Undeterred

Posted on 15 Aug 2023 @ 12:26pm by Commander Calliope Zahn
Edited on on 06 Feb 2024 @ 10:11pm

Mission: M4 - Falling Out
Location: Quinn & Zahn Quarters, Obsidian Command
Timeline: M4 D1 Evening
2006 words - 4 OF Standard Post Measure

When Lance made his way down the stairs, freshly washed and shaven and his long hair combed into waves, he was fussing with a cuff link and so as he glanced up, he was a little surprised to find his wife already prepared, seated at the bar of the kitchenette in their quarters, fidgeting with an earring while waiting for him, her long legs, bare below the knee, crossed and dangling the toe of a high heel idly from one foot. 
 
"Are we ready then?" she asked, slipping off the stool, nonchalant.

Lance took her in, dressed in a rich emeralds and chocolate browns, a deeper palette taken from her own natural tones. Her custom fitted evening gown had a criss cross of gathered fabric for a bodice that formed a scandalous deep vee shape and latched behind her neck, the back of the dress entirely bare.

"There's something you're missing, I'm afraid."

"What? Is my hair out of place?" Calliope sighed. She'd purposely styled it looser than usual, seeing as she was off duty. She suspected Lance, ever in favor of keeping things predictably normative, wouldn't prefer the change and was about to share a hot take about her constantly trying new things with it now.

"I wasn't referring to your hair. Although," Lance paused, as if he were just pleasantly struck with something. The wild styling harkened to its appearance when something of good time had been shared between them, albeit arranged artfully so, and Lance couldn't help but make the connection."I dare say you should wear it like this more often. I do hope you shan't mistake my not first complimenting it for not finding it perfectly ravishing."  

"So what is it then?"

"What is what? Oh." He cleared his throat. "Right, as I was saying, while you are truly divine as you are, you do appear to be missing one thing, the lack of which I am fully prepared to rectify."

From the lining pocket of his proper dinner jacket, Lance produced a little chain necklace and let it drop and dangle from his fingers, the looped wire pendant he had fashioned for her in academy twisting about on the end. 

"You see, I've repaired the broken link. A fairly simple matter involving a magnifying lense and a plier. And there you have it, good as new."

Disconnecting the latch in either hand, Lance began to move to clasp it around his wife's neck, but Calliope caught the pendant in her fingers instead, closing her hand around it. For a moment they both held the necklace and she snared his eyes with hers. Lance, unprepared as he was for the direct visual contact, seemed for a brief moment to look uncertain, afraid even.

"That's alright," she said, letting go of the necklace. "I don't think it goes with this dress."

"I... I suppose I know precious little about ladies' fashion." Lance recovered,withdrawing his hands and momentarily perplexed. Calliope had been adamant about finding it when it had been lost in the past, distraught in fact, at the prospect of having lost it, when he had in fact preserved it or her at the time. No matter her attire, she had seemed to nearly always be wearing it, even when she wore naught else.  He had thought she might be thankful to have it repaired after her outburst on the Pathfinder had damaged it. But also taking into account how irrationally sentimental she could be, it was possible she saw the piece of otherwise intrinsically worthless metal as a kind of symbol of the relationship. Perhaps even more so than the actual family engagement rings with historical significance in their valuation. In which case, he thought as he connected the logic of her symbolically emotional thinking, she didn't feel their relationship was completely as mended as the necklace itself now was. There was still some gap to be closed, and Lance remained confident he could repair it as well.

"I shall retain this for you," he said, tucking the piece of jewelry back into his jacket pocket. "Perhaps you shall have want of it when you've changed, after dinner."

Though she made no promises, Calliope allowed Lance to lead them out of their quarters, his hand on the small of her back.

When they first boarded the lift, they had it to themselves. Chin tilted upwards, Calliope watched the track of the deck numbers, the numbers going up as the floor beneath them fell. She stole a glance at Lance just as he seemed to turn his head from staring at her.

Neither one of them belonged here, she thought. Neither one of them had an appreciable function any longer. Maybe she should tell him she was ready to try going to Sol with him. She'd give up whatever remained of her career, he could return to his. They could go out to dinner whenever they pleased. But she couldn't form the words to say it, a deeper misgiving binding her tongue.

As they moved to passages of higher foot traffic, it became obvious to Lance that that Calliope didn't especially care that they stood out in their dinner wear among others in uniforms and work trousers, families, and travelers on the promenade. Lance made no comment as she waved to friends along the way, somehow having already made herself a fixture of this damnable place.

