Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft - Be(er) Still My Heart
Carter Schimpff
(( Roy Bancroft’s Quarters, Deck 3 - USS Artemis ))
For once, Dr. Roy Bancroft was doing nothing productive – and doing it well. The room was bathed in warm, indirect lighting... the kind that suggested a certain moral flexibility about bedtime. A low jazz riff whispered from overhead speakers – something with enough saxophone to imply a little romance, but not so much that it felt like a bad holonovel.
He had a mug of tea in one hand, a PADD with the latest medical journal face-down on the arm of the chair, and the vague, very unfamiliar sensation of not having anything particular to do.
Naturally, that was when the door chimed.
His brow furrowed. He set the mug down, a subtle hint of pre-disaster wariness tensing his body, and silenced the music.
Roy crossed the room with the wary curiosity of a man expecting either a medical emergency or an unsolicited performance review.
The doors parted.
And there she was – framed by the corridor lighting like the final twist in a holodeck horror sim: Dr. Samantha Richards.
Bancroft: ::mild alarm:: Sam! What’s up? Is it Leera? …did the twins finally stage a mutiny?
Richards: No catastrophe. No emergency. Just a friend and some beer. ::beat:: Listen I haven’t had a drink in over a year. It’s the least you can do.
She waggled a case of beer at him – the universal sign of peace, mischief, or possibly both.
His heartbeat slowed, but his suspicions did not.
Bancroft: ::squinting at the beer:: Right. And if I pop the cap on one of those, what happens? A rubber snake springs out?
Richards: If you don’t like beer, I have access to Talos’ replicator codes. Basically every kind of drink you could ever want. ::A dry chuckle:: Or you can suck it up and drink the beer.
She didn’t wait for an answer, instead squeezing past him and claiming the sofa like a stray cat who’d decided this was home now, and the current occupants could stay on as staff if they liked.
Bancroft: ::dryly:: By all means… make yourself at home.
Richards: Response
He hovered for a second – visibly unsure if he was hosting casual cocktails or about to be emotionally sandbagged – then perched on the edge of an armchair. His eyes scanned her pockets, then narrowed.
Bancroft: Computer, does Dr. Richards have any rocks or stones on her person?
Computer: Debris consistent with processed cheese snacks. No anomalous minerals detected.
Bancroft: I had to ask. Word gets around. The nursing staff keep absolutely nothing to themselves.
Richards: Response
Roy relaxed by a degree or two, his posture still alert but no longer visibly bracing for impact. He popped the cap off of one of the bottles of beer – careful to point it away from his face – then lifted it briefly in toast before taking a swig.
It was cold. Crisp. Unreasonably decent.
Which only made him more suspicious.
Bancroft: ::narrowing his eyes:: Okay. Let’s rewind. You show up unannounced. You bring beer. You don’t lead with trauma. ::tilting his head:: That’s not really in your playbook. What’s going on here? Are you pregnant again?
Richards: Response
TAG/TBC!
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Lieutenant JG Roy Bancroft
Medical Officer
USS Artemis-A
A240205RB1