[JP] Lt. Sienelis and PO1 Johns - Guess Who's Coming to Dinner (Part III)
Jo Marshall
((Yanovna House, Saint Petersburg))
::If Valesha could look more awkward, it was hard to imagine how. An emerald flush had stolen back onto her cheeks, the Romulan not the least bit used to the shower of compliments. She glanced toward Chris, a wavering look of admonishment on her face, and sighed.::
Sienelis: Plenty of people are. Like you, for instance.
Johns: Intensive bouts of insane escapades do not courage make, my love.
::Though, his cheeks coloured a little with his cheeky grin. He heard his mother take a breath through the nose, in the same manner she always did when a topic she didn’t like arose in conversation. It was fine and well for others to be in Starfleet, to explore among the vast wide open space above them, but not her youngest.::
Nyura: Are you quite recovered from your illness? Contracted during a recent mission, wasn’t it?
Sienelis: Uh— ::Illness? Resisting the temptation to look toward Chris again, presumably the perpetrator of that variation on a theme of the truth, Valesha forced herself to nod.:: Yes, more-or-less. Just under orders to take it easy for a while.
Nyura: You must, darling. You cannot rush the horses. ::The prima chuckled, taking a sip from the wine glass. A pair of eyes peered over the rise of the table, watching the three in turn, with particular attention paid to Valesha's ears.:: Keep off your feet, have plenty of baths, lots of good food and gentle exercise. To soak up the restorative air of Saint Petersburg.
Sienelis: If I had any plans otherwise, Chris would soon rein them in.
Johns: Before you go charging in and gallop away with yourself. ::As he said it, a hark back to her awaking in Sickbay to the onslaught of his terrible equine puns, he made sure he was out of batting distance, swallowing down a mouthful of wine.:: We’ll do something easy, anything you like. The troop are performing the Wedding of Kahless and Lukara this week. L’udrak is supposed to be excellent in the demi-soloist slot.
::Her usual response, to quip about Romulan and Klingon rivalry in some fashion, was bitten back. One of the hardest things Valesha had to do on entering the Federation, more so when joining Starfleet, was battle those ingrained prejudices that were as fundamental to Romulan society as breathing. She usually cracked out the sarcasm when the subject came up, but this just didn't seem the right time or place.::
Sienelis: That sounds... ::Words failed her. Maybe she should have gone with the joke.:: Interesting?
::Chris chuckled into his glass at his partner’s sincere lack of targeted response, and she grinned back at him. At the sound of clicking heels, he stepped back to look down the hall as Elisaveta made her way toward the dining room, arms full of plates. Placing his wine down, he hurried to help before she dropped something and received a smirk from his sister as she handed him a plate of selyodka pod shuboy; a herring salad of beetroot, potatoes and carrot.::
Elisaveta: We’re just about ready for dinner, Anna, get yourself in your chair. ::As Anna scrambled into a chair on the other side of Valesha, she placed her plate onto the table, a selection of sliced roasted game bird.:: Valesha, I believe this is hlai'vna? I hope it’s cooked how you like it.
::Wild hlai? Valesha hadn't eaten it since the last time she'd formally celebrated Eitreih'hveinn, and that was before Hobus. Her brother had cooked it then, as he did most of the family meals, feeding a table of grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins of their house-clan. Though s'Sienelis hadn't been counted among the great houses of Romulan society, it had been a quietly successful one, with plenty of scions to invite to dinner.::
Sienelis: If it tastes as good as it looks, I'm sure it is. ::She glanced between Nyura and Elisaveta, not quite sure which one was responsible for the gesture.:: Thank you.
::Elisaveta nodded and with a sliver of a smile, turned on a stiletto heel and headed back for the kitchen. She reappeared a moment later with a tureen filled to the brim with a pinkish red soup. Another few trips, staunchly refusing the help of her brother, the long wooden table was awash with Russian dishes of all kinds, and one more of Romulan molluscs. Last dish placed, the young Russian woman stood back, hands on her hips and smiled with satisfaction. A swift swivel of her head, she pinpointed Chris with a stare and directed with a flick of the wrist.::
Elisaveta: Chris, fetch the wine. Anna, ::the little girl sat up straight from her twiddling with the edges of her skirt,:: go wash your hands. ::Then, to her mother.:: I’ll assume no one has tried to rouse the old man from his work.
Thierry: Old, am I?
::The smooth voice of the older man carried in silken waves. Standing only a little shorter than Chris, his shoulders slanted where Chris’ broadened, his face square at his chin. Wrinkles creased at his eyes, the bridge between his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth; years spent laughing, smiling, and frowning. Grey hair sprouted from his head and swept in different directions, as though it didn’t quite know which way it wanted to fall in. For all Chris looked like his mother, this was the picture of him with another forty-years of living and edges frayed by stress. In an open collar shirt, one hand in his pocket and the other around a bottle, he still commanded the attention of his wife and children immediately.
::A despairing look to his daughter, a tightness around his eyes that was harder to negate, he skipped over Chris and focused on Valesha, sat beside his wife. The flicker of amusement on his features merely remained as he rounded the table, a casual slowness in his gait, already instructing the family to sit down with a wave of his hand. As he reached her, he held out the bottle of lehe’jhme fruit wine, his fingers on the neck, hands on the body.::
Thierry: Welcome, Valesha. ::He dipped his head to her; a man clearly accustomed to dealing with a species other than his own.:: For you, to share with us tonight or share with my son, the choice is yours.
::It wasn't lost on her that he hadn't so much as acknowledged Chris. She answered with a smile, thin in its politeness, and took the gift as offered. The options presented felt more like a test than a genuine invitation to do with the bottle as she chose. Now that she thought about it, that was something her own father would do.::
Sienelis: Thank you. ::Her thumb swept over the cool glass. Romulan wine was even more potent than Romulan ale.:: We can open it after dinner? It's not exactly a table wine.
Thierry: As you wish. ::His lips twitched with the contained smile, before he turned to the table, clapping his hands together.:: Now, business concluded for the day, Anton sends his apologies, and insists we begin without him.
::Leaning an elbow on the table, Nyura looked between Chris and Thierry for a second as Chris poured the man a glass of the opened red. Whether the disregard for his arrival was intentional or not, she couldn’t tell. The two were terse at the best of times, and at least now, cordiality was afforded. Thierry slipped into the chair at the end of the table, Chris followed suit beside him, opposite Valesha, flashing her a brief flicker of widened eyes and a thin smile, her eyebrows twitching upward in reply.::
Nyura: Then we should do just that, before it gets cold. ::She raised her glass, her hand, and indicated to the table.:: Eat until the soul is full.
TBC...
--
Science Officer
USS Gorkon
T238401QR0
&
PO First-Class Christopher Johns
Operations Officer
USS Gorkon
G239304JM0