She introduced him to some curly headed  woman who went by A'Koja. And a Romulan refugee he seemed to remember having first seen cowering in a sealed shipping container, though he couldn't be certain he wasn't mistaking the romulan for someone else. Calliope spoke to him in a mix of Standard and Romulan for some time, which caused Lance to impatiently keep checking the old watch he'd worn in his waistcoat until she could be pulled away. Following that, some insufferable brainwashed church women inquired after her prayer life since they'd last spoken, and Calliope took a little time discussing with them about their empty-headed nonsense. From this he stood off, as if their cultish devotion might sully his good shirt. And when he thought they had broken off cleanly and Calliope had wished them well, promising to see them at some service or another, it was just their luck that a very slow, old goat-like grazerite happened to be crossing in the opposite direction; according to the exchange he and Calliope shared, he was the Tower Controller, off duty and out for a stroll before he too planned to meet with his wife. Wasn't that a pleasant coincidence?

Seeing as the old grazer might have held calliope's ear for a half hour or more before he even got beyond accounting for the health and wellbeing of every member of his notably expansive household, Lance cut in, insisting that they couldn't keep the good man from his plans, though it was a pleasure to have encountered him by the by. No sooner had they broken away from the affable Tower Controller than the food cart operating Obsidianite brothers, from whom they had once bought out their day's supply of comestibles for Calliope's luncheon spread in the clinic, tried to give them both some street food on sticks, complimentary as Lance and Calliope were their best customers. But Lance had gotten between them before Calliope could accept. 

"Apologies," he said, "We are at this moment, making our way to dinner, you see, and we mustn't spoil our appetite."

By that point, he made a concerted effort to keep them moving so as to prevent less than desirable conversations with people of little interest to him and thereby arrive at some point late enough that their reserved table would have been given away. Besides, if it wasn't obvious to all of her acquaintances that the two of them had dinner plans and should be spared their idle interruption, then he had little care what they should think at being brushed past.

Despite Lance's best attempts to remain in stride, his wife paused momentarily in front of a new Klingon restaurant, forcing Lance to stop alongside her as well.

"Dynasty...?" Lance read the federation writing beside all of the Klingon claw-like script. "Rather a presumptive and yet overly ubiquitous name for such a place, don't you think? Palace, Garden, Dynasty... it seems they just cycle through the same signage from the last such ethnically similar restaurant. Quite odd. I don't recall that establishment being here. I suppose it is a new installation."

"...I suppose." Calliope said. She was staring at the kitchen crew, as they were visible over the open prep counter. There was an older Klingon man she was tracking, in particular. His fluidly precise knife skills on the chopping block were as keen as a practiced Mek'leth wielding warrior. It was clear he often wiped his greasy hands off on an apron that steteched over a well fed stomach. "Do you think we could—"

Lance realized their plans were about to be derailed on one of Calliope's many little whimseys. Perhaps she would suggest he try bregit lung or something even more distasteful. Or perhaps she was going to try to speak Klingon or borrow one of the rocking knives that looked like miniature ceremonial klingon swords— or perhaps more akin to rounded ice skate blades for one's fist. He couldn't afford that right now. The evening had to be perfect.

"Yes, we may," he said quickly, knowing that agreeableness was the appropriate answer, but quickly leading beyond it. "We may tomorrow. This evening, we have reservations at The Grotto, as you may recall?"

Calliope didn't budge right away, her heels planted firmly as she continued to observe the boisterous kitchen crew, singing and swearing and calling out that the take-out was ready for pick up with the same verve as ordering a change of course at the helm in the midst of battle. "I know that guy—" she started to say.

"I am sure that you, in fact, do. That there is hardly any one I would wager that you do not recognize. I shall be pleased to make his acquaintance. Tomorrow." Lance repeated, firmly and unintentionally patronizingly.

Calliope was irritated at Lance's exasperation and crossed her arms as she allowed the pressure of his fingers on her back to encourage her to be on their way. Quiet now, she elected to keep her thoughts surrounding the Klingon chef to herself, seeing as Lance wasn't in the mood for any detours from his idea of a good evening. If he had in mind how the night was to go already, she decided, then she wouldn't go out of her way to lend to it. She would let him take the lead for once, as far as their plans as a couple went. After all, until this evening, he was always waiting for her to make the plans, and for her to drag him to something interesting, and for her to generate and energize the discussion. She vowed internally not to try to lighten the evening or bring anything unexpected to it, only to let it play out and see what Lance had in mind without her getting in the way of it.

Lance was pleased from thence on along the walk that there were no other detours for him to dissuade her from, or friendly greetings to be endured. The quarter of the promenade on which The Grotto was situated was far more tastefully treated with elegantly uniform signage and no tacky banners or odorous food carts. The door to The Grotto was designed with a wide descending stair entrance, pillared on both sides and set with perfect shrubbery and statuary, hearkening back to the well kept English gardens surrounding his home.

He offered his wife the crook of his arm in good gentlemanly form as he'd been brought up to. Calliope, in humoring him, placed her fingers in the fold of his arm, and so they descended.