filled with people whose faces I recognized from Academy briefs, whispered cadet gossip and official history texts.

Admirals Barnett and Komack. Captain Pike. Numerous decorated Commanders. A handful of other senior officers whose names and reputations carried more weight than most planetary systems could muster.

And seated halfway down the table next to Captain Pike, leaning back in his chair with that signature mix of ease and challenge, was James T. Kirk.

Not yet Captain. Not even close to official rank beyond cadet himself. But the room seemed to bend subtly around him, his presence pulling attention like gravity. Under the glow of the conference room lights, he certainly seemed mature, though the light in his eyes carried something younger - reckless confidence, threaded with an almost defiant clarity. He hadn't changed at all since I saw him at the bar.

I froze in the doorway, staring at the legends that I'd only seen on screens. My stomach flipped so violently I thought I might actually throw up.

Spock inclined his head toward a chair against the wall, slightly set back from the table - not part of the circle, but close enough to see everything. "You will sit there," he murmured.

I obeyed, my legs moving before my brain caught up. Sliding into the chair, I let my fingers drift to the suprasternal notch in my throat, tracing small circles over the fabric of my uniform. The motion was steady, practiced - a calming trick I’d carried for years, and one that brushed against the cool outline of the pendant hidden beneath my shirt.

The room's conversations dimmed and Spock took a nearby seat as Barnett cleared his throat. His voice was deep, carrying the kind of weight that didn't need to be raised to command attention.

"Let's begin."

What followed was a torrent. Sector updates. Border tensions. Fleets stationed near volatile regions. The kind of high-level discussions I’d only ever skimmed in partially-redacted after-action reports. For the first fifteen minutes, I struggled to keep my mind tethered, fighting the urge to shrink into the wall. Acronyms blurred together. Star systems were mentioned like items on a shopping list. I'd wanted to take notes on my PADD, but second guessed myself once I realized that anything I recorded would likely have to be redacted anyway.

Something shifted.

“-Klingon fleet movements in the Archanis sector are increasing.” Pike’s voice was measured, calm, but there was a current underneath, something pressing. “Our last intelligence suggests at least three Birds-of-Prey patrolling close to Federation space. Nothing overt, but more than a show of presence.”

“That’s what they always say,” Komack muttered, steepling his fingers before lowering them to the table. He leaned forward slightly, and I noticed the tension in his hands - not quite clenched, but taut against the polished surface. “Posturing is prelude. If they’re there, they want us to see them.”

Admiral Barnett’s jaw tightened. “And if we react too strongly, they’ll claim provocation.”

“Provocation or not, they don’t respect restraint.” The Tellarite Commodore - Gruul - if I remembered correctly, grunted, his voice gravelly. “They respect force. You meet their shadow with a brighter torch, or you’ll lose the border before you know it.”

A quiet beat followed. Pike didn’t flinch under the Tellarite’s bluntness; instead, his gaze slid to Komack. Across the table, Kirk tilted his head, watching them both with something close to fascination or calculation.

“You’re suggesting,” Komack said slowly, “that we increase presence in Archanis? Divert ships from where, then? The Romulan Neutral Zone?”

“I didn’t say divert,” Gruul snapped. “I said reinforce. Big difference.”

Barnett’s sigh was almost inaudible, but his hand rubbed against his temple in a way that suggested this argument wasn’t at all new. “Resources are finite, gentlemen. Unless someone here has a shipyard tucked up their sleeve, we can’t simply double patrols everywhere we feel remotely nervous.”

“No one is advocating overextension,” Pike cut in, voice calm again, almost surgical in tone. “But we can’t ignore the Archanis build-up. If they push too far into unclaimed space, the Orion Syndicate will use the chaos for smuggling. And then it’s not just a Klingon problem.”

Another grunt from Gruul, softer this time. Komack tapped two fingers against the table, then stilled them.

Through it all, I sat silent, absorbing. The words themselves were high-level strategy, sure, but the reactions - that was where the truth lived. The twitch of Komack’s hands, the sharpness in Gruul’s tone, the way Kirk’s eyes narrowed when Barnett pressed his thumb into his temple. They weren’t just debating policy. They were testing one another, probing for weakness, for intent, for the line between what was spoken and what was truly meant.

The air moved differently here. Layers of conversation unfolded beyond the words themselves, a dance of subtle twitches, exchanged glances, measured silences.

I understood it.

Not in a conscious, note-taking way or words I could have written in an essay, but in my bones. The same way I’d studied old negotiation logs, how I’d learned to read the weight of silence in the Cleon Summit footage. How a pause could be louder than a speech, how even a tightening jaw could undercut an entire argument.

Someone is hiding something.

