Lieutenant Lena Josett - Drive By
Quinn Reynolds
((Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco, Earth))
The corridors of Starfleet Headquarters bustled with activity, uniformed personnel striding back as they attended to Very Important Things: ensuring the smooth running of Starfleet, maintaining the safety of the Federation, sustaining an appropriate level of caffeine in the collective bloodstream.
One of these individuals was a salt-and-pepper Bajoran, striding toward his office with a PADD in one hand and a raktajino in the other. Those passing offered him a greeting, a multitude of good mornings, an offer of lunchtime springball, an invitation to a barbeque that weekend. He met them in kind, murmuring his own greetings, agreeing to meet at the courts at thirteen hundred, accepting the invitation to enjoy a New Zealand grill.
He stepped into his office, glanced up, and stopped in his tracks, his travel mug halfway to his lips. Bathed in the glorious, golden morning light streaming through the windows, a young woman sat perched on his desk. No uniform, no insignia; instead, a leather jacket and rugged clothing, and a pair of thick-soled boots swinging back and forth. She beamed at him, amber eyes sparkling with an inner joke, and he frowned right back at her.
Rahn: This is a restricted area.
Josett: Tell me about it. Cost me an entire platter of the Rodulan’s best pastries to get past your yeoman.
He shook his head, pursing his lips, and resumed his journey toward his desk. Stern admonishment was in his tone, though there was a twinkle in his eyes that betrayed a deep affection. It was more like a father chastising a child than a captain threatening an intruder, and both of them knew it.
Rahn: I’m a very important man, you know. A Starfleet captain, intelligence division. Great responsibility. Many secrets. You can’t just bribe my yeoman and get away with it.
Josett: I brought you one, too.
The interloper reached behind her and then presented him with a glazed pastry, carefully held in a napkin. A waft of freshly baked dough, sweet syrup and roasted nuts mingled with the rich, bitter scent of his drink in a mouth-watering combination, intended as temptation and apology. He breathed in deep, then relieved her of the pastry with a adroit swipe and smile that wouldn’t be suppressed.
Rahn: Get your backside off my desk and let me look at you.
Lena slipped off her perch with a broad smile and held out her arms, performing a graceful pirouette that such chunky boots should deny. After taking a king-sized bite of his pastry, Natan leaned back, head cocked to the side as he conducted his assessment. A crown of thick curls, laughing bronze eyes, and a light shining from within that had kindled since the last he’d seen her.
Rahn: The promotion suits you. ::With a smile of paternal amusement, he stepped back and caught her left hand, examining the bands on her ring finger.:: Or is that marriage? When am I going to meet this husband of yours?
Josett: Some time after I tell him about you.
Rahn: Still keeping secrets. ::He tutted in amusement.:: And here I thought you were entirely reformed.
Josett: Mostly reformed. ::She chuckled, unapologetic.:: Just enough mischief to still be me.
Rahn: Such as bribing your way into my office?
A laugh bubbled out of her throat, nodding in an unabashed and whole-hearted agreement. Natan joined in, and putting his hand on her shoulder, pulled her into a bear hug. The familiar, comforting smell of his woody aftershave hit her nose, and she squeezed him tightly in return as a warm kiss landed on her cheek.
Rahn: So what brings you here, when you know fine well where I live?
Josett: I wondered how they’re doing.
She didn’t need to specify who “they” were. He pursed his lips, good humour ebbing from the wrinkles at his eyes, and walked around his desk. Sliding into his chair, Natan exhaled a deep sigh and watched as she once again took up residence on his desk. One knee hooked on the edge, her booted foot swung back and forth as though she hadn’t a care in the world.
Rahn: Lena. ::He inclined his head to the side.:: Starfleet Intelligence doesn’t spy on Federation citizens.
Josett: No. ::She chuckled, her curls swaying with the shake of her head.:: But the Bajorans have been hunting collaborators lately, and Starfleet Intelligence does talk to the Militia.
Rahn: Are you sure about this? If they’ve been under surveillance by the Militia, you know what that means.
Josett: The old bastard’s about to get his just deserts?
The Bajoran’s eyebrows twitched up, and Lena grinned at him, her smile a sticking plaster over the tender, open wound she kept hidden from everyone, even Bear. But Natan knew. He had been there where it had first been ripped open. Tried to bandage her broken heart, soothing a troubled, damaged young woman who had dared to dream and watched that dream shatter under another’s boot.
Rahn: Perhaps.
He sat back in his chair, thoughtful as he took a long draught from his raktajino. Thinking through the options as though it was one of his intelligence operations, assessing the available resources, considering the capabilities of his officers, weighing up the risks and rewards.
Rahn: I’ll see what I can find out. On one condition. You bring—
Josett: —that husband of mine to dinner.
Rahn: It’s that kind of anticipation which makes you an outstanding intelligence officer.
Josett: I just know you, old man. ::She grinned, ignoring the twist of nerves wrenching her stomach.:: But your zoash and makapa bread is worth it.
With another chuckle, she slid off Natan’s desk and, with a light bounce, circled around to stand beside him. Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, she planted a kiss on his greying hair—and then with the deft sleight-of-hand possessed mostly by pickpockets, stole a mouthful of raktajino and a massive bite of pastry.
Mouth full, she chortled at his mock outrage and backed out of his office. Just before she stepped through the door, she pointed to him, then herself, then lifted opened her jacket to point at the combadge pinned underneath, and then disappeared from sight wave a jaunty salute.
Dinner with the old man and the new husband.
No problem.
Right?
--
Intelligence Officer
USS Gorkon
&
Captain Rahn Natan
Organised Crime Division
Starfleet Intelligence
simmed by
Commanding Officer
USS Gorkon
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