The realization snapped into place so quickly I nearly gasped. Komack’s hand tightened each time Pike mentioned resource distribution, his knuckles blanching against the table. The Tellarite’s grunt hadn’t been dismissal, I realized, but restraint - agreement disguised as irritation, as if Gruul had more to say but knew the moment wasn’t right. Captain Pike, for all his measured calm, seemed unaware of the undercurrent, his gaze fixed only on the overt words.

Barnett rubbed his temple again, missing it entirely.

But Kirk was watching. Not me, not directly, but the same current. His eyes tracked Komack’s hands, flicked briefly toward Gruul’s mouth, then back to Pike. A predator’s instinct, sharp and calculating.

“Resources are finite,” Barnett said again, weary. “We can’t keep scattering them like sand.”

Komack didn’t move this time. His hands remained still, frozen against the polished tabletop. But it was too still, too deliberate. I knew then, he was holding back. Not because he had nothing to add, but because what he had to add couldn’t be spoken. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

My gut plunged into freefall. It was subtle, buried in the folds of political language and professional restraint, but I could see it as clearly as if someone had shouted across the table: 

Komack knew something. And he wasn’t telling them.

Beside me, Spock's head turned. Just slightly. His eyes found mine.

It wasn't possible he could know what had just crossed my mind. But in that brief glance, the way his brow flickered upward by the smallest fraction, I realized he'd seen it. Seen me connect the dots.

My pulse thundered in my ears. I looked down to the floor, trying not to fidget, trying not to react.

The meeting rolled on. Starfleet's future, the balance of diplomacy and force, the invisible tightrope of exploration versus provocation. And me - a cadet, a nothing, sitting at the edge of it all with the sudden terrifying knowledge that I could see pieces others missed.

"Cadet."

The sound of my title snapped me upright. Kirk's voice.

Every head at the table swiveled toward me. My blood froze. For a second, I couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe. The screech of a chair leg on the floor, the quiet shuffle of someone setting down a PADD - it all sharpened in my ears until it was unbearable. These were people I’d only ever seen from a distance, names I’d memorized from briefings, faces I’d never dreamed would be staring at me now. Their eyes felt heavy, like spotlights pinning me to the chair. 

I hadn't spoken. I hadn't even moved. What had I-

But Kirk wasn't looking at me. He was looking at Spock.

"Cadet Blake, isn't it?" he said, his grin edged with challenge. "Thought I saw her name in the roster. What's she doing here, Commander?"

All eyes stayed on me now, though the question wasn't mine to answer. Captain Pike tilted his head towards me, seemingly also questioning the reasons for my attendance.

Spock didn't flinch. "Observing," he said. "Cadet Blake recently demonstrated an innate ability for intuitive perception. I deemed it applicable to today's agenda."

A murmur rippled across the table. Kirk's grin widened, though there was something sharp beneath it. "Perception, huh? Hope it doesn't get her in too much trouble."

I swallowed hard, every nerve alight, wishing the floor would swallow me whole.

But Pike cut in smoothly. "If Spock sees merit in her attending, I trust his judgement."

Several Commanders nodded, following Captain Pike's decision with ample agreement before returning to their supporting officers with hushed tones. Kirk seemingly retreated from his witch hunt, leaning back in his chair and returning to the conversation, but not before giving me a skeptical once-over.

The moment slipped into a stream of other notable agenda points, swallowed by the tide of strategy and projection, as if nothing had happened. But my body remained tensed. My fingers worried at the inside of my sleeve, tugging at a loose thread like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to my body.

I had no idea how to explain what had just occurred, let alone think about the reasons why several Commanders and Admirals were seemingly agitated over resource allocation in a Sector within the Beta Quadrant.

When the meeting finally adjourned, I barely noticed Barnett’s clipped dismissal. Chairs scraped back, the room dissolving into a flurry of brisk nods and murmured farewells. Uniforms swept past me - living, breathing legends stepping out of history texts and into the corridor.

Kirk passed close to me on his way out, and for just a fraction of a second, his gaze caught mine - bright blue, and sharp as a blade.

He winked.

And then he was gone.

I swallowed hard, fumbling for composure as I rose to gather my PADD. The echo of the room’s tension still clung to me when I realized one figure remained. Spock. He lingered at the far end of the table, posture straight, expression unreadable save for a faint furrow at his brow, as though still turning over an unsolved equation.

He crossed the room with deliberate calm. “Cadet Blake.” His voice was low, precise. “Your silence was commendable.”

A shaky laugh escaped before I could catch it. “I didn’t really have much of a choice, sir.”

“You did.” His reply was immediate, without edge. “You could have spoken. That you did not was an act of discipline, not passivity. Observation requires restraint. You demonstrated both.”

I blinked at him, unsure whether it was meant as a compliment or a rebuke. My hand drifted unconsciously to my collarbones, fingers brushing the chain of the St. Christopher pendant beneath my uniform. The metal warm against my skin.

Spock’s gaze flicked briefly to the motion, then down to where my other hand still worried at the loose thread in my sleeve. When he looked back at me, his eyes were sharper, assessing. “Tell me,” he said, “what did you perceive?”

I froze. “...Sir?”

“During the exchange.” His tone did not change, but the question was pointed and inescapable. “What did you observe?”

My mind tripped over itself. I thought of Komack’s hands, Gruul’s grunted restraint, Pike’s calm obliviousness. Of Kirk’s hawk-like gaze tracking it all. The pieces flickered like shadows just out of reach. “I-” I swallowed. “I thought Admiral Komack seemed tense. Not with what was said, but with what wasn’t.” The words tumbled clumsily out, each one a risk. “And Commodore Gruul - it felt less like disagreement and more like, waiting. For something. I don’t know if I imagined it.”

Spock studied me, silent. Long enough that the doubt burned hot in my cheeks. “It was probably nothing,” I added quickly, retreating before I embarrassed myself further.

“It was not nothing,” he said at last. The certainty in his voice startled me more than if he’d disagreed. “Your instinct is unrefined, but it is not inaccurate.”

I stared at him, unsure how to answer.

Spock inclined his head, as though reaching a private conclusion. “You will attend the next session.”

My stomach lurched. “Sir, I-”

“You are capable,” he interrupted, his tone even, without room for doubt. “Capability untested remains hypothetical. And I do not deal in hypotheticals.”

With that, he adjusted the front of his jacket and turned, his stride measured and unhurried, disappearing through the doors as if the matter were already decided.

I stayed rooted to the spot, the hum of the lights suddenly too loud in the emptied room. The conversation replayed in fragments - Komack’s hands, Gruul’s restraint, and Kirk’s sharp eyes. For the first time since arriving at the Academy, I felt less like a student and more like a piece on a chess board.

And the terrifying part? I wasn’t sure if I wanted to move - or if someone had already done it for me.

~

The frosted glass doors hissed shut behind me, sealing the conference room away like it had never happened. The hallway outside felt too bare after sitting in a chamber weighted with so much unspoken gravity.

My boots clicked against the polished floor as I walked, my fingers tapping a rhythmic pattern onto my thigh as I approached the Turbolift and got in, returning back to the first floor lobby.

The air smelled faintly of metal and cleaning supplies, a far cry from the crisp scent of the early evening beyond the windows. I moved automatically, following the traffic and past varying personnel in small knots of conversation, their laughter bouncing freely against the glass. 

They didn't know - couldn't know - that I'd just sat in a room where war and peace had been weighed, balanced, and handled (for the most part) like fragile glass - and out here, life spun on without anyone noticing.

My thoughts wouldn't still. They replayed every flicker of the meeting: Komack's tightened hand, the Tellarite's grunt, Pike's measured and neutral tones. The way Kirk's gaze had landed on me like he was assessing whether I was worth the oxygen in the room.

And Spock. The way he'd seen me.

That tiny acknowledgment.

I didn't know whether to be relieved or horrified.

Your instinct is unrefined, but it is not inaccurate.

I boarded the returning shuttle back to the Academy campus, the words looping in my head, sharper with every repetition. What was he preparing me for? Why me? Dozens of cadets turned in assignments every week - bright, ambitious, and more capable than I'd ever claim to be. Yet somehow, I'd ended up in that chair and the weight of Vulcan finality saying you will be there.

Inhaling a necessary breath, I glanced towards the closest window, the shuttle adjusting slightly to correct its flight plan. The spill of dying golden light cut across the city below. The sun had sunk behind the bay, the final remnants scattering into shards of brilliance across the water. The sight pressed against my chest in a way I couldn't explain. It was beautiful. Fragile. Just like the balance I'd seen around that table.

The thought whispered at the edge of my mind like an itch I couldn't scratch. 

And yet, they let me see.

The accommodation block was still a long walk away, but I slowed down, stretching out the silence after the constant hum of the shuttle. I needed to make sense of everything before I could interact with anyone else.

My instinct - the thing I'd noticed in Komack and Commadore Gruul - it hadn't been overly extraordinary. At least, not to me. It felt obvious, like breathing, like noticing the shift in smell in the air before rain. I'd assumed anyone would have caught it. But Spock's look, it had carried recognition, almost respect.

By the time I reached the dorms, twilight had set in. Streetlamps hummed faintly as they flickered on, casting thin halos over the pathways. Cadets spilled from the library and mess halls, their chatter like a constant stream I could slip into or away from at will. Tonight, I would be glad to slip away.

The room was quiet when I slipped inside. As I’d hoped, T’Lia was in the bathroom, the steady rhythm of the shower running like a timed buffer between us. For once, I was grateful - the sound softened the usual sharp edges of her Vulcan straightforwardness, giving me a moment to breathe before I had to explain where I had been for most of the evening.

And breathe, Diana.

I collapsed on top of my bed, pushing several piles of folded laundry onto the floor and peering up at the mug I'd left on my desk earlier that morning - staring at it as if the remnants of the contents could offer me answers. Taking an impressive yawn, my body rushed to try and recover the drop in adrenaline, recognizing that I was no longer in an unknown environment.

Dragging my body up to a sitting position, I pulled my communicator from my pocket. My thumb hovered over the contact list. I shouldn't. Regulations were clear about classified proceedings. But Bones wasn't just a doctor. He was, well, Bones.

I thumbed open the channel before I could stop myself.

His voice came through a beat later, edged with irritation that shifted into familiar sarcasm the instant he recognized me.

“Diana? Lord, you sound like somebody just told you Klingons make house calls."

Chapter Text

Bones had been right. Of course he had - that smug, southern-tongued bastard.

It had actually felt like the Klingons had knocked on the front door and asked to move in.

And as I swam length after length of the Academy Leisure Facilities' pool, my breathing syncing with each overarch of my arms, an unsettling feeling of dread nestled into my stomach. It battled with the anxiety that lived behind my ribcage and I suppose it was hard to differ between the two of them, depending on who was looking.

The feeling stuck with me as I trudged back to my dorm, the sunlight casting a warm glow over the pavements and footpaths, trying and failing to elevate my mood. The summer evenings of heat and sun had faded and lulled, into a period of dusks and hazy reds and purples. The turn of the season had flowed perfectly with the mood around the Campus, the excitement of summer had mellowed out into a tranquil peace.

The ponytail I'd carefully braided pre-swim was already soaking the back of the jacket I'd just changed into, and I could only pray the chlorine wouldn't linger. Previous experience told me I was most likely doomed, and not even the best laundry detergent could help me.

I'd managed to get through the door, kick my shoes off and grab a towel from my closet before I was accosted by T'Lia, who had slowly rotated on her chair towards me, sporting a look of anticipation on her face — well, as much anticipation as a full-blooded Vulcan could muster.

"Diana. Do you have plans this evening?" She inquired, tilting her head to one side.

My brow furrowed as I wrapped the towel around my ponytail. T'Lia had never asked me that question before. She didn't normally "ask" about plans; she usually informed me of them with the inevitability of a shuttle launch schedule, albeit our shared schedule for dorm cleaning.

"Uh... " I paused mid-wring, a few stray water droplets dripping onto the floor. "Not unless you count "plans" as crawling into bed, putting on a docuseries and not moving until the morning?"

Her eyebrow arched — the Vulcan equivalent of an eye-roll. "Then you are available."

I stilled, suspicion gathering in my mind. "For what?"

She rose from her seated position with the deliberate grace that only Vulcans seemed to manage, and headed towards her own closet. "Reciprocity. You took me to a human establishment. As per our agreement, it is my duty to expose you to Vulcan dining."

I blinked as I watched her sliding hangers from left to right, rotating through a sea of red academy uniforms. "Dining? As in... a restaurant?"

T'Lia turned to me, deadpan. "Yes. It would be illogical to deprive you of the opportunity to experience it first-hand."

I opened my mouth, to shut it again. Gods be damned, I had agreed to this.

"Do I get a choice in this? We can do anything else?" I tried to reason with her.

"No." She was already halfway to our shared bathroom, folded clothes held neatly in her hands.

"Great," I muttered, peeling off my damp jacket - the chlorine smell masking pretty much any other scent in the room. "Hey- humans call it an invitation, you should try it sometime."

T'Lia didn't even pause as she flicked on the light. "I have observed Human behaviour, Diana. It is wholly inefficient at times."

I scoffed, throwing the jacket into the overflowing laundry bin. Sometimes the gall of my Vulcan roommate had me questioning if the admin staff were mentally sound when they placed us together 3 years ago. Although, going off my own emotional steadiness - or unsteadiness - maybe it was a good thing I had such an anchored and constant presence around me.

Nevertheless, she can be a real pain in the arse.

T'Lia emerged from the bathroom, clothed in fresh cadet attire, and returned to her desk that was pushed under the window - endless copies of cloth-bound books on varying topics were alphabetically stacked on either end of her workstation. Sometimes the golden embossed letters looked more intriguing than they let on, and when I eventually spied a glance into the opening pages, I was met by boring dictations of prehistoric space treaties and forgotten languages. Putting the books back where I'd found them were the highlights of my evening, short of heading down to an empty holosuite within the basement of the building to relive the greatest historic events from the past three centuries.

T'Lia turned her back to me after a long sweeping glance at my damp appearance.

"We will depart in 20 minutes, Diana. I will reserve us a table."

And with that, she resumed work on her assignment, the PADD idly glowing in the background as it waited to display a queued manifest.

I stuck my tongue out at her, hoping that for once, that I'd get a similar response back. Sadly, my roommate either had no sense of humour, or was dead inside.

She was most certainly, the former.

I took that as my sign to hurry my arse up and take a shower before I was properly scolded, padding across the floor to grab another towel before heading into the bathroom. The soft slide of the door and the heavy downpour of water onto my body was enough to put any thoughts in my head into a temporary, welcomed pause.

The calming scent of lavender soap crept up as I washed the last remnants of chlorine from my body and hair, the hot torrents of water running down my shoulder blades and spine. I relaxed into the stream, bracing myself against the glass.  As a child, I used to let the water trail off the ends of my fingertips, imagining that I had superhuman powers and could manipulate the droplets into creating shapes and patterns.

But life has a way of burying your inner child. Sometimes it's for the better, but more often than not, it's for the worse.

Dreams of powers turned into dreams of academic validation. I wasn't angry about it. I could as quickly rinse off my anger as I could my conditioner — it lingers only a second before succumbing to the drain.

When the heat of the shower had finally passed the mark of overbearing, I stepped out and dried off quickly with the towel I'd discarded by the door.

One look around the small room had me quickly realising that I had forgotten to grab a change of clothes. My fingers pinched the bridge of my nose at the thought of venturing out in just a towel — it was on the small-side and would just about cover everything, if I was lucky.

Okay Diana, simple fix - grip the towel like it's the only thing left in the world and don't make eye contact unless absolutely required. In and out, 10 seconds max.

Mentally crossing my fingers and sending a silent prayer to any deity that was listening, I tiptoed out of the bathroom, nails embedding themselves into the hemming of the towel and looking more like a drowned rat than ever before.

I'd gotten halfway across the room to my drawers when a quiet, subtle sigh echoed from behind my hunched posture. I slowly pivoted on my heels, and shot a side-eyed look towards my roommate, who had not skipped a beat and was still writing notes.

"Forgotten your clothes again?" T'Lia's voice was as flat as ever.

A nervous laugh escaped me. Of course she'd noticed — T'Lia noticed everything.

"How'd you know it was me?" I asked, feigning innocence while rummaging through my drawers in search of something, anything, still clean.

"The cloud of steam you trailed in made it rather evident," she replied evenly. "That, and your tendency to mutter curses with every step."

"Shit," I muttered — proving her point.

Another shaky laugh tumbled out as I swore under my breath again, frustration mounting when the drawer turned up nothing resembling a clean skirt.

A flicker of movement pulled my attention back to her. T'Lia's arm extended with precise, almost mechanical grace, her finger aimed toward the corner of the dorm. There, sitting neatly stacked, was a freshly folded pile of laundry. My red skirts included.

I breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh thank Christ."

I rushed over to the pile, thumbing through the layers.

T'Lia didn't look up. "Your invocation of a deity is unnecessary. I anticipated your lack of preparation."

I blinked, towel hiding everything except my confusion. "Anticipated? You did my laundry?"

Finally, she lifted her gaze to meet my eyes in the reflection of the window. "Correction. I ensured you would not be late for our reservation. Given your... track record, the probability of you forgetting a basic necessity such as clean clothing was high."

I opened my mouth, and closed it again.

"You know, we usually call that 'being nice.'"

T'Lia inclined her head. "If you wish to interpret efficiency as kindness, I will not correct you."

I rolled my eyes, but the relief bubbling in my chest drowned out the sarcasm. "Well, efficiency smells like fabric softener and salvation right now, so I'll take it."

Behind me, I swore I heard the scratch of her stylus pause for the briefest second, as though she were cataloguing this moment for later analysis.

Human subject expresses disproportionate emotional response to laundered garments.

"Right," I muttered, grabbing one of the many skirts and holding it to my body. "I'll get changed, try and resemble a decent person, and we'll Vulcan-dine or whatever. Happy?"

"Content," T'Lia corrected, already back to her notes.

I stared at her for a second, then huffed a laugh under my breath. "Same difference, T'Lia."

And as quickly as I'd entered our sleeping space, I'd retreated back into the bathroom, clean uniform firmly in hand. I pulled on my uniform with as much speed as I could muster without falling over my own feet, and re-brushed the horde of wavy tendrils that I was leaving to air-dry.

My jacket clung damply at the collar, but at least I no longer smelled like a public swimming pool. T'Lia, of course, looked exactly as she had thirty minutes ago when I'd arrived back at the dormitory — crisp, composed, and not remotely concerned about the concept of being "fashionably late."

We looked like polar opposites. The neat and composed Vulcan cadet, and her damp, unorganised Human roommate.

She stood waiting by the door, her hands folded neatly behind her back and an impassive expression glazed over her features. When I gave a little finishing flourish and muttered, "Ta-da," she only raised one brow at me.

"We are already four minutes behind schedule."

This girl.

I bit back a groan. "Then I'll walk faster. Crisis averted."

We stepped out into the corridor, our footsteps pattering on the polished floor. Falling into step, the evening hush of the Academy halls. It felt nice to be walking alongside T'Lia — we hadn't done so in quite a while, our schedules differing slightly to prohibit us from our typical morning walk to class. She had probably thought it a blessing in disguise, a confident certainty that she would always be early to her lectures. But with her striding next to me, it truly felt like we became a bizarre united-front of cadet knowledge.

Reaching the exit of the accommodation block had only taken a few moments, but the rising apprehension to see what the temperature had become, was increasing with every footstep.

The front doors rushed open, revealing the cooled, autumn air that descended onto us with a subtle bite. I grimaced and shot a glance over to T'Lia, who in turn had pulled at the collar of her own uniform.

So she did feel the cold.

I scoffed to myself, internal thoughts about Vulcans actually feeling anything swirling around inside my head. Bones' humour — or sarcastic banter — was clearly rubbing off on me the more time I spent with him.

A rush of cold wind blew past us as we turned a corner, tugging a startled breath from each of us before we quickened our pace.

The streetlamps that were dotted around the campus grounds hummed quietly, casting long shadows across the pathways. A few cadets passed us here and there, their arms tucked into themselves to brace against the breeze, but the crowd had thinned since classes ended earlier that day.

I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my jacket as we headed towards the small outcropping that held the Air Tram platform, trying to ignore the fact that my collar still clung damply to my skin.

T'Lia walked with her hands firmly at her side, each of her steps measured. My boots, meanwhile, squeaked with the residual damp from my earlier shower, earning a glance from a passing Bolian cadet who clearly thought I was breaking an unspoken regulation of noise control.

"You are displaying signs of restlessness," T'Lia observed without breaking her stride.

I snorted. "That's one way of putting it. I'm heading into an alien dinner I know little about, in clothes that are still damp, and I haven't even had time for a proper cup of tea. Restless, T'Lia, is generous."

She inhaled deeply. "Tea will be available."

The sun had tucked itself deep into the bay, the last few strands of golden light beaming across the water. The tram ride was mercifully short, just a brief hop across the cove. I pressed my forehead lightly to the cool pane of glass as the lights of San Francisco blurred around us, the darkening water a calming sight for my screen-sore eyes.

Around us, cadets in rumpled uniforms laughed loudly, their conversations punctuated with the occasional burst of music from a handheld speaker. A pair of Vulcan officers sat further down, silent and straight-backed, eyes fixed ahead as if nothing outside the window could possibly interest them.

The contrast made me laugh under my breath.

The tram tilted gently as it climbed over the bay, and the view widened until the city stretched endlessly in every direction. The buildings gave way to districts I didn't often get to see — cleaner and quieter, with sharp geometric designs that stood out against the skyline. It was a world away from my childhood home — a few floors of cosy, picturesque cottage and held a constant aroma of freshly baked bread and spiced potpourri.

Disembarking took all of 3 minutes, filing out last behind the other passengers. Whispering a silent prayer of momentarily being in a metal container and avoiding the glacial wind, but that quickly disappeared as we stepped out and across the concrete square.

"Merlin's balls that's cold" I gasped, confident that any part of me that was damp, was now absolutely frozen.

I pulled my jacket even tighter around me, eyes shooting small daggers towards my Vulcan roommate, who despite her stoic appearance, was slightly shivering. We picked up our pace once again, stumbling occasionally when a strong gust caught up with us.

The district had a stillness to it, as though sound itself had been dampened or removed entirely. Even the streetlamps stood taller here, their light diffused into soft amber pools instead of the sharp white glare I was used to on academy grounds. Deep shadows stretched neatly across the pavements, cut through by crisp geometric patterns carved into the walls of the nearest buildings.

I slowed without meaning to, my boots squeaking too loudly on the concrete path. The smell in the air was different too — less of saltwater and smoke, and more of spice and minerals; like herbs being warmed in the sun.

The restaurant didn't look like a restaurant. At least, not in a typical human sense.

We stopped at a modest doorway marked by a Vulcan sigil — lines intersecting with symmetrical precision. No flashing lights. No music. Just a carved block of sandstone, its edges clean and sharp, hollowed out to hold tall vertical windows, glowing faintly from candlelight.

I swallowed, my nerves bunching tight in my chest. "That's it, isn't it?"

"It is," T'Lia confirmed. She didn't pause as she strode into the entrance.

I did though, just for a moment — long enough to consider faking a sudden illness, or a pressing assignment, or literally anything that would excuse me from walking into a place that looked like it might issue a philosophy exam along with the appetisers. But T'Lia glanced back at me, just once, and I groaned under my breath before jogging to catch up.

*

The host bowed slightly at T'Lia's words — quick syllables of Vulcan, fluid and precise — and led us to a single table tucked into the back wall. The heel of my boot squeaked against the polished floor, too loud amongst the dulcet and hushed whispers of the room. I slid into my chair, stiff-backed and pulse rising.

T'Lia folded her hands, motionless. "You are unsettled."

I gave a weak laugh as I fidgeted with my napkin. "What gave it away?"

"Your respiration is elevated. You have already shifted your posture twelve times... and you are staring at the flame."

I blinked at the tall recessed torch across the room, flickering steady shadows on the walls. "It's just-" I hesitated, before continuing. "-different. I didn't know Vulcans dined out like this."

"This particular establishment caters to those seeking authenticity," she replied.

Of course. Authenticity. That was certainly one word for it.

The menu arrived on slim PADDs lined with unfamiliar words. Soups, fruits, roots — but in pairings I'd never seen before: Barkaya Marak. M'lu. Plomeek Soup. Khabitah.

"What's Barkaya Marak?" I asked, squinting.

"A traditional Vulcan soup," T'Lia explained. "The broth is light in substance, but efficient in sustaining energy. Often served with Kreyla-"

She caught my questioning gaze before finishing her sentence. "It's a traditional bread. Often served with breakfast, but this menu allows for it to be used within the form of Flatbread."

"Huh, sounds safe." I muttered, forgetting for a split second that muttering didn't work with Vulcans.

Her brow lifted a fraction. Not quite amusement, but as close as it was going to get.

I ordered the bread and soup, fumbling with the pronunciation, while T'Lia ordered in crisp Vulcan. When the server had finally left, a weird silence filled the space between us, expectant and as delicate as I figured my dish would likely be.

"So," I said finally, fiddling with my napkin, "is this... what you'd eat back home?"

"Yes."

"And do Vulcans- uh, go out to dinner together often?"

She considered the question for a moment. "Such gatherings are infrequent in occasion. Meals are efficient and typically observed alone. But in groups, they do provide opportunity for intellectual discourse."

My head tilted to the side, eyes crinkling subtly with delight.

"Right. So... talking, but without the part where you complain about the weather?"

Another subtle twitch of her brow. "Correct."

I grinned despite myself, but something shifted at the corner of my vision, dragging my gaze from our conversation and into the dining space.

A lone figure sat across the room, hands folded neatly under his table. Perfect posture, an instantly recognisable black Academy uniform, and a pair of pointed ears that poked out of effortlessly groomed hair.

Spock.

Well fuck me sideways.

He sat two tables away, eating with slow, precise motions. Every sip and bite was accounted for, equally measured on his utensils — undoubtedly to maximise the taste ratio. No one bothered him. He didn't look up from his plate.

I leaned towards T'Lia, motioning with my eyes towards the silhouette. "Is that-?"

"Yes," she said flatly, not glancing. "The Commander often dines here."

"You knew?"

"It was probable."

Probable. Only a green-blooded Vulcan would casually "probable" us into sharing space with the most intimidating Commander on campus.

God, I actually sounded like Bones now.

My palms started to sweat in my lap, and I looked down at them, trying not to picture his eyes flicking up and pinning me in place like he always did in class.

T'Lia, sensing my unease, added softly, "He is unlikely to acknowledge us unless addressed."

"Yeah, not helping." I wiped my palms on my napkin, secretly praying that I would be given another if my hands kept this up.

Our food thankfully arrived before I could combust from nerves. The flatbread was firm but warm, the soup spiced, and overall the dish was sharper than I expected. Not comfort food, exactly, but strangely grounding. With each slow bite, the tension in my shoulders eased. Without realizing it, I'd matched T'Lia's rhythm: spoon, pause, breath.

Halfway through the meal, I dared a glance back to the table sitting in the corner. Spock hadn't moved except to lift his tea. Still alone. The very picture of serenity and moderation.

That was when all the pieces clicked into place.

This wasn't just dinner. The stillness, the flame, even the food itself — it was all about discipline. It was about balancing both the extreme and the meagre. A Vulcan ideology of Ying and Yang.

I set my spoon down, quiet awe creeping in. "I get it."

T'Lia lifted her gaze, her own spoon resting in mid-air. "You 'get it'?"

"Yeah." I gestured vaguely. "This isn't just food. It's... a practice. A way of being."

A long silence stretched between us, the candlelight on the table flickering ever so gently. T'Lia blinked once, and then again - the barest flicker of approval in her eyes. "Correct."

I smiled at her then. A true, knowing smile.

*

By the time we made it back to the Accommodation Block, my stomach had decided to stage a quiet mutiny and the blend of partially digested bread and soup had congealed into heavy waves of nausea. I kicked off my boots with a moan the moment the door hissed shut and collapsed face-first into the cushioned duvet of my bed.

It seemed that although the Barkaya Marak was light in substance, it was not as light on my human body. Something I'd clearly missed from my medical classes with a certain Doctor.

"Never again," I mumbled into the pillow. "Next time you want to indulge me with Vulcan culture, just hit me over the head with a logic textbook and call it a day."

From her own bed, T'Lia made a quiet, unimpressed sound as she took her jacket off. "You exaggerate. It was simply a minor exercise in cultural reciprocity."

"Minor for you- I nearly drowned in soup!"

"The soup is not intended for drowning," she replied dryly.

I rolled onto my back to  clutch my stomach. "God, I think I'm dying."

T'Lia turned to me with a deadpan stare. "Exaggeration increases perceived distress. You should attempt regulated breathing."

"Regulated? I'm not a Vulcan lung model, T'Lia." I pressed my palms harder to my middle as a new wave of queasiness curved through me, equal parts heavy and fizzing, like the soup had decided to host a construction crew in there. "It feels like someone's tried to build a wall out of bread inside my stomach."

Her head tilted. "Food is not a building material."

"Clearly you've never seen Kreyla flatbread," I muttered. The sour little twist at the back of my throat warmed into something more, a gnawing that made me cringe. "It's like eating herby cardboard."

T'Lia paused from the methodical folding of her jacket and crossed the room with the same deliberate gait she used for everything. She dropped into a crouch with unnerving efficiency, her eyes sweeping over me.

"Allow me to scan you."

"No!" I shot up on an elbow. "No tricorder scans! No official documentation of my digestive humiliation whatsoever, thank you very much."

She inclined her head. "You fear an institutional record?"

"Yes." I tipped my head back with a theatrical groan. "It will haunt me for job applications."

T’Lia crouched for a second more, before making a small, humming sound and crossed back to her desk. She reached for her PADD, fingers moving in sharp, decisive strokes across the screen. I lay there clutching my stomach, watching her with narrowed eyes, and half convinced she was already scheduling my funeral.

A soft chime sounded, followed by the low hum of the replicator that was embedded into the furthest wall of our dorm. Almost floating with that same unhurried precision, she retrieved whatever it was from the slot and set it down carefully next to my bed.

By the time I looked, a thin curl of steam was rising from a narrow mug. 

The scent hit my eyes first, and then my throat — sharp, bitter lemon that threatened tears to fall, and a warmer, spicier undertone that thankfully made my lungs expand and my stomach relax.

“A ginger infusion,” she announced, returning to her desk and selecting a book from the organised stack. “It is appropriate for human digestive upset.”

I grasped the mug with both hands and tilted it up to my lips for a miniscule sip, the smooth liquid tasting a thousand times better than I had expected it to. The sourness had shifted into a clean, sterile citrus, accompanied by a delightfully warm burn of the ginger that spread through my torso. 

I blinked down into the mug, suspicious. “Okay,” I admitted, narrowing my eyes at T’Lia over the rim. “This is actually good. Which is annoying.”

Without looking up from her book, she replied evenly, “Diana, sometimes your hostility towards accuracy is illogical.”

“Hostility?” I spluttered, setting the mug down with a dramatic clink. “I’m not hostile, I’m just... begrudgingly appreciative.”

T’Lia’s brow twitched, which might as well have been a shit-eating grin. “The distinction is irrelevant. You are consuming the remedy. Therefore, it is effective in helping treat your symptoms.”

I gave her the most exaggerated squint I could muster. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

She breathed deeply, thumbing a page before turning it. “Content, Diana. I am content.”

I groaned, burying my face back into the mug. “One day, T’Lia, I’ll get you to admit you care.”

“Highly unlikely,” she said softly, but could have sworn the corner of her mouth shifted as she resumed her reading, leaving me to finish the contents of the mug.